The Illusion of Smoke: The Prequel

The Illusion of Smoke: The Prequel Page 4

by Ivee Olivares

  ***

  Just before 11:00 am, Carl drops me off at my flat in Ladbroke Grove, North Kensington. The middle of the day, the sky alters between light and dark shades of grey, unable to make up its mind. The street looms quietly. More importantly, the curtains on Mrs Eggars' first floor flat have been drawn. My neighbour is a lovely, stout, silver-haired lady who usually takes her position by the window, noting my daily comings and goings, and I imagine, all the neighbours', too. While I would never admit it, it would have been nice to arrive home and see a friendly face.

  As I turn the key to the building, a solid silence greets me. Mrs Eggars is indeed conspicuously absent. I don't detect the familiar aroma of creamy butter, sugar and flour that usually seeps from her flat. My neighbour is an avid baker. Cakes, pies, biscuits, anything that leads to obesity, hyperglycaemia and tooth decay, she bakes it. I prefer bread to cakes myself. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to turn her hand to more savoury treats. Sighing, I trudge up the stairs and enter my flat.

  Stale air, mouldy bread, rotting apples ...

  I scrunch up my nose. I have forgotten to take out the garbage before leaving. I hang my mac and ditch my shoulder bag and suitcase before proceeding to open the windows.

  Home sweet home for the past year has been this two-bedroom flat on the second floor of a converted Victorian terrace. It helps to have a mother who doesn't mind co-signing the mortgage. Thankfully, I have been able to pay a huge chunk off. Mother is surprised that I am able to save so much. Not an impossible feat if one doesn't go out or shop or travel much, but I don't tell her that. She already believes I work too hard.

  Feeling peckish, I check the refrigerator. It is practically empty. No milk, no bread, nothing to eat apart from brown lettuce and out-of-date eggs. I take them out and add them to the rubbish bins. I have no choice but to make do with black tea.

  I bring my mug, kick off my shoes and settle on the sofa. The flat is completely silent and still, which makes me restless. I lean my head back and contemplate what to do next. For a moment, I feel tired and disorientated. I'm not sure if it's the jet lag or lack of sleep. I consider going to work, even if technically, I'm not yet expected. Before I know it, I find myself reaching for the cordless phone and calling my mother.

  'Glad you arrived safely,' she says. 'Get some rest, and I'll see you on Sunday.'

  She means our usual Sunday lunch. I've already spent seven and a half hours sitting down, trying to relax. Should I spend the rest of my weekend doing the same?

  The truth is I can't stop thinking of Marilyn. And him.

  I remind myself that it's none of my business, yet I snatch a notepad and jot down the license plate number while I still remember it. I dial directory assistance and get the number for the Public Carriage Office. As part of the Transport for London Authority, the PCO licenses, regulates, as well as handles all complaints regarding black cabs and minicabs in London.

  'I want to report an incident.' I give the customer service officer the details of the incident—date, time, license plate number, pick-up point as well as Leather Jacket's description.

  'But that is no incident. A man jumps a taxi queue to follow a woman?' he says, nearly laughing. 'What did she look like?'

  Apparently, wanting to discover the destination of a man I don't know is not enough reason to divulge any information the PCO may have. After, he flippantly advises me to call the Met police's helpline. I call what turns out to be a non-emergency number—another equally futile exercise. I have a feeling they've immediately pegged me as a dippy, jealous female. Or perhaps even a stalker? But I'm not! Truthfully, I don't know what I am. Hearing them throwback my concerns, I can understand why they think this way. Okay, maybe I am a little too interested in him. But what if Marilyn is in trouble?

  I finish my tea and stare at the phone. I pull my shoulder bag closer and search for the card I tucked in my wallet. Metropolitan Police Special Branch. Perhaps it also means "special privileges." It's worth a try.

  DI Hendricks answers on the second ring.

  'This is Dr Sonnclere. We met at Heathrow a few days ago.'

  'Of course, Dr Sonnclere. How could I forget? What can I do for you?'

  I repeat my concerns to the detective. 'I want to find out where he was dropped off.'

  He doesn't answer.

  'Detective?' I prod.

  'Are you certain that's all you want?'

  'Look, I know it sounds silly. And maybe it is. But I have an weird feeling about it, and I merely want to check it out.' Then after a brief pause, I say jokingly, 'Or I won't be able to sleep tonight.' The detective doesn't have to know that I probably won't be able to sleep anyway.

  'Let me get back to you.'

  Several minutes later, after I've brewed another mug of black tea, DI Hendricks calls back with the address where Leather Jacket was dropped off. 'You won't do anything foolish, will you?' he says.

  'Promise.'

  'Call me if you need anything.'

  After I thank him, it occurs to me that he has offered the information too easily. No fuss. No further questions asked. Now why does that bug me?

  Then I shrug. So bloody what? I take a quick shower and dress in another pair of navy trousers and a white top. After one more mug of tea, I gather up my mac and shoulder bag. Seconds later, I'm out the door and in my car.

  SIX

  Called the Square Mile because it is about a square mile in area, The City of London is a major business and financial centre. And the Fitzroy Hotel sits at the heart of it. To date, I've rarely had reason to venture into this part of London. Nevertheless, the hotel is where Leather Jacket had been dropped off and, chances are, where Marilyn has checked in if he was indeed tracking her. Since I am unfamiliar with the area, I set up the portable GPS system in my mother's hand-me-down "Jazz Blue" Volkswagen.

  Exhaust, engine oil ... Roses, lager, chips ...

  From Ladbroke Grove, my GPS directs me down Harrow Road and into Marylebone until I hit a roundabout where I take the exit right into Kings Cross. The traffic proves horrendous, and the manual transmission in my second-hand Golf protests with each stop and go. From Euston Road I segue into Gower Street then Holborn. I get stuck behind a taxi and a Parcelforce van for a while until traffic unclogs. Finally after a bus clears my view, I notice the hotel a block or so away from Liverpool Street Station.

  The Fitzroy is a red-brick Victorian building, so discreet that I nearly miss it. Yet it is advantageously located not only near a major transport station but also near offices and a good selection of shops. It has an understated and stylish façade; The Fitzroy is written in beautiful gold cursive letters. A glimpse through the revolving glass door reveals an eclectic and sophisticated modern interior. I pass the hotel and circle around the convoluted streets in frustration, hunting for a parking spot.

  Fish, curry, urine ... Grease, rubber, rotting garbage ...

  I espy an empty parking bay much too distant from the hotel and shockingly expensive for my liking. Fortuitously, I keep a canister of coins in my glove box. I feed a chunk of change to the greedy meter to buy myself the maximum of a few hours stay. To do what? I've discovered neither Marilyn's nor Leather Jacket's real names. It is unlike me not to have figured out a plan beforehand.

  After locking up, I walk resolutely back to The Fitzroy. The relentless rumble of traffic and the vehicular fumes from exhaust pipes smother me. I smell as well as taste the pollution in my mouth as directly as if I've been smoking a packet of cigarettes. Then I remember the café across the hotel, near a pub and a Marks and Spencer Simply Food shop. I could get a decent cup of tea as I ponder what to do next. The fast walk makes me sweat. Despite my discomfort, I admit it's turning out to be a beautiful spring day. Unexpectedly, the sun breaks through the grey cloud cover and blesses me with its rays. And despite the fumes, which are worse here than in Kensington, the air is crisp. I could complain about the quality of city air, but that would be a bore. Having been born in London, it's something I'
ve learned to live with.

  Coffee, chocolate ... Eggs, ham ...

  My stomach grumbles gratefully when I reach the coffee shop. It is midday, and I am ravenous. The aroma of fresh bread and butter makes my mouth water. I choose a table by the large picture window with a clear view of the hotel's entrance. I couldn't have picked a more perfect spot. Soon a waiter sidles up.

  'Menu,' he says, simultaneously handing me one.

  I raise my hand to refuse, and point to the specials on the chalk board instead. 'English Breakfast Tea, a baguette with chicken liver pate and apple and date chutney,' I tell him.

  He takes the menu and goes back to his station.

  The café has a rack of the day's newspapers. Even though I live in the digital age of electronic media, I stubbornly prefer reading an actual paper. I adore the smell of fresh newsprint as well as the texture of the pages in my hands. I pick up a Times, Guardian and Independent and scan the different headlines. The main articles talk mostly about politics, a topic I'm not too keen on. Nonetheless, as soon as my meal arrives, I settle down with one eye on a paper and another aimed across the street. An hour passes. I finish my food and order another pot of tea.

  In an inner section of one of the papers, an article piques my curiosity.

  Smoke Casts a Spell over Hartford County

  I spread out the broadsheet and read about a huge fire and its strange aftermath in Hartford, Connecticut, USA. The fire has left investigators baffled. As well as a considering a likely arson attack, they are exploring possible suspicious activity on the abandoned tobacco farm.

  Suddenly feeling a bit hot, I push the paper aside and roll up the sleeves of my blouse. Apparently, the position I chose also faces south. The full afternoon sun has shifted, and its rays now stream directly through the café's window, reflecting off the tables. Most likely, the café is considerably warmer inside than out. The large plate glass window emulates the effect of a greenhouse by allowing sunlight, and therefore heat, in yet inhibiting its escape. Due to the heat, the aromas of butter, grease and coffee intensify. I can also sense it begin to scorch one side of my face.

  Burning plastic? ... Antiseptic cream? ...

  I turn. A slim, pale woman with a bob of light brown hair sits alone at the table behind me. From where the odour emanates, I surmise that she is wearing a synthetic wig, possibly one made of polyester. What surprises me, though, is that she also wears gloves. Surely, she must be boiling in the warmth.

  Sensing my scrutiny, the woman looks up and catches me staring. I turn away, trying to hide my embarrassment. Perhaps she is sporting a wig to hide temporary hair loss, maybe from chemotherapy treatment.

  I glance at my watch. My meter is about to run out, and all I've done is waste time watching the hotel entrance for nothing. I see no sign of either Marilyn or Leather Jacket Man. What am I thinking? Unwilling to wait for the waiter to bring my bill, I stomp up to the counter to settle it.

  I regret to say I have this thing about being wrong. I don't like it. Even more, I hate admitting it. Perhaps it is I who harbours an unhealthy obsession. Maybe I am a jealous stalker after all. So rather than doing the sensible thing and calling it quits, when I reach my car, I decide to move it to a different location. It takes just about what remains in my canister of change to properly feed a second parking meter. This is turning out to be an expensive day, though I really shouldn't worry, should I? I hardly ever go out anyway. I can afford to indulge my curiosity this once.

  I resolve to go directly to the hotel. Maybe ask the concierge for information or wait in the lobby. I suppose I could call this a social experiment of sorts. This time, however, luck favours me. I see her, Marilyn, rolling through the revolving doors just as I come around the corner. If I had been a minute later, if I had still been faffing with the parking meter, I might have missed her entirely. She appears rested and freshly showered, wearing a silky cardigan over a flowing flower-print dress and a pair of red heels. The elegant shoes don't look like the type for walking.

  Exhaust, asphalt, newsprint, tobacco ...

  I quicken my steps and follow her, still keeping a good distance between us. That's when I notice him. Who but Leather Jacket Man emerges from the doorway of the nearby pub. His blonde stubble casts a pronounced shadow on his face, causing him to appear even more untrustworthy. He obviously hasn't gone home to shower and shave. It probably isn't a good time to gloat, but I have proven to myself—and to those buggers I spoke to on the phone—that I am right. My instincts have been spot on all along.

  Before I get completely carried away gloating, I observe Leather Jacket proceeding with deliberate, unobtrusive movements as though he's had a lot of practice doing this. He dips in and out of doorways and jutting columns. He also picks up a free Evening Standard at a stall and pretends to scan its pages. Instantly, my nerves are set on edge. Who is he? What does he want? Has he been stalking her since the flight from JFK? I halt for a moment worried that he has noticed me. It seems I am safe for the moment as he carries on Marilyn's trail unaware of my scrutiny. Maintaining my distance, I keep a wary eye on them both. It dawns on me. I may have stumbled upon more than I can handle. What have I let myself in for? I'm no professional sleuth.

  In the meantime, Marilyn ambles along as if she's taking a stroll on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. She appears unhurried. Her big hair swings in the exhaust-laden breeze as though she harbours no care in the world. She's oblivious to those who are interested in her every step. Her voluminous handbag sways from her arm. She strikes me as being, well, happy. Marilyn heads in the direction of the river. She steps in and out of a couple of shops along the way. She pauses to admire a piece of public sculpture. Interestingly, she ignores a black cab that edges up to her, which means her destination isn't far. Instead, she dodges behind cars and waits for the traffic lights at an intersection. In those shoes, I expect her to stop soon, and once again I am correct. Several blocks later, near Fenchurch Street, she halts by a bar signposted, Blue Rock, in neon blue colour. Even I recognise the name of the popular London bar chain. Marilyn pulls open a glass door and slinks in. Leather Jacket pauses casually at the door. Just before he turns to scan the pavement, I duck behind a man conducting a heated debate on his mobile. Then Leather Jacket follows her inside.

  SEVEN

  What next?

  I dither at the door. For one, it's a bar, and I am uncomfortable at these establishments. Why couldn't they meet at the Starbucks on the other side of the street? As luck would have it, due to the smoked glass frontage, I can peer inside. Also, since smoking has been banned from all public places, no grey haze obscures my vision.

  From what I can see, Blue Rock is dark and cosy, kitted out in luxurious cobalt blue leather couches and armchairs and sparkling with chrome and crystal. Through the smoky glass, soft jazz instrumental music hums pleasantly in the background. Blue Rock obviously caters to a sophisticated business crowd, judging by its clientele. Still, that doesn't seem to faze Leather Jacket. Despite sporting a casual jacket, jeans and rough stubble, he looks completely at ease.

  It's nearly 5:00 pm, and the large room is more than a quarter full of men and women in smart business suits or dresses, most of them hovering around the stunning long electric blue bar at the centre. Leather Jacket Man perches on a bar stool after an exotic-looking bartender with a devilish goatee pulls him a pint. He sips his lager contemplatively before scanning the seating area at a corner. I follow his gaze and perceive Marilyn, or at least the back of her head. She appears to be engaged in a deep discussion. Awkwardly, her big curly hair bobbing up and down animatedly blocks my view of her companion. What in the world is the Leather Jacket waiting for?

  Unexpectedly, the pavement thickens with city workers released from their offices. Blue Rock's popularity catches me by surprise. It suddenly clicks that it's a Friday night. Even colleagues at the University often go out for a drink at the end of the work week to unwind. It's just that I've never joined them. To my chagrin, the crowd pu
shes in and nudges me along. And against my will, I find myself swept along and thrust inside.

  Whiskey, wine, gin, beer ... Sweat, lots of sweat ... Lime, olives, peanuts ... Pungent breath ...

  I can see neither Leather Jacket nor Marilyn in the throng now. However, that isn't my immediate concern.

  'What can I get you?' The goateed bartender asks for my order impatiently as the crowd shoves me to the front of the bar. His choice of cologne is equally exotic.

  While I do appreciate an occasional glass of wine, I'm hardly a drinker, which appals my French relatives no end. I have a low tolerance for alcohol. More than a one glass makes me morose, and I have questionable people skills as it is. But Blue Rock is not a place to order a cup of tea.

  'A glass of Saint Chinian Blanc,' I say off the top of my head. I remember enjoying a glass once a long time ago when I took Mother out to dinner.

  The bartender raises an eyebrow but deftly produces a glass of the wine. He also charges me a lot. But it is a large glass and worth it. I swirl the wine, just to observe the surface tension on the wall of the glass. The swirling movement causes the ethanol content in the wine to evaporate so that a thin film runs down the sides in channels. I sniff the bouquet and then take a sip. The chilled liquid is mellow with hints of honey and spice. Delicious.

  Sadly, alcohol, also referred to as ethanol, the principal constituent in wine as well as all alcoholic beverages, has a way of altering our physiological state. Although I lecture my relatives, particularly my Aunt Yolande and Aunt Delphine, but mainly Tante Yola who drinks like fish, they refuse to accept that it is a form of psychoactive or recreational drug. That, aside from giving the drinker a buzz, alcohol has a way of lowering inhibitions. It also slurs speech, impairs balance, coordination and memory, and can cause dehydration, vomiting and so forth. Not to mention the many serious health effects it triggers from long term abuse. I study my companions at the bar and sincerely hope they will be taking a train or cab home tonight and not driving.

  As I regard the increasingly intoxicated crowd with disapproval, I ignore my own caution. I order another large glass of the delightful white. The alcohol increases the flow of blood to my skin surface and I feel a flush spread throughout my face and body. Or could it be that I am reacting to the horde's cumulative body heat?

  Rather than entering a state of euphoria, I sense myself becoming more bad-tempered. I am ill-at-ease being in such close proximity to this number of strangers. As the noise level in the bar increases, so does my annoyance. The place slowly becomes unbearable.

  A rotund gentleman in a navy pin-striped suit flashes me a bug-eyed smirk. I answer with a wordless scowl, yet it doesn't deter him from giving me a prolonged once over. Alcohol has certainly impaired his judgment. I turn away in disgust only to be jostled from my left side.

  From behind, I hear a woman's sharp voice. 'How many times do I have to say it, Percy?'

  I swivel round to check out this Percy person. He is a sharply-dressed man whose good looks are momentarily flushed and distorted by too much drink.

  'Oh, come now, Julie. I know you like me.' He lunges for her and wraps his arms around her. Julie squirms and struggles out of his grasp.

  'Get away from me,' she growls threateningly.

  It must be my mood because, seriously, I have no patience for such matters. I can't help but intervene. 'Are you deaf, Percy?' I block him from pursuing Julie. 'She doesn't want you.'

  'Who the fuck are you?' he asks belligerently.

  'Does it matter? You're pestering a lady who clearly doesn't fancy you.'

  Julie comes closer to me. 'It's all right,' she says, putting a hand on my arm. 'He's just drunk. I can handle him.'

  'Obviously not,' I say. Percy suddenly jerks his pint of lager at me, soaking the front of my shirt. The effort causes him to stagger back. He drops his glass on the floor where it shatters. Angrily, I wipe the alcohol off my face with the back of my hand. The alcohol irritates my nostrils. In turn, I douse him with what's left of my white wine. He starts shouting obscenities. He calls me a "big nose," a "giant" and a "witch" among other things. Sad to say—all insults I've heard before. I almost regret not finishing my wine. I've wasted good stuff on him. Our scuffle is starting to draw other people's attention. Julie slinks away, leaving me to confront Percy alone. Brilliant. This is the thanks I get for trying to help. Emboldened by the onlookers, Percy glowers at me. He raises a fist, making a threatening move to throw a punch.

  I give him my fiercest crazy-giant glare in return. That's when he shows up. Leather Jacket suddenly appears and takes the inebriated Percy by the shoulders, shoves him aside and mutters to him. I can't catch what he says, but his dark scowl and words have the desired effect.

  'All right,' Leather Jacket lets go of the man and addresses the crowd. 'That's all for today. Go back to whatever it is you were doing before. Carry on!' He shoos them away.

  Palpably disappointed, the crowd disperses, including Percy. Then Leather Jacket pries the empty wine glass from my clenched hand. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to throw it at Percy first.

  From the corner of my eye, I spy a head of big brown, curly hair. Marilyn has approached to observe what the fuss is all about. Our eyes meet, and there's instant recognition. Next, she turns to Leather Jacket, and her eyes widen with panic.

  'See what you've done,' Leather Jacket mutters to me. As he takes a step towards Marilyn, she swiftly retreats into the crowd. Leather Jacket and I exchange glances before we bolt after her.

  EIGHT

  Chasing a person in a crowd feels more like pushing and shoving. I advance only a few steps before the alarms go off in a deafening throbbing beat.

  Fire!

  At least that's what the sound is supposed to signal. And that's how the crowd interprets it. The keening alarm knocks the throng out of their alcohol-induced stupor, and they add their screams to the din. An air of panic rises. Leather Jacket grabs me and pushes me behind a post. Together, we brace ourselves against the crowd's onslaught as they stampede like a herd of cattle to the nearest exits.

  The floor is slippery with spilled drink and broken glass. Leather Jacket helps pull up a woman who has tripped. The man next to me is pushed from behind, loses his balance and falls to the floor. He is trampled upon by fleeing people before I can reach for him to pull him to the side of the long bar. In their terror, the horde converges at the same main entrance. The crush of people forms a bottleneck, hindering quick escape.

  Soon, sirens sound, coming from a distance but closing in at great speed. The emergency services have responded swiftly. Leather Jacket pulls a fire extinguisher off a wall and pulls the pin.

  'No need,' I say, staying his arm.

  'What?' he answers. His eyes search the area for the source of the fire.

  'There is no fire.' I gesture around the room. 'Can't you tell? Look around you. No smoke. Do you feel any heat? Do you smell anything burning?' My nose, on the other hand, can detect many things: alcohol, blood as well as other bodily fluids, but no products of combustion. I discern no sign of a chemical alteration in the atmosphere.

  Leather Jacket grudgingly lowers the extinguisher. Nonetheless, he doesn't take my word for it. He stomps around the premises to check my theory. 'Somebody must have manually activated the fire alarm,' he says, looking frustrated when he comes back.

  Abruptly, the sirens cease as the engines come to a halt outside the main entrance. Seconds later, the fire crew in full protective gear burst through the door.

  Leather Jacket approaches them, holding up his hands. 'False alarm,' he says apologetically, almost as if it's all his fault.

  A fire fighter removes his headgear. 'But we received a call,' he answers, frowning. He explains that the fire department requires confirmation of the presence of a fire first before a full emergency response is mobilised.

  'Someone called 999?' Leather Jacket asks.

  As quickly as it began, the incident is over. The effects, however, will la
st slightly longer. The bar is in alarming disarray, littered with overturned and ripped couches as well as broken tables and glasses. The stampede has scarred the beautiful floorboards. 'Well, we do need the paramedics,' I say, gesturing at the injured lying on the floor. Regrettably, not everyone has been able to get away unscathed.

  The fire crew inspect the premises to make doubly sure before they file out. Shortly after, the paramedics arrive and get to work. Leather Jacket also speaks to the City of London policemen who have come through the door.

  I follow the paramedics and discover, to my relief, that no one appears seriously hurt. I also search the premises again even if I already realise the inevitable. Marilyn is gone. Could she have been the one who raised the alarm and called 999? I turn my head sharply and catch his eye.

  Leather Jacket crosses the room towards me. His face informs me he has also reached the same conclusion. 'You,' he says, pointing at me, thunder in his eyes. 'Don't go anywhere.'

  I nod meekly. Though I am thrilled to meet him at last, I wish it had been under more congenial circumstances. It's not how I envisioned we'd get to know each other or how he'd speak to me. But I don't blame him. I have obviously messed up his plans in a big way. That is, with regards to whatever his business with Marilyn is.

  NINE

  Although Leather Jacket has explicitly asked me to stay put, I'm not good at obeying orders. While he confers with the paramedics, I search the bar for the fire alarm. My finding confirms my suspicions. The glass on one of the manual calling points is broken. Without a doubt, someone deliberately set it off. It must have been Marilyn. The specific alarm point is not too far from where she had been seated.

  But why?

  And who the heck is Marilyn?

  Blood ... Tomato juice, Worcestershire sauce ...

  Leather Jacket crouches by a man splayed behind an overturned armchair at the corner. I sidle up as he signals a paramedic who bounds over to attend to the injured man. The man has a gash on the side of his head that bleeds profusely. It has stained his already torn light grey suit. The medic immediately cleans and patches up his wound. He takes time to examine him for other injuries.

  'Who is he?' I ask.

  Leather Jacket ignores me.

  'We need to get him to a hospital,' says the paramedic.

  'In a minute. I need to ask him a few questions first then he's all yours,' Leather Jacket replies.

  'I'll be back.' Clearly showing his disapproval, the paramedic leaves to attend to another victim.

  Leather Jacket straightens up. I do the same, eager to stretch my legs.

  Warm leather, warm sweat ... Hmmm ... Lager ... I stink of it ...

  He surveys the wreckage of the bar moodily and says, 'This is your fault.'

  'Me?' I ask wide-eyed. 'The guy was a bastard.'

  Leather Jacket raises an eyebrow.

  'Not this one,' I say hastily, pointing to the injured man. 'The other man. You know what he called me?'

  'No. Tell me. What did he call you?' he asks sarcastically.

  I shake my head. 'Never mind.'

  'What the hell are you doing here anyway, Dr Sonnclere? Have you been following me?'

  'You know who I am?' I burst out.

  'Answer the question.'

  'I saw you follow her from the airport. I figured you were a stalker.'

  'Do I look like a stalker to you?' When I don't answer, he says, 'I assumed you were smarter than that.'

  'I am smart,' I say, indignantly. 'Wait—how do you know me?'

  'I checked you out after that incident on the plane.'

  'You checked me out?' I sputter. Other than the fact he found out who I was but didn't bother to speak to me, I am oddly flattered. And confused. 'Who are you?'

  Leather Jacket reaches into his back jeans pocket and shows me his ID. Daniel Seymour, Organised Crime Unit. The photograph doesn't do him justice.

  'Organised Crime Unit? Never heard of it. Is it part of the Metropolitan Police? Are you a kind of detective then?'

  He shakes his head.

  'So what are you?'

  'I'm an officer with the OCU.' He explains that the OCU is a special unit that specifically targets criminal organisations involved in drugs, smuggling, human trafficking and so forth. 'You may call me Dan.'

  'Dan,' I murmur to myself. 'I like it—short, to the point.'

  'What did you say?'

  'Nothing.' After a beat, I add, 'You can call me, Neroli. Or Neri for short. My friends call me Neri. It means orange blossom. Neroli, I mean ... Er, why have you been following her anyway?'

  'Police business.'

  I frown. By that he means none of my business. 'Well, I wouldn't have interfered if I had known.'

  Dan purses his lips.

  'Wait,' I say, 'do you think she's part of a crime organisation? As in the mafia? Was that why you were trailing her?' I repeat my earlier question.

  He gives me an exasperated look. 'Her name is Madeleine Mitchell. Dr Madeleine Mitchell.'

  'She's a doctor?'

  'Not a medical doctor. She's more like you—a scientist. A geneticist, actually,' Dan explains.

  'No. You're pulling my leg,' I say except Dan looks dead serious. The revelation astonishes me. My mind has difficulty reconciling the image of the glamorous woman with my ingrained notion of a scientist. I suppose I'm biased. She's not like me.

  'What has she done? Why have you been following her?'

  Dan hesitates as if deciding how much he wants to reveal to me. He appears to have made up his mind when he says, 'What do you know about cannabis?'

  'Cannabis?'

  'Yes, you know—marijuana, mary jane, pot, weed, grass, dope—'

  'I get the picture. I've never used it, if that's what you're asking.'

  'Oh, I'm sure you don't smoke it. You're not that sort of person.'

  'What do you mean by that?'

  'Nothing.'

  Sensing a test, I say, 'Well, I know that cannabis is a herbaceous plant. There are three varieties, cultivated for various purposes. Two species, Cannabis sativa and Cannabis indica, are cultivated for their cannabinoids, psychoactive ingredients found primarily in their flowers and to a lesser degree in the leaves, stems and seeds. Commercial marijuana mainly consists of the dried flowers from plants especially bred to produce high levels of THC or Tetrahydrocannabinol, the main psychoactive ingredient responsible for producing a "high—"'

  'It can also make you feel relaxed—'

  'Or paranoid and anxious. Hungry even.'

  Dan grins. 'All right—'

  'Other extracts such as hashish and hash oil also come from the cannabis plant.'

  He chuckles. 'You win. I'm sorry I asked. But are you aware that it is also a Class B drug, meaning it is illegal to possess, sell or give-away? Possession can earn you up to five years in jail. And supplying, which includes sharing with friends, up to fourteen years and an unlimited fine. In spite of those restrictions, it is the most widely-used illegal drug in the UK.'

  'What's it got to do with Dr Mitchell?'

  'About a week ago, emergency services responded to a fire in Connecticut, in America. It was a huge fire, fortunately since it happened at an abandoned farm, no one was hurt. It wasn't considered to be suspicious, except that the smoke had a strange effect—'

  'Hey, I read about that. Hartford, Connecticut, right?'

  'That's right. Anyway, investigators were called in. Discovered it was arson—'

  'The papers didn't confirm that.'

  'They're not releasing all the information.'

  'Go on.'

  'The investigators also uncovered traces of cannabis. They presumed it was an illegal cannabis farm. Eventually, the Drug Enforcement Administration, you know, the DEA, was called in.' Dan eyes me inquiringly.

  I nod. 'I know what the American DEA is.'

  'Yes, well. While cannabis has been recently downgraded from a Class A to a Class B drug in the UK, it is still classified Schedule I in the US. That me
ans between Schedule I and V, it is right at the top, along with heroin, ecstasy and LSD. It is considered to be among the most dangerous with highest potential for abuse.'

  'How is Dr Mitchell connected to all that?'

  'It was her farm, her lab. Not only do they suspect the farm concealed illegal greenhouses, they also think it housed an illegal laboratory.'

  'Couldn't she have been doing research? You said yourself that Marilyn, I mean Dr Mitchell, is a scientist, a geneticist, in fact.'

  'You may be right. But she didn't have the permit to conduct any research. If she wanted to do it legitimately, she would have applied for permission first from the American National Institute on Drug Abuse or NIDA.'

  'And possibly be denied.' I understand how difficult it can be for researchers in the UK to also obtain such a permit. I imagine it would be even harder in the US where marijuana is considered more dangerous.

  'Most likely,' Dan nods. 'Not only that. What the forensic investigators discovered wasn't your ordinary, run-of-the mill cannabis. They isolated a different strain—a genetically modified cannabis.'

  'But that isn't unusual. Drugs are constantly evolving. Genetic modification is one side of it. Besides, scientists have been doing that for years. Take for instance, skunk. It's a strain of marijuana that is twice as potent.'

  'I know that. Still, you can imagine the DEA wanting to speak with her. Except when they went to question her, they found that she had disappeared. Not even the handful of staff she employed at the lab knew where she was. No one has heard from her since the fire.'

  'Family? Friends?'

  Dan shakes his head. 'She has one brother, a doctor—medical doctor—in California. A few friends. She hasn't contacted any of them. No phone, no email.'

  'Didn't they wonder if she had perished in the fire?'

  'No traces of human remains. They did uncover several bovine and porcine carcasses.'

  'So it was a farm.'

  'That's not the point. Apart from the cannabis residue, all evidence of the lab's activity and research was destroyed.'

  'What about her lab staff? They must know what they were working on.'

  'Apparently, Dr Mitchell was a control freak. Tasks and information were so compartmentalised that no one knew the whole picture except her. They said she also enjoyed playing mind games with them—to cause confusion.'

  'Surely, she must have had back-ups for her research notes. It's protocol.'

  'Well, the only one who would know is Dr Mitchell. And you just let her get away.'

  I ignore his last comment. 'You said it was arson. Who would want to burn the operation down?'

  'Maybe she did.'

  I shake my head. 'I'm a scientist. I would never willingly destroy my own lab. Dismantle it, maybe, but not totally ruin it.'

  'Perhaps. Unless she didn't need it anymore. Forensics said the explosions occurred in a systematic fashion.'

  'You mean she wanted to hide incriminating evidence.'

  'And perhaps hide her tracks.'

  'She does appear guilty, running away like that.'

  'I'd say very guilty.'

  The injured man at our feet suddenly groans. Dan hunches down, but the man remains unconscious. Dan is about to rouse him when I interrupt.

  'If Dr Mitchell was hiding all this time, how did you eventually find her?

  'Her name was flagged up when she booked her flight to London.'

  'She wasn't so careful then. I mean, she didn't try to use a false passport or change her name.'

  'Yes, that made the DEA think.'

  'So where do you come in, Officer Dan Seymour? You're not with the DEA, are you?'

  He smiles. 'I'm one of the liaison officers between the DEA and OCU. I was flying in for a meeting when I first saw you.'

  'Why didn't you or the DEA talk to her before she boarded the plane?'

  'Well, the DEA didn't believe it would be so easy for her to vanish, go off the radar, just like that. Not unless she had been planning an escape for a long time. And if she had been, chances are she wasn't doing it on her own. While they don't consider her especially dangerous, they wanted to see who she was working with. More importantly, who she was planning to contact. Since she was on her way to the UK, I took over the investigation.'

  'So you were following her, hoping she would lead you to her business partners. What—drug dealers? The mob?'

  Dan makes a face. 'You must watch a lot of television.'

  'Not really.'

  The injured man stirs and moans again. This time, Dan gives him a gentle shake, and the man's eyes flutter open.

  'He doesn't look like a dealer or criminal. He looks quite—ordinary,' I say.

  Dan chuckles as he helps him sit up.

  'What happened?' the man speaks, simultaneously rubbing his head. 'Who are you?'

  Dad flashes his ID. 'I'm Daniel Seymour, an officer with the Organised Crime Unit. What's your name?'

  The man's eyes dart around the room, disorientated.

  'Your name, please?' Dan repeats.

  'Dr Gene Mitchell.'

  'Madeleine Mitchell's ex-husband?'

  TEN

  Dan obviously hadn't seen that coming. The menacing expression in his face spurs Dr Gene Mitchell to search his suit pockets.

  'I seem to have lost my wallet,' Gene Mitchell says.

  Having received a similar glare from Dan earlier, I immediately sympathise with the man. Dan's expression can change from devastatingly charming one second to downright frightening the next. Even with my fiercest stare, I know I wouldn't be able to conjure up the same effect. Feeling sorry for him, I help this other Dr Mitchell hunt for his wallet. I peer under an upturned couch and spot it in a corner. I hand it over to Dan. Peering over his shoulder, I study the ID Dan pulls out. The photograph matches. Dr Gene Mitchell, Paediatric Consultant, South London Hospitals NHS Foundation Trust. I recognise the hospital. It is situated across the river, not far from here. It seems logical that he would arrange to meet his ex-wife somewhere in between her hotel and his workplace. He must have come straight from the hospital.

  As Dan helps him onto a couch, I have a chance to study him. Dr Gene Mitchell looks like he's in his late fifties, probably the same age as his ex-wife. He is slim, with sad blue eyes and an equally sad demeanour. Similar to most men I encounter in my field, his thick greying hair adds distinction in an academic sort of way. His American accent is considerably softer than his ex-wife's.

  'Why were you meeting your ex-wife, Dr Mitchell?' Dan asks.

  'Please, call me, Gene.'

  'All right, Gene.' Suddenly remembering his manners, Dan introduces me to Gene, too. Then he repeats his question.

  'Mads called me.'

  'Why now? From our records, you haven't been in touch since your divorce. You moved from New Jersey to London in 2000 and remarried—'

  'And divorced again,' he says grimly.

  'So why now? Why did she contact you?'

  'I was surprised myself. She said she was here on business and wanted to meet up.'

  'Did she explain what type of business?'

  'No. She hadn't gotten round to that.'

  'Well, you were chatting for almost half an hour. She must have told you something.'

  'We were catching up. We talked about my divorce.'

  'Which one? Your second divorce?'

  'That's right. Look, why all these questions? I'm sure you don't want to talk about my marital status. Is Mads in trouble?'

  'Are you aware that your ex-wife ran an illegal laboratory in Connecticut?' Dan repeats the story of the Hartford fire to Gene. 'What's more, we suspect that Dr Mitchell, Madeleine, has genetically engineered a new kind of psychoactive drug. A genetically engineered cannabis.'

  Gene Mitchell smiles.

  'That doesn't surprise you.'

  Gene shakes his head. 'Mads used to work for Medtech Pharmaceuticals, the biggest pharmaceutical company in America. She was part of the team the team that developed the d
rug, Trabinol. Have you heard about that?'

  'She was?' I snap to attention. 'Why didn't you tell me?' I ask Dan.

  Dan doesn't reply.

  'Did you know about that?' I ask him again.

  Trabinol is a registered trademark of Medtech Pharmaceuticals. It is a brand name of a synthetic form of the cannabinoid, THC, the principal psychoactive ingredient in cannabis. As a result of its chemical design, Trabinol is considered non-narcotic with a low dependency risk.

  An on-going heated debate surrounds natural cannabis, whether or not it should be allowed to be used for medicinal purposes or as "medical marijuana." Documented research shows that cannabis or marijuana is beneficial in the treatment of patients with a variety of conditions including cancer, glaucoma and neurological disorders such as multiple sclerosis and spinal cord injuries to name a few. But it is most popularly used for pain relief. Yet, despite its promising medical benefits, cannabis continues to be illegal. However, I'd heard that a few American states have decriminalised it for medicinal purposes under strict supervision and regulation. And to date, I think regulated medical use is also permitted in the UK.

  In any event, the purpose of developing Trabinol was to bypass all the controversy and de-stigmatize it as a product of cannabis. The US Food and Drug Administration approved the synthetic drug. Trabinol is a legal pharmaceutical alternative, available in capsule form on prescription in the United States. Classed as a Schedule III drug instead of Schedule I because of its important benefits, it stimulates the appetites of patients with the AIDS wasting syndrome and alleviates nausea and vomiting in patients undergoing cancer chemotherapy. Another drug similar to Trabinol is also available in the American market. However, it is a Schedule II drug with more restrictions on its use. While Trabinol is a ground-breaking drug, it has been criticised for not being as effective as smoking natural marijuana. Ironically, it is even reported to have greater psychoactive effects than the drug in its natural form and has been linked to a couple of deaths in patients.

  All in all, my estimation of Madeleine Mitchell has certainly increased.

  'We are familiar with her previous employment, Gene,' Dan says. 'In this instance, forensics uncovered minute traces of a different form of cannabis. We reckon she engineered a more powerful product in the Hartford lab. And we suspect she arranged to meet up with a business partner, possibly someone to help distribute it. Aside from yourself, do you know who she was planning to see?'

  Something gradually dawns on Gene. 'Are you implying ... Mads, a drug dealer? Of marijuana?' Gene Mitchell bursts into uncontrollable laughter. He carries on for a few moments until he coughs and splutters.

  'I'm sorry,' he says, gasping to catch his breath. 'It's such a crazy idea.' He breaks out in hysterical laughter again. 'Thank you! Thanks!' he says when he is finally able to stop. 'I haven't laughed like that in years.'

  'Is it so far-fetched? After all, there was the scandal about your late son,' Dan says solemnly.

  'What scandal?' I whisper.

  Dan holds a finger to his lips to hush me, a gesture which annoys me enormously.

  The mention of the late son sobers Gene up. 'That was a long time ago. Besides, the circumstances were different. But what you're suggesting ... Oh, no, you've got it all wrong. Mads wouldn't be involved in anything like that.'

  'Consider this. First, her lab didn't have the license to grow or use cannabis for research. Second, the whole operation was destroyed in an arson attack—we suspect by her own hand. Third, she disappeared after the fire only to take a flight here. Does any of that strike you as suspicious?'

  'Still, it's just Madeleine. I know her. She's not like that.'

  'You said yourself that you haven't spoken to her in ten years. To add to that, she has run away again. Today.'

  'I don't understand why she took off like that. Perhaps you startled her.' Gene Mitchell frowns and starts rubbing his head where a goose egg bump is forming.

  'Shall I call the paramedic for you?' Dan asks. 'The ambulance can take you to a hospital.'

  He shakes his head. 'It's just a tiny bruise and headache.'

  Dan signals for a medical aide anyway.

  When the paramedic arrives, Gene refuses to be examined. 'I'm a doctor, for heaven's sake. I can take care of myself. I just need a couple of painkillers. Do you have paracetamol on you?'

  Gene takes the pills and swallows them with the glass of water the medic offers him. 'Are we finished here, Officer Seymour? I'd really like to go home.'

  'Well, if you're sure you don't want to go to a hospital, one of the constables can escort you home.' Dan slips a card from his wallet. 'Call me if you remember anything or if your ex-wife gets in touch. We still need to talk to her.'

  'You can try her hotel. She's staying at the Fitzroy nearby.'

  'We'll do that,' Dan says.

  As Dan searches for a constable, I whisper in his ears, 'Are you going to let him go just like that? I'm sure Madeleine Mitchell isn't going back to her hotel.'

  'He hasn't done anything except meet up with his ex-wife. As far as I know, that isn't a crime,' he says with a smirk.

  'But do you believe him?'

  'We'll see,' he says enigmatically.

  Dan and a constable help the doctor to his feet. As Gene Mitchell follows the constable out, he shoots us a parting statement, 'You're wrong about Madeleine, you know.'

  Except this time, he speaks with less conviction.

  ELEVEN

  I wait patiently as Dan makes a few calls and confers with the police and paramedics. A good half hour passes before he signals that we can leave.

  Dan pauses for a moment at the door. It has grown dark outside. 'Come on,' he says and without waiting for me, walks briskly in the direction of the hotel.

  Damp concrete, fresh asphalt, vomit, garbage ...

  I experience a subtle thrill falling into step beside him. The streets have a deserted mood about them now that city workers have taken a break for the weekend. Despite the emptiness, I feel quite safe. I glance sideways at Dan who appears deep in thought. Who wouldn't feel secure by his side?

  A gentle gust of wind minus the usual blast of exhaust clears the air. It also brings an unexpected chill. I belt up my mac as I begin to shiver. 'What are we doing next?' I ask.

  'We?' he asks, exaggerating the question. 'I'm taking you home before you get into any more trouble.'

  My heart sinks. 'Please don't talk to me like I'm a child. I can be useful, you know.'

  'You haven't been so far.'

  'That's not fair. You saw how helpful I was on that flight.'

  He nods. 'I'll give you that. That was good work back there. Still, why do you want to tag along? It's a Friday night. Don't you have somewhere else to go?'

  'Like where?'

  'Oh, I don't know. Hang out with friends. See a movie. Go to the pub.'

  'But I've just been to a bar.'

  He picks up his pace, and despite my long strides, I find myself struggling to keep up with him.

  'Look, I'm sorry,' I say.

  Dan stops abruptly and gives me one of his devastating smiles. 'I bet that was hard to say, wasn't it, Dr Sonnclere?'

  I chuckle. 'It's Neroli. Except if you think about it, it was hardly my fault. That idiot called my nose a big fat conker.'

  Dan bursts out in laughter. He swivels round to face my nose squarely and grins wickedly. 'It's not too bad really.'

  'Gee, thanks,' I say. As if hearing his remark and wishing to add insult to injury, a van materialises out of nowhere and blasts us with its fumes.

  Dan sighs. 'I suppose I can't stop you. You'll probably follow me, won't you?'

  I don't reply.

  He resumes walking only to halt again. 'Just don't touch anything.'

  'I won't.'

  He starts to move then stops again. 'And do as I say.'

  I scowl. 'You're doing it again.'

  He snorts and resumes his fast pace.

  'We're going to the hotel, ar
en't we?' I ask breathlessly.

  He nods. 'I've already had Dr Mitchell's room sealed up.'

  'I don't understand. What was the scandal involving the son about?'

  'She was caught giving her son cannabis. He was suffering from a disease called juvenile ankylosing spondylitis. Do you know what that is?' He doesn't wait for a reply. 'Of course you do. Anyway she claimed she let him smoke weed to relieve the pain. He died shortly after she was found out.'

  'Oh, my God. How sad.' Ankylosing spondylitis is a kind of inflammatory arthritis found more commonly in men with certain genetic predispositions. Although it involves the whole body, it mainly affects the joints of the spine and pelvis, causing chronic pain and stiffness in those areas. Other common symptoms are fatigue and nausea. In more severe cases, it can also cause swelling of the leg joints, particularly the knees and at times the ankles. Physical movement and anti-inflammatory medication can relieve the pain. Sadly, sufferers feel the discomfort most when at rest.

  'But if she was working on Trabinol, why didn't she give him the drug instead of natural cannabis?'

  'I assume it was still in development.'

  'Perhaps that's what motivated her to develop such a drug.'

  He shrugs.

  'Was she arrested for giving her son cannabis?'

  Dan shakes his head. 'Her son denied that she gave it to him so she couldn't be formally charged. And he was sixteen, a juvenile, and too ill. Furthermore, he didn't have a large quantity of cannabis on him, so he was given probation. Of course, we presume she gave it to him. He could hardly walk. How else would he get it?'

  'Gene, perhaps?'

  Dan shakes his head again. 'Apparently, Medtech received evidence in the post, from an anonymous source—good quality photographs of her handing a joint to her son. Perhaps it was from an informant from a rival pharmaceutical who wanted to get her discredited and derail the Trabinol project. While Medtech didn't share the info with the courts, they had to let her go. They didn't want the scandal, particularly since she headed up their research department and was working on related research.'

  'She was fired?'

  He nods. 'Before the drug was approved.'

  'Have you considered that maybe she was making a new type of medicinal marijuana in the Hartford lab?'

  'It's possible, but it is still illegal research.'

  'Even if it could benefit a lot of patients?'

  'Hey, I'm all for scientific research. But I am an OCU officer. It isn't my job to debate these moral issues. My job is to make sure people operate within the law, and to catch those who don't.'

  I scowl in silence.

  Dan looks at me with a placating smile. 'There has been a huge increase in marijuana cultivation across the UK in the last two years. We've uncovered nearly 7,000 illegal farms and factories in the last year alone, and seized plants with an estimated value of ninety million pounds. Production has moved from the low-tech, DIY operation with a few plants in the garden shed or under the stairs to an industrial scale dominated by Vietnamese and Chinese gangs.'

  I nod. 'I understand.'

  'Besides, you forget, the cannabis strain found at Madeleine's lab was pretty potent. It had the whole county in a trance. Doesn't that sound suspect to you?'

  It is useless to argue. He has good points. The only way medical marijuana would become acceptable is if doesn't induce psychoactive, hallucinogenic effects. Target the pain and other conditions without the high. Then only those who seriously need it would have the incentive to use it. Aside from that, the smoke from cannabis also contains carcinogens similar to those found in tobacco smoke. Smoking it long term can also cause cancer. That would have to be addressed as well.

  Trabinol in the form of capsules to be taken orally was supposed to resolve those medical issues. But the artificial, synthetic form has not proven to be as effective as the real thing. Natural cannabis contains at least sixty therapeutic cannabinoids that produce a variety of effects. Trabinol contains THC, only one compound. How can the two forms compete?

  The challenge is: can marijuana be genetically modified to alleviate pain and so forth without the psychoactive effects, not to mention, carcinogenic properties? Or are the psychoactive qualities necessary to achieve its benefits?

  While I strive to keep up to date with scientific developments in the medical research field, I can't say I am 100 per cent certain. As far as I know, the natural form of cannabis leads by great lengths as a medical solution to the pains and symptoms of certain major debilitating illnesses.

  Dan's phone rings, interrupting my thoughts.

  'Seymour,' he replies. 'Is it in place? Let me know when it's all set up.'

  'What's going on?' I ask when he gets off the phone.

  He grins roguishly, but doesn't explain. 'Come on,' he takes my arm and directs me around a corner.

  I don't press him. Alone with him on the dark deserted street, stubble, smirk and all, I find myself unable to speak.

  TWELVE

  With his hand burning my arm through the thin fabric of my blouse, we walk in silence the rest of the way. However, Dan sets such a rapid pace it dispels any budding romantic notions I may entertain. In spite of my long strides, I struggle to keep up with him. I arrive at the hotel gasping for breath. Dan grins, bows in exaggerated mock gallantry and waves me in first. We spin through the revolving doors and stumble into the lobby.

  Patchouli, lemon, mandarin ...

  On second encounter, the Fitzroy Hotel is just as elegant and sophisticated as my first fleeting impression. Madeleine Mitchell certainly fits right in. Walking along the polished marble floors, I admire the muted colours of the walls and furnishings. Their subtle palette of ivory, coffee and black is soothing, yet nicely textured enough to be interesting. At the lobby's centre, a dramatically lit piece of modern sculpture also captures my attention. Next, I spy the set of couches. I could sink happily into one of the deep caramel suede armchairs right now.

  Dan waves to the concierge and leads the way to the lifts. We get off at the top floor where the constable guarding the door lets us in. It's the first time I've been inside a hotel suite, and it is impressive. It isn't huge, small in fact, but carrying on in the style of the lobby, it is certainly the most luxurious set of rooms I've seen. 'How could she afford accommodation like this?' I ask Dan, but when I turn towards him, I find he has disappeared.

  Lilac, rose, rosemary, sage ... Sweat, latex, tobacco ...

  The unusual floral bouquet at the centre of the sitting room fills the suite with its sweet fragrance. Beyond the well-appointed sitting room and dining area, I catch a glimpse of the main bedroom with its en suite bathroom further inside. I head to the large windows overlooking the street. The city lit up at night takes my breath away. Darkness cloaks the grime of the streets and the clutter of construction work with mystery. In the distance, in a sliver of space between a massive tower nearing completion and a huge phallus of a building nicknamed "the Gherkin," I can make out the twinkling outline of the Tower Bridge. Unfortunately, the two skyscrapers overshadow it. I study the glittering Gherkin again. It's the first time I've viewed it up close. The building has been around for a few years now but I still haven't decided whether I like it or not. I expect I will eventually get used to it.

  But the suite isn't empty. With their department name emblazoned on their jackets, a forensics unit methodically works the room. They search the nooks and crannies, cameras in tow.

  Dan comes out of Madeleine's bedroom. 'Dr Sonnclere,' he gestures to the gentlemen following him, 'these are Detective Inspector Paul Collings and Detective Sergeant Jarred Evans. The Organised Crime Unit works in tandem with the Metropolitan Police and occasionally with the City of London Police. Although the hotel falls under the City Police's jurisdiction, they've ceded the investigation to us.'

  I shake their hands. The detectives rest their gaze on me for a moment. DI Collings raises an inquiring eyebrow at Dan who shrugs in reply.

  'Have you found any
thing?' I ask the detectives, ignoring their barely concealed curiosity.

  DI Collings replies, 'Nothing unusual, really. We're waiting to see what the forensics unit uncovers.'

  'Do you mind if I have a nose around?'

  'Help yourself,' he answers. 'Jarred here will get you a pair of gloves.'

  Dan flashes me a look to remind me to be careful.

  After DS Evans hands me a new pair of latex gloves, I make my own systematic sweep of the hotel suite. The minibar is untouched. I marvel at the enormous flat screen telly. Broadband and Wi-Fi. Nice. Since she had only arrived today, it is obvious Madeleine hasn't spent much time in the sitting room. The two other rooms, the bedroom and bathroom, on the other hand, are full of her stuff. To my surprise, she has arranged all her belongings in perfect order. Clothes hang neatly in the wardrobe and underwear and other personal clothing items are folded and stacked carefully on the shelves. Four pairs of expensive shoes rest in a straight line on the last shelf. Talk about being obsessive compulsive!

  Disappointingly, the in-room safe is empty. I spot a couple of American journals on genetics beside a picture on the dressing table. I pick up the framed photograph. It is of a smiling young boy. He has his arms around a much younger Madeleine, capturing a happier time. The boy reminds me of a younger Gene. Staring at the picture, I feel as if I am invading a private tender moment.

  I sniff company and turn to find Dan watching me from the door. I replace the photo on the dresser exactly as I found it.

  'See anything?' he asks. 'I asked them not to remove or move things so much until we've had a look.'

  I shake my head. 'I haven't seen the bathroom yet. Don't worry. I'm wearing gloves,' I say, holding up both my hands.

  He grins; my heart flips, then he's gone again.

  Pomegranate, freesia, pear ... Neroli ...

  The bathroom is also in faultless order. Inside, Dan inspects the array of perfumes and cosmetics arranged in a neat line on one side of the sink. He scrutinises the labels with bemusement. To be fair, most of them would also baffle me.

  I try a number of bottles, twisting their caps and taking short sniffs. Body lotion, bath oil, and face cream. They all smell lovely in an expensive way. The enormous vanity case lies tucked away in a corner of the bathroom floor. 'They appear innocuous to me,' I say to him. 'Then again I'm hardly an expert on beauty products. What exactly are you searching for?'

  'Cannabis, what else?'

  'Are you serious?'

  'Think about it. If she was meeting a business partner or contact, what did she intend to show him? She would have brought a sample.'

  'You mean you expect her to bring in a sample of genetically engineered cannabis, leaves or seeds, maybe ground up in a tin?' I scoff. The idea is ludicrous.

  'Well, it may not look like ordinary weed or even seeds. It could be an extract. Possibly in liquid form.'

  'Like a tincture or a designer drug?'

  'Maybe.'

  'Surely the airport checks would have revealed it. I'm assuming she and her luggage passed through the normal inspection channels.' I know that since 9/11, airport security has been stepped up.

  'That's true. But what if she had created a product that could escape ordinary detection?'

  'You mean a drug that could pass customs without raising any alarm?'

  'Exactly. The traces that were found at the farm were both genetically altered as well as chemically altered by the fire. We have no way of confirming what she has produced until we get our hands on the product.'

  'You think she did that? Created cannabis not only genetically modified to be a more potent hallucinogenic drug, but also without the odour that would alert sniffer dogs or molecular analysers?'

  'We're considering all possibilities.'

  'That's a scary thought.' The implications of a drug in a form that would escape current detection procedures—a drug that doesn't look or smell like the natural thing—would revolutionise the drug trade.

  'You have no idea.'

  Actually, I do. Not only that, I am convinced it can be done.

  A geneticist would have to isolate the gene responsible for the trademark smell of cannabis and engineer it out. Or introduce a new trait that would neutralise it. Either way the plant's original DNA would be altered. Then he or she would cultivate the new genetically modified crop and extract its cannabinoid compounds. Sounds simple in theory, but it involves highly complicated and expensive technical processes.

  In fact, a drug called nabilone, made from an extract of cannabis is available on prescription in the UK. Marketed under the trade name, Sativex, it is a mouth spray used as a supplementary treatment for spasticity in multiple sclerosis. Derived from actual cannabis plants rather than from a synthetic product, it contains the cannabinoid compounds, THC and CBD or cannabidiol. One up from Trabinol, apparently, it can also make patients high.

  Designer cannabis, on the other hand, is a different kettle of fish. Also known by the brand names K2 and Spice as well as Black Mamba, Bombay Blue, Fake Weed, Genie, and Zohai, designer cannabis are natural herbs sprayed with synthetic cannabis. When consumed, usually by smoking, they supposedly imitate the psychoactive effects of cannabis. Same as natural cannabis, they are considered Class B drugs in the UK and Schedule I in the US.

  However, Dan figures that Madeleine has created a genetically engineered drug extract with far more powerful psychoactive potential.

  'Well, I don't see anything suspicious in any of her things. She could have altered the form and smell of the derivative. Added an ingredient to make it smell different. Or she could have taken the sample with her. She was carrying a huge hand—' I pause for a split second.

  'What is it?' Dan asks.

  'I feel as if I am forgetting something.'

  'No matter. I'm having forensics bag the lot for analysis, especially the stuff in the bathroom.'

  Dan's mobile rings.

  'Seymour,' he answers.

  THIRTEEN

  Dan terminates the call and nods at DI Collings. They exit the bedroom, moving out of earshot where they speak quietly, exchanging information.

  'Where are we going?' I ask Dan when they finish. From the corner of my eye, I notice DI Collings raise an eyebrow again. 'You know I'm coming with you,' I say.

  Dan and the detective trade glances. Dan sighs and shrugs, which makes DI Collings chuckle. As I tag along after Dan, I can no longer ignore the amused stares the rest of the crew shoot my way. I scowl back at them.

  'Are you always this difficult?' Dan asks before he takes the staircase, bounding energetically down the steps.

  I don't answer. I assume it is a rhetorical question.

  Outside the hotel, we get into an unmarked police car. He introduces me to Constable Gwyn who starts the silver BMW's engine and makes a neat three-point turn to head the car south towards the river.

  Pine air freshener, gum ... Exhaust ...

  The drive to Dr Gene Mitchell's home is short. We cross the London Bridge and take a right, coming to a stop after a few blocks. Again, it makes sense that Gene Mitchell would choose to live close to work. Constable Gwyn parks behind a large white van with a vague utilitarian logo.

  'Is this it?' I ask, alighting. We are parked across the street from a massive contemporary apartment building, a stone's throw away from the Tate Modern and the river Thames. Further away, a brief glance across the embankment reveals another view of London's skyline, albeit from a different angle. This time, St Pauls Cathedral and its magnificent dome take centre stage.

  The rear doors of the white van swing open and Dan climbs in. 'Don't ask,' he says tersely when the two officers inside look at me questioningly. At least Dan remembers to help me up into the van. It reeks of sweat and stale coffee.

  Astonishingly, the interior of the nondescript van houses sleek state-of-the-art electronic surveillance equipment. Several flat screen monitors are fixed against one side. Next, I study the gear on the other side. Am I seeing right? Is that a p
ortable x-ray machine? Then another piece of equipment piques my interest.

  'Anything yet?' Dan asks the youngest officer in the van. The technician shakes his head in reply.

  'Are you tapping Gene Mitchell's phone?' I ask Dan who doesn't deign me with an answer.

  'How does it work?' I continue. 'You can't have tapped into his landline. Why, that block of flats is huge. There must be hundreds of lines in there. How would you know you're picking up the right conversation?'

  'Constable Taylor installed a device when he took Dr Mitchell home.'

  'Crafty.'

  Dan smiles. 'We also have his mobile phone covered. That piece of equipment you've been eyeing here can remotely activate the microphone in his mobile. When he uses it, we'll not only be able to track his movements, but also listen in on his conversation.'

  'Is that legal?' I ask Dan. I have read about this new surveillance technology. I hear that it can even cut off a phone if the police suspect it would be used as a trigger for an explosive device. Although I am all for safeguarding national security and preventing serious crime, I am still uncomfortable with the idea that my personal calls can be intercepted by the police at will.

  The sound of a phone ringing spares Dan from answering my question. We fall silent and watch the green light on a machine. It flickers to the chime of the phone. The technician turns a dial to rack up the volume. Madeleine Mitchell's voice comes on the line, loud and clear.

  'Gene?'

  'Mads, is that you?' Gene Mitchell answers.

  'Record and trace.' Dan murmurs.

  Nodding, the technician flicks a switch and presses more buttons.

  'Where are you?' Gene asks, his voice intense and anxious. 'The police are searching for you.'

  'Are they?'

  'I told them you were staying at the Fitzroy. They want to speak—'

  'Do you hear that?' I ask, interrupting the call. Strains of music play faintly in the background.

  'Shhh,' Dan hushes me.

  '... I know. I can't go back to my hotel. I saw a police car outside. Thank goodness I have my passport and some money with me.'

  'What's going on, Mads? And what happened back at the Blue Rock? You left without—'

  'I'm so sorry, Gene. I didn't mean for any of this to happen.'

  'But you left me—'

  'I can't explain right now. Not on the phone anyway.'

  'Why not?'

  'It's complicated.'

  'For heaven's sake, Mads. The police mentioned cannabis.'

  'I'll tell you everything after the meeting.'

  'What meeting? Who are you meeting with?'

  'In the meantime, I need a place to stay. Is it okay if I stay with you? I don't mean to impose.'

  'Of course. Tell me where and I'll come and get you.'

  'I'm not far away—'

  'Excellent,' Dan says. 'She's coming to us.' He claps his hands with satisfaction.

  The stuffiness of the van causes me to sneeze. Dan and the officers glower at me. 'Sorry,' I say in a stage whisper.

  'Shhh,' Dan holds up a hand to quiet me again. 'Did you hear that?'

  'Can they hear us?' I ask.

  'Of course not.'

  We hear a muffled sound through the microphone. A louder scuffle. A scream. Then the line goes dead.

  'Go, go, go!' Dan shouts.

  FOURTEEN

  The van spins on its wheels and races west parallel to the river. Taken by surprise, I find myself thrown to the back of the van.

  'The signal takes us to a building over there.' The technician points in the direction of the Southbank Centre.

  Located at the South Bank of the Thames River, the Southbank Centre hosts an incredible variety of cultural events ranging from music, dance and other forms of art. I've been to a couple of classical music concerts with Mother at the Royal Festival Hall and once to an art exhibition at the Hayward Gallery. Aside from those popular venues, the centre also has a Queen Elizabeth Hall, a Purcell Room and a Poetry Library. With so many activities going on daily, it has provided additional facilities—restaurants, coffee shops, bars and souvenir shops to keep its hundreds of visitors happy.

  From Stamford Street, the van lurches around the IMAX roundabout. It would have taken us less than five minutes had there not been any traffic.

  'We're almost there,' Dan barks.

  'Are we taking Belvedere Road?' the officer driving asks.

  'Fuck it.'

  The van swings right into the Concert Hall Approach, against the flow of traffic. It swerves unsteadily for a few precarious seconds. Fortuitously, the officer blasts the horn, sending pedestrians scurrying out of our way. A bus veers suddenly to the side, mounting the pavement, to avoid a collision with us. Then the van brakes abruptly and comes to a full stop outside the steps in front of the Royal Festival Hall.

  During the drive, Dan has called for back-up. Two police cars screech up beside the van as soon as we alight, having taken Belvedere Road. DI Collings and DS Evans emerge from an unmarked Volvo. Dan speaks to the detectives and officers who gather around. I hang back, pretending to observe the party atmosphere of the area while making sure I can still hear them. Dan waves me over. 'C'mon. You might as well.'

  Wine, coffee, tobacco ... Fresh ink on paper ...

  We sprint up the steps and enter the foyer. The hall is deceptively large, confusing in its multi-level layout. To compound matters, it is as noisy as a market place. A large number of people mill about, sitting at coffee tables, or browsing in the shop. We pause for a moment, undecided as to which of the possible staircases we should take.

  'I heard music playing in the background,' I remind Dan. 'She must have called from near the auditorium.' I point to a poster of the Philharmonic Orchestra on the board to my left. 'See—it says Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky: Piano Concerto No.1. It's playing tonight. I'm not saying that I would recognise that particular piece, but I noticed piano music in the background during the call.'

  Dan signals to the officers and we scamper up the nearest staircase. I don't pick up any orchestral or piano music in the hall now, though. Instead, I hear applause followed by the doors of the auditorium bursting open and a crowd spilling noisily from them. We have just caught intermission. Then we hear a scream from a floor above, high-pitched and terror-stricken.

  'Bloody hell. No, not again,' Dan swears. 'I don't believe this.'

  This time, however, we encounter no stampede. Guided only by the cries, we run up the rest of the steps. I forget the number of staircases we climb to reach the right level. The screams originate from the area near the ladies powder room where a group of women huddle together. The smell of musty carpet hits me, trailed soon after by a perplexing blend of different perfumes and ...

  Blood, the metallic smell of fresh blood ...

  'Metropolitan Police,' DI Collings announces. 'Calm down, ladies. Let us through.'

  The ladies quiet down a notch. They step aside to reveal a woman lying unconscious on the carpet. Above the sprawled figure are four public pay phones affixed to the wall in a line. One of the receivers has been yanked off the hook and lies on the floor, next to the prone figure, smeared with blood. Fortunately, it doesn't look as if any of the women has touched it. Dan and I exchange puzzled glances. We have come to the right spot. Nevertheless, the woman on the floor is definitely not Dr Madeleine Mitchell.

  The women start bombarding the detectives with questions. DS Evans together with another officer takes control of the situation. They clear the area, move the potential witnesses to one side, and begin questioning them. Dan instructs the other officers to herd the rest of the theatre crowd back inside the auditorium. He inspects the stairs. I check the fire escape. Not finding anything useful, Dan enters the auditorium where I quickly join him. For the time being, the orchestra has delayed the rest of its performance. And although the theatre crowd shifts about, plainly agitated, they willingly remain in their seats. After going through each row at each level, our search turns up noth
ing. Madeleine is gone. Again.

  Back outside the ladies powder room, we turn our focus to the woman on the floor. DI Collings is bent over her, checking her out. 'She's unconscious. Her nose is bleeding, but she's got a pulse. I've already radioed for an ambulance. I'm also having my men search this whole complex. Her attacker might still be around.'

  'Any ID on her?' Dan asks DI Collings.

  DI Collings shakes his head. 'No handbag either.'

  The paramedics arrive and start to transfer her onto a stretcher. That's when I do a double take.

  'Wait.' I stop the paramedics and rush over. Sometimes I forget how hair comprises so much of a woman's appearance. I'm sure I would look very different if I change my hair colour from its natural red to blonde or brunette. And so is the case with this woman. In spite of that, I could be forgiven. Against a pale and lacklustre complexion, her features are quite plain, undistinguished. More importantly, the sight and smell of her bloody nose has distracted me.

  'You know her?' Dan asks.

  'Not personally. I saw her today. I was in a coffee shop across the Fitzroy waiting for Madeleine—or you. This woman sat next to me. Only she was wearing a brown wig then.' The woman on the stretcher has short, cropped light blonde hair. I tug at a lock.

  'What did you do that for?'

  'Just checking if it is real. I wonder—why did she wear a wig a while ago?' Then I note that she's still wearing gloves.

  'We need to take her now,' the paramedic says.

  I nod. As they whisk her away, I explain my hunches to Dan. 'She must have also been following Madeleine.' I gesture around me. 'She must have tracked her here from the bar. They struggled. Look.' I point to the overturned rubbish bin. 'And the receiver has blood on it.'

  'Don't touch anything.'

  'Would I do that?' I ask, aggrieved.

  Dan goes into the ladies powder room and comes out with a wad of tissues. Holding the receiver with a few, he picks it up and hands it, tissue end first, to an officer. 'Get this to forensics.' Afterwards, he says to me, 'It might also have Madeleine's blood. We'll get word out to all hospitals, just in case.'

  DS Evans approaches. 'They say we can have a look at the CCTV footage now.'

  Dan turns to me. 'Are you coming?'

  FIFTEEN

  The ambulance takes the woman to St Vincent's Hospital, the nearest Accident and Emergency Department. Ironically, it is part of the same NHS Foundation Trust where Dr Gene Mitchell is a Paediatric Consultant. Dan, the two Met detectives and I wait at the lobby.

  Vomit, blood ... Disinfectant ... Coffee, salt and vinegar crisps ...

  The department is busy, and a queue has formed at the vending machine. Since it's been a while since I've had anything to drink, I slink behind a jumpy young man wearing a navy hoodie. I push a button for a cup of tea. It is boiling hot but utterly tasteless. Nevertheless, after letting it cool a bit, I finish it in a few gulps.

  Regrettably, the CCTV footage from the Royal Festival Hall and its surrounding areas has revealed nothing. Not that it would be difficult for Madeleine to get lost in the abominable muddle of a building. The layout offers multiple exits to choose from. Besides, Madeleine Mitchell would blend in perfectly with this theatre crowd.

  DI Collings finishes a call. 'We've been checking with all the taxi drivers in the area. So far she hasn't taken a cab. Nothing unusual reported on the trains either.'

  Soap, antiseptic ...

  A pretty nurse approaches us, sounding a little out-of-breath. 'The doctor will see you now,' she says, flashing beautiful white teeth.

  The detectives gawp at her and return her smile. Especially Dan, whose grin, I note, lingers a tad longer than necessary. Despite her exhaustion, the nurse is obviously attractive. She's petite, perky, shapely. The nurse leads us to a bay and draws the curtains. I catch Dan checking her rear and roll my eyes.

  'What?' he asks innocently.

  I don't deign to answer.

  'I'm Dr Alshafey,' the doctor introduces himself. 'This is an unusual case,' he begins.

  Dan and I glance at each other. The woman lying on the bed strikes me as being paler than I remember. She looks almost as white as the sheet that covers her body. Her nose is packed with ribbon gauze. An endotracheal tube has also been inserted into her mouth.

  'The patient has suffered trauma to the nose. Just some bleeding, bruising and swelling. No fracture or damage to the nasal septum. She did have a knock on the head which resulted in a concussion. We found no other recent injuries to the rest of her body.'

  At that point the woman starts to mumble and moan. She begins to shiver. Her arms jerk under the covers; her body spasms. She acts like she's having a bad dream.

  'So what's wrong with her?' Dan asks. 'Is she in pain?'

  'Well, we don't know. She can't tell us. However, she appears to be under the influence of a drug. The signs are there. Dilated pupils, fast heart rate and laboured breathing. Finally, there's the delirium. It's as if she's taken an overdose of something. In any case, we've taken a blood sample for analysis.'

  None of us speak for a second.

  'What?' Dr Alshafey asks, noticing the silence. 'Do you know if she has taken anything?'

  The pretty nurse pulls the curtains aside and peers in. 'Doctor, you're needed for a moment at the nurse's station.'

  'Excuse me,' the doctor says and steps out.

  'Cannabis?' Dan asks me.

  'I don't think so. Do you detect it on her?' Although I ask the question, we both know the answer.

  'She doesn't look high.' DS Evans remarks. 'Also, if she'd smoked marijuana, she would reek of it.'

  I concur. 'True. And it's difficult to overdose on marijuana. It has an extremely low toxic threshold. She would have had to take loads.' Like a bolt, an idea occurs to me. 'But—but what if she didn't smoke it?'

  Dan pauses. 'You mean...' he says, suddenly getting my drift. He gapes at me with admiration. 'Oh, you are a clever girl, aren't you?'

  I beam.

  'For heaven's sake, how would it have gotten into her system?' DI Collings asks impatiently, bewildered by our fragmented discourse.

  'Let's test the theory, shall we?' I say, glowing triumphantly. I lean over the woman and slowly peel off the gauze bandage on her nose. As soon as I do it, the curtains are drawn open and Dr Alshafey steps in.

  'What do you think you're doing?' he asks indignantly.

  'Relax, Doctor,' Dan says.

  'We think that the drug, whatever it is, could have been administered via the nose,' I say.

  'Like snorting,' Dan interjects.

  Snorting or nasal insufflation is one way to consume drugs, usually for psychoactive substances in powder form such as cocaine or heroin. Snorting allows the powder to be absorbed rapidly into the bloodstream through the thin nasal membranes. That way the drug takes effect faster than smoking or ingesting.

  The doctor scoffs. 'Well, I've never heard of marijuana being snorted. You smoke it. And I also know you can inhale it or bake it in cakes. I've even heard of cannabis tea, but not something that could be absorbed nasally.'

  'Oh, I know,' I reply. 'THC isn't water-soluble and is only active after being heated. That's why you can inhale marijuana via a vaporiser. But what if it was administered in tincture form? As a liquid applied directly to the nose?' Then I point to the woman. 'I realise it is a long shot, but she's had a nosebleed. In theory, could it not be absorbed directly into the bloodstream via the ruptured blood vessels in her nose?'

  The doctor scratches his head. 'I suppose it's possible. You don't mean Sativex, do you?' He mentions the oromucosal spray of cannabis.

  'No, not exactly. But you get the idea.'

  The doctor shrugs and shakes his head. 'I don't know.'

  'Could we take a swab sample from her nose?' Dan asks him.

  'She's already been cleaned up.'

  'We'll take our chances.'

  The doctor steps out for a moment and comes back with the pretty nurse who hands me a swa
b stick, which looks like a long cotton bud. I note with satisfaction that Dan doesn't appear to notice her this time. With the swab stick, I delve into both nasal passages, and then seal the whole thing up in its sterile container. The nurse replaces the bandage on the woman's nose. I hand the sample to Dan.

  'Well done,' he says.

  I flush, chuffed to bits.

  'Have you given her anything in the meantime, Doctor?' DI Collings asks.

  'As a precaution, we've pumped her stomach and given her activated charcoal.'

  'Charcoal?' the detective asks.

  'Not just ordinary charcoal—activated charcoal. It reduces the amount of toxin absorbed by the blood. By binding the toxin to itself, it keeps the toxin within the stomach and intestines until the whole lot can be expelled in the stool,' I explain.

  The doctor bobs his head. 'That's all we can do for now until we identify what she's ingested, if she's ingested anything.' He remains unconvinced by our nasal route theory.

  'We'd appreciate it if you could have your lab rush those blood tests as well as the nasal samples,' Dan says.

  I nod at the doctor. If she overdosed on cannabis, we'd learn soon enough. Cannabinoid compounds can stay in a user's system up to ten days.

  Before the doctor can leave, DI Collings tells him. 'We also need to ask her a few questions as soon as she is lucid.'

  Dr Alshafey checks his watch. 'You'll probably have to come back in the morning to do that. It's best if you let her rest now and get some yourself.'

  After the doctor has left, Dan makes a call. 'I'm having her fingerprints taken.' He turns to DI Collings. 'What about security?'

  The detective nods. 'She'll be transferred to a side room. And I'll post a couple of constables outside the door.'

  On our way out, Dan spots the pretty nurse again. She flashes him a coy smile. He gives her a wink, which makes her giggle. To me, she sounds like a cackling hen.

  Outside the A and E entrance, Dan points to the unmarked silver BMW where Constable Gwyn waits for us. 'C'mon. Let me drop you off,' he says.

  'What, you're such a good detective, you also found out where I live?' I answer a little too aggressively, which takes Dan aback. 'Just take me to my car. I left it near the hotel.'

  'What's the matter?' he asks, frowning.

  'Nothing,' I say, fighting back the anger that threatens to overcome me.

  Dan doesn't say anything.

  I fake a yawn. 'I'm tired. It has been a long day.'

  Dan opens the door, and I slip into the back seat. Dan slides into the front passenger seat beside the constable. Then I direct Constable Gwyn to where I've parked. We cover the distance in silence. The pine air freshener swings from the rear view mirror, seeming to mock me. As we approach my slot, I point to my sad-looking hand-me-down Golf. Dan gets out too when I alight. I notice a piece of paper trapped underneath one of my windshield wipers and snatch it up.

  'Brilliant. A ticket. Just what I need.'

  Dan takes the parking ticket from me before I can read the details of my violation. He shoves it in his jacket pocket. 'Don't worry. I'll take care of it.'

  All at once, I feel ashamed of my earlier nastiness. I almost burst out in tears. 'Thanks,' I say humbly.

  'No,' Dan says emphatically. 'Thank you. You've been a great help.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. Now go home and get some rest.' He opens the door of my Golf to let me in. 'You take care, Dr Sonnclere.' He shuts it after me. He taps the top of my car twice before walking away. I watch him slide back in beside Constable Gwyn. Dan waves as the silver BMW police car speeds away.

  SIXTEEN

  As soon as Dan fades into the night, the heavens open up and release a soft, steady shower. And like the rain that runs gently from the top of my car down to the ground, I let my ache wash over me.

  What have I come to? I hardly know the man.

  I turn the key to start my car, but it splutters and dies. I try again but get the same result. After the third attempt, I hit the steering wheel with my fist. Then I collapse back onto the seat, breathing heavily. 'You silly girl. You silly, silly girl,' I mutter. The rainwater trickles like silent tears down inside a corner of my window, forming a puddle at me feet. Sighing, I turn the key again, and I am amazed when the engine shudders harshly to life.

  Mercifully, I no longer need my GPS to navigate my way home. I simply retrace my route down streets that seem strangely empty and quiet for a Friday night. All I am aware of is the rain and the squeak of the windscreen wipers. Will I ever see Dan again? Not likely. It's not as if he needs my help finding Madeleine Mitchell.

  I park outside my building and dash through the rain, up the steps to the front door and up to my flat. The clock on my sitting room wall admonishes me that it's nearly 12:00 midnight. I enter the bathroom and run a bath. I feel shattered. I haven't slept since waking up for the last day of the conference. That had been Thursday morning in New York, nearly two days ago. Despite my exhaustion, I feel restless at the same time. Sleep will not come easily tonight.

  Avoiding the full-length mirror, I undress, dump my stinking clothes in a heap on the floor, and sink into the tub. After a quick soak, I pad into the kitchen in my dressing gown. The bath has revived me, including my appetite. My stomach growls so loudly, it's hard to ignore. Sadly, I still don't have anything in my refrigerator. I unearth an unopened box of cornflakes from the cupboard and pour a large serving in a clean bowl. I quickly brew a mug of black tea.

  In the second bedroom which serves as my study, I munch on dry cornflakes, chasing them down with tea while I boot up my laptop. I run a Google search on Dr Madeleine Mitchell.

  I count hundreds of results.

  I start from the top, noting the dates of the entries. They're mostly old articles, dating back more than a decade. I read a few items in depth, skimming through those from duplicate sites. For future reading, I bookmark the research papers on the password-protected sites where I have special access. The scientific articles are too long to read thoroughly in one night. After, I sift through the rest.

  While I learned most of the salient facts about her today, this study of Madeleine continues to fascinate me. Madeleine Watson Mitchell graduated summa cum laude from the University of California in Berkeley with a major in Biochemistry. She also received her PhD in the same field from Stanford University. Her last place of employment had been Medtech's Pharmaceutical Research and Development and Medicine Division. She has authored and co-authored numerous scientific papers and articles, and has received many prizes as well as recognition for her research work. If I underestimated Dr Madeleine Mitchell before, it is becoming clearer now how completely. Lamentably, if it hadn't been for the unfortunate scandal at Medtech and her subsequent dismissal, she would have risen to the top of her field.

  I click on a link, which mentions the case about her son, a handsome boy named Joshua. It also lists other cases of parents who have given their children cannabis for pain treatment as well. Arguments condemning such treatment suggest that cannabis can adversely affect the brain development of young people. However, while it is still illegal, except in the few states that allow the use of medical cannabis, Madeleine's case would cause less of a scandal now than it had at that time.

  Dr Madeleine Mitchell strikes me as a tragic figure. Beautiful and smart, she had it all—husband, family and a brilliant career. In a flash, she lost everything. She was suddenly unemployed and discredited in her field. Her son dies; she goes through a divorce. To top it off, her ex-husband remarries soon afterwards. It makes me wonder: Would all that be enough to push her over to the dark side? To turn a good scientist into a bad one?

  I also run a Google search on the recent fire in Hartford. Even more articles appear, including interviews on the incident. Evidently, the episode caused quite a stir in the small state. According to the comments from residents, a number had considered it a welcome distraction to their otherwise placid lives. Chuckling, I turn on my printer and run off sev
eral of the more comprehensive articles.

  I also print a number of interesting photographs from the scene of the burned farm. Images of the razed farm buildings. The crowd of nosy onlookers, county services and fire investigators sifting through the rubble. Their gently puzzled expressions are priceless. They certainly don't look any worse for wear. As an afterthought, I print an old photograph of Madeleine. Even fifteen years ago, she had set her trademark big brown hair and full-on make up.

  I yawn loudly but continue surfing the net until my vision starts to blur. After another hour, I finally log off. I rinse my mug and cereal bowl, brush my teeth and slip under my duvet. Lying in bed, I can't help but brood about Dan. In such a short space of time, he has managed to unhinge me. All of a sudden I am suffering from strange, uncomfortable, crazy feelings. I wish they would go away.

  'Do you know how it feels to get high?' he asked me earlier.

  'What do you mean?'

  'If you've never tried weed, how would you know what it's like? What's more, how can you say you understand it?'

  'That's not fair. If I were a doctor treating a patient with cancer, does that mean I would have had to suffer from the disease first?'

  Dan answered with a naughty smile. I realise now that he had only been toying with me, provoking me.

  The truth is I would have wanted to experience getting "high." Sure, cannabis just messes about with the cannabinoid receptors in our brain. But I hate to admit it. Dan has touched a nerve. Why do I let him get to me? He seems to know exactly what buttons to push. How does he do that?

  Although the subject of cannabis research interests me, in reality, I have no first-hand clue what smoking marijuana is like. I have seen, touched and smelled joints of marijuana at University. Purely by accident. For sure, I have been curious. Similar to smoking a cigarette, it has the uncanny ability to make one look cool. It's all an illusion, of course. Sadly, I've never been part of the in-crowd that did. I've never been offered a puff. And I remember feeling offended that I wasn't ever pressured into trying it. I could have attempted it on my own, of course. But that would only be lame. Smoking weed is the sort of thing you did as a group in a party. I suppose, in the end, it is a good thing. Right? I mean, I could have gotten hooked. Except now that I'm on Madeleine's case, I deeply regret my lack of first-hand knowledge. Perhaps, if I ever get to that field of research, I would have to give it a shot—for science's sake.

  Even if I am drowsy, I sense the wheels of my mind turning over today's events, including the articles I've just read. Dan, Madeleine, Gene, cannabis, the fire, the lab ... As I float between the states of consciousness and sleep, a thought pulls me back. What is it? A niggling idea? A blurred image? A slight gesture? I struggle to pinpoint it. Hard as I strain to grasp it, it slinks further away. And although my mind doesn't want to give up, my body eventually surrenders. After being up for nearly forty-eight hours, I finally drift into oblivion.

  SEVENTEEN

  Ladbroke Grove, North Kensington

  Saturday, May 15, 5:51 am

  The answer comes to me as I wake. I roll over and check my bedside clock. I haven't been asleep long. Nevertheless, I resist the temptation to roll back and bury my head under the sheets. Since the sun is already up, I might as well get out of bed.

  I don a pair of cream coloured trousers and a light blue top. In the bathroom, a brief glance at the mirror reveals dark shadows under my eyes. Grimacing at my reflection, I hastily brush and tie back my hair, ready to go. I am about to step out when I double back. On second thought, I loosen my hair. I also pat a bit of powder evenly all over my face and as a final touch, apply some lipstick to my chapped lips.

  A trip to the kitchen does nothing to set me up for the day ahead. Warily, I eye the box of cornflakes on the counter. Despite my empty stomach, I find the idea of another bowl of dry cereal as appealing as sugared card. What in the world possessed me to buy the stuff? Perhaps if it had smelled remotely appetising, I might have been tempted. I dump the carton in the rubbish bin. Instead, I make myself a mug of strong black tea and make a mental note to drop by the grocery the next chance I get.

  I retrieve my shoulder bag and decide on a denim jacket in place of my stained mac, Quickly, I lock up my flat and head down the stairs.

  Freshly brewed coffee ... Butter, syrup, pancakes? ...

  The delicious aroma at the stairwell alerts me that Mrs Eggars has also risen early. I am almost drawn to knock on her door. She would definitely offer me breakfast, a fresh cup of milky tea—and perhaps more. A packed lunch, if I am cheeky enough to hint at it. However, a photograph I had printed off during my research last night reminds me of the task I'd rather not put off. I pass quietly out the front door.

  Outside, I pause for a moment and take a deep breath. The street is peaceful and quiet, and above, the sky is an innocent blue. At this early hour with the dew having cleared the air, the day looks and smells fresh and full of promise. As I get into my Volkswagen, I fear that much like the weather this time of year, the hopeful signs may change with little notice.

  Crossing the Westminster Bridge, I arrive at St Vincent's, a complex of old and newish buildings, the oldest dating back from the late 1800's. I immediately locate the underground car park. The machine at the entry issues me a ticket after which the barrier rises to let me through. Although the car park is small and the spaces limited, a few minutes after 06:00 am, I have no problem finding a spot. I park and search for the entrance to the hospital. With my coin canister running empty, I am pleased to note that the paying machine beside the lifts also accepts debit cards. At nearly three pounds an hour, I will need it.

  Disinfectant, wet mop ... laundry detergent ...

  I take the lift from the car park and wander through the maze of buildings and walkways till I arrive at the floor where DI Collings had the woman ensconced. I pull out an A4-size photograph from my shoulder bag. It is from a scene from the Hartford County fire, printed during last night's computer search. The ward clerk on the floor is the same one from last night. She recognises me and waves me through when I explain my visit. While Dan or DI Collings may not approve of my early morning visit, I doubt the constables will be difficult. I just need to take a peek. The room is all the way at the end of the corridor.

  Blood ...

  Not unusual in a hospital. Nevertheless, I quicken my pace. When I hear a scuffle, I run. I turn the corner in time to catch the woman from last night smashing one of the constables on the head with the end of a metal stand for an intravenous drip. The other constable is already lying unconscious on the floor.

  'Hey!' I call out.

  Her head snaps up, and I behold her nose. The bruise has bloomed into an ugly purple. At the same moment, a doctor about my age with a stethoscope around his neck exits another side room in front of me.

  'Help!' I shout to him.

  He hears me and turns to where I am pointing. I race past him, but he is soon at my heels. When the woman sees us approaching, she removes the bag of fluid attached to the IV stand and hurls it in our path. The bag bursts on impact and the doctor and I slow down to navigate the slippery floor. I catch a doorjamb and hang on. The doctor loses his balance completely and lands on his bottom.

  Dextrose ... Blood, again ... Head wounds are usually bloody ...

  The woman escapes through a couple of double doors. Her pale blue hospital gown flaps open behind her. However, before she flees out of sight, I notice the dressings covering both her hands. They confirm what I saw in the internet photograph I printed out. The woman had been on the scene at Hartford County. But why?

  I right myself and burst through another corridor and several sets of doors after her. At the third set of doors, I immediately gag. The stench of the ward hits me. Faeces, urine, chlorine ... I cover my nose, yet it is useless. The odour is so strong that I have to hold my breath.

  'Hey,' a nurse in a blue uniform and respirator mask calls out. 'You can't come in here. This is an isolation ward!'

&
nbsp; Too late. I can't stop. I have entered a ward festering with a particularly nasty gastrointestinal infection. A bad tummy bug. Despite the faecal stench, the woman springs through the ward and exits on the other side. I vaguely recall a red warning sign that I ignored in my haste to follow her. Dizzy, I stagger after her.

  As I stumble through the ward, a set of curtains opens and another nurse also wearing a mask appears. With gloved hands, she is holding a bedpan. As she turns, she swings it right in front of me. I nearly collapse from the smell.

  I am tempted to grab the nurse's mask off her face to use it for myself, except I fear she might drop the bedpan and splash us both with its foul contents. Although the nurse shoots me a disapproving glare, she focuses on the task of disposing her offensive burden. I, on the other hand, seem to be slowly losing focus. Negotiating the distance to the exit feels like I am crossing a putrid, disease-ridden swamp. At least in my mind. And navigating the few feet that lie between me and the door seems to take forever.

  The small hairs inside my nostrils work as a filter, trapping harmful particles such as germs, fungi and spores. While these cilia protect me from breathing in impurities in the air that can lead to infection, unfortunately, they can't block out malodourous gases. This is one of the times my acute sense of smell is a disadvantage. I possess no switch to turn it off. No knob to adjust its strength. I can smell the whole room and every bodily secretion its suffering patients have expelled. It is my worst nightmare.

  My legs feel like they have turned into jelly. I wobble to the door, trying not to breathe and clutching my stomach. Crashing against it, I push the door open and take a deep breath. Outside, the corridor reeks strongly of disinfectant. The conflicting odours play havoc on my senses. And unable to control myself any longer, I feel myself slumping to the floor.

  EIGHTEEN

  Except I don't fall. Even in my stupor, I register the strong hands that clutch my arms and lift me. Like masculine smelling salts, his woody aftershave and leather jacket smell also revive me. I lean towards him to draw in more of his scent.

  'Whoa,' Dan says, righting me.

  Gradually, I feel my senses return. I open my eyes. Dan has had a shower and a shave. He smells like fresh air. If only I could bottle his scent and preserve it forever.

  'Hey,' he asks. 'What's gotten into you? You've gone a little pale.'

  It's obvious that he has just arrived. 'She's gone!' I gasp. 'She fled through there.' I point down the corridor.

  Dan suddenly looks about to explode. He immediately comprehends who I am referring to. He props me against the wall and steadies me. Then he darts down the hall to continue the pursuit.

  So much for rescuing me.

  After a few more deep breaths of air, my wits are fully restored. I wander around the floor until I come to a vending machine where I buy another tasteless cup of tea. Still the hot drink does the trick, and I find my way back to the original ward via a different route.

  At the ward clerk's desk, I observe the doctor who tried to help me out. Sheepish, he avoids my eyes. Then DI Collings and DS Evans come out of the lifts. They have dark scowls on their faces. Interestingly, they don't act surprised to see me.

  They speak for a moment to the doctor and ward clerk. After, they head to the lift for the Accident and Emergency Department. Though they have hardly said a word to me, they don't appear to mind when I follow them into the lift. Down at A and E, the constables are being treated for head injuries and a few bruises.

  'Nothing too serious here,' the attending doctor reassures the detectives.

  The constables avoid my gaze.

  I quickly realise—to my relief—that the detectives aren't angry with me, but with the constables for failing to properly guard their charge.

  We hear footsteps approaching. Dan comes into the A and E, a frown etched on his forehead. 'She's gone,' he glowers.

  The detectives and the constables swear.

  'What do we do now?' I ask.

  The detectives exchange glances and turn to Dan almost fearfully. Dan's demeanour shifts and he grins at me. 'I'm hungry. Have you had breakfast?'

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