But some cases didn’t let go easily.
The Embalmer case still haunted his quiet hours.
The first two victims had been textbook cases: Sarah Morrison, twenty-eight, a nurse from Kirkcaldy; Jennifer Walsh, thirty-one, a social worker from Kirkcaldy. Both had elevated levels of succinylcholine in their systems – a paralytic agent that mimicked natural cardiac arrest and metabolised quickly, making it nearly impossible to detect unless you knew exactly what to look for and tested within hours of death. The cause of death was simply cardiac arrest. Before their blood had been drained.
But another woman, Lisa Patterson, was different.
Mark had run those tests himself, twice, because the numbers hadn’t made sense. The official cause of death matched the others, but when he’d analysed the blood samples, the chemistry told a different story. The succinylcholine levels were wrong – too low for the timeline, too inconsistent with the other markers. And there had been traces of something else, something he couldn’t immediately identify.
He’d flagged it immediately. Sent his concerns up the chain to Detective Superintendent Chris Breck. Asked for permission to run additional tests, to dig deeper into what might have been a different MO or a copycat.
Breck never responded.
Three weeks later, Mark had tried calling directly. Breck’s DSsaid he was in meetings. Then she said he was away. Then she stopped taking Mark’s calls altogether.
Someone had performed a very thorough cleaning job.
Mark had tried to let it go.
But scientists were curious by nature, and Mark had always been particularly stubborn when the evidence didn’t fit the conclusion.
He’d started his own quiet investigation six months ago. Nothing official, nothing that would raise alarms. Just an old toxicologist reading old newspapers, cross-referencing dates and details, making notes in the shorthand he’d developed over decades of lab work.
What he’d found made his blood run cold.
The pattern was there, hidden in the statistics, scattered across jurisdictions and months. Unexplained cardiac arrests in people with no prior heart conditions. Deaths that occurred in isolation, with no witnesses, no signs of struggle. Victims who all shared one common thread: they had all, at some point in their professional lives, come into contact with sensitive information. A lawyer who’d handled high-profile divorces. A social worker who’d investigated abuse in wealthy families. A nurse who’d worked in private clinics. They all died the same way, but no embalming had taken place, no bleach put into their bodies. But death had come for them anyway, and possibly at the hands of a man who was killing in other ways, keeping the focus of the police’s attention on people who had met their end at the hands of a serial killer.
All heart attacks. All unexplained. All conveniently timed. They were being dispatched at an alarming rate.
He had wondered who he could talk to about this and there was only one man that he could trust. Now, he was waiting for that man to get back to him.
The clock on the mantel chimed three times, jerking Mark from his thoughts. The afternoon was slipping away, grey light fading towards the early darkness of a Scottish winter. He stood, stretching his back against the familiar ache of too many years bent over microscopes and lab benches.
The house felt oppressive in the gathering dusk. Too quiet. Too still. He needed air, needed movement, needed something to break the cycle of thoughts that had been circling like water down a drain.
He walked to the kitchen, habit guiding him to one of the cupboards. Second shelf, behind the coffee mugs. Hidden away like he was an alcoholic. He took the bottle out, twisted off the cap and poured a healthy measure.
The whisky burned its way down, exactly what he needed.
But something was wrong.
It started as a flutter in his chest, so subtle he might have dismissed it as anxiety. Then his heart skipped – actually skipped. He set the bottle down carefully, his hand suddenly unsteady.
The tightness came next. Not pain, exactly, but pressure. His breathing became shallow, laboured.
Mark gripped the edge of the counter, his scientific mind already analysing symptoms even as his body began to betray him. Chest tightness. Irregular heartbeat. Sudden onset. The symptoms were textbook, exactly what he’d expect from?—
His legs went weak beneath him, but he caught himself on the countertop.
‘No,’ he whispered, understanding flooding through him like ice water. ‘Not like this.’
He lunged for the phone on the kitchen wall, fingers fumbling with the handset. His vision was starting to blur at the edges, dark spots dancing in his peripheral vision. He managedto dial the first two digits – 9-9 – before his hand cramped and the phone clattered to the floor.
That’s when he heard the voice.
‘Dr Finlay.’
Mark spun around, nearly falling, and saw him standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the lounge. Tall and lean, wearing a well-tailored dark coat that looked expensive. His hair was dark, perfectly styled. His face was pale and unremarkable except for the eyes – pale blue behind rimless glasses, and completely, utterly calm.
