59 Minutes (18 page)

‘My good wine, you bastard.’

I woke up to Martin shaking me. I looked at
the clock. It was gone
two
o’clock
.

‘Sorry but I thought I had cracked this
bloody code.’

I showed him the first sheet. He smiled or
rather his lips moved up at the edges - it could have been a sneer but I was in
alcohol fuzz mode.

He picked up the second sheet and I handed
him my first attempt at decoding it. He looked at for a few seconds and then
bent down. He placed the decoded sheet on the table, and spread it out trying
to even out the creases and folds. He picked up a pen and circled the last five
letters on it.

Ryder

We were left with.

compte13214alacontrasenya

‘And?’ I said.

‘Give me a minute.’

He took the sheet over to the computer and
typed the whole line into Google. I followed him over and watched as the screen
came up with:

Your search - compte13214alacontrasenya - did not match
any documents.

He laid the sheet next to the computer and
doodled for a second before putting a ring around the letters ‘compte’, another
ring round ‘13214’ and a final ring around ‘alacontrasenya’

He pumped ‘compte’ into Google. It produced
a few hits - mostly to do with French. Martin brought up a French/English on
line dictionary. He inputted the word and the translator spat out ‘count’ or
‘amount’.

‘French?’ I said.

He ignored me. He entered the word Catalan
and English in the Google box and got a site that translated ‘compte’ as
‘account’. He put in ‘alacontrasenya’ into the site. It came up blank. He
started to chew the pen and then entered ‘a la contrasenya’. It blanked. He
entered just ‘contrasenya’ and the site threw up ‘password’.

He grabbed a new sheet and wrote:

Account - 13214 (a) (ala)

Password - ryder.

‘Ta da. I think this is the account number
and the password for the bank you found. I can’t be sure of the account number because
the ‘a’ and the ‘la’ may be part of the word ‘contrasenya’ or they may not.’

‘How the hell did you get to Catalan?’

‘
Mallorca
is connected
in some way to Catalan - or something - I’m no expert. The first word was in
French but Catalan and French have links and given the bank was in
Mallorca
I gave it a go. Amazing what you can do on the
internet.’

‘Clever,’ I said, ‘But the address for the Colonya
Caixa de Pollenca in Inca is at number 9, not number
5 Alcudia Ave
?

So there we finished and I wasn’t sure how
much closer to revenge on Dupree I was. We had a photo of four men - two of
whom we knew. A connection to an old
Glasgow
criminal. An
account number and password for a bank in
Spain
(maybe). And what?

It was too late for the hostel so I blagged
the couch in Martin’s room and fell asleep in seconds.

It’s strange how some things work out. I
spent yesterday running over the evening at Martin’s. The highs and lows of working
through the puzzle. The resolution that turns out not to be a resolution but
yet another puzzle.  

I jumped a bus into the city centre and
went for a walk, mindful that whoever was after me might know where I now lived
and could be following. I kept to the busy parts of town and looked over my
shoulder so often I must have looked like some day release patient from the
local nut-shop pretending to be a spy on a secret mission.

In between the looks over my shoulder I ran
through my head what I knew and decided it was nowhere near enough to make a
decision on what to do next.

If Dupree’s demise lay buried in the photos
or hidden in the bank account, then better people than myself and Martin were
needed. Such people exist and I may have been locked up for fourteen years but
my network of contacts has not faded to the point where it is useless. Some of
them are dead and some have moved on but there are enough around that could
help if I wanted to raise my head above the parapet and call on them.

But therein lies the problem. I haven’t
contacted anyone because I want to keep my profile low - very low.

As I walked by the HMV record shop on
Argyle St I caught the sound of The Beloved as they threw out the invitation to
Lose Yourself In Me. Strange to hear a nineties band blaring out - maybe it was
greatest hits season - although post Christmas seemed an odd time if it was.

I like The Beloved - chilled music before
the term chilled was hijacked by the dance brigade as post drug come down
music. Jon Marsh’s voice always sounded the way I thought people would who only
ever breathed out and I mouthed the words - probably adding to the lunatic
cover I was building - mouthing, shoulder looks and the dress sense of Wurzel Gummidge
- I was your friendly neighborhood fruit bat.

I was a yard past the front door to the
store when it hit me. Lose Yourself In Me. It was exactly what I was doing to
myself. I’d swapped one prison for another. One with physical bars for one with
mental bars. I was free to wander the streets but I had no money, little human
contact and soon no roof over my head.

I could see myself down on the river front,
lying under the bridge with the other down and outs. I could taste the meths,
smell the shit, feel the concrete under my bum. Ice cold in winter - stinking
hot in the summer. I could see the spot in
Buchanan St
where I would squat down and hold out cupped hands waiting for someone
to drop ten pence or spit on me.

I stopped walking and listened to the
music. What was I doing? I‘d once had a hell of a life and the balls to hold
onto it. I was a millionaire. Ok a bent millionaire but I had the cash, the
status and, best of all, a future and now I was shuffling around
Glasgow
in rags. Next I’d start thinking about how long
before death makes this all go away.

I focused my thoughts on Dupree and what
the bastard had done to me. What was the down side of going after him? What in
the hell was he going to do to me that I wasn’t already doing to myself? Kill
me. So what! Do nothing and I’d be dead in a year.

I turned and walked into the store and the
security guard approached me.

‘Can I help sir?’

I felt my shoulders drop as I started to
turn to leave and then I stopped. I turned back and looked him in the eye. I
had a couple of inches in height on him but he had a couple of tons of muscle
that I would never see.

I did a Michael J Fox and flipped back in
time. I dug out a part of me that had been locked away for a long time. I
pulled up, from the depths, the way I used to think when someone fronted me up and
dropped all the feeling from my eyes. I tipped my head to one side and balled
up a fist. I rocked forward on the soles of my feet and closed the distance
between me and the security guard. My breath was probably killing him. I lifted
my balled up hand and stretched out a finger - touching him lightly on the
shoulder.

‘Going to have a look for some CD’s. Is
that a fucking problem?’

I saw the fear sprint over his face. I knew
the look of old. I lifted my finger higher and touched him on the nose.

‘Is it?’

I dropped my hand and walked into the shop.
I knew he wouldn’t shout. It felt good. A long way from being back on track but
it felt good.

Maybe I’m not dead.

At least not dead yet.

I have moved out of the hostel and in with Martin. I
gave him no choice but to be fair he didn’t give me any grief. I’m sitting here
in a fresh pair of jeans, a Teetonic t-shirt, a pair of Timberland boots and a
clean set of teeth. My hair is crew cut and the beard is gone. I have three
hundred pounds sterling on my hip and access to a car. All courtesy of Martin’s
generous nature and the fact that I said I’ll pay him back in less than a
month.

I’ve yet to pull myself back into my old world but I
know I will. I just need to do it with speed and purpose that suit the moment.

I haven’t seen the goon patrol for a while but I can’t
believe that they would give in that easy. They’ll be back but I don’t give a
monkey’s at the moment. I have a plan of action. Not the best plan on the
planet but any plan is better than no plan. It is built around three questions:

1) Who are all the people in the photos?

2) What is behind the bank account details?

3) Can I sink Dupree?

It’s that simple. In true tit over arse fashion I’m starting
with question 2 and I’m paying a visit to Charlie Wiggs on Monday.

Charlie was my last proper accountant. The man who
manfully arranged my annual finances to make the Inland Revenue smile. Charlie
was never on the inside track of what I did but he wasn’t stupid enough to
believe that my only source of income came from my ‘consultancy’ work - but hey
in the eighties consultancy was the buzzword and it covered a multitude of
sins.

I took me a while to track him down. He had moved on
and now worked for a crowd called Cheedle, Baker and Nudge located in a forty
storey monstrosity called
Tyler
Tower
on West George St. Charlie lives on the twentieth
floor and when I finally appeared at the reception I was met by a man with a
walking stick.

‘Charlie Wiggs. As I live and breathe,’ I said.

‘Shite.’

It’s nice to know you’re loved. Charlie had been busy.
It transpires that he had become a bit of a celeb after nearly dying in
George Square
during a sting to catch an old friend of mine. When I say friend I really mean
arsehole.

I got the full SP on the events surrounding his rise
to sainthood and was impressed to find that Charlie had, along with a couple of
friends, brought down a whole gang of criminals. In the process both his legs
had been stabbed and the walking stick was the last crutch on the way back to
full fitness.

It sounded like a hell of a story but I wasn’t in the
mood for a Jackanory moment and had told him what I wanted. He questioned me
and I had to tell him more than I wanted to, but I needed the info. He told me
to leave the bank details and come back Monday. I told him what would happen if
word got out about our meeting and he took it on board.

Roll on Monday.

I didn’t get back until late last night so,
coffee in hand and staring at Martin’s tiny back garden, I’m dictating in a
pair of boxers and nothing else. Martin is away to work and like the dutiful
partner I have a list of chores that are expected of me before he returns. The
list is sitting next to me, staring up, willing me to do nothing.

Charlie turned out to be a small gold mine
of information. I had expected a brief chat on the vagaries of the Spanish
banking system and some insight into how I might access the account. Instead
Charlie gave me War and Peace.

‘Ok,’ he started. ‘Let’s go with the simple
stuff first.’

We were sitting in a Costa coffee near
Charlie’s office. A soup bowl of double shot latte sat in front of him and I
nursed a water - Martin’s supply of good drink had all been exhausted by me the
night before.

‘The bank you gave me the details on is a
well established, well respected member of the financial community.
The Colonya Caixa de Pollenca has been around in one
form or another since 1880. It was a single office for sixty years and only
opened its first branch outside
Mallorca
in 2000. Even now the majority of the branches are in
Mallorca
but they now service all the
Balearic
Islands
and also have presence in
Barcelona
.’

I’d forgotten what a briefing from Charlie was like.
Martin used to call him University Charlie.

‘They seem to be a modern and dynamic bank. Small but
efficient and well established in the area. I phoned a friend of mine who has a
flat in Puerta De Pollenca and he uses them for his Spanish account.’

I hadn’t wanted Charlie to start phoning his mates but
then again I hadn’t told him not to.

‘He rates them. I asked about the account system and
it’s fairly well a standard affair. They offer a range of accounts and they are
all well protected. As such the information you have is next to useless.’

That got my attention.

‘Useless?’ I said. ‘We have an account number and a
password.’

‘Fine as far as it goes. But they don’t refer to any
traditional account. I asked my friend and the account number is wrong. On top of
this the only area he has a password for is the internet account he holds with
them. It’s called Colonya Directa but it needs a user name and password.
Without the user name we are stuffed.’