Brian Freemantle - Dead End

‘I told him everything had been halted.’

Saby’s English was so good that Parnell detected the doubt in the man’s voice. ‘What about distribution?’

There was a hesitation from the other end. ‘It’s being recalled. I told Dwight that, too.’

Parnell forced himself on, not wanting his immediate alarm to be obvious. ‘How difficult is that going to be?’

‘Not easy. But possible.’

‘I’m a research scientist,’ Parnell seemingly apologized. ‘I don’t know anything about marketing. Is there batch numbering… some way you can be sure you’ve got everything back?’

‘There are batch numbers,’ allowed Saby, questioningly.

Not a complete enough answer to the question, Parnell decided. ‘From which you can be sure of getting it all back?’

‘I’ve discussed all this with Dwight. Why not talk to him?’

‘I will,’ said Parnell, knowing that he didn’t have to: Paris couldn’t guarantee recovering medicine that could result in people – children – dying.

‘The additional stuff you want?’ Saby unexpectedly asked. ‘You want to use the box number rather than the normal delivery, like before?’

What the hell did that question mean? ‘Yes,’ risked Parnell. Remembering the word from Rebecca’s conversations, he added: ‘You’ll let me know the waybill number? Tell me direct, I mean.’

‘What about Harry Johnson?’

What about the head of security? wondered Parnell. ‘In view of the sensitivity, I think it’s best if you tell me. I can involve Harry from this end.’ And he would, Parnell decided, if he could find a way.

There was a familiarity about being collected from Washington Circle by Barry Jackson and logging in at the FBI field office, and not needing the stipulated escort to find his way to the two waiting agents with their oddly cloned dress code. Today’s was muted brown check. The waiting coffee was an innovation.

‘So, how’s it going?’ asked Jackson.

‘That’s our problem,’ admitted Dingley. ‘It’s not. We’ve interviewed everybody – even Alan Smeldon, the guy Rebecca had the previous relationship with – and so far we’ve got diddly squat.’

‘We’ve even started to wonder if Ms Lang wasn’t the victim of a crazy, just picked at random.’

‘She wasn’t picked at random,’ insisted Parnell, irritably. ‘Her keys were taken, her house searched.’

‘I said we even started to wonder, not that we’re going that route,’ placated Dingley.

‘Which is why we wanted to talk to you again,’ said Benton. ‘You thought about anything more that might help us along?’

‘Absolutely nothing. I was expecting you to tell me of some progress,’ said Parnell. Virtually the only subject of his conversation with Jackson on their way to the field office had been France. Parnell had told the lawyer of his doubts about the tainted medicines being recovered, although he had not told him about the box number or secret delivery, or Saby’s reference to the Dubette security chief, because he couldn’t see a connecting relevance. Jackson had advised against prematurely disclosing Dubette’s drug mistake, arguing it could confuse rather than assist the investigation.

‘I told you we were just touching bases,’ reminded Benton.

‘Like I said,’ offered Dingley. ‘We’ve gone back through Ms Lang’s life since before grade school. We couldn’t find a single person with whom she’d ever had what you’d call an argument.’

‘Which keeps bringing us back to Dubette,’ picked up Benton. ‘And where we hoped you might help us further, Mr Parnell. We’ve got this feeling – a feeling, nothing else – that there has to be some connection to Ms Lang’s workplace.’

‘Let me ask you something,’ said Dingley. ‘You familiar with anyone out at McLean who carries a knife? Maybe one of those little itty bitty clasp things that people sometimes use to pare their nails?’

‘ What?’ exclaimed Jackson, seconds ahead of Parnell saying the same thing.

‘Something sharp like a knife,’ repeated Benton. ‘A chisel, even.’

‘I don’t understand this questioning,’ said Jackson.

‘You mind if Mr Parnell answers us first?’ said Benton.

Jackson moved to speak, but before he could Parnell said: ‘I suppose a knife might be the sort of thing a security guard or officer might carry. Something sharp might be part of a police car’s equipment.’

‘That’s what we thought, about security guards,’ said Dingley. ‘Harry Johnson told us he never carries a knife. Nor do any of his people, as far as he’s aware.’

‘What about police-car equipment?’ asked Parnell.

‘We asked the two who took you into custody,’ said Benton. ‘They said no, too.’

‘You talking about my car? How the paint was chipped off?’

‘We told you what our forensic s people thought,’ said Benton.

‘And there was Ms Lang’s seat belt, the seat belt you were always so sure she would fasten,’ said Benson.

‘What about it?’

‘It was cut,’ disclosed Dingley. ‘Forensic’s first impression was that it had snapped, but after the second autopsy they looked again and changed their minds. They’re saying now it was cut.’

‘What about the second autopsy?’ asked Jackson. He was looking intently between the two FBI men.

‘The medical examiner isn’t sure Ms Lang sustained…’ Benton stopped, coughed and resumed with what he thought better-chosen words. ‘… suffered all her injuries when the car went over the edge.’

‘You mean her broken neck?’ demanded Parnell, bluntly. ‘We know someone went down after her, into the canyon: they had to, to get the keys to her house. Are you saying she was still alive? But that she was cut out and murdered?’

‘That’s the way the technical guys are putting it to us.’

‘That’s planned murder… assassination… a professional,’ said Jackson, still intent.

‘Which brings us back, God knows how, to the flight number and terrorism,’ said Dingley. ‘Terrorists are professional assassins.’

‘And you’ve traced Rebecca’s life back to before grade school,’ reminded Parnell. ‘You know she’s never had the slightest connection whatsoever with or to terrorism. And from your questioning of my mother and friends in England, you know I don’t either.’

‘See our problem?’ invited Dingley.

‘You’re forcing into the jigsaw pieces that don’t fit,’ said Jackson.

‘We’re coming around to thinking that,’ agreed Benton. ‘Which is the wrong piece?’

‘It’s got to be the AF209 flight number,’ insisted Parnell.

‘That’s the reason we’re here – you’re here,’ said Dingley. ‘Until we discover the relevance of that, to everything else, Ms Lang’s undoubted murder is a federal enquiry. And people along the road at the J. Edgar Hoover building are getting impatient as well as pissed off being told by the media what an inefficient, jerk-off organization the Bureau is.’

‘There was something wrong about my arrest,’ insisted Parnell.

‘Metro DC – uniforms particularly – couldn’t find an egg in a hen house,’ said Benton. ‘You were a victim of bad policing.’

‘They’d made their minds up!’ persisted Parnell.

‘They thought they had something being served up to them on a plate, commendations and headlines all round,’ sneered Benton.

‘You had a lot of trouble – obstruction?’ guessed Jackson, smiling expectantly.

‘Let’s say they weren’t overly co-operative.’

‘What about fingerprints?’ Jackson demanded unexpectedly. ‘Did they go along with the elimination?’

‘We didn’t get a match,’ said Benton, to his partner’s sharp look.