What she didn’t know was that her interest in The Embalmer case had made her a target.
It had started three weeks earlier, when Grant was assigned to help organise the evidence files during the case review. It was simple administrative work: cataloguing boxes, cross-referencing witness statements and making sure everything was properly filed and accessible to the investigating team.
But Grant was thorough. Too thorough. Instead of just moving papers from one box to another, she’d read them. And in reading them, she’d noticed discrepancies.
It was small things at first: witness statements that didn’t quite match the official summaries, evidence logs showing items had been checked out but never returned and interview transcripts that seemed to be missing pages.
Then she’d found the photographs.
They were tucked inside a manila envelope at the bottom of an evidence box, mixed in with routine crime scene documentation. But these weren’t routine. They were close-up shots of The Embalmer’s victims, taken from angles that weren’t covered in the official photography.
The photographs weren’t signed, dated or logged into evidence. They had no case numbers, no authentication stamps, no chain of custody documentation. They existed outside the official record, which meant someone had taken them privately.
Grant had done some checking. The official crime scene photographer for all seven Embalmer cases had been Derek Morris, who’d worked with Fife Police for over twenty years. Butwhen she’d called Morris about the unattributed photographs, he’d been adamant that he’d never taken shots from those angles. And all his were 8x10, not 6x4.
‘I follow strict protocols,’ Morris had told her. ‘Every photograph is logged, numbered and filed with the case documentation. If there are crime scene photos that aren’t in my files, then someone else took them.’
Someone else. Someone who’d had access to the crime scenes after the official photography was complete. Someone who’d wanted their own private record of The Embalmer’s work.
Grant had intended to report her findings to Detective Chief Inspector McRae, who was leading the case review. But she’d wanted to be thorough first, to make sure she had all her facts straight before making what could be a serious allegation.
That thoroughness had kept her alive for three extra weeks.
She had sent them to McRae, waiting for him to get back to her. When he hadn’t, she assumed he was taking that information upstairs, showing them around to the proper people.
She’d made copies for herself using a small scanner at home.
But now, as she unlocked the door to her flat and stepped inside, Grant couldn’t shake off the feeling that someone knew what she’d discovered. The car following her hadn’t been random. Someone was watching her, assessing the threat she represented.
She deadbolted the front door and closed all the curtains before spreading the unauthorised photographs across her dining table. Seven women, seven crime scenes, seven carefully composed shots that revealed an almost artistic appreciation for The Embalmer’s work.
Who would take photographs like this? And why?
Grant stared at the images, trying to think like a detective rather than a victim. Someone with access to the crime scenes.Someone with photography skills. Someone who appreciated The Embalmer’s methodology enough to document it privately.
Someone who might be working with the killer. Or the killer himself, trying to throw them off the trail.
She reached for her phone to call McRae, then hesitated. What if she had made a mistake trusting McRae? That the person taking these photographs was someone on the investigating team? What if reporting her discovery to the wrong person would sign her death warrant?
Grant decided to sleep on it. Tomorrow, she’d drive to Edinburgh and report her findings directly to a superior officer in a different division. Bypass the local chain of command entirely. Let someone else with real authority decide how to handle the implications.
She gathered up the photographs and tossed them haphazardly onto the coffee table, sick of looking at them now. She regretted her actions and wished she had never seen them, but her old uncle had told her that you couldn’t un-ring a bell. Then she poured herself a large glass of wine and tried to convince herself that everything would be fine.
It was the last decision she would ever make.
The attack came at 3.17a.m., when Grant was deep in exhausted sleep.
It wasn’t any particular sound that woke her up, but rather a feeling of something being off. A sixth sense kicking in. She heard the footsteps in the hallway. Careful, deliberate, coming closer to her bedroom.
Grant grabbed the cricket bat she kept beside her bed and moved to the window. Second floor, but there was a drainpipeshe could use to climb down. Better to risk a broken leg than wait for whoever was in her flat to reach her.
But as she opened the window, she saw the dark Ford Mondeo parked across the street. Then she knew her hunch had been right earlier. She had been followed.
The bedroom door opened.
Grant spun around, cricket bat raised, ready to fight. She saw a figure in dark clothing wearing black leather gloves.
‘Police Constable Grant,’ the figure said calmly. ‘I’m sorry it’s come to this.’
