The scene was of utter chaos as diners, kitchen staff and passers-by ran in all directions trying to get away from Goodeatery. Wortel screeched his car to a halt and headed towards the mayhem, spotting Scottie Rodgers standing outside of his restaurant looking decided miffed.
“I say old chap what’s all this kerfuffle? I’m standing here watching all of my customers run off without paying. It’s no way to run a business.”
Realising he was receiving startled looks from those in the vicinity, Rodgers changed tack as Wortel got nearer. “What the ’ell’s going on guv’nor? Me punters are ordering their food – FAST – and I ’ear someone shout bomb. Gave me a right fright.”
Everyone took a collective sigh of relief on hearing Rodgers return to his inner city roots and put his temporary poshness down to the effects of shock.
“What happened here Mr Rodgers?” asked Wortel taking him out of earshot of the crowds. Rodgers looked around and saw that he was clear to return to his normal voice.
“I received a phone call advising that Donatella DiMaggio wanted to meet up urgently. Well, I wasn’t going to turn that offer down.” He paused, reflecting on the phone call. “I’ll be damned. It was a ploy wasn’t it? That way I would be here when the bomb goes off and I go kaboom.”
Wortel nodded, and decided to move the conversation on before Rodgers dwelt on this news.
“Someone in the restaurant found the bomb. Who was it?”
Rodgers beckoned forward a young woman, aged in her twenties.
“I understand from Mr Rodgers that you found the bomb?”
“That’s correct sir, I did.”
“Good. What’s your name?” asked Wortel trying to put her at ease.
“Sue Chef.”
“No your name, not your position.”
“Sue Chef.”
“Look, I know you work in the kitchen, but I want your name.”
“I told you, Sue Chef.”
“Oh really please, how hard is this question? We’ve a bomb to deal with.”
“Nah, listen mate, her name is Sue and her surname is Chef,” said Rodgers reverting to his TV voice.
Wortel looked at Rodgers and then at Sue Chef, the penny slowly dropping.
“Okay, glad we got that sorted. So, Sue Chef, tell me, what do you do here?”
“I’m the Sous Chef.”
“Oh good lord not again.” Wortel turned away, put his hand to his forehead and tried to rub the tension away. He took a breath, popped in a mint, and turned back to Sue Chef the Sous Chef.
“So Sue Chef the Sous Chef, where did you find the bomb?”
“Between the stations of the Soup Chef and the Suet Chef.”
“Get out of ’ere. The bomb found by me old Sue Chef the Sous Chef is near the Soup Chef and the Suet Chef.”
Wortel looked a little pained but said “Good job you don’t make clothes or you could have a Suit Chef.”
No one laughed.
Wortel coughed an embarrassed cough and ploughed on. “Can you describe the device to me?”
“Oh yes, that’s easy.”
“Really? You’re used to explosives are you?”
“Not exactly. But the bomb is coated in a speciality of Mr Rodgers.”
“Do what?” spluttered Rodgers looking slightly alarmed.
“Yes, it’s one of your chocolate bomb cakes.”
“Oh good,” said Rodgers seemingly happy that the bomb inside the restaurant was at least made using one of his own recipes.
“So…,” said Wortel slowly, “…let me get this straight. You’ve found a chocolate covered bomb cake which is a recipe of Mr Rodgers?”
“The recipe yes, the countdown timer and the wires poking out of it, no, that’s not how it is normally made. Ours are so much more, well, edible.”
“You said it had a timer?”
“Yes.”
“And how long was on the timer?”
“Thirty minutes and counting down.”
“And when did you find it?”
Sue Chef looked at her watch. “About twenty minutes or so ago.”
“So we’ve probably less than five minutes before it explodes.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right.”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“Then why ask it?”
“Beats me,” said Rodgers who had woken up to the fact that the restaurant was about to blow sky high. He took Wortel to one side away from Sue Chef the Sous Chef whose station was between the Soup Chef and the Suet Chef.
“Old bean, my degree was in physics and engineering. I reckon I could snuff that bomb out in a jiffy.”
“I can’t let you go in there Mr Rodgers.”
“Now don’t be a spoilsport. Let me have a dabble.”
Wortel called out to a nearby WPC. “When are the bomb squad arriving?”
“Not for another ten minutes. They never realised it was a chocolate bomb so they’ve had to go back for the right equipment.”
Wortel pulled a puzzled face. “Surely a bomb is a bomb isn’t it?”
“Oh no old bean, a chocolate bomb is the most dangerous of all cake related bombs. You need a spatula, whipped cream and a steady hand. Lucky the first two are in the restaurant and I was born with the third. Come on, there’s no time to lose.”
“Hold on Mr Rodgers please,” said Wortel, a worried look coming across his face. “You said you had a call saying Donatella DiMaggio wanted to meet with you. Has anyone seen Ms DiMaggio?”
Scottie Rodgers shook his head. “Funnily enough no. I just thought she was being fashionably late.”
“Hmm. That’s strange,” said Wortel. “I don’t like that one bit.”
Scottie Rodgers turned and faced the crowd which had started to assemble, albeit from what they believed was a safe distance should the restaurant be blown sky high.
“Listen up you lot. ’as anyone seen that buxom wench Donatella DiMaggio?” he bellowed.
A number of shoulders started to shrug before a muffled scream caused all eyes to turn towards the restaurant. Through a store room window stood Donatella DiMaggio, her hands tied to a cabinet and a gag across her mouth.
A startled Wortel was pushed aside by Scottie Rodgers who bounded towards the restaurant at full speed. Wortel turned and started to run after the celebrity chef who was surprisingly fleet of foot. When Wortel caught up with Rodgers he was already at the site of the bomb, spatula in one hand, whipped cream being vigorously shaken in the other.
The timer read 2:15.
Rodgers spoke first without looking up.
“It’s more complex than I thought Wortel. This wiring is intertwined, one wrong swish of this spatula and we’re goners. Take the whipped cream and keep shaking it. I’m going to cut a wire and then you need to spray that cream on it quick. That’ll prevent the bomb from detonating accidently.”
“Trust me.”
Wortel took the whipped cream and carried on shaking the can as Rodgers separated the wires using the spatula.
The timer read 1:45.
“Blast,” said Rodgers. “Oh sorry, wrong word at this time I guess.”
“What’s wrong?”
“If I cut the blue wire, that’ll trip the green wire. And if I cut the green wire that’ll trip the red wire.”
“So cut the red wire first then.”
“My God, I know you’re a carrot but are you just plain raving bonkers? Cutting the red wire is suicide.”
“Then what?”
“We need to divert the red wire and make the bomb think it’s still connected before I cut it. Don’t you see?”
“Actually no, and you’re talking about the bomb as though it has a brain and can think for itself.”
Rodgers looked quite disappointedly at Wortel. “You really know nothing about bombs. Of course they can think for themselves once armed. That’s why we have to trick it.”
“Not the time for a lecture Mr Rodgers. What do you need?”
The timer read 60 seconds.
“Something thin and wire like. Any thoughts?”
Wortel scanned the kitchen, all the time shaking the whipped cream violently in one hand. He looked across left at the Suet Chef’s station and saw nothing. He turned to the right and scanned the Soup Chef’s station and saw something which looked like salvation.
“Jolly good show Wortel. Yes, noodles are great.”
Wortel lunged forward and grabbed the noodles, turning in one fluid movement and throwing them to Rodgers who had briefly put down the spatula.
The timer read 30 seconds.
Rodgers grabbed plain flour from the Suet Chef’s station, patted some onto his hands to dry his nervous sweaty palms, and went to work. Wortel moved to his side and looked on as the celebrity chef who held a degree in physics and engineering began to trick the bomb into thinking it still had a red wire, which was now nothing more than a noodle.
The timer read 15 seconds.
Rodgers put down the noodles and raised the spatula. “I have to say DI Wortel that it’s been a pleasure. Do you think we’ve enough time to take a selfie?”
“Not now Mr Rodgers.”
“Fair point. It’s now or never old bean.”
The timer read 7 seconds.
“Mr Rodgers.”
“Yes.”
“Cut that wire – FAST.”
The spatula came down and swiped through the wires, red followed by blue followed by green. As the wires were separated Wortel sprayed the whipped cream, covering the bomb in a coating of white froth.
The timer came to a stop with just two seconds remaining.
Wortel and Rodgers walked slowly out of Goodeatery, feeling both exhilarated but somewhat knackered at the same time. They smiled at each other as the buxom Donatella DiMaggio was released from the store room and led to safety.
“She’s a mighty fine filly,” admired Scottie Rodgers.
“She’s all yours.”
“Do you know she walks around starkers all day? I’d like to be a fly on her wall, nudge nudge wink wink.”
“Yes, I did find that out.”
“You old dog you. Never realised you had it in you, you dirty old carrot.”
“It was professional. I was conducting an interview,” Wortel responded rather too quickly.
“In the altogether were you?”
It was a surprising fact of nature that meant when carrots blushed they turned a deep shade of yellow and Wortel’s face answered Rodgers’ question without the need for words.
Donatella DiMaggio came over to Wortel and Rodgers. The ordeal looked as though it had sapped her of all energy and she appeared on the verge of collapse.
“I owe you both a heartfelt thank you.”
“Well, it was Mr Rodgers here who was the star.”
“Don’t put yourself down Wortel. That noodle idea was pretty darn impressive.”
“Well you are both my heroes and I want to thank you both in the best possible way. But seeing as you are married Detective Inspector Wortel I’ll give you and your family free tickets for as many episodes of Masterbaker as you want. And seeing as you’re not married Scottie, well, shall we?”
“One question ma’am before I leave Mr Rodgers to escort you home, do you have any idea who did this?”
“I didn’t see a face Detective Inspector because they bopped me on the back of the head with a French stick, but I do believe that it was Leah Brown.”
“Why do you think that ma’am?”
“Well two reasons. Firstly, there was a strong smell of alcohol and horse manure which is Leah’s trademark and secondly, as the French stick struck me on the head I distinctly remember hearing my attacker say ‘ooh ahh’.”
“Thank you ma’am. And Mr Rodgers.”
“Yes old bean.”
“Brace yourself.”
Wortel pulled out his walkie-talkie. “Oranges, Lemons. Get an arrest warrant out for Leah Brown. I’m off to find Llewellyn Morris. I’m worried for his safety.”
As Donatella and Scottie walked off arm in arm, she stopped, turned and called to Wortel. “Detective Inspector Wortel.”
“Ma’am?”
“I think she had an accomplice only I could have sworn I heard two sets of footsteps.”