The International Assassin: A Sexy Times Crime Thriller

by Asher, Adele

“Well he seems to have jumped off the balcony,” I said as politely as possible.

  “Why the fuck did he do that?” asked Charlotte in horror.

  “It appears he became despondent with his lifestyle choices and felt he had no option but to end it all,” I said with a innocent shrug of the shoulders.

  Charlotte looked over the balcony, screamed and started crying as she spotted the scruffy muso plastered on the modified French shit-box.

  “Baby!” she yelled.

  A small crowd was now gathering around the car - which wasn’t ideal.

  “What have you done?” she screamed then she looked at me accusingly.

  “Don’t look at me. If I lived here I would probably jump too.”

  “He was fine a minute ago! What did you say to him you bitch!?”

  “I didn’t say anything. I asked him how the new album was coming along. He became mournful, questioned his musical integrity and self-worth then jumped,” I explained. “Can’t say I blame him. His music is shit.”

  “You evil bitch! You did this to him! You don’t want me to be happy!”

  “Charlotte please, if this is happiness for you then I wish you every bit of it.”

  “I’m calling the police! You evil bitch! Call an ambulance Johnny!”

  “I should call a car valet as well.He has made a terrible mess of some chaps jalopy,” I replied with a casual shrug. Charlotte slapped me. “Oh it’s like that is it?” I scornfully yelled at her whilst rubbing my sore cheek.

  “Murderer!” she yelled back.

  “Do you want to join him?” I asked her politely before punching her in the face and smashing her expensively reconstructed nose into a bloody mess.

  “You bitch!” she cried before turning to Johnny crying. He put his arm around her and scowled at me.

  “Really. There is no need! There is no need!” he said looking at me disappointed.

  It never dawned on me that having asked me to dispatch the stinking oxygen-thief that Johnny would have me arrested so it came as quite a shock when he quite brazenly sat comforting Charlotte and told the police on arrival I had done it.

  Of course there were no witnesses to validate such a wild claim but unfortunately I still had my Beretta in my handbag so when the police searched me I was duly arrested.

  As they led me away Johnny stopped me in the hallway and gave me a pitying look shaking his head.

  “Really. I’m so disappointed in you. So disappointed. I knew you were a jealous girl but this really is something else.”

  Unfortunately for Johnny I hadn’t been handcuffed since I had agreed to come quietly. I punched him in the face with all the ferocity I could muster knocking the smug twerp clean off his feet. The police immediately restrained and handcuffed me. I gave him a final scornful look.

  “I’ll get you for this Johnny. And your little bitch Charlotte.”

  Chapter 3

  THE POLICE always harp on that there is no such thing as victimless crime and I tend to agree with them.

  Where our views on the matter diverge is on who the victim is, the presumption being the person who is deceased must be the victim by virtue of being, well, deceased.

  Given his life of criminal wrongdoing and equally criminal warbling’s as far as I was concerned I had done the world a favour ridding us of this menace to the audible art-form and reducing societies miscreants by a count of one. Unfortunately this was not likely to hold much sway with the beak no matter how well Daddy’s lawyers would spin it.

  No, if there was a victim then it was most certainly me. Johnny was the scheming perpetrator of this comedy of errors and I was merely a means to conduct his plot. Johnny was the villain - possibly Charlotte too, although I don’t credit her with the intelligence to actually have any motivation beyond dropping her La Perla’s for any man she liked the look of. Clearly Johnny’s demeanour after the event suggested I had been setup.

  Quite why I went along with such a preposterous notion as to turn a scruffy east-end rapper into a cadaver still keeps me awake at night.

  Since the whole notion of why I would throw someone I had only met once off a balcony was such a nonsense I wondered what story Johnny would spin to cover up his wicked antics.

  “Cup of tea?” asked the detective.

  “Lapsang Souchong?” I inquired.

  “No we have tea. With milk, and sugar.”

  “Hmmph,” I replied.

  I could see this would not go well. I had never actually been arrested before and the police station seemed only a minor step up in smell and décor from the hellish tower block my victim had resided in.

  “Can I order in? They deliver twenty-four hours,” I asked.

  It was now three-o-clock in the morning. Having been ‘booked in’ and fingerprinted, luckily by some new electronic device rather than with the nasty ink that would have wrecked years of good manicures and hand-cream then photographed, which in itself was a indignity since they wouldn’t even allow me a make-up artist or hair-stylist, at least two hours of bureaucratic police nonsense had elapsed before anyone decided to interview me. I was not optimistic I would be in bed before sunrise.

  “No you can’t have it delivered. This isn’t the bloody Hilton Metropole Miss,” replied the South London copper whose career choices had no doubt been either criminal or police and decided only by virtue of him being too overweight to make a decent getaway carrying a stolen microwave oven out of Currys.

  “No. You don’t need to explain that. There’s no en-suite,” I replied. He took out his pen and notepad. “Don’t you have a Macbook?” I asked. He looked at me. “Isn’t that where you get the expression throw the book at him.”

  “You are in a lot of trouble Miss.I would save the jokes.”

  “Suit yourself,” I replied and looked around the grim interview room.

  “Why so serious?” I said quietly in my best Joker accent.

  “I take it you have been drinking?” he asked.

  “Well obviously. I wouldn’t have visited Hackney sober.”

  “You’re not from round these parts?”

  “Whatever gave you that impression? Was it my good manners or the fact I’m not dressed entirely from a high street sportswear retailer?”

  “So what were you doing here?”

  “Well there’s a question,” I replied.

  “Yes it is a question. Would you like to answer it?”

  “It depends what the question is.”

  “What were you doing here? I already asked you that.”

  “But what do you mean by that?”

  “Are you trying to be clever?” he asked losing patience.

  “No I am clever. You’re trying to be clever. That’s probably why you are still a Sergeant,” I said and smiled.

  “Right, your two mates…”

  “Well they aren’t actually my mates – rather friends. One doesn’t actually have mates. Not the sort to hang around down the pub watching football and farting. If you are referring to the blonde witch and her chinless cohort, they are persons of my acquaintance but I would not consider either of them friends in light of the outcome of tonight’s social engagement.”

  “So you had a falling out?”

  “No, the young man had a falling out. Falling out of his balcony. I was merely an observer.”

  “So you didn’t help him then?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Maybe you were jealous?”

  I snorted in derision.

  “My dear police officer, have you been drug tested lately? The notion I would wish to engage in any form of physical or social activity with such a classless individual who lacks the basic personal hygiene of a farmyard animal is simply contemptible.”

  “You didn’t like him then?”

  “Of course I didn’t like him. Have you listened to his music? Awful.”

  “Would it be fair to say you hated him?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. One cannot feel hate for something tha
t should be pitied.”

  “They said you pushed him.”

  “They would say that.”

  “Why would they say that?”

  “Because that’s what you say when you are colluding to frame the person who isn’t a colluder.”

  “And what are they colluding to do?”

  “You’re the detective. You figure it out. I am merely suggesting they can hardly be considered independent witnesses and besides they were in the other room.”

  “So why did he jump then? His lady-friend claims he was quite happy.”

  “Mood swings.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A lot of artists have them. And recreational drug users. Sudden bouts of depression brought about by a lifestyle made pointless by the relentless failure of the social and education system to bring the underclass up to par. Quite tragic really. I blame Labour.”

  “So you think he was depressed?”

  “People don’t generally leap off balconies out of joy. Unless they are high on coke.”

  “Did he say anything to you before he jumped?”

  “Goodbye cruel world!” I shrugged. “It’s really hard for me to say, he had a interesting dialect that can’t be learnt from any Berlitz language guide I have found.”

  “So you didn’t assist him in any way?”

  “No. He was quite capable of jumping by himself.”

  “And you didn’t think to try and stop him?”

  “I suggested counselling but he declined.”

  “Right then. What about these other two? Charlotte?”

  “Yes. They were to put it colloquially, at it.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “No idea. Ask her.”

  “And what about this other gentleman?”

  “He’s clearly not a gentleman or I wouldn’t be sat here.”

  “What would you call him.”

  “A bastard.”

  “You two are cohabiting?”

  “For about as long as it takes me to eject him from the premises.”

  “You had a falling out?”

  “I think we went through that already.”

  “Okay, so you are no longer in a relationship?”

  “We’re still in a relationship, but not a relationship that involves me loving him or wishing him continued success as a member of the human race.”

  “So what does Johnny do?”

  I thought about not answering, but since Johnny had so clearly dropped me in it I didn’t really feel compelled to protect him at any further.

  “He works for MI6,” I said.

  “MI6?”

  “Yes. MI6. As in the Secret Intelligence Service as opposed to MFI the cheap furnishings manufacturer that went into liquidation.”

  “You’re saying he is an intelligence officer?”

  “In retrospect there is nothing intelligent about him, but yes he is a spy.”

  “Did he give you the gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “I am not sure you are security cleared for that.”

  “Are you taking the piss Madam? This is a very serious business. I’ve got a dead body and you had an automatic pistol in your handbag. You’re not getting away with three points and a forty quid fine for this.”

  “I’m being very serious. Johnny works for MI6. He gave me the gun.”

  The detective looked at me in disbelief.

  “Right. I’m going to make some inquiries. If you are giving me the run around this won’t do you any favours.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  He went away for what must have been at least an hour and then returned and sat down.

  “Are you on medication Miss?”

  “No I’m not.”

  “No sort of mental illness, yourself or in the family?”

  “Auntie Mildred was convinced she was Stalin’s love child which didn’t seem plausible since she had never been to Russia. Apart from that, the usual mild degree of insanity associated with six generations of inbreeding,” I told him. “I’m fine though,” I added.

  “I spoke to Johnny, as you call him, and he has a very different account of events, and your relationship.”

  “I bet he does,” I said.

  “He claims he has never met you before. He has no idea who you are and never spoke to you before this evening. Claims he came to the flat with Charlotte and you were already there.”

  “Now why would he tell you that?’

  “Because it’s the truth?”

  “And you believe it?”

  “Honestly Miss I think you’re all a bunch of nutters. But my job is to figure out which one of you is the least mental and therefore the most probable cause of tonight’s eventualities.”

  “And you think it was me?”

  “You were the one with the gun in your handbag. We’re making investigations as to the source of the gun.”

  “And what about Johnny and his MI6 antics?”

  “It’s being investigated. They have both been released since they haven’t actually committed any crime.”

  “And I have?”

  “Well at the very least you will be charged with possession of an illegal firearm and possibly murder,” the detective said and then got up. “We’re making some calls. Once we have checked out your story and the gun then we will interview you again. Unfortunately in the mean time you will be in the cells, I appreciate not having five star amenities such as a pool and spa-centre it’s not quite up to your standards but we’ll try and get you a blanket that hasn’t been pissed on.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” I said sarcastically.

  I was led from the interview room by a woman police officer who was clearly either a lesbian or struggled to get dates on Plenty of Fish apart from with married men looking for no-frills sex. They deprived me of my jewellery for which I insisted on a stamped receipt.

  I am pretty sure the most likely place to have one’s valuables stolen is a police station since they are invariably full of criminals both in and out of uniforms. They also took anything they considered I might have hung myself with, not that I would ever consider such an option. This was the first time I had ever visited a police cell and the experience was much less entertaining than watching vicious grannies being banged up on Midsomer Murders. A nasty room with a bare bed and a stainless steel toilet that didn’t flush had no seat and was blocked with cheap toilet paper that wasn’t even quilted velvet. I hoped to God I would escape this place before I needed to pay a visit since the prospect of wiping ones bottom on such poor quality paper would make sandpaper seem preferable. The cell door clanked shut and I was alone.

  Incarcerated.

  I’m sure the entire police station expected me to cry like a spoilt rich child and demand release but I didn’t give them the satisfaction.

  I had declined the offer of a phone call. The sensible thing to do would have been to call Daddy and have his army of masonic Oxbridge lawyers ring up the Chief Constable and have my release expedited but I didn’t want to explain the circumstances of my current predicament to my family. It would be preferable to be thought missing and kidnapped than face the social disgrace of being arrested which would no doubt mean the threat of months of Champagne-less rehab in some hellhole retreat in Utah for over-privileged wrong-doers and celebrities or worse - having my trustfund withdrawn.

  I had no idea how long they would keep me locked up for, I somewhat doubted Johnny would turn into a knight in shining armour and pull some strings to have me released. I wondered who would feed poor Foxy. I was sure the callous brute would sell him on Ebay to some Essex salon owner first chance he got.

  As I lay on my bed I considered all the ways I would have my revenge on the manipulative swine once I was released. I considered vividly every option from smashing his face in with a house brick to castrating him with a potato peeler.

  After several hours banged up like a juvenile delinquent it started
to feel like the Shawshank Redemption, I half expected Morgan Freeman to come in and offer me a poster of Lana del Rey and a rock hammer to make my escape. Unfortunately the only visitor was the burly lesbian WPC with a cold cup of tea and a slice of over-buttered soggy toast. The whole experience was, I imagined, what a night at a chain-hotel felt like.

  Probably in Slough.

  When it became clear whatever action PC plod and his gang of flat-footed Columbo’s were undertaking was not going to come to an early conclusion I reluctantly pulled the rough wool blanket over me - which thankfully didn’t smell of piss or dead old people and tried to get some sleep.

  It was cold, uncomfortable and thoroughly disagreeable.

  Chapter 4

  I WAS woken up early for yet more culinary torture from the Metropolitan Police’s criminal catering menu, which I declined. I felt dirty and miserable without even a toothbrush to clean my teeth let alone a face pack to hydrate my poor skin. Not that I would want to wash in the filthy basin.

  They led me back to Room 101 where presumably Big Brother’s minions would tell me the error of my ways then lead me to a windowless torture cell in the basement for re-education.

  The detective returned and sat down.

  “Sleep well?” he asked cheerily.

  “What do you think?” I replied miserably which only seemed to delight him.

  He probably felt quite smug sleeping in his suburban semi-detached house while I was left to rot in a concrete box for life’s rejects.

  “Well there’s good news for you, and bad news,” he said.

  “Go on. I can’t wait.”

  “The good news is we aren’t charging you with Sean Black’s death. No evidence. No witnesses. On the balance of probabilities CPS wouldn’t be able to make the case stick without motive or a confession.”

  “Goody gumdrops,” I replied.

  “And the bad news is we are charging you with a possession of a illegal firearm.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “Still not a minor matter. You’ll probably get ten years, out in six if you behave yourself.”

  I was shocked. The notion of being banged up for six years with a bunch of women didn’t bear thinking about. I had done pretty well with my Thai kick-boxing classes but they would probably still make me their shower bitch and bum-rape me with a dildo they had fabricated in the prison wood-shop.