28

The urban sprawl of Glasgow melted behind us and our surroundings began to take on a gentler hue. The traffic thinned along with the density of housing and the green of grass replaced the brown of brick.

Chris drove the car down the M8 towards Gourock, where we would catch a ferry at MacInroy’s Point. He focused on the road ahead, saying nothing.

After our blow-up he’d moved into a nearby hotel – a Hilton – using his ex-girlfriend’s credit card. Then, a week later he’d got in touch via Facebook messenger:

Still playing private detective?

This was typical of our interactions after any arguments. Behaving as if nothing had happened was all but in our DNA.

What are you on about? I began to reply, but then deleted it before I could press send. If he was reaching out, I could at least sound more friendly.

Still looking for clues as to what happened to Thomas, yes, was the best I could manage.

I finally put that journalism degree to good use, he replied within moments. Fancy a wee trip doon the watter? – something Glasgow holiday-makers would say when venturing down the Clyde coast on high days and holidays.

He explained what he had planned and we arranged a time and date. And here we were, our previous row unmentioned, but not forgotten, like a pot placed on a quiet simmer.

‘Nice car,’ I said as part of my attempt to show that I was the bigger man. This elicited a hint of a smile.

Chris patted the wheel of the BMW he’d rented for the occasion. ‘I reckon I have another few weeks of credit-card use before the ex freezes it.’ He laughed and shot me a cheeky smile. I couldn’t help but respond with laughter of my own, and felt a thawing.

We settled into a more friendly silence as we both watched the scenery go past.

‘Do you not remember anything about Thomas?’ Chris asked at last. ‘It still all feels surreal to me.’

‘Nothing,’ I replied instantly. ‘Even when I look at that photo of us down at the beach there’s nothing there. It’s as if that infant isn’t me.’

‘Do you recall Mum and Dad ever talking about him?’ he asked.

‘Never.’ I trawled my memory. ‘There were a few conversations that were shut down when I entered the room…’

‘Yeah, me too, but that could have been about anything.’

‘Knowing this, how do you feel about them?’ I asked.

He took his eyes off the road and stared into mine for a moment. ‘I’m furious. Aren’t you?’

When I went to where my feelings about my parents should reside there was a whole stew of emotions – anger being just one. ‘Of course I am. How could they think this was protecting us? What on earth from?’

‘Exactly,’ Chris replied. ‘They were protecting themselves from their own memories. It had bugger all to do with us.’

I nodded in agreement, feeling relief that in our shared frustration with regards to our parents, Chris and I had something to build our relationship on, even though that was not the most solid of foundations.

‘Did Dad ever belt you?’ I asked, recalling the dream that had now visited me on several disturbed nights.

‘Of course he did. Do you think he stopped at you?’

‘Yeah, right enough, that was a stupid question.’

‘Man, did they fuck us up,’ Chris said with a harsh laugh.

My mind pushed an image of my father at me. I’d dropped something. An ornament. He loomed over me, his face dark with fury, and his fists so tight his knuckles were pale. Beyond him Chris was cowering in a corner of the sofa, his eyes on anything but me, as if keeping his own eyes diverted would mean no one could see him.

We waited in the line of cars for the ferry and soon we were being ushered on board by one of the crew.

‘The sailing takes twenty to twenty-five minutes, apparently,’ Chris said. ‘So just relax and enjoy the view.’

Across the wide body of the Firth of Clyde lay a spread of mountains and glens. The opposite coastline was punctuated with buildings, which I followed with my eye until I could see a concentration of them: Dunoon.

‘Quite a view isn’t it?’ said Chris.

‘Aye,’ I answered. ‘And only an hour from the heart of the city … it’s like a different world.’ I heard myself say the words and my toes all but curled – I was talking to him as if conversing with a stranger.

The ferry began its glide into the middle of the channel and from there slowly navigated its way across to the far shore.

We were on our way to meet a man called Tom Coulson. Dusting off his old journalist’s skills, Chris had found an article about Benny Marinello in a business magazine online. The article was discussing the value of mentors to young business people. According to the writer, Coulson started with the old man, then went out on his own and became extremely successful. He credited Benny with giving him valuable advice to help get him on his way.

‘Here…’ Chris reached into the side pocket of the car door and pulled out a folder. He handed it to me.

The article was overwritten and full of corporate jargon and success cliché. What did intrigue me was the photograph used to illustrate the piece. Two men in dinner suits and bow ties wore fixed smiles while shaking hands and staring at the camera. The look on Marinello’s face suggested that all was not well. He looked as if the moment Coulson let his hand go he was going to douse it with an anti-bacterial spray.

Too soon, with a lurch we drew into the quay and cars began to drive off. Chris drove to the end of the quayside, took a right and took us along the loch side. I kept my eyes on the view, wondering why I hadn’t visited this part of the world before now.

We left the main road and were soon on a single track that dipped and rose and turned for what seemed like miles and miles.

Eventually there was a small loch on our left, visible through a row of conifers, a lone yacht berthed on its calm waters, begging to be photographed. Soon, a signpost snagged my attention. Ormidale, and we began to climb. We reached the top of the hill and as the scene unfolded before me, I ran out of adjectives.

‘Wow,’ I managed.

‘Aye. No bad,’ Chris said with classic Scottish understatement.

The hills, clothed in every hue of green and brown imaginable, sloped down to the sea. We were high above it and could see small islands dotted about the coastline, and just beyond them a ferry plied its trade. The tiny islands, Chris informed me, were known as the Burnt Islands, the remains of an old land bridge that led to the Isle of Bute.

We drove the rest of the way in silence as Chris negotiated the winding single-track road, a couple of sheep sparing us a glance as they nibbled the greener shoots nearby. The road then began to wind its way down the hill, becoming a double track and then again, a single track. The road then took a wide bend and we were at a T-junction. Chris turned to the left and several hundred yards along the road he pulled over, in front of a small white bungalow. A wooden gate led onto a long drive, bordered by a row of rose trees and a neatly manicured lawn.

A white, Nissan Qashqui with a fairly recent number plate sat in the drive.

‘He’s at home, then.’ I said.

‘Let me do the talking,’ Chris said as we walked up the path. ‘And keep a close eye on how he reacts to you.’

As we reached the front door it opened and a genial face peered out at us.

‘Mr Coulson? asked Chris.

‘Aye.’ He peered over the top of a pair of dark-framed spectacles.

‘Wondered if we might have a word?’

‘About?’ he asked as he studied me.

‘You worked for the Marinellos way back?’ Chris asked.

‘That I did,’ Mr Coulson stated, furrowing his brow. ‘And?’

‘We’re sorry to bother you,’ Chris said. ‘This is going to sound strange, but we’re desperate. You see, our brother disappeared around the time the Shows were in Glasgow, almost thirty years ago. We’re trying to trace his last movements.’ As he said this last sentence he dug his hands into his pockets, as if suddenly feeling that this was a colossal waste of time. I realised Chris was hamming it up, and I focussed on Coulson to see how he reacted.

He raised his eyebrows, but there was sympathy in his tone when he spoke. ‘That was a long time ago, lads, so I doubt I can help. But I’m happy to talk with you, see if my poor little brain cells can come up with something.’ He stepped to the side. ‘And let’s not stand out here where all the neighbours will be thinking I’m an unwelcoming host. In you come.’

As I stepped into the small porch I took the opportunity to look the man over. He was of average height, and appeared to be in his mid-sixties. His hair was a mop of unruly silver and his complexion weather-beaten and relatively unlined.

‘Go into the sitting room on your right there and I’ll go and put the kettle on.’ I tried to work out the different notes of his accent. London or Essex? He took our drinks orders and left the room.

The front wall had a huge window that offered a panoramic view onto the Kyles and over to the Isle of Bute. Another two were lined with walnut bookcases, adorned with family photographs and paintings of wildlife.

Our host arrived shortly with two mugs of coffee. He handed us one each. We all sat. Then as we sipped, Tom moved his eyes back and forth between us. Each time I met his gaze, he moved his eyes away. Was there a look of recognition there?

‘We’re trying to find out what happened to some of the old Marinello workers. See if anyone remembers anything,’ Chris said.

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the photo of me and Thomas.

‘Our brother went missing when I was just a toddler,’ I began, then explained how I’d found out about him. ‘Dad went to his grave knowing nothing about what happened to his son; and before Mum goes it would be nice to put this to rest for her.’ I explained about the connection we’d come up with – around the funfair, but only so far as it pertained to Thomas. I was worried that mentioning the other boys might make him defensive.

Tom studied the photo as I talked, and when I stopped the room fell into silence. ‘You’re the little one here, right?’ he asked me eventually.

I nodded.

Tom put his mug down on a coaster, ran his fingers through his hair then let out a long sigh. ‘Let me digest this a little.’ He studied us both before continuing. ‘You came to see me in case me or any of the team at Marinello’s ever came across a boy who may or may not have been abducted and killed by someone who may or may not have worked with us at Marinello’s thirty years ago?’ Tom asked, his tone incredulous. ‘Guys, I can’t remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, let alone what shady characters hung around the Shows.’

I changed the subject, trying to win the older man’s confidence. ‘You have a beautiful home here, Tom. How did you get from that kind of work to a small village in the west coast of Scotland?’

Tom narrowed his eyes as he looked at me before answering, as if he was trying to decide if there was an angle to the question.

‘What, you’re thinking this house must be worth a few bob, so how could someone from my background afford it?’ The man may have been smiling but there was needle in his tone; it made me wonder why he was being so defensive.

‘No slight intended, Tom,’ Chris said, shooting me a look that said if that’s the best you can do, let me do the talking. ‘You’ve done well for yourself. This is lovely.’ He nodded in appreciation. ‘It’s nice when people realise their dreams. Good for you.’

Tom sat back in his chair, appearing a little mollified. ‘The old man brought me fishing up here when I was a kid.’ He looked out of the panoramic window. ‘You don’t get much of that in Manchester, and I fell in love with it at first sight. Promised myself I’d retire up here, and I made that happen,’ he finished with a satisfied nod.

Manchester? I was no expert in accents but even to my ears, despite the odd Scottish note, he sounded as if he came from much further south.

‘Your dad would be proud of you,’ Chris said.

‘My father was an arse. He disowned me when I wouldn’t go into the family business. So I ran away. Got a few labouring jobs here and there, and somehow, I can’t remember quite how, Mr Marinello saw me, liked what he saw and gave me a job.’ He paused as if memories were rising up inside him. ‘That was a hard life – long hours – but I loved it. I’d found my people, you know?’ He looked down at the cakes, as if debating whether or not he should have one. He picked one up and pointed it at us. ‘That’s what life is all about, boys … people and the relationships you have with them.’ He bit down on the sponge and then, mid-chew, continued to speak. ‘You do that when you get older, don’t you? Lecture people. It’s on the continuum with walking into a room and forgetting why you’re there.’

Chris and I both made agreeing noises.

‘You know, I should write a book about my life. Would be much more interesting than some of the celebrity crap we get served with … Anyway, father never spoke to me again. Mother kept in touch, though. When the old man died, he left his run-down shop to me, and it was in such a mess that it felt like a punishment from the grave. But I decided to show the old bastard. I left the Marinellos, built up the business using the lessons I’d learned there, and sold it five years ago for two million pounds. And that’ – he looked at me – ‘was how I managed to end up here.’

‘That’s quite a story,’ I said.

‘Yep, it is, and I couldn’t have done it without my Jane. Just a shame she didn’t get to enjoy it.’ He looked off into the distance as if he was fighting back his emotions.

‘You should definitely write that book,’ I said, sensing that the atmosphere had chilled a little again. ‘Would be a bestseller.’

‘You know, I might just do that, lad.’ He leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands over his belly, as if he had made his point, whatever that was. ‘Might teach you young ’uns a thing or three.’

‘And when you write your book, what characters from your days at the Marinello Fair will make it into the story?’ I asked, and caught a look out of the side of my eye as Chris reacted to my unsubtle question.

‘I’d be here all day if I began to tell you about the folk I met,’ he said, his eyes cool on mine. ‘I met all sorts while I worked there – good people, great people, lazy people, stupid people, bad people, but I can assure you I didn’t meet anyone who would abduct and murder a child.’

Rain lashed the car as we set off back towards the ferry terminal at Hunter’s Quay. It was still early but the clouds had darkened the sky to the extent that Chris had to switch on the headlights.

‘Notice that there were no photos of Jane anywhere?’ Chris asked, as he performed a U-turn to get us back in the right direction for the road out of the village.

I looked over my shoulder at the house to see Tom Coulson standing at his door, like a sentinel, both hands behind his back. ‘Man, I could do with a drink.’

Chris snorted. ‘Keep your mind on the job, Docherty.’ He stopped speaking while he negotiated a junction. ‘I’m not buying the ditsy old-man thing…’ He made a face. ‘“It’s on the continuum with walking into a room and forgetting why you’re there.” He’s hiding something.’

I laughed. ‘Yeah, that made him sound like a bit of a wanker. You were watching him while we talked, did you get the impression he recognised me or Thomas?’

‘I don’t think he knew you from Adam.’