The Devil's Whelp. Vin Hammond Jackson
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."
6
"You can't do it!" Les appeared horrified.
It wasn't too clear how he'd found out about the discussion. Perhaps a spy of his had been lurking in the shadows of the moon pool area when the Inspector had made his ominous suggestion. This was fairly unlikely, knowing how few friends an obnoxious person like Les could be expected to have. No, he was probably just doing his bad-penny imitation again. Whatever the reason, he was there and making Del's life difficult as usual. "We don't really need your permission, Les."
"The hell you don't!" Meyer stormed across the room and slammed a fist down on the toolpusher's desk. "Contrary to what you would have everyone believe, Del, I'm in charge here, not you!"
"There may come a time when I'll argue that point with you, Les, but not now. Anyway, it's academic: it's the Inspector's decision, not mine. I just happen to agree with it."
"The Inspector's?" Les's face was screwed up in disbelief. He looked like a kid who had just shit his pants.
"I'm afraid Del is right, Mr Meyer. I'm the one you should be blaming for the blockade."
"But it's ridiculous! You can't cut us off like this! No choppers at all!"
"It's the only way I can be certain that the murderer or murderers don't escape."
"What about the men finishing their shifts? You can't keep them here against their will!"
"It shouldn't be for too long, Mr Meyer. Be reasonable. What difference is a day or two going to make?"
The argument had a familiar ring to it. It was the same one he had used against Jack Pierce, but this was different. This affected Les personally. Only an hour ago, Les had arranged for his own transfer. It hadn't been easy, but he had pulled some strings and called in a favour. His replacement, Tony Hammond, was due to arrive tomorrow. Tomorrow! Now this bastard-of-a-policeman had screwed it all up. What if Hammond got wind of Olympian's problems while he was cooling his heels in Karratha? Jesus, if he had any sense, he'd clear off back to the city on the next available flight, then where did that leave Les? He was blundering about the room, his fists clenching and unclenching, arms beating at his sides in the manner of a fledgling doing a warm-up for its maiden flight. "But this rig is my Company's property! You don't have any authority here!"
"In this instance, Mr Meyer, I do," insisted the Inspector calmly. "I am conducting a murder investigation. In the past twenty-four hours, three, maybe four men, one of them a police officer, have been murdered on board your oil rig, but I'm sure you are already aware of that."
"I know, I know." Meyer turned to Presswood, his expression now one of desperation. "What's going on, Del?" He hissed through gritted teeth. "What the hell are you doing out there, for Christ's sake?"
"If you weren't so afraid of getting your clothes dirty and came out of your cosy little office once in a while you'd see for yourself." Presswood straightened. "What do you think's going on? We've got some crazy man on board who's slaughtering our crew! I value my life as much as the next guy and I don't fancy being locked up with a psycho, but I've lost three men, Les, and if the Inspector reckons he can catch the bastard who killed them, then I'll go along with him and I'd advise you to do the same."
7
Inspector Caffrey's blockade was finally agreed to and instituted. There was just one amendment, an addition, in fact - radio silence. Les was the one who brought it up. Neither Presswood nor Caffrey could quite figure out what he had to gain by putting a stop to out-going calls, but he tendered such a varied and forceful argument that they went along with it just to get him off their backs. Their capitulation was also in the knowledge that they could