"Dibdin, Michael - Aurelio Zen 02 - Vendetta UC - part 09" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dibdin Michael)

of guts in his hand, ready to feed the great beasts that he
alor.e could manage, it was easy to see Furio Padedda's
attraction for a certain type of woman. It was to these
concrete huts that Rita Burolo had come to disport herself
with the lion-keeper, unaware that their antics were being
recorded by the infra-red video equipment her husband
had rigged up under the roof.
How had Oscar felt, viewing those tapes which --
according to gloating sources in the investigating magis-
trate's office -- made hard-core porno videos look tame by
comparison? Had his motive for making them been simple
voyeurism, or was he intending to blackmail his wife? Was
she independently wealthy? Had he hoped in this way h~
stave off bankruptcy until his threats forced 1'onorevole to
intervene in his favour? Supposing he had mentioned the
existence of the tapes to her, and she had passed on the
information to her lover. To a proud and fiery Sardinian,
the fact that his amorous exploits had been recorded for
posterity might well have seemed a sufficient justification
for murder. Or rather, Zen realized, as he sat moodily
sipping his vernaccia, it could easily be made to appear that
it had. Which was all that concerned him, after all.
The bar had emptied appreciably as the men drifted
home to eat the meals their wives and mothers had shop-
ped for that morning. Zen stared blearily at his watch,
eventually deciphering the time as twenty to nine. He
pushed his chair back, rose unsteadily and walked over to
the counter, where the burly proprietor was rinsing
glasses.
'When can I get something to eat?'
Reto Gurtner would have phrased the question more
politely, but he had stayed behind at the table.
'Tomorrow,' the proprietor replied without looking up
from his work.
'How do you mean, tomorrow?'
'The restaurant's only open for Sunday lunch out of
season.'
'You didn't tell me that!'
'You didn't ask.'
Zen turned away with a muttered obscenity.
'There's a pizzeria down the street,' the proprietor
added grudgingly.
Zen barged through the glass doors of the hotel. The
piazza was deserted and silent. As he passed the
Mercedes, Zen patted it like a faithful, friendly pet, a
reassuring presence in this alien place. A roll of thunder
sounded out, closer yet still quiet, a massively restrained
gesture.
In the corner of the piazza stood the village's only public
hone pox a high-tech glass booth perched there as if it