“Custard Cream?” offered Ketchup wafting a plate of biscuits towards Dorothy and Wortel who were making themselves comfortable on the large leather sofa which dominated the rather unconventional meeting room cum lounge.
“Don’t mind if I do,” replied Dorothy reaching forward taking two biscuits, and, with what always seemed to Wortel a fluid movement, rested the first on her knee while the second found itself unceremoniously dunked into her hot steaming drink.
“Not for me,” declined Wortel as the biscuits were again offered in his direction.
“Not watching your weight are you?” asked Béarnaise as he plunged the coffee press once more.
“No chance,” laughed Wortel.
“Good. Donatella would be most disappointed if you were to lose that figure of yours. Most impressed with his derriere wasn’t she?” he said to Ketchup.
“She was, but now, now, mustn’t give away too many of our client’s secrets,” he replied, his eyes glinting with mischief.
Dorothy latched onto Wortel’s obvious discomfort. “But you do love to be a little indiscreet don’t you?” she said with a smirk.
“Well, seeing as it’s you Dorothy,” said Béarnaise leaning forward. “Donatella DiMaggio has a little, well, how to say this carefully, problem with her lines.”
“Really. She always comes across as being someone who just needs one take. I had no idea she even needed an autocue.”
Béarnaise and Ketchup smiled at each other and both started to brush under their noses with the back of their hands.
“No way,” cried Dorothy “Really?”
“Absolutely,” declared Ketchup, who was himself getting into the full swing of being completely indiscreet. “She pays us to make sure her assistants are not spending too much on her credit cards. Hasn’t been quite going to plan lately, but she’ll pull through.”
“Well, if she needs pulling through you can bet your bottom dollar Scottie Rodgers will help her,” commented Béarnaise who sat back in his reclining chair, swinging his left leg over his right, while throwing back his head to take a large gulp from his cup.
“Go on,” Dorothy encouraged.
“Well, between me, you and the gatepost, he’s mad for her. But they’ll never make a couple. He’s too busy trying to find someone to save, and more often than not it turns out to be a group of fat children who enjoy eating turkey twizzypops13. The best thing the kids could do is to turn around and run a mile.”
“They’d never be able to run 100 yards let alone a mile,” said a fierce catty voice. “But enough of that, the great and the good from the Food Related Crime team are not here for our idle gossip.”
Everyone looked up at Miles Gravy who had appeared unnoticed from his study at the far end of lounge. Dressed in a sharp grey pinstriped suit and carrying a black briefcase, the eldest of the KGB swaggered up to Wortel, who raised himself from the comfortable leather sofa and shook Gravy’s hand.
“This is a most interesting case Wortel,” he said flicking open the briefcase.
“Well let’s get down to business then. What did you find out?” asked Wortel.
“Have you made the deposit?”
“As always Miles. As always. And before you ask, no, the notes are not traceable.”
“I’ve always liked doing business with the police force,” smiled Gravy. “So understanding of how transactions should be completed.”
“Shall we go on?” ventured Wortel.
“Of course. Well, my dear Ketchup here is an IT wizard you know,” he said causing Ketchup to turn even redder than normal, which surprised both Dorothy and Wortel.
“And he thought he might see if he could investigate the server of AstraArms and specifically the email account of your fallen egg. Really most enlightening.”
Gravy took out a piece of paper and passed it to Wortel. He read the note, raised his eyebrows and showed it to Dorothy.
“Well,” she said, “at least we know why they were murdered. A good old fashioned blackmail attempt. Benedict Blacktail must have sent this email and then deleted it from his account thinking it couldn’t be traced.”
“Or so it would seem,” said Gravy, causing Wortel to look up quickly.
“There’s more?”
“We’ve not been able to figure out to whom the email was sent as the firewalls keep blocking us, but the email demands that the sum of money be transferred into an unnamed account. Well that’s where it gets really interesting.”
“In what way?” asked Dorothy.
“We hacked into the banking clearing system to look at the account. And we found it doesn’t belong to Benedict Blacktail.”
“Who then?” said Wortel looking quizzically.
Gravy sat back in his chair, smiling at the Food Related Crime team hanging on his every word. As he picked at an imaginary piece of fluff on his jacket sleeve he raised his eyes and locked them directly with Wortel’s.
“Travis Dwyer.”
Wortel and Dorothy took the lift to the AstraArms laboratories descending in near silence, although it was clear to anyone who saw their faces that they were perfectly in tune with each other.
Stepping into the familiar reception Wortel recalled the look on the face of the muscle sprout clutching his neck as he juiced out. The smell of strong disinfectant was the only clue that something had happened just a few days earlier. Just a few days. To Wortel, it felt like weeks had passed.
“He was sat behind that very desk,” said Wortel out of the side of his mouth, his eyes looking towards the desk which was now guarded by a courgette wearing the familiar AstraArms uniform.
“Bet he looked more imposing than him,” whispered Dorothy.
“Stop it.”
“Oh come on, be fair. What would you be more afraid of, a muscle sprout or this courgette fellow?”
“I’m nearly always fearful of a courgette – even the unarmed ones. It’s just that I’ve no idea whether I should be boiling it, baking it or frying it.”
“Try binning it,” muttered Dorothy causing Wortel to break into muffled laughter as the courgette eyed them up suspiciously from behind his desk.
“I’m DI Wortel and this is Sergeant Knox,” said Wortel his voice still threatening to crack into laughter. “We’re here to see Mr Travis Dwyer. Could you let him know we’ve arrived please, Cyril is it?” asked Wortel pointing towards the name badge that sat pinned to the AstraArms security uniform just above the double A emblem.
“Yes and no,” replied the courgette.
Dorothy and Wortel looked at each other and then back to the courgette who sighed at having to explain something which was so clearly obvious to everyone except the two police officers standing in front of him.
“Yes, I will let Mr Dwyer know you’re here. But no, my name is not Cyril.”
“Oh,” replied Wortel “only your name badge says…,”
“I know what the name badge says,” snapped back non-Cyril Courgette. “But they didn’t have a badge long enough for Cornelius Junior III, so personnel in their infinite wisdom decided I should be called Cyril.”
Non-Cyril lifted the telephone receiver and called Travis Dwyer to reception while Dorothy and Wortel faked an in-depth conversation with each other to avoid any further small talk with the courgette. Within a few minutes Travis Dwyer appeared at the entrance to the laboratories.
“Hello. I’m DI Wortel and this is Sergeant Knox,” said Wortel offering his hand. “Good of you to meet us.”
“That’s okay but I didn’t know you were coming,” said Travis, his voice showing signs of stress at the surprise arrival of the Food Related Crime team.
“That’s because we never called ahead. Listen, we don’t want to keep you too long, it’s just that I would like to take a look at Benedict Blacktail’s office to see if there was anything we might have missed. You know fresh pair of eyes and all that.”
“Sure, right this way,” said Dwyer not moving an inch. “Have you found out who killed them?”
“Not yet but we are exploring all leads,” said Dorothy taking a step forward causing Dwyer to recognise that now was the time to move.
The trio walked silently through the busy laboratory, the scientists not looking up from their work benches at the two police officers and an increasingly sweaty Travis Dwyer. Travis unlocked the office door to Benedict’s office and stood aside allowing Wortel and Dorothy to enter.
They were met with a stale sulphurous smell, which showed the room had not had fresh air for a good few days. Wortel flicked on a light which immediately struck the eggcup that was positioned next to three hay bundles. As Wortel walked around the desk to get a better look at the eggcup, Dorothy picked up a picture of Benedict and Darcy, a couple so clearly in love, beaming at each other on their wedding day.
“Is that you as best man?”
“Yes. Rained all day except for when the pictures were being taken.”
“Ah. That’ll explain the wellies then.”
“Yes. With Darcy wearing a cardboard dress she couldn’t afford for it to get wet otherwise it would have soaked up water like a sponge.” Travis broke into a wistful smile as he recalled the story.
“You don’t want a wet bride that’s for sure,” said Dorothy building a connection with Travis who started to relax for the first time since he had met the police officers.
Wortel thumbed through some paperwork on Benedict’s desk not looking for anything in particular but killing time as Dorothy went to work lulling Travis into a false sense of security.
“I bet you were nervous having to give a best man’s speech?”
“Not too bad all things considered. I had to calm Benny down. He was so runny.” Travis laughed a hollow laugh as his mind drifted back to that day. He took the photograph from Dorothy and ran his hand down the side of the dark wooden frame.
“Are you married Mr Dwyer?” asked Wortel, not looking up as he continued to thumb through the personal belongings on Benedict’s desk.
“I was a few years ago. Divorced now. A costly affair I can tell you. Don’t get married without working out if you can afford the divorce. That’s my advice.” Travis again let out a chuckle although this was not returned by either officer.
“I’ve heard divorce can be costly,” said Wortel. “Mind you, not as costly as being the reason why your friends get murdered, bludgeoned, crushed to death on their doorstep, most probably in complete fear and with no idea why.”
The colour in Travis Dwyer’s face drained faster than a glass of scotch in Leah Brown’s hand as she watched her favourite countryside football team concede another goal.
“Come on Mr Dwyer. Let’s not be shy about things. We know all about the email demanding money. We know you’ve used Benedict’s email to send the demand, and then you’ve deleted all evidence from his account. Tell me, was it worth it? How does it feel to have his yolk on your hands?”
Travis Dwyer buckled under the weight of the words he was hearing and grabbed at the nearest filing cabinet to steady himself. Neither Wortel nor Dorothy moved, their eyes firmly fixed on him as he placed his hands on his knees and bent double breathing heavily.
Dwyer eventually stood up to speak, his voice weak and distant.
“You must believe me when I say that I never thought they would be killed. I have these gambling debts and I was hoping to get some money, clear the debts and start a new life.”
“How did you get access to his email?” asked Dorothy.
“His tablet computer. I’d borrowed it from him a few days earlier and I hacked into his email account. I sent the email and deleted it immediately. He never knew anything about it.”
“Until his shell was caved in,” spat out Wortel, his contempt for Travis on show even more than ever.
Dwyer again started to breathe heavily.
“What made you think you would get paid? What is that you know?” asked Dorothy, shooting Wortel a look that told him to hold his tongue.
“That’s the worst thing,” said Dwyer softly. “I didn’t know anything for certain. I was speculating. That’s the gambler in me. You see it’s this project Benedict and I were asked to lead on. We’ve been tasked with developing these new food brands and we had to use some new colourings from overseas. Well, we thought it was a dead end project as the flavours sound disgusting, but the sales figures have gone through the roof. In all my years here, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“That doesn’t explain the blackmail attempt,” quizzed Wortel.
“If it seems too good to be true it probably is, that’s what they say isn’t it? The profits were huge so I thought something dodgy might be going on, you know, money laundering, something like that. So I sent the email demanding some money in order to keep quiet or I’d expose their secret. The thing was, I didn’t even know if there was a secret being kept, I still don’t, but you must admit the fact that Benny and Darcy were murdered means that I must be right about the money laundering.”
“Who did you send the email to?” probed Dorothy picking up the reins as Wortel went into a deep think.
“The project lead, the top dog.”
“Oh no. He hasn’t a foggiest what goes on here. You see, AstraArms receives government grants for specific projects and when that happens we have to report to a project lead. von Blimff isn’t allowed to know what’s going on.”
“Really? This is his company,” said Dorothy incredulously.
“Truthfully. I’ve a copy of the contract for this project in my office. The terms and conditions clearly say that von Blimff is not part of the reporting line.”
“So who is the project lead then Mr Dwyer?”
Travis Dwyer dropped his eyes and looked down at his shoes.
“Who was my project lead you mean? Because it was a government grant we report directly to the minister. Only, you see, Professor Partridge has got himself killed hasn’t he.”
Wortel briefed Chief Superintendent Archibald, Oranges and Lemons when he and Dorothy arrived back at the station. In return Wortel discovered that Victoria Plum hadn’t shown for her now overdue conversation at the station. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Travis Dwyer had been booked into an interview room and Dorothy was busy extracting every last detail from him about his movements leading up to, and after, the deaths of the Blacktails and Professor Partridge.
“It’s a right old pickle,” said Archibald strumming his fingers on the desk at which he sat. “Tell me, where do we go from here?”
Wortel went to answer when PC World burst through the office door looking decidedly worse for it. Wortel, looked at the splintered wood on the floor, the hinges now swinging lonely where the door once stood, and then at PC World who was rubbing his shoulder.
“Sir, there’s a problem at Goodeatery. They’ve found a bomb.”
“Never mind that PC World, what about our door?” said a somewhat disgruntled Wortel.
“Ah, sorry sir, I thought this way was quicker.”
“Than turning the door knob?”
“Yes, I hear your point and I’ve noted your concerns for future reference.”
“That’s no good to us now though is it World?”
“I’ll arrange for carpentry to come down and replace it soonest.”
“Soonest?” Wortel turned and looked incredulously towards Oranges and Lemons.
“Who says soonest?”
“Probably someone who just told you there was a bomb at Goodeatery, which you seem to have overlooked,” said Archibald surprisingly acting as a voice of common sense.
“Ah, yes. Very good sir,” said Wortel grabbing his jacket while barking an order at PC World to get the door mended quicker than soonest. He headed through the empty door and off to Goodeatery, with Oranges and Lemons shouting after him to say they had warned the chefs to be vigilant and they couldn’t be blamed if one was to die.
13 Sponsored by the Cheap Crap Food Corporation