Instantly there was the caught-in-headlights blink of the previous encounter. Clarkson looked enquiringly sideways, but Johnson didn’t respond. Peter Baldwin said: ‘As the attorney representing Dubette, I’d like an explanation of that question.’
Both agents ignored him. Still talking to the security chief, Dingley repeated: ‘Tell us about Edward Grant.’
‘What about him?’ said Johnson.
‘That’s what we’re asking you,’ said Benton.
‘I’d like this explained,’ Baldwin continued to protest.
‘You friendly with him, Harry? Know him socially maybe?’
‘This is ridiculous!’ said Baldwin.
‘Sir!’ said Dingley, turning to the company lawyer at last. ‘I think we could be very close to a criminal investigation being impeded
…’ He switched back to Johnson. ‘What’s the answer, Harry? How well do you know the president of Dubette Inc.?’
‘Of course I know of him,’ said the bulging man. ‘ Because he is the president of the company.’
‘You know him when you joined Dubette, way back in 1996?’
‘No!’
‘Even before you joined Dubette, when you were in Metro DC police administration, surrounded with all those computers and records and files?’
‘This transcript will be challenged,’ declared Clarkson.
‘Absolutely,’ said Baldwin, supportively.
‘We got the court release, Harry. Of all those ’96 internal investigations,’ said Benton. ‘Interesting reading.’
‘You got a special relationship with the president, Harry?’ picked up Dingley.
‘I want…’ started Baldwin, but Johnson spoke over him. ‘I am the head of a division. Of course I know Mr Grant. And he knows me. It’s that sort of company.’
‘Somebody told us about that, one big happy family,’ remarked Benton. ‘So, how soon did you get to know Edward Grant, after you joined Dubette.’
‘I don’t remember, not exactly. A few months, maybe.’
‘Even though he spends most of his time in New York?’ said Dingley.
‘He comes down often enough.’
‘That’s the only time you see him, the only times you speak?’ seized Benton. ‘On the occasions when he comes down from New York?’
The blinking had subsided, replaced by the wariness which both agents recognized. Johnson said: ‘There’ve been occasions when we’ve talked.’
‘In New York?’ pressed Dingley.
The guardedness stayed, but Johnson shifted in his chair, as if preparing himself. ‘I told you before that my section has to be alert for people – drug dependants – trying to enter the premises – gain access in some way. There’s another sort of burglary, nothing to do with addiction. Commercial stealing, by competitors. That, in fact, is far more serious than losing a few phials of tranquillizers or stimulants. If a competitor got an informant inside McLean, it could cost the company millions – millions in wasted research expenditure and millions more if someone else got the product on to the market first. That’s how – and why – Mr Grant and I talk sometimes.’
‘How, you going to New York?’ asked Dingley. ‘Or when he comes down to Washington?’
‘I don’t go to New York. When he comes down to Washington. Sometimes by phone.’
‘Where is this taking us?’ demanded Baldwin.
Once more the agents ignored the intervention. Benton said to Baldwin: ‘Mr Grant obviously knows about your involvement in this case. Have you and he spoken about it?’
‘I have been keeping New York informed of every aspect of the enquiry, to the extent to which I know about it,’ said Baldwin.
‘Has Mr Grant spoken to you about it?’ asked Dingley.
‘Through Dwight Newton I know that he was – and continues to be – extremely distressed, as does the rest of the board,’ said the company lawyer. ‘Mr Grant ordered that every assistance be given, to everyone involved. He even offered to pay for Rebecca’s funeral and the reception afterwards. The family declined.’
The switch back to Harry Johnson was like a whip snap. Dingley said: ‘How’d you think part of your left thumb print came to be on the flight number you said you didn’t know anything about? The only print, in fact, on that piece of paper found in Rebecca’s purse?’
‘How…?’ began Clarkson, but this time it was Johnson who put his arm sideways, silencing the lawyer.
‘I think I know…’ said Johnson. ‘I didn’t remember it… still don’t, not in the way that helps… but some time back a shipment from Paris got lost. I got involved looking for it. So did Rebecca: co-ordinating shipments was a part of her job. The actual flight number, as being the one that got involved and cancelled in a terrorist alert, didn’t register with me. But I think it was the one that the shipment was supposed to have been on.’
‘How long was that before her death?’ asked Benton.
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Johnson. ‘Weeks, I guess.’
‘Was the shipment found?’
‘Yes,’ said Johnson, at once. ‘It was a customs mix-up, at the French end.’
‘So, why did Rebecca keep the number in her purse?’ said Benton.
Johnson shrugged again. ‘I haven’t any idea. I didn’t even know it was there until you told me. And even then couldn’t account for it.’
‘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.’