Bad Moon Rising (#1 - D.I. Paolo Storey Crime Series) (6 page)

At that moment, a car came round the corner and crawled to a halt. The girl sauntered over. Within seconds, she’d climbed in. He burned with rage as his prize was driven away.

Waves of nausea flowed over him as he fought to control his fury. Eventually he was able to breathe again. Reaching up, he replaced the photo and flipped the sunshield back. At least now he knew where to find her. He’d come back tomorrow and the next night, every night until he could pick her up.

He had to save her – he had no choice but to relive his first killing again and again until the Lord told him to stop.

Music blared from the room, drowning out the sound of his tentative knocking. The rooms on either side seemed to be taking part in some sort of noise competition. No wonder she couldn’t hear his knocks. It would be a miracle if his hearing wasn’t permanently impaired just from standing in the hallway. Not that he was sure he even wanted the door to open. Maybe he should leave. Go home and forget he’d ever been given her address. Did he really want to confront her?

Just as he’d convinced himself to give up, the door opened. A raddled face topped by bleached straw peered out at him through eyes that struggled to focus. Blinking, the woman held onto the doorframe as if it was the only way she could remain upright. Before he could speak, she staggered back and waved him into the room.

He stepped through the opening and entered a place from his childhood nightmares. It was everything Mama had said a whore’s lair would be. The bed, dominating the small room, was unmade and clothes littered every surface of the floor. To one side of the room a tiny table held a CD player, the source of the deafening music. But even so, the competing tunes from either side added to the discordant din.

He didn’t hear her stagger up behind him and jumped back as she clutched at his arm.

“Blow?” she slurred, “or fuck?”

He turned to face her, throat closing as words refused to come. Shaking his head, he took another step back to break free from her grasp.

She fell into an armchair next to the table. “Wha’ sor’ fuck you wan’ then?”

“None,” he said, finally finding his voice.

“You wan’ blow? Shit, they all wan’ blow,” she said staggering to her feet and coming at him again. “’s more if I swaller. You wan’ swaller or spit?”

He put his hands out to hold her off. “I just want to talk to you, ask you some questions.”

She somehow managed to avoid his barricades and threw her scrawny arms round his neck.

“You wanna dance instead? I like dancing.”

He tried to drag her arms from his neck, but she held on tight and rubbed her groin into his.
Bad Moon Rising
came on the CD player as she gyrated. He took hold of her wrists and forced them down.

“I just want to talk to you,” he yelled over the music.

She wrenched her wrists free and came at him again, grabbing between his legs and rubbing. “You wanna fuck, dontcha.”

He tried to get free, but in his efforts to get away, he lost his footing and fell back onto the bed. She fell on top of him, still rubbing between his legs.

For a brief dreadful moment he responded, desperate to give in to the need. Forcing himself to resist, he pulled her hand away and shoved her to the floor. Scrambling up from the bed, he looked down on her. Her nightgown had fallen open, displaying her naked breasts. He fell to his knees. Of their own volition, his hands reached out to caress her. She opened her legs and a rage such as he’d never known filled him as he remembered who and what this whore was to him.

He snatched his hands away as if burnt.

“Whore,” he sobbed. “Fucking, fucking, dirty whore.”

Fighting against his desire, he began to pummel her with his fists. Choking with tears, he gasped for breath and let his hands fall by his sides. Then he realised what he had to do. Taking her throat in his hands, he squeezed. He could feel her scrawny body under his, fighting against his weight. Her fingers clawed at his hands, but she was no match for him. He squeezed harder and harder, wanting to break her neck. Needing to rip her head from her shoulders. The bitch, the fucking bitch, how dare she come on to him like that.

Finally, the life left her body and he felt a moment of absolute peace. No more whoring for her.

But the moment passed all too quickly. Realisation flooded in. He couldn’t be found like this. He got to his feet and forced himself to think. She was dead, for God’s sake. Clean up, he thought. Leave no traces. Looking around, he found a plastic supermarket bag in the tiny kitchenette area behind the dirty curtain next to the armchair. He stripped her gown and shoved it in the bag. Then he took the sheet from the bed and put that in too.

Going back to the kitchenette, he found a bowl and filled it with warm water and a squirt of washing up liquid. By the time he threw away the dirty water and rinsed the bowl, he was sure he hadn’t left any traces of himself behind, either on her or in the rest of the room. He unravelled a roll of black bin bags he’d found under the sink. Folding in her limbs, he wrapped her body in as small a parcel as he could.

He needed something to seal it and went to rummage in the telephone table drawer. He found half a roll of sellotape – perfect! Above the phone was a photo pinned to the wall. The prostitute as a young woman, still in her teens, blonde, smiling and carefree looked back at him. She held a baby on her lap and had one arm draped around a small dark-haired child. How old was the child, he wondered? Two? Three at most.

He slipped the photo into his pocket and returned to seal his package.

Satisfied he hadn’t left any evidence behind, he lifted the black plastic bundle. Fortunately she barely weighed anything and he wondered when she’d last had a proper meal. Not that he could afford to think about her as a person. Right now she was simply garbage he had to get rid of.

Leaning forward, he picked up the bag containing her nightgown and sheet.

The music moved onto yet another track as he quietly closed the door, but the people on either side wouldn’t have noticed. Their music was winning the battle of the bands.

***

Paolo pressed buttons on the remote and the screen flickered between channels. He didn’t care what was on, but needed the background noise to keep him company. He settled for a talk show and chucked the remote down next to him on the almost threadbare couch.

Looking around the bedsit, he forced himself to take stock of his surroundings. Living here had only been a temporary option while he and Lydia sorted out their problems, and now they were barely on speaking terms – problem solved. Ha, bloody, ha.

Somehow he’d never found time to look for anywhere better. Anywhere
permanent
a voice insisted. As long as he stayed in the bedsit he could convince himself he was just marking time until... until what? Until Lydia decided to take him back? That didn’t look like it was going to happen any time soon. He needed to find a proper home. Somewhere with a spare bedroom so Katy could stay over during the weekends.

Decision made, he felt almost cheerful and was about to reach for the newspaper to check the classified ads when a new interviewee was announced by the talk show host.

“We’re fortunate to have the benefit of Matthew Roberts’ expertise. Matthew, welcome to-”

Paolo snatched up the remote and switched off the set. The last thing he needed was to listen to Matthew Roberts droning on about police brutality and human rights. Human rights for garbage like Azzopardi, but no human rights for his victims. And the media believed Roberts was one of the good guys. How sick was that?

He tried to recapture his earlier moment of good humour, but it had evaporated as rapidly as it had arrived. Ignoring the newspaper, he stood up and walked to the unmade bed. Throwing himself down, he stared up at the myriad cracks running across the ceiling. He lit a Camel and watched the smoke spiral above his head. It would be nice to live somewhere he could take pride in. The surrounding walls, from what he could see under the grime, must once have been painted pale beige. They still had the remnants of Blu-Tack the previous tenant had used to fix posters over every inch of space.

When he’d taken the place, sight unseen, he wouldn’t have cared if cockroaches had been partying on the coffee table. He hadn’t even put up any pictures; nothing that would make the dump look lived in. He’d definitely look for a new place tomorrow.

He closed his eyes and drifted towards sleep. Just as he was dropping off he remembered Father Gregory’s words. He hadn’t spoken to Katy yet. Damn! That was a problem for his next weekend visit.

***

Paolo looked up from the papers on his desk as his team filed in to the main office. He picked up his coffee mug and joined them in front of the crime board.

“Right, what have you got to tell us, CC?”

Cathy opened her notebook. “Main points or full detail?”

“Main points for now,” Paolo answered. He knew how she worked. She’d give all the information they needed without wasting time on the insignificant.

Paolo caught sight of Dave staring out the window. He had his feet up on his desk, with his chair leaning back on two legs. His whole attention seemed to be on the view outside. His eyes flicked back to the room briefly, then he yawned before turning his head away again.

“We boring you, Dave?” Paolo barked. “If so, why don’t you go and get us all a coffee? Do something useful.”

Paolo was pleased to see Dave’s face flush as he allowed the chair to drop back into place. He waited for him to leave the room before nodding to CC to start her report. It was about time Dave realised this was a team effort.

“One of the neighbours, a Mrs Fulbright, thinks she remembers seeing a large dark car when she got up to visit the bathroom at about three in the morning. Apparently she doesn’t switch a light on at night, so was startled when the room suddenly lit up. She peered out and saw someone dumping garbage and was going to report it to the council. Only problem was, she didn’t have her glasses on, so couldn’t make out the number plate. By the time she’d found her way to the bedroom and back again, the car had gone. I asked her if she could identify the make and she said no, just that it looked posh. Also, she’s not sure which night it was, so it might not even be our perp.”

CC grinned at Paolo. “So that makes our job nice and easy, doesn’t it? We’re probably looking for a posh, dark car that might, or might not have been the one used to dump the body.” She looked at her notes again. “No joy with a description of the man. It was too far away for her to see him clearly, even if she’d had her glasses on, but she was sure it was a man. None of the other neighbours saw or heard anything.”

Paolo added the information, such as it was, to the board. While he was writing, Dave came back in with mugs of coffee and handed them round.

“Thanks for that, Dave. Pity we don’t have time to drink them, but as you didn’t have any joy in finding one of Lisa’s street buddies, we’ll go together to chat to the girls on her beat. Maybe I can find one of them who can tell us something useful. CC, you and George can watch Azzopardi for a while. Let’s see what he gets up to when he thinks I’m not keeping an eye on him.”

***

Dave drove into Granger Street and manoeuvred the car onto the tarmac area behind the bingo hall. It was the nearest car park to the red-light area of town.

“Bit early in the day for the girls to be at work, isn’t it?”

Paolo smiled. “You think the punters only have sex at night?”

“No, but...”

“No buts about it, the girls work long hours and cater for daylight customers who can’t get away from the wife to come over at night. Besides, I thought you said you’d checked this area? You should already know they’re on call during the day.”

Dave mumbled something and Paolo opened his mouth to have yet another go at him, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He’d speak to the Chief Constable and see if he could get his golden boy nephew moved to a different station. Clearly he and Dave would never end up on the same wavelength.

They strolled towards Beacon Street, passing girls who suddenly seemed to be really interested in the derelict shop windows. Paolo had never figured out how the working girls knew he was a copper.

“The Maltese run the far end of this district, the Albanians this end. I’d like the girls to feel free to speak, which means you keeping your misogynist mouth shut. Okay?”

When Dave didn’t answer, Paolo stopped and grabbed his arm. “Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“Then next time answer me. I don’t know what your problem is, but if you want to stay on my team, you’d better try a bit harder to do things my way.”

He walked away without waiting to see Dave’s reaction and reached the corner just in time to see a young girl wearing a black leather skirt short enough to be a belt duck into the first shop doorway. He walked up to the opening, but made no attempt to get close to the girl. He stood back and called out to her.