Brian Freemantle - Dead End

Parnell was disappointed at Barry Jackson’s calm reaction. The lawyer continued to pick at his Caesar salad and sip at the mineral water he’d chosen in preference to Parnell’s wine, and when Parnell finished recounting his morning discoveries in Dubette’s personnel department, said: ‘Have you spoken with Beverley?’

‘Beverley? What’s she got to do with what I’ve just told you?’

‘Nothing. My misunderstanding. Forget it.’

‘Barry, haven’t you heard anything I’ve said?’

‘Every word.’

‘So, why are you asking about Beverley?’

‘Professional indiscretion. I said forget it.’

Parnell didn’t respond for several moments, totally confused. ‘So, what have I just told you?’

‘Something intriguing.’

‘Intriguing enough to tell Dingley and Benton?’

‘Definitely,’ decided the lawyer. ‘But not yet. Not before we serve the wrongful-arrest writs upon Bellamy and Montgomery, which we’ll do within the next twenty-four hours. As well, now, as summoning Johnson as a material witness, locking him into the frame. Incidentally, I’m setting the claim against Metro DC police department at ten million dollars.’

‘What?’ demanded Parnell, not immediately understanding.

‘It’s a civil case. We’re claiming damages for loss of reputation and character. You’re a publicly known guy, with a reputation and character to protect. We won’t get anything like that, of course, but it’ll concentrate their minds. And stop any intimidation move against you. You OK with that figure?’

‘I’m not interested in any figure,’ said Parnell, still curious at Jackson’s reference to Beverley.

Jackson grinned at him. ‘You might be when you get my final bill.’

Parnell didn’t smile back. ‘What I’ve told you fits in with what Dingley and Benton said, about Rebecca’s death having something to do with her workplace, doesn’t it?’

‘No,’ refused Jackson, at once. ‘It gives them a very good reason to talk to Harry Johnson again, that’s all.’

‘He lied, about not knowing what car I drove. The fucking number’s in a file he read the very same night my car was vandalized in the car park!’

‘There’s proof he read your personnel file. Not that he noted your car make and number.’

‘That’s playing with words.’

‘That’s what the law is, playing with words. You’ve got to make those words work in your favour.’

‘What about Johnson’s involvement – knowledge – of the French situation – the sideways route that made Rebecca so damned curious?’

‘Exactly what it is, damned curious,’ agreed Jackson. ‘Which is what I’ll get him to explain in a lot more detail in a court, on oath. That’s where we can have him twisting in the wind.’

Parnell pushed aside his pastrami sandwich, half of it uneaten. ‘It’ll make public what the French division, with Washington’s approval, were preparing to do – did do, if it’s not all recalled – won’t it? Conceivably destroy the company?’

Now Jackson finished eating. ‘Don’t get faint-hearted, after what almost happened to you – after what happened to Rebecca. And could have happened to God knows how many people, kids, in Africa, if you hadn’t picked up on it.’

‘I’m not getting faint-hearted,’ denied Parnell.

‘What, then?’

‘It’s difficult sometimes, like now, fully to accept what the outcome of it all could be… to believe that it’s real and that I’m part of it.’

‘Not part of it,’ corrected Jackson. ‘Central to it.’

‘I don’t understand why you asked about Beverley.’

‘I told you, I misunderstood.’

‘What did you misunderstand?’

‘What would you say if I told you it was covered by client confidentiality?’

‘I’d say bullshit.’ Should he tell the lawyer about the two utterly meaningless occasions?

‘It’s covered by client confidentiality,’ recited Jackson.

‘Bullshit,’ said Parnell. But nothing more.

Barry Jackson had compromised, driving part of the way out to McLean, so Parnell was back at the Dubette complex by two o’clock. Only Deke Pulbrow and Mark Easton were in the department.

Pulbrow said: ‘Everyone else is at lunch except Ted. He’s got a dental appointment. Getting to be like a regular workplace, nothing to do, lots of time in which to do it.’

There was a note on his desk from Kathy Richardson, who also wasn’t in her office, that Harry Johnson wanted to see him. The security chief answered his own phone and said he’d collected the French shipment and did Parnell want him to bring it over. Parnell said he’d appreciate it, his mind at that moment more occupied by a further distraction, as well as disappointment at the quickness with which antipathy appeared to have permeated the unit.

Harry Johnson came into the laboratory with a package about the size of a twelve-bottle wine case easily under one arm, encompassing the inactivity of the office with the look to locate Parnell’s office.

‘Your guys go in for long lunches,’ Johnson commented, as he entered the smaller room.

‘And long mornings and even longer afternoons, right into the evening,’ said Parnell.

‘Here’s your stuff, safe and sound,’ announced Johnson. ‘All right here on the desk?’

‘Fine,’ said Parnell. ‘The waybill number attached to it?’ The box number, which he still didn’t know, should show on it.

‘I signed, in your name,’ said Johnson.

‘That’s irregular, isn’t it?’

‘Thought it was easier – more convenient.’

‘I’m a foreigner here, working by permission. I’m sure as hell not going to contravene postal regulations. Give it to me to countersign.’

Johnson hesitated before taking the folded document from his uniform breast pocket. The box number was 322 at McLean’s main post office. ‘Your signature’s not on the top copy. That’s the record of delivery.’

‘I’ll keep this one, as proof that it was delivered to me.’

Johnson shook his head in immediate, bureaucratic refusal. ‘It’s got to go in with all the other proper records. It’s regulations.’

At that moment Parnell saw Kathy Richardson returning to her office and gestured before she had time to sit down. When she entered he asked: ‘Make me a copy of that, will you?’ To Johnson he said: ‘There! That’ll satisfy everyone, won’t it?’

‘I guess,’ said the security head, tightly.

The man was red-faced from what Parnell guessed he saw as – and Parnell himself regarded as – the stupidity of the exchange, but the delay allowed the idea to form. The French parcel was heavily bound in protective adhesive tape, every open edge covered. Parnell said: ‘All we’ve got to do now is get into it. You got a knife, Harry?’

‘Sure,’ said the security man, taking the switchblade familiarly from his right rear pocket and snapping it open in the same movement.

Parnell’s first impulse was immediately to call Jackson with the disclosure of the security head’s further lie to the FBI investigators about never carrying a knife, but he held back, cautioned by his earlier conversation about proof and assumptions. Instead he personally unpacked the cut-open box, sorted the French samples and assembled the new and old formulae on his personal work space. It put his back to the doors and he was unaware of Beverley Jackson’s arrival until she spoke, startling him.

‘I’d like to talk to you, alone,’ she declared.

He ushered her back into his office, following, concerned the approach had something to do with the atmosphere in the department. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I’ve been told I have to take a psychological test. I consider it an intrusion into my civil rights – that it even contravenes the constitution. Barry says it’s an argument that could be made. I’m going to refuse but I wanted you to know first. I don’t want to upset anything here. Do you object to my refusing?’