The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) by Christopher Read Read Free Book Online Page B

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