It was against his better judgement that Wortel had decided to revisit his favourite four celebrity chefs starting with the voluptuous Donatella DiMaggio. They hadn’t made any progress with the death threats and Wortel wondered, more in hope than expectation, whether one of the chefs may have remembered something since they had last spoken.
Resolving not to conduct this interview in the altogether, Wortel alighted from the lift and rang the doorbell. An angry raised voice from within came closer before the door swung open. Donatella, clearly upset and reddened, looked at Wortel, beckoned him in and continued arguing into her mobile phone.
“Who the hell gave you permission to spend that much money on the credit card?”
Donatella started to turn a deeper shade of puce.
“He is my former husband as you well know. And he has no right to authorise that purchase.”
Donatella paused.
“I’ll have you know I am no longer a friend of Charlie and I do not depend on him thank you very much. We only had dealings with each other once or twice this year. You’ll pay for this, mark my words.”
Donatella hung up and threw the mobile across the room so it landed on the nearest sofa. Taking a moment to compose herself she turned to Wortel.
“My dear DI Wortel, so lovely to see you again, and may I say that shirt colour amplifies your good looks. You really are a most handsome carrot.”
“Thank you Ms DiMaggio. Is everything okay?” Wortel asked gesturing towards the mobile.
“It’s fine.” Donatella’s face hardened briefly and Wortel saw the TV persona disappear momentarily. “Just one of my assistants has been a little too loose with the credit card spending. She’ll find herself sacked if she isn’t careful…still enough of that…,” the TV persona had returned, “…what can I do for you?”
“I had hoped you may have remembered something which could shed any further light on the death threats that you and the other chefs have received.”
Donatella shook her head. “I’m sorry but no. I’ve been busy with some personal matters and besides, since taking over from Leah Brown on Masterbaker after her sacking, I’ve been rushed off my feet.”
“So you’ve still no idea about who it could be?”
“Did I mention the veggies when we last spoke?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, well then no, I’m at a loss. I can understand someone not liking me because of my luscious looks and more than ample cleavage, but that doesn’t explain why my good camp friend Llewy has been targeted. As for Leah, she’s washed up now so unless some patronised student who needs to be told how to boil an egg has flipped, I can’t understand why anyone is wasting their time on her. And well Scottie Rodgers, he’s cute but he’s stupid.”
“Well thank you for those insights Ms DiMaggio. Do be careful and if you think of anything you have my number and you can call me any time.”
“Really now DI Wortel, any time?”
“About the case Ms DiMaggio.”
“Oh right the case, of course.”
Wortel made his way to the front door biding Donatella farewell. As he reached the lift, she called out to him. “DI Wortel, you can call me any time about anything.”
Wortel flushed, turned back to the lift and for all the tea in China, wished he’d taken the stairs.
Having regained his composure, Wortel headed for the country residence of Leah Brown. Turning into her drive Wortel was confronted by the sight of four debt collectors loading her furniture into the back of a large white van. Leah Brown sat on the front doorstep drowning her sorrows with a bottle of mother’s ruin.
“Ms Brown, is there anything I can do to help?”
“Are you able to start shitting money?”
“No.”
“Then you’re no help.”
A box of football memorabilia was carried from the house causing Leah to put her hand to her mouth trying to hold in her audible gasp.
“I loved that club. I was always on the pitch at half time urging the crowd to make some more noise. Those bastard directors banned me because they thought I had an alcohol problem.”
“And do you have an alcohol problem Ms Brown?” asked Wortel, already knowing the answer.
“Not at all,” replied Leah, swigging from the bottle once more. “I have a problem remaining sober.”
Wortel decided to press on regardless. “How did you get into this position? You were a TV star until just a few months back.”
“I am a TV star thank you very much. It’s just that I’m not on the box at the moment. That slut DiMaggio has stolen my slot.”
“I understand that was a corporate decision Ms Brown and not something Ms DiMaggio would have been involved in.”
“Yeah well she’s raking it in, and I’m pissed and penniless. So I’ve been sent a death threat, well, whatever! I hope they do bop off one of the other three. At least I might get back on the box.”
Wortel stepped aside as one of the debt collectors left Leah’s house carrying her glassware collection. He walked back towards his car deciding that he wasn’t going to get anything further from the conversation. As he reached his car Leah decided to give Wortel one final piece of sound advice.
“You see DI carrot. That’s why I’m drinking from the bottle. Don’t look down your nose at me. I just don’t have a glass to drink from any more. I barely have a pot to piss in.” Arriving at Goodeatery11, Scottie Rodgers’ trademark restaurant which was staffed purely by layabouts and the insane, Wortel was surprised by its popularity.
“Good to see ya ’gain me old mucker,” cried Scottie Rodgers. “Look at all me punters. And you know what? They like their food FAST!”
As he spoke the diners all cheered and raised their glasses. Scottie Rodgers steered Wortel to his office all the while absorbing the adulation which came his way.
Rodgers closed the office door and smiled at Wortel. “So sorry about that dear chap, you know I have to give the people what they want, but it can be so draining.”
“That’s fine sir. One question though, why can’t you just be yourself?”
“Mwah ha ha. No one wants to hear some posh boy on screen talking about caviar or about cooking pheasant. It’s either about ‘the journey’ – look at where I have come from – or ‘sex sells’. Well I’m realistic enough to know that I can’t do the latter so it’s my journey that counts. So I developed this inner city persona and well, it’s made me an absolute mint.”
“It’s very realistic if I may say so.”
“It’s also very expensive.”
“I don’t understand sir.”
“It can be quite pricey keeping this secret out of the tabloids.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“That’s the price of fame DI Wortel.”
“Is it a price worth paying sir?”
“I think so. The persona helps keep Huntingdon Hall running and it keeps old Arthur in a job, bless the old fool.”
“He seems very loyal.”
“He is. Just wish the same could be said of the folk here. My fault old chap. In trying to keep up this persona I’ve employed a group of ruffians, layabouts and a number of insane young folk who I need to make sure go nowhere near the knives and scissors. Mwah ha ha.”
“And are any of them capable of sending death threats,” asked Wortel suddenly worrying about the number of suspects going from a big fat zero to over twenty in the space of a question.
“Oh no I’m convinced not.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“The thing is old chap they might be mad or have criminal records but the one thing I insist on is that none of them are able to read or write.”
“Why would that be Mr Rodgers?”
“Mwah ha ha. It’s quite simple, they can’t write down my recipes and take them away.”
“So how do they cook each day?”
“They remember the recipes of course.”
“Then I suppose it doesn’t matter that they can’t read or write if they can remember the recipes?”
“Hmm. You’ve a point there old boy, hadn’t thought of that. Bugger.”
Wortel left Goodeatery with Scottie Rodgers pondering how he could stop his staff from remembering things. Feeling a pain starting to form in the side of his temple, which was becoming an all too familiar feeling, Wortel decided that he would call Llewellyn Morris rather than visit him in person. Wortel settled himself in his car, dialled the number and waited for the alleged former Olympian to answer.
“Hello, Juanday here.”
“Oh, hello Mr Illflyaway. Can I speak to Mr Morris please?”
“DI Wortel, so nice to hear from you. Have you any news on who sent those death threats?”
“I’m afraid that I can’t disclose that information to you sir. Is Mr Morris available?”
“Why can’t you disclose this information to me? I’ve a right to know.”
“It was Mr Morris who had the death threat sir, and so it is to Mr Morris I need to speak.”
“That’s outrageous. Llewy was devastated that someone would wish him harm. He now thinks it is a former Olympian upset at his success.”
“I was led to believe that Mr Morris never actually participated in a recognised Olympics Mr Illflyaway. That was just an illusion to make Mr Morris more appealing to the public and as I understand matters, Mr Morris will occasionally attend a sporting event but when pushed to take part he always has some form of chronic knee injury.”
“I hope you realise you can be a real bitch of a carrot DI Wortel. Anyhow, for what it’s worth, I think it was a veggie. I don’t suppose you know any?”
“Is Mr Morris available?” asked Wortel ignoring Juanday’s jibe.
“No, he’s filming. You best phone back,” said Juanday slamming the phone down.
Wortel rested his head against the steering wheel and thought of his latest interactions with the celebrity chefs. There was no doubt about it; he was starting to hate them.
Deciding to head back to the office, Wortel sat upright and stretched his back before tuning in to Radio Judgemental.
“…and before the travel report a quick summary of the news headlines. Saintsco today reported a number of disturbances in their stores across the country as they ran out of a number of confectionery items. A representative from Saintsco said the last time they experienced stock leaving their stores this quickly was when they held an ill-fated, one-off shoplifters anonymous convention.
“In other news, police appear no closer to solving the murders of Darcy and Benedict Blacktail or Professor Perry Partridge. The Food Related Crime Division have issued a press release saying they are following up on leads and have an open mind about whether these recent murders are somehow connected. Radio Judgemental believe the police are so open minded that nothing is sticking between their ears. Do you agree? Call us and let us have your opinion…”
Wortel, fearing his rising blood pressure could lead to an aneurysm, shook his head, audibly sighed and switched off the radio. He slipped the car into gear, pulled out onto the empty road ahead of him and headed back to the station.
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