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Filthy Night

Also by William Zanzinger

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Death of a Messenger


St Cloud said, ‘Come on Bonnie, it’ll be good for you.’

She sat on the chair, knees drawn in below her chin, her hands clasped tight across her legs.

‘You’re only saying that. You just want to get rid of me.’

‘That’s not fair. I’m working, anyway.’

Her eyebrows flicked upwards. ‘Do you mean that Paul Brightland thing?’

‘Yes, I mean that Paul Brightland thing.’

‘That’s not work.’ She rubbed red-rimmed eyes with the heels of her hands.

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