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

by Frances di Plino

  Dave flicked the indicator and turned into Connaught Way. “They’ve decided to sell their bodies. You know? Put a price on it.”

  “You think they’re doing it from choice? Most of them have been forced into it one way or another. I don’t suppose there are many women who go on the game because they want to.” Feeling he’d said enough for now, Paolo changed the subject. “Anyway, how did it go with Rebecca?”

  “Rebecca? Who’s Rebecca?”

  “The WPC you made a date with on Gallows Heath. Remember?”

  Dave laughed. “I’m not likely to forget her, she was quite something.”

  “But you couldn’t remember her name?”

  Dave didn’t answer and Paolo gave up. He had enough on his mind without trying to solve Dave’s problems.

  The car pulled to a halt outside the gates of Azzopardi’s mansion. Dave let down his window and pressed the intercom.

  Through the ornamental ironwork, a wide tarmac drive curved away from the gates and disappeared into trees and shrubs. Nothing could be seen of the house.

  A scratchy static voice sounded from the intercom. “Who is it?”

  “Police.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We’re here to chat to Mr Azzopardi. Open up,” Dave said.

  “You got a warrant?”

  Paolo leant across and called out through Dave’s open window. “Now why would we need one? You just run off and tell Frank we only want to have a nice friendly chat. Ask him if we need to come back with a warrant.”

  “Wait,” the voice ordered.

  The intercom fell silent. Just as Paolo was about to tell Dave to press the buzzer again, the gates slowly opened. They moved through and followed the drive as it zigzagged upwards through a tunnel of greenery.

  “This is like driving through Bradchester Park,” Dave said, clearly impressed.

  As they rounded the final bend, Azzopardi’s house came into view.

  “Bloody hell! I thought crime didn’t pay?” Dave breathed.

  Paolo had been to the mansion before, but even so, he could see why Dave was knocked out by it. The house had all the class Azzopardi lacked. A Georgian three-storey building covered in ivy stood in isolated splendour at the top of the driveway. Two men, who Paolo knew carried their brains in their muscles, came towards the car as it stopped.

  Paolo and Dave got out and walked towards the men.

  “We’re here to see your boss,” Paolo said.

  Without a word, they both nodded and turned back to the house.

  “Not great on dialogue, those two, are they?” Dave said.

  “They don’t need a large vocabulary for what they do.”

  They followed the two men up the broad steps leading into the entrance hall and along a wide corridor to the back of the house. It didn’t matter how many times Paolo saw the mansion, he was stunned by its beauty. Dave had it wrong; crime definitely paid; there was no legal way Azzopardi could afford to live as he did. Paolo wondered how Frank slept at night, knowing that misery paid for all this luxury. They reached the end of the long passage and entered a massive conservatory. Palm trees in gigantic planters fringed an indoor pool where Azzopardi was swimming laps. Maria Vassallo, costume partially covered by a multicoloured wrap, stood to one side of the pool, clutching a towel. She glanced over at Paolo and Dave before switching her gaze back to the swimmer.

  “It’s like a sauna in here,” Dave said. “You’d think it was the middle of summer instead of the beginning of a miserable March.”

  Paolo kept quiet and waited for Azzopardi to reach their end of the pool and hoist himself on to the side. As he stood up, water cascading from his torso, Maria Vassallo rushed forward to wrap the towel around him. He didn’t so much as acknowledge her presence, simply stared at Paolo and Dave.

  “What’s this, Paolo, police harassment? You plods too thick to know when to give up? Maria, get me a drink.”

  “Campari?”

  “What else?” Azzopardi said, turning away from Paolo to watch Maria as she walked over to the bar.

  Paolo could see ownership in the man’s stance. Maria belonged to Azzopardi, body and soul. Paolo wondered if she knew it, or if she even cared. She returned, handed Azzopardi his drink and sat down on a wicker couch, never once taking her eyes off his face, as if trying to gauge his mood. Azzopardi took a sip of his Campari and soda, then looked at Paolo and grinned, completely relaxed.

  “So, are you going to tell me why you’re here this time, or are you going to stand there playing statues? Don’t think I don’t appreciate your company, but I’ve worked up an appetite with my swim and right now you aren’t what I fancy.”

  He winked and then looked over at Maria as he spoke. Paolo saw a flush deepen under her olive skin. Maybe she was embarrassed about the way Azzopardi treated her after all. She kept her eyes down, but began to fidget, crossing and uncrossing her arms. Her nervous mood must have been pleasing to Azzopardi because he laughed.

  “I’d say she’s about ready for me. You’ve got five minutes to say your piece, then you can fuck off.”

  Paolo handed over a photo of the dead woman. “You might not recognise her from this, but that’s Lisa Boxer. She didn’t turn up to give evidence against you because she was already dead. Bit convenient for you, don’t you think?”

  Azzopardi took a cursory look and passed the photo back. “Very convenient. Tell whoever did that to her I said thanks.”

  Paolo forced himself not to rise to the bait. “So you didn’t do it yourself, Frank? What happened, did you get one of your boys to work her over? Can’t you do a man’s job anymore?”

  “You keep on and on about this Albanian whore. I didn’t beat her up and I didn’t kill her. I want the fucking Albanians wiped off the face of the earth. I’d like them all to disappear, not just one of their cunts, that don’t mean you can pin her murder on me. Whatever happened to that cow she had it coming, but I didn’t do it. Why don’t you ask her pimp? Slags like her need a smack now and again. Keeps their mouths shut and their legs open. Not that I’d fuck her, she’s Albanian.”

  He ran his hand under his chin in the age-old Maltese gesture of disgust. “Scum,” he said. “They’re all scum. But at least she’s dead, so that’s one less to deal with. Besides, I’m a respectable businessman. I shouldn’t have to put up with this shit, not even from you.”

  Paolo laughed. “Respectable? Are you seriously trying to tell me your business is respectable? Pull the other one, Frank. We know all about your little dealings. You should be careful, there’s more than one way to bring you down. Don’t forget the taxman is watching you, not just us.”

  “I pay my taxes. What’s more, I bet I’m better regarded than most with all the dough I give to charity and the church. You’ve got nothing on me or my business, so fuck off. You tell me the whore is dead? So what? Is that the only reason you’re here, to bring me the good news?”

  “No, we’re here to find out where you were when Lisa Boxer went missing.”

  “I was with Maria. Just like I was when the stupid bitch got herself worked over before.”

  Dave took a step forward. “We haven’t told you the date yet.”

  “Calm down, sonny. You don’t need to,” Azzopardi said. “Whatever date you spout, I was with Maria. She’ll tell you, she never leaves my side, do you, sweetheart?”

  Maria kept her gaze fixed on her hands as she answered. “Frank’s right. I’m always with him. We never spend a moment apart.”

  “What about when she goes shopping for clothes and suchlike?” Dave persisted. “I can’t picture you hanging around outside the changing rooms while she tries on hundreds of dresses. Not your style at all.”

  Azzopardi grinned. “Sonny, you have such a lot to learn. Maria doesn’t go out to shop. The shops who want my custom come to me. Maria wears what I like to see her in and right now I’d like to see her in nothing. If you boys have nothing else to say, it’s time for my massage. Unless you want to
watch? Is that what gets you going these days, Paolo?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He peered through the car’s windscreen and smacked his fist against the steering wheel. None of the girls strolling up and down the street matched his ideal. After a while the windscreen misted over, so he wiped away the condensation with a gloved hand. As a gap cleared he saw a newcomer join the procession and his heart raced. Snapping down the sunshield, he took the photo from its hiding place and compared the features and colouring of the young woman on the other side of the road. She moved under the street light, and he realised she was perfect. She was everything the Lord demanded. He started his car, ready to edge over to her side of the road.

  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 w
as 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.