“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…?”
“A surrogate dad.” Ben’s voice was heavier now.
“That would be the word. Or perhaps a surrogate mum, of course. Or a surrogate…what? Priest, confessor, priestess, whatever? At any rate, this person?man or woman, young or old?sees a door of trust opening and he?or she, of course?walks right through it. If you know what I mean.”