Dead End by Brian Freemantle Page B

suggest closer contact between Russell and myself in the future. But not yet. The backlog’s too big. You sure there’s no purpose in my having a different look at the respiratory experiments?’
    â€˜None,’ said Newton, positively. ‘That’s a principle I work from here, Dick. We don’t waste time with failed ideas. It doesn’t work, we scrap it, move on.’
    â€˜I’ll remember that,’ said Parnell. What was the point of all this?
    â€˜Maybe we should have lunch together again soon.’
    â€˜Good idea now that you can raise your head from the microscope. I look forward to it.’
    Another reference, isolated Newton. ‘We’ll do it real soon.’ There very definitely had to be another early-morning trip to New York – arranged from a public kiosk, he reminded himself. Every phone on the research floor was being security monitored.
    From the way the Toyota was parked, Parnell saw the damage when he was still some yards away, despite the twilight. The damage began at the passenger door but was worse on the nearside wing, the dents deep enough to have broken a lot of paint. He looked for a culprit’s note under the windscreen wipers. There wasn’t one.
    â€˜Shit,’ he said. He yanked at the nearside wheel, which felt secure enough. He drove slowly through the near-empty car park, satisfying himself there was no wheel damage before he reached the highway.
    In the apartment, he made the single evening drink he allowed himself, a strong gin and tonic, briefly undecided but finally ringing Rebecca.
    â€˜You coming to the house?’ she asked at once.
    â€˜Just wanted to talk.’
    â€˜What about?’
    â€˜Some bastard drove into my car, in the car park.’
    â€˜Did they leave a note?’
    â€˜No such luck.’
    â€˜How bad?’
    â€˜Passenger door and wing. The damage kind of goes around to the front, which is slightly buckled.’
    â€˜You told security?’
    â€˜Not yet.’
    â€˜You should,’ she insisted.
    â€˜I will,’ emptily promised Parnell.
    â€˜Don’t put it off.’
    â€˜I won’t.’
    â€˜I’m looking forward to the weekend.’
    â€˜So am I.’
    â€˜You really mean that?’ she asked.
    â€˜I really mean it.’
    â€˜I love you.’
    â€˜I love you too,’ said Parnell, once again wishing he didn’t have so much difficulty saying the words.
    Ten
    R ebecca insisted it was her decision how they spent the weekend, although it was limited to Sunday. She arrived early at Washington Circle and told Parnell to dress in jeans and a work shirt. She refused coffee, which she’d already delayed herself by making in Bethesda. As usual she refused to start the engine until he fastened his seat belt.
    â€˜Now I’m strapped in, tell me where we’re going.’
    â€˜Out into the great big country that you’ve never seen,’ said Rebecca.
    â€˜What if I don’t like it?’
    â€˜Too bad. You’re being kidnapped.’
    She drove him, in fact, to Chesapeake Bay to eat the in-season, bite-sized soft-shelled crabs with a pitcher of beer. Despite the jeans and work shirt, Parnell got glued and dirty from the shakers of glutinous salt and herb flavourings and couldn’t properly clean himself up, even in the washroom.
    Rebecca said: ‘You think any clean-living, respectable girl would get into bed with someone looking like you do?’
    â€˜No,’ said Parnell. ‘But the food would be worth the abstinence. And you’ve got grunge all around your face, too. I’ll try to develop a treatment for it.’
    â€˜I’ve beaten you!’ Rebecca declared, triumphantly.
    â€˜I’m getting accustomed to it,’ acknowledged Parnell, in weak protest. ‘Beaten me to what, exactly?’
    â€˜The guided tour. You know your way from Washington DC to McLean, North Virginia, and from Washington