"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.