Dead End

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘As you have now?’ said Dingley, not trying to hide the disbelief.

  ‘It’s the best, the only, explanation I can give you,’ said Johnson, no longer unsettled. ‘I realize my not being able to account for it until now might have caused some confusion, misled you even. I’m really very sorry about that.’

  ‘It seems perfectly understandable to me,’ said Clarkson. ‘I see it as yet another example of my client doing everything he can to co-operate and help an ongoing criminal investigation.’

  Once again the similarity between the answers of Helen Montgomery and Peter Bellamy indicated close rehearsal. And once again the interviews were cluttered with interventions and objections by their respective lawyers. There was no contradiction between the two officers as to who listed the contents of Rebecca Lang’s handbag: the woman said she itemized everything, for Bellamy to create the inventory.

  ‘How, exactly, did you do that?’ Dingley asked Helen Montgomery. ‘Did you take things out individually, one at a time? Or what?’

  ‘I think I tipped everything out on the table and separated them, piece by piece, for Pete to write down.’

  ‘Separated them how?’ asked Benton.

  The woman frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘By hand?’ prompted Dingley.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe with a pencil, so that they wouldn’t be marked. And I kinda think I kept my driving gloves on.’

  ‘You didn’t get given that handbag until you got back to the station, right?’ said Dingley.

  ‘Right,’ she agreed.

  ‘After you’d left Harry Johnson back at McLean?’ said Benton.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How’d you explain the piece of paper with the AF209 flight number that you told us you found in Rebecca Lang’s purse having Harry Johnson’s thumb print on it?’ said Dingley.

  Helen Montgomery showed no uncertainty or surprise. Neither her personal lawyer, Donald Sinclair, nor the Metro DC police attorney intervened.

  ‘Ms Montgomery?’ pressed Benton.

  ‘I can’t,’ said the woman, calmly. ‘Haven’t you asked Harry?’

  Instead of answering, Benton said: ‘Did Harry Johnson give that flight number to you at McLean, to put among Rebecca Lang’s belongings?’

  ‘That …’ started Phillip Brack, the police attorney.

  ‘… is not an improper or inappropriate question,’ refused Benton. ‘Please answer it, Ms Montgomery.’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ the woman refused, the indignation sounding genuine. ‘The first time I saw that piece of paper was when I emptied the purse on to the table. I didn’t even know, guess, it was a flight number until I opened it out.’

  ‘So, you did touch it?’ demanded Dingley. ‘Handled it?’

  ‘Like I said, I think I had my uniform gloves on.’

  ‘And you didn’t find it difficult, clumsy, to open a scrap of paper wearing thick leather gloves?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘The Metro DC dispatcher didn’t say anything about Ms Lang’s car being forced over into a gorge, when you got sent to McLean,’ said Benton. ‘We got the transcript.’

  ‘I must have got that wrong,’ said Helen Montgomery, without any hesitation. ‘I think I told you before that I wasn’t sure. I must have been told when we got back to the station and got it mixed up in my mind.’

  ‘As a police officer, do you often get things mixed up in your mind?’ asked Benton.

  ‘Officer Montgomery declines to answer that question,’ said Brack.

  ‘On the instructions of us both,’ added her lawyer.

  Peter Bellamy was only slightly less assured than his partner, most obviously when Dingley disclosed Johnson’s thumb print, and let his lawyer, Hilda Jeffries, reply for him that there was no way he could answer such a question, which should be put to Johnson. She did not let him respond to the accusation that either he or Helen Montgomery had planted the paper after being handed it by Johnson when they first arrived at McLean, protesting that the suggestion was preposterous.

  ‘We got a chink to prise open,’ insisted Dingley. It was a sandwich lunch again, both men anxious to review the morning’s work, neither of them with any thought of celebrations on 14th Street.

  ‘That big,’ objected Benton, narrowing his thumb against his forefinger so closely that there was no visible gap.

  ‘It’s something,’ insisted Dingley. ‘And we’ve still got Grant.’

  ‘Who’ll meet us fully briefed by the company lawyer,’ predicted Benton.

  ‘He doesn’t know about the telephone tap.’

  ‘Which hasn’t produced anything worthwhile to put before a court,’ refused Benton. ‘So far we haven’t learned much more than that Johnson likes telephone sex to jerk off to, and pepperoni and chilli home-delivered pizza.’

  ‘In Italy pepperoni and chilli pizza is probably a crime.’

  ‘Pity it isn’t a federal offence here.’

  ‘They’re good, all three of them,’ reluctantly conceded Dingley, seriously. ‘Too damned good.’

  ‘Which is how they got away with everything in 1996.’

  ‘You really think Johnson was on Dubette’s payroll, before he left the force?’

  ‘I’d bet my pension on it.’

  ‘If we can’t prove that Johnson is lying, about the flight number … if all we’ve got is his explanation … then there’s no terrorism link, and if there’s no terrorism link there’s no grounds for FBI involvement,’ said Dingley.

  ‘If Grant is in some way involved, it’s conspiracy across State lines. And that’s us, whether terrorism is in the mix or not,’ contradicted Benton.

  ‘According to Ed Pullinger, the gods at the J. Edgar Hoover Building are pissed off up to here with the heat they’re getting from the Department of Homeland Security and every media outlet as far away as Outer Mongolia, wherever the hell that is,’ said Dingley. ‘And you and I ain’t got Teflon asses.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that, either,’ said Benton.

  ‘I’m not looking forward to New York as much as I was.’

  ‘Neither am I.’

  Richard Parnell had only ever been to Manhattan twice, both times before taking up the Dubette genetics directorship, tourist map in hand, exhausted walking towards skyscraper landmarks he could see but which never appeared to get any closer, like retreating mirages in a high-rise desert. Beverley had promised to take him to the real parts he’d never seen, which served things other than hamburgers and hot dogs, and as the shuttle turned over the bay into Le Guardia, Parnell resolved to take up the promise, uncomfortably yet again remembering Rebecca’s mockery of his not knowing America beyond a 17-mile-long traffic lane into north Virginia and a mile walk into Georgetown. Parnell was surprised at the summons to Dubette headquarters, as he was by the continued absence from McLean of Dwight Newton, whose personal assistant was now saying she had no idea when the research vice president would be medically allowed to return.

  Which concentrated Parnell’s mind on why he was in New York, no longer the tourist. He was glad he was here in person, not trusting Newton as the warning intermediary. How much – how far – could he trust Edward C. Grant, the Big Brother lookalike? Not an immediate consideration. The immediate – absolutely essential – consideration was getting the assurance from the man in authority that every available warning was circulated as widely as possible throughout the African countries they distributed to, about an unknown quantity of potentially fatal medicines. And if he didn’t get that assurance, he needed to decide what he personally was going to do. There was nothing really to decide, he thought at once. He supposed he should talk first to Barry Jackson, although ethically the confidentiality restrictions didn’t apply and it would be too late for Dubette to invoke them anyway. He had to find his own way to sound the alarm, and as his taxi crossed the Triboro Bridge, he looked down the East River to the United Nations skyscraper and decided that would be a convenient start.

  It was a m
agic-carpet ascent to the penthouse level when Parnell identified himself at the ground-floor reception, the door to Edward Grant’s panoramic-view office already open in readiness for his arrival, the smiling, white-haired man slightly back from the doorway to prevent his shortness being too obviously framed in the doorway. Grant only allowed the briefest of handshaking greetings before retreating behind his protective desk.

  ‘This meeting’s long overdue,’ announced the company president. ‘And mine’s the fault, for which I apologize. What you did about France was outstanding and I should have personally thanked you long before now. I told you at the seminar, I was expecting great things. I never imagined the proof would be so immediate …’ The man allowed the break. ‘And I also want you to know how very, very sorry I was about Ms Lang and what happened to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Parnell.

  ‘I know you refused our legal representation. Your choice. But the offer that was passed on to you remains. Anything Dubette can do …’

  ‘That’s very generous and I appreciate it,’ said Parnell. ‘It’s France I want to talk about.’

  ‘You spoken to Dwight?’

  Parnell shook his head. ‘Not since he came here. His office say he’s ill.’

  ‘On the very edge of a complete nervous breakdown, according to his doctor. And Dubette’s – Barbara Spacey as well – whom I’ve had see him.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ said Parnell.

  ‘None of us did,’ said Grant. ‘He’ll get every treatment, of course.’

  ‘Treatment?’ queried Parnell.

  ‘Hospitalization,’ said Grant. ‘Dwight’s seriously unwell. It’s going to take a long time. No one can predict how successful the recovery will be. He collapsed, apparently, when he got back from seeing me. A highway patrol found him talking to himself, on a lay-by, the car still running. They thought at first he was drunk.’

  The mood switchbacks had always been unpredictable, but Parnell had never suspected Newton to be seriously mentally unwell. ‘There’s been nothing said … no indication … at McLean?’ Why, Parnell wondered, had Grant asked if he’d spoken to Newton if the man were as ill as this?

  ‘There’d been warnings, from his doctor. That’s what he came up to tell me. And to resign as research vice president.’

  ‘Resign?’ said Parnell.

  ‘He’d been with Dubette for more than twenty years. His contribution to the company is incalculable …’ There was another hesitation. ‘Can you believe, as sick as he was, coming up here to resign, he still managed to tell me of your concern?’

  ‘Yes I can,’ said Parnell, bringing himself back to the purpose – and the determination – of his being in New York. ‘I think it should be your concern, too. I’m not convinced the French mistakes have been cleared up. I tried to find out when I spoke to Henri Saby. He told me to talk to Dwight or to you. Dwight said it was still being recovered. Obviously there’s a lot still in circulation: thousands of doses, according to Dwight. There’s got to be a public statement, a warning. If there’s not and there are provable deaths, Dubette could be destroyed …’ Parnell checked himself, hearing what he was saying. ‘The deaths don’t have to be provable. People, children, will die if they take the medicines Dubette’s French subsidiary has put out on the market.’

  ‘I know,’ said Grant.

  The simplicity of the answer – and the admission – deflated Parnell’s carefully prepared argument. ‘What’s being done?’

  ‘Newton said everything you’ve told me, although perhaps not as well,’ said Grant. ‘As I told you, I’m surprised that, as ill as he was, he managed to tell me anything. I’ve already spoken to France. They’re checking distribution. In any country from which there’s not been full recovery, a warning has been issued, through national governments to health authorities and quite separately, through national and local media outlets. Nothing’s going to be allowed to remain unaccounted for.’

  ‘You really mean that … promise that?’ said Parnell.

  ‘Do you have the presumption to question me?’ demanded Grant, affronted.

  ‘It’s not presumption,’ said Parnell, unintimidated. ‘It’s a very real and genuine concern.’

  ‘Which is precisely what’s motivating me. And why I’ve authorized the action that I have.’

  ‘I …’ said Parnell, seeking words ‘Thank you. For the assurance and for doing … Thank you …’

  ‘Is it conceivable that I wouldn’t?’

  ‘No. I’m still glad to know it’s been done.’

  ‘You’ve proved yourself, Richard. Not in the way I expected, but in a way for which Dubette will be forever grateful.’

  ‘I see it as one of the functions for which I am employed.’

  ‘Dwight won’t be coming back,’ said Grant. ‘He’s resigned, as I told you. He’ll hopefully recover – he’s going to get every care and treatment to ensure that he does – but he’ll never be able to resume the responsibility of research director.’

  ‘That’s … unfortunate. Sad,’ said Parnell, at once aware of his own hypocrisy. Practically from his first day at Dubette he’d lost any respect for Newton.

  ‘I want you to take the position,’ announced the president. ‘You’ve more than proved your ability. And your integrity, here today.’

  ‘I couldn’t be more surprised,’ Parnell managed.

  ‘There’ll be a salary increase, obviously. And stock options. The lawyers will have to work it out, like they have to work everything out. I’m thinking in the region of six hundred thousand dollars. There’ll be travel opportunities, too. I don’t want another debacle like Paris. Part of your increased responsibilities will be to visit the overseas subsidiaries – make sure none of them ever come up with such a half-assed idea ever again.’

  Parnell shook his head. ‘As I’ve said, I’m totally surprised. Astonished. I need time to think …’

  ‘I don’t know why, but of course,’ said the Dubette president. ‘At the stockholders’ meeting I’m going to announce Dwight’s prematurely enforced retirement. I want to announce your succession at the same time. I don’t want any vacuums.’

  ‘You said to call.’

  ‘What was it?’ demanded Grant.

  ‘Forensics, like I said. My thumb print was on the flight number.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘About the lost shipment.’

  ‘Not a problem, then?’

  ‘Clarkson doesn’t think so.’

  ‘What about the other two?’

  ‘Clarkson won’t let me speak to them direct. He’s spoken to their attorneys. He says they’re standing up fine.’

  ‘The FBI want to talk to me.’

  ‘They asked me about you.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘That we talked from time to time. About security.’

  ‘Which we do.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Newton’s sick. Collapsed. He’s leaving the company.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Nothing. Barbara’s seen him. Thinks the treatment will wipe his mind clean. I’m giving the job to Parnell.’

  There was a pause from Washington. ‘That going to mean any changes?’

  ‘We keep dealing direct, you and I.’

  ‘What about the surveillance?’

  ‘Lift it.’

  ‘Maybe we should talk, after you’ve seen the FBI?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  As before, the line went dead without any farewell.

  Thirty-Four

  The review preparation was for its later submission to FBI lawyers for their decision, but it enabled Dingley and Benton to fly up to New York fully rehearsed for the meeting with Edward C. Grant. Both men were subdued, no more encouraged by the second intercepted conversation between Grant and Harry Johnson than they were by the first.

  Trying to lift the despondency on their way in to Manhattan from the airport, Dingley said: ‘We still haven’t
heard back from Paris. Or Dulles airfreight.’

  ‘You know how high my hopes are for either?’ said Benton, once again narrowing his thumb and forefinger too closely for any chink of light.

  ‘I suppose we should call in on the guys at the Broadway field office?’ suggested Dingley.

  ‘Let’s see how we feel after we’ve talked with Grant,’ said Benton. ‘Wakes depress me.’

  ‘Nothing’s dead yet.’

  ‘Dying by the minute,’ insisted Benton.

  Peter Baldwin was the only person with the Dubette president when they were shown into the penthouse office suite. It was the company lawyer who made the introductions but Grant who solicitously led them away from desk-focused formality to the flickering, genuine fireplace around which were arranged leather-upholstered easy chairs and couches. Both agents refused Grant’s offer of coffee.

  Accustomed to the legal assembly of the previous interviews, Dingley said: ‘Are we waiting for others?’

  ‘Who?’ frowned Grant.

  ‘I thought …’ said Dingley, discomfited.

  ‘You’re surely not implying Mr Grant requires a criminal attorney?’ said Baldwin.

  ‘They seem to have featured a lot during the enquiry,’ said Benton, trying to help his partner. ‘But no, of course we’re not suggesting that. It would have been Mr Grant’s right, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any risk to my rights, do you?’ smiled the white-haired man.

  ‘We appreciate your agreeing to help us,’ said Dingley, their customary opening.

  ‘I’m not quite sure how I can, but let’s get on with it, shall we?’ said Grant, a busy man with a busy schedule.

  ‘There are some inconsistencies in what Mr Johnson’s told us, things we can’t quite fit into the puzzle,’ said Benton. ‘You spoken directly to Mr Johnson since Ms Lang’s death?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grant, at once. ‘I think he believed it was his job to do so. I agreed.’

  ‘How many times?’ asked Dingley.

  ‘Twice,’ frowned Grant, as if he had difficulty in recalling. ‘Yes, twice.’