The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

August 14
– the name had caused
confusion and the terrorists’ media rant had offered no obvious
clues, no-one yet prepared to believe it was a fourteen-week
countdown to some momentous event. If it symbolised a date in the
past, then the link was far from obvious. The infamous
Marxist-Leninist terrorist Ilich Ramírez Sánchez, known popularly
as Carlos the Jackal, had been captured on that day in ‘94, and in
2007 four suicide bombs had killed almost 800 in Iraq; up to a
thousand more had died when Egyptian security forces had attacked
supporters of ousted President Morsi in 2013.

The Poland –
Ukraine – Latvia connection offered various alternatives, the most
likely being from 2008. At a mass rally in Tbilisi, the leaders of
Poland, Ukraine, Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia had stood with
Georgia’s President to publicly declare their support for Georgia
in its conflict with Russia over South Ossetia. The actual date of
the rally was August 12th, with Georgia’s President signing a
French-brokered peace plan three days later – the 14th might thus
represent some as yet unidentified event of importance, perhaps
even a very specific personal loss.

Whatever the significance of the date, Grebeshkov knew the
FSB had to smash
August 14
sooner rather than later, before the citizens of
Moscow finally lost patience. In less than twenty-four hours the
crowds would gather to celebrate Victory Day, army units now both
in the parade and as part of the increased security, everyone
concerned that
August 14
would find its own unique way to mark the end of
the Great Patriotic War.

The terrorists
needed money,
shelter, transport and basic necessities – with their faces
splashed across the media and a generous reward offered, the
breakthrough would eventually happen, and the FSB’s own specialist
counter-terrorism unit, the elite Alpha Group, was more than ready
to exact a suitable revenge.

Yet Grebeshkov
still worried that he was missing something crucial and disbelief
was proving to be an irritating bedfellow, leading to many a
sleepless night. The terrorists were just a little too clever, able
to disappear far too easily for them not to be receiving high-level
inside help. And if not the FSB, that left either someone close to
the Security Committee or indeed a member of Grebeshkov’s own
specialist team.

Grebeshkov
opened up one of the personnel files from the Alpha Group Index,
pausing briefly to study the image adjacent to the personal data.
The daughter of a Russian diplomat, Captain Natalia Markova had
inherited an Asiatic attractiveness, her features hiding a subtle
mix of self-confidence and resourcefulness: degree in political
science, fluent in three languages, no obvious vices, and no
subconscious desire to prove herself better than her male
counterparts.

The campaign against
August
14
had stalled, and the FSB was struggling
to prove it was capable of defeating the terrorists. Markova had
never yet let Grebeshkov down, and he needed someone whose
integrity matched his own, someone with the initiative to help
tease out the traitor in their midst.

“I’m sorry the
house is in such a mess. George was always a hoarder, but I just
can’t seem to work out what to keep and what to... well, throw
away, I suppose, or perhaps take to a car boot.”

Jessica Saunders gave Anderson a thin smile, then continued
to reminisce about her husband while Anderson sat on the sofa and
made brief notes. Once the
Farrier’s
barman had piqued
Anderson’s interest, he couldn’t let it lie, and a sleepless night
had followed with his mind flipping from one fanciful scenario to
another. George Saunders’ accident, Darren Westrope’s crash, the
American McDowell – three elements which taken together could mean
absolutely nothing, or so much more. Whilst a double murder might
be stretching it a little far, fate seemed to be whispering in
Anderson’s ear; there could well be a story here and all he needed
to do was fit the pieces snugly together.

The buzz of
chasing down a story was sometimes worth the effort just by itself
and Anderson had quickly managed to get his head around who was
where and when; not that it offered any answers, but it helped him
work out what questions needed to be asked. George and Jessica
Saunders had flown to Spain on Sunday April 11th, the Commander
going missing on the Wednesday, his body discovered two days later:
multiple broken bones, fractured skull – all injuries consistent
with a fall from the track at the top of the ravine. Darren
Westrope had died early Monday evening, April 19th. Two accidents
resulting in two deaths, five days and fifteen-hundred miles apart,
yet Saunders and Westrope had lived a mere hundred yards from each
other.

Anderson’s
staple opening line of researching an article on a young life
unfairly taken had worked as well as he could have hoped and Darren
himself seemed a normal enough nineteen year-old: college course at
Boston in Computing, free time spent out and about enjoying
himself, no obvious link to Erdenheim or Pat McDowell, and no
apparent motive for anyone to want him dead. The car crash had
occurred roughly a mile and a half from Marshwick, Darren’s Fiesta
heading east towards Graythorp, the Management Centre of Erdenheim
standing on its northern edge. North, west and south, there was
nothing else other than miles of farmland, the sea to the east.
Graythorp itself was a hamlet of no more than a dozen houses, yet
no-one seemed able to shed light on where exactly Darren was headed
the evening he’d died or even precisely what time he’d left home;
he might even have just fancied a random drive.

Everything
pointed to it being a tragic accident, the police happy that the
other driver wasn’t drunk, on drugs or speeding, the inquest set
for June. Pat McDowell, on behalf of the Management Centre, had
contacted Darren’s family to offer his condolences but unlike with
Saunders, he hadn’t attended the funeral. McDowell himself seemed
to be a favourite target for the gossips, his reputation based on
nothing more than his physical size and a surfeit of
self-confidence. Yet the American still seemed out of place: 82nd
Airborne, then off the radar for almost five years until he arrived
at Graythorp.

Erdenheim’s
Management Centre had only opened its doors the previous November,
offering single day and residential courses on leadership and
team-building. Purpose built, with state-of-the-art computer
facilities, its client list included two multinationals, the
Centre’s out-of-the-way location made easier by the presence of a
helicopter pad. McDowell and a Jonathan Carter were listed as its
directors, the American parent company with three other facilities
spread across North America.

By the time he
had arrived at Jessica Saunders’ house, Anderson’s enthusiasm for
his chosen task had started to wane, well aware that he’d let
rumour and wishful thinking affect his judgement, and embarrassed
to be asking impertinent questions while people were still coming
to terms with their loss. To his relief, Anderson had immediately
been welcomed into Jessica’s house for Sunday afternoon tea and
cake, there no mention of his contretemps with Charlotte. Jessica
was more curious than anything, his friendship with Devereau
apparently enough to convince her Anderson could be trusted, and
she had skilfully avoided any mention of how exactly the Commander
and Devereau had become friends, Anderson never yet getting to the
bottom of Devereau’s slightly murky past.

It was
inevitable that the conversation would eventually move on from the
Commander’s naval career and work as a parish councillor to the
trickier subject of their regular holidays in Spain, Anderson doing
his best not to be too insensitive.

“I’m just
sorry to be asking lots of difficult questions,” continued
Anderson. “Please ignore any that go too far.”

“Ask all you
want, Mr Anderson. Don’t worry; you’ll soon know if any of your
questions could be classed as impertinent.”

Anderson
jumped in regardless, not sure how else to word it, “Could you tell
me a little more about the Commander’s accident?”

“We both love Andalusia,” Jessica explained, pouring out a
second cup of tea. “The beaches are beautiful but away from the
coast there’s a whole different world, almost unspoilt...” Her hand
trembled slightly as she lowered the china teapot, then she looked
up and gave Anderson a sad smile. “The hills around Nerja have some
wonderful walks; the
Junta de los
Rios
is a bit further away but with
spectacular views. George knew the area well, so I wasn’t worried
that he went alone.” She paused, and her tone softened, “The
Spanish authorities were very good and they even brought in a
specialist team. Some of the paths are very steep and can be quite
treacherous, especially after rain. And it had rained that
night...” She broke off briefly before continuing, “I take it you
believe George’s death might not have been an accident?”

Jessica was
proving as perceptive as her daughter, or perhaps Anderson was just
far too easy to read. “No, not really,” he said, his tone somehow
managing to sound both embarrassed and defensive. “I’m just trying
to cover every possibility… Darren Westrope: I understand from his
parents that he used to work for you?”

Jessica looked
at Anderson in surprise, “Darren?” Her brow furrowed, “He did, yes;
for several weeks last summer holidays. He needed money for a car
and sorted out the garden, together with a bit of decorating.” She
studied Anderson closely, “Darren’s crash was terrible but no one
here blames the other driver. If you’re suggesting a connection
between Darren’s death and my husband’s then I think it very
unlikely.”

“I’m sure
you’re right,” Anderson said quickly, still pushing his luck.
“Darren wasn’t working on something recently for the
Commander?”

“I don’t think
so.” Jessica’s eyes misted over, “Darren’s funeral was only last
Monday, such a sad affair.”

“And there’s
been nothing out of the ordinary?” asked Anderson gently. “Say, in
the last couple of weeks before you went to Spain?”

Jessica pursed
her lips and thought for a moment, “Not that I can recall. George
was pretty busy for a month or so before our holiday, but that
wasn’t unusual.”

“Busy doing
what exactly?”

“Council
business and suchlike,” Jessica responded, not put out by
Anderson’s continued probing. “George always tried to spend some
time each day out and about, and not under my feet. That last week
was a little chaotic; I probably would have asked more but I was
busy getting everything organised for our holiday. I’ll check his
diary in a minute if it helps.”

“No unexpected
visitors? Someone different on the phone?”

“Sorry,
no-one. In any case, strangers on the phone would be nothing
new.”

“And there’s
no possibility of your husband being involved in something related
to his work in Naval Intelligence?”

Jessica did
well to keep her surprise in check, “Now you are definitely
creating something out of nothing.” She paused, choosing her words
carefully, “When George first retired, his opinion was sometimes
sought after, but not for years now.”

“And Spain was
pretty much as usual? Your husband didn’t seem worried or have
something on his mind?”

“We were both
looking forward to it,” Jessica said with a shake of her head.
“George was perfectly happy, I’m convinced of that. The Spanish
police asked about money problems and such like, but we’ve never
had worries on that score. I sense you’re grasping at straws, Mr
Anderson.”

Anderson was
indeed becoming desperate, “Nothing relevant filed away on his
phone or his computer?”

Jessica gave
an amused smile, “I doubt it; George wasn’t that keen on
technology. We’ve an ageing laptop but I tend to use it more,
shopping and holidays mainly.”

Anderson
didn’t push it and opted to again change tack, “The driver involved
in Darren’s accident was from the Management Development Centre at
Graythorp – do you know much about one of its directors, an
American named Pat McDowell?”

“The man from
Erdenheim,” confirmed Jessica. “I know of Mr McDowell but I can’t
say I’ve ever met him.”

“He was at the
funeral, taller than me, burly, hair tied in a ponytail.”

“Was he,”
Jessica said in surprise, “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice him; but then
I didn’t notice you either until I saw you with Charlotte.”

Anderson
ignored the jibe, relieved Jessica was being so helpful. “Would the
Commander know him? Or the other director, Jonathan Carter?”

“Jon Carter’s often in the
Farriers
and he only lives round the
corner; mid-thirties but looks about twenty. George definitely
knows Jon and he went to Erdenheim’s opening last year so he would
have met your Mr McDowell then. The Centre’s only a few buildings
close to the sea wall and it’s a nice walk from Graythorp to the
RSPB Reserve at Freiston Shore.”

“Is that a walk
your husband would ever do?”

“One of
several, yes; George would pick somewhere local at least once a
week and he was quite happy off by himself. I think he saw it as a
way of patrolling his territory.” Jessica pulled a face, “That
sounds bad, doesn’t it? But it was meant in a good way… George
would generally write something in his diary, just in case there
was ever a problem.” She stood up, “Help yourself to cake and I’ll
go check; just give me a minute.”

Anderson
waited patiently, letting his gaze wander at will around the room.
A framed photograph of a very young girl – presumably Charlotte –
occupied pride of place on the marble mantle-piece; on either side
were pictures of Jessica and George – one obviously their wedding,
the other with the Commander standing proudly in full dress
uniform. The old-fashioned three-piece suite and floral curtains
gave the sitting room a nice homely atmosphere, a quality totally
at odds with Anderson’s far-fetched fantasy of a double murder.