The Theft of Magna Carta by John Creasey Page B

rigged up among the branches of a tree. Roger stopped as an officer came up to him.
    â€œWhat’s the trouble?” he asked.
    â€œMostly we can’t keep the crowd away,” the man answered resentfully. “There must be a couple of thousand of them near Gorley Woods, come across country from all directions. There was a traffic hold-up before we could say snap. If you want to get through to Blandford, sir, I’d take the first left, and—” He broke off, backing a pace. “It’s Mr. West , isn’t it?”
    â€œAnd I’d like to go through to Gorley Woods.”
    â€œNo trouble about getting there, but if you take my tip you’ll turn off to the left as soon as you see the first parked cars. All over the place they are, too close to the road. You keep going into the field and do a half-circle round the cars, sir. It’ll look as if you’re going over some young barley but if you keep close to the hedge you won’t do any harm. Did you follow that, sir?” he asked anxiously.
    â€œYes thanks,” Roger said.
    He checked the impulse to ask if they had found the body, drove on, and followed the instructions closely. Once he was off the road itself the track was very bumpy, but soon he was opposite the main part of the copse and within easy walking distance. He left his parking lights on before locking the car and walking toward the parked cars and the roadway. The light was bright by the copse itself and spread far enough to show couples snuggled down in some cars, others, quite shameless, lying in the fields. No girl was crying “No, no, don’t!” here.
    Had the farmworkers heard Linda Prell?
    As he approached the road itself he saw cars parked in all directions and a crowd thick among the trees. A dozen or so police were keeping a space cleared and in this space men were digging. The light was eerie; the curious movements of the men and the shadows they made were eerie, too. The gaping spectators were – macabre, grisly, ghoulish. He saw a tiny flame above his head, falling down, and ducked. It went out. Half-ashamed, he realised that there were people up in the trees, and one had lit a cigarette and tossed the match down. His attention once caught, he saw dozens of figures squatting in the trees and looking down at the working men.
    Kempton was here, looking pale in the white lights. He seemed to recognise Roger, instinctively, and looked up.
    â€œHallo, sir.”
    â€œHallo. Anything?”
    â€œNo, sir, nothing at all. What we at first thought was a grave was old rubbish someone buried weeks ago. Any news your end, sir?”
    â€œIf you can call it news. No other suspects were at the gallery.”
    â€œI suppose we ought to have expected that,” Kempton said. “It certainly doesn’t help, sir.”
    â€œThere’s one thing. Those linen threads certainly came from the woman’s suit,” Roger remarked.
    â€œI wonder what the hell they did to her,” Kempton said in a growling voice. “It’s bad enough when one of our chaps runs into trouble, but when it comes to a woman officer—” He broke off. “I’m pretty sure about one angle, sir.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œShe won’t be found in these woods. We’ve seen all the soft ground where she could have been buried and there’s no fresh digging. Most of the place is a tangle of roots. There’s so little soft ground we haven’t had any luck with identifying car tracks or anything else,” Kempton went on gloomily. “I suppose we’d better keep the search going, though.”
    â€œI’m not sure we shouldn’t call it off until the morning,” answered Roger. He watched men scraping dirt from the foot of the tree where the policewoman had been tied, but he wasn’t thinking of that; he was thinking of the Stephensons and Caldicott, and the fact that he wished he had questioned them