by Gordon Brown
Mrs Cline wasn’t stupid and the story sounded weak and probably sounded even weaker from her end of the phone. Martin tap danced for a few minutes and said he would be happy to send her the key and, next time she was in Glasgow, she could open the box and send the photos onto him. This tipped the balance. Mrs Cline was in her late eighties and a trip to Glasgow to open the box of her long dead son was not one she wanted to take.
She asked what she needed to do and Martin gave her the Credit Union number and told her he would phone back and asked her to release the box in his name. If they needed it in writing then could she send the letter to the Credit Union and he would go along sometime next week.
Martin phoned back an hour later and I heard him thank her for transferring the box.
Martin drove to the Credit Union and I rode side saddle. He was inside for less than ten minutes and returned to the car with an envelope. He handed it to me as he got in and I fingered it. He pulled out of the mall car park and slipped into the late afternoon traffic.
The envelope was standard size but it was bulked out and the mouth was sealed with tape that had yellowed with age. There was enough of a seal to let me know that no one had opened it in a long time.
I ran my finger along the opening and pulled away the tape, tipping the contents onto my lap and Martin glanced over. There was a single sheet of folded typed paper, an old four inch floppy disc and a smaller envelope. I opened the smaller envelope and a bunch of Polaroid photos tumbled out. I held one up and, although faded with age, the darkness of the envelope had saved them for disappearing altogether.
The photo showed four men sitting at a table, drinks in front of them. They could easily have been abroad as the table had the ubiquitous Coca Cola parasol above it and two of the men were wearing sunglasses.
I recognised Dupree but not the other three — although there was something familiar about two of them. I flicked through the other photos and they were all of the same scene save one that showed the four men leaving a building. Dupree was at the back and the other three were out front. Dupree was looking to the left and two of the other men were looking to the right. The last man was looking at something in the foreground.
All four were dressed like the hit squad from Reservoir Dogs. If they had wanted to draw attention to themselves they were making a good job of it. There was no date on the photos but with Spencer dead twelve years then they were at least from that far back.
I opened up the paper to find it contained nine numbers typed neatly in the centre followed by four stars.
13,5,79,111,315,1,71,921,2,
The numbers meant nothing to me. I picked up the floppy disc but the label was blank.
‘Well?’ said Martin
‘I have no idea. There are some pictures of Dupree with some friends. A floppy disc that probably pre dates Microsoft and a letter with some numbers on it.’
‘Who are the friends?’
‘I’ve no idea although there is something familiar about two of them but nothing I can put my finger on at the moment.’
‘Maybe the disc has some more info.’
‘Maybe.’
We drove back to Martin’s in silence and I flicked through the photos but the two faces that seemed familiar kept on their mask of anonymity.
We arrived at the house as the sun gave in for another day and I lifted myself from his car with effort.
Once inside, Martin cracked another bottle of Highland Park and poured. I knew there were fewer bottles in the cupboard than he was letting on to but I still accepted the liquid with barely a nod.
We dropped the photos on the coffee table and Martin grabbed the typed sheet. I sipped on the malt and lifted up the photo of the four leaving the building.
I squinted in the artificial cottage light and reached behind me and pulled a Pixar angle poise lamp a little closer. I was no longer interested in the four men in the picture — the building behind was now the focus of my attention. I threw the photo to Marin.
‘What does the plaque to the left of Dupree say?’
Martin looked at the photo and then pulled the lamp towards him.
‘Not sure. Caixa maybe? What the hell does Caixa mean?’
‘Ever been to Spain?’
‘A couple of times. Lads’ holidays mostly.’
I took another slug of the Highland cream.
‘Well I owned a place out there and Caixa is well familiar.’
Martin looked at me.
‘Bank, my dear friend. It means bank. Now look a little closer.’
Martin pulled the photo up until it sat a few inches from his nose.
‘ Col, col — can’t read it but it looks like Col something — Col. Caixo.’
‘ Colonya Caixa,’ I said. ‘Our esteemed friend has some interest in the Spanish banking system.’
I drained the glass and let the fluid take its course. Smooth, balanced — with a rich full flavour and a gentle smokey finish — well that’s what I was told once by a whisky nut — it warmed my stomach.
‘I’ve no idea what the photo means but Spencer didn’t leave this stuff for the hell of it. If I know anything of the devious prick, he has handed us Dupree on a plate. Trouble is I don’t know what restaurant the plate belongs to.’
It was time for home. I asked Martin to call a taxi and then to add insult to injury asked him for the fare.
Hey life’s a bitch.
Chapter 36
Monday February 4 th 2008
Martin came round today. I’d had a bad weekend and, to be fair, he wasn’t an unpleasant sight. I had spent most of Saturday and all of Sunday going back over the photos and the letters.
I asked the computer geek if he had access to an old floppy drive and he told me that a friend still had a steam powered computer and laughed. I kicked him in the ankle and he went off to sulk.
I tried the libraries but floppy discs are long since gone and on Sunday night I was back talking to the geek about his friend. He said if I gave him the disc he would print off what was on it. I told him to take a running jump. After a bit of negotiation we are going to see the geek’s friend tonight.
The photos must have some significance but not knowing the faces other than Dupree makes them frustrating. I’m sure I’ve seen two of the others before but it won’t come back. The fact that the photos are probably taken in Spain doesn’t help or hinder.
I had a place in Spain. Note the word had. It lay just south of Malaga on the Costa Del Sol. When I bought the thing it was one of four in a block built by a local builder. Swimming pool to the front and a good quarter of a mile of scrubland between the houses and the beach.
I have no idea what the area looks like now but even on my last visit, and that goes back fifteen odd years, the place had changed beyond recognition.
The scrubland was gone — replaced with acre after acre of villas and apartments. To the rear a new development stretched to the main road a mile back and the front, which had been a wild beach when I first moved in, was now a parade with the usual array of restaurants, shops and other nonsense.
The bank in the photo rings no bells. I used a UK bank with a branch in Malaga when I was in Spain.
Martin sat on the front step of the hostel with me and pulled out a quarter bottle of Bells. I pushed it back into his pocket, stood up and told him to follow me. We walked round the hostel and up towards the Necropolis and I pointed to a bench that was overhung by an old oak tree.
‘House rules,’ I said. ‘No drink in or near the hostel. If you are caught you get a warning. Next time you’re out.’
Martin laughed.
‘You are kidding. Most of the guys in there must be a bottle down by lunch time. Do they not see the irony?’
‘Of course but rules are rules and if you want a bed you stick by them. Also booze in the hostel is a shit idea. Fights break out. You’d be amazed what some of the guys will do to get their hands on a bottle of juice.’
Martin shrugged and passed the bottl
e over to me. It wasn’t malt but it would do.
‘Any joy with the photos or the disc?’
I told him about the planned visit to the geek’s friend and he asked if he could tag along. I couldn’t see why not.
‘I’ve a thought on the photos,’ he said. ‘When you went down I spent a few weeks in London before bailing out. Dupree ignored me. We had a deal and as far as he was concerned I either stuck to it or I was dead. However, on a couple of occasions, one of Dupree’s lads paid me a visit. Usually to pick my brains over some bit of business or other. One of the visitors was a young Spanish lad. I can’t remember his name but he was an eager beaver. Let me see the photos?’
I pulled them out and he stared at them.
‘Look. The photo at the bank. There’s Dupree at the back and you reckon you might know who the guy to the left and the guy to the right are? It’s hard to tell but the guy in the front looks Spanish to me.’
‘Your lad?’
‘Could be. He’s younger than the other three by a fair number of years and the sunglasses don’t help.’
‘And?’
‘Well the eager beaver let drop that his dad was something big in Spain. An ex pat who had fled in the seventies. He married a local and then came the eager beaver.’
‘Who’s the ex pat?’
‘He never said but I tell you who went out in the seventies and married a local — Tommy Ryder.’
I stopped mid-swallow and coughed the liquid back up.
‘Ryder. Ryder’s involved with Dupree?’
‘I said I’m not sure. I never really bothered back then. I had a lot on my mind but there was something familiar about the young Spanish lad, I just never put two and two together until the photos appeared.’
‘Ryder,’ I said. ‘That would make a fuck load of sense.’
Tommy Ryder had been one of the No Mean City crew in Glasgow during the sixties. A bastard and, as I found out, the guy behind ‘the Nose’s’ early demise.
He had played hard and won hard right into the seventies and then, when everything got that much more complicated, he jumped ship to Spain. Over the years his name came up, usually when something shit went down on my patch. He might have moved to Spain but he was still a mover in Glasgow.
I met him once. It was at the funeral of an old ex con called Si Parker. A con artist of the old school — a brilliant impersonator and right up to his dying days was still a great bet for many a role. If Si hadn’t been a con he would have been an actor.
It was risky for Ryder to come home but Si was up there as one of the guys that had taught a young Ryder all he knew. He flew in by private plane, went to the funeral and flew out. I wouldn’t even have known he was there if he hadn’t sidled up to me outside the church and shook my hand.
‘I hear you’re doing well? Nice to see some new talent on the block.’
The man doing the talking looked more like a tramp than a rich ex pat. He smelled bad as well. Thick beard, droopy eyes and a coat too warm for the time of year. Si would have been proud of the disguise. There were close on ten police in the crowd trying to spot Si’s old associates and Ryder walked out right under their noses.
‘So, if Ryder is tied up with Dupree what the hell is the point of the photos? It’s hardly going to make headline news that someone like Dupree has a tie up with a bastard like Ryder,’ I said.
‘True. So I’ll be guessing the bit that Spencer was interested in doesn’t lie with our Spanish boy. You said you thought you knew who the other two were so it’s over to you.’
I sipped at the bottle and stared at the photos but there was no magic light bulb. I flicked from photo to photo and then halted.
‘Ryder didn’t do the Malaga run, did he?’
In the seventies a lot of Brits ran for Spain — under Franco there was no extradition from Spain and a community had sprung up on the Costa Del Sol of some of the UK ’s most wanted.
Martin looked at me and grabbed the bottle for a swig.
‘Not Malaga — Majorca I heard.’
‘Off the beaten track as well,’ he added. ‘Not by the sea. I remember thinking it was an odd thing to do. Back then you could have had your pick of beauty spots for next to fuck all so why pick a place in the middle of nowhere?’
‘Maybe his Spanish lady wanted to be close to mum.’
‘I think I even know the town?’
‘What after thirty years?’
‘Yeah. After the funeral Si’s brother came up to say thanks for coming. He said that Ryder had offered him a job in Spain if he wanted to quit the rain and early closing hours. I asked if he was taking it and he said maybe. He reckoned it was Ryder’s way of saying thanks to Si.’
‘So where did he go?’
‘I know this sounds stupid but I’m sure he was off to Inca.’
‘What as in Peru, Machu Pichu and pan pipes?’
‘Same name but it was a village in the middle of Majorca — always stayed with me that name — don’t know why. I always thought I’d look it up if I was in Majorca but I never was.’
‘So the photos were taken in Majorca?’
‘ Mallorca if you want to be more accurate. Could be. Maybe even in Inca?’
‘What the hell would Dupree want with some out of the way town on Mallorca?’
‘No idea but it’s a start. I reckon the disc will tell us more.’
I took the bottle back from him and drained it.
Chapter 37
Tuesday February 5 ^th 2008
The geek’s friend is even more of a geek than the geek. I’ve seen less high tech computer gear on the bridge of the USS Enterprise. He lives in a flat in Shawlands on the south side of Glasgow.
Shawlands is where the south side of Glasgow tries to be the west end and fails. For my money I prefer the south — less pretentious. Being pretentious in Glasgow marks you out as an industrial strength prick and there are few more pretentious than some that live in the west end — of course there are a few exceptions to the rule and you don’t have to go far south in Glasgow to find the seriously deluded.
Let’s just say that Glasgow has a golden S that runs through it. From the north west to the south east. All the best areas can claim some place within the S. If you take the start and the finish of the S — you’ll not be far from the ‘fur coat and nae knickers’ brigade. I know I used to be a resident.
The geek’s flat was wall to wall with wires, boxes (plastic and pizza) and screens. He took the disc from me like it was a child’s nappy and sighed. The sigh seemed to indicate that such technology was beneath him but I assumed he had been informed by the geek of the pain that refusing to help might incur.
He wandered over to a corner of the room and after a suitably long period of groaning and moaning dragged out a disc drive and a computer with the words Tiny embossed in the side.
‘Nae point firing this sod up on a new machine. This is pre W 95. If my old Tiny still works she’ll read it fine.’
He plugged the box into the mains and spent ten minutes doing a wire thing. The machine took another ten minutes to crank itself into life. We weren’t offered coffee but given the geek’s friend was even less conscious of his personal hygiene than the geek I thought this a good thing.
At last the screen settled down and the geek’s friend pushed the disc into the drive.
‘The Tiny’s drive is screwed. I hope the bolt on works.’
It did and the first thing it came up with was a flashing icon and four stars.
‘It needs a password.’
I looked at him and he looked at me.
‘How hard can it be?’ I said.
‘Depends. If it is some crappy kid’s toy — no problem. But even in the nineties (he said nineties the way I would talk about my grandpa in the war) they could write a half decent protection protocol. We enter the wrong password and I’m in for a night or two of fun. It might just lock me out altogether.’
I pulled out the folded piece of paper and showed him the
numbers. His eyes lit up. Four stars on the paper and four stars on the screen.
13,5,79,111,315,1,71,921,2,****
‘Sad, man. Really sad.’
The geek’s friend typed in four numbers and the disc whirred and brought up a menu. I couldn’t help myself.
‘How did you figure the code so quick?’
The geek’s friend smiled. He took the numbers and said ‘Move the commas.’
He did so and 13,5,79,111,315,1,71,921,2,**** became 1,3,5,7,9,11,13,15,17,19,21,2****.
‘What do you think comes next?’
I could have kicked him but I’d wait until he got to the bottom of the disc’s innards before I took out his legs.
The contents of the disc turned out to be less revealing than I had hoped. There were two files on it, both of the Word variety. The geek’s friend’s computer ground away. Each document had one page and each page had a few characters typed in the middle. The printer whirred and it spat out both sheets.
Sheet one read: ATV9AXLPCIU4D8I3AT9RIPNLC4A903753Q0201
Sheet two was no less cryptic
C2O5M3PIT9EF1G3H211L4LAXLFATCOOONTTARCAPS9E4NDYYARR1Y4DFETR
I stared at both sheets.
‘What the fuck is that?’
I always did have a nice turn of phrase.
They both shrugged and I folded the papers and put them in my pocket. The geek’s friend passed me the disc and we were out of there.
I headed for Martin and his dwindling supply of Highland Park.
Chapter 38
Wednesday February 13 ^th 2008
I’m losing interest in the whole thing. Digital recordings, mystery letter from Spencer — even Martin’s lure has dwindled since he ran out of malt. I’ve spread the photos and the sheets of paper in front of me so often my neighbours think they are porn. I can’t make head nor tail of it and I’m beginning to wonder if it is worth the candle.
After all, crossing swords with Dupree earned me nothing but a locked door and bars on the windows for fourteen years. Even if I can figure out what Spencer had discovered, who is to say Dupree won’t just finish the job and have me done in. It’s certainly the advice that Martin has being doling out and it seems a far easier option than taking this nonsense any further. At least it did until last night.
