The Theft of Magna Carta (12 page)

At last. Neil went inside the kiosk. He was there for at least ten minutes. First one, then two other people came out for it and stood about, but he kept his back to them all. When at last he came out his stride, for him, was positively jaunty. He opened the car door and beamed at her, saying: “Did you know you look d
e-licious
today?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I knew.”

“And delectable,” he added, getting in. He ran his hand up and down her bare arm and she didn't flinch or try to move away. “Honey,” he said, “I think we're going to have an easy ride.”

“Then you're crazier than I thought you were.”

“Don't be like that,” he protested, squeezing her arm. “There's word from Nicodemus which says he has already got an offer for at least five million dollars.”

“Good God!” Sarah exclaimed. “Five million!”

“You see how crazy I am, honey. I'll tell you how crazy. I've had Ledbetter making inquiries through another guy who won't talk, because Ledbetter's got too much on him. And I've got a real expert working with him, a kid named Bryce who's tops in electronics. I haven't wanted you to know before, but it's okay now, we won't be long. We had a big piece of luck; our dear little lady guest and the zealous Detective Sergeant Batten are lovers. What do you know? Batten is a man with a wife and three children, carrying on with an unmarried policewoman like that. And Batten's one of the security guards at the cathedral – he knows all the tricks. Didn't I tell you this was going to work out just fine?”

“I'm beginning to think you might be right,” Sarah admitted. Excitement sounded in her voice and shone in her eyes. Stephenson patted her knee, and slowly settled at the wheel. His door wasn't quite shut. As he opened it to slam it, the slip of paper with the number blew out. It fluttered along the pavement toward a big church which stood facing three ways, and it was noticed by a uniformed policeman who had been standing talking to a traffic warden. The policeman walked on, reflecting that the driver of the car was like the man Stephenson he had to report on. The car disappeared and the policeman saw the slip of paper catch against some wallflowers in a small flower bed near the church. He waited until the car was out of sight and he could not be noticed in its driving mirror, before going to the slip of paper which had now been caught in a gust of wind and been carried twenty or thirty feet further away. The policeman broke into a run, tried twice in vain to tread on it, and on the third time, kept it under his boot. He bent down and picked it up, reading: 871242. He took out his notebook, placed the paper between the leaves, then took out his walkie-talkie radio.

 

“Here's something,” a Salisbury Information Room man said to Chief Inspector Kempton, half an hour later. “A report from Bristol, sir. One of their chaps on the beat saw a man put a slip of paper into Stephenson's car when it was parked. Stephenson went to a telephone booth as soon as he got back, carrying a slip of paper in his hand. The piece of paper was blown out of the car when he got back and it just had a number on it, reading 871242, which looks like a telephone number.”

Kempton rubbed his big chin.

“It could be. Is Bristol checking?”

“I don't know, sir,” the local man said.

“Then I'd better ask them to,” said Kempton, looking at his big wristwatch. “It's nearly half-past three. Mr. West ought to be here soon. Let's see if we can do a quickie on this job, shall we?”

 

 

Tom Batten was sitting in a police car at the corner garage when Roger pulled in for petrol. Roger appeared not to notice him, but after the garage hand had started filling his tank, Batten came up. He was smiling his now familiar smile, and his eyes seemed buried deep in their sockets. Shy, wondered Roger. Trustworthy? There was absolutely no way of telling.

“Hullo, sir,” Batten said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“What's brought you?” Roger asked. “Our case?”

“No, sir, I'm afraid not. There's been a report of some stolen cars in the area and I'm doing a quick check. No luck here, though. Have you got five minutes, sir – about ‘our' case?”

“Yes,” Roger said.

“Move Mr. West's car, Teddy, when you've finished with it,” Batten said, and opened Roger's door. “We'll have a cuppa in my car.” He did everything so casually that Roger could almost have been persuaded that it was an accidental encounter. There was some kind of telepathy, for a girl from the café brought a tray of tea as they got into the small police car. “Expect you can do with this, sir.”

“Yes, thank you,” Roger said, and the girl went off. “Sergeant,” he said to Batten, “I don't know that I like this kind of surreptitious meeting. I can't promise I shall keep what you have to say to myself.”

“I quite understand, sir,” Batten said. His eyes were shadowed, there was a curious intensity in him, and Roger had no doubt that he was very worried. “The truth is, I don't really know what to do about a personal matter which is a police matter also. I'm in a very difficult position, and you, being a stranger to the district like, can see clearer than I. I'll bide by your decision, whatever it be.”

Whether he was simply being cunning or was wholly genuine, Roger didn't try to guess. He did know that he was inclined to be sorry for the man, who was certainly in some kind of trouble.

Roger said: “I'll help if I can.”

“I know you will, sir. I can talk to you, whereas I can't talk to Mr. Isherwood or any of my own senior officers. I'm a married man, sir, with three children all under ten. Happy enough as marriages go, but you know how they go, sir, don't you? Well, to come straight out with it, I'm as worried as hell for two reasons. Linda—Linda Prell and me, well, we had a thing going between us. She being dedicated to her work as a police officer she didn't want to get married, and me having a bit of a roving eye by nature, we got this thing going. And—and I'm fond of Linda, Mr. West. I daresay, to a sophisticated man like you, it doesn't mean much if a man says he's in love, but that's what it amounts to, sir. Linda's come to mean a lot more to me than fun in bed. A lot more.”

Roger said heavily: “This business must hurt like the devil.”

“Not knowing whether she's alive or dead or what happened to her or what might be happening, it's awful. I can hardly concentrate.” Batten's voice was hoarse. “Oh, I can pull myself together when I have to, it hasn't stopped me working properly, and I've a personal reason for wanting to find her. So I've an extra incentive, you see. But—what if it comes out, sir? The newspaper people are always asking questions and these Fleet Street chaps are different from the local ones. They don't care what they ask.”

“Have they been at you about this?”

“Not at me, sir. But they keep asking about Linda. Why, there's one man from the
Daily Call
who's actually asked whether she had any other reason for disappearing, whether it's a hoax, so to speak. And some have been asking if Linda had a lover.”

“Who have they asked?” demanded Roger.

Sympathy took away the edge of anger but anger was there because such a situation had existed without his being told at once. If a newspaper broke this story it could have smashed on his head without the slightest warning. The relationship between this man and the woman in his life wasn't a police issue but the behaviour of police officers was; both of them had laid themselves open to blackmail.

There was also the human element, so very real and painful; this man was in anguish.

And there was the police angle, cold and relentless.

“Linda lives with her married sister, sir, and her sister and brother-in-law know the situation. They're very broad-minded, and they've an extra room at their flat. It's in a converted house, rather secluded, you know the one – I pointed out a Mr. Withers, didn't I? He owns the place. And did I point out Stephenson?” Batten sat further back than he had been and nearly knocked over the tea. “My dear God,” he exclaimed, “what's happening to me? I can't even remember straight!”

“Why should you think I might be interested in Stephenson?” asked Roger.

“Only because he'd been with Caldicott a lot,” answered Batten.

“Who else have these newspapermen approached?” demanded Roger.

“Two—two or three of the neighbours, sir.”

“At the flats?”

“Yes. The tenants told Meg – that's Linda's sister, sir.”

“Have the newsmen asked any policemen?”

“If they have no one's told me,” replied Batten.

“Do any of your police colleagues know?”

“I can't be absolutely sure, sir, but I don't think so. I've never confided in anyone and I'm sure Linda hasn't either. A few of them might have an idea but I don't think they know for certain. Linda and I have never—never let on at the station, none of this touching hands business. We've always been very matter-of-fact. Good friends, you know, but there's a lot of good friendship at the station. I would have said that no one knew, but after this, well, I can't be sure.” Batten spread his hands, and went on in a hoarse voice: “What am I going to do, sir? Tell Mr. Isherwood? It's—it's a bloody hard thing to do, but I'm not worried about that so much. I just can't see straight and I don't know the best course.”

Roger said quietly: “I think Mr. Isherwood must be told.”

Batten gulped. “I daresay you're right, sir.”

“Like me to tell him?”

“
Would
you, sir?” For the first time since this discussion had started Batten actually brightened up. “If—if only you would! I know I've no right to involve you, but—”

“This wouldn't be involving me,” Roger said. “I can say that you made a remark which made me wonder what was going on and I forced the story out of you.”

Batten passed his hand across his eyes and muttered: “Thank you, sir.” After a pause which seemed to last for ages, he went on: “What—what do you think I ought to do, sir? Leave the case?”

“It isn't a decision for you or me,” Roger said. He watched the man who had become wizened and old-looking, and felt the warming of compassion, so he went on: “I know what I would do.”

“What's that, sir?” Batten was eager.

“I'd put you on the case full-time,” Roger said. “I'd keep you so busy you'd have no time to worry. And I'd tell you to answer any questions the press put to you.”

“About us being
lovers,
sir?”

“About you being good friends. What about your wife in all this?”

“Well,” Batten said, chokily. “Well, I don't really think she would worry all that much for her own sake. I think—well, she probably knows there's someone, but so long as I keep the home going and don't start throwing any money about on bits of skirt it would not worry her. The scandal might, though, and she'd be in a bad way if she thought it would hurt the kids.”

“Tom,” Roger said gently, “obviously there's a risk that this story will break. You're quite right about London newspapermen, they can be ruthless, and in this case they wouldn't be doing their job properly if they said nothing once they had proof. You should tell your wife; I feel quite sure about that.”

Batten didn't speak.

“And I'll tell Mr. Isherwood as soon as we're in Salisbury,” Roger went on. “It's time we got a move on.”

“Yes, I know,” Batten said. “I shouldn't have worried you about it. My God, I didn't think anything like this would happen! When I gave Linda that locket with the camera in it – it's a Japanese mini-camera, wonderful little job – I thought she'd find it useful. It was a birthday present, sir. She can't wait for the day when she's promoted to sergeant, sir, she—”

Batten broke off, with a catch in his breath.

Roger could almost hear him saying to himself: but supposing she's dead!

His car was standing close to Batten's, and he drove off first, troubled but not yet worried that the man might do something drastic, such as take his own life. Yet there was anguish in his mind and he had a terrible battery of censure to face: letting Isherwood know, telling his wife, facing the critical comments of his colleagues and friends; facing headlines. Roger pulled into the side of the road a few miles up, and waited. Soon the pale blue police car appeared, and he started off again; there seemed no immediate crisis.

Twenty minutes later, at half-past four, he entered the police station. He had a feeling that the men at the desk and who moved about the hall and passages looked at him with sharper attention than they had, but he couldn't be sure. The door of “his” room was open and Kempton was there with a copy of the London
Evening Standard
spread over the desk. He looked up, and sprang to attention.

“Glad to see you back, sir.”

“Thanks. What's going on?”

“This,” Kempton said, twisting the paper around so that Roger could see the headlines. They spread right across the paper in a two-line banner which no one could fail to read yards away. And they told Batten's story in the way he had feared most:

 

MISSING POLICEWOMAN'S SECRET LOVER

 

“How about that for a turn-up for the book?” Kempton demanded. “Isherwood's nearly apoplectic over it. Won't talk to the press or do or say a thing until he can discuss it with you. Sorry to throw this at you the moment you get back, sir. Would you like some tea or something before you go and see him?”

“No,” answered Roger thoughtfully. “But I'd like to freshen up. Check that he'll be free in ten minutes, will you?”

It was a minute or two longer than that before he tapped at the door of the chief inspector's office and went in. Isherwood was putting down the receiver. He was pale and for a moment tight-lipped; obviously something had hit him very hard. Roger was suddenly aware of the great variety of pressures to which the headline could subject this man, whose dark hair was brushed back from his forehead, which was white and smooth as a billiard ball. His black moustache was trimmed so neatly that it might almost have been false. On his desk was a copy of the
Evening Standard,
opened out so that the front and the back page showed.

As he beckoned, his telephone bell rang, and he motioned to a chair and growled: “Have you seen that bloody thing?” He picked up the receiver as Roger nodded, and rasped: “Inspector Isherwood . . . No, I haven't.” He banged down the receiver and glared at Roger. “That was the fifth call I've had from a national newspaper to ask if I had any comment. The chief constable has—” He broke off. “Oh, hell. Why should I let off steam with you?”

“You have to growl at someone,” Roger said mildly. “Did you know about this romance?”

“No. None of my business, anyhow.”

“You mean, private lives.”

“Yes.”

Roger said: “I don't know, Jack. I really don't know.”

“Can you stand there and tell me that none of your officers has ever slept with a woman other than his wife?”

“No, of course not.”

“Do you ask around to find out what they've been up to?”

“No.”

“What the hell, then?”

Roger said ruefully: “If one of our men gets involved with a woman and it affects his work I have to take notice. And there's a lot of temptation in London.”

“No doubt,” Isherwood growled. “And in Manchester, where I came from, and in Salisbury, if it comes to that. I had a woman sitting in that chair you're afraid to put your fanny on, offering me bed and massage as often as I liked if only I wouldn't charge her husband with embezzlement. Bloody attractive woman, too. Don't talk to me about temptation! Every possible way to prevent a copper doing his job is thrown at us yokels as well as you sophisticated coppers in the great metropolis!”

Roger sat down and grinned.

Isherwood glared for a few seconds, and then slowly relaxed.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he growled. But he looked better and his colour was more normal.

“Now I know what it feels like to be a sergeant,” Roger said. “Jack—”

“I shouldn't have—”

“Jack, do you know who her lover was?”

“No, and I don't bloody well—” He broke off. “No,” he repeated, and looked very tense. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Tom Batten.”

Isherwood seemed to freeze. The blood drained from his face again. He put a hand on his desk as if he needed to steady himself. He didn't speak for a long time. The telephone bell rang suddenly, despairingly, but although he started involuntarily, he didn't seem to hear it. Roger leaned forward and lifted the receiver.

“Mr. Isherwood's office,” he said gruffly.

“Mr. West? Mr. Kempton wonders if you can spare him—”

“I'll call him back,” Roger said, and put the receiver down. He was watching Isherwood who seemed to be about to faint. The silence dropped again, broken only by Isherwood's heavy breathing.

At last, Isherwood said in a husky voice: “And it was right under my nose. If the newspapers get hold of this, my job's gone for a Burton. You can be sure of that.” He lowered himself to his chair. There was a fringe of perspiration on his forehead; a myriad of tiny beads. He eased his stiffly starched collar, still looking at Roger, and seemed to gain fresh strength as he asked: “Sure?”