‘No, irlandés,’ I reply.

‘Sí? Sí?’ The good-looking one loves this. There’s no sign of Rosalía at any of the tables near by. ‘Oye, Xavi,’ he calls ahead to his mate. ‘Fíjate! Este chico es un irlandés de verdad. Cómo te llamas?’

‘Paddy.’

‘Hola, Paddy. Soy Julio. Encantado.’

‘Encantado.’

And job done. Rosalía is either upstairs, gone to the bathroom, or seated at the back near the pool tables. I make conversation with Julio for another couple of minutes and then break off, explaining that I have to look around for a friend.

‘No problems,’ he says, adopting nursery-level English. ‘Very – Nice – To – Meet – You – Mr – Irishman.’

I check the back area, but it’s standing-room only, and filled to capacity with smoke and students. A teenager with smug eyes and a bad shirt is holding court on the nearest table. I’d like to take him on. Back in the ‘village’, a member of staff is coming down from the second floor carrying a tray of dirty plates. He has pale, spot-strewn skin and red hair and I assume – incorrectly – that he’s Irish.

‘Could you help me please?’

‘What’s that?’

Scottish.

‘I’m looking for a friend of mine. Wonder if you’ve seen her. A Spanish woman of about thirty, dark glasses, blonde hair, denim jacket…’

‘No idea, pal,’ he says, moving past me. ‘Try up the top.’

I don’t appear to have any choice. When I came here with Sofía neither of us went upstairs, so I will be walking blind into an unknown location. Employing the same technique as before, I wait for a small group of people to make their way upstairs and fall in behind them. This at least gives me the chance to scope the upper level at the least risk of being observed. The pub is very full, both downstairs and up, and all the tables near the top of the staircase appear to be occupied. Directly ahead there’s a smaller room containing a mock fireplace and some faked-up dusty bookshelves, but the bar is off to the right, beyond a narrow corridor leading into an open area decorated in a maritime theme. There are furled sails on booms suspended from the ceiling and a fat black anchor bolted to one wall. On a hunch, I assume that Rosalía is seated in the smaller room because there’s no sign of her at the bar and she has had enough time by now to go to the ladies. I make my way to the bar, order a pint of lager and then look for a mirror or reflective surface with which to observe what’s going on behind me.

No such luck. Instead I have to turn round, discovering that I can see directly into the smaller room through a narrow doorway. Rosalía is seated with her back to me, about twenty-five feet away at a table beyond the fireplace, talking to a man whom I do not recognize. He is at least fifty years old with combed, jet-black hair, a dark woollen sweater and eyes like stewed teabags. Not her type, in other words: a tough, working-class hombre, maybe a cousin or an uncle. Only she appears upset. Rosalía seems stressed. And there isn’t a trace of sympathy or kindness in the man’s washed-out eyes. Merely irritation. He actually seems drunk with contempt.

This is self-evidently a vital time. There are developments here, links to Arenaza. Somehow I have to manoeuvre myself into a position from which it will be possible to overhear their conversation. But the room in which they are sitting is not as crowded as the rest of the pub and if I stand or sit anywhere near their table, Rosalía will be bound to notice. A man standing next to me at the bar sways onto one leg and I have to catch him to hold his balance.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he says, a Midlands accent, grabbing my arm. One of his friends lets out a hearty laugh.

That’s when I see my opportunity. Beyond Rosalía’s table is a second doorway leading out onto a balcony overlooking the chaos of the ground floor. If there’s a chair there, even space in which to stand, I would be concealed and possibly within earshot of the conversation.

Having picked up a discarded newspaper from the bar, I take the pint, make my way back through the crowds and find a narrow bench at which to sit and listen. The music is very loud but I can see the base of the man’s chair and Rosalía’s left hand resting on the table. Both of them are smoking cigarettes. Rosalía never smokes. Ahead of me, built into the breezeblock walls, is a badly fitted window smudged by fingerprints. Through it I can see the fireplace and most of the other tables in the smaller room, as well as the obligatory portraits of Yeats and Beckett and George Bernard Shaw. The man says something, in Spanish, about ‘guilt’. I pick up the specific Spanish word. La culpabilidad. Rosalía’s response is very quiet, or at least inaudible from where I am sitting. Maddeningly, the DJ operating from a booth directly behind me has chosen to play ‘Living on a Prayer’ at deafening volume. Five women on a hen night at the next-door table blare out the chorus, making it impossible to hear.

I have to get closer.

Attempting to look as natural as possible, I pick up the pint and lean against the wall beside the door. If Rosalía leaves through this entrance there is every possibility that she will recognize me, but it is surely worth the risk. I can now hear snippets of their conversation more clearly, and a new Spanish song is fractionally quieter. Words such as time and patience. At one point the man mutters something about loyalty.

‘I don’t care about loyalty,’ Rosalía snaps back. No me importa la lealtad. She is audibly upset. But what about? If only I had a general clue as to the subject under discussion.

‘You don’t have to worry,’ the man replies. Usted no tiene que preocuparse. I heard that very clearly. Then: ‘Just go home for the weekend, relax and wait for your boyfriend.’ Rosalía coughs and her answer is again smothered by the music. But I obtain one vital piece of information. The man’s name. Abel.

A chair scrapes back. It sounds as though one of them is standing up. I pivot away from the door, take the newspaper out of my back pocket and quickly sit down at the bench. Fogged by drink, the other customers on the narrow balcony seem oblivious to my strange behaviour. Looking up through the window I see Abel walking away from the table and out towards the stairs. Rosalía is not going with him. He turns left, perhaps to go to the bathroom, but he is already wearing an outdoor coat. One of the girls on the hen night catches my eye, but I ignore her.

Three minutes later Abel reappears and heads down to the ground floor. Rosalía, as far as I can tell, is staying where she is. I make a split-instant decision to follow her companion. Whoever he is, he must know something about Arenaza. Far better to take a chance on an instinct like this, to seize the opportunity, than to waste even more time at Jiloca.

It is raining outside, the shower which had been threatening all afternoon. Two bouncers are huddled in the vestibule and they bid me goodnight. Abel turns right towards Moby Dick, yet something catches my eye. When I was waiting across the street before entering the pub I saw a bottle-green Seat Ibiza pull up in front of the entrance. It parked a few metres away from me, but the two men inside did not get out. Instead, one of them lit a cigarette and started talking. I thought nothing of this at the time, but it seems unusual that they should still be there. Spanish couples – many of whom live with their parents until they are ready to marry – will use cars as one of the few places in which they can have any kind of physical intimacy, but these are two guys and they are certainly not lovers. Furthermore, although it has clearly been raining for some time, the windscreen of their car is absolutely clear, as if it has been recently swept by wiper blades to give an unobstructed view of the pub. The clincher might be the two cans of Fanta Limón resting on the dashboard. These guys are on a stakeout. But who are they following?