Free The Theft of Magna Carta by John Creasey

drive to Salisbury with me?”
    There was only a moment’s hesitation; a hush, as if that barrier was descending, before Kempton answered.
    â€œFive minutes, sir.”
    That was just the response Roger would have made to the same question twenty – it was twenty! – years ago.
    â€œWe’ll use my car,” Roger decided. “It will be outside the Victoria Street entrance.” He rang off on whatever remark Kempton made, then dialled the garage to have his car sent round. Next, he put his head round the communicating door and caught Venables, the tall sergeant, breaking a piece of chocolate at his mouth. “I’m going to Salisbury,” he said, “and taking Chief Inspector Kempton with me.”
    â€œ Verumph goo’, sir .” Part of the chocolate disappeared in a gulp. “Sorry, sir!”
    Roger waved his hand in a “forget it” gesture, and went out. Dodging back into his office he picked up his bag, rather like a doctor’s bag and containing everything he was likely to want in an investigation; experience had taught him not to rely on getting what he needed at other police stations. This bag was always ready and he did not need to check it. He crossed to the door and his interoffice telephone rang. “Damn!” he exclaimed, but a moment’s delay wasn’t really important, and he crossed to it. “West.”
    â€œSorry to worry you, sir,” said Kempton. “Shall I bring my bag?”
    â€œYes,” Roger said. “One should, always.”
    â€œRight, sir!”
    Five minutes later, Roger was by the side of his car, a dark blue Rover 3 litre, when Kempton came striding from the corner of Broadway, having come the long way around.
    He carried a rather larger bag than Roger’s, black and metal-edged. He was a man of medium height but Roger had forgotten how very broad and thickset he was; and had forgotten how tough-looking, with heavy features and a broken nose. Something, probably the dark blue eyes deep beneath the jutting black eyebrows, softened his face. His jaw was massive, with a deep cleft.
    â€œSorry to keep you, sir.”
    â€œIf I never had to wait for anyone longer than that, I wouldn’t have anything to complain about,” Roger responded. “Go round the other side.” He took the wheel, and soon he was weaving through the traffic toward Victoria and the South and Southwest. “I can’t tell you very much because there isn’t much to tell. Salisbury sent a request for help, and they wouldn’t have done that if they weren’t badly worried.” He explained all he knew, and then asked: “What would you do next?”
    â€œPick up Caldicott?” suggested Kempton.
    â€œI think we should trace him and watch him,” Roger said. “It’s too early to pick him up. Odd,” he added to himself. “Usually we’re called in too late. This time we’ve been called before a crime has been committed, as far as I can see.” When Kempton didn’t speak, he went on: “Do you know Salisbury?”
    â€œSlightly,” answered Kempton. “I was down there two years ago when they had the robbery from the local castle. We were lucky – picked up the man and found a Reubens and Tintoretto he’d taken. The inspector-in-charge was a Manchester man, Jack Isherwood.”
    â€œIt still is,” Roger said.
    â€œGood!”
    â€œIs he all right?”
    â€œFirst-class man to work with, sir, yes.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear it. Do you know a Detective Sergeant Batten?”
    Kempton gave an explosive chuckle, then glanced quickly at Roger to check whether the laugh was acceptable. Was he, Roger West, supposed to be such a humourless creature? Kempton looked straight ahead, and said: “Man rather like a porker to look at?”
    â€œI know what you mean,” Roger said. “How good is he?”
    â€œI’d say very