Bad Moon Rising (#1 - D.I. Paolo Storey Crime Series) by Frances di Plino Read Free Book Online

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