The voice was muffled by a balaclava, but Grant could tell it was male, educated, speaking with the kind of calm authority that belonged to someone accustomed to being obeyed.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘Someone who appreciates discretion. Someone who values privacy above curiosity.’
‘If this is about the photographs?—’
‘It’s about failing to understand that you’re not one of the players in this game. You started poking your nose into something that you can’t handle.’ The figure moved closer. ‘Some truths are too dangerous to expose. All you were supposed to do was help put the boxes away, not look through them. The case is cold. You should have left it that way.’
Grant swung the cricket bat, but the figure was ready for her. He ducked under the swing and grabbed her wrist, forcing her to drop the bat. They struggled briefly, and although Grant was pumped with adrenaline, she was no match for the stranger’s strength.
He took the bat from her and tossed it aside, then he threw her onto the bed, and then he was on top of her. As she was about to scream, he punched her on the left temple and the room spun, and no words came out.
She saw the needle he brought out of his pocket but was unable to stop him as he knelt over her, popping the cap off the needle as he moved.
‘The photos were mine. They got mixed up in something else and they were filed away. I was going to retrieve them in time, but you beat me to it. Where are they?’
‘On the coffee table in the living room.’
‘Well, I’m glad you took care of them. Not being your property,’ he said, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Grant struggled, but to no avail.
It was over in a blur. She felt the needle sliding into her arm and then her body went limp.
‘Heroin,’ the figure said as Grant felt herself slipping away. ‘A tragic story, really. Young police officer struggling with stress, turning to drugs for relief. These things happen more often than the public realises. And there will be more of this in a drawer by your bed as well as a lot of illegal pills. Well, pill bottles that don’t have your name on them. Bottles they’ll think you stole.’
Grant tried to speak, to protest, but the drug was working fast. Her vision blurred, her thoughts becoming scattered and slow.
‘The photographs will disappear, of course. Along with any notes you might have made about inconsistencies in the evidence files.’ He tutted. ‘You messed about with my plan, which might have worked if you hadn’t gone probing. But you just had to play the hero. And you’re not even a detective!’ The figure moved off her and stood at the side of her bed, looking at her. ‘Your death will be ruled accidental overdose. Tragic, but not suspicious.’
As consciousness faded, Grant could hear the figure moving around her bedroom, searching through her belongings, removing any trace of her investigation into The Embalmer case.
She died knowing that the truth would die with her.
The plan had been elegant in its simplicity. Stage a drug overdose, remove any evidence of Grant’s unauthorised investigation, let the official narrative write itself. Young police officer, stress of the job, tragic accident with illegal substances.
A neighbour would find her lifeless after the front door would be pulled closed but not shut all the way. Which is exactly what happened. Officers called. Post-mortem done. Accidental overdose. Colleagues interviewed who said she had been acting strange recently.
By the time the investigation concluded, the death was classified as ‘misadventure’, which meant the case would be filed away and forgotten.
Louise Grant became another statistic – a police officer who’d succumbed to the pressures of the job.
The unauthorised photographs she’d discovered were never found. The inconsistencies in The Embalmer evidence files were never investigated. The truth about what she’d uncovered died with her.
And The Embalmer’s secrets remained safe, protected by someone who understood that sometimes the most effective way to solve a problem was to eliminate it entirely.
12
PRESENT DAY
The drive to Ninewells Hospital took Brodie through the heart of Dundee, past the university campus where students hurried between lectures because of the drizzle and up towards the sprawling medical complex that dominated the city’s skyline like a concrete monument to modern medicine. The hospital had grown over the decades, spreading across multiple buildings connected by covered walkways and underground tunnels, creating a maze that even regular visitors found confusing.
Brodie had called ahead, using his warrant card to arrange a meeting with Dr Emily Field, who had worked alongside Mark Finlay in the biochemistry department. The receptionist had been helpful once she understood this was connected to a police investigation. However, she had seemed puzzled about why anyone would want to discuss a colleague who had died so long ago.
The main hospital entrance buzzed with the usual afternoon chaos – ambulances arriving with sirens wailing, people wearing worried expressions, medical staff moving with the practised efficiency of people who dealt with life and death daily. Brodienavigated through the maze of corridors, following signs towards the biochemistry department, passing wards where the smell of disinfectant couldn’t quite mask the underlying odours of illness and medication.
He found Dr Emily Field waiting for him in the staff canteen, a woman in her early forties with prematurely greying hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and the kind of tired eyes that came from too many twelve-hour shifts. She was sitting at a corner table near the windows, nursing a cup of coffee and checking her phone with the distracted air of someone stealing a few precious minutes between responsibilities.
