Careless in Red (Inspector Lynley, #15)(208)

With the hut’s double door shut and fastened, the sound of the wind and the gulls’ crying was muted. The atmosphere was close, and the four adults took up nearly every inch of the space. Bea said, “You’ve got us here, Mr. Reeth, at your pleasure. What is it you’d like to tell us?”

Jago Reeth held his tea in both hands. He nodded and spoke not to Bea but to Ben Kerne, and his tone was kind. “Losing a son. You’ve got my deepest sympathy. It’s the worst grief a man can know.”

“Losing any child’s a blow.” Ben Kerne sounded wary. It appeared to Bea that he was trying to read Jago Reeth. As was she. The air seemed to crackle with anticipation.

Next to Bea, Sergeant Havers took out her notebook. Bea expected Reeth to tell her to put it away, but instead the old man nodded and said, “I’ve no objection,” and to Kerne, “Have you?” When Ben shook his head, Jago added, “If you’ve come wired, Inspector, that’s fine as well. There are always things wanting documentation in a situation like this.”

Bea wanted to say what she’d earlier thought: He’d considered all the angles. But she was waiting to see, hear, or intuit the one angle he hadn’t yet considered. It had to be here somewhere, and she needed to be ready to deal with it when it raised its scaly head above the muck for a breath of air.

She said, “Do go on.”

“But there’s something worse about losing a son,” Jago Reeth said to Ben Kerne. “Unlike a daughter, a son carries the name. He’s the link between the past and the future. And it’s more, even, than just the name at the end of the day. He carries the reason for it all. For this…” He gave a look around the hut, as if the tiny building somehow contained the world and the billions of lifetimes present in the world.

“I’m not sure I make that sort of distinction,” Ben said. “Any loss…of a child…of any child…” He didn’t go on. He cleared his throat mightily.

Jago Reeth looked pleased. “Losing a son to murder is a horror, though, isn’t it? The fact of murder is almost as bad as knowing who killed him and not being able to lift a finger to bring the bloody sod to justice.”

Kerne said nothing. Nor did Bea or Barbara Havers. Bea and Kerne held their tea undrunk in their hands, and Ben Kerne set his carefully on the floor. Next to her, Bea felt Havers stir.

“That part’s bad,” Jago said. “As is the not knowing.”

“Not knowing what, exactly, Mr. Reeth?” Bea asked.

“The whys and the wherefores about it. And the hows. Bloke can spend the rest of his life tossing and turning, wondering and cursing and wishing…You know what I mean, I expect. Or if not now, you will, eh? It’s hell on earth and there’s no escaping. I feel for you, mate. For what you’re going through now and for what’s to come.”

“Thank you,” Ben Kerne said quietly. Bea had to admire him for his control. She could see how white the tops of his knuckles were.

“I knew your boy Santo. Lovely lad. Bit full of himself, like all boys are when they’re that age, eh, but lovely. And since this tragedy happened to him?”

“Since he was murdered,” Bea corrected Jago Reeth.

“Murder,” Reeth said, “is a tragedy, Inspector. No matter what kind of game of scent-and-chase you lot might think it is. It’s a tragedy, and when it happens, the only peace available is in knowing the truth of what happened and having others know it as well. If,” he added with a brief smile, “you know what I mean. And as I knew Santo, I’ve thought and thought about what happened to the lad. And I’ve decided that if an old broken-down bloke like myself can give you any peace, Mr. Kerne, that’s what I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me?”

“We all owe each other,” Jago cut in. “It’s forgetting that that leads us to tragedies.” He paused as if to let this sink in. He drained his tea and put the cup next to him on the bench. “So what I want to do is tell you how I reckon this happened to your boy. Because I’ve thought about it, see, as I’m sure you have and sure the cops here have as well. Who would’ve done this to such a fine lad, I been asking myself for days. How’d they manage it? And why?”

“None of that brings Santo back, does it?” Ben Kerne asked steadily.

“’Course not. But the knowing…the final understanding of it all: I wager there’s peace in that and that’s what I’ve got to offer you. Peace. So here’s what I reckon was?”

“No. I don’t think so, Mr. Reeth.” Bea had a sudden glimmer what Reeth intended, and in that glimmer she saw where this could lead.

But Ben Kerne said, “Let him go on, please. I want to hear him out, Inspector.”

“This will allow him to?”

“Please let him continue.”

Reeth waited affably for Bea to concur. She nodded sharply, but she wasn’t happy. To irregular and mad she had to add provocative.

“So here’s what I reckon,” Jago said. “Someone has a score to settle and this someone sets out to settle that score on the life of your lad. What sort of score, you wonder, right? Could be anything, couldn’t it. New score, old score. It doesn’t matter. But a form of accounting’s waiting out there, and Santo’s life’s the means of settling it. So this killer?could be a man, could be a woman, doesn’t much matter, does it, because the point is the lad and the lad’s death, see, which is what cops like these two always forget?this killer gets to know your lad because knowing him’s going to provide access. And knowing the lad leads to the means as well because your boy’s an openhearted sort and he talks. About this and that, but as things turn out, he talks a lot about his dad, same as most boys do. He says his dad’s riding him hard for lots of reasons but mostly because he wants women and surfing and not settling down, and who can blame him as he’s only eighteen. His dad, on the other hand, has his own wants for the boy, which makes the boy roil and talk and roil some more. Which makes him look for…What d’you call it? A substitute dad…?”