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.
