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.
Chapter 41
Tuesday February 26 th 2008
I didn’t get back until late last night so, coffee in hand and staring at Martin’s tiny back garden, I’m dictating in a pair of boxers and nothing else. Martin is away to work and like the dutiful partner I have a list of chores that are expected of me before he returns. The list is sitting next to me, staring up, willing me to do nothing.
Charlie turned out to be a small gold mine of information. I had expected a brief chat on the vagaries of the Spanish banking system and some insight into how I might access the account. Instead Charlie gave me War and Peace.
‘Ok,’ he started. ‘Let’s go with the simple stuff first.’
We were sitting in a Costa coffee near Charlie’s office. A soup bowl of double shot latte sat in front of him and I nursed a water — Martin’s supply of good drink had all been exhausted by me the night before.
‘The bank you gave me the details on is a well established, well respected member of the financial community. The Colonya Caixa de Pollenca has been around in one form or another since 1880. It was a single office for sixty years and only opened its first branch outside Mallorca in 2000. Even now the majority of the branches are in Mallorca but they now service all the Balearic Islands and also have presence in Barcelona.’
I’d forgotten what a briefing from Charlie was like. Martin used to call him University Charlie.
‘They seem to be a modern and dynamic bank. Small but efficient and well established in the area. I phoned a friend of mine who has a flat in Puerta De Pollenca and he uses them for his Spanish account.’
I hadn’t wanted Charlie to start phoning his mates but then again I hadn’t told him not to.
‘He rates them. I asked about the account system and it’s fairly well a standard affair. They offer a range of accounts and they are all well protected. As such the information you have is next to useless.’
That got my attention.
‘Useless?’ I said. ‘We have an account number and a password.’
‘Fine as far as it goes. But they don’t refer to any traditional account. I asked my friend and the account number is wrong. On top of this the only area he has a password for is the internet account he holds with them. It’s called Colonya Directa but it needs a user name and password. Without the user name we are stuffed.’
‘Look, if it is the account of the person I think it is we can guess the user name. I know a computer geek that would love this stuff.’
‘It’s not for me to throw cold water on your plans but even if you do guess the user name and the password matches there will be at least one other level of security — usually something like your favourite book or film — and whoever owns the account will have answered five or six such questions. If you get past the user name and password it will randomly throw one of the questions at you. Get it wrong too often and it kicks you out.’
I must have looked blank at this point.
‘Don’t you have an internet account?’
‘Charlie, I can hardly spell internet.’
‘Well even if the password is valid and you guess the user name and answer to the security question you are still gubbed because you don’t have a valid account number. It’s too short and no system will let you in without a valid account number or a customer number and you have neither.’
Talk about a bucket of sick being tipped on your breakfast.
‘So that’s that?’
Charlie smiled.
‘Not necessarily. I did a bit of thinking. You say the account and password relate to the bank because of the photos?’
I nodded my head.
‘What if they don’t? What if the number and password refer to something else altogether?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well you said the number of the building on the avenue was wrong’
‘So.’
‘My friend asked me how many numbers were in the account number and he laughed. He told me it doesn’t sound like an account number — more like a security code.’
‘What kind of security code?’
‘He told me that a few years ago a Brit on the island got the idea to start up a little security business. Security guards, bouncers etc. Not unusual but this business is thriving. Four or five years ago the company branched out from its single office in the capital of the island — Palma and opened offices around the island. On top of local security services, the offices offer things like alarm fitting, security fixtures for the home and, wait for it, safety deposit boxes.’
‘My friend has one,’ he continued. ‘He says the process is simple. You take ID along to the local office. You sign in and then enter an account number followed by a password to get access to your box. He tells me that they are extremely popular with the Brits. Especially those keen to keep stuff in a secure place away from the prying eyes of a partner. The Spanish banks offer something similar but some Brits obviously have stuff that they would rather didn’t sit in a Spanish institution.’
‘And you think this account number and password would open a box in one of these offices.’
‘It would fit if someone had something they didn’t want anyone to see.’
I finished my water and sat back.
‘How many offices does this firm have?’
Charlie reached into his briefcase and took out a couple of sheets of paper.
‘I printed this off the internet this morning.’
I took the sheets. They were from a web site called www.mallorca-security.com. I was still gaining my web feet but the page seemed self explanatory.
‘There’s not much to the site. Quite thin really,’ said Charlie. ‘I would hope their offices are a bit more substantial. The web site makes them look like a shoe string operation.’
I read through the two sheets and asked if there was anymore.
‘No that’s it.’
The firm claimed it had been established in 1998 and had six branches throughout Mallorca. It listed the services it offered and encouraged you to phone one of the branches for more details. There was little more.