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 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
