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

Exhaust, urine, bacon, coffee ... Roses ...