A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 Read Free Page A

finger to his lips and whispered in my ear:
    â€œGround-floor window. Took less than ten minutes. Nothing else.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Then I saw. Toad News Network’s star reporter LydiaStartright was about to do an interview. The finely coiffured TV journalist finished her introduction and turned to us both. Boswell employed a neat sidestep, jabbed me playfully in the ribs and left me alone under the full glare of the news cameras.
    â€œâ€”of Martin Chuzzlewit , stolen from the Dickens Museum at Gad’s Hill. I have with me Literary Detective Thursday Next. Tell me, Officer, how it was possible for thieves to break in and steal one of literature’s greatest treasures?”
    I murmured “bastard!” under my breath to Boswell, who slunk off shaking with mirth. I shifted my weight uneasily. With the enthusiasm for art and literature in the population undiminished, the LiteraTec’s job was becoming increasingly difficult, made worse by a very limited budget.
    â€œThe thieves gained entrance through a window on the ground floor and went straight to the manuscript,” I said in my best TV voice. “They were in and out within ten minutes.”
    â€œI understand the museum was monitored by closed-circuit television,” continued Lydia. “Did you capture the thieves on video?”
    â€œOur inquiries are proceeding,” I replied. “You understand that some details must be kept secret for operational purposes.”
    Lydia lowered her microphone and cut the camera.
    â€œDo you have anything to give me, Thursday?” she asked. “The parrot stuff I can get from anyone.”
    I smiled.
    â€œI’ve only just got here, Lyds. Try me again in a week.”
    â€œThursday, in a week this will be archive footage. Okay, roll VT.”
    The cameraman reshouldered his camera and Lydia resumed her report.
    â€œDo you have any leads?”
    â€œThere are several avenues that we are pursuing. We areconfident that we can return the manuscript to the museum and arrest the individuals concerned.”
    I wished I could share my own optimism. I had spent a lot of time at Gad’s Hill overseeing security arrangements, and I knew it was like the Bank of England. The people who did this were good. Really good. It also made it kind of personal. The interview ended and I ducked under a SpecOps DO NOT CROSS tape to where Boswell was waiting to meet me.
    â€œThis is one hell of a mess, Thursday. Turner, fill her in.”
    Boswell left us to it and went off to find something to eat.
    â€œIf you can see how they pulled this one off,” murmured Paige who was a slightly older and female version of Boswell, “I’ll eat my boots, buckles and all.”
    Both Turner and Boswell had been at the Litera Tec department when I turned up there, fresh from the military and a short career at the Swindon Police Department. Few people ever left the Litera Tec division; when you were in London you had pretty much reached the top of your profession. Promotion or death were the usual ways out; the saying was that a LiteraTec job wasn’t for Christmas—it was for life.
    â€œBoswell likes you, Thursday.”
    â€œIn what sort of way?” I asked suspiciously.
    â€œIn the sort of way that he wants you in my shoes when I leave—I became engaged to a rather nice fellow from SO-3 at the weekend.”
    I should have been more enthusiastic, but Turner had been engaged so many times she could have filled every finger and toe—twice.
    â€œSO-3?” I queried, somewhat inquisitively. Being in SpecOps was no guarantee you would know which departments did what—Joe Public were probably better informed. The only SpecOps divisions I knew about for sure below SO-12 were SO-9, who were Antiterrorist, and SO-1, who wereInternal Affairs—the SpecOps police; the people who made sure we didn’t step out of line.
    â€œSO-3?” I repeated. “What do