Brian Freemantle - Dead End

Dingley said: ‘We’ve got ourselves a very high-profile investigation here, Mr Parnell – high-profile because of what was attempted against you after Ms Lang’s murder. You any idea how lucky you were that Ms Lang made that call?’

‘No, I don’t suppose I have, not fully,’ admitted Parnell. ‘I’m still trying to understand what the hell’s going on.’ There was the familiar buzz-saw sound to Ms.

‘That’s what we’re trying to do. Have to do,’ said Benton.

‘And why you’re the key to everything,’ said Dingley.

Predictably the accents matched, clipped, in-a-hurry East Coast, which Parnell believed he could already isolate – guess at least – from the more leisurely Midwest or West Coast. ‘That’s why I’m here, to do all – everything – I can do to help.’

‘That’s what we wanted to hear,’ said Benton. ‘Tell us about AF209.’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Parnell. ‘I don’t know what it was doing in Rebecca’s bag. Her job was to liaise with Dubette’s overseas subsidiaries. There are a lot. It has to be something to do with that: a flight on which a shipment came in.’

‘A particular flight which both your GCHQ and our National Security Agency picked up while listening to suspected terrorist chatter,’ said Dingley. ‘As well as French security. Which was why it was cancelled four times.’

‘I know. I can’t help you,’ said Parnell.

‘How do you know?’ seized Benton.

‘It was stated in court, when I was released.’

‘What’s your take on it?’ demanded Benton. ‘Your arrest – the way Metro DC police behaved?’

‘You mean, what do I think?’

Dingley nodded.

‘I don’t know,’ stumbled Parnell, awkwardly. ‘I mean, I know what happened, but I don’t know how or why.’

‘Tell us about Ms Lang,’ said Benton.

It came as a shock to Parnell to realize how very little he actually did know about Rebecca. ‘We met at Dubette. Started seeing each other. A relationship began. Her father was American, her mother Italian. Both dead now…’ He stopped, in full recollection. ‘In a car crash. As far as I know, her only relation is an uncle, who owns Giorgio’s Pizzeria on Wisconsin. It’s called Giorgio’s. His name is Giorgio Falcone. She was a graduate of Georgetown University, here in DC. Worked at Johns Hopkins before joining Dubette. She was attached to the division co-ordinating their overseas subsidiary’s laboratories.’

The two FBI agents looked at him, waiting.

‘Yes?’ prompted Dingley.

‘That’s about it,’ said Parnell.

Benton frowned. ‘I thought you were getting married?’

‘We’d decided to live together. I guess with the eventual intention of getting married.’

‘But you hadn’t learned a lot about each other?’ said Dingley.

‘That’s what people live together for, isn’t it? To learn about each other,’ said Parnell. He wasn’t sounding very intelligent, Parnell realized – forthcoming even. Before there could be any further questions, Parnell said: ‘I have thought about things… about that Sunday.’

‘We’d like to hear about it,’ urged Benton.

It began in a disorganized rush but Parnell stopped, correcting his chronology and his calculation of how he and Rebecca must have been under surveillance throughout their visit to Chesapeake. Towards the end of the account, Dingley began nodding in agreement.

Benton said: ‘That’s how we’ve got it figured. And why you’re the key.’

They weren’t making notes, so Parnell assumed the conversation was being recorded, although there was no obvious apparatus.

‘What about Ms Lang’s friends?’ asked Dingley.

‘I never met any.’

‘Not a one?’ demanded Benton, disbelievingly.

‘No,’ said Parnell, knowing how empty it sounded. ‘She didn’t… I don’t know… it never came up.’

‘You’re telling us that Ms Lang didn’t have a single friend, apart from you?’

‘I’m telling you that she never introduced me to anyone. It was a new relationship.’

‘Old enough for you to decide to move in together,’ challenged Dingley.

‘There hadn’t been a chance to meet any of her friends. I work a lot. We were down to about one day a week, mostly a Sunday.’

‘You have dangerous chemicals out at Dubette?’ asked Benton.

‘I’m not attached to the chemical division, but yes, I’d expect there to be dangerous chemicals on the premises.’

‘Ricin? Sarin? Stuff like that?’ pressed Dingley.

‘They’re chemical-weapons agents, with no therapeutic value. I doubt anything like that would be there.’

‘Let me tell you how my mind’s working,’ invited Dingley. ‘A terrorist group discover there’s an aeroplane shipping route, between Paris and Washington. They make a contact, get tipped off in advance when there’s a shipment of something toxic – something that could have the same effect as a chemical weapon if it got loose. They put a bomb on the plane, timed to go off just before landing here in Washington DC. Bang! We got another nine-eleven, but this time we got a chemical fallout, as well as maybe four hundred people blown out the sky. How’s that sound?’

‘It sounds horrifying. It also sounds like you’re suggesting that Rebecca was the source, which is absolute and utter nonsense. She never had any terrorist associations.’

‘How do you know?’ said Benton. ‘You never met a single one of her friends, according to what you’ve told us.’

‘What I’ve told you is the truth. I’m also telling you you’re going about things the wrong way to try to link Rebecca into any sort of terrorist association.’

‘Ms Lang gets rammed into a gorge and is killed. You come pretty damned close to getting charged with it. What had you, the two of you, done to make someone want to fit you up like that?’ asked Benton.

‘Nothing!’ insisted Parnell. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous but I can’t think of anything sufficient for someone to want to kill Rebecca and get me accused of doing it.’

‘You’re right, Mr Parnell,’ agreed Dingley. ‘It does sound ridiculous.’

They didn’t believe him: thought he was holding something back, decided Parnell. Less hurriedly than he’d recounted his realization of how they must have been watched, Parnell told the two doubting agents about Rebecca’s Sunday confession of her previous relationship and the pregnancy termination, almost without pause continuing with her persistent curiosity at being bypassed with something involving Dubette’s French ancillaries, with Dwight Newton’s odd misunderstanding in mind as he talked.

The two men facing him remained expressionless. Benton said: ‘You think there’s a significance there somewhere?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Parnell, regretting the exasperation the moment he spoke. ‘You asked me to tell you anything that might help, and that’s what I’m trying to do. I know how empty, how unhelpful, it all sounds.’

‘We know you’re under a lot of strain, Mr Parnell,’ said Dingley. ‘And that you’ve lost someone very close. We’re just trying to build a picture.’

‘And I know I’m not doing a lot to help,’ apologized Parnell.

‘You got any lead to the man with whom Ms Lang had the previous relationship?’ asked Dingley.

Parnell shook his head. ‘Her uncle thinks his name was Alan and that he lived in the DC area. It was about two years ago.’ He hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t imagine her uncle knows anything about the termination.’

‘We know how to be discreet,’ said Benton.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You asked the uncle about this man then?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘After the court discharged me.’