‘What about David Duffy? He was the prime suspect seven years ago.’
Kane waved dismissively. ‘Duffy’s a red herring. Always was. Too obvious, too convenient. Real artists don’t get caught through sloppy police work – they get caught because they want to be caught, when they’re ready to end the performance.’
‘So who is he?’
‘Someone with medical knowledge, obviously. The positioning of those bodies requires understanding of anatomy, ofhow death affects muscle tone and rigor mortis. Someone with access to information about police procedures. And someone with patience – the ability to wait between killings without losing focus.’ Kane leaned forward again, his voice becoming urgent. ‘But most importantly, Liam – someone who’s been watching you. Learning about you. Studying your methods and your cases.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re part of his story now. You always were, from the moment you joined that first investigation. The Embalmer doesn’t just kill random victims – he creates scenes, tells stories, builds narratives.’ Kane’s eyes were bright with excitement. ‘And every good story needs a worthy antagonist.’
A guard knocked on the door, signalling that visiting time was over. Kane smiled as Brodie stood to leave.
‘One more thing, Liam. When you catch him – and you will, because that’s how his story is supposed to end – remember that he’s been planning this reunion for a long time. Every move you make, every decision you take, he’s already considered. He’s been writing this script for years.’
‘Any advice?’
Kane’s smile turned cold. ‘Don’t let him finish the story the way he wants to. Artists hate it when someone else controls the ending.’
As Brodie walked back through the hospital’s security checkpoints, Kane’s words echoed in his mind. The idea that The Embalmer had been killing all along, perfecting his craft in secret, was terrifying enough. But the suggestion that Emma Richardson had died specifically to draw Brodie back into the game made him feel complicit in her murder.
He thought about the timeline Kane had suggested. Two weeks ago, he’d been in Fife investigating DCI McRae’sdisappearance. If someone had been watching, waiting for his return, it would explain the timing of Emma Richardson’s murder.
But it raised an even more disturbing question: what had happened to DCI Alan McRae? Had he stumbled on to something that The Embalmer couldn’t allow to become public? Or had he become another victim in a seven-year killing spree that had somehow remained hidden? Or had he just had a mental breakdown and left? No. Art McKenzie was confident the boss wasn’t like that.
Brodie’s phone rang as he reached his car. A call from McKenzie. ‘We’re at Thomas Mitchell’s place and he’s not a happy camper. He refuses to talk to anybody other than you. He remembers you from the last time.’
‘And I remember him. He’s a pain in the arse,’ Brodie said.
‘Will I tell him you’re on the way?’
‘Yes, do that. But I’m just leaving Edinburgh. Make sure he knows that anybody coming along to plan a funeral will be greeted by police cars with their blue lights on. And if the blue lights aren’t flashing yet, get them on. I’ll be there as soon as.’
‘Yes, sir.’ McKenzie hung up.
As he started the engine and pulled out of the hospital car park, Brodie couldn’t shake Kane’s final warning. If The Embalmer really had been planning this reunion for seven years, then everything that happened from now on would be part of his script.
The question was whether Brodie could change the ending before it was too late.
9
The drive to Fife gave Brodie forty-five minutes to think about Gabriel Kane’s words, and he didn’t like where his thoughts were leading him. The idea that The Embalmer had been killing for seven years without detection suggested a level of sophistication that made their original investigation look amateurish.
He tried Kane’s theory on for size as he crossed the Forth Bridge. Two weeks ago, he’d been in Fife investigating a crime after DCI McRae’s disappearance. Standard missing-person protocols – interviews with colleagues, family, friends. His presence hadn’t exactly been secret. If someone had been watching, waiting for his return, it would have been easy enough to spot him.
Brodie found the funeral home exactly where Art had said it would be. Mitchell and Son occupied a large Victorian house set back from the road, painted in tasteful grey with gold lettering on a wooden sign by the driveway. Behind the main building, two modern warehouses sat on what looked like a couple of acres of private land, surrounded by high hedging that provided privacy from the neighbouring properties.
Professional, established and respected, this was exactly the kind of business that could operate for decades without attracting unwanted attention.
Art and Cameron were waiting by their car, parked in front of the main building. Both looked frustrated.
‘Nobody has made a move to search?’ Brodie said.
Art shook his head. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to talk to him, sir. If he doesn’t let us look around, you and I both know we won’t get a warrant. There’s no cause.’
‘You’re right. But he was a shifty old bastard back then. Same with the son. I took an instant dislike to the wee bastard. Creepy as all fuck.’
‘When Barry showed up,’ Cameron said, ‘as soon as he saw us, he went white as a sheet. They started making excuses about why they couldn’t talk to us today and how they’d need their solicitor present for any formal interview. Just like what the old man said.’
