Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4) by Matthew Hattersley (funny books to read txt) 📕

an oversized white dress shirt she’d borrowed from Danny which she put on, buttoning it all the way to the collar.

Time to get her game face on.

Like most people, Acid hadn’t even stepped foot in a convent before, so was unsure what kind of conduct would be expected of her. Opting for a mixture of serenity and reverence (not so easy with her manic energy so rampant), she entered through an open doorway and walked across an enclosed courtyard to where a wooden door had been left ajar.

She removed her sunglasses and tucked them in her shirt pocket before easing the door fully open and stepping through into a small square room. A hint of incense hung in the air, and the bare stone walls meant the space was cool despite the intense summer heat outside. The only furniture in the room was a large oak table with a pile of dog-eared Bibles bound in maroon leather and a brass bell sitting on top. Opposite her was another wooden door and a stone stairwell that led to an upper level.

“Hola,” she called out. “Is anyone there?”

Nothing. She tried again.

“Hola. Hello. I need to speak to someone.” She reached for the bell, unsure whether it was ceremonial or for situations such as this. Well, she’d get their attention or else mortally offend them. She could live with either.

The bell was heavier than it looked and let out a shrill chime as she rang it. A few seconds passed before she heard footsteps, leather souls flapping on stone. As they got nearer she straightened her back, relaxing her pout into the most agreeable and non-threatening expression she could muster. Finally the door creaked open and a thin-faced woman with nervous eyes peered around the side. She looked Acid up and down.

“Le puedo ayudar?”

Acid grinned sheepishly, again ruing the fact she’d not kept up with her languages. “Sorry,” she said. “Do you speak English? Err… Ingles?”

The nun sniffed. “A little.”

“Oh thank God. Shit… Sorry. I didn’t mean… I was worried you might have taken a vow of silence or something. But you haven’t. That’s good.” She shut up. The bats were at play. It happened. She composed herself. “I was wondering if you could help me. I’m looking for someone.”

The nun’s eyes widened. “Quién eres? Err… Who are you?”

“Oh shit… I mean shoot. Sorry. My name is Special Agent Angela Summers. I’m from Interpol.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the wallet she’d purchased from Sonny earlier, flipping it open to reveal the card and badge and handing it to her.

The nun studied the ID for some time. “Interpol?”

“That’s right, Sister.”

She had wanted MI5 or CIA, but this was the best Sonny could get last minute. She hoped it would offer her enough sway.

The nun’s eyes met hers. “What is it you want?”

“As I said, I’m looking for someone and I believe she may be hiding out here. She’s about my height but thinner, with two white streaks in her hair, here and here. Quite hard to miss.” She smiled, encouraging the nun to respond, but her face didn’t falter.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

“Oh? I was told—”

“I have not seen who you ask for.”

Acid held her nerve. “Do you mind if I look around?” She took the ID from the nun and shoved it in her bag. “It won’t take long, and I’ll be quiet, don’t worry.”

With the nun muttering Spanish remonstrations in her wake, she marched over to the door and pulled it open. A long stone corridor lay in front of her, with tiny ornate windows carved into the stone on both sides.

“Please, some of us are at prayer,” the nun whispered, flanking her as she got to the end of the dark corridor, where it led off in both directions.

“Don’t worry,” Acid whispered back. “I’ll be respectful, but you have to realise this is important business. The woman I’m looking for is wanted for murder.”

The nun swallowed audibly at this, but said nothing.

“What’s down there?” Acid asked, gesturing to where the space opened up into a larger room. Squinting into the gloom she could make out an old table and chairs and two nuns sitting in silence.

Before the nun could answer, Acid was already striding down the corridor. As she entered the room both nuns jumped to their feet, visibly startled by her presence.

“No se preocupe, hermanas,” the nun behind her called out, shuffling past. “Esta mujer es de Interpol.”

Acid smiled, giving her new audience the same spiel as before – special agent, looking for a woman with white streaks in her hair. The nuns looked at each other, before shaking their heads.

The first nun smiled serenely, crepe skin stretched across skeletal bone structure. “As I have already told you, we have not seen this woman. She is not here.”

Acid eyed her and sniffed. “Yes you did say that, didn’t you? Okay, fine, have it your way. What’s through there?” She pointed to another door hanging open, and through it to a brightly lit room that appeared more modern than this part of the convent.

“Our sleeping quarters. No one is there now. We are all at prayer or doing chores.”

“I see.” She chewed her lip, wondering if she could (should) lean on the woman some more. Yet she seemed resolute in her silence. A dead end. “I’d better leave you good people to it then.” She smiled at the other nuns as they averted their eyes. “I can see myself out.”

But the first nun had already scurried over to the door and was beckoning her along the corridor.

“I am sorry we could not be more help,” she told Acid, as they walked to the main door.

“Makes two of us, but if you do see this woman – my height, little thinner, white streaks in her hair – will you call me? Do you have a pen?”

The nun shook her head. “We do not have a phone.”

“Ah, I see. Well, never mind.”

The nun heaved the door open. “Dios