Heloise, the friend she had once used as an alibi when she’d visited Laurent, was sitting next to her at the trestle table. Bel noticed she was busy writing something on the back of her soapstone triangle. Bel leant over and studied it.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘I am writing down the names of my family. And also that of my sweetheart. Then they will be up on Corcovado Mountain and part of the Cristo forever. Many of the women do this, Izabela.’

‘What a beautiful idea,’ sighed Bel, looking sadly at the names of Heloise’s mother, her father, her brothers and sisters . . . and then the name of her sweetheart. Bel looked down at her own tile – just about to be covered in glue – and knew that one precious member of her family would not be on this earth for much longer, and would never see the Cristo finished. Her eyes filled with involuntary tears.

‘When you are done with it, may I borrow your pen?’ she asked Heloise.

‘Of course.’

When Heloise handed the pen to her, Bel wrote out the name of her beloved mother, then her father and then her own name. Her pen hovered below the names, but try as she might, she could not bring herself to write the name of her husband.

Testing the ink to see if it was dry, Bel applied the thick glue to the tile and placed it on the netting. As she did so, the woman in charge told them it was time for their break, and she watched as the other volunteers stood up from the trestle benches. Instinctively, she grabbed a soapstone triangle from the pile in the centre of the table and secreted it surreptitiously in her small handbag, which lay at her feet under the table. Standing up, she made her way over to the group of women who were drinking coffee at the back of the church.

Refusing the cup of coffee offered to her by the maid, she turned to the woman in charge.

‘Senhora, forgive me, but I’m afraid I must leave now.’

‘Of course. The committee is only grateful for any help you can offer, Senhora Aires Cabral. Please write your name down on the rota as usual, to tell us when you are free to come back.’

‘Senhora, that will not be possible for some time, I’m afraid. My mother is seriously ill and I must be there for her in her final days,’ Bel explained.

‘I understand. Please accept my sympathy.’ The woman reached out a hand to touch her shoulder.

‘Thank you.’

Bel left the church and hurried to Jorge, who was waiting for her in the car outside. Climbing into the back, she directed him to Madame Duchaine’s in Ipanema.

Fifteen minutes later they arrived, and she asked him to return for her at six o’clock. She walked towards the front door of the salon and pretended to press the bell, until, with her head surreptitiously cocked to the left, she saw Jorge move the car off along the road. She waited on the doorstep for two or three minutes before leaving it, and then hurried as fast as she could along the street to Laurent’s apartment.