Cold Grave by Kathryn Fox Page A

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