Friday February 1st 2008
So now I know what Spencer left for me. Getting it was a stroke of genius on Martin’s part and so blindingly obvious that I am currently thinking about submitting myself for the thick as a plank award.
Martin phoned the Credit Union and asked what the procedure was for retrieving the contents of a box for someone who was deceased. The requirements were straight forward enough — a copy of the death certificate and proof that you were now the legal heir to the deceased’s property.
The former was easy. A trip to the Martha St births, deaths and marriages office and we were away. Spencer Cline, deceased 14 ^th March 1996, cause of death — automobile accident.
The next step was trickier. Martin phoned directory enquiries and asked for a Cline living in Inveraray. There was one match and he phoned the number. Mrs Cline answered the phone and things got awkward.
Martin had only met her once before at Glasgow Central Station when she had turned up with Spencer in tow after he had enjoyed a long weekend away from the troubles of London.
Martin explained who he was and apologised for not attending Spencer’s funeral. He told her he had been out of the country for the last fifteen years and had just come back to find a letter from Spencer that had been held by a mutual friend. The letter said that Spencer had tried to return some old photographs that Martin had loaned him but, by then, he had gone abroad. For whatever reason Spencer had placed them in a safety deposit box under his own name and he needed her permission to open the box.
Mrs Cline wasn’t stupid and the story sounded weak and probably sounded even weaker from her end of the phone. Martin tap danced for a few minutes and said he would be happy to send her the key and, next time she was in Glasgow, she could open the box and send the photos onto him. This tipped the balance. Mrs Cline was in her late eighties and a trip to Glasgow to open the box of her long dead son was not one she wanted to take.
She asked what she needed to do and Martin gave her the Credit Union number and told her he would phone back and asked her to release the box in his name. If they needed it in writing then could she send the letter to the Credit Union and he would go along sometime next week.
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.