The Theft of Magna Carta

by John Creasey

  “Forget them,” ordered Stephenson. “This is a job we don’t do. If I had a market for a million dollars I wouldn’t touch these paintings now. You catch your train and don’t worry about a thing.”

  “Do what he says, Frank, please,” urged Sarah.

  Caldicott looked from one to the other, saw they were adamant, shrugged, and walked on. He felt strangely solitary, and he knew it was chiefly because of Sarah. He had wanted to spend the rest of the day with her, even sharing her with Stephenson; he felt as enchanted as he had been yesterday. He knew better than to look around but in the window of a shop he saw their reflection. He wondered what had disturbed Stephenson so much; whether the girl with the locket camera had been enough to change his mind about his plans, or whether he had ever been really serious about the pictures here.

  Could that have been a blind, to hide some other purpose?

  Caldicott did not dwell on that thought, but neither did he dismiss it. The whole affair had disgruntled him, and by far the worst part of it was that he was unlikely ever to see Sarah again.

  5

  Capture

  Detective Officer Linda Prell was a dedicated policewoman who had served in the uniformed branch, doing every kind of sordid job, for three years. She was young in years but old in experience except experience in actual detective work. When she had discussed this job with Tom Batten early this morning, she had suggested the locket camera, which she had used once before. It had not occurred to her that any of her subjects would realise what she was doing.

  Now, following Stephenson at a discreet distance, she saw him go into the main doors of the Hart Hotel, where the auction was to be held next day. This hotel, the largest in Salisbury, was two miles or more from the Rose and Briar, and had its parking and garage space spread over a wide area.

  Linda Prell slipped into the car park.

  She knew the hotel’s many annexes and entrances. There were some rooms on the ground floor here, and a man whom she had seen talking to Stephenson that morning had one of these. She went in by a side entrance, then saw the man through the window of his room.

  He was at the telephone, and she could just hear him through the open window.

  She went closer but kept out of sight; and she heard him say: “Yes, you can use this room, Mr. Stephenson. Sure, that’s all right. A pleasure.”

  The telephone tinged as he replaced it. He moved out of the room and she heard the door close. She stepped away from the window and hurried toward an entrance used mostly by residents coming for their cars. The man did not appear. She hesitated, then acted on the spur of the moment, going closer to the window again, standing so that she couldn’t be seen.

  Soon Stephenson came in with another man whom she couldn’t see. They began to talk like old friends; the second man’s voice was English, and familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She listened intently, relying on her memory and not making notes.

  “It’s too big a deal to take any chances with,” the Englishman was saying. “If anything goes wrong I’m in very deep already.”

  “No one is stopping you from selling some paintings,” said the American. “A lot of those you’ve got are cool enough by now. You’ll miss the market if you don’t sell before long.”

  “I’ll miss the market if I let you sell too soon,” the Englishman remarked dryly.

  Stephenson laughed.

  “Okay, so no one makes a mickey out of you. But this big deal could make or break even Nicodemus!”

  Both men laughed, the Englishman on a wry note before he replied: “You’ve got Ledbetter at the ready and this electronics man on your hook, you say.”

  “I certainly have.”

  “I’ve got my end sewn up. I can have the loot out of the country within an hour of it being stolen,” said the Englishman.

  Linda knew she would recognise the voice eventually, but recollection still evaded her. Not that it mattered! Stephenson was the key, once she was able to report.

  Suddenly, before she could do anything to get away, a car swung into the car park, hemming her against the wall. The driver was the man from the bedroom, in chauffeur’s uniform. Linda moved to one side, but the chauffeur moved to block her. At the same moment the door of the car was opened, and he ordered: “Get in.”

  “I certainly won’t get in!”

  He drew a knife from his pocket, the blade very bright, and repeated: “Get in if you don’t want your throat cut.”

  For the first time in her life, she was afraid.

  There was not only the knife, but the expression in his eyes which convinced her that he would use it. She knew every kind of move in self-defence – but for the open door and the position in which he stood she would have taken a chance at attacking him. As it was, she stood very still, not quite sure what to do.

  A man appeared from inside the back of the car and gripped her wrist.

  “Get in,” the chauffeur ordered.

  He moved the knife. The man in the car pulled. She found herself dragged into the car, now utterly unable to help herself. The man in the car kept a grip on her wrist in such a way that she could not move but sat in an upright position. The chauffeur got into the front seat and started off. Leaving the car park, she saw him glance along the pavement and into the driving mirror, and then act with great unconcern. She half-turned her head but the man alongside her twisted her wrist enough to make her gasp.

  “Oh!”

  “Hurt you?”

  “You—you know it hurt!”

  “Hurt nothing,” he sneered, “compared with what I could do.” He twisted again and pain seared through her arm. “See what I mean?”

  “What—what do you want?”

  “Lucy Locket,” the man answered.

  She stared. “Lucy Locket—”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Take off your locket, Lucy, and give it to me.”

  Her free hand flew to the locket and its metal chain, and she clutched and covered it, until the man hoisted her left hand again and the pain became unbearable. She screamed out, but they were going fast along a country road and no one was in sight or earshot. Her fear was greater because of a sense of helplessness and because she was over the first shock and knew that this was really happening.

  “Gimme the locket,” the man ordered.

  She fumbled with the clasp at the back of her neck, and now began to think more rationally. Her fear had not subsided but was under control. The clasp came undone. If she could sling the heavy locket into the man’s face, it might hurt enough to make him let her go. If it caught his eyes it could blind him, but whatever the risk she had to try.

  He twisted viciously. She cried out, and the locket fell into her lap. She tried to strike him, but he fended the blow off and struck her savagely on the back of the neck with a chop of a blow. She gasped and doubled up, unconscious, as the man slid the locket from her lap. She crumpled up while he made no attempt at all to help her, just examined the locket. When it sprang open he saw the miniature camera inside and knew how right Stephenson had been. He leaned forward, holding the locket-camera out so that the chauffeur could see.

  The man said: “That’s bad.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “Tell Neil.”

  “I mean with the girl.”

  “Ask Neil,” the driver said laconically.

  “He doesn’t pay us to ask him dumb questions,” the man by Linda Prell said. “What are we going to do with her?”

  “We could cut her throat,” the driver remarked. “We weren’t seen – not to say ‘seen.’ “ He took his gaze off the road for a moment and glanced at the back of the unconscious woman’s head. “Is she a cop?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You can find out. If she’s a cop she’ll have her card.”

&nbs
p; The man who had taken the locket-camera put this into his pocket and then opened the linen handbag. It had some money, photographs, a handkerchief, and toilet accessories, but nothing at all to show her identity. He twisted her around so that he could pull at the neck of her dress, which opened with a zip fastener at the side. His hand felt the warm softness of her breasts, and a chain attached to a small packet in their valley. He drew the packet out, very slowly. It was a small purse, and inside was her warrant card and a tiny roll of film, not much larger than a pencil stub. He zipped up the dress again, and thrust the warrant card under the driver’s nose.

  “So she’s a cop,” the driver said, and this time he caught his breath. “That’s bad.”

  “Si,” the man behind him said, “what are we going to do with the bitch? And this time, don’t tell me to talk to Neil. We’ve got a real live cop in the car, and she’s seen us both. For all we know she’s taken photographs of us both. What are we going to do?”

  Detective Officer Linda Prell, just coming round, heard this, and heard everything that followed.

  Simon Ledbetter, the driver of Stephenson’s car, pulled off the road into a copse, reached by a narrow, leafy lane. No car was ahead and none in sight behind. Overhead, the sky was a clear, cloudless blue, and when he slowed down alongside the beech trees the sky seemed darker through the near-translucent leaves, not yet at full growth. When the car came to a standstill it was safely hidden from the highway. Only the insects buzzed and flew; and the birds.

  “First,” he said, “we make her talk.”

  “Doesn’t the camera tell us all we want to know?”

  “Sam,” Ledbetter said, “we have to make her talk.”

  His voice made Linda Prell shiver. There had been something menacing in this particular man from the moment he had stopped her outside the Hart, and now the menace was much greater. She could not see him because she was crouched between the seats, but she could remember him: small, compact, pale, hard-faced. His chauffeur’s cap had been pulled at an angle over his left eye, but she had seen the scar which ran from his eye around toward his ear. The other man was younger, sharp-featured, ruddy-faced with fair hair. He had hurt her but he did not frighten her as did the other man.

  She could not really believe she was here, in acute danger.

  Only half an hour ago she had been in the hot and crowded gallery, feeling on top of the world, so sure that she was taking her photographs unnoticed. Now she was within an ace of death. That was not imagination; it was not melodramatic: it was literally true. The waves of panic swept over her like waves of electric current, but there was a part of her mind which was not taken over by fear; she could think. Reason told her that in the circumstances these men would have to kill her. She would be able to identify them, they hadn’t a chance to escape if she were to live. So she had no possible choice. She was going to die.

  They were going to kill her.

  But the driver, the hateful one of the pair, wanted to make her talk first.

  She did not need telling the things he could do to cause pain; she had no doubt at all that if he tortured her she would not be able to hold out. So, she had to save herself from pain. That was the only thing she could do: save herself from pain.

  It was no use trying to escape.

  As that thought came, she asked despairingly: Isn’t it?

  If she ran, could she escape? She knew the countryside – goodness, she actually knew this copse! On the other side of the beeches there was a sandy ridge, pocked with rabbit holes and here and there a fox hole. The ground there fell away thirty or forty feet, the result of a landslide years ago, after torrential rain. In the landslide the roots of many of the trees had been bared, and today children often played among those gnarled and twisted roots. She could climb down and run across a field where barley already stood in massed spear formation, the shoots ankle high. Beyond the sloping field, beyond one of those smooth, green mounds which made Salisbury Plain so beautiful, was Webb’s Farm, a thatched farmhouse and some nearby cottages. They couldn’t be a mile away.

  If she could only get there . . .

  All these thoughts flashed through her mind while the men got out of the car and stood by it. They were in the middle of the copse, on the far side from the sandy ledge. She could creep out on the side away from them.

  They were whispering.

  She began to edge herself toward the door. It was closed and she would have to open it; how on earth could she open a car door without making enough noise to betray herself? She raised her head to look at the two men who were still whispering. Neither of them looked toward the car; they must think she was still unconscious. She turned the handle lever very slowly; it made no noise. She pushed the door open a crack and the sound was drowned by the cawing of a flock of rooks. She pushed it a further inch, almost hysterically grateful for the birds.

  Then, she heard the driver say: “We must find out why she was sent.”

  “She doesn’t have to have any special reason which affects us,” the other argued. “How do you know they didn’t send her to take pictures of everyone in the gallery?”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “Well, how do you know?” demanded the man from the back of the car. “She could have been sent to check on everyone.”

  “He doesn’t think so.”

  “He could be wrong,” the younger man screeched.

  They were still for a moment, and Linda took in short, shallow breaths, but the rooks had circled away and no longer drowned any sound. The door was open wide enough for her to squeeze out, if only they didn’t come around too soon. She pushed it a few inches wider, but was suddenly faced with a problem: how to get out. She was on her knees, facing the door, and there was no room to turn around unless she first stood up: and they would see her. So her only hope was to crawl: to put her head and shoulders through, and her arms, and place both hands on the ground. She could do it. There would be no difficulty; all she needed was a little time.

  Then the driver said: “So we’ll ask her.”

  Oh God, no.

  “And so we’ll find out,” he went on.

  Footsteps crunched on beech mast, on last year’s tough brown leaves. Twigs crackled. Birds flew, alarmed by the movement of men who had been standing so still. In panic, Linda Prell tried to get out more quickly – she had one hand on the ground and the other touching when her skirt caught on the door handle, and she could not move. She could not move a hand to tug, could not even get leverage with her body. She made an effort, something ripped – and then, only a few feet from her, she saw a pair of feet; then another pair.

  One man gasped, the other man cried: “You bitch!”

  Then they moved stiffly and together. The younger man grabbed her by the shoulders and the other thrust into the car so that he could clutch her waist. The skirt came free without any trouble, but she no longer thought of the skirt or escape or even life or death, she was simply afraid of pain.

  “I’ll tell you,” she gasped. “I’ll tell you!”

  Somehow, they had placed her on her feet, against the trunk of a tree. The sun made a tracery of light and shadow on her face, even on her eyes. They acted as if they had rehearsed what they were doing. The young man went behind the tree and stretched round for her wrists, pulling her back against the tree so that she couldn’t move.

  And the driver stood in front of her.

  She was gasping for breath. Her bosom was thrust forward. Her shoulder blades were grating on the bark of the tree. The driver took out the knife she had seen before, and she reached a screaming pitch of terror.

  He said: “If you lie to me you’ll wish you’d never been born.” He paused for a moment and she could see every feature of his face including the scar, for he was not wearing his cap. It was a long, knotted scar, one which had been allowed to heal witho
ut being stitched. “Who sent you to take photographs?”

  “My—my boss.”

  “Who, I said.”

  “Sergeant—Detective Sergeant Batten.” When he didn’t speak but waited as if for more information, she cried: “Tom Batten. It was Tom Batten.”

  “Whose picture were you to take?”

  “There—there were three people, two men and a woman. Stephensons. And—the man’s name was Caldicott. Caldi-cott.”

  “Who else?” demanded the driver. “Come on, let’s have it. Who else?”

  “No one,” she gasped. “No one else, just those three!”

  “Had you handed any film in?” he demanded.

  “No. I hadn’t even reloaded, I hadn’t used up the first film.”

  “Who were you taking pictures of?”

  “I’ve told you!” she cried. “A man named Stephenson and his wife, and a man named Caldicott. I’ve told you!”

  “Why were you taking the pictures?” asked the driver, in a strong voice.

  “I don’t know! Tom Batten told me to, he’s my superior officer. He—”

  As she spoke, as she gasped for breath, she had a moment of tremendous relief, for the younger man released her arms and the awful strain was eased. She actually staggered forward, forgetting everything but the relief; forgetting even the driver’s knife. Then she saw a glint at his hand, but it wasn’t the knife, it was a hypodermic syringe.

  “No!” she cried. “No, don’t!”

  She hardly felt pain as the needle slid into her arm.

  6

  Missing

  Tom Batten looked at his watch for the fifth or sixth time in ten minutes, and then went to the window of his small office in the new building at the Salisbury Police Station. A car was pulling in but it wasn’t Linda’s; and Linda should have been here at least an hour ago. It was nearly three o’clock, and the three people she had to photograph had been gone for over two hours. One, by train; the other two in a Jaguar which the man drove. These, the Stephensons, were heading for the West Country and Caldicott for London; he had caught the 2:31 according to the ticket-collector at the station.