Dead End

Thirteen

Richard Parnell showered for a second time to wash off the imagined smell of detention and chose a collar and tie to go with the discreetly patterned sports jacket to match Jackson’s conservatism. The lawyer nodded at his reappearance and said: ‘That’ll do fine for whatever the hell else is going to come today. I’ve lit a lot of fuses and there could be a very big bang.’

‘I don’t understand a word you’ve just said and I need to know when I’m going to,’ protested Parnell. He felt like a specimen under one of his own microscopes, an essentially alive but inanimate object blindly writhing and twisting.

‘You’ll know when I know,’ promised Jackson. ‘For the moment, we’re going an inch at a time, starting from when we leave here. If we get ambushed again you say nothing. I do all the talking. But we don’t hurry. Guilty people hurry and, sure as hell, Richard my friend, we ain’t guilty. But other people are, exactly of what I’m not at this moment quite sure. So we’re lighting as many more fuses as we can.’

There was the expected media encirclement outside the apartment, and Jackson murmured it was just what he’d wanted, and waited patiently for them all to get into position with their cameras focused before announcing that there had been a sensational development which he was unable to disclose until it had been brought before Judge Wilson, with whom he had been in telephone contact and who had delayed for one hour the original court resumption for this new evidence to be produced. That new evidence had elevated the investigation into the tragic death of Rebecca Lang to a federal level, the circumstances of which would become clear later that day. In the car, the usher once more at the wheel, Parnell demanded: ‘What federal level?’

‘Flight AF209,’ said Jackson. ‘It rang a distant bell. I had my office check it out while you were cleaning up. And then spoke to guys I know at the J. Edgar Hoover building. It’s a Paris to Washington DC flight that was cancelled four times about three months ago after intelligence electronic eavesdropping picked up a reference to a terrorism attack.’

‘It was in Rebecca’s bag!’ said Parnell, disbelievingly.

‘You heard what Bellamy and the Montgomery woman said in court.’

Had it anything to do with the mystery French consignment? wondered Parnell, at once. ‘Why this one number?’

‘That’s a question you’re going to be asked a lot of times over the next few days,’ predicted Jackson. ‘Like I said, I’m not sure we’re going to be happy with all the cans of worms we’ve opened. This is now an FBI and Homeland Security investigation.’

‘You’re not suggesting Rebecca could have been involved… no, that’s too absurd even to think about…’

‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to think about it a lot,’ said Jackson.

‘There was some stuff from Paris that didn’t arrive in the usual way,’ disclosed Parnell, at last. ‘Rebecca was curious. It turned out to be some check experiments that didn’t work out. According to the research vice president, the project was cancelled.’

‘You think it’s connected with that?’

In the driver’s seat the usher shifted and said: ‘I’m becoming uncomfortable about the confidentiality restrictions of this.’

Jackson said: ‘You’re bound by a specific court order – the judge is going to be told.’ To Parnell he said: ‘In court you leave everything to me, understood?’

‘With as much difficulty as I’m having understanding anything,’ said Parnell.

Suddenly alert to where they were, Parnell said: ‘Hey, you took the wrong turn – we’re going back into Washington!’

‘Stop to make first,’ said Jackson. ‘We’re going to Crystal City, to the Acme body shop. No need for you to come in when we get there. You just stay in the car.’

‘Remember who I am?’ demanded Parnell, rhetorically. ‘I’m the person accused of what amounts to murder. I have the right!’

‘I’m not contesting that right,’ shot back Jackson. ‘And I haven’t forgotten who you are or what you’re accused of. You stay in the car because I think it’s best – the best for you. So that’s what you’ll do.’

‘I’m a client!’ protested Parnell. ‘And I’m not used to being talked to like that!’ and winced at his own pomposity.

‘Look at it as a learning curve,’ dismissed Jackson.

They went over the Potomac high, at the Arlington Bridge, to miss the traffic build-up, and as they turned along the George Washington Memorial Parkway, Parnell saw the Tidal Basin to his left and remembered boastfully rowing Rebecca upriver and unthinkingly said: ‘Oh Christ!’

‘What?’ demanded Jackson, beside him.

‘Nothing.’

‘You said something.’

‘It’s not important.’

‘Everything’s important!’

‘I just thought of something.’

‘Everything you think about is important,’ insisted the lawyer.

‘This wasn’t,’ refused Parnell. Except that it was: it was the first proper, deeper realization – deeper than that which had registered with him in Burt Showcross’s overcrowded office the previous day. Rebecca was dead, he thought, stepping the words out in his mind. He wasn’t any more going to take her rowing on the river or to a restaurant where their meal and wine was chosen for them, or to a shack on a bay that looked as big as an ocean, to glue themselves up eating crabs so small you ate everything, shells and all. Someone had killed her, murdered her! And tried to make him a victim – frame him as the murderer – as well. Why? What had she – they – done for anyone to do all that? Hate them so much to do all that? Parnell rejected the threadbare phrase that came automatically to mind. He’d make it make sense! What could AF209 mean except Rebecca’s obsession with that damned French business? Who – where – was the runaway lover? Rebecca would have taken him to her uncle’s restaurant – introduced him, given the man a name, just as she’d introduced Parnell. A place, the obvious place, to start. Bethesda! Even more obvious. There had to be a clue there, among her personal belongings: a photograph, a letter, a name in an address book, no matter how much she might have despised the man for her abandonment. Belongings he had no way, no right, to examine, he reminded himself. He had to find a way, any way. He’d do it – find it. Parnell came out of the reverie at their entry into an industrial park, conscious that Jackson was leaning forward to guide the court official at the wheel, actually gesturing directions from an earlier torn-off page from the much used legal pad. Almost at once Parnell saw the neon sign of the Acme repair facility, the lettering of its Toyota appointment almost as big as the name itself. The forecourt and a lot of what he could see behind the warehouse-sized building was a dead cars’ graveyard.

‘Wait!’ insisted Jackson.

The usher shifted, uncertainly. ‘I shouldn’t leave him. I’m responsible.’

Parnell said: ‘You mind not talking across me, like I don’t exist?’

‘Just give us a moment,’ Jackson asked Parnell, no longer demanding. ‘You’ll understand soon enough.’

It was only a moment. Parnell straightened at the returning approach of Jackson and the court officer. Another man and a woman walked with them almost to his car before detouring to another vehicle, predictably a Toyota.

‘All set,’ announced Jackson, coming heavily into the back seat beside Parnell. ‘They’re going to follow. Manager and the gal whose job it is to pick up all the weekend messages. And did she do a hell of a good job!’ He held up another cassette. ‘Rebecca’s voice is on it. I didn’t want you to have to go through hearing it more than once, later in court.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Parnell. ‘And thanks.’

Parnell was by now accustomed to the waiting media scrum, to which Jackson repeated what he’d said outside the apartment. Everyone from the morning arraignment was already waiting inside. Parnell took the seat he’d previously occupied. Jackson sat the two Acme garage employees in the first row beyond the separating court rail, beside two men to whom he spoke after shaking hands. Finally he crossed for a whispered conversation with Vernon Hanson, showing the prosecuting attorney the two tape loops and indicating the four beyond the rail. They were interrupted by the court usher, returning from the judge’s chambers. At once the two lawyers followed the man back through a door from which he’d just emerged. The usher continued on, gesturing to the two men whom Jackson had greeted. One, a slightly, studiously bespectacled man, pushed through the rail and followed the usher with an awkward, stiff-legged walk.

It was ten minutes before they returned, the usher with a tape replay machine under his arm. Bending close to Parnell, Jackson said: ‘Judge Wilson listened to the tapes and heard who I intended to call. Hanson wanted to withdraw the charges there and then but I argued it should be done in open court and the judge agreed. It’s payback time for Jacob Meadows… and you…’

Everyone rose to the judge’s entry and this time the lawyer gestured for Parnell to sit immediately after the man was settled. There was a momentary uncertainty before Hanson rose, hurriedly but no longer with jack-in-the-box urgency, and announced that in the light of new evidence, of which the judge was aware, he wished to withdraw all the charges.

‘I am aware of what has developed,’ agreed the black-gowned judge. ‘And in view of the considerable publicity this matter has already aroused, I believe, in fairness to Mr Parnell, that these new facts should be entered into the public domain. I also think there are other matters that have been brought to my attention that should be discussed in open court. After that, you may withdraw your charges, Mr Hanson, but not before…’ He turned into the court. ‘I believe there is another attorney who wishes to make an application before me. I understand that neither Mr Jackson nor Mr Hanson has any objection?’

Both lawyers shook their heads as the man who had seen the judge in private pushed once more through the separating rail and walked unevenly to the stand. The man gave his name on oath as Edwin Pullinger and identified himself as a counsel for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had been made aware of evidence that had been produced in court concerning an Air France flight that had been the subject of an inconclusive terrorism investigation both in the United States and France. The FBI, in conjunction with the Office of Homeland Security, were responsible for investigations into terrorism, and he was making formal application for the death of Ms Rebecca Lang to be officially transferred by the court from Metro DC police to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

‘Mr Hanson?’ questioned the judge.

‘There is no objection from the prosecution,’ immediately surrendered the lawyer.

‘Mr Jackson?’

‘I am anxious for it to be transferred,’ said Parnell’s lawyer.

‘Before this court so orders, there are other matters for it to consider. Mr Jackson?’

Parnell’s lawyer stood with a legal pad in his hand but did not appear to need the notes. His client had been arraigned on totally false charges as the result of an investigation that was this afternoon to be exposed as initially wrongly and too hastily conducted, incompetent and potentially criminal in intent, and which could have resulted in a serious miscarriage of justice. That was not strictly a matter within the FBI remit into the terrorist aspect that had emerged, but he hoped their enquiries extended to what had clearly been a criminal attempt to incriminate his client. He intended further to invite the court to order a separate examination into the conduct and competence of the Metro DC police department and its claimed expert witnesses.

As Jackson spoke, Parnell pointedly turned, looking first to Vernon Hanson and then, more intently, to the two Metro DC officers. All three were staring, unfocused, directly ahead. So was the forensics professor, Jacob Meadows.

Parnell was surprised, although he supposed he shouldn’t have been, at Jackson recalling him to the stand formally to give evidence of his having discovered the answering-machine message from the Toyota-approved garage at his apartment that morning, which was confirmed by the court official, who followed him to the stand. Hanson shook his head, tight-lipped, at the overly courteous invitation to cross-examine. It was the usher who operated the tape machine to play back the repair-shop message, directly after which Jackson called its manager. The man testified that the voice on the tape was his and that he had been responding at eight-thirty on the previous day, Monday morning, to a message that had been left on their answering service timed at five thirty-two on the Saturday afternoon. The girl followed her manager to the stand. She described accessing the recorded messages as her first job of the day. Their machine had a time counter, which was how they could be so precise on Ms Lang’s Saturday call coming at five thirty-two p.m. At Jackson’s demand, she stopped, for the usher to insert into the replay machine the tape recovered that morning from the repair shop.

Rebecca’s voice echoed into the hushed court, rising and falling, Rebecca obviously doing something else at the same time. ‘ A friend’s car got hit, in his firm’s car lot… he’s very busy, will let it go if someone doesn’t fix it for him… please call him… ’ She dictated the apartment number. Then: ‘ If he asks how, why, you called, tell him a friend. It’s a surprise…’

The coughing, gulping emotion welled up within Parnell, who knew most people in the court were looking at him, as he’d known there would have been faces at the Dubette windows yesterday. His eyes misted in his effort to subdue the coughing, which he did, trying to wipe them at the same time as blowing his nose, which he needed to do. That’s why she hadn’t told him on the Sunday: she’d wanted an innocent, simple surprise for someone too work-obsessed to do anything for himself.

‘This court rules in favour of the FBI application,’ announced Judge Wilson. ‘To prevent any future prejudice in what is now to be, at my formal request, an ongoing FBI investigation, I will not comment, beyond making clear my deep and profound disappointment at having such a case brought before me in the manner in which it was, even at a remand stage. I do, however, require for any future action I might consider, separate explanations from both the Metro DC police department and the attorney’s division of this city, detailing how such a situation arose…’ He nodded to Parnell, who hurriedly stood to Jackson’s prompting. ‘You, Mr Parnell, leave this court a totally innocent and vindicated man, with the apologies of this court for the experience to which you were subjected. I further order that complete and full costs be paid for your defence, irrespective of any separate action you and your legal advisors might contemplate. You also have the court’s sympathy for your personal loss…’

Jackson bustled Parnell into the barely furnished anteroom in which they had begun the day together, pressing the door closed behind him by leaning against it as he said: ‘Jesus, what a day! But we won. Boy, how we won!’

‘Thanks,’ said Parnell, simply.

‘A lot of it fell into my lap: our laps. The tape, particularly.’

‘How’d you get the FBI involved like that?’

‘Started out in their counsel’s department at the J. Edgar Hoover building, before going private. Kept a few friends there. Once I confirmed AF209, it was a walk in the park.’

‘I want the bastards who did it!’ exclaimed Parnell.

‘It’ll get done,’ promised Jackson. ‘You pick up on the judge’s hint for a civil suit against the police?’

‘Of course,’ shrugged Parnell. ‘But what’s the point?’

‘Don’t make any decisions yet. It’s all too soon.’ He shouted: ‘Enter,’ to the hesitant knock at the door, striding forward to meet the FBI lawyer, whom he at once introduced to Parnell.

Ed Pullinger said: ‘Barry tells me you’ve no idea at all how that flight number came to be in Ms Lang’s purse.’

‘None,’ declared Parnell. ‘What I do know – am totally sure of – is that Rebecca had no knowledge of or connection with terrorism. It’s ludicrous.’

‘Barry told me that, too. You’re not planning to go anywhere, are you, Mr Parnell?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll give you my personal guarantee that my client will remain in the city and be available at all times,’ said Jackson, formally.

Pullinger nodded, smiling for the first time. To the other lawyer he said: ‘You sure kicked ass in there!’

‘They were bending over, making it easy,’ said Jackson.

‘I guess we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other,’ said Pullinger.

‘I guess,’ said Jackson. To Parnell he said: ‘You ready to meet the baying media?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Don’t gloat,’ advised Jackson. ‘You won but Rebecca’s dead.’

‘You think I need reminding?’

‘And be careful as you go,’ continued the lawyer, ignoring the retort. ‘We just humiliated a whole police department who’ve now been put under investigation themselves and stand a good chance of being humiliated a lot more. The officer who catches you drunk at the wheel or even parking illegally goes straight on to the roll of honour, with extra laurel leaves.’

‘I don’t drive drunk but I hear what you’re saying.’

They were overwhelmed by the waiting media on the courtroom steps and this time Jackson shuffled back into second place. Responding to the questions he could select from the babble, Parnell said he was glad the matter was now in the hands of the FBI and looked forward to an early arrest of the people who’d murdered Rebecca and tried to incriminate him. He had no idea how the AF209 flight number came to be in Rebecca Lang’s purse, but part of her job at Dubette had been to liaise with their overseas subsidiaries, and he believed that was the connection. He would, of course, cooperate in every way demanded by the FBI. He had not yet decided whether to sue Metro DC police. It had been a frightening experience, made the more horrifying by Rebecca’s death. He hesitated at a repeated, once-ignored question before saying that he had hoped to marry Rebecca and that he was devastated by her killing. He was anxious to return to his job and his department as soon as possible. It was too early for them to expect that he or those working with him would have made any genetic breakthroughs. Of course they were hopeful, expectant even. He couldn’t give any details of what the results might be. Parnell was grateful for Jackson’s pressure at his elbow, moving forward to the lawyer’s waiting car, shaking his head against any more questions.

Inside the vehicle, Jackson said: ‘Where do you want to go?’

He didn’t know, Parnell thought. It was a brief but unsettling moment of mental blankness. Hurriedly, recovering, he said: ‘The nearest Hertz rental outlet. I’ve got some catching up to do.’

As he drove, Jackson said: ‘You’ve got all my numbers. We’ll obviously need to keep in touch. Don’t forget what I said about watching your back.’

‘I won’t.’ How absurd, unreal, to be seriously getting – and intending to take – a warning like that in the supposed land of freedom and law!

‘Any time, day or night.’

‘I’ve got it.’

Parnell hesitated at hiring another Toyota but irritably dismissed the hesitation. It was the car with which he was most familiar and which it therefore made sense for him to drive. On his way back to the apartment, he remembered the gaping-mouthed answering machine and stopped for a replacement recording loop. He approached Washington Circle cautiously, unwilling to face another media gauntlet, relieved that there wasn’t one. Inside the apartment he reloaded the machine and remained reflectively by the telephone. It was already four thirty and it would probably take him an hour to get to McLean as the rush hour built up. There was no ongoing work he could usefully do until the following day – maybe not even then – so it was pointless contemplating the 17 mile journey. And he hadn’t been talking about Dubette when he’d told the lawyer he had a lot of catching up to do.

It was Dubette he called, though, smiling at Kathy Richardson’s immediate concern when she recognized his voice, before he’d said who he was. He assured her he was fine, that everything was fine, and got himself transferred to Beverley Jackson.

She said at once: ‘We’ve been hearing a lot on the radio.’

‘I’m OK. I only wish Rebecca was.’

‘They’re talking murder on the radio…’

‘That’s what it’s being investigated as. Thanks for what you did, getting Barry. He’s a hell of a lawyer. I didn’t know, not when I called.’

‘Anything more I can do?’ asked the woman.

‘Get me put over to Dwight Newton. I’ll be in tomorrow morning.’

‘Sure you’re OK?’ persisted Beverley.

No, thought Parnell, I’m not sure at all. He said: ‘I told you, I’m fine. Spread the word I’ll be in first thing tomorrow.’

Newton’s secretary said the vice president wasn’t there and wouldn’t be in until the following afternoon. She’d mark his diary for Parnell to be his first appointment, and was glad things had worked out as well as she understood they had, but it was awful about Rebecca.

The urgent introductory music to Live at 5 was playing when Parnell switched on the television to be confronted by his own oddly averted face, a blown-up still photograph. When the voice-over commentary referred to murder, his picture was replaced by one of Rebecca Lang, which he guessed to be a Dubette’s personnel file print. She looked startled almost, nervous of the camera. What about his appearance! Parnell hadn’t been conscious of television cameras inside the court, which he thought he would have been. Judge Wilson’s concluding speech was given in full, with Parnell half in shot, and he was curious at his own subdued appearance, which persisted outside with the impromptu press conference. Into his mind came the brief blankness in Jackson’s car, and Parnell acknowledged that how he looked on film was how he’d felt, frightened, needing someone else’s support. Which was as much a surprise as his earlier self-acknowledgement of being frightened, because Parnell had always been sure he could climb the highest mountain and swim the widest oceans all by himself: he wasn’t used to – and most certainly didn’t like – the obvious loss of the confidence he’d always known and taken for granted. Barbara Spacey, Dubette’s chain-smoking psychologist, would doubtless argue it was nothing about which to be ashamed or discomfited. But he was. The segment ended still on the courthouse steps, with a reporter restating the FBI’s official confirmation that they were conducting their enquiry as a murder investigation. The reporter also recounted the official refusal of Metro DC police to respond to the judge’s criticism of its competence, over shots of Peter Bellamy and Helen Montgomery hurriedly leaving the rear of their headquarters building, Bellamy holding his hat to shield his face.

‘You’re all over the papers. And on television. And you look awful!’ said his mother.

‘I was afraid I would be.’

‘What the hell’s…?’

‘It’s OK,’ stopped Parnell, not wanting another familiar phrase. ‘I’ve been cleared by the court of being in any way connected with Rebecca’s death. Someone tried to set me up.’

‘What about terrorism?’ demanded the woman, in England.

‘It’s an FBI investigation now.’

‘Why should anyone want to set you up? Who would want to set you up?’

‘I don’t know. No one knows, not yet.’

‘Who’s Rebecca Lang?’

‘A girl I’ve been seeing.’

‘They’re saying you were going to get married!’

‘We were moving in together.’

‘I think I should come out.’

‘No,’ refused Parnell. ‘There’s no need. I’m all right now. I’ve got a good lawyer.’

‘Was this girl murdered?’

‘We think so.’

‘And they tried to get you accused of it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get the hell out of there! Come home.’

‘I certainly can’t – won’t – do that. The FBI want me here.’

‘You sure you’re not in any danger?’

No, thought Parnell, who hadn’t been able to think what sort of situation he was in. ‘Absolutely positive.’

‘Keep in touch. I’ll start rearranging my diary, just in case.’

‘I don’t want you to come over.’

‘Because you think there is danger?’

‘Because I don’t want you to get caught up in the nonsense of it.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘I’ll keep in touch. I promise.’

‘You’d better.’

Parnell timed his leaving the apartment to arrive in Wisconsin Avenue at the moment the restaurant opened, not thinking until he was passing the Four Seasons hotel, actually into Georgetown, that in the circumstances it might be shut. Having got that close, he continued anyway, the blackness of the restaurant the moment he turned up from M Street answering the unasked question. Parnell accepted that the lights at the rear could be part of a burglary precaution but ignored the closed sign and repeatedly sounded the bell, as well as knocking against the glass and rattling the door, encouraged by what he thought to be a sound from within. Finally a door opened at the back and an accented voice shouted that they were closed and couldn’t he read, before Rebecca’s uncle looked out and saw him. For the first few seconds Parnell believed Giorgio Falcone was still going to turn him away. Instead the man finally picked his way through the already-laid tables, opened the door and pulled Parnell in, arms around his shoulders, mumbling words Parnell couldn’t understand. From the way he was shaking, Parnell realized the older man was crying.

Parnell was led back into the kitchen, where the chef he’d only ever known as Ciro and an assistant he’d never met, both dressed for work, were sitting at a table on which were already stacked three dirty plates next to a pot of remaining spaghetti. There was also one empty wine bottle and another half full.

Falcone wiped his eyes, unembarrassed, and said something in Italian and the two men stood, awkwardly, to offer their hands, which Parnell shook, self-consciously. Just as awkwardly, the chef said: ‘We saw you on television. You cried.’

‘Almost,’ admitted Parnell, wishing as he spoke that he hadn’t qualified it.

The other man pulled another chair up for Parnell. All three waited until he sat down before sitting themselves.

Falcone said: ‘Who did it?’

‘No one knows, not yet,’ said Parnell.

‘They’ll get him though? Catch the pig-fucker?’

Parnell hesitated, deciding against saying he didn’t know. Instead he said: ‘Yes, they’ll get him.’

‘You know what happened?’

‘Only what the police who arrested me told me.’

‘Pig-fuckers too,’ said Ciro. ‘Have you eaten?’

He hadn’t, not since the soft-shelled crabs, Parnell remembered. ‘I’m not hungry.’ It didn’t seem right to eat – to want to eat, although he suddenly accepted that he did desperately.

Unasked, the other man poured Parnell a glass of Chianti.

‘What did they tell you?’ asked Falcone.

Parnell hesitated, looking at the red-eyed man. ‘There’s a canyon, a gorge, in Rock Creek Park. Rebecca’s car was hit, forced over a protective barrier.’

Falcone’s throat began to work but he swallowed against more tears. ‘Would she have…?’

‘No,’ stopped Parnell. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ He didn’t know if she would have suffered from her injuries before dying, he realized.

The chef muttered something in Italian and crossed himself.

Falcone said: ‘Why did they accuse you?’

‘They thought they had evidence, but they were wrong.’ Parnell sipped his wine, aware of the hollowness of his echoing stomach.

‘On television,’ stumbled Falcone. ‘They said on television that you and Rebecca were going to marry?’

And celebrate here last night, remembered Parnell. ‘We only decided at the weekend.’

‘You would have been good together,’ decided the uncle. ‘You would have had my blessing.’ He straightened, finishing the wine between them and nodding to the chef’s assistant to open another bottle. ‘The funeral is Friday.’

That could be the needed excuse for his visit, Parnell decided. ‘When we were talking at the weekend, Rebecca told me she had a previous fiance?’

Falcone frowned. ‘A long time ago.’

‘About two years, I thought she said?’

The man shrugged. ‘Maybe. It broke up.’

‘But they came here together?’

‘I guess.’

‘Do you remember his name? Where he lived?’

Falcone made an uncertain movement again. ‘Washington somewhere, I guess.’

‘What about a name?’

There was a further, dismissive shrug, the older man’s mouth pulled down doubtfully. ‘I don’t remember. Alan, perhaps. I think it was Alan but I’m not sure. Why?’

‘I thought it might be right to invite him to the funeral,’ said Parnell.

‘That’s kind,’ said the restaurant owner.

‘But I don’t have a name. Or an address.’ pressed Parnell.

Falcone shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

It had always been an outside chance, Parnell accepted. ‘If you remember…? Find something…?’

Giorgio frowned, curious for the first time. ‘Sure.’

‘The FBI are investigating,’ Parnell hurried on.

‘They said, on television.’

‘They might want to talk to you.’

‘What about?’

‘Rebecca. They’ll want to know about Rebecca.’

‘Everyone loved her,’ insisted the chef.

‘Why did they do it?’ demanded Falcone, thick-voiced again. ‘I want them caught! I want them dead!’

What did he want? Parnell wondered. To know why! he answered himself.