The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) by Christopher Read Page A

to give Red
Terror one last go – he could then return
it to Jessica with a clear conscience. Dinner with Charlotte had
been less than he had hoped for, although the gentle smile and
single chaste kiss as they had said goodbye had offered the promise
of something more. Sadly, the assignment in Bristol would soon be
the priority, Anderson just not sure whether to delay his pursuit
of McDowell or simply abandon it altogether. Although he wasn’t
convinced the Commander’s heart problems were entirely relevant, it
was one more complication to what was already a convoluted tale and
it was simply Anderson’s contrary nature that made him persevere
with the frustration of Charles Zhilin’s long-winded
book.
    He ignored the main body, scouring through the two pages of
acknowledgements, then the notes and index, hoping that something
might stir some deep-seated memory. Twenty minutes of searching was
enough to prove he was still wasting his time, Red Terror ’s secret as elusive as
ever. Name, photo, event, date – the key element could have easily
been staring up at Anderson and he wouldn’t even know.
    * * *
    Erdenheim’s
car park was relatively full, Anderson finding a space between two
smart BMWs and disappointed not to see any sign of a sports car. A
large sign politely reminded visitors and guests that all public
areas were protected by CCTV, with entry to the site and buildings
between 8 p.m. and 8 a.m. by card only. Anderson duly made a mental
note, although unsure quite why he needed to.
    The main door
slid open to reveal a large reception area, two curved wooden
staircases to left and right, office directly ahead. Good lighting
made the area bright and cheerful, despite the rather bland colour
scheme of white and beige. Even as Anderson announced himself to
the young lady receptionist, a smiling McDowell clattered down the
left-hand stairs, Anderson feeling rather more apprehensive than
common-sense dictated.
    “Mr Anderson;
welcome to Erdenheim’s Management Development Centre. I’m Pat
McDowell, one of the directors here.” They shook hands, Anderson
passing across his business card – it would have seemed odd not to.
McDowell’s American accent was barely noticeable, cultured rather
than broad, his tone friendly; yet there was just something about
his demeanour that made Anderson wary, and it wasn’t simply down to
his preconceptions.
    “Is it okay to
take photos?” Anderson asked. “I’ll send copies of the best ones
and you’re free to use them in any future publicity.”
    “Yes, of
course, take whatever you want; I checked earlier and none of our
guests are camera-shy… Your assistant said you’re looking to do a
feature on Erdenheim?”
    “Probably not just Erdenheim; I’m hoping to put something
together emphasising the success of several new out-of-town
ventures, such as the Golf Centre at Fishtoft. In part it’s also a
follow-up to the article the Standard did when you first opened.”
Anderson had his story well-prepared and he had even gone so far as
to make contact with the golf course, anything to give his story
added credibility.
    “Well, we’re
always glad of good publicity, Mr Anderson. Forgive me, but have we
met before?”
    “Commander
Saunders’ funeral,” Anderson explained, half-expecting the
question. “That’s why I came up from London, and this feature sort
of developed from there.”
    “Yes, of
course, the Commander’s funeral,” said McDowell with a sad smile.
“I felt it best Erdenheim be represented; part of our ethos is
strong links with the community and Councillor Saunders was very
supportive with the initial planning application.”
    Very
magnanimous, thought Anderson, and possibly even true. In any case
this was all part of a game; one where neither trusted the other
but both had to play just in case one of them was actually telling
the truth. Anderson wasn’t even sure now why he was there, his
suspicions more to do with McDowell himself than