The Dali Diaries (The Ballashiels Mysteries Book 2)

by Stewart Ferris

  ‘I am so.’

  ‘Then why do you keep interrupting?’ the old man shouted, before calming himself with deep breaths. ‘Listen. In 1939 the New York World’s Fair took place at Flushing Meadows. Salvador Dalí designed one of the exhibits. Next to his exhibit they buried a time capsule containing items that represented society in the Thirties and ten million words on microfilm. It was intended to remain buried for five thousand years.’

  ‘Coolsville.’

  He handed Charlie a slim book. In slightly wonky print the cover read simply “THE TIME CAPSULE”. He flicked through its yellowing pages and read the full version of the title inside: “The Book of Record of The Time Capsule of Cupaloy deemed capable of resisting the effects of time for five thousand years – preserving an account of universal achievements – embedded in the grounds of the New York World’s Fair 1939.”

  ‘This book contains all you need to know. Location. Contents. How to find it.’

  ‘Why do I need to find it? It’s not been a hundred years, yet alone five thousand.’

  ‘You will locate it. You will dig it up. And you will return it to me.’

  Charlie looked at the photo of the capsule. It was the size of a missile. Not the kind of thing that would be easy to hide from customs officials.

  ‘It looks big,’ he said.

  ‘It is about two metres in length. How you reach it is not my concern. How you get it back to Spain is not my concern. Just ensure that you succeed, because I do not tolerate failure.’

  ‘Sure. Failure sucks,’ agreed Charlie, as if he hadn’t spent his entire life magnetically repelled from success.

  ‘You have experience in smuggling across international borders, I assume?’

  Charlie could not deny this. He had brought Mayan pottery across several Central American borders, although his one attempt at smuggling something as big as this capsule – a human cargo – had been an utter disaster.

  ‘Sure. Borders, schmorders,’ he replied, looking more closely at the book. There was a section describing the contents of the capsule, plus a key to the English language and even a message from Albert Einstein. The people who had prepared this time capsule had taken it all very seriously, but they didn’t seem to have buried anything of great value. It was mostly everyday items – a hat, cigarettes, a toothbrush, a Mickey Mouse plastic cup, a light bulb, and loads of other junk. Nothing seemed worth the trouble of stealing the whole thing.

  ‘I can tell that you are questioning my motivation for sending you on this mission,’ said the old man. ‘The answer is simple and, as an expert on Dalí, it should be obvious to you.’

  ‘Pretty obvious. Sure. So, why?’

  ‘As well as the objects and the microfilm books, the capsule contained copies of great artworks including The Persistence of Memory.’

  ‘The Persistence of Memory?’ echoed Charlie, suddenly remembering Ruby’s eloquent insults when he had mentioned Dalí’s melting clocks. ‘That lowest common denominator shit? Hah.’

  The old man nodded. Charlie’s summary of Dalí’s most famous work coincided with his own opinion of that over-commercialised painting. Charlie was definitely the man for this job.

  ‘Dalí was represented in the collection of objects in the time capsule in an official capacity,’ said the old man. ‘But we have reason to believe that Dalí may have interfered with the contents of the capsule before it was sealed. He had access to it over a period of many weeks. He may have placed something inside it. Something that was not recorded in this book or in any official records. Something which will be of interest to my organisation.’

  ‘Your organisation? The museum?’

  ‘Of course not, Charlie. The museum is a tourist attraction, a frivolous enterprise. The people running it are doing an excellent job of protecting and promoting the works of Dalí, but there is something more important to me than the museum. I need this capsule, Charlie. You must not let me down.’

  ‘And if I don’t do it?’

  ‘You will go to jail, young man. For a very long time.’

  ‘And why was this Grant guy here earlier?’

  ‘I wanted him to meet you,’ whispered the old man. ‘As a precaution.’

  ‘Against what?’

  ‘I considered it wise for him to be acquainted with your face so that he doesn’t kill you by mistake.’

  ***

  The mighty medieval cathedral of Chartres rose high above the windswept plain, its twin spires lit against the stars by floodlights that gave the appearance of a radioactive glow. The Land Rover moved as part of a steady stream of traffic, Constable Stuart never dropping too far behind in his Focus, easily keeping up with the Land Rover’s distinctively austere rear lights. Ratty chose to drive through the heart of the city rather than taking the bypass, hoping that the small and congested streets would set them free from their uninvited escort. He threaded his way through random roads, ignoring the direction he was supposed to be taking, sometimes doubling back on himself and even taking a couple of laps around a one-way system close to the cathedral.

  The process did not shake the policeman off his tail. On the contrary, it highlighted to the Patient, who had the opportunity to study such matters in more detail from his position in the passenger seat, that other vehicles were also tagging along. Sometimes they would be separated by traffic lights or by Ratty’s last minute decision to turn into a side street, but it was never long before the procession re-formed.

  ‘We seem to have quite a fan club,’ said Ratty, looking at the cars in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Curious in its own right,’ observed the Patient. ‘Yet it has told us something valuable. Something that may be to our advantage.’

  Ratty couldn’t be bothered to play word games. He waited for his friend to elucidate.

  ‘For the various vehicles to locate us so easily, they must have planted a tracking device in our car.’

  The Patient climbed into the back seats. He didn’t know precisely what he was looking for, but logic suggested that anything that wasn’t dented and rusty was a likely candidate for the piece of technology in question. He lifted seat cushions, reached into door pockets and felt his way through a bag of old hammers and wrenches. Nothing. The utilitarian vehicle could not hide a tracking device easily. The interior was mostly bare metal, every functional element visible and obvious. The Patient wasn’t certain, but he guessed the tracker would need to fix on a satellite, and that meant it was more likely to be near the windows or the roof than on, or beneath, the floor. He felt the window frames and the roof. Still nothing. He climbed back through to the front seat.

  ‘Anything beeping away back there?’ asked Ratty.

  ‘I think I may have been looking in the wrong direction,’ the Patient replied. ‘What do you see in front of you?’

  ‘France, mostly.’

  ‘I see a spare wheel on the front of this car. A tracker placed there would have an unobstructed view of the sky.’

  ‘I’ll stop this jalopy so you can dash out and check,’ said Ratty.

  ‘No, that would make it obvious to those on our tail. We must keep moving.’

  ‘The ventilation flappy thing. Open it. See if you can get your arm through.’

  The Patient opened the rectangular flap beneath the windscreen and felt the rush of cool air entering the cab. A layer of gauze to keep out flies was easy to dislodge, and the Patient was able to put his entire left arm through the gap, provided he held himself at an angle that resulted in his face pressing against the gear stick. His arm groped blindly. It found the spare wheel. His fingers made their way over the rubber and into the steel hub. He was at the limit of his reach.

  It was sufficient. Something was taped to the inside of the wheel. He ripped it off the hub and brought the little Garmin satellite tracker inside.

  ‘Lose them again,’ said the Patient, ‘and I’ll lose their tracker when they can’t see us.’

  ‘Righty-ho.’

  Ratty zig-zagged t
hrough the narrow streets until they had earned a few seconds of privacy. The Patient opened his window and tossed the tracker into the half-open rear of a passing sheep lorry.

  ‘Let’s make indirectly for Spain,’ said the Patient. ‘No one can follow us, and no one will find us if we drive west for a few hours before we turn south.’

  ‘Who were those other people?’ asked Ratty. ‘Did you count how many cars there were?’

  ‘I think there were two, besides the police officer.’

  ‘Two? How flattering to warrant such attention.’

  ‘There is another oddity,’ added the Patient. ‘Constable Stuart implied that he knew of our destination. If he knows where we are going, why does he need to follow us so closely? Why not just meet us there?’

  ‘I rather fancy the idea that he has taken it upon himself to protect us.’

  ‘He certainly shows no ill-feeling. But from whom do we need to be protected?’ asked the Patient. ‘One can only assume the intruders from the other night were the same ill-intentioned visitors at the door of the manor today. If Constable Stuart’s job is to protect us from the men in those other cars, I fear he may have taken on more than a man of his years can manage.’

  ‘He should be on the verge of retiring,’ said Ratty. ‘The fellow looks old enough to have stuck two fingers up at the Frenchies at Agincourt.’

  ‘And he holds the rank of constable?’ asked the Patient.

  ‘Constable Stuart. No idea if he has any other name. That’s what he’s been throughout my life.’

  ‘My understanding of careers is that people generally progress and get promoted during their working lifetime. The rank of constable is the lowest rung of the ladder. It is where young men begin their policing, but Constable Stuart appears to have been in this job for over forty years. Doesn’t that strike you as unusual?’

  ‘Golly. Never thought about it before. He’s always been the village constable, for as long as I can remember. Some chaps are born deficient in the ambition department.’

  ‘Forty years of loyal service. Always there, in the background, ensuring you never came to any true harm. Almost as if he is more than a village police bobby, as you call him.’

  ‘But the fellow isn’t my private bodyguard. He’s not on the family payroll. No one has been able to live off us Ballashiels types for years.’

  ‘And if a trust fund had been set up by, say, your late father, perhaps?’

  ‘Not entirely impossible but utterly bonkers. And where was he when I got into a bit of a pickle in Guatemala last year?’

  ‘Could it be that his contract of protection is similar to the breakdown cover that you have for this car? It covers you for the United Kingdom and Europe. If your metaphorical engine needs repair in Guatemala, they won’t want to know.’

  ‘Poor Stuart. Outnumbered. Outgunned,’ said Ratty.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘I’m thinking about having a banana when we stop.’

  ‘No, my friend,’ replied the Patient. ‘Perhaps we need to go back. He might not know what he’s up against.’

  Ratty pulled over into a lay-by and turned to face the Patient squarely.

  ‘Are you seriously proposing that we should go back and guard my bodyguard?’

  ‘Tell me, Ratty. If the constable is indeed attempting to act in your interests, to overlook your misdemeanours – as he clearly has already done – and perhaps even to defend you physically, how does that make you feel?’

  ‘Golly, well, obviously one feels rather whizzo about the whole shebang. The chap is plainly one fish-knife short of a cutlery set if he’s doing so off his own back, but there’s a large slice of my gratitude heading his way with a hefty dollop of appreciation on the side.’

  ‘And did not Henri Frédéric Amiel say that thankfulness may consist merely of words, but that gratitude is shown in acts?’

  ‘Yes, but he probably meant a bunch of flowers or a box of choccies, not putting yourself in the way of angry strangers armed with lethal gardening implements.’

  ‘And did Cicero not say that gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others?’

  ‘Agreed, Patient chappy, but I don’t think he had our peculiar situation in mind when he said that.’

  ‘It is my view, and the view of many philosophers, that you should live by your feelings of gratitude. You should return to him. If only to ensure that he does not need our help, or to advise of the threat that may be posed by those men in the other vehicles. And if we let him continue to follow us directly, we may find he is there for us when we truly need him.’

  Ratty took a deep breath and performed a begrudging U-turn. He hadn’t asked to be followed through France, either by the forces of good or evil, let alone both at once, but the Patient’s reasoning was, as ever, indisputable. The prospect of heading back into Chartres and encountering the menacing vehicles made him squirm with nerves. If they had discovered the Patient’s ruse with the tracking device in the sheep lorry they would have even more reason to be angry with him. If he was going to search for the constable he wanted to get it done before the shakes made it tricky to drive.

  The futility of the search made itself quickly apparent. Two pairs of tired eyes, dazzled by headlights, unfamiliar with the geography, could never hope realistically to locate the constable that night. Ratty turned into the grounds of an old monastery behind the cathedral. According to the sign, the monastery was now a hotel. The car park was hidden from the main road. They would be safe for the night.

  It wasn’t until his second gin and tonic that Ratty’s nerves began to settle. The Patient had begun his usual thing of touching stonework, caressing ancient structural timbers and sniffing unfamiliar scents: his first encounter with French medieval construction enthralled him. He was so engrossed in marvelling at the hotel’s vaulted arches that he didn’t notice Constable Stuart walking along the opposite side of the cloister towards the bar.

  ‘Pression, s’il vous plait,’ the policeman said to the barman.

  Ratty looked up from his comforting glass, alerted by the sound of French being spoken with a broad Shropshire accent. The barman pulled half a litre of lager into a glass. The customer at the bar had his back to Ratty, but the uniform made his identity obvious.

  ‘Good evening, Constable,’ said Ratty. ‘It seems the coincidences continue. Would you care to join me?’

  ‘Very kind of you, Justin.’ Stuart pulled up a weighty armchair and settled into it, facing Ratty directly. ‘Good to get the weight off me feet. Been a long day.’

  ‘Well it hasn’t exactly flown by from my perspective,’ said Ratty. ‘The old noodle is positively spinning. Having trouble making sense of it all, quite frankly. My private research seems inadvertently to have stirred up a hornet’s nest.’

  ‘And boy can those hornets sting. You were lucky I followed you today.’

  ‘I was?’

  ‘Those other cars. Did you notice them?’

  ‘Rather.’

  ‘Is that why you came all the way back into the centre of Chartres?’ asked Stuart.

  ‘Wanted to warn you about them. Patient chappy didn’t like the cut of their jib.’

  ‘He was quite right,’ the policeman replied. ‘They had a tracker in your car. You sent them off to a farm.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Ratty.

  ‘Because I had trackers in their cars.’

  ‘Golly. But how the deuce did you keep up with me all this time? Tracker in my car, too, I suppose?’

  ‘Goodness, no. The sluggish nature of your unroadworthy and highly illegal vehicle was enough for me most of the time. Really wasn’t hard.’

  ‘But we came back into Chartres at night in order to find you and warn you. So how did you find us again?’

  ‘I didn’t have a tracker in your vehicle, but the radio voice transmitter let me know where to expect you.’

  ‘And is that kind of surveillance legal, const
able?’

  ‘Legal? Wouldn’t have a clue, to be honest. Not really my area.’

  The Patient returned from his exploration of their surroundings and sat with them.

  ‘Patient chappy, look who has joined us again.’

  Constable Stuart slurped his lager aggressively until the glass was empty and stained with white froth. He thumped it down on the table.

  ‘I really ought to be turning in, now,’ he told his companions. ‘We have a long drive ahead of us tomorrow.’

  ‘Before you retire to bed, may I enquire as to your reason for intersecting the paths of our lives so often in one day?’ asked the Patient.

  Constable Stuart looked at Ratty, indecision showing in his eyes.

  ‘Perhaps another beer,’ he said.

  Ratty took the constable’s glass to the bar and obtained a refill. Stuart settled even further into his seat, looking outwardly relaxed whilst turmoil raged within.

  ‘Can you tell us what is going on?’ asked Ratty. ‘All this surveillance and wotnot, it’s like we’re suspects in a whopping great criminal thingummy. But apart from stealing that feminist book and driving into the back of your car we’ve remained on the less sticky side of the law all day.’

  ‘Apart from when you went the wrong way down a one-way street,’ corrected the Patient. Ratty kicked him beneath the table. ‘And that kick might be construed as assault.’

  ‘You boys have done nothing wrong, trust me,’ said Stuart. ‘It’s just that you’ve got yourselves mixed up in something that I hoped would never come to fruition.’

  ‘Who were those people following you following us, or whatever it was?’ asked Ratty.

  ‘They have been dealt with, that is all you need to know.’

  ‘So they were gentlemen of ill-intention?’ asked the Patient.

  ‘They were no gentlemen. I followed them to the farm and resolved the situation.’

  Ratty pictured the bobby giving the drivers and their passengers a stern ticking off and making a note of their names and addresses as a deterrent from future wrongdoing. Somehow it didn’t seem adequate.

  ‘And why is Her Majesty’s Police Force paying for one of its finest officers to accompany us on our journey?’ asked Ratty.