Tampered by Ross Pennie Read Free Book Online Page B

among her greatest fans, but he does run a tight kitchen.” Natasha’s parade of brightly coloured shoes had been the talk of the office ever since her arrival, fresh with her Master’s. It seemed her latest indulgence was her fingernails. Today they were varnished the deep red, near purple, of a rich Shiraz. “A couple of minor deviations,” she continued, “but no violations.”
    â€œI’m worried about the soup. We’ll see what the lab has to tell us about it.” He pointed to Natasha’s case. “How many samples did you get in total?”
    â€œAbout a dozen. The usual suspects — the ketchup bottle, mayonnaise jar, some slimy lettuce and broccoli from the crisper, a big thing of gravy from the back of the fridge, the drains from the three sinks.”
    â€œUnless things have changed since your last inspection, none of those cultures are going to show any pathogens.”
    â€œWon’t even show any mould. We’ve been through every crumb in that kitchen before. Ever since their first gastro cases.” She thumbed through her sheets, found what she was looking for, then added, “This whole thing started with four gastros on January eleventh. Total number reported now stands at thirty-one.” She pulled at the curls beside her ear. “And five deaths.”
    Only three people had died at Camelot in the previous calendar year. It was a wonder the papers hadn’t got hold of the story and done the math. They were bound to soon and shout from the headlines:
Cozy Camelot Turns Death Trap
.
    â€œHow many active cases at the moment?” he asked.
    â€œIt changes every day. But among the independent seniors on the Belvedere Wing, we know about four.” She looked skeptically at her notepad.
    Zol shared her skepticism. Unreported cases of flu, gastro, and other contagious infections were the bugbears of public health. Getting to the bottom of outbreaks in residential institutions — bringing epidemics under control by isolating their cases and pinpointing their sources — was close to impossible if many of the cases were not reported to the health unit. Even the most conscientious managers fudged the numbers. There was strong incentive for under-reporting: if cases weren’t reported to the authorities, the outbreak didn’t seem so bad, there was little for families to get upset about, life could go on as usual, and the problem might go away on its own.
    â€œDid you notice that rash on Nick’s arm?” Zol asked.
    â€œThat tattoo was gross.”
    â€œDermatitis of some sort. And infected, by the look of it.” He pulled two loonies from his pocket and juggled them. “You know, this could be toxigenic food poisoning — staph aureus from Nick’s rash contaminating everything in that kitchen.”
    â€œHe let me take a culture of his rash. But I don’t think our problem is staphylococcus aureus. It never showed up in our previous samples. And doesn’t staph food poisoning start with violent vomiting?”
    â€œHurling your guts out is the dominant feature. That hasn’t been the pattern here, eh?”
    â€œAbdominal cramps, diarrhea, and fever.”
    â€œStaph food poisoning doesn’t cause fever,” Zol said. “But we’ll check it out.” If the swab from Nick’s arm did grow staph aureus, he’d have to ban the chef from the kitchen until the infection was controlled. “Until the results come back, he’ll have to keep that arm covered.”
    Two minutes later Gloria Oliveira shuffled toward the side exit behind two men in black suits pushing a stretcher. A heavy sheet covered the unmistakable shape of a corpse. Zol watched Gloria’s shoulders heave as she patted the body and watched it disappear into a waiting black van. Camelot’s sixth death since January.
    Dark circles ringed the woman’s bloodshot eyes as she approached. She wiped the