Free The Theft of Magna Carta by John Creasey Page A

good indeed, sir, but a bit of a lone wolf. Often being called over the coals for doing things off his own bat.” Now Kempton’s look at Roger was almost sly. “I don’t just mean that in an emergency he would make snap decisions, but he has a tendency to follow his own line of reasoning and to plan an investigation, as it were, without consulting anyone else. Quite a character, sir.”
    Alan Kempton seemed to be a good judge of men.
    â€œIt looks as if he’s been at it again,” Roger said. “We’ll soon see. Arrange for Caldicott to be watched, will you?”
    Immediately, Kempton took the radio-telephone off its hook and gave instructions to the Yard. Then he sat back, and Roger concentrated on his driving. Twice during the next two hours word came through that there was no news of Linda Prell. Roger saw Kempton looking about him at the rolling countryside, obviously enjoying the drive, while he himself took much of it in as he drove. There were few parts of the country he liked better.
    They were leaving Stockbridge by the steep hill, just going off the dual carriageway, when a Ford Capri, a metallic blue colour which showed very bright in the sun, swept past a Morris Minor and went onto the new section of the motorway toward London.
    In the boot of that car was Linda Prell.
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    â€œNot a word, not a sign,” Isherwood said when they were in his office, just after half-past five. “Everyone has been alerted. We haven’t broadcast that she’s missing yet, but we’ve asked local farmworkers and farmers to keep a lookout for anything unusual. So far, nothing at all’s turned up. Linda Prell walked out of Leech’s and vanished. It’s as simple as that, crazy as it sounds.” He looked from Roger to Kempton, and went on. “I think it’s time we questioned Caldicott and the Stephensons. I hope you agree, Mr. West.”
    Roger asked: “Do you know where the Stephensons are?”
    â€œYes. In Bath, at the Pump Hotel,” Isherwood answered. “We could send someone there or we could bring them back here,” he said. “Which do you think is better?”
    Roger gave Kempton a moment or two in which to speak, and then answered: “I’d like to know who else was in the gallery this morning – who else might have thought the policewoman was taking pictures of them. I don’t think we should take it for granted that the Stephensons and Caldicott are involved. Will you be satisfied if we have them watched?” He turned on all his charm as he smiled at Isherwood.
    â€œNo,” answered the Salisbury man promptly. “But I’ll settle for it! And Jacob Leech, who owns the gallery, can probably tell you who else was there. Have you done anything about the man Caldicott?”
    â€œHe’s being watched,” Kempton answered very quickly. “If we need him we can pick him up any time we like, sir.”
    â€œI wish to God we could say the same of Linda Prell,” growled Isherwood.
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7
Cool Nerve
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    Neil Stephenson sat in a lounge at the Pump Hotel, in Bath, watching the television news. Sarah sat by his side, dressed in an ice-blue suit which made her seem even more aloof, apart, from everyone else. Most who came into the lounge glanced at her, but she encouraged no one to look twice. The BBC announcer was his usual bland self, the reporters covered various items of news including a fete at Bristol with their customary assurance. Then suddenly a photograph was thrown onto the screen, and both Neil Stephenson and Sarah sat up and stared intently.
    â€œOne of the biggest manhunts ever staged in the Southwest of England began in Salisbury, Wiltshire, late this afternoon,” the announcer said. “Here is John Wilberforce with on-the-spot details.” His voice faded, another man’s replaced it, brisker, and with a hint of Wiltshire accent.
    â€œThe photograph on your