by Asher, Adele
“You think that is good news?” I said mournfully.
“Well it’s better than going down for life.”
“That’s like saying drinking toilet water is better than drinking bleach.”
“Quite.”
“Will I get bail?” I asked hopeful that I could book a charter jet and live on the hoof in South America.
“Down to the judge,” he replied.
“And what about Johnny?”
“Yes,” he said. “There’s someone here to talk to you about that. Well good luck.”
The detective got up and left. I waited what must have been ten minutes when a man entered the interview room. He looked at me briefly then walked over to the wall, reached up and pushed the security camera to face away from the interview table.
‘Here we go’ I thought, he’s probably going to do something untoward. Since I had mentioned Johnny they would suicide me.
He sat down calmly and put an evidence bag on the table containing my Beretta then took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, which I considered unusual because the whole police station was no-smoking. He offered me the packet. I don’t usually smoke but in the light of the situation it seemed pointless worrying about ones long-term health. After all he would probably kill me as soon as I finished smoking it.
That’s what they do.
Give you something nice to cheer you up and then kill you.
He lit the cigarette for me. He still hadn’t spoken but was looking me square in the eyes. He had beautiful blue eyes and incredibly long eyelashes. They were quite hypnotic - like the gaze a tiger gives a deer it can’t be bothered to catch and eat for lunch. He was handsome in a rugged Irish alpha male sort of way, dressed in a casual long jacket and jeans. He didn’t look like a policeman. He was too handsome. I didn’t know quite what to make of him but I rather fancied him.
“What can you tell me about Johnny van Sant?” he asked.
He was clearly a university grad but had a light hint of a scottish accent.
“He’s a very naughty boy,” I replied. He smiled. I smiled back. “You find that amusing?”
“Just the way you say naughty.”
“Naughty?” I said and gave him an alluring smile. “You like the word naughty? Well maybe…..you are a very naughty boy,” I cooed seductively.
He clearly wasn’t a mere detective minion so it did no harm to ply this handsome stranger with some charm.
“Well maybe. But I think you are probably a very naughty girl,” he replied.
I laughed.
“Oh you have no idea.”
“Hmmm,” he said as he toyed the gun. “This gun has a very interesting history,” he told me, which of course I already knew as I had written most of it. “I’d like you too tell me what you know about it?” he asked. He had a very disarming way of speaking slowly with pauses, like he was undressing you with his words. “Would you like to do that?” he asked suggestively.
“I don’t know,” I replied curious as to his intentions. “What’s in it for me?”
“Well,” he paused and drew breath slowly as if getting ready to kiss me passionately and at length. “You’re in a lot of trouble right now, and I’m guessing you could probably use all the help you can get.”
“And what sort of help would that be?” I asked suspiciously.
“That depends on you,” he replied.
“Mmm,” I replied. “Well. Johnny gave me this gun, and Johnny works…claims to work for MI6.”
“Does he now. That’s very interesting.”
“Is it?”
“And why would Johnny give you a gun I wonder?”
“Maybe he thinks I need protection.”
“From whom?”
I laughed provocatively and toyed my cigarette suggestively
“From guys like you.”
He smiled and nodded.
“He might be right.”
At this point he reached into his jacket and removed a holstered Beretta 92FF. With a smooth and clearly well practiced motion he de-chambered the round, caught it and placed it upright on the table then removed the magazine and placed it next to it before placing the pistol flat on the table.
“You look like you’ve practiced that,” I said.
“I have. They look the same. But they are unique.”
“You could say that about men.”
“Touché,” he said and smiled. “But in reality they are very different. This one,” he pointed at his own gun. “Well this one doesn’t ever jam. It used to, design fault on the production run means the stock comes back too quickly and catches the round casing but I modified it with a different spring. Now you can fire off all sixteen rounds without it ever jamming.”
“Clever you,” I purred seductively.
“Now this one,” he pointed at my Beretta “This one hasn’t been modified. Which means its owner didn’t get it under warranty and get the recall notice.”
“How intriguing,” I responded wondering were all this was leading.
“Isn’t it? The problem with that is when it’s fired even when it doesn’t jam it clips the spent round and puts a small dint into the side of the casing. If someone was foolish enough to fire it and leave the spent casings behind then it makes it much easier to identify on the ballistics report.”
He toyed with the gun somewhat suggestively. Amused by his disarming manner I settled my chin playfully on a hand and smiled at him, as a child would do listening to a favourite bedtime story.
“And?”
“Details. It looks perfect but it hides a simple flaw. That’s because it’s a fake. It’s not a genuine Beretta,” he said before he pointed at his own gun. “This one on the other hand doesn’t look so perfect, because it’s well used and it’s been modified to make it better at what it does. But it is a genuine Beretta and it’s flawless.”
“Can I?” I asked gesturing at his flawless pistol.
“Go ahead.”
I picked up the gun and gently caressed it as I might a man I wanted to perform a night’s bedroom gymnastics with. Engraved along the side was the trademark Beretta insignia and serial number. Unlike my pistol that had no serial number it was clearly stamped with a code that I recognised from my research as belonging to a special run assigned to law enforcement contract issues.
“You are right. Totally flawless.”
I laid the gun down.
“So I think you understand what I’m saying?” he told me.
“Yes I think get the idea.”
He was referring to Johnny and the fact he wasn’t who he claimed to be.
“Back to this gun. Would you like me to tell you something we know about it?”
“Go on then. As long as you promise me a fairytale story before bed.”
“If you’re lucky. So this gun has been responsible for the death of three FSB officers, two SIS officers, several assorted bankers and nefarious businessmen, and most concerning, at least for our special friends. A CIA officer.”
That came as quite a surprise because in all the jobs Johnny had given me I had never knowingly offed a CIA spook.
“Really?” I said innocently.
“Which is a problem because the CIA tend to take that sort of thing quite personally. It generally involves suspects getting all sorts of unpleasant treatment such as rendition, torture in Middle Eastern prison cells and a trip to the electric chair.”
“Sounds unpleasant.”
“It is. But of course not something you would need to worry about. I’m sure you are not the sort of person to do such a thing.”
“Of course not. I’m a naughty girl, not deranged.”
“But Johnny… well now there’s another question. What sort of person is Johnny?”
“Maybe you can tell me?” I asked him.
“There’s the thing. We can’t. We don’t know who Johnny is. That is to say we know who he is, we just don’t know who he is.”
“Makes perfect sense,” I said even though
it didn’t make any sense at all.
“Which is a problem because he’s left you holding the not-so-smoking gun.”
“Yes.”
“Convenient for him. Rather like your little trip into the east-end. All very neat.”
“So what do you know?” I asked him.
“Well I know while you have been off playing double-oh-seven Johnny and his little blonde friend have been busy little bees. They’ve been draining your trust-fund account and transferring your property, which your father so carefully constructed in an offshore Cayman Islands holding company into another holding company they own,” he said.
“What are you trying to say?” I said with a frown.
“What I’m saying is that Johnny, your square jawed international playboy spy is a conman. He has taken you for all you are worth. Apart from what you’re wearing he’s taken everything.”
The shock was quite something to bear.
The notion that Johnny had carefully constructed a world of deception merely to fleece an impressionable bored socialite from her fortune never for once crossed my mind.
“You look surprised,” he said.
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“No, not really. But then I know Fleming wrote fiction, the reality is much more boring.”
I wanted to be violently sick. For all his mystique and charm Johnny was nothing more than a petty conman. If my charming new friend was right I had lost everything without even noticing.Explaining my incarceration for a firearms offence was one thing, explaining the loss of my multi-million pound trust inheritance would go down like a lead balloon at a children’s tea party if Daddy ever found out.
“He’s probably done this before,” he added in some attempt to comfort me.
My shock turned to anger.
“Well why the bloody hell didn’t you bang him up then!”
“It’s hard to convict someone when you don’t know who they are and what they are guilty of. Women of your social set tend to have somewhat elaborate tax structures around their wealth that they would prefer not to be investigated.”
“That’s comforting. Ten years for a firearms possession or ten for tax evasion,” I said. “So are you going to do anything about it?”
“Well that’s not my job.”
“And what is your job, exactly?”
“I’m more interested in Vladimir Kolokov,” he replied. I tried to suppress my shock, how could he possibly know anything about that? “Amongst the people this gun is associated with are a list of what we would consider people of interest. What I want to know is why Johnny knew about them and for what reason he had you kill them.”
“I didn’t kill them!” I protested.
“Let us say you did, under the misapprehension you were doing it for the good of Queen and Country on Mister MI6 Johnny’s orders.”
“If that was the case he wouldn’t have told me anything, need to know basis and all that spooks bullshit.”
“Well that’s a problem then isn’t it?”
“Why is that a problem?”
“Because without Johnny on the hook the only thing that links you to these murders is this gun. Which was in your possession.”
“Which Johnny gave me,” I cut him off.
“That would be a useful defence if we actually had Johnny.”
“Well go and arrest him then.”
“He left for Geneva at seven a.m this morning with your little friend Charlotte, we don’t know where he is. And more importantly we don’t actually know who he is and who he is working for,” he said then smiled. “But we’d like to find out.”
“What makes you think I know where he is?”
“I don’t expect you to know where he is. As far as Johnny is concerned you are banged up and bang to rights. He’s cleaned you out. You can’t even afford a decent lawyer. Your involvement with the musician is enough to have your friends and family wash their hands and disown you. You don’t threaten him.”
“So what do you expect me to do then?”
“Be in a position to threaten him.”
“I’d like to help you mister. But honestly speaking I’m all done with spies. I’d just quite like to meet a guy for once who takes me out to dinner and shags me without any sort of international murder or clandestine spy bullshit involved.”
He nodded, and took out a piece of paper.
“What’s this?” I asked him.
“It’s your statement,” he took my pistol out of the evidence bag and dropped his unloaded pistol into it. “It says that you found this gun - my gun and as a good citizen you were on your way to hand it in,” he said then took my gun, put the round and magazine in it and holstered it. “You have a simple choice. Spend six years banged up with the scum of humanity or sign that statement and walk free. It’s your choice.”
I read the statement. It was stapled to an official looking report stating my new friend had lost his firearm on a operational assignment and I had found it and was on my way to handing it in when I had been delayed by a call from Charlotte. He took out a card with a number printed on it.
“How do I know you are who you say you are? No offence but after Johnny I’m a little distrusting of late,” I told him.
He nodded and produced an official I.D stamped with the royal crest of the Secret Intelligence Service.
“Is this your license to kill?” I asked him.
“No it’s my photocopier card. The government keeps a tight rein on stationary spending.”
He was, it seemed by his credentials, the full ticket.
“Mister Nicholas Salinger.” I said reading the card. “I guess this makes you my official knight in shining armour.”
“I guess it does.” he said taking his ID back.
I considered my options briefly.
“My life is ruined. Even if I help you get him back. I’ve lost everything. What difference will it make if I help you or get locked up? I leave, I’m homeless and broke.”
“I’ll leave you to consider your position. My number is on the card. I’ll hang on to this until you make your mind up,” he replied.
“You must think I’m the stupidest girl you ever met.”
“I think you wanted some excitement and got more than you expected. That tends to happen.”
“And what about you Mister Salinger. Do you get too much excitement?”
“Not really. Mostly paperwork. I don’t drink Martini’s and I don’t have an Aston.”
“But you do have a very nice gun…”
“I think you should stay away from guns from now on.”
“Does that mean I should stay away from you? That would be a shame. I was just starting to like you.”
He smiled at me with bemusement.
“As long as you aren’t holding the gun.”
“Do you take it to bed with you?” I asked with a suggestive pout.
“No,” he replied with a smile.
“Then maybe that’s the right place for me?”
He laughed.
“You. Are a naughty girl.”
“What about my bedtime story?”
“It’s not bedtime,” he said as he left the room.
The detective didn’t return instead I was despatched by the lesbian WPC to my cell.
I felt annoyed with myself that I had fallen for Johnny’s impeccable charms. I felt like a complete idiot. If Charlotte knew anything about it then it was even more humiliating. How she must have laughed at the opportunity to stitch me up like a smoked Scottish kipper.
In retrospect the difference between Nick Salinger and Johnny made it blindingly obvious that Johnny was nothing more than a media-fabricated interpretation of an intelligence agent designed to fulfil the fantasy of gullible young girl raised on a diet of dashing young heroes with perfect cheekbones. In reality it was average middle class men from normal backgrounds filling out paper chits for rubber bands and manila envelopes sitting outside the Russian embassy in a battered transit van eating Cornish
pasties.
The fact I found Nick attractive merely further suggested I have some strange fetish for men in the intelligence service, although had he been fifty, bald and fat I doubt he would have appealed so much. I hoped he didn’t know the full truth that I had gone around committing murder at Johnny’s behest without so much as a contract or flash of ID.
He would think I was some sort of maniac.
I put aside the thought of a romp in the hay-barn with the delightful Nick Salinger and remembered the more pressing problem that Johnny - the shameless bastard, had stolen all my money. I was broke. Not just ‘get a media job and a flat in Fulham’ broke but ‘piss pot poor haven’t got the bus fare home’ broke. I had three options.
One, put my hands up to things and serve out my time.
Two, ring Daddy and hope he didn’t send me to Utah rehab for the rest of my days.
Three, accept the offer of Nick Salinger who was at least a genuine employee of H.M government and not some bullshit pick-up artist on a con-trip.
I decided to take Option three - Nick Salinger.
Not just because I didn’t want to go to prison and become the wings toilet bitch or do an equally horrific stretch in Utah rehab but because I really rather liked him and being his damsel in distress had a certain charm. At the very least I would get to shag him silly which after the past twenty-four hours of unpleasantness and the fact I wouldn’t be able to offset the misery with a shopping trip to Lanvin would be the only prospect of cheering me up.
And God only knows what had happened to poor Foxy.
Chapter 5
WHEN THE lesbian WPC returned to ply me with more offerings from hells kitchen I informed her I would like to take my statutory phone call. She took me to the phone and I dialled the number on Nick Salinger’s business card.
