Brian Freemantle - Dead End

‘Of course I don’t.’

‘Why are you smiling?’

‘You talked to Barry today?’

‘I just told you I had.’

‘I had lunch with him. He obviously thought it was about this. When he realized it wasn’t he talked of client confidentiality. I thought you’d told him about the couple of times we’d been together and was worried you might be at risk, by association.’

Beverley smiled back. ‘I did tell him about it. He said he hoped I’d enjoyed it and to be careful, and I told him I would be. And I don’t give a damn about any risk by association.’

The hoped-against but expected HPRT mutations had begun in the newly delivered French products within the predicted two-hour timeframe in which it had registered in all Parnell’s earlier experiments, and by the following early morning, when Parnell arrived back at McLean, had become as overwhelming as before. He isolated all the cultures to be doubly verified by Dwight Newton and Russell Benn, and because Kathy Richardson wasn’t due for another two hours, he once more wrote his own emailed memoranda to both, inviting their comparison. He sent a separate email warning the vice president of the impending writs upon the two arresting Metro DC policemen, although saying nothing about involving Harry Johnson in the suit as a material witness.

Parnell worked knowing in a put-aside part of his mind that he was filling the time – as he’d tried to occupy the previous evening by going, long overdue, to Giorgio’s trattoria in Georgetown – to avoid trying to acknowledge the all-too-obvious inference from Beverley Jackson’s remark. She’d immediately retreated, discomfited, after saying it, and he’d tried to help by ignoring it, but it had hung between them like a reflecting, two-sided mirror, and for the first time since the creation of the unit, she’d left early, long before five. The one telephone call the previous night had been from his mother – providing the opportunity to warn her of the inevitable and renewed publicity of the civil writs – but not from Beverley, which he’d expected. Throughout the entire evening, even at Giorgio’s on what, he supposed, was a guilt-inspired visit, he’d mentally wrestled with the idea of calling Beverley, but hadn’t, not knowing what to say. Which he still didn’t.

There were already too many mazes and cul-de-sacs and dead ends to contemplate this further complication. More – altogether too much more – than a complication. It had only been weeks, recollectable days, since Rebecca had been murdered. It was inconceivable that he respond – which, most guiltily of all, he wanted to do – to Beverley’s clear innuendo, if not open invitation.

With the time difference between the United States and Europe to his advantage – and still wanting to fill that time – Parnell called Henri Saby before eight a.m. American time to tell the French chief executive of the complete and conclusive findings, which were initially received in silence.

At last the Frenchman said: ‘Are you going to experiment to isolate the rogue drug in the cocktail?’

‘No,’ said Parnell, at once. ‘If I’m asked, which I haven’t yet been, I am going to recommend the abandonment of the entire idea. It’s too unstable to be safe…’ He paused. ‘In fact I’m not going to wait to be asked. I am going to recommend it anyway.’

‘A lot of thought and effort was put into this… thought and effort that the president and parent board appreciated.’

‘Until it turned out as it did,’ rejected Parnell. ‘I’ve told you what my recommendation is going to be. Whether it’s accepted or not isn’t up to me.’ He’d make sure to find out if it was, though.

‘No,’ agreed Saby, heavily. ‘It’s not up to you.’

‘What about the recall?’ demanded Parnell. ‘Has every single thing been traced and recovered?’

‘Yes,’ said the Frenchman.

Too quick, decided Parnell: the man had been waiting, tensed, for the question. ‘Every single thing?’

‘I just told you it has been.’

‘People – children – will die if it hasn’t been.’

‘I’ve just told you it has,’ insisted Saby.

‘Then Dubette – and your subsidiary – has nothing to worry about,’ said Parnell. ‘You must be relieved?’

‘Thank you, for what you’ve done,’ said Saby.

‘Let’s hope it’s enough,’ said Parnell, unconvinced. ‘I’d appreciate our keeping in touch, in case anything comes up.’

‘If anything comes up – and I must admit I don’t quite understand what that phrase means, precisely – I’ll keep in touch through Mr Newton, your superior,’ said the other man, officiously.

‘You do that,’ encouraged Parnell, refusing the condescension. ‘I’ll memo him today that you’ve positively guaranteed that everything has successfully been recovered, that there is no danger whatsoever to Dubette, but to expect immediately to hear from you if there are any further problems you haven’t anticipated. That should cover it, shouldn’t it?’

‘Your success has made you extremely confident, Mr Parnell.’

‘On the contrary, Monsieur Saby, what I discovered made me extremely concerned. As I imagine it did you and your research staff.’

Parnell sent his third email of the morning to Newton, setting out the conversation with Henri Saby and his recommendation that the proposal be abandoned and not pursued to eliminate the mutation-causing element in the cocktail. Parnell paused, in mid-composition, unsure whether to include his suspicion that Paris hadn’t recovered everything, but decided against what amounted to calling the French chief executive a liar.

Beverley Jackson was the last to arrive that morning, frowning at the already assembled group, but directly and without embarrassment meeting Parnell’s look, not childishly trying to avoid it. There were going to be some operating changes, Parnell announced, anxious to correct the drift he’d detected within the unit. He told them he considered it pointless involving everyone in a stalled research programme. He wanted to concentrate the influenza search with Lapidus, Pulbrow and Beverley, freeing up the others for work upon which they had been engaged before being given the specific assignment. If Lapidus’s team made any promising advances – or there was progress from Russell Benn’s division – it could revert to being a full-unit project.

‘You should know, too, that the additional French stuff mutated like all the rest. I’ve recommended to Newton that the entire development be abandoned.’

‘If it ever should have been tried in the first place,’ said Lapidus.

‘If it ever should have been tried in the first place,’ echoed Parnell, in agreement. ‘Anyone got any problems with the new routine?’

‘Fine by me,’ said Sato. ‘Be good to get back to something practical.’

‘Do you want to be the liaison with Benn’s people?’ asked Lapidus.

‘Makes more sense for you to do it, as team leader, doesn’t it?’ suggested Parnell.

‘I think so,’ accepted Lapidus. ‘I’ll make a call and get myself known. Which group do you plan to be part of?’

‘Something else you should know,’ offered Parnell, still anxious to re-establish the earlier cohesion between them. ‘Writs for my wrongful arrest are being served today on the DC police who arrested me. There’ll be publicity, how much I don’t know. But I’ll be occupied elsewhere from time to time.’

It was a remark that would return to mock him.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ demanded Dwight Newton, his voice barely controlled.

‘I’ve sent you three emails this morning, Dwight,’ reminded Parnell. ‘Which – what – are you asking me about?’ The similarly high-pitched summons had come within thirty minutes of his return to his office from what he hoped to have been a restoration of the near-camaraderie of their early days.