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 not.
‘I’ve a thought on the photos,’ he said. ‘When you went down I spent a few weeks in London before bailing out. Dupree ignored me. We had a deal and as far as he was concerned I either stuck to it or I was dead. However, on a couple of occasions, one of Dupree’s lads paid me a visit. Usually to pick my brains over some bit of business or other. One of the visitors was a young Spanish lad. I can’t remember his name but he was an eager beaver. Let me see the photos?’
I pulled them out and he stared at them.
‘Look. The photo at the bank. There’s Dupree at the back and you reckon you might know who the guy to the left and the guy to the right are? It’s hard to tell but the guy in the front looks Spanish to me.’
‘Your lad?’
‘Could be. He’s younger than the other three by a fair number of years and the sunglasses don’t help.’
‘And?’
‘Well the eager beaver let drop that his dad was something big in Spain. An ex pat who had fled in the seventies. He married a local and then came the eager beaver.’
‘Who’s the ex pat?’
‘He never said but I tell you who went out in the seventies and married a local — Tommy Ryder.’
I stopped mid-swallow and coughed the liquid back up.
‘Ryder. Ryder’s involved with Dupree?’
‘I said I’m not sure. I never really bothered back then. I had a lot on my mind but there was something familiar about the young Spanish lad, I just never put two and two together until the photos appeared.’
‘Ryder,’ I said. ‘That would make a fuck load of sense.’
Tommy Ryder had been one of the No Mean City crew in Glasgow during the sixties. A bastard and, as I found out, the guy behind ‘the Nose’s’ early demise.
He had played hard and won hard right into the seventies and then, when everything got that much more complicated, he jumped ship to Spain. Over the years his name came up, usually when something shit went down on my patch. He might have moved to Spain but he was still a mover in Glasgow.
I met him once. It was at the funeral of an old ex con called Si Parker. A con artist of the old school — a brilliant impersonator and right up to his dying days was still a great bet for many a role. If Si hadn’t been a con he would have been an actor.
It was risky for Ryder to come home but Si was up there as one of the guys that had taught a young Ryder all he knew. He flew in by private plane, went to the funeral and flew out. I wouldn’t even have known he was there if he hadn’t sidled up to me outside the church and shook my hand.
‘I hear you’re doing well? Nice to see some new talent on the block.’
The man doing the talking looked more like a tramp than a rich ex pat. He smelled bad as well. Thick beard, droopy eyes and a coat too warm for the time of year. Si would have been proud of the disguise. There were close on ten police in the crowd trying to spot Si’s old associates and Ryder walked out right under their noses.
‘So, if Ryder is tied up with Dupree what the hell is the point of the photos? It’s hardly going to make headline news that someone like Dupree has a tie up with a bastard like Ryder,’ I said.
‘True. So I’ll be guessing the bit that Spencer was interested in doesn’t lie with our Spanish boy. You said you thought you knew who the other two were so it’s over to you.’
I sipped at the bottle and stared at the photos but there was no magic light bulb. I flicked from photo to photo and then halted.
‘Ryder didn’t do the Malaga run, did he?’
In the seventies a lot of Brits ran for Spain — under Franco there was no extradition from Spain and a community had sprung up on the Costa Del Sol of some of the UK ’s most wanted.
Martin looked at me and grabbed the bottle for a swig.
‘Not Malaga — Majorca I heard.’
‘Off the beaten track as well,’ he added. ‘Not by the sea. I remember thinking it was an odd thing to do. Back then you could have had your pick of beauty spots for next to fuck all so why pick a place in the middle of nowhere?’
‘Maybe his Spanish lady wanted to be close to mum.’
‘I think I even know the town?’
‘What after thirty years?’
‘Yeah. After the funeral Si’s brother came up to say thanks for coming. He said that Ryder had offered him a job in Spain if he wanted to quit the rain and early closing hours. I asked if he was taking it and he said maybe. He reckoned it was Ryder’s way of saying thanks to Si.’
‘So where did he go?’
‘I know this sounds stupid but I’m sure he was off to Inca.’
‘What as in Peru, Machu Pichu and pan pipes?’
‘Same name but it was a village in the middle of Majorca — always stayed with me that name — don’t know why. I always thought I’d look it up if I was in Majorca but I never was.’
‘So the photos were taken in Majorca?’
‘ Mallorca if you want to be more accurate. Could be. Maybe even in Inca?’
‘What the hell would Dupree want with some out of the way town on Mallorca?’
‘No idea but it’s a start. I reckon the disc will tell us more.’
I took the bottle back from him and drained it.