The abatement of the tensions between Angela and me was only temporary. Her reservations didn’t lessen over the next few weeks, and in an effort to appease her I agreed we should meet up and take her daughter Cathy to the cinema. In the meantime I threw myself more and more into my investigations.
One Sunday morning, coffee laced with whisky to my right, croissant and jam to my left, I opened up a search engine on my laptop and read up what I could about the Shows and in particular the owner, who I discovered from my research at the library was one Benito Marinello.
According to one source, his father, Leo, came over from Italy in the 1920s, and got a job in a funfair. The son came along, grew up in the life and decided to branch out on his own as soon as he was able.
Most of the entries that came up on my search engine contained nothing of any real note. They were mainly puff pieces saying how Marinello gave this amount to that charity or he attended some big event in the city, or that he had publicly backed a certain politician. It all suggested Mr Marinello was keen to show that he was a concerned citizen. Maybe he was, but it felt to me like someone who was trying too hard.
My attention caught on an article from 2012 in the business pages of the Glasgow Times. Mr Marinello had quietly diversified over the previous ten years into a number of other businesses. His portfolio now included children’s nurseries, old folks’ homes, and a small chain of cafés. Marinello was keen to stress how perspicacious he had been – he’d seen that the writing was on the wall for his fairground business. At the same time, however, he felt it was important to stress to those who loved that institution that it would still be on the road for as long as it was supported, but sadly footfall had declined massively, which he blamed on computer games.
I entered the newspaper’s own search system to see if there were any, more recent articles on the him and found one dated just ten months previously, which said Marinello was stepping back from the overall running of the business because of illness and his only daughter was taking over.
This was all very interesting, but it wasn’t really getting me anywhere.
Then I hit on something with promise. A blog written by a guy who had been writing a biography of the man. They had had a falling-out and Marinello had withdrawn his permission. And in a note at the end of the first post the blogger noted that due to ill health Mr Marinello had gone to live in one of the nursing homes the family owned. The note felt just a little bit spiteful. Reading between the lines it felt like the blogger was saying, This guy messed me about and I ain’t letting all that hard work go to waste.
The date on the first post was just a few days later than the article about Marinello stepping back from the business in favour of his daughter.
There were another half a dozen entries on the blog, each of about a thousand words long. The writing was clean and efficient but edged towards the sensational and had a ring of gossip. I could see why Marinello might have stepped away from his deal with this guy. The tone didn’t suit the image he had previously presented to the world.
There was some juicy stuff in there though. Aside from the ‘immigrant does well’ narrative, which Marinello would have enjoyed, there was lots of stuff he would have hated, information I doubted the blogger would have ever shown the old man. Details about affairs with the wives of other fairground bosses, and links with organised crime.
The pissed-off tone of the whole thing made me wonder how much was true. However, it did suggest there was more to the old man than first appeared.
On a whim I looked up which nursing homes the family owned. There was one in Glasgow, one in Stirling, and the same in Edinburgh.
This was all well and good, but what should I do with this information? Might it be worth actually going to visit the old man? Chatting to me might be better than sitting in the common room watching Homes under the Hammer, so why not? I thought.
I decided I’d phone the nursing homes to find out which one he was resident in. I hit it lucky with my first call.
‘Armadale Retirement Home, how may I help?’ A woman answered.
‘Is Mr Marinello available, please?’ I asked.
‘He’s with a visitor at the moment,’ she replied. ‘Can I leave him a message?’
‘Actually, I’m going to be in Stirling next week for a meeting,’ I lied. ‘Would it be okay to pop in and say hi?’
‘Might I ask what this is in connection with, sir?’
‘I’m doing a piece for the BBC,’ I said, and wondered where the ease with which I could now lie was coming from. ‘About the demise of the travelling funfair. I thought Mr Marinello would be a great source of information.’
‘Let me check with the family, sir, and get back to you.’ She took a note of my phone number and promised to reply to me by the end of business that day.
She called back two hours later to arrange a time for my visit.
The following weekend I was on the road to Stirling.
As I turned into the drive of Armadale Retirement Home I could see a wide two-storey building with a red-brick façade, and a high sloping roof covered in dark-brown tiles. It was set among mature trees and large shrubs. A portico at the front was large enough to allow a car or, it occurred to me, an ambulance, to pass under it, park and drop off a client.
The vaulted ceiling in the entrance lobby reminded me of a church. The walls were bare brick, just like the exterior, and the ceiling was high with large windows letting in lots of light.
‘Can I help you?’ A young woman wearing a light-blue blouse, navy skirt and matching cardigan approached us. It felt to me as if she was dressing for her clientele rather than her own age group.
‘Yes, please…’ I peered down at her name badge. Amanda. ‘I arranged a visit with Mr Marinello.’
‘Ah right. Mr Docherty from the BBC?’
I mentally retreated from the lie. ‘In the flesh.’
‘Yes, we’re expecting you.’ She offered me a warm smile. ‘Please come with me and we’ll get you settled in with a nice cuppa.’ She walked ahead for a few steps and then turned to face me.
‘The family agreed on this visit with the proviso that one of them sits with Mr Marinello.’ Another smile. ‘Miss Marinello, his granddaughter, actually runs the place, so that makes life easier, but she’s been held up. She’ll be with us shortly,’ she added with a bright smile.
‘Great,’ I said, wondering when I should just confess to the truth.
‘I’m sure Benny will be more than happy to help you with your research if he can…’ Her expression grew serious and she continued in a low tone. ‘He has his good days and his bad days. Let’s hope you’ve caught him on a good one.’
The walls of the room she led us into were lined with easy chairs, and the far corner housed a giant TV set, which was blank and silent. In the middle of the room, in front of a wall that was floor-to-ceiling glass, sat a man who, judging by the way his clothes hung on him, had recently lost a lot of weight.
‘I’ve got visitors coming, you said.’ The man’s voice wavered uncertainly.
‘And here he is, Benny,’ Amanda said with forced jollity.
‘Ah.’ He looked over at me as if he was waiting for his eye muscles to settle. Then. ‘Travelled far?’ he asked.
‘Glasgow,’ I said hoping my answer wasn’t a disappointment.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ the old man said. ‘You must be Danny.’
‘No, Benny,’ the young woman smiled an apology towards me. ‘This is John Docherty. He’s with the BBC.’
‘Oh dear,’ Benny said. ‘That’s not so good. But who’s Danny?’
‘Sometimes he gets an idea stuck in his head and we can’t shift it,’ Amanda said. She indicated I should take a seat beside the old man. ‘I’ll bring you in a nice cuppa,’ she said.
‘Have you travelled far?’ Benny asked again.
‘Benny loves getting visitors and is always extra chuffed if they’ve come a fair distance to see him,’ Amanda said.
‘Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here, Amanda,’ Benny said, each word clipped with irritation. ‘I’ve not totally lost it yet.’
Amanda gave a little smile and in an awkward motion ducked her head by way of an apology.
‘I’m from Glasgow, Benny,’ I said again, and thinking I might as well dispense with the lie and get to the point, I fished the photo of Thomas and me out of my pocket. ‘I wanted to ask you if you ever came across this lad.’
He leaned over and studied the photograph.
After a pause he looked up at my face. ‘What’s this about?’ As he looked at me, I could see the younger man was still in there.
‘The older boy here disappeared in 1990, and I’ve traced the disappearance of a couple of other lads around the same time … in the same locations where your Shows were based,’ I answered, trying not to look at the confused expression on Amanda’s face.
‘But isn’t this…?’ she began.
‘The BBC,’ I nodded.
‘Is this Danny?’ Benny looked over at me, his eyes cast in vagueness. ‘You’re a nice lad. Got a nice smile. Could do with a haircut, mind you.’
I was taken aback by this and simply smiled in response. The way he was flipping from one state of mind to another was slightly alarming. ‘Thanks,’ I said feeling like a bit of an idiot, but also feeling that I was wasting my time. This poor old guy wasn’t in any state to offer any help.
‘Three boys went missing. Each of those dates matched a visit by the Marinello Funfair,’ I carried on gamely. ‘It’s probably just a coincidence, but we need to chase down everything. My dad died never knowing for sure what happened to his eldest son, and I want to make sure the other families involved have some kind of answers.’
‘Oh, dear, that’s…’ Amanda’s hand went to her throat. ‘Those poor parents.’ She leaned forwards. ‘Benny, do you recognise this boy?’
‘Of course,’ he said, eyebrows knitted together. At these words my heart thumped and my stomach twisted. The old man knew him?
‘I’m not an idiot.’ Benny looked over at me and pointed. ‘It’s him. He’s a lot younger here mind. And he has a daft haircut in this photo.’
He was talking about me. I sat back, deflated. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
As if she realised the jump I had made in my mind, Amanda sent me a commiserating smile. Then said, ‘Sorry, I was so caught up in this I forgot to go and get us a drink.’
Just then the door opened behind us, and I heard the light tread of someone enter the room.
‘Hi, Gramps,’ a woman said. I turned around and saw a woman of medium height and slim build, with dark shoulder-length hair. She was wearing what looked like an expensive navy suit with a pale-blue blouse. She was smiling as she approached me with her hand out.
My breath caught in my throat as it occurred to me that she was like an older version of Angela. More grey in her hair, more lines at the sides of her eyes, but Angela was there in the cast of her expression; that intelligent, understanding look I’d come to know and love.
Angela.
Shit.
I was supposed to be going to the cinema with her and Cathy today.
‘I’m Gina,’ the woman said, and I introduced myself. Amanda repeated that she would go and make us a hot drink.
‘I’m sorry…’ I opened my mouth to explain my lie and say why I was really here, fighting to ignore the inner voice that was scolding me loudly for forgetting about my previous arrangement with Angela and Cathy.
‘This is Danny,’ Benny said. ‘Needs a haircut.’
‘Okay, Gramps,’ she smiled at him and turned to me with an apology on her face. ‘If you got him on a good day I’m sure he would have been able to help.’
‘Every day’s a good day,’ Benny said. ‘I hate it when you talk about me as if I’m not here, Gina.’ He looked at me. ‘Don’t get old, son. Everybody thinks you’re a cunting idiot.’ He was so angry a few spots of spit flew out of his mouth.
‘Right, Grandad, you know we don’t like that kind of language in here.’ Gina looked back at me as if seeing me for the first time. She paused, a smile lingering. ‘He has problems with self-editing.’ She narrowed her eyes in enquiry. ‘Have we…?’
‘When’s the tea coming, pet? I hope they’ve got those Jammie Dodgers.’ Benny looked at me. ‘You look like you might enjoy a Jammie Dodger, Danny.’
‘Grandad, Amanda has just this second gone for the tea. And this is…’ She sent me a quick look.
‘John,’ I said.
‘Right. Lovely,’ Benny said as he sat back in his chair, holding his hands on his lap. Then seconds later his head slid to the side, his eyes closed and his breathing settled into a slow and rhythmic pattern.
‘He goes to sleep that quickly?’ I asked.
‘He does. Visitors wear him out. But sometimes it’s just a bit too convenient, if you know what I mean.’ Gina said with a tired smile.
That was a signal that the meeting should come to a close. I doubted there was much point in me staying any longer so I stood to leave.
‘I really shouldn’t take up any more of your time,’ I said. Then I took a gamble and stretched out to touch the old man’s hand. ‘Lovely to meet you, Benny. Thanks for your help.’
He opened his eyes. Then took my hand, his grip light, and smiled as if taking real pleasure in the contact, the skin crinkling round his pale eyes. ‘You must be Danny,’ he said. ‘You’ll be a handsome lad once you get a shave and a haircut.’