"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."