Dead Lagoon - 4 by Michael Dibdin Read Free Book Online Page A

a mother of four and an estate agent in Vicenza.
    ‘… always flying off somewhere on the other side of the world. My grandchildren know Rio de Janeiro and Hong Kong better than they do our poor Venice. And when they do come, it’s just to gawk like everyone else. Families are what we need, not tourists! But what can you do? There’s no work, and the kind of rents they charge are just crazy, even though half the houses just stand empty …’
    She broke off, perhaps remembering that the Zens’ house had been unoccupied since Giustiniana’s move to Rome.
    ‘Some more wine?’ she suggested, appearing in the doorway with the bottle. ‘And then we can eat.’
    They were joined for lunch by a young woman who was introduced to Zen as Cristiana Morosini. A late and unexpected addition to the family, Cristiana had been a mere toddler when Zen had joined the police and left the city for a series of postings on the mainland. She was now a good-looking woman in her early thirties, with a slow, sensual manner and a striking resemblance to Zen’s memories of her elder sister. As she served the risotto, dark grey from the cuttlefish ink, Rosalba explained that Cristiana had left her husband, a local politician, after discovering that he was screwing one of his supporters.
    ‘Mamma!’
    ‘There’s no need to be coy with an old family friend. He’s seen you running around the house bare-arsed often enough, haven’t you Aurelio?’
    ‘Delicious,’ murmured Zen, savouring the combination of nutty rice, chewy cuttlefish and unctuous sauce.
    ‘I’m not being coy,’ Cristiana protested. ‘But one is a grotesque understatement.’
    She held up three velvety white fingers.
    ‘There was that rich bitch from the Zattere, for a start. Then there’s Maria Luisa Squarcina, and don’t forget the Populin woman. She denies it, but she would, wouldn’t she? That’s three, not counting various secretaries, journalists and assorted hangers-on And those are only the ones everybody knows about. If you could fuck your way into office, Nando would be running the country by now.’
    ‘And what brings you back home, Aurelio?’ asked Rosalba. ‘You said on the phone that it was work, but what kind of work exactly?’
    Zen washed down a delicious salty mouthful with some more wine.
    ‘Well of course it’s strictly confidential …’
    ‘You can count on us,’ Rosalba assured him.
    ‘We won’t breathe a word,’ seconded Cristiana.
    Zen’s mother used to say that there were two ways of making sure everyone in Venice knew something: you could either get every parish priest in the city to read it out after Mass, or you could tell Rosalba Morosini.
    ‘The fact is,’ said Zen, ‘it’s a bit of a fiddle. I’ve been feeling rather homesick, and I wanted to sort out one or two things to do with the house. The problem was that I didn’t have any leave due, so I had to make it look like work.’
    ‘You put in for a transfer.’
    ‘Right. At the Ministry, where I work, we get reports from all over the country listing every crime reported and the action taken. Normally it all goes straight into the computer and gets pulped up into statistics, but I pulled out the reports for Venice and looked through them to find something suitable. Lo and behold, what do I see but the name of Ada Zulian …’
    ‘La contessa!’ cried Rosalba.
    Zen nodded.
    ‘Apparently she’d phoned in with a complaint about intruders in her house. So I pulled a few strings and had myself drafted up here on a temporary basis to investigate.’
    The lie was as effortless and unpremeditated as the evasive clouds of ink emitted by the cuttlefish they were eating.
    ‘Ada and her ghosts!’ cried Rosalba, having served her guest another helping of risotto. ‘It all started when her daughter disappeared. She never got over it. Lisa Rosteghin’s sister was a nurse in the mental hospital on San Clemente, and the stories she tells about Ada …! Apparently at one point a