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.
Chapter 40
Saturday February 23 rd 2008
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.
Chapter 41
Tuesday February 26 th 2008
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.’
‘Look, if it is the account of the person I think it is we can guess the user name. I know a computer geek that would love this stuff.’
‘It’s not for me to throw cold water on your plans but even if you do guess the user name and the password matches there will be at least one other level of security — usually something like your favourite book or film — and whoever owns the account will have answered five or six such questions. If you get past the user name and password it will randomly throw one of the questions at you. Get it wrong too often and it kicks you out.’
I must have looked blank at this point.
‘Don’t you have an internet account?’
‘Charlie, I can hardly spell internet.’
‘Well even if the password is valid and you guess the user name and answer to the security question you are still gubbed because you don’t have a valid account number. It’s too short and no system will let you in without a valid account number or a customer number and you have neither.’
Talk about a bucket of sick being tipped on your breakfast.
‘So that’s that?’
Charlie smiled.
