The Seville Communion

XII

The Wrath of God

He has disappeared before our very eyes and we have no idea how.

Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera

Through the pipe smoke, the archbishop of Seville looked exultant. "So Rome's giving in," he said.

Quart put down his cup and wiped his mouth with a napkin embroidered by a local order of nuns. He smiled and sighed. "That's one way of looking at it, Your Grace."

Monsignor Corvo blew out another cloud of smoke. The two men sat facing each other across a coffee table. It was the archbishop's custom to have breakfast with his first visitor of the morning. The coffee and toast before them had been intended for the dean of the cathedral, but the archbishop offered it to Quart instead when Quart arrived unexpectedly to take his leave, disrupting the schedule. The archbishop hated his coffee to get cold.

"I told you, didn't I, that this business wouldn't be easy to resolve," said His Grace.

Quart leaned back in his armchair. He would have preferred to deprive the archbishop of this opportunity for sarcastic remarks and smiles wreathed in pipe smoke; but form required that he pay his respects before leaving. "I would remind Your Grace," he said, "that I didn't come here to resolve anything. I came simply to inform Rome of the situation. And that's exactly what I will do now."

Corvo was delighted. "You never learned who Vespers was," he said.

Quart glanced at his watch. "No. But Vespers is not really the problem. The hacker getting through to the Pope is a trivial matter; they'll find out who he is sooner or later. The important thing is Father Ferro and Our Lady of the Tears. With my report, whatever decision is made will be made with full knowledge of the situation."

The yellow stone in the archbishop's ring glinted as he raised his hand. "Don't give me your Jesuitical waffle, Father Quart. You've failed." The pipe smoke could not hide his glee. "Vespers has made fun of both you and Rome."

"Neither I nor Rome would have intervened," Quart said coldly, "had Your Grace nipped things in the bud. Father Ferro and Our Lady of the Tears are in your diocese. And you know the saying: straying sheep, shepherd asleep."

Corvo clenched his teeth over his pipe, indignant. "Listen, Quart," he said, his voice hard. "The only straying sheep here is you. Do you take me for a fool? I know about your little visits to the Casa del Postigo. And all the rest of it, the walks and the dinners."

His Grace, whose talents in the pulpit were well appreciated by the diocese, proceeded to vent all his scorn and spleen in a harsh homily that lasted several minutes. His main point was that the IEA agent had allowed himself to be taken in by the priest of Our Lady of the Tears and his own personal pressure group made up of nuns, aristocrats and devout old ladies. Quart had lost his sense of perspective and betrayed his mission in Seville. And the daughter of the duchess of El Nuevo Extremo – who was still, by the way, Gavira's wife – had played no small part in the seduction.

Quart listened impassively to the tirade but stiffened at this last remark. "I'd be most grateful if Your Grace would put any allegations concerning this last matter in writing."

"I will indeed." Corvo was delighted to have touched a raw nerve at last. "I'll send it to your bosses in the Vatican. To the nuncio. To all and sundry. I'll do so by letter, by telephone, by fax, and to the accompaniment of a guitar." He took the pipe from his mouth and leered. You'll lose your reputation just as I lost my secretary."

That was that. Quart folded his napkin, dropped it on the tray and stood up. "If there's nothing more, Your Grace…"

"Nothing more." The archbishop looked at him mockingly. "My son." He remained seated, regarding his own hand, wondering whether to deal a final blow and require that Quart kiss his ring. But at that moment the telephone rang, so he simply dismissed the priest with a wave and went to answer it.

Quart buttoned his jacket and went out into the corridor. His steps echoed beneath the painted ceiling of the Gallery of the Prelates, and then on the marble steps of the main staircase. Through the windows he could see the courtyard where the prison La Parra once stood, in which the bishops of Seville placed unruly priests. A few centuries earlier, Quart thought, Father Ferro, and maybe Quart himself, would have ended up in there, while Monsignor Corvo sent his version of events to Rome by the slowest means possible. Quart was on the bottom flight of steps, reflecting on the advantages of modern technology, when he heard someone call his name. He stopped and turned. It was the archbishop himself, and no longer looking so pleased.

"If you could come back up, Father Quart. There's something we need to discuss."

Quart retraced his steps, intrigued. As he mounted the steps, he noticed that His Grace was extremely pale. "You can't leave," Monsignor Corvo said when Quart came level with him. "There's been another unfortunate incident at the church."

He made his way past the cement mixer and two police cars. Our Lady of the Tears was thronging with policemen. He counted at least twelve – one at the door, the others inside taking photographs, lifting fingerprints, and searching the floor, pews and scaffolding for clues. The church echoed with their whispered conversations.

Gris Marsala sat alone on the steps of the high altar. Quart walked towards her up the central aisle. Simeon Navajo came to meet him halfway. As usual, the deputy superintendent had his hair in a ponytail and was wearing his round glasses and a loud shirt. The leather bag -with the.357 magnum inside, Quart assumed – was slung over his shoulder. It struck Quart that Navajo looked very out of place in the church. They shook hands. Navajo was pleased to see him.

"This makes three, Padre," he said jovially. He leaned casually against a pew, and Quart, peering past him, saw a pair of feet sticking out of the confessional.

He approached without a word, closely followed by Navajo. The door of the confessional was open. Quart thought the position of the feet strange. He could sec crumpled beige trouser legs. The rest of the body was covered by a piece of blue canvas, although a yellowish, waxen hand was visible, palm up. A wound ran from wrist to index ringer.

"Strange place to die, isn't it?" the policeman remarked. "Who is it?" asked Quart hoarsely.

The question was unnecessary. He recognised the shoes, the beige trousers, the small flabby hand.

Navajo stroked his moustache. "The man's name is Honorato Bonafe. He's a journalist. Was. He was well known around Seville."

Quart nodded.

"You knew him, didn't you? I thought so. People tell me he's been rooting around here these last few days. Do you want to take a look at him, Padre?"

Navajo reached into the confessional, his ponytail shaking like the tail of a diligent squirrel. He lifted the canvas that covered the body. Bonafe was very still and very yellow, slumped on a corner of the wooden seat inside the confessional, his chin sunk into thick folds. There was a big bruise on the left side of his face, and his eyes were closed. He looked peaceful, or possibly tired. Blood had run from his nose and mouth, spreading out over his neck and shirt. It was dried.

"The forensic pathologist has just looked him over," Navajo said, pointing to a young man who was sitting in a pew making notes. "He says he died from massive internal injuries. A blow, maybe, or a fall. What we don't know is how he ended up in the confessional."

Out of duty, overcoming the revulsion he felt for the man while he was alive, Quart muttered a brief prayer and made the sign of the Cross.

Navajo watched with interest. "I wouldn't bother if I were you, Padre. He's been dead quite a while. So wherever he was going" -with his hands he imitated two flapping wings – "he'll be there by now."

"What was the time of death?"

"We don't know yet. But at a guess, our expert says twelve or fourteen hours ago."

A couple of policemen up on the scaffolding by the Virgin were having an animated conversation, and their voices rang in the vault.

Navajo told them to keep it down. They obeyed, embarrassed. Quart saw that Gris Marsala was still on the altar steps. She was watching him. For the first time, she appeared fragile. As Navajo covered Bonafe again, he told Quart that the nun had found the body early that morning. "I'd like to talk to her," said Quart.

"Of course, Padre,'' Navajo said with an understanding smile. "But if you don't mind, before you do, I'd like you to tell me briefly how you knew the deceased. So we don't get the statements mixed up." He looked at Quart over his glasses.

"As you like. But the first person you ought to talk to is the parish priest."

The policeman held his gaze for a moment, without answering. Then he nodded and said "Yes. That's what I think. The problem is, no one can find Don Priamo this morning. Strange, don't you think?"

"Have you been to his quarters?" asked Quart.

Navajo looked disappointed, as if he'd expected more than that from Quart. "From what I hear," he said, "he's disappeared off the face of the earth. In the prophet Elijah's chariot."

Quart told the deputy superintendent about his' encounters with Honorato Bonafe in the hotel lobby. His description was interrupted twice by Navajo's mobile phone. Navajo extracted it from his leather bag, apologising both times. The first call was the report that there was still no sign of Father Ferro. The priest had spent the evening as usual, in the pigeon loft at the Casa del Postigo – which Quart was able to confirm, giving the hour at which he left him – and then disappeared without a trace. Father Ferro's cleaning lady said that his bed hadn't been slept in. Father Lobato had set off for his new parish late the day before, by bus. The journey was a long one, with several possible connections. Both the police and the civil guard were trying to find him. Were the priests suspects? asked Quart. Navajo put his phone away after the second call and said that until the cause of death was established, nobody was a suspect. Or to put it another way, everybody was – he peered over his glasses apologetically – although he had cause to suspect some more than others.

"What kind of probability arc we talking about this time?" asked Quart.

Navajo scratched the bridge of his nose. "Well," he said, "between you and me, Padre, I'd say this time somebody gave the church a helping hand."

Quart wasn't surprised. He was no expert on corpses, although he'd seen a few, but one look at Bonafe was enough. "Murdered?" he asked, hoping to hear more.

"Your colleague the parish priest is a likely candidate," said Navajo.

"Because of his disappearance?"

"Of course. Unless the forensic guy tells us something else." Navajo excused himself, summoned by one of his officers. Quart made his way to the altar steps, where Gris Marsala still sat. "How are you?" he asked.

She had her arms round her legs and her chin resting on her knees. "A little in shock," she said, her American accent stronger than usual. "But I'm all right."

"Have the police bothered you much?"

The nun thought a moment. "No," she said. "They've been quite pleasant." In the church overrun with police, she looked alone and vulnerable.

"They're looking for Father Ferro," said Quart, taking a seat beside her. Then added, thinking that sounded too serious, "And for Father Lobato."

She was deep in thought, blinking from time to time as if in disbelief. She sighed and nodded. "It's possible," she said at last, "that Oscar stopped to see his parents, who live in a little village near Malaga, before going on to Almeria. That may be why they haven't found him yet."

They were both dazzled by a camera flash. One of the policemen had taken a photograph of something on the floor behind them. Quart leaned forward. "What about Don Priamo?" he asked.

She was expecting the question. No doubt she'd been asked it before. "I don't know. I arrived this morning as usual, at nine. I found the church locked. One of them always opened it at seven thirty, for Mass at eight. Nobody said Mass today."

"I was told you found the body."

"Yes. First I went to their quarters, but there was no one there. So I came in through the vestry door, using my own key." She shrugged, seemed perplexed. "At first I didn't notice anything. I went over to the scaffolding in front of the window. I turned on the lights, prepared my things. But it all seemed rather odd, so I went to phone Macarena to ask her if Don Priamo was in the pigeon loft last night. And on my way to the vestry I saw that man in the confessional."

"Did you know him?"

The expression in her blue eyes hardened. "Yes," she said, "I was standing outside with Oscar one day, and he – the journalist – came and asked us questions about Don Priamo and the work on the church. Oscar told him to go to hell."

Quart looked at her trainers, her pale ankles, the scar on her wrist. She was still hugging her legs. Quart had so many things to do – he hadn't yet managed to get through to Rome – but he couldn't leave her like this. He gestured to Navajo, who was checking on his men. "I'm afraid the police will continue bothering you," Quart said. "Three dead people is a lot. And this time it seems unlikely that it was an accident. Would you like me to phone your consul?"

She smiled. "I don't think that'll be necessary," she said. "The police have been fine."

"Did you get through to Macarena?"

Quart felt agitation when he said her name. Until this moment he'd managed to avoid thinking of her. He could drift away, with no effort at all, on those four syllables. Only a few hours before, he'd repeated that name on her lips, inside her mouth. And suddenly all was darkness again, the gleam of ivory, the warm flesh whose fragrance still lingered on his skin, his hands, his lips that she had bitten until they bled. Her tanned body rising up from his dreams, bars of light and shade on the white expanse of sheet on which they lay, a desert of sand or salt. She, tense, slender, struggling to escape her desire for him, to leave while wanting to stay, her head thrown back, her beautiful face absent, transformed, a selfish mask, moaning as his hard arms anchored her firmly, moaning as she was pinned by his man's body, her naked thighs around his waist. Catching her breath in the heat, saliva on her moist skin, sex, mouth, and the curve of her breasts, and warm neck, and chin, and again her mouth, moaning, and again her thighs open, a challenge or a refuge. Long, intense hours of struggle that passed in an instant, for at each moment he knew that what was happening had a limit and an end. And the end came with dawn and the last climax, long and fierce in the grey light filtering through the windows of the Casa del Postigo. And suddenly Quart was alone once more, in the deserted streets of Santa Cruz, not knowing whether he was damned for all eternity, or saved.

He shook his head to dispel the memory. Desperation was the exact word. So as not to give in to it, he focused on the church, the scaffolding, the figure of the Virgin, the police officers chatting animatedly by Honorato Bonafe's corpse. Later, he thought with an effort of will. Maybe later.

"We haven't spoken this morning."

Gris Marsala was looking at him intently, and it took Quart a moment to realise that she was answering his question. He wondered how much she knew about what had happened in the last few hours, both at the church and between Macarena and him.

"But the police have been to see her," added the nun. "I think they're at the Casa del Postigo now."

The priest frowned; Navajo hadn't wasted any time. And now Quart must hurry too. Half an hour earlier, at the archbishop's palace, Corvo had been unequivocal: whether Vespers was involved or not, the matter concerned only Rome, or – which came to the same – only Lorenzo Quart, and His Grace washed his hands of the whole affair. This had nothing to do with him as ordinary of Seville. Of course, Quart and the IEA could count on his support and his prayers, etc.

"Where's Father Ferro?"

Without waiting for Gris Marsala to answer, Quart started to analyse the situation. Navajo had a head start at the moment, but Quart ought to be able to catch up. They wouldn't take it very well in Rome if a priest was arrested before Quart had had the chance to brief them. Ideally the Church itself should take the initiative in the investigation. That meant finding the old priest a good lawyer and defending him until there was evidence of guilt. And if the guilt became obvious, aiding the process of secular justice. The main thing, as usual, was to keep up appearances. It remained to be seen where Quart's conscience fitted in all this; but that could wait until a better time.

"I don't know where Don Priamo is any more than you do," the nun said, surprised at how little attention he seemed to be paying to her answers. "I saw him briefly yesterday afternoon. Everything seemed normal."

Everything seemed normal too when Quart saw him at midnight, but in the meantime Bonafe had died. Quart glanced anxiously at his watch. Navajo had more resources at his disposal. With no autopsy result and no leads to follow, Quart would have to act on instinct. "Who locks up the church?" he asked.

"The main door or the vestry door?" Gris Marsala asked hesitantly.

"The main door."

"I always do. At this time of year, I work while there's daylight, until about seven or seven thirty. That's what I did yesterday. Oscar or Don Priamo usually locks the vestry door, at nine."

Quart couldn't get hold of Father Oscar, so he'd have to wait for. Navajo to give him information about the assistant priest. Meanwhile he had to phone Rome immediately, go to the Casa del Postigo, keep an eye on Gris Marsala, and, above all, find the old priest. He pointed at the confessional. "Did you see this man here yesterday?"

"Before seven thirty I'm positive he wasn't in the church. I was here all the time." The nun thought a moment. "He must have come in later through the vestry."

"Between seven thirty and nine," prompted Quart.

"I suppose so."

"Who locked the vestry? Father Oscar?"

"I don't think so. Oscar came to say goodbye to me in the afternoon. His bus was leaving at nine, so it couldn't have been he who locked the vestry door. It must have been Father Ferro. But I don't know when."

"He must have seen Bonafe in the confessional."

"It's quite possible he didn't. This morning I didn't notice him myself at first. Maybe Don Priamo didn't come into the church but just locked the door from the corridor leading to his quarters."

Quart tried to piece things together. As an alibi it was somewhat weak, but it was the only one at the moment: if the autopsy established that Bonafe had died between seven thirty and nine, a greater number of possibilities opened up, considering that the parish priest could have locked up without looking inside the church. But if the time of death was later, the question of the locked door complicated things. Especially since Father Ferro's disappearance made him a suspect.

"Where will you be?" murmured Gris Marsala. In her confusion and anxiety her American accent was coming through her Spanish.

Quart raised both hands, powerless, not knowing what to say, his thoughts elsewhere. His mind worked like a clock moving backwards and forwards, establishing times and alibis. Twelve or fourteen hours, Navajo had said. In theory there were many imponderables, unknown people who might be implicated; but in the immediate vicinity the list of suspects was neither long nor difficult to draw up. Every one of them could be included on it, even Father Oscar – he could have murdered Bonafe before he left. Father Ferro too would have had plenty of time to kill Bonafe, lock the vestry door, and go to the pigeon loft, where he met Quart at eleven that night, before disappearing. And anyway, as Navajo had remarked with his policeman's logic, Father Ferro's disappearance put him at the head of the list. But Gris Marsala was also to be considered, moving around the church like a cat, with the main door locked and the vestry open until nine, and no one to back up her statement. As for Macarena Bruner, when Quart arrived at her house for dinner at nine, she was there with her mother. But the previous hour and a half put her too on the list of suspects. After all, she had been worried that Bonafe might try to blackmail her.

Furious with himself, Quart tried to maintain his concentration. The image of Macarena dispersed his thoughts, tangled the threads of logic that linked the church, the corpse, and the players. At that moment he would have given anything for a calm mind.

The examining magistrate had arrived. The policemen gathered round the confessional, ready to proceed with the removal of the corpse. Navajo talked quietly to the magistrate, glancing from time to time at Quart and Gris Marsala.

"You may have to answer more questions," Quart said to the nun. "From now on, I'd rather you did so in the presence of a lawyer. Until we find Father Ferro and Father Oscar, we have to be cautious. Do you agree?"

"Yes."

Quart wrote a name on a card and handed it to her. "This man is absolutely trustworthy. He specialises in canon and criminal law. His name is Arce, and he's worked for us before. I telephoned him from the archbishop's palace, and he'll be arriving from Madrid at midday. Tell him all you know and follow his instructions to the letter."

Gris Marsala stared at the name on the card. "You're not bringing a lawyer like this here just for me," she said, seeming more sad than frightened. As if her church had already fallen before her eyes.

"Of course not." Quart tried to reassure her with a smile. "It's for all of us. This is a very delicate matter, with civil justice intervening. It's best if we get expert advice."

She folded the card carefully and put it in the back pocket of her jeans. "Where's Don Priamo?" she asked again, her blue eyes reproachful, as if Quart were to blame for the priest's disappearance.

"I have no idea," he said quiedy.

"He's not the kind of person who runs away."

Quart looked at the confessional. The police had removed the blue canvas and were bringing out Bonafe's body. Navajo was still talking to the magistrate. "I know he's not," Quart said at last. "And that's precisely the problem."

It took him less than five minutes to get from Our Lady of the Tears to the Casa del Postigo. He usually didn't sweat, but that morning his black shirt was sticking to his back and shoulders, under his jacket, when he rang the bell. The maid answered, and as Quart was asking for Macarena, he caught sight of her in the courtyard talking to two police officers, a man and a woman. When she realised he was there, she came over to him. She was in jeans, a blue checked shirt, and the same sandals as the previous night. She wore no makeup. Her hair was loose and still slightly wet. She smelled of shampoo. "He didn't do it," she said.

The fragrance of lemon verbena and basil hung in the air, and the morning sun was already casting rectangles of light on the ferns and geraniums in the courtyard. It also put glints of honey in the woman's dark eyes.

"Where is he?" Quart asked.

Macarena stared at him gravely, tilting her head to one side. "I don't know," she said.

They were very far from the night, from the garden below the illuminated window of the pigeon loft, from the shadows of leaves over her face and moonlit shoulders. The ivory necklace didn't look the same against her freshly washed morning skin. There was no longer any mystery, no complicity, no smile. The weary Knight Templar looked around, disconcerted; he felt naked in the sunshine, his sword broken, his chain mail torn. Mortal like the rest of humanity, and as vulnerable and vulgar. Lost, as Macarena had so righdy said just before she worked her dark miracle on his body. Because it was written: She will destroy your heart and your will. The exquisite, innocent, destructive power of a woman always left her lover the lucidity to understand his defeat. Quart was left facing himself, deprived of alibis.

He glanced at his watch without seeing the time, touched his collar, tapped his jacket pocket where he kept his cards for notes, attempting to regain his composure with familiar gestures. Macarena waited patiently. Say something, he told himself. Something that has nothing to do with the garden, her skin, the moon.

"How is your mother?" he asked.

Macarena waved vaguely towards the gallery above. "Upstairs, resting," she said. "She doesn't know." "What's happening here?"

She shook her head. The ends of her hair left damp marks on her shirt. "I don't know." Her thoughts were on Father Fcrro, not Quart. "But Don Priamo would never do something like that."

"Not even for his church?"

"No. The police say that Bonafe died in the evening. You saw Don Priamo last night. Do you think he'd have come here calmly to look at the stars if he'd just killed a man?"

"But he's run away."

Macarena looked doubtful. "I'm not sure. And that's what worries me."

She looked down at the mosaics, lost in thought. Quart gazed at her face, the gentle lines beneath the open shirt. His fingers tingled as he remembered, with a deep sense of loss, the warm, dark path. In the light of day, Macarena was still absolutely beautiful. "The police have been here an hour and I've hardly had time to think," she said. "There's something that doesn't make sense… Imagine for a moment that Don Priamo had nothing to do with it. And that that's why he acted so normally last night."

"He didn't sleep at home last night," Quart countered. "And we assume that he locked the church with the corpse inside."

"I can't believe it." Macarena put a hand on his arm. "What if something happened to him too? Maybe he left here, and then… I don't know. Things can happen."

Quart pulled his arm away, but she didn't notice. Between them, water splashed in the tiled fountain. "You know something I don't," he said. "Where were you yesterday, before dinner?"

"With my mother." She seemed surprised by the question. "You saw us both here."

"Before that?"

"I went for a walk and looked around the shops…" She stopped suddenly, stunned. "Don't tell me you think I'm a suspect."

"What I think doesn't matter. It's the police I'm worried about."

She breathed out. She seemed more confused than angry. "The police are stupid," she muttered, "but not that stupid. At least I hope not."

It was starting to get very hot. Quart unbuttoned his jacket. Being here was his only advantage over Navajo. Maybe they'd already found Oscar Lobato and heard his version of events.

"Tomorrow's Thursday," Macarena said despondently, resting her elbows on the fountain parapet.

Quart understood now what had been worrying her since the police gave her the news: if there was no Mass tomorrow, Our Lady of the Tears was finished. The archbishop of Seville, the city council and the Cartujano Bank would pounce like wolves. "The church is the least of it now," he said. "If Father Ferro appears tomorrow, the chances are he'll be put in prison."

"Unless he had nothing to do with it…"

"We have to find him first and ask him. Better we than the police."

Macarena shook her head – that wasn't the point. She bit her thumbnail, lost in thought. "Tomorrow's Thursday," she repeated. But this time there was anger in her voice, and menace.

The bootblack finished polishing Octavio Machuca's shoes, sold him a lottery ticket and left with his box under his arm, humming a copla. The sun was high in the sky, and a waiter at La Campana unfolded the awning to shade the tables on the terrace. Sitting beside Machuca, Pencho Gavira drank his chilled beer with pleasure. The light gleamed on his sunglasses.

The old banker was recounting something – an episode from the last shareholders' meeting – and Gavira nodded distractedly. Machuca's secretary had left, and the chairman of the Cartujano Bank was about to go to Casa Robles for lunch. From time to time Gavira glanced discreetly at his watch. He had an appointment, a business lunch with three of the board members who would be deciding his future next week. Gavira didn't believe in leaving anything to chance, so in the last few hours he'd been doing some delicate manoeuvring. Of the nine board members, he was sure these three could be persuaded. And he was sure he could get a fourth to co-operate -there were some compromising photographs of that board member on a yacht in Sotogrande with a male dancer who had a taste for middle-aged bankers and cocaine. So, unusually, he wasn't paying much attention to what his boss was saying, simply nodding occasionally, as he sipped his beer. He was concentrating, like a samurai before battle, working out the seating arrangements at lunch, and how he would present matters. Gavira knew from experience that bribing a board member wasn't the same as buying any old pen-pusher. He'd have to be careful, and the cost might be high.

Machuca was interrupted by the waiter: there was a telephone call for Mr Fulgencio Gavira. Gavira excused himself and went inside, removing his sunglasses. It was probably Peregil, who hadn't surfaced all morning. He walked to the end of the bar and took the phone from the cashier. It was his secretary calling from the office. Gavira listened in silence for the next few minutes, then hung up.

He took an age to reach the door, touching his tie as if about to loosen it. He needed to order his thoughts, but his mind was sluggish with the heat, the hum of conversations, the traffic noise and the dazzling sunlight. He couldn't decide whether what had happened was good or bad; it threw his plans into disarray and meant he'd have to think again. But Gavira didn't lose his head. By the time he reached the door, he realised he didn't have time to cancel the lunch meeting, cursed Peregil for not being there when he needed him, and worked out at least three arguments why the news he'd just been given was a good thing. He wondered how to present it to Don Octavio. But the old man wasn't alone. He was on his feet, greeting Macarena with two kisses. She was with the tall priest from Rome; and all three stared at Gavira as he emerged from the bar. Gavira swore under his breath, making two elderly ladies turn to look, in shock.

It was Macarena who did the talking. Frowning, she sat on the edge of her seat, facing Machuca, leaning towards him as she spoke.

Quart saw her profile, her hair falling over her shoulders, her shirtsleeves turned up to show her tanned forearms and long, expressive hands. Now and then the old banker took one of her hands in his bony claws, squeezing it gently to calm her. But Macarena would not be calmed.

This was her terrain, her husband, her godfather. Her memories, her wounds. So Quart stayed on the sidelines, listening to and watching the two men who, one way or another, held in their hands the fate of Our Lady of the Tears. At last Macarena finished and sat back with a hostile look at Gavira, who had been smoking in silence, his legs crossed. Impassive, he opened and closed his sunglasses, glancing at Quart from time to time.

Old Machuca spoke first. "What do you know of this, Pencho?"

Gavira put the sunglasses down. "Don't be absurd, Don Octavio," he said. "Why should I know anything?"

A beggar came to their table, but Machuca waved him away.

"We're not talking about the dead man," said Macarena. "But about Don Priamo's disappearance."

Gavira took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. He glanced again at Quart. "I would think the two things are linked," he said.

Macarena clenched her fists, as if about to strike the table. Or her husband. "You know that they aren't," she said.

"You're wrong. I know nothing." Gavira smirked cruelly. "You're the expert on churches and priests." He pointed at Quart. "I see you don't go anywhere without your father confessor."

"Damn you."

Machuca raised a hand for calm. Quart nodced that the old banker didn't take his eyes off Gavira.

"The truth, Pencho," said Machuca. "I want the truth."

Gavira finished his cigarette and threw it on the ground. He looked his boss in the eye. "Don Octavio. I swear that I know nothing about the dead man in the church, other than that he was a journalist and a creep. And I don't know where the hell the priest is. All I know is what my secretary just told me on the phone: there's a corpse in the church, Father Ferro is a suspect, and the police are looking for him."

Macarena insisted: "You've been interfering with the church, wheeling and dealing around it all this time. I don't believe you know nothing."

"Well, I don't," Gavira said coolly. "I don't deny that I did have somebody look into things." He turned to Machuca, appealing to him. "I'm telling the truth, Don Octavio. I don't mind telling you that I did consider using strong-arm tactics to change the parish priest's mind. I thought about it, but that's all. Now it turns out that Father Ferro is in a mess and the church's privilege is in jeopardy." The Shark's smile widened. "What can I say? I'm sorry about the priest, but for myself I'm as pleased as can be. For myself and for the Cartujano. Nobody will shed any tears over that church."

Macarena glared. "I will," she said.

A flower seller approached, offering jasmine for the lady. Gavira told the woman to get lost. He looked at his wife more directly now. "That's the only thing I regret in all this," he said. "Your tears." For a moment he sounded almost gentle. "I still don't understand what happened between you and me." He glanced coldly at Quart. "Or what's happened since."

Macarena shook her head. "It's too late to talk about us. Father Quart and I have come to ask about Don Priamo."

Gavira's dark eyes glinted. "I'm beginning to get fed up with bumping into Father Quart."

"It's mutual," said Quart, only just maintaining his professional composure. "This is what you get for meddling with the church."

For a moment it seemed the banker might strike Quart. But then he smiled a smooth and dangerous smile. The moment passed.

Gavira said to Macarena, "I assure you I had nothing to do with it."

"No." She leaned forward again, her elbows on the table, grim. "I know you, Pencho. I know you're lying. Even when you're being sincere, you're lying. Some things just don't make sense; they can't be explained without your hand in it. Don Priamo's disappearance, today of all days, bears your stamp. Your style."

Gavira hesitated for a second. "No," he said.

Octavio Machuca narrowed his eyes, watching him curiously. In that instant Quart was certain that Macarena was right.

"Pencho," said Machuca quietly. It was both rebuke and request. But Gavira remained impassive. There was a honking of horns from the street. "If you had anything to do with it, Pencho…" said Machuca.

An uncomfortable thought came to Gavira then. "That kind of coincidence just doesn't happen," he muttered. He looked at Macarena and Quart. The traffic lights turned from red to green, the sun reflected off the procession of windscreens was blinding. Gavira blinked, reddening, suddenly overcome by the heat. "You'll have to excuse me," he told them. "I have a business lunch to attend." He clenched his fist and raised it to his chin, as if to punch himself. When he stood, he knocked over his glass of beer.