Blood Rain - 7 by Michael Dibdin Page B

knows? Or cares?’
    Aurelio Zen considered this in silence for a while.
    ‘What about the magistrate who was investigating the case?’ he asked at length.
    ‘Nunziatella? She’s been taken off it. The case has been officially downgraded to a routine accidental death enquiry. They’re no doubt writing up the press release as we speak. It’ll be all over the papers and the television tomorrow, if you’re interested.’
    He sniffed and lit a cigarette.
    ‘Besides, the judge in question has her own problems, if the office gossip is to be believed.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    Sinico gave him a quick glance.
    ‘The word is that la Nunziatella doesn’t like men.’
    Zen shrugged.
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘Meaning that she does like women.’
    Another shrug.
    That’s not illegal.’
    Baccio Sinico sighed again.
    ‘Despite some recent changes, this is a very conservative society, dottore . I’ve heard that there is a photograph in existence, showing Corinna Nunziatella and another woman in a restaurant.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘They’re kissing,’ Sinico went on. ‘On the mouth.’
    Zen got out his battered pack of Nazionali cigarettes and lit up.
    ‘Who took the photograph?’ he asked.
    ‘No one knows.’
    ‘Well, where is it now?’
    ‘No one knows.’
    There was a brief silence.
    ‘But in a sense it doesn’t even matter whether the photo actually exists or not,’ Sinico went on. ‘All that matters is that the word is out that it does. And if it were to be sent to the local paper and printed on the front page, all of which could easily be arranged by certain people, then it would become difficult, if not impossible, for Judge Nunziatella to continue to carry out her duties in a satisfactory manner. In which case, of course, she would have to be replaced.’
    Walking over to the window at the rear of the apartment, overlooking the courtyard, Aurelio Zen unlatched the twin panes. It was like opening the door of an oven which is no longer turned on, but still stocked with heat from the long hours when it was blazing away. A spent wave of exhausted air invested the room, scented lightly with the basil and rosemary, thyme and oregano which a neighbour grew in pots on her balcony.
    The doorbell sounded. It was Carla, looking relaxed in loose, wheat-coloured linen trousers and a peach ribbed cotton-knit top, her radiance and energy instantly enlivening the room. All Zen’s previous apprehensions about the success of the evening were swept away. Together they rummaged through the kitchen cupboards for cooking utensils, then poured the soup from its jar into a saucepan that proved to be too small, getting a stain on Carla’s trousers in the process. It didn’t matter. They laughed and sorted it out and put the soup on to warm, opened a bottle of wine and gossiped about the latest political and social scandals, and discussed what to do about Carla’s birthday, which fell on the following Saturday.
    The conversational tempo slowed a bit once they had eaten, and at length Zen found himself resorting to a rather tired old standby.
    ‘So how’s work?’
    ‘The usual,’ said Carla. ‘I can never understand why so many people seem to find computers interesting. To me, they’re about as fascinating as a light switch — which is really all they are, when you get down to it. That’s why I like working with them. They’re soothing company.’
    She paused, pushing the salt cellar to and fro across the table.
    ‘I found something interesting today, though.’
    ‘Yes?’
    Another pause, followed by an embarrassed shrug.
    ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you. All this stuff is supposed to be highly confidential. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork they made me sign.’
    ‘Oh, come on, Carla! We both work for the same side, after all. And anyway, I’m family’
    Carla conceded the point with a smile.
    ‘Well, someone’s been pinging the DIA system. I discovered a sequence of packet hits, all in the middle of the night, when