Calley looked at Medina.

Medina said, “He’s here. On the island.”

“Our man?” asked Calley.

“Yes.”

“Is he close?”

“I think she knows,” said Medina.

Calley turned to her. “Go on then,” he said.

“This night,” she said. And to Medina, “Esta noche.”

Calley shook his head. “By esta noche he might have flown away. He does that.” He moved one hand. A wing.

“No,” she said.

“No?”

“Vocês são seus amigos?” she said.

Medina nodded.

She paused. “Ele está morto,” she said.

“Morto?” said Medina. “Muerte?”

“Sí, muerte.”

“What’s this?” said Calley. “Is she saying what I think she’s saying?”

“She says he’s dead,” says Medina. He laughed. The woman gaped at him. “No,” he said. “Es . . . triste.” But he almost laughed a second time. It was over. This lunatic crawling after a man who vanished before them like a trick of the light.

“Where?” said Calley. “How?”

“Dead,” she said.

“I’m asking how,” said Calley. “How dead? How?”

She raised a hand to her neck, then drew the tips of her fingers across her skin. The meaning was plain though it looked more like a caress.

“His throat?” said Calley. “Someone kill him? Your husband?”

“No,” she answered, “no one.”

“Se mato?” asked Medina.

“Sí,” she said.

“In English if you please,” said Calley.

“He killed himself,” said Medina.

“Done it himself?” said Calley. “Stuck himself?”

For several seconds they were silent. Out of sight somewhere, a clock ticked erratically.

“Well, I didn’t see that coming,” said Calley. “Did you?”

“No,” said Medina.

“Course you fucking didn’t,” said Calley.

“His guilt,” said Medina. “His . . . shame.”

“We’ll need to see him of course,” said Calley.

“See him?”

“I assume that’s where she was taking us tonight. His grave. I mean I assume they didn’t just leave him for the birds.”

The woman was following this, or trying to. “Seu túmulo?” she asked.

Medina nodded.

“Tonight,” she said.

“What’s wrong with now?” asked Calley. “Porque no ahora?”

“A suicide,” said Medina. “In such a place. You . . . hide it. You never speak of it.”

Calley looked at him and for a moment he seemed to be thinking about it. A community of thirty, forty souls, life’s fabric rent by a stranger. The need to forget, to look away. Then he stood up and buttoned his coat. “Bollocks,” he said, “we’ll go now. And we’ll need a spade.” He looked at the woman. “To dig?” he said, and lifting one boot he mimed for her the driving of a blade into the earth.