‘No problem, Art,’ Rose said as he sat back down. ‘Though I have to say, I didn’t expect The Embalmer files to be of sudden interest to anyone.’ She sipped her gin.
‘Well, we’re working the case where we think he’s either back or there’s a copycat. So they’re of interest to us.’
‘I meant Alan McRae.’
‘Alan? He didn’t work the original case.’
‘I mean recently,’ Rose said. ‘He came to me before he went to Tenerife and said he wanted to review the complete file structure. Spent two days going through everything – witness statements, evidence logs, crime scene photos, pathology reports, the lot.’ Rose leaned forward. ‘He was particularly interested in the timeline and kept asking about gaps in the documentation.’
‘What kind of gaps?’
‘Missing reports, misfiled evidence, that sort of thing. You know how it is with older cases – sometimes things get lost in the system.’ Rose paused. ‘Though McRae seemed to think some of the gaps were deliberate.’
Art felt something cold settle in his stomach. ‘Did he take anything?’
‘No, but he made copies of several documents, said he wanted to study them more carefully.’ Rose’s voice dropped. ‘To be honest, Art, he seemed too obsessed about a case he didn’t work on.’
‘Did he seem right in the head at the time? I mean, he seemed fine to us, but maybe he was showing signs outside the office.’
‘He seemed… focused. The thing is, some of those evidence boxes were reorganised about five years ago. New cataloguing system. It’s possible things got mixed up during the move.’
‘Or it’s possible someone used the move as cover to remove sensitive materials.’
‘That’s what McRae suggested, actually. Said it was convenient timing for anyone who wanted to clean house.’ Rose finished her gin. ‘Art, can I ask you something?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Do you think Alan McRae is still alive?’ Rose asked.
Art studied her face, looking for clues about what she really thought. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. Unless he’s in hiding.’
Neither of them was convinced by Art’s words.
17
SEPTEMBER 2020
DS Malcolm Kennedy was having the kind of day that made him want to quit the force and open a pub somewhere quiet, maybe in the Highlands, where the most complicated thing he’d have to deal with was for the locals asking for a lock-in.
The problem was Detective Constable Sophie Boyd.
Not Sophie herself – she was a good officer, thorough and dedicated, with the kind of loyalty to her colleagues that made her both an excellent partner and occasionally a stubborn pain in the arse. The problem was what Sophie had been saying about Louise Grant’s death, and her absolute refusal to accept the official findings.
Kennedy sat in his car outside the Kirkcaldy station, engine idling, rain pattering softly against the windscreen. He was trying to decide whether Sophie’s concerns warranted the conversation he was about to have – a conversation that would involve asking favours from people who valued their privacy and discretion above almost everything else.
The sensible part of his brain – the part that had kept him alive and employed for twenty-three years – told him to let it go.Grant’s death had been investigated thoroughly, ruled an accidental overdose and closed. The family had been informed, the funeral had been held and the force had moved on. Reopening questions about it would only cause problems, dredge up painful memories and potentially embarrass people who’d worked the case.
But the part that had made him join the police force in the first place, the part that still believed in looking after your own, was telling him that Sophie deserved answers. Louise Grant had been her friend – not just a colleague but a genuine friend – and friends looked out for each other even after death.
During the brief lull between the morning briefing and the afternoon shift, Sophie had cornered him in the break room earlier that day. Her face had been tight with suppressed emotion, eyes red-rimmed in a way that suggested she hadn’t been sleeping well.
‘Mal, I need to talk to you about Louise,’ she’d said without preamble, voice low and urgent. ‘Somewhere private.’
They’d found a quiet corner of the station car park, huddled between two patrol cars where they couldn’t easily be overheard. Sophie had been holding a manila folder, clutching it like it contained precious evidence rather than just photocopied paperwork.
‘I finally got a copy of Louise’s post-mortem report,’ she’d said, opening the folder with hands that trembled slightly. ‘Took me three weeks of requests and two appeals to the records office, but I got it. And it confirms exactly what they said – heroin overdose. High concentration in her bloodstream, consistent with accidental injection, no signs of struggle or forced administration.’
Kennedy had waited, knowing there was more coming.Sophie hadn’t dragged him outside just to confirm what they already knew.
