‘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.
Chapter 37
Tuesday February 5 ^th 2008
The geek’s friend is even more of a geek than the geek. I’ve seen less high tech computer gear on the bridge of the USS Enterprise. He lives in a flat in Shawlands on the south side of Glasgow.
Shawlands is where the south side of Glasgow tries to be the west end and fails. For my money I prefer the south — less pretentious. Being pretentious in Glasgow marks you out as an industrial strength prick and there are few more pretentious than some that live in the west end — of course there are a few exceptions to the rule and you don’t have to go far south in Glasgow to find the seriously deluded.
Let’s just say that Glasgow has a golden S that runs through it. From the north west to the south east. All the best areas can claim some place within the S. If you take the start and the finish of the S — you’ll not be far from the ‘fur coat and nae knickers’ brigade. I know I used to be a resident.
The geek’s flat was wall to wall with wires, boxes (plastic and pizza) and screens. He took the disc from me like it was a child’s nappy and sighed. The sigh seemed to indicate that such technology was beneath him but I assumed he had been informed by the geek of the pain that refusing to help might incur.
He wandered over to a corner of the room and after a suitably long period of groaning and moaning dragged out a disc drive and a computer with the words Tiny embossed in the side.
‘Nae point firing this sod up on a new machine. This is pre W 95. If my old Tiny still works she’ll read it fine.’
He plugged the box into the mains and spent ten minutes doing a wire thing. The machine took another ten minutes to crank itself into life. We weren’t offered coffee but given the geek’s friend was even less conscious of his personal hygiene than the geek I thought this a good thing.
At last the screen settled down and the geek’s friend pushed the disc into the drive.
‘The Tiny’s drive is screwed. I hope the bolt on works.’
It did and the first thing it came up with was a flashing icon and four stars.
‘It needs a password.’
I looked at him and he looked at me.
‘How hard can it be?’ I said.
‘Depends. If it is some crappy kid’s toy — no problem. But even in the nineties (he said nineties the way I would talk about my grandpa in the war) they could write a half decent protection protocol. We enter the wrong password and I’m in for a night or two of fun. It might just lock me out altogether.’
I pulled out the folded piece of paper and showed him the numbers. His eyes lit up. Four stars on the paper and four stars on the screen.
13,5,79,111,315,1,71,921,2,****
‘Sad, man. Really sad.’
The geek’s friend typed in four numbers and the disc whirred and brought up a menu. I couldn’t help myself.