Читать книгу The Devil's Whelp - Vin Hammond Jackson - Страница 32

They were there again, staring, gawping. Two of them turned away to throw up on the catwalk, but when they had finished, they turned back for a second look. There was plenty to see and the audience was almost big enough to call it a sell-out.

Del Presswood had been asleep when the Inspector came for him. He'd fully intended to see out the shift, but the events of the past three days had finally caught up with him, so he'd conned the tower pusher into taking over. Greg had understood. "You look like death warmed up," he'd said when Del had come along with his request. "Go and get your head down. I'll handle it."

"Thanks." Instead of leaving, Presswood had hung around, fidgeting awkwardly. "I need another favour," he'd said at last. "The cops are using my office for interviews and my bedroom's right next door. I don't suppose...."

Greg had beamed and waved at his own bed. "Make yourself at home."

That was exactly what he'd done. He was out like a light only seconds after his head hit the pillow. It didn't seem strange to him when Liz returned home. In fact, he was more than glad to see her. She looked cute in the hard-hat, provocative like a model in a sexist advert for farm machinery. He had been in the process of unhooking the bib from the braces of her overalls when Caffrey had barged into his dream.

Then it wasn't a dream any more. As the most annoying person in his life at that point, it was a toss-up between the Inspector and Mike DeLong, always assuming, of course, that it was Mike who was hanging around at the lower end of the drill pipe. The sub-sea engineer was also on his list of fallen favourites, but he couldn't really blame Clem - he was just doing his job like everyone else. Hell, he thought finally, if they were all so bloody competent, why in God's name did the bastards keep dying on him?

He'd found Jack Pierce and they'd gone to have a look at the TV monitor. Del was about to start organising recovery procedures when someone reported screams coming from below decks. That was when they'd all made a bee-line for the moon pool, all thirty of them. At least it seemed that many. He hadn't actually made a head-count, just turned and yelled into the thick of them. He couldn't remember what he'd shouted, but it was probably obscene and it left him trembling. The most important thing was that it cleared the area within minutes, leaving himself, Caffrey and Jack Pierce on the main decking with a few die-hards skulking in the shadows.

The Inspector seemed to be the only one of them unaffected by the grisly scene. If anything, it may even have improved his constitution. "The area will have to be cordoned off," he said quite calmly. He glanced around the floor and homed in on the dead photographer's equipment. It reminded him that someone would have to take photos for the evidence and that, in turn, presented him with a two-fold problem - his photographer had now become the victim and Peter's cameras were part of that evidence. "What a nuisance," he mumbled to himself, then looked up at Presswood. "Someone on board would have a camera, I suspect?"

Del frowned. "A camera?"

"Even an Instamatic would do, as long as it has flash. The Department will pay for the film, of course."

Del directed his amazement at Pierce. "Is this guy serious?"

Jack didn't appear to have been listening. His concerns were elsewhere. "What?"

"Doesn't matter." Presswood sighed. "I'll see if I can roust out a box Brownie for you. Anything else, a new suit for the deceased perhaps, or a couple of pennies to place on.... No - forget that: his head's such a mess, we'd probably have a job finding his eyes."

Caffrey pursed his lips. "I'm not enjoying this any more than you are, Del."

"You could have fooled me. Jesus Christ, Inspector, he was one of your men!"

"And he," Caffrey pointed at Darryl Westlake's crumpled body, "was one of yours. There's another up in the sick bay and a third floating around down below. I can't bring any of them back to life, but I can do something about discovering who killed them. I'm not here to win a popularity contest, Del."

Presswood was nodding. "I know. I'm sorry. It just seemed so callous, so apathetic. You've picked yourself a lousy job, Inspector. I wouldn't swap you for quids."

Ernest looked around, then glanced up at the underside of the rig floor above him. "Nor I you, Del." He sighed. "I don't intend to spend any more time on this..., this rig of yours than I have to, which brings me to my next request."

"What's that, Inspector?"

Caffrey glanced down at his shoes. Margaret had bought them for him in Perth just before they'd left for their trip. They now looked dirty and scuffed as if he'd had them for years. He continued to gaze at them. "I don't think this is the time or place to discuss it." He looked up at the toolpusher and his expression was grave. "Can we talk in private?"

Del was puzzled and there was a tightness creeping into his chest that was definitely not indigestion. "I've got a feeling I'm not going to like this."

The Inspector raised a single eyebrow. "You won't be the only one, Del. Of that you can be certain."