“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 alclass="underline" 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.”
He was keeping his options open, Bea concluded. He was, as he had said himself, no bloody fool, and the advantage he had in this moment was the years he’d had to think about the approach he wanted to use when the time came for it.
“So this person…let’s call him or her the Confessor for want of a better term…this Confessor makes cups of tea and cups of chocolate and more cups of tea and more cups of chocolate and offers biscuits, but more important offers a place for Santo to do whatever and to be whoever. And the Confessor waits. And soon enough reckons that means are available to settle whatever score needs settling. The boy’s had yet another blowup with his dad. It’s an argument that goes nowhere like always and this time the lad’s taken all of his climbing equipment from where he’s kept it in the past-right alongside Dad’s-and he’s stowed it in the boot of his car. What does he intend? It’s that classic thing: I’ll show him, I will. I’ll show him what sort of bloke I am. He thinks I’m nothing but a lout but I’ll show him. And what better way to do it than with his own sport, which I’ll do better than he’s ever managed. So that puts his equipment within the grasp of the Confessor and the Confessor sees what we’ll call the Way.”
At this, Ben Kerne lowered his head. Bea said, “Mr. Kerne, I think this is-”
He said, “No.” He raised his head with effort. “More,” he said to Jago Reeth.
“The Confessor waits for an opportunity, which presents itself soon enough because the lad’s open and easy with his belongings, one of which is his car. This is nothing at all to get into as it’s never locked and a quick manoeuver opens the boot and there it all is. Selection is the key. Perhaps a chock stone or a carabiner. Or a sling. Even the harness will do. All four, perhaps? No, that likely would be-if you’ll pardon the expression-overkill. If it’s a sling, there’s not a problem in the world as it’s nylon or whatever and easily cut by shears, a sharp knife, a razor, whatever. If it’s something else, things are a bit trickier, as everything else save the rope-and rope seems too bloody obvious a choice, not to mention too noticeable-is metal and a cutting device is going to be necessary. How to find one? Purchase one? No. That would be traceable. Borrow one? Again, someone’s going to recall the borrowing, yes? Use one without the knowledge of the owner? That seems more possible and decidedly more sensible, but where to find one? Friend, associate, acquaintance, employer? Someone whose movements are intimately known because they’ve been watched just as intimately? Any of those, yes? So the Confessor chooses the moment and the deed is done. One cut does it and afterwards no sign is left behind because, as we’ve said, the Confessor’s no fool and he knows-or she knows, because as we’ve seen, she is as possible as he when it comes to this-that it’s crucial there be no evidence afterwards. And the beauty of it all is that the equipment’s been marked with tape by the lad-or even by his father, perhaps-so that it can be distinguished from everyone else’s. Because this is what climbers do, you see. They mark their equipment because so often they climb together. It’s safer that way, climbing together, you see. And this tells the Confessor that there’s little to no chance that anyone other than the lad will use this sling, this carabiner, this harness…whatever it was that was damaged because, of course, I myself don’t know. But I’ve thought about it, and here’s what I’ve come up with. The one thing the Confessor has to take care with is the tape used to identify the equipment. If he-or she, of course-buys more tape, there’s a chance the new tape won’t match exactly or can be traced back. God knows how, but there’s that possibility, so the thing is to keep that tape usable. The Confessor manages this and it’s quite a project because that tape is tough, like electrical tape. He-or she, of course, like I said-rewraps it just so and maybe it’s not quite as tight as it once was but at least it’s the same and will the lad even notice? Unlikely, and even if he does, what he’s likely to do is smooth it down, apply more tape on top, something like that. So once the deed is done and the equipment’s replaced, all that’s left is waiting. And once what happens, happens-and it is a tragedy, no one doubts that-there’s nothing really that can’t be explained away.”
“There’s always something, Mr. Reeth,” Bea said.
Jago looked at her in a kindly way. “Fingerprints on the boot of the car? In the interior? On the keys to the car? Inside the boot? The Confessor and the boy spent hours together, perhaps they even worked together at…let’s say it was at his dad’s business. They each rode in the other’s car, they were mates, they were pals, they were surrogate father and surrogate son, they were surrogate mother and surrogate son, they were surrogate brothers, they were lovers, they were…anything. It doesn’t matter, you see, because it all can be explained away. Hair inside the boot of the car? The Confessor’s? Someone else’s? Same thing, really. The Confessor planted someone else’s or even his own or her own because it can be a woman, we’ve already seen that. What about fibres? Clothing fibres…perhaps on the tape that marked the equipment. Wouldn’t that be lovely? But the Confessor helped wrap that equipment or he or she touched that equipment because…why? Because the boot was used for other things as well-a surfing kit, perhaps?-and things would get moved round here and there and in and out. What about access to the equipment? Everyone had that. Every single person in the poor lad’s life. What about motive? Well, nearly everyone, it seems, had that as well. So at the end of the day, there is no answer. There is only speculation but no case to present. Which the killer probably considers the beauty of the crime but which you and I know, Mr. Kerne, is any crime’s biggest horror: that the killer simply walks away. Everyone knows who did it. Everyone admits it. Everyone shakes a head and says, What a tragedy. What a useless, senseless, maddening-”