“Not hardly, eh? Just a few more weeks. And now’s when I’m needed most cos before the season starts is when the orders come in. Then in the season boards get dinged and repairs are needed. Newquay, North Shore, Queensland, California. I’m there to do them. Use to work first and surf later. Sometimes the reverse.”
“But not now.”
“Hell no. It’d kill me for sure. His dad thought it’d kill Santo, you know. Idjit, he was. Safer than crossing the street. And it gets a lad out in the air and sunlight.”
“So does sea cliff climbing,” Bea pointed out.
Jago eyed her. “And look what happened there.”
“D’you know the Kernes, then?”
“Santo. Like I said. And the rest of them from what Santo said. And that would be the limit of what I know.” He set his paintbrush in the pail, which he’d put on the floor beneath the board, and he scrutinised his work, squatting at the end of the board to study it from tail to nose. Then he rose and went to the door behind which the rails of a board were being shaped. He closed it behind him. In a moment, the tool was shut off.
Constable McNulty, Bea saw, was looking about, a line forming between his eyebrows, as if he was considering what he was observing. She knew nothing about the making of surfboards, so she said, “What?” and he roused himself from his thoughts.
“Something,” he said. “Don’t quite know yet.”
“About the place? About Reeth? About Santo? His family? What?”
“Not sure.”
She blew out a breath. The man would probably need a bloody Ouija board.
Lew Angarrak joined them. He was outfitted like Jago Reeth, in a white boiler suit fashioned from heavy paper, the perfect accompaniment to the rest of him, which was also white. His thick hair could have been any colour-probably salt and pepper, considering his age, which appeared to be somewhere past forty-five-but now it looked like a barrister’s wig, so thoroughly covered as it was by polystyrene dust. This same dust formed a fine patina on his forehead and cheeks. Round his mouth and eyes there was none, its absence explained by the air filter that dangled round his neck along with a pair of protective glasses.
Behind him, Bea could see the board he was working on. Like the board being finished by the glasser, it lay on two tall sawhorses: shaped from its earlier form of a blank oblong of polystyrene that was marked in halves by a wooden stringer. More of these blanks lined a wall to one side of the shaping room. The other side, Bea saw, bore a rack of tools: planers, sanders, and Surforms, by the look of them.
Angarrack wasn’t a big man, not much taller than Bea herself. But he appeared quite powerful in the upper body, and Bea reckoned he had a great deal of strength. Jago Reeth had apparently put him in the picture about the facts of Santo’s death, but he didn’t seem wary about seeing the police. Nor did he seem surprised. Or shocked or sorrowful, for that matter.
Bea introduced herself and Constable McNulty. Could they speak with Mr. Angarrack?
“That bit’s a formality, isn’t it?” he replied shortly. “You’re here, and I assume that means we’re going to be speaking.”
“Perhaps you can show us round as we do so,” Bea said. “I know nothing of making surfboards.”
“Called shaping,” Jago Reeth told her. He stood nearby.
“Little enough to see,” Angarrack said. “Shaping, spraying, glassing, finishing. There’s a room for each.” He used his thumb to indicate them as he spoke. The door to the spraying room was open but unlit, and he flipped a switch on the wall. Bright colours leapt out at them, sprayed onto the walls, the floors, and the ceiling. Another sawhorse stood in the middle of the room, but no board waited upon it, although five stood against the wall, shaped and ready for someone’s artistry.
“You decorate them as well?” Bea asked.
“Not me. An old-timer did the designs for a time till he moved on. Then Santo did them, as a way of paying for a board he wanted. I’m looking for someone else now.”
“Because of Santo’s death?”
“No. I’d already sacked him.”
“Why?”
“I’d guess you’d say loyalty.”
“To?”
“My daughter.”
“Santo’s girlfriend.”
“For a time, but that time was past.” He moved by them and out into the showroom, where an electric kettle stood-along with brochures, a clipboard thick with paperwork, and board designs-on a card table behind the counter. He plugged this in and said, “You want something?” and when they demurred, he called out, “Jago?”
“Black and nasty,” Jago returned.
“Tell us about Santo Kerne,” Bea said as Lew went about his business with coffee crystals, which he loaded up into one mug cup and used more sparingly in another.
“He bought a board from me. Couple years ago. He’d been watching the surfers round the Promontory, and he said he wanted to learn. He’d started out down at Clean Barrel-”
“Surf shop,” McNulty murmured, as if believing Bea would need a translator.
“-and Will Mendick, bloke who used to work there, recommended he get a board from me. I place some boards in Clean Barrel, but not a lot.”
“No money in retail,” Jago called from the other room.
“Too right, that,” Angarrack said. “Santo had liked the look of one at Clean Barrel, but it was too advanced for him, although he wouldn’t have known that at the time. It was a short board. A three-fin thruster. He asked about it, but Will knew he’d not learn well with that-if he learned at all-so he sent him to me. I made him a board he could learn on, something wider, longer, with a single fin. And Madlyn-that’s my daughter-gave him lessons.”
“That’s how they became involved, then.”
“Essentially.”
The kettle clicked off. Angarrack poured the water into the mugs, stirred the liquid, and said, “Here it is, mate,” which brought Jago Reeth to join them. He drank noisily.
“How did you feel about that?” Bea asked Angarrack. “About their involvement.” She noted that Jago was watching Lew intently. Interesting, she thought, and she made a mental tick against both of their names.
“Truth? I didn’t like it. She lost her focus. Before, she had a goal. The nationals. International competitions. After she met Santo, all of that was gone. She could still see beyond the nose on her face, but she couldn’t see an inch beyond Santo Kerne.”
“First love,” Jago commented. “It’s brutal.”
“They were both too young,” Angarrack said. “Not even seventeen when they met, and I don’t know how old when they began…” He made a gesture with his hand to indicate they were to complete the sentence.
“Became lovers,” Bea said.
“It’s not love at that age,” Angarrack told her. “Not for boys. But for her? Stars in the eyes and cotton wool in the head. Santo this and Santo that. I wish I could have done something to prevent it.”
“Way of the world, Lew.” Jago leaned against the doorway to the glassing room, mug in his hand.
“I didn’t forbid her seeing him,” Angarrack went on. “What would have been the point? But I told her to have a care.”
“As to what?”
“The obvious. Bad enough she wasn’t competing any longer. Even worse if she came up pregnant. Or worse than that.”
“Worse?”
“Diseased.”
“Ah. Sounds as if you thought the boy was promiscuous.”
“I didn’t know what the hell he was. And I didn’t want to find out by means of Madlyn being in some sort of trouble. Any sort of trouble. So I warned her and then I let it be.” Angarrack had not yet taken up his mug, but he did so now and he took a gulp. “That was probably my mistake,” he said.
“Why? Did she-”
“She would’ve got over him faster when things ended. As it is, she hasn’t.”
“I daresay she will now,” Bea said.
The two men exchanged looks. Quick, nearly furtive. Bea noted this and made two more mental ticks against them. She said, “We found a T-shirt design for LiquidEarth on Santo’s computer.” Constable McNulty brought the drawing forth and passed it over to the surfboard shaper. “Was that at your request?” Bea asked.