The Theft of Magna Carta by John Creasey Page A

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.”
    â€œWhat shall I do?”
    â€œTell Neil.”
    â€œI mean with the girl.”
    â€œAsk Neil,” the driver said laconically.
    â€œHe doesn’t pay us to ask him dumb questions,” the man by Linda Prell said. “What are we going to do with her?”
    â€œWe 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?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou can find out. If she’s a cop she’ll have her card.”
    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.
    â€œSo she’s a cop,” the driver said, and this time he caught his breath. “That’s bad.”
    â€œSi,” 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?”
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    Detective Officer Linda Prell, just coming round, heard this, and heard everything that followed.
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    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.
    â€œFirst,” he said, “we make her talk.”
    â€œDoesn’t the camera tell us all we want to know?”
    â€œSam,” 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