The International Assassin: A Sexy Times Crime Thriller

by Asher, Adele

  I smiled at Johnny. He could be most amusingly Etonian in his disdain for the proletariat.

  “If it’s allowed to continue it would cause something of a scandal. Before he was famous he used to be a car thief and a supplier of recreational pharmaceuticals.”

  Johnny having finished the bacon set to work on the pork and herb sausages.

  “Sounds a delightful chap,” I replied.

  “All very distasteful. Has a rather unflattering tattoo on his face,” said Johnny with a sneer. I nodded. Johnny abandoned the sausage and picked up the Champagne and looked at me. “Still lives in a council tower block. Needs to look like a suicide. I’d like you to throw him out of a window,” he said with the matter of fact casualness of asking me to take his suit to the dry cleaners. “I appreciate that might be somewhat complicated,” he added “For you.”

  Johnny was being polite. Being a little over five-foot seven inches and with a build my mother would describe as elfin the prospect of throwing a well built east-end warbler off his council flat balcony presented certain challenges no matter how much time I spent in the gym at Chelsea harbour.

  I considered Johnny’s request.

  He was implying that I might wish to ask for his involvement. This was unusual for Johnny, and certainly the notion of a MI6 agent risking his cover to throw a minor league celebrity off a balcony was a surprise. The result of him being caught in such an involvement given he supposedly worked in a organisation concerned with international espionage not the disposal of troublesome working class musicians would be somewhat serious.

  “I can take care of it,” I told him.

  “Are you sure?” he asked nursing his Champagne.

  “Of course,” I replied confidently. He nodded and toasted my glass before downing the Champagne.

  “We better buy you a hoody,” he suggested. “You can’t go to Hackney dressed in Prada. At least not genuine Prada.”

  “Maybe a little fake Burberry,” I added.

  “No need to go that far darling,” he smiled.

  He needn’t have bothered, committing murder was one thing but wearing fake designer tat was beyond any morally acceptable boundaries for me. I would sooner be caught red-handed with a blood soaked dagger than be photographed by Hello! Paparazzi wearing market stall rags.

  “I should bloody think so,” I told him curtly reminding him there was a line in the sand for Queen, Country and even Johnny.

  The hotel concierge approached us.

  “Mr. Van Sant? There is a phone call for you,” he said.

  Johnny looked slightly surprised for a second. Why on earth would anyone be calling him here?

  “Really?” asked Johnny, more statement than question.

  “Yes Sir. They said it’s urgent. A family emergency.” Johnny looked at the waiter suspiciously.

  “I think you have the wrong person,” he replied before drinking his Champagne.

  “Very sorry to disturb you Mr. Van Sant. There’s probably been a mistake.”

  Johnny nodded.

  “I’m sure they have the wrong number. Tell them to try the Ritz.”

  “Yes Sir,” the waiter departed. I looked at Johnny but his face betrayed no answers and he offered no explanation -fabricated or otherwise.

  We returned to my home after breakfast. We lived in an apartment on the first floor of a red brick mansion block overlooking Cadogan Gardens. I had acquired a mews house behind the block to house Johnny’s most prized possession, his Quantum Grey Aston Martin DBS that I had bought for his birthday the previous year. Of course it might not have actually been his birthday but as long as he didn’t move the date I suppose one day was as good as another for celebratory purposes. We had a social engagement that evening and I was tired after the nights on-board entertainment with Vladimir therefore elected to have a shower and go straight to bed, the Champagne was starting to give me a light headache.

  As I dozed I considered what Johnny had asked me to do, to say a trip into the wild council estates of Hackney was out of my comfort zone was an understatement. I had grown up spending my time almost entirely in the wealthier neighbourhoods of Chelsea, Mayfair and Westminster apart from the odd trip to friends who had moved to Hampstead. The rest of London was a mysterious place full of people of questionable character. I felt much safer in Belize than most provincial parts of the capital. Johnny of course would know this, which is what made his request all the more strange. Despite the dangers of being caught with an illegal firearm in a country under strict anti-terrorism legislation I would carry a gun. I reasoned even the postmen in Hackney probably needed to pack some heat given the borough’s reputation of being home to murder mile. Also, unusually for a girl of my class, I would go on public transport at least from the neutral ground of Holborn onwards. The potential of leaving a witness to blab about the strange behaviour of a Chelsea it-girl travelling into the inner city social-housing hell would not be acceptable and I wasn’t in the mood to murder a taxi driver. I could happily kill taxi drivers most Friday nights outside Nobu when it was raining but merely to suppress a witness was an unnecessary cost of life. I tried to sleep and formulate my plan.

  As Boromir would have possibly said if assigned such a task

  ‘One does not simply walk into Hackney.’

  Chapter 2

  I WOKE up just after seven. One of the advantages of drinking Champagne (at least quality champagne as opposed to the factory-engineered piss produced for Essex party girls) is that it doesn’t leave a hangover. Unfortunately the dehydrating effects of a long-haul flight followed by a boozed-up breakfast and afternoon nap all conspired to produce a similar effect. We were due to have dinner at eight at The Ebury with Anoushka, Piers, Charlotte and her new mystery beau.

  If I had a nemesis it would be Charlotte.

  She had perfected the art of being an exceptional bitch whilst managing to portray to all others the innocence of a six-day-old kitten. I have lost count of the times I have seen her paint her face with the ‘I’m going to cry because you’re mean’ pout despite the certain fact she would kill her own offspring for the latest Birkin bag.

  We had arrived late, after oversleeping and missing my Pilates session I had decided it was better to be late and pristine than allow the cattish bitch any more ammunition to reinforce her own ego.

  Johnny had gone with a black Tom Ford suit. Since Charlotte would no doubt wear an over-revealing white number to show off her fake spray-on tan I decided to wear a black Chanel cocktail dress with zebra print Loubi heels and an obnoxiously decadent Van-Graff diamond necklace complimented by Tiffany earrings.

  Charlotte (despite her Chelsea pretensions) wasn’t monied enough to have a safe full of ice and no matter her best efforts to procure a hedge-fund manager or minor member of the Saudi royal family she had yet to secure a suitable enough husband candidate to fund the lifestyle she mistakenly felt entitled to.

  Since there was an outside chance I would have an opportunity to off the horrid wench in the powder room I took my trusted Beretta concealed in a special compartment of my Vuitton Birkin bag.

  The dinner crowd was already onto starters by the time Johnny and I arrived. Charlotte greeted me with the sincerity of a crash test dummy. More surprising was the mystery dinner guest - a tattooed oik who looked like he was there to sell heroin and pills.

  “So this is your mystery man Charlotte?” I asked her with a level of disdain that suggested she had brought a bag of Foxy’s dogshit to dinner.

  “Yes, I’d love you to meet Sean,” she said. Smugly. She would love me to meet him perhaps but I would rather be introduced to Idi Amin and Pol Pot.

  The scruffy individual stood up and smiled to reveal half his teeth were constructed from gold - probably melted down from Elizabeth Duke sovereign rings stolen off his benefit scrounging neighbours.

  “Awight darlin?” he said in some sort of yardie accent. He offered his hand, which had HATE tattooed across his fingers below an assortment of what appeared
to be gold painted costume jewellery - most notable of which was a large ring with what I can only describe as two ladies of questionable character engaged in an act of fellatio on a man sausage. I reluctantly shook hands with him and immediately wiped it on the napkin reminding myself to ask the waiter to take it away, burn it in a secure enclosure and provide a replacement. Picking up Foxy’s poop in Hyde Park was a more pleasant experience than shaking his sweaty working class hand.

  “Oh how quaint,” I replied in my best Roedean girls English. “Are you an actor?”

  “No luv. I’m in the musik industry innit.”

  “Ah. You own a market stall selling records?”

  He laughed with a raucous bren-gun chatter.

  “No, I’m like a rapper innit. I iz on the TV and everything. Like proper.”

  It was hard to decipher, I couldn’t quite decide if he was simply ill-educated or mentally retarded from his drug consumption.

  “Lovely,” I replied as Johnny pulled out my chair. “Well Charlotte has always been a fan of the arts,” I added.

  “nice. Innit. She’s my bitch innit.”

  “Yes. She is definitely that,” I replied tartly. Charlotte shot me an icicle glare.

  Of course the minute the scrote opened his mouth I had understood he was the musical performer that Johnny had referred to. Quite why Johnny had decided Charlotte’s father was an important enough individual to require Johnny to have him whacked was the real question.

  “So what you innit then luv?” he asked.

  “Well there’s a question,” I replied not sure what the question actually was.

  “Is he your homeboy?” he asked referring I presumed, to Johnny.

  “No he’s from Surbiton,” I replied.

  “Safe. South landan crew innit. Whats your gig then chap?” he asked Johnny.

  “Public relations,” replied Johnny tactfully.

  “For real. That’s like PR?”

  “That is PR.”

  “Nice. Nice. I got one of dem ting-tings. Nice. Safe. Real.”

  It was like listening to Stephen Hawkin’s voice machine with a software malfunction.

  “So what kind of music do you make then?” I asked politely.

  “Gangsta rap innit. Like about life on the streets with my homies n shit.”

  “Oh I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were a homeless person,” I replied.

  “No luv, I’ve got a crib like.”

  “You’re a little large for that. How do you fit?” I asked.

  “Eh?”

  “Into a child’s crib? Don’t your sort of people usually sleep in cardboard boxes?”

  “No what I is saying like is I has a crib, like a pad. In my manor.”

  “Oh you have a title. One would never have guessed, but I suppose since New Labour they are trying to make the Lords more accessible for your sort.”

  Charlotte glared at me. The musical tramp merely laughed and snorted as he gobbled his mange-tout with pesto drizzle.

  “This isn’t my usual sort of place innit, it’s like all Ramsay stylin ting-tings.”

  “Well I’m sure they will do you a kebab if you ask nicely,” I retorted.

  “You’re funny innit. You’re a funny bird. Chas never told me you was a funny bird. Safe innit.”

  To say the evening’s engagement was the most painful dinner one has experienced would be a gross understatement. He regaled us with his endless tales of council estate thuggery and minor criminal adventures before insisting on breaking out into an expletive laden rap to the tune of a children’s nursery rhyme - which somewhat inappropriately for the under sixes, he had reworded to describe an encounter between two gentleman and a girl with a predilection for fellating strangers in the back of Volkswagen Golf GTI’s.

  At the end of the meal he insisted we take a trip back to his ‘manor’ for canapés - although he could have said cannabis. His accent was somewhat hard to decipher especially given the amount of alcohol he had imbibed and his frequent trips to the smoking terrace to inhale something that clearly wasn’t sold in a packet of twenty by the local newsagent.

  Normally I would have declined such an offer but since he had annoyed me intensely with his lack of education and constant reference to bitches n hoes I decided to kill the urchin at the first opportunity.

  “Good idea,” said Johnny. “I always wanted to see what that side of town looked like.”

  With some luck I could take out Charlotte at the same time.

  We took a taxi over to Hackney. Despite the lack of planning or discretion and the unfortunate attendance of both Johnny and Charlotte I was at least glad I didn’t have to make such a journey into skid-row unattended. We arrived at the rundown social-housing project a little after midnight. The local residents of which could have easily passed for Night of the Living Dead extras.

  “Homes innit,” he told us as Johnny paid the twenty-two pound taxi fare.

  “You like?” he asked me.

  “It’s very Bohemian,” I replied wondering for the life of me what had possessed Charlotte to consort with such a gentleman of questionable standing other than a desire to propagate her position into the ranks of Z-list tabloid celebrities.

  I looked up at the tower block and wondered which episode of Die Hard it would most likely feature in. ‘Die Hard with a Housing Benefit Cheque & Wrap of Smack’ I expect.

  “We’re on the 14th floor innit,” he told us pointing up at his undesirable residence.

  “That’s handy,” I replied. A long enough fall for him to consider his failings as a human being before he hit the concrete.

  He led us into the vestibule of the tower block. The bare concrete walls were scrawled in graffiti and stank of stale piss, sick and human misery. Having enjoyed the many splendours of the world’s duty-free perfume counters it was not a scent I imagined any major fashion house would be releasing into the fall season.

  We headed for the lift, a nasty stainless steel affair that had probably been host to more than its fair share of violence against the person.

  The doors cranked open with the grace and finesse of a car crusher waiting to swallow an untaxed Vauxhall Astra. He gestured us into the lift which was a tight squeeze and added the noxious fume of working class sex and stale sweat to the already heady concoction the vestibule had offered to ones nasal senses. He stabbed the button for the fourteenth floor and the doors creaked close sealing us inside the stinking coffin of benefit-trapped misery. As the lift creaked its way to its final destination his head nodded like a dog as if listening to some music only he could hear. He also kept rubbing his crotch probably due to some nasty STD. I remember thinking how much I hoped he had passed it on to Charlotte or perhaps she had gave it to him - more than likely as was clear from her current romantic choice of partner she would screw anything, human or otherwise.

  I tried to hold my breath in the lift as I felt the salmon with lemon jus gently swimming in a bath of Veuve-Clicqout attempting to return to sender and was thankful when the doors creaked open. Even in the confines of the lift Charlotte’s man smelt like a tramp. It looked like the sort of building that didn’t have running water let alone a Starck fitted wet-room. We departed the lift to the slightly less aromatic hallway that mostly stank of strong ganja.

  “Welcome to my pad.”

  He gestured us into the badly decorated dingy hellhole that passed for his domestic accommodation. Having never actually ventured into social-housing before it was somewhat shocking, a living room adorned with pictures of half naked ladies and a sixty-inch plasma TV that was probably stolen in the riots.

  “Nice innit. You likin my style Bitch?”

  “It’s vintage,” I replied.

  “Yes yes check dis,” he replied which was possibly some sort of acknowledgement of my interior design critique.

  “You wanna see the view lady?” he asked me gesturing me to what I presumed would be the bedroom. “I got a nice balcony,” he added.

  Perfect, I thoug
ht. I could throw him off it and be out within five minutes.

  “Yes that would be delightful,” I replied with the feigned excitement of a child off to visit the funfair.

  “Fix us a drink, I got some Malibu and shit,” he told Charlotte.

  “Just the Malibu,” I said.

  Charlotte might like to drink shit but I prefer a decent quality vintage of French origin.

  He led me through to the bedroom. The bed where he had I presumed, fornicated with Charlotte reminded me of a certain artists piss-stained attempt at a Turner Prize installation piece. I don’t imagine he changed the sheets more than once a year. He opened the balcony and we both stepped out.

  “Check dis view man!” he told me doing some sort of weird shaking hand gesture.

  Taking out my lipstick I leaned over the balcony and deliberately dropped it on to the ledge below.

  “Oh dear! It’s my favourite. YSL.”

  “No problem sistah. I can sort dis,” he replied leaping over the balcony railings with ease clearly from years of practice burgling neighbours residences.

  With one hand clutching the balcony he leaned down to grab my lipstick.

  “Mind you don’t fall off,” I said quite loudly to ensure Johnny and Charlotte heard.

  “I got dis,” he said. “No worries.”

  “No, I don’t think you have old chap,” I told him as I punched him squarely on the nose.

  His face was a look of pure shock as he lost his grip on the rail and fell backwards - some hundred or more feet downwards landing squarely into a badly body-kitted pink Renault parked below triggering the car alarm as his body smashed into the roof and windscreen.

  “Oh dear!” I remarked. “Are you okay?” I shouted for good grace as Charlotte and Johnny came running in.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Where’s my Sean?”