The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (6 page)

Her father’s
death had hit her hard, bringing home the fact of her parents’
mortality. As an only child, Charlotte felt it her duty to stay
strong for her mother’s sake. George Saunders had always been the
rock of the family, patient and loving, rarely judgemental; now, if
Jessica would allow it, that family role would need to move down a
generation.

“Excuse me; do
you have a map of Boston I could have?”

Charlotte
looked up from her desk, the polite smile frozen on her lips as she
recognised her visitor. “Mr Anderson, I was wondering when you
would turn up and it seemed wishful thinking to expect you to
return from whence you came.”

“I couldn’t
keep away,” Anderson replied smiling. “Everyone made me feel so
welcome.”

“It must be
your boyish charm.” Even though Anderson’s smile seemed genuine,
Charlotte felt her annoyance with him instantly resurface. “A map,
you said, printed on paper? I would have thought some all-singing
app would have been standard issue in your line of work.” She took
out some of her irritation on the filing cabinet, wrenching open
the top drawer and extracting a street map. “With the agency’s
compliments. Or was this just an excuse to annoy me further?”

Anderson took
the proffered map, gaze holding hers. “I didn’t create a very good
impression the other day and I owe you an apology for my rudeness.
Perhaps we could start again?”

“Apology
accepted,” Charlotte replied without enthusiasm. “Now, if there’s
nothing else?”

The smile
returned, “Lunch?”

Charlotte knew
she should have expected as much, but the audacity of the offer
still took her by surprise. A curt and unladylike response formed
on her lips, then something stopped her: Anderson had tried to make
up for his initial blunder and her own rudeness had now far
exceeded his.

“Thank you, Mr
Anderson, but no; another millennium perhaps. I too must apologise
for doubting that Adam Devereau even existed; my mother appreciated
your visit and said you were very... considerate, I think was the
word.”

“She’s a
lovely lady,” Anderson said, “and anyone else would probably have
told me to get lost, so I tried to be on my best behaviour.”

“That must
have been very stressful, for you. I just hope you’re as
considerate when it comes to putting some sensational spin on my
father’s death.” Charlotte’s brain kept sending the message ‘be
polite’ but her mouth seemed unable to heed the advice.

“I’d be happy
for your mother to vet any article before it gets to print, if that
would help.”

“That would be
appreciated, Mr Anderson; thank you… Mum told me of your interest
in Darren Westrope; sometimes people do just have unfortunate
accidents.”

“Of course
they do. Professional curiosity can have its annoying side and I
accept I’m probably being over-dramatic.”

“Professional
curiosity to some, nosy interference to others. I’m sorry, Mr
Anderson, but I must get on. Try not to litter Boston’s streets
with our map; it doesn’t go down well.”

“Of course,”
Anderson said. He made to leave, pausing just short of the door
before turning back to face Charlotte. “It’s Michael, by the way,
or Mike. And thanks for the map, Miss Saunders; in some respects
I’m rather old-fashioned and I really do have places to visit.”

Charlotte
couldn’t help but return his broad smile. “In answer to a previous
question; it’s Charlie to a select few and most definitely not –
under any circumstances – Lottie.”

* * *

To Anderson’s
eyes and ears, Boston was something of an enigma. His confusion had
started once he had reached the outskirts and read some of the shop
signs, only to increase when he heard the languages being spoken in
the town centre: mostly Polish, but also Portuguese, even perhaps
Russian and Romanian. In terms of a cosmopolitan mix, this was more
like a major city than what he had imagined was a sleepy
Lincolnshire town.

It was a
thought he put on hold as a text came through from Devereau,
confirming that he wouldn’t be back from New York until the
Wednesday and detailing a job in Bristol. Anderson kept his reply
deliberately vague, merely stating that he was pursuing a new lead
and he needed two more days.

Two more days
– time enough to
satisfy his own conscience and feel he’d done his best. He was
tentatively assuming Saunders and Westrope were somehow working
together, but he had no supporting evidence and no idea what they
might actually be working on. It was simple intuition, backed up by
a mix of conjecture and optimism. Saunders wasn’t stupid, if there
had been something fishy going on at Erdenheim or with McDowell, he
would have called the police. And what better way to draw attention
than by murdering two people. Despite every objection common-sense
threw at Anderson, he couldn’t just drop it, and his two-day
deadline seemed a fair compromise.

The
Commander’s book had proved typically unhelpful, Anderson’s hope
that the American author was somehow important immediately dashed,
it three years since Zhilin had died from cancer. A scan through of
its four hundred plus pages had revealed nothing worthwhile, no
notes in the margin or sentences underlined, not even a corner
turned over; Anderson even had to tease a good few of the pages
apart.

Despite a
sudden spattering of rain, Anderson paused at the centre of the
Town Bridge to check the map and get his bearings. He might be
struggling to come up with anything convincing but he wasn’t yet
out of ideas, a Geoff Shaw the next on his rapidly diminishing list
of contacts.

* * *

The pub wasn’t quite as friendly as the
Farriers
but it served well enough,
Shaw refusing Anderson’s offer of a free lunch but still willing to
have a beer and a chat. The fact it was Darren’s parents who had
passed on Shaw’s details was perhaps the only reason he had agreed
to meet, Anderson again struggling not to seem insensitive, his
virtual story on Darren growing more real by the day.

“You did what
you could,” continued Anderson, as he toyed with his second soft
drink of the day. “No-one could have helped save Darren.”

“So everyone
says. You stand there and just pray for the ambulance to turn up;
for someone – anyone – to arrive who knows what to do. Those ten
minutes seemed like an hour.”

“And the other
driver, Bob Kendal; he must have been in shock as well.”

“He was in a
terrible state; just cuts and bruises but he kept trying to wrench
open the driver’s door, anything so he could get to Darren and help
him. When we arrived Kendal was pretty much incoherent and he
didn’t even realise the engine to his van was still running.”

“He was lucky
you got there when you did.”

“I guess.”
Shaw said, while absently lifting his head to look at the TV screen
high up on the wall above Anderson’s left shoulder. “We saw a spurt
of dust in the distance but didn’t think much about it; didn’t hear
anything at all.”

“And that was
what, a minute before you got there?”

“Thirty
seconds maybe.” Shaw’s gaze drifted back towards the TV, “Turn the
sound up, mate,” he said loudly.

Someone duly
obliged, Anderson left with little option but to turn round to see
what Shaw had found so interesting.

The scene on
the TV was one of flames bursting from a shattered apartment block.
At least three of the lower floors were ablaze, the thick black
smoke billowing aside to reveal part of an aircraft’s wing, edge
neatly severed, lying forgotten on the ground like some giant
toddler’s broken toy. A score of hoses played water on the inferno,
while several helicopters hovered nearby, one trying to winch
survivors from the roof. The camera panned closer to show the
massive fiery gash gouged out of the tower block, tracing it up
towards the roof, before refocussing on the dramatic helicopter
rescue.

The
commentator’s sombre voice cut across the pictures. “...British
Airways Boeing-787 Dreamliner carrying over 250 passengers and
crew. Whilst hundreds of people have been successfully evacuated
from the apartment block, it is feared that the total number of
casualties could be as high as one thousand. Although no terrorist
organisation has yet accepted responsibility, this latest attack
comes–”

“Sorry, was
there anything else?” Shaw asked loudly.

Anderson just
left it at that, thankful Shaw had been so co-operative, convinced
now that Darren Westrope hadn’t been murdered. That didn’t mean
McDowell and Erdenheim were off the hook but it wasn’t looking
promising, Anderson’s instincts well wide of the mark.

* * *

Anderson’s stomach was seriously starting to protest, arguing
that two courses at the
Farriers
, followed not long
afterwards by a large helping of homemade apple-pie at the
Saunders’ house, was just too much. Anderson himself chose to
ignore such protests, his taste-buds confirming Jessica’s culinary
skills – at least with apple-pie – more than matched those of
the
Farriers’
chef.

Jessica’s
invite had seemed more of an instruction than a request, but
Anderson had no cause for complaint, Jessica working hard to make
him feel at home. Anderson sat on the sofa with Jessica on the
chair opposite, a pot of freshly-brewed coffee between them. Their
conversation mainly consisted of reminiscences related to the
Commander, or occasionally Charlotte, with Anderson happy to sit
and listen. Jessica kept apologising for boring her guest, but
whenever she tried to move the topic of conversation round to
Anderson, he merely deflected it back again to ask something new
about the Commander or Jessica. Eventually, after almost an hour,
it was Jessica who brought up a more contentious subject.

“I was a
little taken aback yesterday and I wondered later whether I should
have been outraged by what you were implying; but then you were
really only voicing my own fears... Have you got any further with
your theory that George’s death might not have been an
accident?”

“I didn’t
quite go that far,” Anderson said hastily. “There were just certain
aspects I needed to check out.”

“Aspects? Such
as Darren Westrope? And the man from Erdenheim?”

“Darren’s
crash was definitely an accident. As for the rest, it seems likely
that I’ve just got a very vivid imagination. There’s certainly
nothing to suggest otherwise.”

“And you’d
tell me if there were?”

“Of course,”
Anderson replied, instantly regretting his promise.

Jessica still
wouldn’t let it lie, “What about George’s book? Has that been of
any help?”

“To be honest
I’ve not read much of it; but again, it looks like a dead-end.”

“A poor choice of words, Michael,” Jessica said solemnly, but
with a twinkle in her eye. “I, however, do have a lot to report;
although it’s more negative than positive, I’m afraid. It’s
surprising what you can achieve once you put your mind to
something, and I’d far rather try and be useful than sit on my
hands and do nothing. I’m not saying I agree with your concerns but
I
am
curious as
to why George bought those damn books.”

She paused
momentarily, getting her thoughts in order. “First, the laptop:
nothing exciting in the search history and, despite it feeling like
I was prying, there were no relevant files or emails. George’s
close friends were next; I tried my best to be subtle and none of
them can recall a recent mention of Erdenheim or Pat McDowell. Also
nothing related to terrorism or why George would want to buy
Zhilin’s books.”

Jessica stopped and took a deep breath, “It’s quite exciting
all of this detective work; sorry I’m dragging it out. George’s
mobile was another casualty of Spain, I’m afraid, and it seems even
a widow isn’t allowed access to her late husband’s call records.
I
was
able to
check the landline calls; we both mainly use our mobiles, so it
wasn’t too hard and I looked at everything in the last two months –
no calls to Darren or Erdenheim.”

Again Jessica
paused for a moment, as though building up to something more
exciting than a long list of negatives. “There were just two
landline calls that stood out, both USA country code; George phoned
them four days after he visited Erdenheim; one call finished the
other started ten minutes later, each a good forty minutes.”

Jessica smile
was getting wider, a measure of how pleased she was for winning the
battle against modern technology. “Feeling brave, I phoned them
both: the first went to straight to the Office of Naval
Intelligence; the second was diverted and I ended up speaking to
someone at the Pentagon. I’m afraid I just stuttered ‘wrong number’
and put the phone down.”

“Pat McDowell
was 82nd Airborne,” confirmed Anderson. “The Commander must have
been checking up on him; hence the Pentagon.”

“I thought as
much. I imagine George would still know a few people in the ONI and
they obviously put him on the right track.”

It was
intriguing without being particularly helpful, Anderson pleased
that he seemed to have an ally, worried in case he was selfishly
leading Jessica on.

Jessica had no
such concerns, keen to drag out every relevant fact, “What do we
know about McDowell’s fellow director, Jon Carter?”

“Not much:
degree in Computer Science, founded his own games company before
selling it on to work as a game-play programmer; Erdenheim seems to
be seems to be his first venture with McDowell.”

“So not quite
in the same category as Mr McDowell,” said Jessica thinking aloud.
“George and I both use the same Amazon account and I checked the
order for Zhilin’s books; he bought them on the Tuesday and it was
next-day delivery. That would be four days after he spoke to
someone at the Pentagon, so either the Americans weren’t that
helpful or he was trying something different. Visit, phone calls,
books – George was clearly following-up on something.”