Wednesday February 13 ^th 2008
I’m losing interest in the whole thing. Digital recordings, mystery letter from Spencer — even Martin’s lure has dwindled since he ran out of malt. I’ve spread the photos and the sheets of paper in front of me so often my neighbours think they are porn. I can’t make head nor tail of it and I’m beginning to wonder if it is worth the candle.
After all, crossing swords with Dupree earned me nothing but a locked door and bars on the windows for fourteen years. Even if I can figure out what Spencer had discovered, who is to say Dupree won’t just finish the job and have me done in. It’s certainly the advice that Martin has being doling out and it seems a far easier option than taking this nonsense any further. At least it did until last night.
I was sitting on the steps of the hostel when the manager wandered out.
‘Need to get you moving.’
I didn’t realise he was addressing me and I continued to stare at the pavement.
‘They are closing this place down for a refurb in two weeks. It will be shut for three months. I’m struggling to place you all. Have you anyone that you can move in with?’
I looked up, realising that I was the intended recipient of the words. I shook my head.
‘You’ll have to find somewhere. Even when we reopen you won’t get back in. We are changing this place to emergency accommodation only. If you want to stay you are going to need to re-apply each night. So if I were you I would start thinking about a place to live and maybe a job?’
The last word came out with a laugh attached to it. I smiled back but I really wanted to cave his head in.
So I am out on the street — literally. I have no cash, no roof and sod all prospects. It was just then that I thought ‘fuck it — I may as well go after Dupree’ — what the hell else is left?’
I blagged some bus fare off the geek and headed for Martin’s.
To my surprise he was in. I had expected to camp out in his garden, waiting for him to come home, but he had cut work early as he was going to a concert that night. He was off to see Babyshambles at the Barrowlands.
‘Bit old for Pete Docherty aren’t you?’
‘When did you get your pension?’
‘Piss off.’
I asked if I could use his house for the evening. One way or another I needed to figure out my next move. Martin had access to the internet — which was fine except I had no idea how to use the thing. Inside prison I had shunned it and since I got out I had avoided it. I asked Martin for a crash course. He introduced me to the wonders of Google and told me he would be back by twelve o’clock.
‘And leave the fucking whisky alone.’
I told him I would and he knew I wouldn’t.
I made a cup of tea and spread the photos and sheets on the table.
The four photos I placed on the left, the two sheets of printed paper in the centre and the tea on the right. I took a scribble pad from Martin’s cupboard and bunch of pens.
I went back to the photos first. Martin had a magnifying glass in the cupboard and with a nod to Sherlock Holmes I picked up each photo and scanned them one by one.
The three at the cafe were duds. There was barely enough detail to make out the faces never mind a clue to where they were. The one outside the bank gave up little but the internet provided me with a hit.
The only bank I could find that matched the plaque was Colonya Caixa de Pollenca. Their web site was in Spanish or Catalan but not English. I was sure that with the wonders of the internet that this could be translated, but I was still crawling in my Pampers when it came to using the web.
The site indicated they had a number of branches in Mallorca but as to which one Dupree was standing outside was no clearer.
I picked up the magnifying glass and poured over the photo again. Then my head went pop.
‘Inca, fucking Inca.’
I went back to the web site and looked at the bank’s details and sure enough there was a branch in Inca. Colonya Caixa de Pollenca, Av Alcudia 9, Inca, 07300. I punched the air.
So they were in Inca — Ryder’s home town — it made sense. I put the photos to one side and picked up the two sheets of paper.
ATV9AXLPCIU4D8I3AT5RIPNLC4A903753Q0201 C2O5M3PIT9EF1G3H211L4LAXLFATCOOONTTARCAPS9E4NDYYARR1Y4DFETR
Gibberish. If they were a code then there had to be a key.
I took the shorter string of characters and played around with the letters and the numbers for an hour. Taking a breather I raided Martin’s drinks cabinet before I went back to it again, but got nowhere.
I remembered the creativity course I had been on and it advised leaving the problem alone, doing something else and then going back to it with a fresh head. I fired up the TV and used a film on TCM to drain my brain.
I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up the film was near the end. It was a poor man’s Jimmy Cagney and I wasn’t interested but just as I went to kill the telly, the central character pulled open a door and leapt in, gun at the ready.
The baddie (or it could have been the goodie) was waiting.
‘Can’t pull the same stunt twice Mikey.’
With that he shot the goodie (or baddie) in the chest. Shit dialogue — I turned it off but the same stunt twice line ran through my head and then an Edison sized light bulb went on. I pulled out the sheet of paper with the disc code on it and grabbed the sheet with
ATV9AXLPCIU4D8I3AT5RIPNLC4A903753Q0201 on it.
1,3,5,7 and so on — what if the disc’s owner had used this for the key as well as the code for the disc. I scribbled down only the characters that related to the odd numbers.
It read
Avalcudia5inca07300 — or Av Alcudia 5, Inca, 07300
I cracked a bottle of seriously expensive wine ten seconds later. The next part was easy. I applied the same logic to the other sheet and came up with compte13214alacontrasenyaryder.
It still looked like rubbish.
I slugged at the wine and sat back. Maybe the second sheet worked to a different code. I picked up the pen and tried another variant highlighting every even number — still gibberish. I tried every third number, every fourth. I tried starting with the second letter and choosing every third and fourth. I tried every fifth and then I tried the first number, the second number the fourth the eighth and so on.
Sheet after scribbled sheet ended up in a pile on the table. I threw none away. I wanted to ball each failure up and sling it in the bin but how was I to know that there weren’t two steps to this and that the secret lay in taking an earlier attempt and applying another code.
I finished the bottle of wine and rested my head in my hands.
‘My good wine, you bastard.’
I woke up to Martin shaking me. I looked at the clock. It was gone two o’clock.
‘Sorry but I thought I had cracked this bloody code.’
I showed him the first sheet. He smiled or rather his lips moved up at the edges — it could have been a sneer but I was in alcohol fuzz mode.
He picked up the second sheet and I handed him my first attempt at decoding it. He looked at for a few seconds and then bent down. He placed the decoded sheet on the table, and spread it out trying to even out the creases and folds. He picked up a pen and circled the last five letters on it.
Ryder
We were left with. compte13214alacontrasenya
‘And?’ I said.
‘Give me a minute.’
He took the sheet over to the computer and typed the whole line into Google. I followed him over and watched as the screen came up with:
Your search — compte13214alacontrasenya — did not match any documents.
He laid the sheet next to the computer and doodled for a second before putting a ring around the letters ‘compte’, another ring round ‘13214’ and a final ring around ‘alacontrasenya’
He pumped ‘compte’ into Google. It produced a few hits — mostly to do with French. Martin brought up a French/English on line dictionary. He inputted the word and the translator spat out ‘count’ or ‘amount’.
‘French?’ I said.
He ignored me. He entered the word Catalan and English in the Google box and got a site that translated ‘compte’ as ‘account’. He put in ‘alacontrasenya’ into the site. It came up blank. He started to chew the pen and then entered ‘a la contrasenya’. It blanked. He entered just ‘contrasenya’ and the site threw up ‘password’.
He grabbed a new sheet and wrote:
Account — 13214 (a) (ala)
Password — ryder.
‘Ta da. I think this is the account number and the password for the bank you found. I can’t be sure of the account number because the ‘a’ and the ‘la’ may be part of the word ‘contrasenya’ or they may not.’
‘How the hell did you get to Catalan?’
‘ Mallorca is connected in some way to Catalan — or something — I’m no expert. The first word was in French but Catalan and French have links and given the bank was in Mallorca I gave it a go. Amazing what you can do on the internet.’
‘Clever,’ I said, ‘But the address for the Colonya Caixa de Pollenca in Inca is at number 9, not number 5 Alcudia Ave?
So there we finished and I wasn’t sure how much closer to revenge on Dupree I was. We had a photo of four men — two of whom we knew. A connection to an old Glasgow criminal. An account number and password for a bank in Spain (maybe). And what?
It was too late for the hostel so I blagged the couch in Martin’s room and fell asleep in seconds.