If there was one detail common to all three of the recent mysteries, it was a particular location. Somehow, the moon pool featured in the deaths of Eddie and Fuckwit, and that was also the last place anyone had seen Mike.
There was one other oddity connected with Mike and his mate - the peculiar, vile-smelling slime which had been all-too obvious on and around the moon pool ladder after Sutcliffe had died, and the stuff seemed to have increased in both volume and intensity with the advent of Mike's disappearance. Presswood was crouching on the catwalk, sniffing at his fingers which were smeared with the obnoxious substance. He frowned up at Jack Pierce who had accompanied him in the search. "What the hell is it, Jack?"
Pierce had no idea and said so. What he omitted to confide was the nagging suspicion in the back of his mind which related this revolting slime to the phosphorus that had surrounded Eddie at the time when the young diver had gone crazy. Jack had a feeling - just a feeling, mind - that, as well as being present at the point of Sutcliffe's murder and Mike's disappearance, the stuff on Del's fingers had also played a part in Eddie's death.
Del stood up and wiped his hands on a rag. A man was approaching with a mop. Presswood stopped him. "Don't clean it up, just leave it."
"Leave it?"
"That's what I said. And don't let anyone else mess with it either, not until the medic's checked it out."
The man looked puzzled. "So, what do you want me to do, stay here and guard this shit?"
"You've got it in one," said Del.
"You think it's important?" asked Jack on their way up to the rig floor.
"I don't really know, Jack. But I'd like to find out what it is, because I have a sneaking suspicion we'll be seeing more of it. A lot more."
CHAPTER FOUR
1
When he had opened his eyes that morning, the world had been a different place, better and far more civilised than it had seemed for years. There had been time not only to eat breakfast, but to actually appreciate it in the company of his wife, knowing that whatever they planned to do - which might be nothing in particular - they could do it together. They were two ordinary people, plain old Ernest and Margaret Caffrey on vacation in Broome. The one thing that set them apart from most other holiday-makers, although it was really unfair to pre-judge because such conditions were not necessarily obvious, was the fact that Margaret was suffering from terminal cancer and had only months to live.
This was the main reason for the trip - to spend time together, to re-discover those qualities which had attracted each to the other when they had first met twenty-four years ago. In retrospect, it seemed they had devoted their attentions far too often towards outside interests and other people, and their marriage had taken on the role of a comfortable pastime. Only now, when their lifetime together was seen to be racing to a close did they realise that nothing else mattered but to live what remained to the full.
It was late afternoon on the fourth day of their second honeymoon, and already Ernest had broken his resolution. Margaret, as far as he was aware, would still be at the hotel, hopefully continuing their holiday in his absence and enjoying the company of the friends they had made, whereas he was back at work.
It was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Had they gone east as had been their original intention, some other lucky individual might have picked the short straw. Unfortunately, Margaret - and he would never, ever blame her for it - had decided she wanted to see more of her home state before she....
Anyway, it was water under the bridge: Headquarters had contacted him with a problem. Seeing as Ernest was already relatively close, he had been ordered to Karratha. The fact that he was on extended leave with his dying wife had little or nothing to do with it. First and foremost, he was a policeman who's lot, according to Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan, was definitely not a happy one.
He checked his watch. The plane from Perth was late. Considering who was on board, it wasn't surprising: his sergeant tended to have that effect on situations which might otherwise have run like clockwork without his interference. "I can't understand why you tolerate the man," Margaret would say when Mildenberger's name came up. "He's rude, he's arrogant, and he wields the law as if it were a club." She also thought it more than mere coincidence that his birth in 1962 just happened to be the same year in which Adolf Eichmann was executed for his war crimes.
"You're not suggesting that Dieter is the re-incarnation of Eichmann, surely?" asked Ernest with a smile.
"I'm just saying that he behaves like a Blackshirt!"
"Because he's of German extraction? That's nonsense. He was born in Geelong. He's a third generation Australian, for heaven's sake!"
"Well, that may be so," she conceded reluctantly, "but he's a menace. He ought to be put down like any other mad dog."
"He's a good policeman, Margaret. Perhaps he is somewhat over-zealous on occasions, but he gets the job done which is what matters. I don't think you quite realise how vicious criminals are becoming. We need people like Mildenberger. I need him."
"Then get him muzzled before he bites you!"
The monitor announced that the Perth flight had landed. Ernest went to the gate and waited. After just a few minutes, Dieter emerged, striding purposefully, brandishing his ID as an antidote for officialdom to which, ironically, he was himself a slave. Trudging in his wake were the other members of the investigation team: police photographer, Peter Lyons, and Doctor Jameson Perry, the medical examiner who was also doubling as forensic scientist on this occasion. Neither seemed particularly keen to be there.
The exchange of greetings was brief. Lyons and Perry barely mumbled theirs before lapsing back into their former morose contemplations. The sergeant's, as usual, was clipped and officious. By the time they were seated in the helicopter, it was doubtful that more than ten words apiece had been added to those spoken initially. Ernest glanced dismally around the small cabin. It reminded him of a glorified, communal coffin, typical of today's supermarket-style society - bury in bulk and save! The others didn't help, sitting as they were, brooding in silence, mourners at a wake.
What, on earth, was he doing here? The Inspector closed his eyes and tried to rationalise. His three greatest loves were his wife, his children, and his job. What he hated most was being away from the first two, followed closely by his dread of flying and a dislike of sailing which bordered on neurotic. So, being on board a helicopter bound for an oil rig anchored in the middle of the sea was tantamount to suicide using a slow poison.
No, his reason for being there had nothing whatever to do with family, pride, or even a misguided sense of loyalty to the public he served. It was simply bad luck. Then the pilot said: "Buckle up, folks. It could be a bit rough," and Ernest knew he was right. He groaned and looked around for an air-sickness bag.
Dieter Mildenberger noticed the increased pallor of the Inspector's face and might have felt sorry for him, had their situations been reversed; but for a senior officer to exhibit such weakness when his sergeant could find nothing whatever to worry about seemed to Dieter confirmation of what he already knew - Caffrey should retire to make way for younger blood, namely Dieter's.
Perhaps, he thought, this case might just be the one to force the issue. From what he knew of it - and that wasn't much because HQ had simply told him to get up to Karratha on the next plane to assist in a murder enquiry - he would be in his element.
At first he'd thought it might be some problem with the Aboriginals. The northwest was riddled with them and the authorities seemed quite happy to let them go their own sweet way, until they started feuding or one of them hanged himself in the lock-up. That was usually when they ran for cover and called in the CIB, who, after all, were the real cops.
But it had nothing to do with the blacks. Something