"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 unequivocaclass="underline" 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.