Читать книгу The Devil's Whelp - Vin Hammond Jackson - Страница 27

By the time Del had checked that Sam had no problems with the operation and then made sure Jack Pierce wasn't stringing himself or someone else from a yard-arm, half an hour had gone by. He went straight to the Company office, expecting to find Meyer organising things in accordance with his own selfish needs and to the utter confusion of everyone else. Instead, the office was empty.

Del was scratching his head, trying to figure where they'd all gone when Jonesy, the radio operator came in. "Oh." He looked round the room with a frown. "Where's Les? I've got John Stanley on the line for him."

Maybe he's disappeared up the Inspector's arsehole, thought Del. "Wouldn't have a clue. Doesn't matter - I'll take it." Not that he was going to make a habit of doing Meyer's job for him, but he was thinking that he might just get to talk to Liz. Even the chance of hearing her voice right then was a boost he was well in need of.

The radio room was next to the toolpusher's office. Del was about to follow Jonesy in when he heard voices coming from his own quarters. "Be with you in two shakes," he said to the radio operator and walked on to the next door.

Meyer was standing at the back of the room like a presiding judge. His smugness increased as Presswood entered. "Ah, Del. I've handed your office over to the Inspector for interviews. Knew you wouldn't mind."

"Why would I mind?" Presswood drawled sourly. "I'm only the toolpusher." He nodded to indicate the door behind him. "You've got a call."

Les screwed up his face in annoyance. "Wouldn't you know it?"

"It's only John Stanley," said Del, trying to make the radio transmission sound very boring and only of minor significance. "I'll take it and you can carry on with your meeting."

Meyer was already on the move. "Thank you, but I can manage." He paused beside Caffrey who was sagging in one of the chairs, his face a peculiar ashen green colour. "Sorry Inspector, but duty calls. It's the price we pay." He continued to the door.

Del waited until he was passing out into the corridor before commenting: "Yeah, a woman's work is never done, eh, Les?" He waited to hear Meyer's snort of disapproval, then closed the door. Taking a few paces to the centre of the room, he glanced around casually. The police investigation team looked as if they were there for the duration. That and missing out on talking to Liz caused him to be more than a little irritable. "Well, isn't this cosy?" he observed sarcastically.

"I trust we aren't putting you out, Del," said Caffrey. He was speaking through his handkerchief which made it difficult to ascertain whether his concern was genuine, or was merely a polite way of saying that he didn't give a stuff.

Presswood shrugged. "Mi Casa, Su Casa." He had noticed Mildenberger peering through the door to the bedroom. Now the man was on the point of going in. "My bedroom, however, is off-limits," he warned across the room. Mildenberger took no notice. "Sergeant!" Del called louder. The policeman had disappeared into the room beyond.

Del rushed to the door. He bustled in, skirted the burly sergeant and barred his way. "The office is out there, pal." He pointed over Mildenberger's shoulder. "If you want to go anywhere else, have the decency to ask."

Dieter regarded the toolpusher in cool silence. "I may do that, pal." He peered past Del at the bathroom door. "What's in there?"

"Do you want to look?"

"I might."

"Would you care to ask first?"

Mildenberger sneered. "Not particularly."

"Then piss off!"

The sergeant stiffened. "You've just made a serious mistake, Mister Toolpusher."

"Two, actually," corrected Del. "The first was calling you bozos in at all, and the second I am about to rectify." He pushed past and headed towards the door to the office. He paused before leaving, but did not turn. "Touch that doorknob," he warned Mildenberger, "And, cop or no cop, you'll be tying your bootlaces with what's left of your teeth!"

He stormed out of the bedroom and went straight to Caffrey. "I'm a civilised man, Inspector. Compared to me, some of the jokers on this rig are little more than Neanderthal."

Caffrey dabbed at his nose with the handkerchief, trusting this would mask the smirk of amusement that was battling to cross his face. "What's your point, Del?"

Presswood heard the scuff of Mildenberger's shoes as the sergeant returned to the office. That was good: the ignorant sonofabitch needed to hear this. "It's quite simple, Inspector - it's tough on the rigs. It takes a special kind of man to work out here. They may not be the brightest people in the world, but they do respond if you show them respect. Treat them with contempt and they'll send all of you back to the big city with your balls in a knot round your necks and your arses so full of four-letter words, you'll be screaming obscenities for the rest of your naturals. Do yourself a favour. Tread softly on this one."

He continued across to the door. Les was just returning. Presswood pushed him aside. "And put Fritz back on his chain," he called over his shoulder, "At least until he's house-trained."