The Effervescence of Truth

By Ivee Olivares

A truth drug ... A secret uncovered ... A desire for revenge ...

Who do we trust? Our loved ones, our friends, strangers? In a world where the truth is not always straightforward, scientists have tried time and again to engineer a drug that would compel people to reveal all. But is it always a good idea?
Scientist and Police Consultant Dr Neroli Sonnclere is pulled into the middle of a great discovery—of a powerful new truth drug. It seems everyone sees the advantages in using it, but not always for the right reasons. Neroli soon realises that those close to her have hidden agendas. She learns that even the least likely of people have secrets, and that it’s incredibly easy to lie. And more importantly, that everyone, including her, is capable of betraying those we love.

The third instalment of the SONNCLERE MYSTERY SERIES, THE EFFERVESCENCE OF TRUTH continues the adventures of a young female scientist with a unique gift. Born with hyperosmia, or a heightened sense of smell, Dr Sonnclere possesses the ability to sniff out odours undetected by ordinary humans. Together with Scotland Yard Detective Inspector Adam McClellan, Neroli recognises that others want to use the truth for their twisted plans. She uses her powerful nose and scientific knowledge to defend herself and keep the drug from falling into the wrong hands. The story uncovers intrigue within her University’s scientific community, the questionable ethics of the British media, and reveals that all is not well at the heart of London’s Russian high society.

Is the truth so important? The reality is—truth can be dangerous. Would you want the truth even if it may hurt in the end?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ivee Olivares
• Release date: Nov 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370098286

Ivee Olivares

Ivee Olivares trained as a visual artist, graduating from the London Institute’s Chelsea College of Art and Design. But it was after losing sleep over one too many mystery thrillers that she decided to give writing novels a try. As in her art, she usually gets her inspiration for her stories during long afternoon walks. Unfortunately, her ideas also have the knack of keeping her up and writing way into the night. For more information, visit: www.IveeOlivares.com

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PROLOGUE

The Guardian

24 September

Anti-Putin Protest: Thousands March in Moscow

It was the biggest rally since Vladimir Putin’s re-election in 2012. Thousands of opposition and human rights activists marched through Moscow’s streets, chanting Stop Repression Now. Led by opposition leader Anton Valilyev, the protesters encircled the city square. They denounced President Putin’s authoritarian regime and called for freedom for all political prisoners.

Since a Russian Appeals Court suspended Valilyev’s sentence, his release has ignited a new wave of anti-Putin demonstrations. The fierce anti-corruption campaigner was found guilty in May. He was sentenced to six years imprisonment for embezzling funds worth 22m roubles (£400,000) from a state-owned railway company where he served as a director. It was a charge he denied, claiming it was punishment for his exposure of government corruption.

The Telegraph

25 September

Anti-Putin Rally in London

Inspired by the anti-Putin protests in Moscow, hundreds of supporters amassed outside the Russian Embassy in London. The demonstrators, mostly Russian expatriates, condemned Putin’s increasing intolerance of political dissent.

Fedor Dyachenko, a Russian businessman and former oligarch, organised the rally. Similar to Anton Valilyev, the recently released opposition leader, Dyachenko had also fallen foul of the Kremlin. He was forced to liquidate his telecommunications empire after being accused of tax evasion, an allegation he asserted was politically motivated. Faced with the prospect of prison, he fled Russia and sought asylum in Britain.

Ekaterina Safina, flanked by husband, Yevgeny, and uncle, businessman Mikhail Minkin, also stood at the forefront. Safina’s father, the Russian oligarch Maksim Ivanov, was convicted on fraud and money laundering charges. Ivanov currently serves an eleven-year sentence at a Siberian labour camp near the Chinese border.

The Informer

27 September

Was Maksim Ivanov Betrayed?

In an unprecedented interview, Fedor Dyachenko confided to The Informer that Leonid Tsyrinsky, the Russian Commercial Attaché to London, had been instrumental in the conviction of his former business partner and friend, Maksim Ivanov.

Ivanov, the oligarch turned Kremlin critic, was convicted on fraud and money laundering charges. Once one of Russia’s wealthiest businessmen, he remains locked up at a notorious penal colony in Siberia, having served five of his eleven-year sentence.

A former member of the communist party, Ivanov used his political connections to start in business. He headed Gazneft, which several years ago had been one of the largest natural gas companies to arise during the privatisation of state assets after the dissolution of the Soviet Union in the 1990’s. As a businessman, Ivanov was known for his ruthlessness, using unscrupulous business practices to accumulate great wealth in a short period. Accusations of price-fixing, asset stripping and siphoning funds to off shore accounts were reported. Previously, the Kremlin tolerated these methods with the understanding that business kept its nose out of politics.

All that changed when Ivanov started bankrolling human-rights groups and opposition political parties. His actions were perceived as a signal of intention to launch a political career and challenge Putin.

Fedor Dyachenko claimed that Tsyrinsky, then only a minor shareholder of Gazneft, turned over crucial company financial and operational documents that secured the state’s case. In the wake of Ivanov’s conviction, his daughter, Ekaterina Safina, and husband, Yevgeny Safin, left Russia for the UK.

Dyachenko, also a former oligarch, fled Russia after being accused of tax evasion. From his London base, he continues to campaign against corruption in Russia.

Leonid Tsyrinsky was appointed Commercial Attaché to Britain last year.

ONE

Clear blue skies, red double-decker bus, yellow oak leaf spiralling in the breeze before dropping to the pavement … English Breakfast tea, butter, blueberry jam on wholemeal toast …

It is said that we perceive the world through our senses. While Aristotle first classified the five senses more than two thousand years ago, today an ongoing debate questions how many senses we actually have. Some say nine; others count as many as twenty. Indeed the very definition of sense is under dispute. Notwithstanding the arguments, at the moment Aristotle’s classification prevails. We accept the tradition that humans possess five, namely, sight, touch, hearing, taste and smell.

Our senses work as collectors of information. When confronted with a stimulus, let’s say an object, they respond by activating the nervous system. It in turn sends nerve impulses to our brain. Our brain processes the information so that we may reconstruct, identify and organise the information. To put it simply, our senses enable us to understand the world around us.

For instance, about 11:00 am on a Wednesday at the beginning of October, I am at Quinn’s. It is a coffee shop in Kensington, London, and a couple of blocks away from the University where I work. I have had breakfast and lunch here for the past week rather than at the campus’s canteen. My laboratory assistant, Hanesh, has gone to visit family in India. Since his departure, I have found the prospect of having lunch on my own enough to upset my digestive system. Sooner than seeking company among the few colleagues that I get along with, I have sought peace among strangers.

Through my sense of sight, I can tell that Quinn’s is an upmarket coffee shop. It’s the sort of fancy café that seems to pop up all over London. Outrageously, one pot of tea costs the equivalent of a box of forty tea bags. A month’s supply for some; less than a week’s for me. The lenses in my eyes focus on the surfaces of stainless steel. Polished, they reflect light as well as the black, red and white furnishings and the black and white chequered floor. The bright mid-morning sunshine streaming through the large picture window allows the images to form on my retinas. I count fifteen metal tables. Four are rectangular and shoved against a white wall adorned with art-deco style posters. Apart from the one I occupy, two other tables rest against the window whilst the remainder line up in the middle. Sitting with my back against a wall, I gaze out the window. The chunky, black painted letters of the café’s name break up my view of the traffic and pedestrians as they saunter by. No hint of a darkening cloud in sight. Then again this is Britain. The sky can change in an instant.

In the short time that I have dined here, I have become a familiar fixture to the waitress. She no longer bothers to give me a menu. Instead, with the perfunctory smile of one who already knows the answer, she asks, ‘The usual?’ I nod. It’s always the usual. Tea and toast for breakfast; tea, toast and scrambled eggs for lunch. My late arrival today, however, has raised an eyebrow. All the same, she assumes I haven’t had breakfast and brings it to me. My tardiness hasn’t thrown her off. Maybe next week to keep her on her toes, I might order differently. I might ask for crumpets. Or sautéed mushrooms with my toast.

Inside the café, half the tables are occupied. Nearest me, a mother appears harassed trying to feed two small children. Identical twin girls. Her belly protrudes from her small frame with baby number three. Could it be another set of identical twins? The likelihood of that occurring would be difficult to predict. The possibility of having fraternal twins, however, is much easier to estimate especially if fertility treatments are involved. Further away at a table against the wall sits an elderly couple quietly reading newspapers as their tea gets cold. I also spot a thin man sitting on his own at the back. He has long, stringy dark hair and sharp features. I look away when I catch his close-set eyes leering back at me. I should be used to being stared at. Sadly, as hard as I try to grow another layer of skin, it never fails to take me by surprise.

Regretfully, in encouraging diversity, nature has made a strange example of me. I am a little over six feet tall and big-boned, a fact evident even though I am seated. I am pale with blue eyes and naturally red hair that tumbles past my shoulders in big waves. I also have a large nose, my crowning glory, which I prefer to describe as strong. Others call it a big fat conker. As a result, people often gape at me or do a double take. I used to get aggravated. Now, similar to those who have to live with a form of disfigurement, I have reconciled myself to it. What else is there to do?

My gaze falls on The Guardian I picked up at the newsagents around the corner. The front page headline recounts the astounding accusation made by Fedor Dyachenko, once a wanted man in Russia, concerning the Russian Commercial Attaché, Leonid Tsyrinsky. Outraged, Tsyrinsky threatens to file a libel suit against Dyachenko and The Informer, the paper that printed the article. The Guardian also predicts repercussions in British and Russian diplomatic relations. Skimming through the rest of the page, I also note an article on Darren Lucas, a popular television presenter. As a result of an exposé by the tabloid News Daily uncovering Lucas as a paedophile, the TV host faces an investigation that could result in criminal charges and imprisonment.

I stare at the paper unable to shake the feeling of the thin man’s continuing scrutiny. A quick glance up confirms that he hasn’t lost interest. Usually at this point I motion to pay my bill and leave. Unfortunately, I am waiting for my boss’s research associate, Greg Lewis, to meet me. He had called me first thing this morning.

‘Dr Sonnclere,’ he began.

‘It’s Neroli, Greg. Why so formal?’

‘I need to speak to you.’

I had barely started work at the lab and wasn’t in the mood to be patient. In spite of this, Greg didn’t seem to hear me. The first bad sign. Rather than arranging to meet at campus, he wanted privacy—the second bad sign. I suggested Quinn’s, resigning myself to brunch instead of breakfast.

Greg and I are both scientists at the London University of Science, Medicine and Technology. The University is not only a leading educational establishment, but it is also renowned globally for its medical research, development and teaching. Our laboratories draw in hundreds of millions of pounds in contracts and grants from both private and public sectors. I am a chemist and currently a research fellow. Greg, on the other hand, is a biologist and the research associate of my boss, Dr Armstrong, the head of the University’s research labs. We hold quite prestigious positions in our fields.

I check my watch. Greg is running late. Impatiently, I reach for the teapot.

Through my sense of touch, immediately I deduce that my tea has gone cold. The neural receptors in my hand brush the cool metal of the teapot. Nonetheless, I pour the remainder into my cup anyway. I butter my last piece of toast and slather it with jam. The bread feels rough and stiff against my fingers.

I have been racking my brains for why Greg would want to meet me so urgently. He had refused to give me a hint. Apart from a smattering of office parties, we don’t socialise. On occasion, we bump into each other in the hallway. Our offices are adjacent, although I rarely use mine. I prefer being at my lab and have another desk there.

I hope it isn’t to discuss Sally, his girlfriend of two years and since their recent engagement, his fiancée. For starters, I seriously doubt their compatibility. Greg is a staid, quiet sort of chap. He enjoys nothing more than relaxing with a pint at his local pub after work. Sally, however, is bubbly and gregarious, his complete opposite. She works for a tabloid newspaper as the personal assistant to the managing editor. This puts her in a position to attend parties, which she apparently adores. Events where she can, with any luck, meet a celebrity. Mistakenly, I have presumed Greg was more like me, a loner and a dedicated scientist. With Sally he doesn’t seem to mind the experience.

‘Neroli,’ he had asked. ‘In your opinion, do you not think celebrity culture should be studied more thoroughly as a modern anthropological phenomenon?’

I remember scoffing. ‘We’re scientists, not sociologists.’ Perhaps Greg and Sally illustrate the adage that opposites attract. Or that love is blind. I wonder if they’ll ever run out of things to talk about. Still, I’ve never seen a man so besotted. Surely he wouldn’t be asking me for relationship advice.

He must want to talk to me about work. Not that we have ever discussed our research with each other before. We’re both bound by a secrecy clause in our contracts. That doesn’t stop me from being curious. Perhaps, it’s about our boss, Dr Armstrong. He has been short-tempered and distracted lately.

Ever since his wife, Margaret, had imposed a new regime of diet and exercise due to health concerns, Dr Armstrong hasn’t been his usual ebullient self. When I caught him walking down Kensington Church Street a couple of days ago, he appeared almost miserable. I tooted my horn which he responded to by raising his black umbrella. Except this time he didn’t smile. I probed him afterwards. But as I have come to expect, Dr Armstrong never gives me a straight answer. Maybe Greg would be able to shed some light.

‘Are you finished with that, Harold?’ the elderly lady at the table behind me asks her companion. Though I dislike eavesdropping, through my sense of hearing I hear him grumble by way of reply. Next to sight, hearing is commonly the second most developed human sense. My ears pick up the rustle of newspaper and the clatter of cutlery as they make the exchange. The vibrations of the noise travel from my eardrum into my inner ear. Over at the mother’s table, I also catch the twin girls starting to argue. ‘That’s mine,’ one says. A swift peek reveals the issue involves a plate of pancakes and syrup. The mother’s voice rises as she tells them to cut it out.

‘Anything else?’ The rough voice of a waitress brings my attention back to the man with the close-set eyes. To my chagrin, he asks for another cup of coffee. My gaze wanders to a couple to his right. Immediately, they look down, shame-faced, and I realise they were staring at me, too.

Self-consciously, I stretch my legs, planting my flat ankle boots firmly on the floor. I smooth my grey trousers and tug at my white blouse under my navy V-neck jumper. Another peep at my watch informs me that Greg is already half-an-hour late. I have a mind to leave him yet I stay. I am a scientist. Curiosity always gets the better of me.

I take another bite of my toast. Through my sense of taste, I relish that the butter is fresh and the jam is homemade. As I chew, the flavours of the bread, butter and jam react with the taste buds on my tongue and explode in my mouth.

As I finish the rest of my toast, fresh aromas of greasy bacon, toasted cheese and hot croissants waft through the kitchen doors as a waiter comes through with a tray. The odour molecules of the food suspended in air bind with the olfactory neurons in my nose as I inhale, allowing me to detect these smells. Although the kitchen doors have swung open only briefly, my nose also catches the chips in the fryer, fatty sausages, and fried egg. And further, beyond the kitchen fryers, it picks up the stink of rotting garbage and wet vegetables. The odours aren’t strong. The bins are several feet away. I’m positive no one else in the café can notice them apart from me. That is because, by another twist of nature, I have been born with an unusually keen sense of smell.

The scientific term is hyperosmia. And it is a gift or a curse, depending on one’s point of view. To put it simply, it means my nose can discern all sorts of scents even in minute quantities including those that escape ordinary human beings. I’ve been informed that this condition is rare and can occur as a side effect of drugs, or from environmental or genetic factors. Since I’ve never taken any illicit drugs or strong medication, my sense of smell is most likely the result of genetics and training. Who knows, maybe the size of my snout has something to do with it. For me, it’s simply another illustration of nature’s diversity or sense of humour. The joke is on me.

Compared to some animals, humans have a comparatively weak sense of smell. In fact, the sense of smell is often taken for granted. It is considered less important than sight and hearing. As a result, research into olfaction lags behind. Nevertheless, through training, my nose has become a finely tuned instrument. I am able to perceive an odour’s concentration, source, strength and timbre. My olfactory memory is so developed and comprehensive that it enables me to summon a scent in my head at my bidding. How can I explain it? It’s like being a musician, specifically a conductor of a symphony orchestra. A conductor would be able to look at a sheet of music and immediately grasp how the piece sounds. Instead of merely reading notes, he would actually hear the notes, the chords harmonising inside his head. He would discern each instrument of the orchestra performing together in perfect time and perfect tune without actually having them played before him.

An ordinary person is blissfully unaware of the multitude of odours, good and bad, that I can detect. Usually, what they can’t smell won’t hurt them. In contrast, I often suffer. In the coffee