‘Well like I said it was before my time, but I do remember when I took over from the last manager that there’d been some refurbishments around that time. If Joe was capable, they might have given him the chance to do that – created some kind of training programme maybe? Again, I can ask around. I know we had some partnerships back then, with various businesses, and we recommended people we thought suitable. It sounds like Joe might have fallen into that category instead?’
I nod encouragingly, and add: ‘We also have some photos. Would it be possible to show them to the man you mentioned? Just to see if he does remember him?’
‘That should be fine. He’s here now. I would ask you not to give him money, though, if you don’t mind – it’ll result in a mad dash to the off-licence and an all-night rendition of “Oh My Darling Clementine”. And I really can’t take another all-night rendition of “Oh My Darling Clementine”.’
We follow Ewan out into the hallway, where there is a mish-mash of noise: music of several different styles with competing basslines, laughter, shouts, footsteps. It all seems bizarrely festive.
I grab the wodge of pictures from my bag, and put the most recent one near the top. Belinda’s last shots of Joe had been taken during his birthday drinks at the pub in 2004. He’s singing into a pool cue – a very bad version of ‘Wonderwall’, she says. He’s surrounded by his pals, apparently his backing singers.
Geraldine has added some to the stockpile, and these are more interesting, to me at least. These show Joe a bit older, a bit more mature. He’s usually wearing his work gear, sometimes jeans and a hoodie, captured in a moment that I never shared with him. He’s smiling, but still looks sad. I stroke his face absently as we make our way to a communal dining hall that smells of toast and jam.
The man we’ve come to talk to is called Big Steve. He’s about five foot tall and built like a sparrow on hunger strike. His head is dominated by a wild grey tangle of hair and beard that reveals very little of his face other than shining blue eyes. He could be anything between forty and eighty.
Ewan introduces us, and in response Big Steve shows us his fungal nail infection. I see Michael’s look of horror, and stifle a laugh. I don’t think we’re going to get much sense from Big Steve.
He takes a photo from my hands – one of Joe drinking a mug of tea on the steps of the caravan – and stares at it, gnashing his teeth.
‘Don’t know, love. Have you got any others?’
I pass him the one from the pub, and he stares again. I hold my breath, until he says: ‘Not really sure. A drink might jog my memory?’
He looks up hopefully, and Ewan steps in to defuse the situation, explaining to Big Steve that he should know the rules by now.
‘Can’t blame a bloke for trying …’ he mutters, looking at the picture again.
‘It might be him, missus, but I can’t say for definite. Long time ago. There was a lad here, thought maybe he was Irish, or Scottish, or summat like that. Maybe just northern, but definitely not from round here. Dab hand with the tools. I had a trolley at the time, cost me a whole pound from Tesco it did. Wheels weren’t right. The lad I remember fixed it for me, put some of that WD40 on and everything. Best trolley around, that was. Lost it one night on a date with Jane Fonda.’
He winks at me, and adds: ‘She was quite a goer, that one, but I think she was only after me for my money.’
We thank him for his help, and I am swamped with disappointment as we say our goodbyes. Just as we reach the door, under the watchful eye of the residents, Big Steve shouts out: ‘He always had bananas! And big juicy oranges!’
It seems like a random comment, but it sparks a look on Ewan’s face that might be indicative of a lightbulb moment.
‘What is it?’ I say. ‘Have you thought of something?’
‘Maybe,’ he says, rubbing his chin. ‘Maybe … one of the businesses we worked with back then, I do remember, was a fruit and veg merchant. They did deliveries to the markets. I can’t recall their name, it had all stopped by the time I took over … something and Sons. Something Irish and sons.’
He strains his memory for a few moments longer, then shakes his head in disgust.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, sadly. ‘It’s not going to come back to me. I can ask around and see if anyone else knows, if you leave me your number.’
I write it down for him at reception, and hand him a small clump of notes from my purse. There’s not a lot, less than £50, but I tell him to put it in their donation box. He doesn’t argue, the place obviously needs the money, and he asks me to check in on their website when I have time, where I can apparently find out all about Gift Aid and legacies.
Outside, the balmy summer’s evening is cooling, and the smell of kebab shops and an Indian restaurant and bus fumes envelops us. The thrumming beat of dance music booms from a car stuck in a snarl of traffic, and a flock of scraggy-feathered pigeons fights over an abandoned sausage roll. We’re definitely not in Cornwall any more.
‘Jane Fonda,’ says Michael, screwing his eyes up. ‘Who on earth is that?’
Belinda pulls a ‘give me strength’ face, and strides off to the car.
‘Come on,’ she says, over her shoulder. ‘We’re going. I couldn’t face another night in a hotel, so we’re staying at Andrew’s.’
Chapter 24
Andrew, it turns out, is Malachi’s dad. He lives in an incredibly neat Georgian terraced house near Baker Street, the bright red front door partially obscured by hanging baskets of flowers in full bloom.
The road is quiet and mainly residential, with a patisserie on one corner and the tiniest parking spots imaginable lining the houses. If you take away the cars, it’s not hard to imagine Sherlock and Dr Watson prowling these parts.
Andrew himself is a medium man. He’s medium height, medium build, with medium brown hair at a medium length. It’s only when he smiles that he changes, becoming altogether more handsome, radiating warmth and reassurance. I can imagine that he would be a great doctor – exactly the right combination of capability and sympathy.
He welcomes us all, giving Belinda a hug, and pours us wine while we settle in. In the living room at the front of the house, all high ceilings and tasteful decor, I admire the framed photos of Mal. When I last saw him, he was just a baby. Now, he’s a young man, tall and gangly and grinning.
‘Have you heard from him recently?’ Belinda asks Andrew, not needing to say who she’s talking about.
‘Yesterday,’ he replies, handing her the wine and clinking his glass against hers. ‘He’d drunk a bottle of Coke and found a slug at the bottom.’
Belinda bursts out laughing, then smiles with an evil glint in her eyes.
‘Serves him right for wanting to save the planet,’ she says. ‘He sent me a photo of himself with some of the kids in the orphanage, and what looked like several thousand dogs. I wouldn’t be surprised if he smuggles them all home in his suitcase. If he ever comes home.’
‘He will,’ replies Andrew, reassuringly. ‘He’ll need his washing doing.’
They continue in this vein for some time, their casual banter comfortable and amusing, Michael watching them bat the conversational ball backwards and forwards in interest. He raises his eyebrows at me, and I smile.