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

as his cue,
Anderson’s imagination worked overtime to wonder whether Ponytail
was MI5, or should it be MI6? There was almost the look of a Hells
Angel... CIA, he decided finally, the man doubtless enjoying a
brief respite from a heady life of espionage and intrigue. More
likely though, he was the gravedigger silently urging the vicar to
hurry up before the storm got worse.
    If so the man
would be disappointed, both wind and rain choosing to redouble
their efforts; with the funeral finally over, the vicar immediately
encouraged everyone to join the family at the Saunders’ home,
Anderson happy to tag along and express his condolences in a rather
drier environment. The village itself was a loose connection of a
few hundred homes, a farming community midway between Boston and
the coast. Anderson had no need for his car, the short walk from
the church taking him past Marshwick’s single shop and lone pub,
then along a narrow country lane to a detached picture-postcard
cottage, with leaded windows and ivy-covered walls.
    By the time
Anderson arrived the two main rooms were already crowded, mourners
spilling out into the kitchen and even up the stairs, raincoats and
umbrellas drying out where they could. Anderson picked up a drink
and a plate of food, before looking around for someone who might be
willing to give him some more background on the Commander. The
atmosphere was restrained but not especially sombre and no-one
seemed concerned that Anderson was a complete stranger. To his
disappointment, there was no sign of the man with the ponytail – no
doubt he was already hard at work with wheelbarrow and shovel.
    It was a good
fifteen minutes before Anderson chose to work his way round to the
Commander’s widow. Jessica Saunders stood beside the living-room
fireplace, deep in conversation with the Admiral. Anderson politely
hovered in the background, uncomfortably rehearsing his opening
line, while waiting for a convenient moment to interrupt. His
attention quickly began to wander elsewhere and he found himself
looking at a young woman conversing at the far end of the room:
tall, thirtyish, shoulder-length brunette hair, attractive and with
a ready smile – Anderson couldn’t stop himself from staring, even
going so far as to search out the potential annoyance of a wedding
or engagement ring.
    An elderly
couple generously took pity on his lonely vigil, it several minutes
before they moved on. Anderson’s gaze immediately resumed its
previous traverse but the young woman in question was already
moving purposefully towards him. Their eyes met and Anderson
instantly glanced away, feeling as if he’d been caught peeping
through someone’s window.
    “I’m sorry; I
don’t think we’ve met. I’m Charlotte Saunders.” Her voice was cool,
polite, the deep-brown eyes almost accusing.
    “Michael
Anderson.” They shook hands, Anderson’s brain working overtime to
find something relevant to say.
    “I seem to
have been the focus of much of your interest, Mr Anderson. I’m not
quite sure why I deserve such attention, but it can be rather
unnerving.”
    Anderson
struggled to change the subject, “You’re Commander Saunders’
daughter?”
    “That’s very
perceptive of you, Mr Anderson. Did you know my father well?”
    The hint of
sarcasm wasn’t an encouraging start and Anderson’s role as stand-in
for Devereau was proving more awkward than he’d anticipated. “I
never actually met the Commander,” he replied, trusting in honesty
to dig him out of a very deep hole. “I was asked to express my
condolences on behalf of a friend, Adam Devereau.”
    Charlotte
frowned, “I’m afraid I don’t recognise the name. In which case, did
Mr Devereau know my father well? If they were in the Navy together,
I’m sure there are others here who would be interested to talk to
you.”
    “I’m pretty
sure Adam was never in the Navy; I got the impression that he knew
your parents from when they lived in London. Unfortunately he’s