Читать книгу Blood at Bay - Sue Rabie - Страница 6

The sound of the morning traffic was distant, the air in the apartment stagnant. David put on the radio and waited for the weather report. He listened vacantly as scattered showers were predicted around Pietermaritzburg. Then he wandered into the kitchen to make another cup of coffee. He stood on his balcony, drinking it as he stared out over the cityscape. The view of the harbour was obscured by a haze of early-morning mist that promised a warm spring day. He thought about the yacht Julian Harper wanted him to babysit and then remembered the nightmares of drowning that had plagued him. Coincidence? He hoped so.

He went back inside, washed the cup and went to get dressed. He still felt tired and wasn’t looking forward to the trip to Dalton, but at least work would take his mind off the dreams. He grabbed a jacket just in case it did start showering and then went downstairs to the garages where he kept his second-hand Land Rover and the new Mercedes Sprinter delivery van.

His flat was on the second floor of a duplex apartment block that had been built in the sixties. The brown brick building was a little worn around the edges, but the low rates and location suited him. One of the reasons he had bought it was for the double garage assigned to each apartment. The Mercedes van just fitted, although technically he wasn’t allowed to keep a work vehicle there. But, so far, his neighbour hadn’t objected.

By the time David had picked up the parts waiting at the specialist machinist in the city and driven out to the Umvoti Mill he was feeling decidedly better. The trip hadn’t been a long one, only an hour and a half from Durban, and the traffic had been obliging. He had driven through Pietermaritzburg to New Hanover, then past the turn-off to Schroeders and Ravensworth and on to Dalton. The rolling emerald green of the sugarcane fields contrasted with the brilliant royal-blue sky above, but the tranquil country portrait was slightly marred by the muddy town.

Dalton’s main road was a dead end: a row of old buildings that had seen better days opposite a web of railway lines that ran through the town. There was a bank, a butchery, a grocery store, a general dealer and the obligatory post office. A modern bridge linked the main road to the rest of the town where a cash-and-carry and the one and only hotel-cum-bar waited wearily for Friday-afternoon paydays.

David turned back from the main road and found the Fawnleas, Seven Oaks turn-off. This road led him past the farmers’ hall and rugby club and through the main residential area of town. There were houses on either side – some municipal and clearly built in the fifties, and others larger, more recently built, but still a little grubby. It was no wonder. Huge cane trucks with their double-cargo trailers barrelled down the road, shedding mud and cane sticks. They made for the Dalton Union Co-Op Mill, the huge edifice dominating the town limits as it spewed smoke and soot into the air.

David started comparing Dalton to Boston, where he had lived before. This town was bigger, with more people, but it was also caught up in that small-town mentality, where most folk knew what their neighbours were up to. He thought of May, the woman who had saved him from himself, of how they had parted. He wondered if she ever regretted her decision to move back to Joburg, if she ever regretted leaving him. Then he stopped himself. He didn’t want to think about May.

He carried on through Dalton and on to the Umvoti Mill situated a further twenty kilometres up the road. It was a relatively new structure, the mill only five years old but just as big and busy as the Dalton Union Co-Op.

As David stepped down from the Mercedes’s air-conditioned cab he discovered how much cooler it was away from the coast. He slipped his jacket on and made his way to the long, low administration block. It was the only entrance to the mill; the property itself was surrounded by a tall wire-mesh fence. The administration block stood not only as a barrier in front of a square and somewhat dusty parking lot, but also as a weighbridge and security boom for the cane trucks that drove through.

David pushed open the swing door and stepped into the room.

“Can I help you?” The woman at the reception desk smiled at him as he closed the door. The name on her desk identified her as Mrs Freese.

He introduced himself. “I have a delivery for you,” he told her. “Machine parts from Durban.” He handed over the invoice and delivery details.

“Thank you,” the receptionist said. “We weren’t expecting you so soon.”

David smiled obligingly.

“I’ll get someone to offload for you,” she told him.

David waited while she phoned through to dispatch. No one answered. She glanced up, a worried expression on her face. She seemed the worrying sort – a plump, floral-frocked woman who was probably a local farmer’s wife making extra cash answering the telephone.

“That’s strange; they’re not there.”

“Not a problem,” David said. “I’ll wait. The next consignment’s only due tomorrow.”

“Oh?” she frowned. “I haven’t been told anything about that.”

“A Ms Prinsloo arranged it,” he explained.

Mrs Freese looked confused. “Well, then, I think you’d better speak to her. If she arranged it, she can deal with it. She’s down the passage with the auditors from Durban. They’re through the third door on the right.”

David thanked her and made his way out of the room. The passage was a long, cabinet-cluttered hallway of offices and filing rooms, all nondescript and made more so by an additional layer of unavoidable soot from endless cane fires burning nearby. The walls were institutional beige and the floor was brown linoleum.

The first door on his left led to an office labelled “Managing Director”. The second door announced this was where his or her assistant worked. The desk was as neat as a pin with in trays and out trays uniformly stacked. Opposite was an office labelled “Financial Manager”. The third office on the right was a cross between a filing room and a storeroom. Cabinets and cupboards had been left half open, as if someone had only moments before been searching for something, and the table that had been set up for the audit was covered with half-processed papers.

But no one was there. Laptops lay open and waiting and files of documents and paper-clipped collections of invoices lay in piles on the large flat surface. Coffee mugs dotted the table, still filled with hot coffee. Strange, David thought, something must have disturbed whoever had been working here.

He went to the door of the office again and started down the passage. The hallway was quiet, the offices empty. Where was everybody?

He stopped as he heard a howling noise in the distance. At first he thought it was the mill’s shift-change siren, but the noise increased in volume until he was sure it was just outside the building. An ambulance? The police?

He made his way through the offices to the back doors. The exit opened out into a large space which formed the centre of the mill complex. It was here that all the lumbering sugarcane trucks arrived with their cargo and where the offloading of equipment took place. It was unusually busy. Workers ran from the adjacent cafeteria to the mill itself, while drivers hurried from the huge cane trucks that had been parked haphazardly in the lot.

He caught sight of an ambulance as it arrived, its flashing red lights indicating its urgency as it wound through the parked trucks and running men. He followed at a slower pace, avoiding a cane truck that had just come to a standstill in front of him. He headed towards the largest building making up the square. It was the main extracting hall, the five-storey building which housed the vast labyrinth of machinery used to make sugar.

It was dark inside the mill, the outside light contrasting sharply with the shadows. He blinked to accustom his eyesight to the interior. Behind him he heard the door of a cane truck slam shut. Someone came up behind him, brushing past as he stopped. It was the driver of the cane truck.

“Hey,” David called after him. “What’s going on?”

The man slowed fractionally. “Ingozi,” he called over his shoulder. Accident, David understood. There was a look on the driver’s face, something in his voice. Dread.

David frowned, but followed the man further into the cavernous hall of the main floor. What looked like huge shredders were directly ahead of him, raised up on massive struts, and it was here, in the centre of the mill, among the leaking cooling pipes and humming motors and vibrating walkways that tragedy had struck.

A large crowd had gathered in front of an empty space normally cordoned off for the hoist, an open-platform lift in which workers and machinery were raised up or down from the top storey. A group of men – foremen or managers, David presumed – was ordering the crowd back.

David peered past them. The thick chain used to operate the hoist was coiled like a lazy snake on the concrete floor, liquid pooling around it, probably from leaking piping or the condensed steam of the plant. But when he took a closer look at the pool of liquid, he noted that there was a thickness to it that did not seem like water. A strange colour that had a deep ruby red to it. Blood.

He looked up. He could see the lift halted halfway up in the vast space between the sugar crystallisers and dewatering mills. The blood seemed to be coming from the shredders.

And then he realised. Someone had fallen from the hoist … into a shredder.