Bea told Reeth to step away from the spirit stove, which he did willingly enough. She checked it and the rest of his supplies, of which there were few enough: plastic cups, sugar, tea, powdered milk in sachets, one spoon for shared stirring. She was surprised the old man hadn’t thought of crumpets.
She ducked back out of the door and motioned Havers and Ben Kerne to join her. Once all four of them were inside the hut, there was barely room to move, but Jago Reeth still managed to make the tea, and he pressed a cup upon each of them, like the hostess of an Edwardian house party. Then he doused the flame on the stove and set the stove itself on the stones beneath the bench, perhaps as a way of reassuring them that he had no intention of using it as a weapon. At this, Bea decided to pat him down again for good measure. Having put the spirit stove in the hut in advance of their arrival, there was no telling what else he’d stowed in the place. But he was weaponless, as before.
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?”