‘Not necessarily. I did a bit of thinking. You say the account and password relate to the bank because of the photos?’
I nodded my head.
‘What if they don’t? What if the number and password refer to something else altogether?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well you said the number of the building on the avenue was wrong’
‘So.’
‘My friend asked me how many numbers were in the account number and he laughed. He told me it doesn’t sound like an account number — more like a security code.’
‘What kind of security code?’
‘He told me that a few years ago a Brit on the island got the idea to start up a little security business. Security guards, bouncers etc. Not unusual but this business is thriving. Four or five years ago the company branched out from its single office in the capital of the island — Palma and opened offices around the island. On top of local security services, the offices offer things like alarm fitting, security fixtures for the home and, wait for it, safety deposit boxes.’
‘My friend has one,’ he continued. ‘He says the process is simple. You take ID along to the local office. You sign in and then enter an account number followed by a password to get access to your box. He tells me that they are extremely popular with the Brits. Especially those keen to keep stuff in a secure place away from the prying eyes of a partner. The Spanish banks offer something similar but some Brits obviously have stuff that they would rather didn’t sit in a Spanish institution.’
‘And you think this account number and password would open a box in one of these offices.’
‘It would fit if someone had something they didn’t want anyone to see.’
I finished my water and sat back.
‘How many offices does this firm have?’
Charlie reached into his briefcase and took out a couple of sheets of paper.
‘I printed this off the internet this morning.’
I took the sheets. They were from a web site called www.mallorca-security.com. I was still gaining my web feet but the page seemed self explanatory.
‘There’s not much to the site. Quite thin really,’ said Charlie. ‘I would hope their offices are a bit more substantial. The web site makes them look like a shoe string operation.’
I read through the two sheets and asked if there was anymore.
‘No that’s it.’
The firm claimed it had been established in 1998 and had six branches throughout Mallorca. It listed the services it offered and encouraged you to phone one of the branches for more details. There was little more.
‘Who owns the firm?’ I asked.
‘It’s not on the web site but my friend says it’s some Brit called Ryder.’
Ker-ching. A step forward. Mr Ryder had branched out into security. Now there was a surprise. I wondered just what kind of ‘protection’ he offered to his clients. I thanked Charlie and threatened him with bodily violence if he breathed a word of this to anyone.
‘One last question. How would you know which branch the numbers and the password belong to?’
‘I don’t know but I could ask my friend.’
‘Can you also find out which branches have security deposit boxes?’
As I left him I looked at the address for the branch in Inca — Av Alcudia 5.
Bingo.
Chapter 42
Thursday March 6 th 2008
The best laid plans and all that. My post HMV revival and my reinvigorated mission to bring down Dupree hit a roadblock of immense proportions.
I had decided that I needed to go to Spain. Charlie had come back to me and said that only two of the branches of Mallorca Security carried safety deposit boxes and one of those was in Inca.
I priced up flights and accommodation along with a car and came up someway short of the required readies. I tried to tap up Martin but this proved tricky. I told him about the meet with Charlie and he was none to happy. No reason. He just went south on me and clammed up. Conversation became a tough gig and he wouldn’t let me in on his reason for the cold shoulder. I didn’t have time to fart around so I went my own way.
Back to the tools as they say. Time for a little breaking and entering.
My small tool kit for the hostel was lightweight and I needed some decent stuff so I rolled up to the Barras, a match to the markets of Marrakech only with more diversity. I hadn’t expected to pick everything up in one go and, in that, I was wrong.
It was Sunday afternoon and the place was just calming down from heaving. I had spotted a few likely stores and stalls with the sort of products I needed and was just about to put my hand in my pocket when I stumbled over a hardware stall with an owner who couldn’t have looked dodgier had he been wearing a trilby, a trench coat and spoken like George Cole.
As soon as I enquired after the price of a couple of items he nodded to a boy playing a Nintendo DS to take over and he beckoned me behind the stall. He reached into a box, rooted around and pulled out a leather wrap.
‘You wouldn’t be looking for one of these would you, sir?’
‘Sir’ sounded so dismissive I almost smacked him one. Instead I took the wrap and laid it on the ground. Checking that no one could see, I undid the cord holding the leather together and rolled out the dog’s bollocks of a tool kit. It made the one that I had half-inched at the hostel look like a kid’s toy. A bit old school but there was only one use for the combination of tools that nestled in the wrap and the owner knew it. I fingered the tools, each held in place by its own piece of hand sewn leather.
I rolled it back up and stood up.
‘Bit old fashioned,’ I said.
‘Premium kit though sir.’
‘Price?’
‘One hundred’
I laughed.
‘Twenty five.’
He laughed and I laughed and we both laughed all the way to sixty quid.
Next on the list was a target. In the old days this was easy. We had informers falling over themselves to tell tales of the riches locked away in homes. With no one to help, I went back to the shoe leather and picked an affluent end of town and spent a couple of days walking the streets and a couple of nights walking the back gardens.
I had narrowed my thoughts down to one of three houses and was sitting in the back garden of my first choice, trying to figure out the security. It had been a long time since I had broken into a house and not only was I rusty, but technology had moved on apace.
All three houses sported burglar alarms and no doubt an array of passive infra red boxes, tremblers, contacts — even CCTV. But that was the price of a good haul and I needed it to be good. I had no intention of doing this twice.
The house I was looking at was a semi-detached sandstone affair. A huge garden sat out back — one that had clearly been designed to allow the local second fifteen to play bounce games in it. The back was dominated by a crystal palace that the owners probably called the conservatory. It had no curtains and, as I squatted behind a compost bin, I watched the comings and goings of the owners.
As far as I could make out there were three occupants — mum, dad and teenager. Mum and dad were sitting in the glass house watching the telly and teenager had just left with his face tripping him — dad had
