Brian Freemantle - Dead End

It was initially impossible to distinguish one question from another, and again Jackson had to wave for quiet, changing the gesture when the noise lessened, to indicate a woman near the front.

‘What’s your explanation for Ms Lang having a terrorist-associated flight number in her possession?’ asked the woman.

Jackson nodded his agreement to an answer and Parnell said: ‘I don’t have one. Rebecca was not a political person, nor associated or connected in any way with terrorism or terrorist organizations. I understand that to be the findings of the FBI after exhaustive enquiries.’

‘What about you?’ called someone deeper into the hall.

Jackson shook his head but Parnell said: ‘I am completely apolitical. I have never had any links with any radical organization, let alone one that could be described as terrorist. That’s also been established by the FBI.’

‘Did Metro DC police know of the terrorist flight number when they arrested you?’ called someone else.

The room was quiet now and this time Jackson took the question, before Parnell could speak. The lawyer said: ‘What the Metro DC officers did or did not know at the time of my client’s arrest will obviously form a substantial part of the claim my client is making against the department. Just as obviously, I am not able to disclose any part of that at this stage, although I can say that it will be a most rigorously pursued aspect of the eventual hearing.’

As his lawyer talked, Parnell saw that three men and a woman separating the Dubette group from the FBI officers were making notes on yellow legal pads, and wondered if they were police-department attorneys. Jackson intervened on several more occasions, refusing to let Parnell answer whether he had been subjected to any physical or verbal abuse, whether he had resisted arrest or if his position at Dubette had been affected by his detention. Parnell listened intently, aware that, with every response, Jackson was conveying the impression that there were a lot of accusations to be levelled against Peter Bellamy and Helen Montgomery.

Hammering the threat home in a reply to a further question, Jackson said: ‘It has not been confirmed to me that the two officers who are named in this action have been suspended, as you suggest. But I would have been surprised had they not been. The evidence I already possess and intend producing during the case will bring Metro DC police into considerable disrepute. There are others not directly named on the writs whose conduct will also be shown to be highly questionable, if not verging on criminal collusion.’

That reply produced a flurry of demands for explanation, all of which Jackson refused, choosing an intervening question from a woman journalist about Parnell and Rebecca’s relationship in order to hand over to Parnell. Parnell did so haltingly, badly unprepared. It was inexplicable that he’d allowed Rebecca to drive home alone to Bethesda. It was a mistake he’d regret for the rest of his life. No definite date had been decided upon for the wedding. There was evidence – Parnell’s reply brought a twitch from Jackson, the lawyer tensed to intervene, although he didn’t – against Rebecca being a chosen-by-chance victim of a random attack. He was appalled at Rebecca’s killer or killers escaping, because of Metro DC’s incompetence – Jackson leaned forward again, ready – but that was something to be explored at the impending civil court hearing. He had every confidence in the FBI bringing a successful criminal prosecution.

Jackson rejected every request for one-to-one television interviews – including those from the three major American networks, as well as six from England, France, and Germany – and from eight American and foreign radio stations. Jackson had taken a suite, as well as reserving the conference room. There was wine and alcohol as well as coffee waiting for them when they got there.

‘Now you can have a glass of wine,’ Jackson announced.

‘Who’s this for?’ asked Parnell.

‘You did well. Damned well,’ praised the lawyer, familiarly avoiding the question.

‘I’m not sure what we achieved.’

‘I think we achieved everything, and more, we set out to,’ contradicted Jackson. ‘We had to make some cracks into the wall facing the FBI. Which we did and then some. There’s guys out there thinking hard about personal survival or escape. Or both.’

Which Edwin Pullinger virtually repeated minutes later when he arrived – with Dingley and Benton – answering Parnell’s earlier unanswered question about the reason for the suite.

‘Thank you,’ added the FBI attorney. ‘We made some worried people a lot more worried.’

‘And there’s no reason to stop,’ Jackson said to Parnell. ‘ Now tell them the other intriguing things you’ve come across.’

Parnell channel-hopped, watching prime-time coverage of the conference, surprised at the memory blank he had over quite a number of the questions. His general recollection was of uncertainty – nervousness even – but it wasn’t evident on the screen and he was grateful. He decided against eating again that day, but considered walking along to Giorgio’s – or maybe another Georgetown bar – for a drink, but decided against that, too. He was depressed that nothing had been produced by his division. He paraded all the balancing arguments in his mind – that it had only been months, not years, and that research took years, not months – but it didn’t lift the disappointment. He’d become accustomed to success, too expectant perhaps, after his involvement in the genome project. But that had taken years, he reminded himself – engaged dozens, hundreds even, of scientists on an international level, his involvement coming luckily at the end, when so much mapping had already been achieved, and not at the beginning, with every twist of the double helix to unravel. But everything was overshadowed, totally overwhelmed in fact, by Rebecca’s murder, the unexplained terrorist-flight alert and now this civil claim that he abruptly realized had been virtually thrust upon him, and which he wouldn’t have considered but for the hope of it moving on the FBI investigation. What if it didn’t? What if the murder enquiry remained stalled, months running into years like research ran from months into years? Would it anchor him to Dubette? There was an insidious Big Brother ambience about everything at McLean, with its spider’s-web imagery and inches-thick personal files, and intrusive psychology and silent, empty faces at watchful windows.

The entry bell jarred into the apartment, startling him, and sounded again before he reached the receiver.

‘It’s me,’ announced Beverley Jackson, from the entrance lobby.

‘You didn’t phone?’

‘No. Spur of the moment detour, on my way home.’

‘Something come up?’

‘I’d like to,’ she said, twisting his question. ‘Or are we going to have a conversation like this?’

Parnell pressed the downstairs release and opened his own front door for the arrival of the elevator. When Beverley emerged, she was carrying her briefcase, from which Parnell knew that she really had been on her way home.

He said: ‘I didn’t expect you.’

‘No,’ she said, tossing her coat and case on to a chair, slumping into another.

‘There’s wine.’

‘Maybe a small one.’

‘Something come up?’ he repeated, as he poured for both of them.

Beverley said: ‘Your health,’ and raised her glass.

Parnell raised his in return. There wasn’t the difficulty he’d expected from their next being alone together. He didn’t believe he should feel as glad as he was that they were together alone again.

‘I told personnel I wouldn’t undergo the psychological assessment,’ declared Beverley. ‘Wayne Denny wants to talk to me about it. Deke Pulbrow doesn’t want to take an assessment, either.’