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."