The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

Sinclair waved this away. It was useless telling him. He was too old. Too set in his ways. He thought he was bulletproof and maybe he was, but Kent had to make him see this wasn’t going away so easily.

  “And I’m recognisable in this recording?”

  “Oh yes,” Kent replied, kicking at a pile of leaves. “I’ve seen it. It’s you all right, strangling that hooker. Jesus, Sinclair. What happened? Too old for you, was she?”

  “Actually, yes. I was after something younger. But my usual facilitator was out of town, so I made do with an escort agency.” He made a face. “Bad idea. The girl was playful at first. Good company. But then she started getting sassy. You know the type – didn’t know when to keep her damn mouth shut. Two Viagra down, and if I’m still having problems that’s on her, not me.”

  Kent didn’t flinch, by now he was used to the old man’s candour. “So, what? You thought if you couldn’t fuck her you’d kill her?”

  “I saw red. I snapped. But the recording is no more, yes? Everything’s taken care of?”

  “With any luck.”

  “With any luck? What the hell does that mean?” He narrowed his eyes at Kent. “You know, I wouldn’t put it past you to use this. Is that what’s happening here? Payback for the photo?”

  Kent picked up a thin birch twig and twirled it around his fingers. “Don’t worry. I’ve hired someone to take care of the rogue Watcher, and to retrieve all copies of the recording.”

  “Take care of? You mean…?”

  Kent looked away.

  “Well, shit, son. You might have gone up in my estimation. Grown a pair at last.”

  “Thing is, I messed up initially. Hired some cheap goon. It seems you get what you pay for, even with hit men. But don’t worry, I’ve done more research. We’ve got the best in the business working on it. It’ll be done. Next day or so.”

  Sinclair threw his hands in the air. “Then why in heaven’s name are we freezing our nuts off out here?” He looked at his watch. “Come on, man. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing more to talk about. It’s done. Taken care of.”

  Kent turned to Sinclair. “This can’t happen again. You hear me? Jesus, once the keynote goes out we’ll be the number one tech company in the world. That means more scrutiny, not less. More people gunning for us.”

  “Yes, I am aware of this fact. What do you take me for?”

  Kent sighed. The problem with Sinclair Whitman was he was old money. Never had to work a day in his life, never had to strive. Not like Kent. He’d come from nothing. He hadn’t been able to bribe people, have Daddy pay his way to the top. Sinclair believed he was untouchable, and perhaps he was, but Kent had seen enough seemingly untouchable people destroyed these last few years.

  “Don’t fret, son.” Sinclair patted him on the shoulder. “I promise I’ll be more careful from now on. I’ll get rid of every fucking computer in every house I own, if that helps. Consider me told.” He held his one hand up limply and slapped it with the other. Then he placed both hands on his hips and peered at the clear blue sky. “All righty. Well, the sun’s far enough over the yardarm. What’s say we head back and you crack open that bottle of fifty-year-old single malt I bought you for your birthday?”

  And with that, the CFO of Cerberix Inc. was off, striding back to the house with a spring in his step and not a care in the world.

  Kent watched him for a few moments. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was making too much of this. But tell that to his indigestion. Tell it to his irritable bowel. He should be on top of the world right now. Gearing up for full celebrity status, hailed as the new Jobs, the next Musk. Yet here he was with his asshole twitching nervously as he followed on behind. Still, Sinclair was right about one thing: money talked. You could always buy yourself out of a hole. Problem was, now Kent had started down this path – covering up murders, hiring hit men – he couldn’t help but think it would be a tricky road to come back from.

  Thirteen

  Acid had climbed into bed the minute she got home, and fell asleep the second her head hit the pillow. She hadn’t even had the energy to get undressed. Fourteen hours straight through. It might have been a record. But that’s what happened when your nervous system was at breaking point.

  Once showered, she sat at the kitchen table with a strong coffee and a blueberry and chia seed muffin. Ready to book that holiday. Ready to escape her life for a few weeks. So when she opened her laptop and a notification informed her of a message from Caesar, she almost threw it across the room. She logged into the Annihilation portal and clicked on the message informing her of a rat infestation that needed her attention.

  “Fuck off. Are you kidding me?”

  She thought about replying, but it was pointless. When a message came through you dropped everything and reported in. What it meant was a new job.

  What it meant was Caesar not playing fair.

  Acid shut down the laptop and hired an Uber.

  Then she threw the blueberry and chia seed muffin across the room.

  The fine gravel of Kennington Place’s driveway crunched under her boot as Acid got out of the taxi two hours later and slammed the door. It was ten past one in the afternoon. She should be on a plane now, Sipping at a large G and T.

  She walked around the back of the mansion and down the metal steps that led to the secure entrance. Caesar had given no clues why he’d ordered her return. Not even in the six text messages that had pinged in quick succession once Acid had turned her phone on. He’d given the order and, like always, she had to obey. Acid would never use the word ‘pimp’ in Caesar’s presence, but some days it felt like it.

  At the bottom of the steps she removed her sunglasses and looked into the eye-scanner next to the door. With a hydraulic puff, the door slid open. Acid marched down the corridor and took the lift to the top floor.

  “You have got to be bloody joking.” The doors has opened to reveal Alan Hargreaves sitting on the leather bench outside Caesar’s office.

  “Acid Vanilla. What a treat.”

  Acid despised Alan Hargreaves. Always had done. He might have been a crack shot and one of the best snipers around, but he was also a total creep and an abject moron to boot. You only had to consider how he’d misread the codename system to see that. Caesar let his operatives choose their own name, based on their original initials. It was the only part of their past they hung on to. As Hargreaves’ real initials were A.H. he could have chosen anything: Atomic Hammer, Anvil Hex. Even Airplane Hangar would be better. But no, the stupid prick had gone for Alan Hargreaves. Zero imagination.

  Acid flicked her shades back on and joined him on the bench. Her day was getting worse by the second. The pressure in her head was intense. “Don’t tell me, Caesar’s put us on a job together.”

  Hargreaves sniggered. He was a small, weasel-like man with an eternally moist top lip and a comb-over that was fooling no one. “We can but hope. We haven’t worked together for such a long time. Do you remember Venice?”

  Acid rolled her eyes. How could she forget? Stuck in the penthouse of the Belmond for nine long days, waiting for Hargreaves to get the right shot.

  “I’m not sure why we’re here,” he went on. “I got a message from Caesar this morning, asking me to come in as soon as possible. You?”

  “Same.”

  Hargreaves sniggered. “The plot thickens.”

  “How long have you been waiting?”

  He looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes. I’m sure he’ll call us in soon.”

  Caesar liked to make people wait. It was a power move. Acid leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to zone out as Hargreaves reminisced about the Venice job as though it was some romantic holiday they’d shared. Her mind drifted to white sandy beaches and palm trees, a blue, tranquil ocean. She wouldn’t let this setback derail her. Whatever Caesar wanted, she’d get it done. Quickly and without fuss. Then she’d be away.

  The door creaked open and Ethel’s head appeared. She beckoned Acid and Harg
reaves inside. They followed her through to where Caesar stood looking out of the window behind his desk. He didn’t turn around. Ethel gestured for them to sit, before joining Doris on an antique chaise longue on the far side of the room.

  “What’s this about, boss?” Acid asked. “I’m supposed to be on hiatus.”

  “Yes, well, circumstances have changed.” Caesar turned from the window and closed his eyes, pained. “I can no longer agree to time off. Not yet.”

  Acid clenched her jaw. “But we agreed. This is best for everyone. Two weeks. That’s all I want.”

  Caesar’s eyes stayed closed. “I understand, but no.”

  “No? What do you mean?”

  “I mean you can’t have a damn holiday.” He opened his eyes and glared at her. “We’ve had a new job come in and I need you on it. You’re still one of my best operatives, Acid. Even on a bad day. This is an important job. A high-profile client.”

  “Ah shit.” She sat, already resigned to it. “Go on then, hit me. Is it a tricky one?”

  “No. But it has to happen fast. Next few days. The client is Cerberix Inc.” He paused, nodding as it sunk in. “Yes. Exactly. High profile as hell. Some IT bod saw something they shouldn’t have, and the bosses want rid. Want it to look like a suicide but are happy for an accident. As long as it’s done quick. You’re to recover a file as well. Some recording. It’ll be on the mark somewhere, most likely a thumb-drive.”

  Acid looked at Hargreaves. “What about him?”

  “He goes with you. Backup. You might need a long-range option. The mark is in the wind. Cerberix panicked and hired the first cheap freelancer they could find. Some thug. And wouldn’t you know it, he fucked up. Got himself killed. Not only that, he tipped the mark off and Raaz believes they’re now on their way to Paris. She has them on CCTV buying a ticket for the Eurostar this morning.” Caesar finished talking and stared at Acid. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead.

  “Fine. I’ll do it. But on one condition.”

  “Go on.”

  “I work alone. Solo mission. And before you say anything, if they want this done fast, sending two of us will muddy the waters. I can get you a suicide. Can definitely get you an accident.”

  Caesar narrowed his eyes and breathed heavily down both nostrils. “All right. We do it your way. Hargreaves, your services won’t be required. Ethel, Doris, show him out and debrief him.”

  Hargreaves turned to Acid. “Spoilsport. I was looking forward to working together again.”

  She ignored him. The Sinister Sisters appeared either side and led Hargreaves out. Acid waited a beat, then turned back to Caesar.

  “I do this job. Then I want a whole month off.”

  “You’ve a bloody cheek, girl. But all right. Where will you go?”

  “Not sure yet, somewhere hot and out of the way.”

  Caesar sighed. “Right then. Get this done. Then take a month. You can fly out from Paris. Raaz will send the job details over to you within the hour.”

  Acid glanced at her watch, her mind racing with flight times and connections. It was a few minutes after two. If she was going on holiday straight after the job, there was something she needed to do first. She slid her sunglasses on and told Caesar she’d see him in a month.

  Fourteen

  It was a stretch calling the place where you landed in Stornoway an airport. A strip of tarmac with a café would be nearer the mark. Only, today the café was closed. Acid made her way through security and called a cab from a payphone. There was no taxi rank outside. There was barely a road. A lot of sheep, though.

  It was a bad line but the woman in the office confirmed there’d be a taxi there in five minutes. Acid hung up and went outside, wishing she’d brought a more suitable coat than her trademark leather bomber. It was always so much colder in the Hebrides. The thought came to her: maybe she should look for another home, somewhere closer to London. But, as before, she tossed the idea aside. This was the safest option.

  The taxi arrived a few minutes later. A beat-up Skoda in silver with an orange stripe down each side. The driver opened the boot and Acid hauled her holdall inside. Then she climbed into the backseat and gave the gruff man behind the wheel the address.

  “Foiseil Blar House, please. It’s near the Old Mill.”

  Ten minutes later they pulled up. “Here y’are, hen,” the driver mumbled. “Call that fo’ punds.”

  Four pounds. It was another world up here. Acid shoved a ten through the gap in the Plexiglas and told the driver to keep the change. After retrieving her suitcase from the boot, she stood in front of the large building for a few minutes. Like she did every visit. Readying herself for what she might find inside. It never got better. It always got worse.

  She ventured inside and up the stone steps to her right that led into the reception area. A window led through to a small office space where a rotund, white-haired woman sat reading a tattered paperback. She was here every time Acid came. Mary, she was called. She had a kind face and thread-vein-flecked cheeks that dimpled when she smiled. She looked up as Acid approached.

  “Oh, hello there, dear. Are you visiting someone today?”

  Acid leaned on the thin ledge and spoke through the holes in the glass. “I’m here to visit Louisa and pay her invoice for this quarter.”

  “Of course, the lovely Louisa. And you’re family?”

  “Yes. We’ve met before. I always pay in cash. Do you remember?”

  Always cash, always in person. Nothing to tie them together. No electronic trail.

  Mary licked her finger and sorted through a pile of receipt books. “Of course. And you have payment with you today?”

  Acid leant down and zipped open the front of her suitcase. She pulled out a zip-locked bag containing a bundle of notes and slid it across the counter.

  “Lovely. I will have to count it. Do you want to go see her in the meantime and I’ll do you a receipt?”

  Acid looked over at the large double doors to her left. “Yes. Why not?”

  “Lovely. I just need to see some ID, then I can buzz you through.”

  Acid went back in the suitcase, double checking for the correct passport.

  “It’s a bind, I know,” Mary said. “But we need to be careful these days. It’s the rules. Health and safety or something.”

  She’d mistaken Acid’s pout for annoyance. People often did. Truth was, Acid appreciated the checks and extra security, it was why she’d chosen Foiseil Blar House. That and the fact it was in the middle of nowhere.

  She located the passport. “Here you go.” She handed it over and watched as Mary scanned it and typed something into a computer. Acid closed her eyes. Tried to make peace with the situation.

  “Here you go, dear.” Mary returned the passport. “Now if you can stand by the doors, and when you hear the buzzer push on through.”

  Acid did as instructed. Then made her way along the dark corridor that led to room five. She’d made this short journey many times these last six and a half years, but it didn’t get any easier. As she neared, she saw the door was open and peeked her head around. Sometimes Louisa was asleep. Sometimes she was in the TV room with the rest of the residents. But today she was awake and in her chair by the window. Acid went in.

  “Hi Mum,” she said. “How are you?”

  The woman didn’t respond. She didn’t even acknowledge she’d heard. Acid ventured further inside and sat on the chair opposite.

  “Louisa?” she tried again. “Are you there?”

  This time the old woman turned and her face broke into a smile. She looked well. She had colour in her face and her eyes sparkled in the light. She looked like herself again, the person she had been.

  “Oh. It’s you,” she said.

  “Yes,” Acid said, wiping her eyes. “It’s me.”

  The two women sat looking at each other for a short while, nodding their heads in agreement.

  “Do you know who I am, Louisa?”

  Louisa fiddled with her ha
nds. “Yes. You’re the girl from next door. I always thought you had a lovely way about you. How are your mum and dad?”

  Acid sniffed. “They’re fine. How are you doing?”

  “Can’t complain. I’m going into town later. I’ve got a few bits I need to get before the party.”

  “A party?”

  “You’ll come, won’t you? I’d love you to be there.”

  Acid went to hold her hand but stopped herself. “Yes. I’ll be there. I’d like that.”

  “Excellent, we’ll have a ball.”

  Acid stood and went to the window. Grey sky and fields as far as the eye could see. “I’m sorry I’ve not been to see you for a long time,” she said, out the window. “I’ve been working too hard.”

  “That’s okay, darling. I understand. You’re busy. We all are.”

  Over on the horizon Acid could make out a herd of cows. Those long-haired ones with the horns.

  “I’m going away for a while. On business and then a holiday.” She turned back to Louisa. “I wanted to see you before I went.” Returning to the chair, she took hold of the old woman’s hands. They were ice cold. So unlike the soft, warm hands that had held her all those times. She was about to say something else, when there was a bustling in the corridor and a nurse walked in carrying a black bin bag.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise anyone was here.” She spoke to Acid, then turned to Louisa, raising her voice, giving it the whole bit. “Well, apart from this one. How are you today, trouble? Still breaking hearts?”

  Louisa giggled girlishly and waved the woman away.

  “I won’t be a second, then I’ll leave you to talk.” She bent over and picked up the waste bin, emptying out a single balled-up tissue. “I’m Mel,” she said. “You the daughter, are you? You can tell. Good genes with you two.”

  Acid looked at the old woman in the chair.

  Good genes. Jesus.

  The bats gnawed at her nerves.

  “Oh, heavens, no. I didn’t mean… I mean, it’s not always genetic, is it? Only a small percentage and—”