‘A subordinate is bringing it,’ said Frend. ‘My clients felt that a lawyer shouldn’t be carrying so much hard currency. They were fretful that someone might try to steal it.’

‘You, probably. I wouldn’t trust you with my small change.’

‘Likewise.’

‘But then, I am not attempting to swindle my clients.’

‘My clients are murderers,’ said Frend. ‘Forgive me if relieving them of excess funds does not inspire deep feelings of regret.’

‘Perhaps you ought to be more cautious,’ said Kauffmann, ‘particularly around murderers.’

‘The time for caution has already passed, don’t you think? And lest we forget, you also are now complicit. What about my passport?’

‘It’s just waiting for the details to be filled in. That will be done as soon as the money has been handed over.’

Kauffmann puffed at the cigarette and checked her watch.

‘Where is this lackey of yours?’ she said.

‘It’s just ten to,’ said Frend. ‘He’ll be here. The Vuksans want the passports. May I?’

Kauffmann produced a small brown envelope from the inside pocket of her coat and handed it to Frend. He examined the documents inside. They looked good to him. He was no expert, but he had faith in Kauffmann in this regard. She might have been mired in duplicity, but money kept her honest.

He returned the envelope to her.

‘Did you notice that the chapel gate appears to be open?’ he said.

She looked past him and saw that the metal gate was indeed unlocked.

‘That’s odd,’ she said. ‘Is there anyone inside?’

‘Not that I could see in passing.’

‘Kids, perhaps,’ she said. ‘I’ll report it after we leave, just in case.’

‘Good. It would be a shame were it to be desecrated.’

‘I didn’t take you for a religious man,’ said Kauffmann.

‘I’m not,’ he replied. ‘I just like old places.’

‘Even this one?’

‘I would not care to rest here when I die, but that does not mean I wish to see it defiled.’

Kauffmann regarded him with puzzlement.

‘You are a strange individual, Anton. Occasionally an admirable quality rises to the surface, only to submerge itself again when it glimpses the world you inhabit.’

‘And you?’ said Frend. ‘What is left inside you?’

‘An appreciation of music,’ said Kauffmann. ‘It’s what passes for my soul.’

They heard footsteps behind them, and turned in unison. Zivco Ilić stood at the top of the steps, the chapel behind him. In his right hand he carried a large black canvas bag. He put the bag on the ground and stretched his shoulders.

‘If I carry it down the stairs,’ said Ilić, ‘someone will just have to carry it all the way back up again, and it won’t be me.’

‘This is the associate I mentioned,’ Frend told Kauffmann.

‘Yes, I recognize his face from the new passport,’ she replied quietly, as they ascended to meet Ilić. ‘His picture flatters him.’