The Theft of Magna Carta by John Creasey Page B

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.”
    â€œShe 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?”
    â€œWhat the hell do you mean?”
    â€œWell, how do you know?” demanded the man from the back of the car. “She could have been sent to check on everyone.”
    â€œ He doesn’t think so.”
    â€œHe 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.
    â€œAnd 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