Tainted by Ross Pennie Page A

count on you. He’ll be expecting you at three thirty.” He forced a smile. “The man is going to be brusque. But you can handle him.”

    Shortly after three o’clock, Natasha settled into a seat in the sumptuous reception room on the top floor of Kelso International’s shiny glass building. She’d given herself plenty of time to drive from the health unit to Bernard Vanderven’s head office in the industrial park on Nebo Road. Her appointment was for three thirty.
    She passed the time by checking and rechecking the list of questions she’d prepared and rehearsed after meeting with Zol at lunchtime. When she was unable to study her lists any longer, she looked at the décor of the overstuffed room. The reception area had the feel of an English manor-house parlour she’d seen in
Architectural Digest
: Oriental carpets resting on darkly stained hardwood, loveseats and wingback chairs upholstered in complementary brocade, large paintings of hunting scenes in gilt frames, heavy drapes of ruby velvet arranged in three layers.
    “Come this way,” said a thirty-something secretary wearing a bias-cut silk dress in rich purples. Natasha thought the woman spoiled the overall effect with too much eyeshadow. The secretary’s heels, which matched the dress and the eyeshadow, clicked against the hardwood. “Mr. Vanderven will see you now. But he’s only got a few minutes.”
    Natasha took a deep breath and slipped her papers into her briefcase, glad she hadn’t brought her down-market nylon backpack. Her knees felt insubstantial as she stood, but they didn’t fail her. She followed Miss Aubergine Eyeshadow through an oak door marked Bernard Vanderven, CEO .
    “So where’s Dr. Szabo?” asked Bernard Vanderven from behind his desk after Natasha introduced herself. He didn’t stand at her approach. “Your boss said he had to meet with me urgently. Today. So where is he?”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Vanderven, but he got called away on another matter. He asked me to come in his place. I — I have just a few questions to ask, and I promise not to take much of your time.”
    He lifted the French cuff of his white shirt and glanced at his watch. “Let’s get going. Have a seat.”
    She started off with a brief condolence on the death of his wife. Vanderven dismissed it with a wave of a giant hand, the amber gem on his cufflink catching the late afternoon sun streaming through the picture window behind him. Natasha used the opener she’d used with Mrs. Patel, that his wife had suffered an unusual form of encephalitis.
    “Encephalitis? What are you talking about? It was her heart.”
    “Yes, Mr. Vanderven, your wife suffered a cardiac event. But a detailed examination of her brain showed she also had encephalitis. Inflammation of the brain.”
    “Why the hell are you bothering me about this now?”
    “The health department needs to be sure that it wasn’t contagious, that other people aren’t at risk.”
    “For God’s sake, girl. That was five months ago. If it was contagious, you people are a bit late.”
    He was right. Five months was way too long to be tracing encephalitis contacts. But CJD had an entirely different time frame. She had to ignore Vanderven’s contempt and press on. She opened her notepad. “Can you tell me about her illness? What was it like?”
    “Her heart stopped. She died in her sleep. That’s it.”
    “But was she not unwell for some time before that?”
    “What are you implying?”
    She’d have to frame the poor woman’s mental symptoms diplomatically if she wanted to get anything out of the husband. “Was she feeling stressed? A little forgetful, perhaps?”
    He snorted through pursed lips. “Joanna had nothing to be stressed about.”
    “Was she becoming forgetful?”
    Vanderven’s gritty face softened a little. “Well, yes.”
    “In what way?”
    “She was a fashion model when I married her. But for the few weeks before her death she no longer cared about her appearance. When