59 Minutes (16 page)

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.

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 bottle 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.’