Читать книгу The Devil's Whelp - Vin Hammond Jackson - Страница 26

In spite of the discomfort associated with landing not on solid ground, but the helipad of an oil rig miles out at sea, the Inspector was glad to disembark. If he was about to die - no-one could stay alive for long the way he felt - he would rather do it on two feet and with whatever dignity his jelly-like legs would allow him to salvage. He steadied himself against the body of the helicopter and swept a critical eye over the reception committee waiting close to the pad.

One of them came forward and led him away. He felt uncomfortable with the man and had he not been in need of physical support, he would have shaken the helping hand from his arm. He wasn't sure what had triggered his instant dislike of the person. Maybe it was the fact that he was smartly dressed in shirt and tie over clean, pressed slacks when those others he could see wore dirty work attire. He dismissed the thought - clothes maketh not the man. No, it was something else. His bearing? He did strut with arrogance like Mildenberger. The way his mouth moved? Ernest couldn't hear a word he was saying above the noise from the helicopter, but he had already decided on the man's insincerity.

They moved off the pad and Caffrey said: "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Les Meyer, Company Drilling Superintendent."

He forgot to add heir apparent, thought Ernest. He took Meyer's hand. It felt soft and clammy. Ernest shuddered. "Detective Inspector Caffrey, and this is my 2IC, Sergeant Mildenberger."

Dieter stepped forward. "Detective Sergeant Mildenberger," he corrected.

Their eyes met for a moment. It seemed to take just that long for each to sum up the other as supercilious and therefore irrelevant.

Meyer produced a satisfied smile, the reason for which only he knew. Turning his back on the sergeant, he took Caffrey's arm again. "I'd like you to meet Del Presswood. He's the toolpusher." He made the title sound like an insult.

Del shook hands. "G'Day Inspector. I can't say I'm glad to have you here. Nothing personal, you understand."

"I think I do, Mr Presswood."

"It's Del."

"Hmm. Tell me, Del, what kind of tool do you push?"

Del allowed his sick grin to float in Meyer's direction. "Whichever one it takes to get the job done. Man or machine, I'm not fussy, Inspector."

Very aware that he was losing ground, Meyer bustled forward. "Why don't you come to my office, Inspector? Do you have any idea how long you and your team will be on board?"

"We've only just arrived, Mr Meyer," Caffrey reminded him.

Les was nodding. "Of course. I only wondered whether you'd be needing overnight accommodation."

Dear God, thought Ernest, anyone would think he was running a holiday resort. Would you care for breakfast in bed? Some eggs and bacon perhaps, or a nice slice of fried bread running in grease? His handkerchief came out and he dabbed at his lips. "Let's see what we've got here first before we start making any decisions." Caffrey turned and panned his eyes over the members of his team. "Dieter, gentlemen, shall we?" He gave Presswood his best impression of a smile. "Care to join us, Del?"

The invitation seemed to annoy Meyer. Del was pleased about that, "I'll catch up with you," he said. "Couple of things I have to do first."

"Pushing tools?" sneered Mildenberger as he walked past.

Caffrey was intrigued. The two men had hesitated and were staring at each other. Rather than mere looks, an intangible yet highly volatile surge of energy seemed to pass between them, the mass and intensity of which could easily have run the lights of Perth with some to spare. If it came to a confrontation, he wouldn't have cared to guess the outcome, although the oil man did have the advantage of familiar ground. On the other hand, Dieter often overcame heavy odds by simply ignoring them. The situation would bear careful monitoring to ensure it didn't get out of hand.

Presswood broke the stalemate. He winked and produced a clucking sound. "You'd better believe it, pal."