The Illusion of Smoke: The Prequel Read online

  ***

  Sweat, coffee, chocolate ... Hair gel, mildew ...

  Back at Heathrow, Detective Inspector William Hendricks approaches me as I deplane. 'Dr Sonnclere, they're saying aerotoxic syndrome,' he informs me without fanfare. He is from the Metropolitan Police Special Branch. His voice is melodious and calm. No hint of alarm or distress. It's as though we're merely chatting about the weather.

  I finger the card the Detective Inspector has handed to me. Being taller than he is, I note the glint of the bright terminal lighting off the top of his head. DI Hendricks is practically bald, save for a sparse ring of greying hair around it. Early fifties, I gather, and sadly from the saggy cheeks and lines on his face, ageing quickly. In spite of his world-weariness, he regards me respectfully, a light of interest in his eyes. He strikes me as a kind man, at least kind enough not to gawp at me. I isolate the damp mildew odour that's been irritating my nose. It's coming from the rumpled, beige trench coat that hangs tent-like over his equally dull beige suit.

  Granting it is not a truly recognised medical condition at present, the term aerotoxic syndrome was first introduced in 1999. It is the subject of much controversy as incidents such as these could potentially affect commercial airline profitability. The syndrome results from breathing contaminated air in an aircraft. Symptoms range from disorientation, headaches, and diarrhoea to more serious respiratory, cardiac, and neurological problems. I've heard that in extreme cases, brain damage could result as well. Although these claims are hotly contested, I've read that the syndrome affects up to 200,000 passengers and crew each year.

  Despite not being a medical doctor, I was able to identify the older gentleman's symptoms in the context of the airplane cabin. My diagnosis was later confirmed by the attending physician. When we landed, paramedics boarded the plane while a full fire service crew and engineers were on standby along the tarmac. The affected flight crew and passengers were brought by ambulance to the nearest hospital. With the number of respondents to the scene, you'd have thought they suspected a terrorist attack. Even if the emergency landing might result in a black mark against the airline, at least it wasn't taking any chances with the well-being of those on board. Or maybe they were taking precautions against potential litigation.

  I scan the area, but the man with the leather jacket is nowhere in sight. Once again, I am disappointed.

  'How did you know?' DI Hendricks patiently draws my attention back.

  'I smelled it.'

  The Detective gives me a peculiar look, which raises my hackles. I find it frustrating to have to recount the incident all over again. I've already explained it a number of times to the plane's captain and crew. I've also given my statement to the airport authorities. Plus, I have provided the lead officer from the Air Accident Investigation Branch with the air sample I took on the plane.

  With my patience wearing thin, I snap. 'Yes, I smelled it,' I repeat. 'Just as I can smell the café mocha you had recently. Your breath exudes it.'

  DI Hendricks' eyes blink twice.

  'You have a sweet tooth, don't you, Detective? I'm guessing, except it is not a guess, rather than, say, having a cheeseburger for lunch, you've also had a pain au chocolat in addition to the chocolate in your coffee. From the French patisserie by the terminal entrance, am I right? You were probably hungry waiting for the plane to land and couldn't resist it. Croissant pastry has a specific buttery aroma. And while you've licked your fingers, a little chocolate remains in between the grooves of your fingernails.' Then I lean in a little closer. 'Furthermore, judging from that jam stain on your coat collar and the sugar granules dusted around it, you must have had a doughnut before that. Breakfast? The raspberry stain is fairly fresh, but by all means, not as offensive as the mildew that has infiltrated the fabric of your coat. When did you last have it cleaned, Detective?' Finally, I can't resist adding, 'At least hang it up properly when you're not wearing it.'

  A long and profound pause descends on us when I finish. We stare at each other wordlessly.

  'So aerotoxic syndrome, huh?' DI Hendricks breaks the impasse.

  I shrug.

  'Dr Sonnclere,' he says with a small smile. 'I need to ask you a few questions.'

  'What's the Met's interest in this incident?'

  'The Special Branch monitors security at all London airports,' he answers briefly. 'Will you come this way?' He gestures for me to follow.

  I give the area one last hopeful search for the Leather Jacket Man. Seeing no sign of him, I sigh. 'Of course.'

  I glance at my watch. It is already late afternoon. After all this trouble, I wonder if I will be able to make it to the conference.

  FOUR

  Over the Atlantic

  Thursday, May 13, 23:01 pm

  I make it to the Biomedical Systems Engineering Conference after all, with time to spare. After my debriefing with DI Hendricks, I was put on the next flight to New York. The grateful airline upgraded me to first class, though that was also partly due to providence. I overheard the clerk at the counter mention to another passenger that it was the only section with available seats. While business class was marvellous, first class was altogether another kettle of fish. I enjoyed the privacy and the comfortable leather seats that magically transformed into beds. The food was divine. What's more, I was able to catch some sleep. Maybe if I could always fly first class, I might change my mind about travelling.

  I arrived at my hotel an hour and a half before the scheduled "Opening Speech and Welcome." I made good use of the time by taking a long, hot shower and then hoofing it down to the conference centre. Apparently, first class, luxurious though it was, didn't have any shower rooms. Still, it did get me through JFK International Airport in record time.

  Recalling it now, the debriefing seemed a bit strange. The detective asked more questions about me rather than the incident. I felt as if I was the one under investigation, like a suspect even if there had been no crime. I would have felt uncomfortable had DI Hendricks not been so pleasant and friendly about it. He put me at ease. Even took off his trench coat and kept it away from me. Trust me, such considerate attention is an unusual experience for me. Shame it had to be from a man more than a decade older. And from one reeking of mildew. I would have preferred it if he came wrapped in a black leather jacket.

  The conference was a huge success. In spite of my initial reluctance to attend, I have to admit I enjoyed myself. My paper on artificial olfactory sensors was well-received. Applauded even. I should have stayed on for the party afterwards, but I had already spent every evening of the conference in the company of fellow scientists. Incredibly, I had made small talk. Laughed at jokes, including those I didn't understand. At one point, I even conjectured, when do acquaintances become friends? What defines the transition? I didn't come up with a satisfying answer. By the end, I had my fill of learning "people skills" and all that twaddle. I was eager to get back home to London. Four days in the Big Apple were quite enough. I would have the weekend to recover before work on Monday.

  Unfortunately, on my return journey, I was relegated back to Business Class.

  Lotus flower, sandalwood, amber ...

  The stewardess who serves my late supper is another immaculately dressed and made-up blonde with bright red lipstick. I devour my baked salmon with mixed greens and order more bread and a second pot of English Breakfast tea. I try to recall the film a fellow conference participant discussed the other night. What was it? A documentary or drama? I flick through the in-flight entertainment menu when, unexpectedly, a gust of perfume startles me.

  Sandalwood, amber, musk ... And orange blossom! ... Neroli, like my name ...

  The scented note calls out to me.

  The fragrance is rich, full and elegant, much like the woman who passes me in the aisle. Mid to late fifties, I can't decide. She is curvaceous with an ample bosom, tiny waist and big curly hair, obviously dyed a rich brunette. She is expensively dressed, complete with rather precariously heeled shoes. Her nails are perfe
ctly manicured. Despite the apparent crow lines that are the only hints to her age, her skin is unnaturally doll-like in its near-porcelain sheen. Layers of make-up do a splendid job of making her complexion appear flawless. As I study her from behind, I find myself wondering what she would look like without all those layers of cover-up. At once I recall the American actress she reminds me of: the iconic Marilyn Monroe, only with dark curly hair.

  Lugging a sizeable vanity case, she makes her way to one of the loos where she takes an inordinate amount of time. Why her ablutions are suddenly of great interest puzzles me. But she has caught my attention. Finally, she steps out. Her vanity case makes her exit a little awkward. As I watch her totter back to her seat, she catches my nosy stare and quickly glances away. Alas, as she tenses up, she accidentally loses her balance. She trips but grabs hold of a nearby seat. Her vanity case snags on the armrest and breaks open. Lipsticks, powders and bottles spill onto the cabin's floor. She swears, anger flashing in her dark eyes.

  Feeling a smidgeon of guilt, I rise from my seat. 'Here, let me help you.' I tower over her—Marilyn. In my mind I call her, Marilyn, since I don't know her real name. She's tiny. Without her shoes, she would probably be a mere five feet tall. My height seems to agitate her more. Regrettably, there's nothing I can do about that. Instead, I make myself useful and scrounge the aisle for the runaway products. Mercifully, most remain in clear zip top bags in line with airport regulations. The blonde stewardess also comes over to search. I notice a couple of sealed packets of cigarettes on the floor and pick them up.

  'Are these yours?' I ask, curious that she might own cigarettes. They're a brand I am not familiar with. Marilyn doesn't strike me as a smoker. She exhibits none of the telltale signs. Even if she couldn't smoke on the plane, if she is a smoker, she would have at least found a way to have a fag before entering the airport. And no matter how generously she has doused herself with perfume, I would have detected the tobacco on her.

  'Yes, they're mine,' Marilyn says tersely with an American twang. She snatches the packets off me before I can read the labels closely.

  A few minutes later, we have collected the rest of her cosmetics, which Marilyn meticulously packs back into her case. How could one woman possibly need so much? Does she require them out of necessity or out of mere vanity?

  Then the curtains are drawn back and a man in a black leather jacket strides up the aisle. Leather, woody aftershave, brandy ... Even though he's had a drink, I would recognise his scent anywhere. The man's head jerks up in surprise when he catches sight of Marilyn and me together. It's hard to tell who is more shocked, but I honestly didn't believe I would see him again. Marilyn mumbles a barely audible thanks and hobbles back to her seat, passing him. After, he shoots me a glance, and rather than going to the loo as I expected he would, he beats a hasty retreat through the curtains to where he came from. All at once, I feel self-conscious standing in the aisle by myself. I scramble back to my seat and feel myself turn red.

  I would be the first to admit that, on the whole, human relations baffle me. Men in particular are a mystery. I've grown up without a father, brothers or male friends. I have very little experience dealing with them, apart from at work that is. This man is unlike any I have encountered and I can't help but be intrigued. What just happened here? Did he want to speak with me? Why didn't he then?

  Finally, I shake my head and give up. There are certain things I just don't understand.

  FIVE

  Heathrow Airport, London

  Friday, May 14, 10:16 am

  I tug my suitcase through the arrival area. Words cannot express how relieved I am to have my feet firmly on solid ground. Rather than have Carl, the cab driver, wait in the arrival area with a placard bearing my name, I have pre-arranged to meet him outside near the taxi stand. I text Carl briefly to inform him I am on my way.

  Neroli ... Coffee, cream, strawberry jam ...

  Marilyn walks past me, struggling with her suitcase and well-stocked vanity case. Her heels make impatient clicking sounds on the shiny stone floor as she heads towards the exit. The luggage she pulls nearly trips her again, and she stops abruptly to straighten it up. She doesn't appear to be expecting anyone. Instead, she stares ahead and aims for the taxi stand. As Marilyn falls in line, more passengers join her in the queue.

  My mobile phone buzzes. I pause for a moment to read Carl's text: I am waiting outside.

  When I glance up from my phone, I spot him as well several feet away. Leather Jacket Man. He's looking rather dishy and more dangerous with a blonde stubble shadow.

  'Hey,' I start to say, except he doesn't hear me. Miffed, I follow his intent gaze. To my surprise, the object of his fascination is Marilyn, waiting impatiently in line for the next black cab. Again, I find myself getting annoyed at her, and strangely, at myself. Why do I feel this way?

  Marilyn advances to the front of the queue, and Leather Jacket Man swiftly makes his way there. As he moves past me, I spy the expression on his face. I don't understand why, but I haul my suitcase and traipse after him. He's too intent on her to notice me, which is good, because what transpires next stuns me. As soon as Marilyn boards a black cab, Leather Jacket jumps the line and hijacks the next taxi to the indignation of those left in the queue.

  'Hey,' I shout once more after him though I realise it is pointless.

  Were it not for the look I had glimpsed on his face, I wouldn't have been alarmed. Not that it is any of my business. All the same, I don't like what I saw. Not one bit. And although I hesitate for a second, I find myself running after his cab. The taxi's exhaust belches fumes right up my nostrils as it speeds away. Nevertheless, all is not lost. I catch a clear view of the license plate before it disappears from sight.