59 Minutes (19 page)

‘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.

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.