nowadays that meant nothing. I assumed that there was none. I couldn’t see anyone being too happy at being watched as they deposited and withdrew from the boxes. The few Mallorca Security customers that I had seen didn’t seem the kind to take well to such intrusion.
To keep up appearances I retrieved my box and retired to one of the three small booths.
The booths looked like voting booths, even down to the small drawn curtain and shelf where you would have marked your X on the voting slip. It occurred to me that they may well be second hand voting booths — it would fit with the Mallorca Security cost ethic.
I heard the door open behind me, followed by the soft whoosh of cloth opening and a voice came from the booth next to mine.
‘Give me the code.’
I told her and she left. A few seconds later and she returned, holding a box. I was surprised at how quickly she had found it. After all the only thing I had was the code and there were a lot of boxes in the room to check. I took it and laid it next to my own and lifted the lid.
My mouth dropped open.
A single sheet of paper lay in the bottom of the box. Written large in flowery script were the words:
‘Bonjour. Vous etes mort.’
I knew next to fuck all French but I recognised the word for dead. Jesus this was a set up. Either that or an elaborate joke. I closed the box and left the booth. Maria looked at me and I knew she was wondering why I didn’t return the boxes to their homes. The reason was simple. If this was a set up I needed to get the fuck out of this place with speed.
As I slammed open the door leading to the front shop I saw two men standing at the entrance door. Both were looking directly at me. As soon as I appeared they stepped forward. I weighed up the option to charge them, but they were bruisers and focussed on me. Dupree’s men. I jumped back into the room and pulled the door shut. I heard the lock click and could only hope they didn’t have the access code. I turned to Maria.
‘Is there another way out?’
‘Why?’
‘There are two men about to break down that door and they don’t want to talk to me about the weather.’
She surprised me by running past me towards the door. I thought she was going to open it. Instead, she slammed her hand on a small red button on the wall. I heard a click and then an alarm went off.
‘They won’t be able to get in. The alarm changes the code.’
‘How do we get out?’
‘We don’t. We wait on the police.’
‘The police. I don’t want the police.’
‘What else would you have me do?’
She tilted her head towards the ceiling.
I looked up and spotted a tiny camera — almost hidden from view. I realised that I had gone into thick mode. She was acting exactly as she should have in the situation.
A customer had just told her he was under attack and she had hit the alarm. If someone was recording this, then her actions wouldn’t look out of place; she was one smart cookie.
I had no choice but to wait for the police to arrive, and they did within minutes. I heard rapping on the door and a splash of Spanish. Maria responded and unlocked the door.
Two policemen stood in the doorway. Maria went all talk, talk, talk and I was ushered out of the room. Once they had established I couldn’t speak Spanish one of them told me, in broken English, to sit on a chair. When they were finished with Maria she came over with them and acted as translator.
‘Just tell them what happened,’ she said.
I kept it simple and didn’t embellish. I told them that I had seen the two men advance towards me and panicked. They asked if I had any reason to think they would attack me. I told them that I didn’t. The questioning turned to who I was, where I was staying and so on. The conversation was shorter than I expected and, after a few minutes more with Maria on her own, they left.
‘You should go now. My boss will be here. The alarm goes to his mobile phone.’
She was whispering. Christ the place was bugged for sound as well.
‘Will he know you let me see the other box?’ I whispered back.
‘I will quit before he finds this out. Now go.’
I got up and, with a thank-you, I left.
Outside I scanned the road and pavements. I was certain that the two men would be waiting. It was just a matter of where.
I headed away from my hotel. My head was in a flat spin. None of this made sense. Why would Dupree set me up? Why had the men not lifted me before I went to the shop? It was hardly the best place to grab someone. Had Dupree conned Martin and Spencer into helping or had he threatened them? If so, to what end? Why the hell lead me to Spain? More questions than answers.
I turned into the first street and then left into the next. The road headed up a hill and under a bridge. I walked quickly and as I passed under the bridge I looked back and saw the two men less than fifty yards behind me. I hit the gas pedal and sprinted up the incline.
At the top, the street opened into a wide boulevard peppered with shops. There were some shoppers around but probably not enough to worry my pursuers.
I ran across the boulevard and saw a small lane on my left. It was roofed in and I dived into it — hoping it wasn’t a dead end. I slowed to a jog — there was no way I could keep a sprint on. Then I had an idea. Not a good one, but an idea.
I exited onto another road and turned in the direction of my hotel. I checked behind and the two men tumbled out behind me. I moved back to a jog.
After a couple of hundred yards I slowed to a quick walk as I was running out of breath again. A glance behind and the two men were also walking. At the next corner I walked out of view and then, grabbing energy from somewhere, I ran, sprinted for thirty yards and dived into a small gap between a house and a factory.
There was a wall about five feet high at the end of the gap and I jumped over it and into a small courtyard. A quick scan and I could see there was no way out, save through a series of what looked like back doors.
I slumped behind the wall, counted to thirty and then looked back over the wall. I could see maybe two yards of pavement from where I was and there was no sign of the pursuers. I jumped back into the small alley and slowly walked up to where the pavement started.
I poked my head around and looked to the left. About twenty yards away the two men were gazing around, one of them was on the phone — I ducked back in. I waited for another count of thirty and looked out. The men were gone. I exited the gap and ran to my right and hit the road that the hotel lay in.
If there were others waiting at my hotel I was screwed but there was fuck all I could do about that.
I hit the lobby at a flat spin and raced up the stairs to my room. Two minutes later and I was back on the street, suitcase in hand. I thanked God that I had kept it packed and ready to go.
I pulled the car keys from my pocket. The car was parked at the end of the hotel road and, as I jumped in, I heard a shout. I slammed the door shut and hit the central locking before pushing the key into the ignition. My hands were sweating but I got the key home first time and started the engine. I heard a thump as someone or something hit the car and I hit the accelerator. I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw the two men screaming at me.
I kept my foot down and horns went up around me before I realised I was driving on the wrong side of the road. I came within inches of front ending a Fiat 500. I swerved to the right and spent ten minutes losing myself in the maze of streets before heading for the motorway that led to Palma.
I had no plan beyond getting the hell out of Inca and, as I passed a Lidl supermarket I hit a roundabout that sat above the motorway. I only had eyes for Palma and the plane home. But the flight was four days away. Add to this that Dupree would have a watch put on the airport and I changed my mind and took the motorway north to Alcudia and Puerto Pollensa.
I kept my foot as close to illegal as made no difference — putting the miles between me and Inca. At the Puerto Pollensa turnoff I slid off the motorway and turned left towards Pollenca and Puerto Pollensa.
