* * *
Sadly, a couple months later, I'm not having as much fun. I don't understand it. I haven't heard from Dan at all. Despite being eager for news, I am too proud to call him. Perhaps it's just as well. Instead, I have had to do my own investigating into what happened after.
Fortunately, I have no qualms about contacting Gene. First of all, just as he had shouted to Madeleine from his stretcher, Gene wisely enlisted the services of an excellent solicitor. So far no charges have been filed against her in the UK. From what I can gather, it seems Madeleine has been able to get away on a legal technicality—the supreme lack of evidence. I ought to be ashamed, but I am pleased to have had a hand in it. The liquid in the cartridges collected by Dan had remarkably evaporated, leaving only negligible traces, not enough for the authorities to work with. And although she had been questioned by the DEA agents who flew in especially, having recovered no drugs, what could they charge her with?
Second, the Hartford County fire succeeded in messing up all possible crucial evidence. After weeks of sifting through the debris and analysing what they found, the DEA could not confirm conclusively that the farm had been an illegal cannabis farm or a research laboratory. While findings on the scene point to arson, there had been no witnesses to point the finger to her.
Initially, the DEA had been delighted to uncover a plethora of perplexing substances, one of which was suspected to be genetically modified cannabis. The traces, however, were too inconsequential as well as degraded to be useful for a conviction. Madeleine could not be charged with possession, growing crops, or the intention to distribute or sell. All proof had literally gone up in smoke.
Third, even if she had missed her meeting with Roake Pharmaceuticals, Madeleine had no problem rescheduling another one. Murmurings from the scientific grapevine hint that the British pharmaceutical giant hopes to make an announcement soon of a revolutionary new drug to rival Sativex and Trabinol. Clinical trials should begin shortly, and a patent for the drug is also in the works. On the strength of these whispers, the stock value of Roake has gone through the roof.
Roake has also offered Madeleine a permanent research position. They propose to rebuild her lab in Hartford County where she can continue her work on her own terms. I can only imagine what they offered her in return. It must have been rather substantial because not too long after, I receive an invitation in the post. The card announces the launch of The Joshua Mitchell Foundation. The foundation is a not-for-profit registered charity that aims to help children and adults suffering from ankylosing spondylitis, as well as to raise public awareness and offer education about the degenerative disease.
However, Madeleine's story has another, more important happy ending. In his gratitude for my assistance, Gene has confided in me that he has put in for early retirement. It transpires that the bullet nicked a nerve on his left arm. Even if he is not a surgeon and is right-handed, the injury enables him to leave on medical grounds. As soon as he retires, he plans to book the next flight to Connecticut. While he doesn't say explicitly—there is a limit to his candour with me—I can tell that a romantic reconciliation is a major part of his scheme.
On the other hand, I envision no happy ending for Warren Thomas and Stacey Kimble. While I continue to fight the temptation to ring Dan for the details, I learn on my own that the two face serious criminal charges on both sides of the Atlantic. I have been advised that in addition to my statements taken by the Met police and DEA agents, I may be called upon as a witness in court, which might mean another plane trip for me. I'm not familiar with the technicalities of jurisdiction and extradition treaties, but the two are up for attempted murder, assault of police officers and industrial espionage. I believe it's only a matter of time before Warren and Stacey are handed hefty fines and jail sentences.
Medtech Pharmaceuticals likewise will not go unscathed. Unwilling to go down on his own and perhaps in keeping with his character, Warren has also implicated three of Medtech's board members in his crimes. The board denies any involvement, of course, claiming that Mr Thomas acted on his own initiative. Regrettably for Warren, there are no memos or letters documenting their involvement. For now, it appears the three board members have sufficiently covered their tracks. Nonetheless, the mention of industrial espionage has instigated an official investigation into Medtech's research activities. Old cases involving disputes with other pharmaceutical companies and contract research firms are being reopened and reviewed. With speculation rife, in a short space of time, the price of Medtech's shares has plummeted. Millions of dollars have been wiped off its market value. Or should I say again—they've gone up in smoke.
Madeleine Mitchell has won in more ways than one.
Perhaps because I am miffed at him, I don't tell Dan about the sample Madeleine gave me. Having analysed it, I can't help but be impressed at her combination of ingredients. Her formula also includes a couple of surprising elements that should add greatly to the drug's potency. Madeleine has done brilliant, amazing work. It's great to see her efforts recompensed.
What motivates a scientist? Is it the desire for money, recognition or the ability to make a difference in mankind's quality of life? In my case, I have a deep and burning desire to discover, to solve mysteries. It's akin to finding another piece in the world's jigsaw puzzle and putting it in place. It gives me a high, perhaps similar to the high illicit drugs promise, not that I would know. I can only infer it. Certainly the euphoria lasts longer. It is the irredeemable reward for dedication and hard work. And there is no coming down from that.
Nonetheless, I can understand Warren's professional envy of Madeleine's work. In the short course of my career to date, I've also felt twinges of it at different times. Not intensely enough, though, to commit a crime. And certainly not kill for it. Apart from the thrill of making a discovery is the joy of sharing the discovery. It is the next best thing and not to be scoffed at.
I am working in my lab, carrying on with my research for the new muscle relaxant inhaler when I sense a cloud approaching ... cardamon, pepper, tomatoes ... I raise my head from my station to find Hanesh's perfect white teeth gleaming against his dark complexion. No, he doesn't remind me of a shark. How could he when he struggles to hold back a giggle?
'Dr Armstrong wants to see you.'
Since my boss rarely calls me into his office, I take it as an urgent summons. I am surprised to see DI Hendricks also present.
Tuna fish, mayonnaise, pickles ... Of late, Dr Armstrong's lunch of choice ...
'You remember Detective Inspector Hendricks, don't you?' Dr Armstrong says.
The detective rises from his chair and clasps my hands warmly.
Café mocha, raspberry jam ... Dry cleaning fluid ...
I chuckle. The detective has recently taken his coat to the cleaners.
DI Hendricks's catches me staring at his coat. His weary face lights up. He knows that I've noticed and smiles back.
'Jolly good.' Dr Armstrong rocks back in his armchair and pats his rounded belly. Grinning broadly, he studies me from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. I haven't recounted any of the events of that weekend to him. I wonder how much he has found out, what DI Hendricks has shared with him.
'Dr Sonnclere,' Dr Armstrong says. His swollen nose crinkles and his plump cheeks turn red. A gleam shines in his eyes. 'DI Hendricks needs your help—'
'That is, if it won't interfere too much with your job here,' DI Hendricks interjects.
'How would you like to work as a consultant with the police?'
READ ON FOR AN EXTRACT FROM BOOK 2
The Sense of Sonnclere
PROLOGUE
There was a pop immediately followed by a hiss.
In the cool July night, the restaurant was dark and empty. A bar of light from a streetlamp shone through a small side window high up on the wall. The light hit the wooden beams on the ceiling and bounced softly to the floor. It caressed the rustic tables and chairs, and reflected warmly on the framed pictures on the walls. The
pictures depicted the beautiful Tuscan countryside: vineyards, fruit orchards and olive groves celebrating la gioia di vivere. The joy of life.
The dark outlines of the open kitchen and wood-fired oven defined the other side of the large room. Despite the lemony tang of the air freshener and other cleaning fluids, hints of grease, tomato sauce and garlic lingered in the air. But that wasn't unusual, especially in the popular Camden branch of Popolo restaurants. The trendy chain of twenty-six ristorantes dotting London was renowned for its pizza and pasta dishes. Affordable Italian cuisine.
The last order had been served and consumed hours ago. The restaurant staff had gone home, and the cleaning crew had scrubbed the kitchen and tidied up the dining area. Friday nights were busy, but Saturdays at Popolo were usually more hectic. In a few hours, the restaurant would open once more, and the staff would come back to do it all over again.
The hissing went on for a minute, breaking the stillness. Like a spell, it beckoned them. Soon they arrived, full of expectation.
One by one they came—hesitant at first. While their noses verified the trail, their whiskers served as radar to navigate the premises. They crawled in through pipes and drains. Their furry bodies and long tails squeezed through narrow gaps in the walls. And their strong teeth gnawed through the floor boards. They were greedy and intelligent creatures, but cautious. As if reluctant to emerge even into dim light, they scurried along the edges of the restaurant, hugging the walls and taking cover under the furniture. After all, they were more comfortable in the dark. They were creatures of the night.
All of a sudden, as if floodgates had been flung open, they rushed in, a large seemingly unending wave. Communicating on ultrasonic frequency, they pushed through loosened bricks, wood and tile, care abandoned. Their keen sense of smell egged them on. In a short space of time, they numbered in the hundreds, jostling each other for space.
They climbed on window ledges and shelves. They scrambled over tables and chairs. The noise of broken bottles, crockery, pots and pans made a deafening din.
The hiss had promised so much. It drove the creatures mad. They searched for it. Their feet scratched; their teeth chittered. Their excitement quickly reached fever pitch.
Caught up in a frenzy, they couldn't contain themselves. Even if they had wanted to, they couldn't stop. When daybreak came and the service entrance was unlocked and opened, they didn't notice. They didn't leave. They couldn't be interrupted, not even when the manager's screams pierced the air.
ONE
Vanilla, milk, biscuit ...
The scent rises inside my nose to a small patch of skin at the top that is called my olfactory epithelium. I have roughly five million olfactory neurons there. They sense the odour molecules I smell, turn them into electrical signals and send them to my brain. First to the olfactory bulb and next to the olfactory cortex. The olfactory cortex works like a computer, enabling me to recognise various odours, such as sweet or sour. Then it allows me to associate them with particular substances, for example, honey for sweet and vinegar for sour. Sounds complex, I know, but in real time the process occurs instantaneously—in less than a split second. Most of the time, even in my line of work, I am not aware of it.
What I am conscious of now is that I am relaxed. It is a feeling that often eludes me. But the gentle scent comforts me and brings back pleasant childhood memories, feelings of contentment and thoughts of safety. They remind me of home and, more importantly, of my mother.
I write down my observations in my laboratory notebook.
The results of the nasal spray I am developing in my lab show promise. Nevertheless, they're not wholly due to the aromatic oils and compounds that compose the spray, agreeable though they may be. To the formula, I add the synthetic form of oxytocin, a hormone largely produced by the hypothalamus in the brain. It is well-known for its role in sexual reproduction, primarily in childbirth where it is secreted after the dilation of the cervix and uterus during labour. It also triggers the release of milk in the breasts and fosters bonding between mother and child.
Recently, however, oxytocin has been proven to have wider effects on behaviour. Findings support the idea that it boosts trust, cooperation and even sexual performance in males, earning it the nicknames: "love hormone" and "cuddle-drug." Consequently, research labs have utilised the hormone to develop "love potions." Sex is big business. Although not exclusively, sex and smell go hand in hand.
I am a research fellow at the London University of Science, Technology and Medicine. The University has an international reputation for excellence in medical research, development and teaching. Its research departments, including mine, earn hundreds of millions of pounds from grants and contracts from government and private sectors.
As a chemist specialising in the field of olfactory science, I am currently exploring oxytocin's calming effects and developing a natural tranquiliser spray for a pharmaceutical company. They aim to market it as an over-the-counter solution to ease anxiety, stress or fear. Inhalation is the quickest and most effective route to the brain, but pleasant scents alone aren't powerful enough. The diluted solution of the hormone in the spray should stimulate a chemical reaction in the brain. Together with the aromatic oils and compounds, I intend to conjure up the basic maternal connection. Like the comfort of a mother's breast.
The spray would be classified as a minor tranquiliser, a departure from my previous work on antipsychotics or neuroleptics which fall under the major category. Nonetheless, it complements my recent research on neuromuscular blockers. It is an area of research that truly interests me as I work long hours and am always on the edge. I usually can't get a good night's sleep without help.
The neuromuscular blocker I helped develop works as a fast-acting muscle relaxant. Administered via inhalation, it can be an adjunct to anaesthesia to induce paralysis. It can also be employed on its own for non-surgical outpatient procedures. Medical research continually seeks more effective ways to promote a patient's comfort. The natural tranquiliser spray I'm working on is also designed to give relief by eliciting an emotional response.
I stifle a yawn. Perhaps my spray makes me too relaxed as well—I am starting to feel sleepy. I glance at my watch. It's 7:35 am, Monday morning, and I have already been working alone in my lab for almost two hours. Again, I write down the time in my notebook. I expect the effects of the spray to last for a couple more hours.
I hear the door open and scrunch up my nose.
Spicy aftershave, coffee, fresh male sweat ... A trace of whiskey. So early in the morning?
I promptly discount that it's my assistant, Hanesh Patel. Due to our work with olfaction, we don't use personal fragrance to work. Nevertheless, Hanesh's sweat frequently hints of curry. But I'm being unfair. The truth is I have a sensitive and trained nose. Because of it I'm probably the only one who can detect his personal odour. In any case, Hanesh doesn't come in this early. I rise from my stool and turn to my visitor.
'Dr Neroli Sonnclere?' he asks.
I nod, suddenly alarmed. My visitor is exceedingly tall, dark-haired and broad at the shoulders like a bull. He is wearing a well-cut navy blue suit, crisp white shirt and silk tie. His long strides, fluid and purposeful, swiftly cover the space between us. I am rooted to my spot. Up close I see that he isn't handsome. His face is hard and his eyes are set too deep for me to distinguish their colour.
'Who are you? How did you get in?' I ask, frowning. The research labs have a high-tech integrated security system with live monitoring by security cameras and a 24/7 security presence. I am surprised that security did not call me first before letting him through.
'Detective Inspector McClellan, Metropolitan Police Special Branch,' he says, showing me his badge and warrant card. He has a deep and gravelly voice.
I understand now how he passed security.
'What happened to DI Hendricks?' I ask as I study his credentials. Detective Inspector Adam McClellan, it reads.
'Retired.'
'He didn't
tell me he planned on retiring.' It has been three months since I last saw DI Hendricks.
'An unexpected decision. Ill-health.'
Due to my unique ability, I have on occasion been called upon by DI Hendricks to act as consultant to the Met's Special Branch. DI Hendricks is in his early fifties, but in the two years I worked with him, I have witnessed him age dramatically. The Metropolitan Police Special Branch handles matters of security, investigating all perceived threats, especially those of terrorism and extremist activity. A stressful job—I shouldn't wonder it has worn him down. His replacement, however, is considerably younger and fit.
'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.'
DI McClellan grunts.
'Well, what can I do for you, Detective?' I ask.
The detective smiles briefly before his gaze sweeps over my head down to my feet and back again.
I am a little over six feet tall and big-boned. I am pale in complexion with blue eyes and a strong nose. When not tied back as it has to be in my lab, my red hair falls in big waves past my shoulders. I'm used to people staring up at me, mouths agape. I know I come across as odd and, at times, have been told I can be intimidating. But the detective has no problem meeting eye to eye. I discern now that his eyes are dark grey. They're studying me curiously, yet giving away nothing. Then his gaze rests on my nose, a second too long for my liking.
I look away. I walk over to my desk where he follows and takes the chair I offer. I remove my lab coat and hang it up before adjusting my trousers and taking my seat behind the desk. 'I'm sorry I can't offer you anything in the lab, but if you want tea or coffee, we can go to the canteen.'
'No thanks,' he says, shaking his head. DI McClellan presents me a copy of the Sunday Times and points to a news item. The headline reads:
Rat Infestation Forces Closure of
Popular Camden Restaurant
'I've read the article,' I say, glancing at the paper. 'How does this concern the Met Special Branch? Isn't this a matter for pest control?'
'You're right. Normally, individual contractors or the local council manage pest control. Nevertheless, this case has been brought to our attention.'
'Why?'
'There have been several similar incidents of rat infestation in London the past few weeks. It started with small eateries. Take-aways, fish and chip shops. Then pubs. Now restaurants. It's escalating. The pest control people were called in. The Department of Health and Sanitation closed them down. Nothing more to it. But last Saturday, Popolo, the Italian restaurant in Camden—'
'They're part of a chain, aren't they?'
'—was attacked.'
'Attacked? I thought it was an infestation.'
'There were hundreds of rats. The scale of the infestation makes it more of an invasion.'
'But millions of rats live underneath in the sewers of London. Against millions, hundreds is a small percentage.'
'Yes, except they have never turned up in such numbers in one place at one time.'
I scan the article again. I have been to the Camden Branch of Popolo. Back then, three months ago, it had been fairly new. I wouldn't have thought they would already have problems with vermin.
'I admit it's intriguing, Detective, but I still don't see why it concerns you or me. Most likely it's just a sanitation issue.'
'At first, they were regarded as isolated incidents. It's only after the incident at Popolo's that we found out they received letters.'
'Letters?'
'Yes, letters demanding money.'
'As in extortion?'
DI McClellan leans towards me. As if his movement pushes the space between us, I instinctively lean back on my chair.
'You mean someone made an actual threat involving rats? How absurd!'
'The letters didn't mention rats in particular. But we can infer a correlation. Before each case of infestation,' DI McClellan says, 'the restaurants were sent letters demanding payment or else.'
'Or else?' I cock my head. 'It sounds amateurish.'
'We wouldn't have put it together if the management of Popolo did not come forward. We canvassed the restaurants near those affected. Those that paid were not infested.'
'Hmmm.' I pause, frowning. 'How much did they ask for?'
'That's the unusual thing. They didn't ask for themselves—at least that's how it appears. Instead, the letters instructed the management to: "Feed the Poor." After, they demanded that cash be donated to a particular charity. In Popolo's case, they wanted £10,000 in cash to be distributed to all the visitors including staff during lunch hour at the local New Horizons Homeless Day Centre. They didn't pay.'
'Someone from the Day Centre has to be connected.'
'We thought of that. However, the other demands were for different charities and spread all over London. A connection isn't obvious, but we're exploring that angle.'
'Is this for real?' I say, shaking my head. 'It's the craziest thing I've ever heard.'
'It certainly appears to be an unusual protection racket. For now, we're classifying it as that. Truthfully, we don't know how to classify it. They don't use thugs threatening violence. Besides, the old protection racket model doesn't work well in today's well-policed societies. Instead, organised crime groups target contracts for restaurant support such as garbage disposal, laundry and supplies. Or use restaurants, nightclubs, bars and hotels as fronts for money laundering, prostitution or pornography. I have never heard of any that use vermin and disease as weapons.'
'Ingenious,' I say, shaking my head again.
'That's true. It is organised crime, but not by any organisation, mafia, syndicate or gang we know of. In any case, we're convinced it's a new group, and one that's gathering momentum. We feel that the earlier incidents were trial runs. Small fry. Now they're after bigger fish. We want to stop it before it gets out of hand.'
'Feed the poor? Could it be political?'
'It could well be. That's why the Special Branch has jurisdiction. Although we're working closely with the Organised Crime Unit.'
'Any clues in the letters?'
'The letters were clean. They were printed by computer in ordinary copier paper, dropped in post boxes at random locations. No fingerprints. They're next to impossible to track down.'
'Who could it be? Robin Hood?' I scoff. 'Take from rich restaurants and give to the poor?'
'More like the Pied Piper.'
'Of course—why didn't I think of that?' I chortle, recalling the childhood story. 'Are you calling him that? Like the character from the fairy tale?'
He shrugs. 'The Piper. It's as good as any while we don't have a real name. The letters aren't signed.'
I start to speak but he raises a hand to stop me.
'I didn't pen that name,' he says.
'So it could be the work of one man.' Then I add hastily, 'Or one woman.'
'Could be. But in the light of the recent London riots, we are taking this seriously.'
'Were you able to get back the cash from the charities?'
DI McClellan shakes his head. 'Are you kidding? Cash gifts with no receipt? The money's gone.'
I tap my desk. 'I still don't understand why you're calling on me.'
'You've earned quite a reputation down at the station, Dr Sonnclere,' he says. 'At the moment we have no idea why or how the rats suddenly show up.'
Contrary to his earnest speech, I notice doubt cross his eyes. Then a cloud of suspicion. I realise that he has sought my help reluctantly. He has sized me up and concluded that my credentials don't add up. It's a look I've seen many times before—at school, university and especially within the male-dominated scientific community. I am used to it, but that doesn't mean I like it.
In spite of that, I meet his gaze. 'So what do you need from me, Detective?'
He studies me. Challenge now replaces the scepticism. 'I need you to come with me and check out Popolo. I hear you have a nose for these things.'
I smile. I never shy away from a challenge.
TWO
&
nbsp; Exhaust, urine, bacon, coffee ... Roses ... Incense? Leather ...
The morning rush hour slows down the drive from South Kensington to Camden. Behind the wheel, DI McClellan sits silent, occasionally snorting and glaring at the traffic. He cuts short any of my attempts at conversation. I regret bothering especially since small talk doesn't come easily to me. The detective is proving to be a thoroughly disagreeable man unlike his predecessor. In contrast, DI Hendricks is witty and garrulous. He always makes me feel at ease. Unfortunately, the case has already piqued my curiosity. Second thoughts are out of the question now. Sighing, I sit back and leave DI McClellan to his ill-humour.
Although it is not a requirement for an olfactory scientist, having a keen sense of smell is a big plus. Mine happens to be exceptional. Not only can I sniff out complex odours undetected by ordinary human beings, I remember them as well.
How can I explain it? Perhaps it's like being a musician. When I attended a benefit dinner for cancer research two years ago, I had the pleasure to sit beside an eminent conductor for the London Symphony Orchestra. We discussed the differences between musical training and innate ability and how one enhances the other. During the course of our conversation, he explained how he could look at a sheet of music and immediately know how the piece sounds. Instead of merely reading notes, he could hear the notes, the chords playing inside his head. It was as if he could enjoy the orchestra performing together in perfect time and perfect tune without actually attending a rehearsal or listening to a recording.
My sense of smell works similarly. My unique ability together with my scientific background has earned me special recognition in scientific circles. It has also landed me a job as a consultant to the police. The latter actually came about by accident.
I was on board a plane to New York for a conference when forty-five minutes into the journey, two flight attendants had fallen ill. Shortly after, I discovered a toxin leaking into the air supply. While the odour was imperceptible, little by little, passengers were affected by it. I traced the origin to the vents at the rear of the plane and alerted a steward who in turn informed the captain. With the air supply contaminated and not enough oxygen to go around, the plane turned around.
Back at Heathrow, paramedics examined the sick flight attendants and passengers before taking them to hospital. Diagnosis was aerotoxic syndrome, which occurs when air, tainted with chemicals from the aircraft's engine, passes into the cabin. With presence of mind, I took a sample of the cabin air. The toxin, in this case, proved to be in a concentrated form. Since I had raised the alarm, I was detained and later debriefed by DI Hendricks. The police were only too glad to be able to rule out chemical terrorism as the cause of the contaminated air. As a gesture of thanks, the airline put me on the next available flight to New York, upgrading me from business to first class.
I had thought nothing more of the episode until a couple of months later when Dr Armstrong, the Director of the University's research labs, called me into his office. I was surprised to see DI Hendricks present.
'You've met Dr Sonnclere, haven't you, Detective?' Dr Armstrong sat back in his office chair and clasped his hands on top of his protruding stomach. As he grinned broadly, his cheeks puffed like pastry and his eyes reduced to slits behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.
The detective and I shook hands.
'Dr Sonnclere,' Dr Armstrong began again. His bulbous nose twitched as if he enjoyed a joke to which I wasn't privy. 'DI Hendricks needs your help. How would you like to be a consultant for the police?'
That had been roughly two years ago.
Since then, I have assisted the Special Branch in their efforts to beef up airport security. In particular, I have supervised the installation of electronic noses throughout the London airports. E-nose devices are capable of detecting even the smallest traces of dangerous chemicals. It has been interesting working with the police and airport authority. It gets me out of the lab. And I don't mind it at all.
I shoot DI McClellan a quick glance then look out the window. I stick my nose out and breathe in the city. The drive brings a steady flow of information to my senses.
Ammonia, alcohol, faeces, urine ...
I smell it before we reach the sidewalk fronting the restaurant: the pungent stench of poison, spoiled food and drink mixed with the stink of hundreds of dead rats.
DI McClellan pulls past and parks his car near the Camden tube station. 'A-1 Pest Control had to use aluminium phosphide,' he says. 'It's a special type of poison, not normally used in open spaces as it's toxic to humans.'
I grin at the detective's explanation. Aluminium phosphide, a rodenticide, is a fumigant, used only in extreme circumstances. Available in tablet or pellet form, it breaks down to produce phosphine gas on contact with moisture in the air. Pest control would have sealed up the restaurant containing the vermin before releasing the poisonous gas. Inhalation often results in, among other conditions, multiple organ failure.
'Of course,' DI McClellan says, catching himself. 'You know about all that. Luckily, it happened very early in the morning. The surrounding shops and eateries were still closed. The pest control team evacuated the few people living in the flats above them and cordoned off the area. I asked them to hold off cleaning up the space until we've had a look around.'
He pops the lid of the boot and hands me a protective suit, gloves and gasmask. 'Put these over your clothes,' he says. He removes his jacket and dons a similar suit.
I leave my jacket and bag in the boot of his car. I pull the suit over my trousers and put on the rest of the protective gear.
DI McClellan gives me a thumbs-up signal then leads the way. He lifts up the police tape for me to duck under. Other suited personnel greet us at the entrance.
'Detective Sergeant Jones,' he introduces, shouting through the mask.
DS Jones raises his hand and waves briefly.
I return the greeting. I have met him before as DI Hendrick's sergeant. I also remember him as being particularly fond of sausage rolls. I assume from the tightness of the suit around his middle that he hasn't changed his food habits.
Together, we enter the restaurant.
Popolo has two large picture windows that let in some daylight, but not enough. As DS Jones hands us flashlights, he explains that the rats chewed the electric wiring. I believe him. If determined, rats can gnaw through wood, soft metals and even breeze blocks. Switching on the overhead lights inside could start a fire. I follow DI McClellan's lead.
Fortunately, I am spared the sight of dead vermin lying around the floor. The A-1 Pest Control team has taken the carcasses away to be incinerated. Except the evidence of their assault is still apparent. The restaurant looks a mess. The rats tore cushions, scratched woodwork and overturned tables. I notice broken bottles of alcohol, condiments and glass shards of vases. Rat droppings, puddles of alcohol and rat urine as well as oily smudge marks from their fur cover the floor. It is truly disgusting.
DI McClellan continues to show me around. I don't know what he's expecting me to find since the gasmask prevents me from using my nose. While I note evidence of food from the pantry and kitchen shelves, I don't see how there would be enough to attract rodents in such numbers. Apart from that, I perceive no obvious explanation for what happened. Over by the bar, I hear a wine bottle roll to the floor. I spot movement beneath the pile of broken bottles. One of the pest control men sees it too. He uses metal tongs and picks it up. The rat still twitches. He almost puts it in his sack when I stop him. He lifts it up to show me.
I recognise the Norwegian rat or rattus norvegicus immediately. The species is also known as the common rat, the brown rat, the sewer rat and a few other names. Erroneously called Norwegian rats, the rats, in fact, originate from Asia and came over to Europe in the early 18th century via the shipping trade. It is the most populous rat species in the United Kingdom. Norwegian rats have coarse brown or grey bodies with paler undersides. Full-grown, they're usually about ten inches long with tails roughly th
e same length as their bodies. They have poor vision, but compensate with acute hearing and exceptional senses of touch and smell. I know them well because they're also excellent laboratory rats.
I indicate to the pest control man that I've finished examining the rat. With the tongs, he dumps it in his sack to take away.
It's puzzling. Norwegian rats live underground, in burrows or subsurface spaces, such as sewers and basements. They usually confine themselves to dark corners. They crawl under floor passages where they can gnaw or dig their way into food storage areas. Brown rats are also not likely to attack. In fact, they tend to come out of the sewers only if they've been disturbed or displaced by building works, which happens a lot in London.
Their only real incentive would be food. They are voracious eaters, true omnivores. While they are known to feed on garbage and left-over fast food, the sewers provide them a continuous source of nourishment and protection.
According to DI McClellan, the rodents struck after the cleaners had finished their work. At the time, the garbage had been taken out. There was no food lying around in the open. The industrial refrigerators and freezers were locked and still intact, and the morning's delivery of fresh produce had yet to arrive. The pantry didn't contain much, not enough to attract hundreds of rats anyway. What could have possibly enticed them to come in such huge numbers?
I study the gaps in the walls and the holes in the floorboards. Whatever substance lured the pests here must have been one strong attractant. But what could it be?
From the corner of my eye, I spy an unusual device. I wave DI McClellan over. With a gloved hand, I pick it up.
'It's a trigger mechanism,' DI McClellan says, scrutinizing the object. 'With a simple timer device.'
Although I have already come to the same conclusion, I am baffled. 'A trigger to what?' I ask.
I pass it to the detective, and he seals it in a plastic evidence bag. I continue to inspect the area. If the trigger fell here, it should follow that the rest of the device would be nearby. Soon I discover it in a heap of broken glass that had been swept to one side. I hold it up to my flashlight for further inspection. It looks like an ordinary white plastic bottle. Anyone could miss it—except it appears that the top has been blown off.
BOOKS
By Ivee Olivares
Sonnclere Mysteries
The Illusion of Smoke
(The Prequel)
The Sense of Sonnclere
Other
What Women Are Made Of
(A Thriller for Women)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Finishing my first book was a euphoric experience. It gave me a sense of accomplishment completely different from all my past accomplishments.
The Illusion of Smoke is actually my third book and the prequel to the Sonnclere Mystery Series. By now, three novels in, you'd think the excitement would diminish. It doesn't. I feel more amazed and blessed than ever. I hope to keep writing more interesting and entertaining books in the years to come.
As always, I'd like to thank God once more for his inspiration and guidance. My ideas are the result of a combination of prayer and brainstorming. At times, when the two activities merge into one, it feels like magic.
I especially want to acknowledge, Ian Mellor, to whom this book is dedicated. I am grateful for his support and kindness. He was there at the start of my writing journey. He read my manuscripts patiently, and more importantly, didn't mind the tears that sometimes accompanied my efforts. Thank you.
Thanks, also, to my editor, Nadine Sarreal. Once again, she has done a fantastic job of editing my manuscript. I marvel at her expertise and attention to detail. I am lucky to have her on my team.
Lastly, I am truly grateful to have the support of my wonderful family. Thanks to my sister, Tricee Loeb, for her sharp insights on my first draft. I always trust her intelligence, wisdom and judgement. It would be remiss of me not to mention my late mother, Nena, who is always on my mind—as well as my dad, Totit, and siblings, Buster, Gina, Chuck and Peachie. Their encouragement never fails to cheer me up. I don't know what I'd be without them.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ivee Olivares trained as a visual artist, graduating from the London Institute's Chelsea College of Art and Design. But it was after losing sleep over one too many mystery thrillers that she decided to give writing novels a try. As in her art, she usually gets her inspiration for her stories during long afternoon walks. Unfortunately, her ideas also have the knack of keeping her up and writing way into the night.
For more information, visit: www.IveeOlivares.com
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