Kane’s expression grew almost pitying. ‘Ruth, I’ve killed a lot of people. I understand the psychology of murder better than most psychiatrists understand the psychology of healing. TheEmbalmer isn’t just a killer – he’s an artist, and Liam is his masterpiece. Everything that’s happened so far has been preparation for the final act.’
‘Then why are you telling me this? What do you expect me to do with this information?’
‘Survive,’ Kane said. ‘Make sure Liam survives. I have professional respect for The Embalmer’s work, but I also have personal respect for Liam’s. He’s one of the few investigators who truly understood my methodology, who saw past the surface chaos to the underlying structure of my crimes. I would hate to see such talent wasted.’
Ruth stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. ‘I need to go.’
‘Of course. But Ruth?’ Kane’s voice stopped her at the door. ‘When you warn Liam about what I’ve told you – and you will warn him, because you love him too much not to – remember this: The Embalmer is counting on Liam’s predictable responses. His sense of duty, his need to protect others and his inability to walk away from a case once he’s committed. I told Liam much the same thing.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that everything Liam does to protect you, to catch The Embalmer, to solve this case – all of it may be exactly what The Embalmer wants him to do. The investigation itself might be the trap.’
Ruth stared at Kane for a long moment, processing the implications of his words. If the investigation was a trap, if every move they made was anticipated and planned, how could they possibly win?
‘There is one advantage you have,’ Kane added, reading her thoughts. ‘The Embalmer expects Liam to behave like a typical detective, following standard procedures, making logicaldeductions. But love makes people unpredictable, Ruth. It makes them willing to break rules, to take risks that no rational person would take.’
‘Is that advice?’
‘It’s observation. The Embalmer has planned for Detective Chief Inspector Brodie. He hasn’t planned for Liam the man, Liam the lover, Liam driven by something more powerful than professional duty.’
As Ruth left the hospital, Kane’s words echoed in her mind. The idea that Liam had been targeted specifically, that their relationship might be used as a weapon against him, filled her with a cold fury that surprised her with its intensity.
If The Embalmer thought he could use her to destroy the man she loved, he was about to learn that psychiatrists understood structure better than most people. And Ruth Campbell was very good at finding the weak points in any design.
She reached for her phone to call Liam, then hesitated. How do you tell someone you love that they’re walking into a trap designed specifically for them? How do you warn them without altering their course of thinking?
Kane had been right about one thing – love made people unpredictable. And if The Embalmer was counting on predictable responses, Ruth would make sure he was disappointed.
She dialled Liam’s number, her mind already working through possibilities, planning countermoves to a game whose rules she was only beginning to understand.
The Embalmer might be an artist, but Ruth Campbell was an architect of the mind. And she was about to teach him the difference between creating beauty and building something that would last.
15
At 8p.m., the Western General Hospital’s café was nearly empty. Just a few night-shift workers were grabbing coffee before their shifts, and the occasional anxious relative nipping down for a coffee. Brodie sat at a corner table with his sister Moira, watching her doctor her tea with three sugars and a tired expression that spoke of too many twelve-hour shifts.
Moira was younger than Brodie, with the same dark hair and sharp eyes but a softer manner that made her naturally suited to nursing. She’d been at the Western General for fifteen years, working her way up to senior staff nurse in the cardiac unit. Brodie had always admired her ability to maintain compassion and professionalism in the face of human suffering.
‘You look exhausted,’ Brodie said, studying his sister’s face. ‘When’s the last time you had a proper day off?’
‘What’s a day off?’ Moira managed a tired smile. ‘It was quite nice working at Mum and Dad’s café a couple of weeks ago. Reminded me what it’s like to deal with customers who aren’t dying or in pain.’
‘How are things with you?’
‘Do you mean, how am I after some nutter tried to kill me? Fine. Same as the first million times you’ve asked in the last couple of weeks.’ She reached over and put her hand on her brother’s. ‘I’m fine, Liam, honestly. I’ve dealt with all sorts of emotions here, from sadness to fear. It was just another day at the office. He can’t harm me any more, so I focus on that.’
‘I’m glad. But if you ever need to spend the night, Ruth and I have a spare room.’
‘I know. Does Eric ever come over and spend the night?’
‘Not so much now that he doesn’t drink. I have to go over and see him again soon. It will be easier now that I’m back working in Fife.’
‘He lives forty minutes away, Liam. Not the other side of the world.’
‘I know, you’re right. But work is a bugger right now,’ Brodie said, knowing his answer sounded feeble.
‘Make the time. Tomorrow is never promised.’
