59 Minutes

by Gordon Brown

  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.

  ‘Who owns the firm?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s not on the web site but my friend says it’s some Brit called Ryder.’

  Ker-ching. A step forward. Mr Ryder had branched out into security. Now there was a surprise. I wondered just what kind of ‘protection’ he offered to his clients. I thanked Charlie and threatened him with bodily violence if he breathed a word of this to anyone.

  ‘One last question. How would you know which branch the numbers and the password belong to?’

  ‘I don’t know but I could ask my friend.’

  ‘Can you also find out which branches have security deposit boxes?’

  As I left him I looked at the address for the branch in Inca — Av Alcudia 5.

  Bingo.

  Chapter 42

  Thursday March 6 th 2008

  The best laid plans and all that. My post HMV revival and my reinvigorated mission to bring down Dupree hit a roadblock of immense proportions.

  I had decided that I needed to go to Spain. Charlie had come back to me and said that only two of the branches of Mallorca Security carried safety deposit boxes and one of those was in Inca.

  I priced up flights and accommodation along with a car and came up someway short of the required readies. I tried to tap up Martin but this proved tricky. I told him about the meet with Charlie and he was none to happy. No reason. He just went south on me and clammed up. Conversation became a tough gig and he wouldn’t let me in on his reason for the cold shoulder. I didn’t have time to fart around so I went my own way.

  Back to the tools as they say. Time for a little breaking and entering.

  My small tool kit for the hostel was lightweight and I needed some decent stuff so I rolled up to the Barras, a match to the markets of Marrakech only with more diversity. I hadn’t expected to pick everything up in one go and, in that, I was wrong.

  It was Sunday afternoon and the place was just calming down from heaving. I had spotted a few likely stores and stalls with the sort of products I needed and was just about to put my hand in my pocket when I stumbled over a hardware stall with an owner who couldn’t have looked dodgier had he been wearing a trilby, a trench coat and spoken like George Cole.

  As soon as I enquired after the price of a couple of items he nodded to a boy playing a Nintendo DS to take over and he beckoned me behind the stall. He reached into a box, rooted around and pulled out a leather wrap.

  ‘You wouldn’t be looking for one of these would you, sir?’

  ‘Sir’ sounded so dismissive I almost smacked him one. Instead I took the wrap and laid it on the ground. Checking that no one could see, I undid the cord holding the leather together and rolled out the dog’s bollocks of a tool kit. It made the one that I had half-inched at the hostel look like a kid’s toy. A bit old school but there was only one use for the combination of tools that nestled in the wrap and the owner knew it. I fingered the tools, each held in place by its own piece of hand sewn leather.

  I rolled it back up and stood up.

  ‘Bit old fashioned,’ I said.

  ‘Premium kit though sir.’

  ‘Price?’

  ‘One hundred’

  I laughed.

  ‘Twenty five.’

  He laughed and I laughed and we both laughed all the way to sixty quid.

  Next on the list was a target. In the old days this was easy. We had informers falling over themselves to tell tales of the riches locked away in homes. With no one to help, I went back to the shoe leather and picked an affluent end of town and spent a couple of days walking the streets and a couple of nights walking the back gardens.

  I had narrowed my thoughts down to one of three houses and was sitting in the back garden of my first choice, trying to figure out the security. It had been a long time since I had broken into a house and
not only was I rusty, but technology had moved on apace.

  All three houses sported burglar alarms and no doubt an array of passive infra red boxes, tremblers, contacts — even CCTV. But that was the price of a good haul and I needed it to be good. I had no intention of doing this twice.

  The house I was looking at was a semi-detached sandstone affair. A huge garden sat out back — one that had clearly been designed to allow the local second fifteen to play bounce games in it. The back was dominated by a crystal palace that the owners probably called the conservatory. It had no curtains and, as I squatted behind a compost bin, I watched the comings and goings of the owners.

  As far as I could make out there were three occupants — mum, dad and teenager. Mum and dad were sitting in the glass house watching the telly and teenager had just left with his face tripping him — dad had probably told him he could only have two hundred quid pocket money this week.

  I looked up and saw the light on the attic flick on. There was a dormer to front and back and I reckoned this was the teenager’s room. I also had it figured that it was the way in. My guess was that neither of the dormer windows were wired up.

  I decided to sit tight, wait until everyone had gone beddy byes and then make my move.

  The route to the attic was easy. Or would have been had it not been for the cast on my wrist.

  There was a water butt catching the rain from the conservatory (so green these people) — this would let me climb onto the edge of the conservatory, up onto the window ledge above (probably the bathroom), over to the next window and from there, to the roof and in. I had no worries that the teenager would catch me. I’d be in and out of his bedroom before he could fart.

  As they say — the best laid plans.

  The lights went out around the house and I waited a full hour, cold and cramp my only companions.

  The night was flickering as clouds sped by — covering the moon more often than not. The next time it dropped dark I made my move.

  I balanced on the water butt and hauled myself onto the top of the conservatory. Keeping my feet on the lead flashing, and away from the glass panels, I grabbed the window ledge and pulled myself up. The moon re-appeared and I froze, moving my head slowly to see if I could be spotted from any of the other houses but, even this deep in winter, the evergreen foliage was thick enough to hide the house from all around.

  I prepared to move to the next ledge when a light flicked on. Framed in the window I heard the shout as the woman of the house saw my shape through the frosted glass. I tried to jump to the next ledge but my feet were poorly positioned and I felt myself slip. There was nothing to grab onto and I spun out and away from the building before crashing through the conservatory roof below.

  I landed on the tiled floor in a spray of glass and the wind was kicked from my guts. I heard the start of chaos coming down stairs and tried to get up but the lack of air and the pain from my back slowed me down. Lights appeared in the hallway and I rolled onto my front. Voices shouted and I heard a man’s voice tell his wife to dial the police.

  I pushed up onto all fours and, as the main room behind me flooded with light, I looked for a way out.

  I may have come through the roof with relative ease but the conservatory was double glazed and there was going to be no James Bond style launching myself at the glass and out into the garden beyond.

  The man of the house crashed into the room and I turned to face him. He held a sawn off baseball bat in his left hand and that meant he was prepared to use force — you don’t chop a baseball bat into a weapon for fun. His eyes were still watery from sleep and I had maybe thirty seconds before he was fully back on planet Earth.

  I forced my lungs to grab some much needed oxygen, put my head down and tried my best Usain Bolt impression and headed for the front door. The man saw me coming and raised the bat to swing. At the last moment, I ducked and felt the rush of air as the bat parted my hair. I grabbed the door handle of the hallway door and used it to swing myself into the hall.

  Like a bowling ball to the pins I took out the woman of the house as I crashed into her, phone still in her hand. She tumbled to the ground and I went with her. The scream as she went down was way too loud in my ear and the roar of the husband indicated that I was in for a serious kicking if he got to me.

  I rolled over the woman and tried to get up, kicking her in the face as I scrambled for the door. She screamed again as the hall door burst open and the man took in the scene. He raised the bat and I rolled to my left as he brought it down. It bounced off the carpet and he raised it again. I lashed out with my foot and caught him on the shin. He howled and swung at my head. I ducked, but this time the bat caught me on they shoulder and it dropped numb. As he made ready to reload I stood up and charged the front door. There was a key hanging from the lock. I grabbed it and turned it.

  The man brought the bat down again and I leapt towards him, ducking under the swing. I balled up my fist and sunk it into a surprisingly firm stomach. He started to double up and I used his downward momentum to thrust my head up, catching him square on the chin. He went over like a dead thing and landed on his wife. At the top of the stairs the teenager appeared. For a second I caught his eye, turned away, pulled at the front door and fled into the night.

  It was a right royal fuck up but at least I could regroup and find another target.

  As it was, the shitstorm was just gathering.

  I jogged into the night and heard a car crank up its engine before it raced ahead of me. The doors flew open and it was goon city. I turned to escape but I was in no fit state to outrun them. I swung a fist at the first attacker but he stepped clear with ease and returned the favour to my head. I went down. A couple of kicks later and I was hauled up by the arms, and flung into the back of the car. A black cloth was placed over my head and my wrists were bound with plastic ties.

  I tried to talk but a punch in my gut told me to shut up.

  I was pinned between two goons. The doors were slammed shut and we took off. We didn’t drive far before the car stopped and I was bundled out, onto the pavement. There was no attempt to remove the cloth or ties and I heard the doors close before the car moved off.

  ‘Listen, shit for brains.’

  The voice was loud and in my left ear. The accent was east London and the word ‘brains’ was accompanied by a slap to the head.

  ‘Dupree wants you to know that you are breathing only because he feels generous. We’re keeping an eye on you. Dupree wants you to walk a nice straight and narrow path. No freelancing — those days are over. Understand.’

  Another slap to the head.

  I nodded.

  ‘Step out of line again and I’ve instructions to waste your sorry backside. So get a fucking job, save up for a mortgage and be happy that you might retire one day. Do I make myself crystal clear?’

  Slap number three and four came in.

  I nodded.

  There was a chink of something falling on the pavement followed by the sound of fading footsteps. I waited for a few moments before trying to remove the cloth by rubbing my head on the ground. I felt something hard and cold against my cheek and I scrambled around until my hands were at the object. It felt like a Stanley knife and I carefully slid the blade out of the casing and worked it into the ties and cut them. I reached up and pulled off the cloth.

  I was lying in a back street canyon of tenements. I didn’t recognise the place and stood up alternately rubbing my shoulder and my face.

  I got back to Martin’s sometime after four and crashed.

  The next morning I told him what had gone down and he called me an arsehole. I thought he was going to throw me out on the street but instead he told me that a friend of his was looking for some help in one of the big hotels in town.

  ‘Take the job and stay clear of trouble.’

  ‘But the photos, the account — what about Dupree?’

  ‘It seems to me that going after Dupree is the last thing you want to do after such a warn
ing. Take the medicine and get your head down for a while. You can always come back to him later.’

  I was in no mood to let it go but with no cash, and Dupree on my case, I had little choice. If the secret to bringing the Frenchman down lay in Mallorca then I would have to earn the money for the trip the honest way.

  I agreed to the job in the hotel and Martin gave me a number to phone.

  Gordon Brown

  59 Minutes

  Tuesday March 18 ^th 2008

  I started the job at the hotel last night and hate it. I’m a dogsbody whose only function is to clean up everyone else’s crap. I worked out that I need to stick with this job for four months to get enough cash to go to Spain. I don’t think I can last four days.

  Chapter 42

  Thursday March 27 th 2008

  Got in a fight with one of the kitchen staff. Only the intervention of Ronnie the concierge stopped me losing my job.

  I’d just been to the hospital to have my cast removed and was up on the eighth floor cleaning up after a late night drunk who couldn’t make it to the toilet to relieve himself. He had pissed into one of the plant pots and it had overflowed onto the tiled floor. Bucket and mop in hand I was trying to figure how to re pot the plant without touching the sodding thing when one of the kitchen crew appeared on my shoulder.

  ‘Chef says get your arse down to the main hall. Someone has chucked up at the entrance to the kitchen and he wants it cleaned up.’

  I told him to piss off. Pee I can deal with. Vomit is something else.

  ‘Chef will be angry.’

  Like I cared.

  ‘Very angry!’

  I pushed him away but he came back at me and next thing we are on the floor, rolling around, trying to knock lumps out of each other. A guest must have complained and a minute later Ronnie appeared. He grabbed us both — Ronnie is built like the QE2 — manhandled us into the service elevator and out of sight before the assistant manager appeared.

  I owe Ronnie big time. He told the manager that it was two guests that had been fighting but they had run off when he appeared.