Free The Theft of Magna Carta by John Creasey Page B

screens,” he said promptly, “is that of Linda Prell of the Salisbury Division of the Wiltshire Constabulary. Woman Police Constable Prell vanished this morning after being at an art gallery – the Leech Gallery, where I am now standing – where some Old Masters were on preview, prior to auction. . . .”
    The picture changed.
    The reporter stood in front of the shop with his microphone round his neck, showing some of the paintings in the window. There were close-ups of the Constables and a Turner, an interview with bearded Leech, mostly explanation of the way the pictures had been discovered: “. . . The treasures have been hidden in this isolated Wiltshire farmhouse for at least a hundred years . . .” There was another change of picture and a sweeping view of the cathedral spire over the old tiled roofs of nearby buildings. “Now the quiet of this lovely cathedral city has been shattered by the disappearance of the young woman police officer. The Wiltshire police regard her disappearance as of such importance that they have asked Scotland Yard for help . . . Chief Superintendent Roger West arrived late this afternoon . . .”
    Roger’s picture appeared on the screen, and the reporter asked: “Have you been able to discover any clue to explain the missing officer’s disappearance, Superintendent?”
    â€œNo,” Roger answered.
    Behind him hovered Isherwood and Batten, a discreet distance from the microphone and the camera.
    â€œHas any motive yet been discovered?”
    â€œNone is yet proved,” Roger West answered briskly. “But there has been very little time. The Salisbury police haven’t lost a minute.”
    â€œIs there anything the public can do to help in the search?” demanded the reporter.
    â€œYes indeed,” West said, and his face was brought into close-up so that he appeared to be almost in the room where the Stephensons sat. Everyone was watching intently except an elderly man whose newspaper kept rustling over a stomach which rose and fell rhythmically. “Every man and woman in Salisbury, in Wiltshire, in the neighbouring counties can search their memories for this young woman . . .”
    His picture faded; a very large blow-up of Linda Prell’s replaced it.
    â€œWe need to trace this policewoman’s movements from the time she was seen to leave Leech’s Gallery at about ten forty-five this morning,” Roger West went on. “A local newspaperman saw her go. Meanwhile every available police officer and several military units will begin a search at dawn tomorrow . . . The help of the public is urgently required . . . Farmers and farmworkers are particularly requested to report anything even slightly unusual. A car parked in an unusual place, for instance: reports of noises: cigarette ends, pieces of litter, anything which might have been left in a copse, a corner of a field, in a shed or empty house . . .”
    At last, the appeal was over.
    Soon, the newscast ended in a brief forecast about the next day’s weather. Stephenson touched Sarah’s knee and they went out of the room in silence, then up to their rooms: communicating rooms with a bathroom in between. Stephenson put an evening newspaper on the foot of a double bed.
    Sarah said: “Do you know anything about that woman police officer?”
    â€œSarah, how could you say such a thing!”
    â€œNeil,” she said, “I’m not a fool. I saw you go out, and I know that Ledbetter, the man who drives you in London, is staying in the next room. If he killed her—”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous, honey,” Stephenson interrupted. “And don’t interfere with things that don’t concern you.”
    â€œWhat happens if the police come after us?” demanded Sarah, speaking with more feeling than she had yet shown.
    â€œWe tell them we don’t know a thing, which we don’t. And if I knew anything I