Her Master's Voice Page 7

  “What did it say?”

  “I don’t know, Sir. The lab hasn’t made a report yet.”

  Inspector Hangchi spoke to him sharply in Chinese. He gave no sign of being satisfied with Hing’s answers. “I think we will just step outside for a moment, Mr. Armstrong. Please bear with us.”

  Again Tim sat through a long wait under the policeman’s eye, but this time with some hope that things had turned in his way. Inspector Hangchi re-appeared alone, holding the folder and the letter—opened . “I think you’d better come up to my office, Mr. Armstrong,” he said amicably.

  The Inspector’s office was small and old-fashioned. A worn desk and chair, wooden in-tray, functional wooden shelving covered in books. He waved Tim to a chair. “Tea is coming, Mr. Armstrong. Now, I suppose I must apologise for Hing. I’m terribly sorry, he has no common sense at all. We’ll have a disciplinary hearing, of course. No help to you, but I can only apologise.”

  Surprising himself, Tim was ready to be mollified. “Can I call my wife?”

  “Of course, go ahead, dial nine and then the number. I’ll look for the tea.” He passed a heavy dial phone across the desk and left. Sherry sounded relieved. She’d been waiting by the phone, she said. He fended off her questions and promised to hurry home.

  The Inspector pushed his way past the door with two teacups. “Mrs Armstrong happy?” he asked.

  “More relieved than happy, I think. She’s been imagining the worst. That Hing is a real idiot.”

  “Hmmp, too much television. Some of my young fools even believe the Miranda decision applies here. Anyway, he’s made a complete balls of it. The letter’s too late now. Do you know what it said?”

  “In detail, no, but more or less.”

  “Well, the man should have arrived in Singapore yesterday, so we’ve missed him. I’ll check with Immigration, of course, but that’s not going to tell us much. Is the writer of the letter—er—official? Can you tell me that?”

  “Yes, that is not a problem. He’s official, and I think he’s reliable. He’s certainly worried about the situation.”

  “Official but not able to contact us directly?”

  “That’s right. He told me that some of his bosses are sympathisers so he feels he’s alone.”

  The Inspector turned his chair to put his feet up on a shelf under the window. From the wear on the shelf edge, this was a favourite position for him. “He’s probably right, of course. There are a lot of militant sympathisers in government offices. Some of them are a real nuisance.

  “I’m very glad you’re here, actually. If there had been any sense to the world, you would have dropped off your letter and disappeared. It would have crossed a few desks before it got here, and I’d probably still be too late. Just bad luck you were blessed with Constable Hing instead, and that’s turned out well. For me, that is. I need to get a message back to the writer. Could you do that for me?”

  They drove Tim home in a police car. Unnatural caution made him ask to be dropped on Holland Road rather than at his front door and he continued to Moonbeam Walk discreetly, carrying Inspector Hangchi’s business card and a letter to Captain Rais.

  Waiting for Tim had been nerve-wracking for Sherry. With her mind racing through possibilities, mostly black, she had dropped off the car at the rental company and taken a taxi home. She automatically filled the washing machine, and made a cup of tea, and sat by the telephone waiting, her tea cold beside her.

  She had the telephone at her ear almost as soon as it rang. Relief soaked quickly through her as she heard Tim speaking cheerfully, promising to come back soon and tell her everything. She hurried to the shower and thought about dinner. Tonight, she would make a real effort. And she would let him have her as well. As far as she knew, he had not had sex for over a month. She was confident of that. She knew what he had done all through his break in Singapore, and he certainly did not have access to women while he worked. During their holiday, she had kept a very close eye on Faith and Hope at Pulau Kelapa, so she knew Tim had found no relief there.

  She dressed in her best, just as if Ranji was watching her. It felt strange to put on make-up and heels for Tim, but tonight he deserved it. She hurried downstairs to prepare the components of a stir-fry, and lay the table with wine and candles.

  She shocked Tim when she met him at the door. He was surprised enough to mumble something about ‘beautiful’ as she sent him to the shower. Flattery did not come easily to him.

  She knew she had cooked a good meal. For once, she got the table just right with proper Chinese bowls, spoons and saucers. Chopsticks and rests, candles, crystal, cold rosé. Krupuk, finger steak with sweet peppers and onions, steamed rice, pickled chillies. She had Tim at home again.

  Afterwards, she even left the dirty dishes in the sink and came to sit next to him on the sofa. The television had nothing they could watch, only Mandarin, so she kicked off her shoes and knelt astride him, blocking his view of the screen. Then she made love to him, right there on the sofa. She let him lift her dress off and discover her nudity underneath. In the soft light of the candles and the silent television, wearing only bracelets, earrings and a pendant cross, the front door and windows wide open for the breeze, she slowly bounced up and down on his lap until he came sweetly inside her. It felt good to watch him, and exciting too. Leaving the room in a mess, she led him upstairs and there on his bed he took her again, more forcefully this time, her on all fours on the bed and Tim behind, gripping her hips and butting against them as he strove for his second orgasm. It had felt good for her, exciting, a feeling of being used as a woman for sex, and she had almost joined in his pleasure.

  Then she had laid him down, set the alarm and slipped off downstairs to wash up and close the house for the night. He was fast asleep when she returned to bed.

  Chapter 9

  Tim tucked himself into his plane seat next morning. The remains of his Indopet breakfast lay in front of him and the JavaSea was far below. He felt fuzzy and short of sleep.

  He turned over in his mind the events of yesterday. Not his arrest and questioning, they seemed normal in comparison, but Sherry’s uncharacteristic behaviour when he had returned home. She had looked beautiful as she came to the door, truly beautiful. In fact, finer than she had ever looked. Tall, elegant, a short dress that made her long legs look even longer. Wearing make-up, and jewellery. She had looked like a film star. And the trouble she had taken over her cooking... They normally shared the cooking when he was at home and although they ate well, she never troubled to present food properly. She usually cooked well but last night she had done more than that. Excellent. Better than the best restaurant.

  Afterwards, while he relaxed in the warm glow of good food and wine, she had come to him and the fun had started. She had stood in front of him, her long legs astride his knees and slipped her shoes off. Then she had hiked up her dress a little and knelt on him, graceful thighs outside his own. She had taken his head in both hands and kissed him hungrily. It had felt good to have her on his lap. Her body felt live and sexy, and she had smelt feminine. To his complete surprise, she had done this downstairs, on the sofa, without nervousness. The doors and windows open wide, and Sherry had not cared.

  As they had kissed, he had stroked her, running his hands up and down her back. He always enjoyed her back, its slimness, the unexpected lithe strength of her, the flare of her narrow waist widening to her hips. Most of all he enjoyed playing with her bottom, kneading, squeezing, opening, and she enjoyed it too. She had certainly enjoyed it last night, moving her bottom from side to side as he played with her, arching her back to stick it out more. He had felt her urge him to lift the hem of her dress and when he did, he had finally realised that she wore no panties. That alone showed how special the evening had been. Although he had suggested it in the past, he had never known her without panties under her dress.

  She had positively purred when he rolled her dress up and pulled it carefully off. She was left white and nude on his lap,
wearing only golden hoop bracelets on one wrist, earrings, and a cross around her neck. He had held her back from him and luxuriated in the view. She had shivered slightly in the draught of the ceiling fan and the pink tips of her breasts had wrinkled and stood up further. Sherry had nearly perfect breasts. Full, rounded, heavy, richly feminine but just small enough to look elegant. Her nipples shone mauve pink against the whiteness of her skin and the little buttons had wrinkled tight. Last night they stood proudly, whether from the cold of the fan or her excitement, and he had reached to brush them with his thumbs. Her reaction had been extravagant. She dived back to kissing him, but held her body away so his hands could stroke and play with her breasts.

  Her kisses had become more heated and she let go of his head to reach for his zip. Fumbling and clumsy, she had pulled his expanding cock out of his shorts. She had stopped kissing long enough to watch it grow. They had watched together as it stretched itself and a tear came to its blind eye. Then Sherry had lifted herself, shuffled forwards and settled slowly onto his cock. Another shock. Her blonde hair had gone. No more unkempt, natural forest but a smooth mound leading down to pink and delicate frills, now stretched over him. He had stared in delight. She had never looked so pretty, so desirable. At the joining of them, the covered ridge of her clit nodded as she moved on him. The sight was too much for him and instantly he had gripped her tight, his face buried in her shoulder, pumping his all into her.

  He did not know if she had come. He assumed not. In their early days Tim had spent a long time in foreplay, giving her rare orgasms. Recently she had seemed less interested and contented herself with only his orgasm. All the same, it had been a surprise when she had taken his hand and pulled him upstairs. She had left the dishes, left the open door and taken him to the bedroom. Without saying anything, she had gone to his bed and set herself on all fours with her bottom in the air. It had been a moment of great beauty as she leaned forward to put her head on her hands. Her rounded, heavenly bottom in the air, her naked sex peeping out between her thighs, its pink lips glistening wet from both of them. Tim had gone from half-hard to rigid in moments and came up behind her. Holding her steady, he had let his cock nose its own way around her pussy, butting blindly against her softness until its head probed between delicate wet lips. She had sighed deeply as he sank his length into her and started to move.

  It had been too soon after his first orgasm to come quickly, and Tim could relax and shuttle in and out of Sherry as hard and fast as he wanted. He had time to enjoy Sherry’s beauty and listen to her gentle panting with each stroke. The sound had excited him further and he was soon hammering at her like an animal. His orgasm exploded in a rush and he found himself gripping her hips, half on and half off the bed, forcing himself as far into her as he could reach as his spasms died away. He levered her over sideways and they lay together like spoons.

  Eventually, he had felt her moving away, putting a pillow under his head and leaving. At dawn she had slept silent in her own bed and he had left without waking her.

  Pierre Lefevre was kind to him when he arrived in Balikpapan. Alfred waited with the customary bottle of Pernod and a wad of invoices for signing, but this time he brought instructions to catch the Gruman Goose to CampDua, Tim’s favourite way to travel.

  He waited beside the tarmac for the dumpy old Goose to drop out of the sky. Three Indonesian rig hands and an electrician waited quietly behind him. He had not waited long before the fussy drone of radial engines announced the Goose and it slipped over the trees and onto the runway, drab green, fat and heavy. After it had swung to a halt and the engines had coughed into stillness, Tommo threw open the passenger hatch and stuck out his tousled head. He lowered the steps and clambered out, followed by his passengers carrying their own bags.

  Tommo was one of the attractions of CampDua. Fat and friendly, round schoolboy glasses, he was always relentlessly cheerful. A true fanatic who asked for nothing more than to do his most favourite thing in the world – flying. Everything else came a long way second. He seemed to live permanently at CampDua. He socialised as far as his early starts allowed. He drank a can or two of beer. He never spoke of a home or family. His untidy office in the corner of the hangar was wallpapered with nudes of questionable taste, but he never visited the brothel at the back of the pipe yard, or made an arrangement with the room cleaning girls. He just flew, up and down to Balikpapan, and all over the Mahakam delta up as far as Samarinda. He flew, he loved it, and his passengers loved him.

  “Hey, Tommo! When are you going to get a real plane?”

  “One of these days I’m going to report you as too drunk to fly. What did you do in Singapore? Good break?”

  “The best! Went up to Pulau Kelapa, fantastic life.”

  “Well, get on board. I’ve got to get moving, there’s another flight when I get back. Sit next to me.”

  Tim squeezed through the awkward hatch and left his bag at the rear of the cabin. He climbed the narrow sloping aisle and slipped into the co-pilot’s seat, one of the advantages of Tommo and his Goose.

  Tommo settled into his seat, fastened his belt and shoulder straps, and started his pre-flight ritual, touching switches and levers and reciting something under his breath. He put on bulbous green earphones and announced, “Right, gentlemen, we’re ready to go. Please extinguish your champagne and keep your cigars firmly corked…” He reached up to fire the first engine. It clattered into life and from now on the noise would stop them talking. Tommo spoke on the radio. He eased off the brake and started to roll.

  They sat at the end of the runway and gunned the engines. The Goose vibrated under maximum power and shuddered as it rolled along the tarmac, gathering speed. They were quickly airborne and Tim watched as Tommo lifted the gear and waited to retract the flaps. Tim liked the sparseness of the instrument panel. No banks of strange instruments and rows of switches, just the most basic altimeter, compass, attitude, standard in the early 1930’s when the Goose had first flown. He looked down at the road, villages and rice paddies passing not far below them. It all looked very like a dreamy painting.

  Tommo gestured to the controls and Tim took over. He enjoyed this, although the old Goose almost flew herself. The life of the plane came to him through the controls and he felt he was doing something serious. Tommo appeared to be wrapped up in his paperwork but Tim knew he had a weather eye on the instrument panel. He flew happily for forty minutes before Tommo took back control. The delta and CampDua were coming into view.

  Tommo lined them up for the channel in front of the camp and lost altitude. The afternoon breeze rippled the brown water and the waves slapped the keel until the Goose set itself down with a bump and planed happily. The vibration unlatched Tim’s sliding cockpit window and parcels of brackish water splashed into his face. He slammed the window shut again and saw Tommo laughing delightedly and shouting something.

  Tommo balanced the throttle and the current as he nosed into the jetty. A neatly uniformed radio operator caught them with a boat hook and deftly manoeuvred them alongside. Tim climbed out and went looking for Raymond.

  He thought about delivering his letter to Captain Rais but something held him back. He would take it to Darti instead. More secure, and much more fun. He dropped off some of the invoices at the PetroFrance office, and went looking for Raymond. He appeared distantly on the river, standing up in the whaler as it slapped its way through the chop to the jetty.

  Tim handed his bag over and dropped down beside Raymond. The whaler spun around and they set off across the river.

  “Miss Darti come looking for you, Mr. Tim,” he said without embarrassment.

  “Really? I wonder what she wanted.”

  Raymond just smiled at him. “She come back, I think.”

  “Perhaps. Where are we moored?”

  “Charlie-32. We do tubing test tomorrow, and then nothing to do.”

  “OK. I’ll have some invoices to take to the rigs. I guess we need to do maintenance?”

  “Always
maintenance, Mr. Tim. Must repack the pumps again.”

  “Jesus, not again. Always the same when I get back. Do we have to do it before the tubing test?”

  “I start on the small pump when I see the plane coming. That’s enough.”

  That was good. The guys would probably have the pump stripped down already. He could watch them get it back together again and with a bit of luck, they should get a pressure test that afternoon. Raymond did not have the qualifications to repack and test pumps unsupervised.

  As soon as he had dropped his bag in his cabin, he changed into coveralls and went down to the pump unit. Raymond had removed the floor gratings and dismantled the pump. They could start sliding the vee-ring packing stack into the first cylinder of the triplex pump. A tight fit as always, and the brass support rings had to be prodded delicately into place without jamming. Next the gland nut assembly, and the first cylinder could have its heavy solid plunger slid into place. They manhandled the chromed piston, dull with oil, into the packing gland and pushed it into place by cranking the drive end over manually with a pipe wrench. Raymond started to tighten the long, fine thread of the plunger while Tim prepared the packing for the next cylinder.

  An hour later, they had got all three cylinders packed, the valves dropped into their seats, and caps and pipework re-assembled. While the guys put back the floor gratings and carried off the tools, Tim did his pre-start checks. Raymond opened the air supply and Tim pressed the start buttons. First one engine and then the other coughed into life with a snort of compressed air. Raymond opened the Alemite air oilers and they added their tak-tak-tak to the engine noise. They watched as fresh oil appeared on the newly packed pump plungers. Tim raced the pump to bed the new packing and then slowed right down. As the pump ticked over, Raymond sat with a packing wrench, tightening the packing on each in-stroke. When he had finished, Tim primed the pump by circulating from the displacement tanks and stopped. They were ready to test.