Saturday February 23 rd 2008
I have moved out of the hostel and in with Martin. I gave him no choice but to be fair he didn’t give me any grief. I’m sitting here in a fresh pair of jeans, a Teetonic t-shirt, a pair of Timberland boots and a clean set of teeth. My hair is crew cut and the beard is gone. I have three hundred pounds sterling on my hip and access to a car. All courtesy of Martin’s generous nature and the fact that I said I’ll pay him back in less than a month.
I’ve yet to pull myself back into my old world but I know I will. I just need to do it with speed and purpose that suit the moment.
I haven’t seen the goon patrol for a while but I can’t believe that they would give in that easy. They’ll be back but I don’t give a monkey’s at the moment. I have a plan of action. Not the best plan on the planet but any plan is better than no plan. It is built around three questions:
1) Who are all the people in the photos?
2) What is behind the bank account details?
3) Can I sink Dupree?
It’s that simple. In true tit over arse fashion I’m starting with question 2 and I’m paying a visit to Charlie Wiggs on Monday.
Charlie was my last proper accountant. The man who manfully arranged my annual finances to make the Inland Revenue smile. Charlie was never on the inside track of what I did but he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that my only source of income came from my ‘consultancy’ work — but hey in the eighties consultancy was the buzzword and it covered a multitude of sins.
I took me a while to track him down. He had moved on and now worked for a crowd called Cheedle, Baker and Nudge located in a forty storey monstrosity called Tyler Tower on West George St. Charlie lives on the twentieth floor and when I finally appeared at the reception I was met by a man with a walking stick.
‘Charlie Wiggs. As I live and breathe,’ I said.
‘Shite.’
It’s nice to know you’re loved. Charlie had been busy. It transpires that he had become a bit of a celeb after nearly dying in George Square during a sting to catch an old friend of mine. When I say friend I really mean arsehole.
I got the full SP on the events surrounding his rise to sainthood and was impressed to find that Charlie had, along with a couple of friends, brought down a whole gang of criminals. In the process both his legs had been stabbed and the walking stick was the last crutch on the way back to full fitness.
It sounded like a hell of a story but I wasn’t in the mood for a Jackanory moment and had told him what I wanted. He questioned me and I had to tell him more than I wanted to, but I needed the info. He told me to leave the bank details and come back Monday. I told him what would happen if word got out about our meeting and he took it on board.
Roll on Monday.