Cold Grave (12 page)

A pair of crew in white overalls passed by, the smell of foreign cigarettes lingering in their wake.

Further along, they entered a large area filled with hundreds of bags of rubbish contained in clear plastic bags. Anya suddenly became aware of the stench of decomposing food in the dense, warm air. Machines and large receptacles surrounded the three walls. The centre area was dominated by an open container, about two by one metres, situated on a metallic table.

‘This is where Carlos worked,’ Fitz announced, tossing bags aside to make a small path for them.

‘Mr FitzHarris, we were expecting you to visit. Terrible news about Carlos. Terrible.’

‘This is one of our sanitation engineers, Sergio Perez, aka Cockroach.’

Anya greeted the man, who had greasy black hair and pasty skin. His hands had the coarseness that came with years of physical labour.

Anya assumed the nickname stemmed from the fact that he worked with rubbish in the bowels of the ship.

‘What can I do to help?’

A machine clanged and there was a loud sound – like a bucket full of glass being smashed. Anya instinctively covered her ears.

‘
Un minuto
!’ Cockroach bellowed and hit a large red button attached to the wall. A grinding noise halted the shattering.

‘We are short of space, as you can see, and a man down. We had no choice but to extend the shifts for our workers.’ He pointed at the bags of rubbish, which were piled to hip level. ‘All bottles and broken glass have to be crushed. In a week, that is forty thousand bottles of beer, wine and spirits alone. You can smell. Yes?’

‘How long are the normal shifts?’ Anya asked.

‘Twelve to fourteen hours. Now, sixteen hours; more if we are behind.’

No wonder Cockroach looked like he never saw sunlight, she thought. Working sixteen hours or more each day didn’t provide enough time for eight hours sleep after taking into account eating, washing and contacting home. She looked at the large grinding machines and wondered about the occupational health and safety standards. Chronically tired workers were more likely to have accidents.

‘How often do you get days off?’

Cockroach chuckled, folding his lips behind crooked, nicotine-stained teeth. ‘On ship we work. At home we sleep.’

‘I’ll take it from here.’ A man in fresh whites and fine-rimmed glasses entered the area. Cockroach nodded and returned to the glass grinder. ‘I understand you’re here to examine the area. I’m Jeremy Wise, the Environmental Officer.’

FitzHarris stood legs apart, arms folded. ‘I need to get an idea of what our shooting victim did; get a better feel for maybe why he ended up on a stretcher.’

‘There was no staff conflict or reason to think what happened was work-related. From what I see, this team works well together. Some of the Latinos can be pretty hot-headed, particularly when alcohol, money and women are concerned, as you probably know.’

He held a lens rim between his index finger and thumb and made a miniscule adjustment.

‘Thanks for the heads up.’ Fitz patted his shoulder. ‘But it’s a little more than a heated altercation when one of those involved has his legs shot off. I’m covering all bases.’

‘If it helps, I can explain how things work here.’

‘Please do,’ Fitz said. ‘Doctor Crichton’s getting a grand tour.’

‘The industry has worked very hard over the past decade toward reducing its environmental footprint. The
Paradisio
is unsurpassed in terms of her green credentials. We go above and beyond every industry standard and regulation.’

Cockroach had begun to hand-sort rubbish from a number of bags, separating plastics, paper, glass and tin into separate tubs. Another man soon joined him, then another. Together, they worked quickly, to the clanging and smashing from the machines.

‘As you can see, anything and everything that can be recycled is separated on board. We have state-of-the-art facilities: shredders, compactors and baling equipment, and crushers – as you can see, and hear – which we use for glass, tin and aluminium.

He took them through an open doorway to another section. Compacted cans compressed into large cubes were stacked in rows along one wall, almost to the ceiling.

Anya couldn’t help but notice that each cube had been wrapped tightly in plastic from an industrial roll. The wall of crushed cans was astounding, especially considering they had only been at sea a day. This was a garbage tip for the equivalent of a small town, compacted into a few rooms.

‘What sort of a worker was Carlos?’

Wise readjusted his glasses again. ‘He was a hard worker. Kept to himself as far as I can tell.’

‘Did he have any beefs with any of your team?’

The compactor clunked into action and, a minute later, produced a bale of crushed metal cans. A worker from the other room entered with more tubs of aluminium, refilled the machine and removed the compressed block.

‘Not that I know of. The crew come here to work and aren’t paid to socialise. Most of our team are from South America and speak Portuguese or Spanish.’

‘What about religious or cultural differences? Does everyone pull his weight?’

‘Yes. Our Muslim crew are permitted time-out for prayers, just as smokers take their breaks. No one should feel as though they’re working harder than anyone else. Carlos was a consistent worker. We keep meticulous logs and records, and I’d know if any of the shifts was doing less than their share.’

Up until now, Anya had not thought twice about where rubbish and refuse from the staterooms and decks ended up. ‘How much rubbish is generated on the ship?’

‘Each passenger can generate up to three and a half kilograms of waste per day. We have just over three thousand passengers this leg, which makes over eleven thousand kilograms every day this week.’

The figure was almost inconceivable. ‘Is all of that sorted and kept down here?’ She thought it would have needed an army to keep up with that amount of rubbish, and felt a twang of guilt about how much she had already contributed.

Wise stood straight. ‘It includes food waste, which is macerated and incinerated. We incinerate a lot of the plastic and paper, storing the ash in a specially designed cold room. I’d show you, but it also contains hazardous waste: sewage sludge.’

‘That’s fine,’ Fitz commented, as he wandered around the room. ‘I don’t need to see and smell shit to know it’s there.’ He was examining the notes pinned to walls and machines, and the safety signs that were written in multiple languages. He then turned his attention to some of the bags and sorted materials.

‘What happens to the sewage?’ Anya hated to think how much passengers and crew produced, and where that was stored.

‘On average, we process over a million litres of what we call black water – sewage and medical waste – every week. We have the most advanced water treatment systems available, which satisfy every environmental protection agency and marine standard.’

Wise sounded like a poster boy for the industry, proud of his role. Anya suspected he had not been in the job all that long.

‘Where’s black water stored?’

‘That’s the beauty of it. It’s so clean that legally we’re permitted to discharge it within three miles of shore, but we prefer to release it more than twelve miles out, to be sure.’ He grinned, as if expecting praise.

Anya responded courteously. ‘I had no idea the ships were so progressive in waste management.’

‘Well, Doctor, we pride ourselves on protecting the oceans we sail in. If you’re interested, I can tell you about the other innovations in my office. The ship is quite masterful.’

Anya looked at FitzHarris. He waved a hand. ‘Go on, it is fascinating and a real eye-opener. I just have to ask Cockroach one last question and I’ll be right with you.’

She felt set up. Fitz just wanted her to distract Wise so he could search and ask questions unimpeded. Ordinarily, she might not have minded, but a wave of exhaustion had hit her and the events of the day were catching up.

‘Shall we?’

‘I only have a few minutes before I have to collect my son from the kids’ club,’ she lied.

‘This won’t take long.’ He led the way to his office. Every piece of paper was in perfectly aligned piles. A pen and pencil were placed horizontally, equidistant from the papers on either side.

Wise retrieved a well-worn spiral bound report. ‘As you can see,’ he flicked to a colour picture of a smooth hull, ‘this hull is especially designed with non-toxic materials. It’s like Teflon for ships. With reduced resistance, fuel efficiency has gone up dramatically.
And
,’ he emphasised, ‘sea life is repelled. No barnacles, no accidental transfer of organisms to other environments.’ He admired the image. ‘It really is marvellous. Maintenance is minimal, as you can imagine.’

From the enthusiasm, Anya would have thought Wise had a role in its design, but she suspected he would have mentioned it if he had.

Wise continued to rattle off an array of facts and figures, while Anya politely listened, willing FitzHarris back with every passing minute. They had navigated so many corners and turns, she had no idea how to find her way out, and suspected that asking Jeremy Wise would ensure a longer tour, via all of the ship’s environmental aspects.

Finally a knock on the door heralded FitzHarris’s return. ‘Sorry, Jeremy, but I have to get the good doctor back to her son.’ He winked. ‘Maybe you should do lunch and you can fill her in on all the other advancements.’

Wise raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ll give you my direct number. Please call and I’ll make a point of making time.’

‘Thanks,’ Anya managed, flicking a glare at Fitz, which only he was privy to. ‘I’ll check with my family.’

They left and headed back to the I-95, dodging the night run of heavy vehicles. Like an underground society, workers continued while those above partied or slept.

Out of range, FitzHarris pealed into hearty laughter. ‘You should have seen your face when I mentioned lunch.’

Anya buckled over, gasping as her stomach muscles contracted with laughter. After a day of dealing with death and trauma, the slightest thing could set her off; it was impossible to explain to anyone else what was so funny. Thankfully, FitzHarris was the same.

They slumped against the wall for a couple of minutes before regaining self-control. Any animosity Anya had felt toward FitzHarris earlier in the day at the morgue was long forgotten.

FitzHarris wiped one eye. ‘Maybe I should suggest dinner and a tour of the Teflon hull . . .’

They erupted again. Fitz folded at the waist, hands bracing his knees, to odd looks from the crew carting rubbish to and from the recycling centre.

For a few brief moments, all thoughts and images of Lilly and Carlos faded from Anya’s mind.

10

By the time Anya returned to her cabin, she had regained control, grateful for the endorphin release she and FitzHarris had shared.

Ben had been struggling to stay awake until she returned. ‘This was the best day ever.’ He clutched his toy rabbit and yawned. One eyelid and its surrounds still had traces of smudged black paint, remnants of a makeshift eye patch. Anya reached up and stroked his soft blond mop. Within a minute, breathing deeply, he was fast asleep. Like so many young children, he vacillated between full speed and complete shutdown. She watched him resting peacefully after his fulfilling day of exciting adventures.

‘Sweet dreams,’ she whispered.

‘He loves you a lot,’ Martin said from the balcony. ‘You’re a good mother.’

Anya watched his face to see if he were mocking her. Instead, he smiled. It was the first time he had complimented her parenting. Normally, he derided how she spent more time at work than with the family.

She joined him outside. The breeze had picked up and it released pieces of hair from her ponytail.

He unscrewed a bottle of water and presented it over his forearm, as someone would a fine wine. ‘Excellent vintage. Can I tempt you?’

Anya smiled as he poured two glasses and gave her one. They clinked. It was the first time in a while that they’d been in unison. She had to admit that they had worked well together today, in difficult circumstances. It reminded her of the Martin she had loved a long time ago.