He stopped dead. Two figures rose from a stone bench as he passed. One was tall, thin, menacing: the Gypsy Mairena. The other was slim, elegant, with the precise movements of a dancer: El Polio Muelas. The moon was hidden by a cloud, or maybe it was Peregil's eyes that clouded. His ulcer gave a stab. He went weak at the knees.

"Guess what day it is."

"Wednesday," said Peregil in a faint, plaintive voice. "I've got one day left."

The two shadows moved closer. Their cigarettes glowed, one higher than the other. "You haven't worked it out right," said the Gypsy Mairena. "You've got one hour left. Thursday begins on the dot of midnight." He struck a match, and the flame lit up his hand, lit up the stump of his little finger. "One hour and five minutes."

"I'll pay," said Peregil. "I swear."

El Pollo Muelas's laugh was friendly. "Of course you will. That's why we're going to sit down here together on this bench, all three of us. To keep you company until it's Thursday."

Peregil looked around in a blind panic. The river offered no protection, and he didn't have a chance if he ran along the deserted quay. He could temporarily solve things by handing over what he had on him, but there were two drawbacks to this: the amount didn't cover his entire debt to the moneylender, and he wouldn't be able to justify the loss to Gavira, to whom he now owed the sum of eleven million. Without even considering the kidnapped priest hanging like a heavy burden from a rope around Peregil's neck. The lady and the tall priest would show up, and he could just imagine the look on the faces of Don Ibrahim, El Potro del Mantelete and La Nina Punales if he left them holding the baby. Added to that, there was the dead man in the church, the police, and all the other trouble. He looked again at the black river. Maybe it would be cheaper if he just jumped in and drowned.

He sighed deeply and took out a pack of cigarettes. He glanced at the two shadows in turn. Why worry, he thought resignedly, there are plenty of hospitals. "Either of you got a light?"

The Gypsy Maircna was just about to strike a match when Percgil tore off along the quay towards Triana Bridge, as if his life depended on it. Which it did.

For a while he thought he was safe. His breathing was measured – one, two, one, two – blood throbbed at his temples, his heart pounded and his lungs burned as if they were being ripped from his chest and turned inside out. He ran almost blindly in the darkness. He could hear the two men behind him, the curses of the Gypsy Mairena, the wheezing of El Polio Muelas. A couple of times Peregil thought he felt them touch his back or legs, and in a frenzy of terror he ran faster and believed he was getting away. He could see the car lights approaching rapidly up ahead, on the bridge. Steps, he thought incoherently, befuddled by his exertions. There were steps somewhere to the left, and up there – streets, lights, people. He veered, something hit his back, and he speeded up again, crying out. There were the steps: he sensed rather than saw them in the shadows. He made a last effort, but he was finding it more and more difficult to get his legs to obey him. He lurched forward, his lungs were a searing wound, he couldn't breathe. He reached the foot of the steps and thought that maybe he would make it after all. Then his strength failed, and he fell to his knees, as if he'd been shot.

He was done in. Under his shirt, the notes were stuck to him with sweat. He rolled over on his back, lying against the bottom step, and the stars above revolved like fairground lights. Where's all the oxygen gone, he thought, one hand pressing on his heart to keep it from jumping out of his mouth. Beside him, panting, leaning against the wall, the Gypsy Mairena and El Polio Muelas were trying to catch their breath.

"Son of a bitch," he heard the Gypsy say, spluttering. "Runs like the wind."

El Polio Muelas was now crouching, heaving like a bellows full of holes, his bared teeth visible in the light of a street lamp. "That was great, Peregil. It really was," he said, gently patting Percgil's face. "We're impressed." He struggled to his feet and, smiling, gave Peregil another couple of friendly pats, then jumped on his right arm and snapped the bone. It was the first of Peregil's bones to be broken that night.

Macarena glanced at her watch for the hundredth time. It was eleven forty. "Something's wrong," she whispered.

Quart was sure she was right, but he said nothing. They waited in the darkness by the locked gate of a jetty for pedaloes. Above them, beyond the palm trees and bougainvilleas and the deserted terraces of the Arenal, the cupola of the Maestranza and a corner of the Cartujano Bank were visible. Some three hundred metres downriver, the Torre del Oro, all lit up, mounted guard by San Telmo Bridge. Exactly midway, moored to the quay, was the Lovely.

With a sweater tied round her shoulders, she watched the place where Gavira's man should have appeared. The boat in which Father Ferro was supposed to be being held looked deserted, silent and dark. They'd arrived early, and after a time Quart thought the banker might have tricked them. But then he rejected the idea – Gavira couldn't afford to play tricks at this stage.

A breeze made the jetty creak. Water lapped gently around the posts of the quay. Something must have happened to alter the plan. Assuming that the old priest was on the boat – and they had no guarantee of that other than Gavira's word – his rescue was going to be more complicated if the intermediary didn't show up. Quart thought of Navajo.

"Maybe we should phone the police," he suggested.

"Absolutely not," she said, not taking her eyes off the boat. "First we have to talk to Don Priamo."

Quart glanced round. "Nobody's coming," he said.

"They will. Pencho knows he's got a lot to lose here."

But nobody appeared. When it was gone twelve, the tension had become unbearable. Macarena paced up and down by the gate to the jetty. She'd forgotten her cigarettes. Quart stayed and watched the Lovely while she went to a phone to call her husband. She returned looking grim. The banker had assured her that Peregil promised he would be there at eleven on the dot, with the money for the handover. He had no idea what had happened but would meet them there in fifteen minutes.

Gavira appeared after a time, walking under the acacias towards the jetty. In the darkness he seemed more tanned than usual. "God knows what's happened to Peregil," he said by way of greeting. That was it – no apologies or superfluous remarks. He was clearly worried – and prepared to do anything to deliver Father Ferro from a kidnapping to which he, Gavira, could be linked. Anything, as long as the police weren't involved. Quart admired the man's composure. Gavira had brought cigarettes, and he and Macarena lit up, cupping their hands around the flame. The banker listened more than he spoke, his head tilted, in control. He just wanted everything to be resolved for the best. At last he looked directly at Quart and asked, "What do you think?" It wasn't a challenge or a threat, simply an objective question.

Quart hesitated only a moment. He didn't like the idea of the old priest's going from the hands of the kidnappers straight into the hands of Deputy Superintendent Navajo. Quart had to talk to him first. "We should go in," he said, nodding at the Lovely.

"Let's do it, then," said Macarena, resolute.

"One moment," said Quart. "We need to know first what we'll find there."

Gavira told him. According to Peregil's reports, there were three. A fat man of about fifty was the boss. There was also a woman and a former boxer. The boxer might be dangerous.

"Do you know the layout of the boat?"