‘That’s putting it mildly.’ Breck gestured towards the whiteboards. ‘We’ve got seven historical victims, one recent murder, one missing DCI and a growing list of suspicious deaths that may all be connected.’
While Brodie made coffee – terrible station coffee that tasted like it had been heated up by somebody sitting on it – he briefed Lucy on the case developments. She listened carefully, taking notes in her neat handwriting, asking sharp questions that showed she was already processing the information.
‘So we’re looking at why he came back after six years,’ Lucy summarised. ‘The Embalmer’s signature killings – young women positioned on beaches – and why he stopped back then.’
‘Exactly,’ Brodie confirmed. ‘He stopped in September 2019, after killing for eighteen months.’
Freya Munro approached their table, looking pleased with herself. ‘Sir, I tracked down Dr Mark Finlay’s nephew. Philip Martin, lives in Cupar. I explained we were investigating circumstances around his uncle’s death, and he’s agreed to meet with you this afternoon. He has papers from his uncle.’ She looked at her watch. ‘He’ll be home now, he told me, and to just give him a quick call to let him know you’re on your way. He mentioned getting the kettle on.’
‘Good work, Freya. We’ll have to break the news about Emma Richardson too. She’s his cousin.’ Brodie checked his watch. ‘Lucy, feel up to a house call?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘He might have better coffee than this pish.’ He looked around. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ Breck said. ‘We need to get better coffee in here, and whoever is buying it should stop buying the cheap stuff.’
Brodie heard somebody say under their breath that maybe if Breck chipped in, they would get better stuff.
Nobody owned up to buying it, so they blamed it on Morven Fraser, who wasn’t there to defend herself.
The drive to Cupar didn’t take long. The sun was out for now, but promising nothing for later on. His friend, ‘pishing down’, was waiting for the word to go.
Philip Martin lived in a renovated farmhouse on the outskirts of town, the kind of property that spoke of comfortable middle-class success. Martin answered the door himself – a man in his early forties with the same sharp features Brodie had seen in photographs of Mark Finlay. He welcomed them into a living room that managed to be both traditional and modern, withexposed beams and contemporary furniture coexisting comfortably.
‘I have to admit, I was surprised to get the call,’ Martin said, settling into an armchair, indicating for the detectives to grab a pew. ‘Uncle Mark died four years ago. Heart attack, completely sudden. What’s this about?’
‘We’re investigating some deaths that may be connected to a case your uncle was interested in,’ Brodie explained carefully. ‘We also have the unfortunate task of letting you know that your cousin, Emma Richardson, was found dead.’
‘Jesus. Emma? I haven’t seen her in a long time.’
‘Did you keep in touch at all?’ Lucy asked.
‘Not really. Not even Christmas cards. I mean, we were civil, but to be honest, I think the last time we met was at Uncle Mark’s funeral.’ He shook his head. ‘You know how some families only come together when there’s a funeral. That was my family.’ He looked at Brodie. ‘How did she die?’
‘She was murdered, Mr Martin,’ Brodie said.
He sucked in a breath. ‘Oh my God. Have you caught whoever did it?’
‘Not yet. We’re working on it.’
Martin leaned back into his chair, his face taking on a faraway look for a moment, clearly either reminiscing or wondering if he was getting away with murder. Brodie was leaning towards the former, or else the man was a world-class actor.
‘We’re trying to understand what he might have known, what he might have been working on before he died.’
‘The Embalmer thing?’ Martin’s response was immediate. ‘Uncle Mark was obsessed with that case. Kept saying something wasn’t right about it, that the deaths didn’t make sense.’
Lucy leaned forward. ‘Did he explain what he meant?’
‘Not in detail. He was a biochemist, not a detective, but he had this analytical mind that couldn’t let puzzles go unsolved.’ Martin smiled sadly. ‘He’d see patterns in things, connections that other people missed. With The Embalmer case, he kept saying the timings of the deaths were too precise, too controlled. He was also rambling in the pub one night. We’d had a few beers, and he said that there were things there that everybody else had missed.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ Brodie asked.
‘I don’t know. He was always into conspiracy theories, so I didn’t think much more about it. You know, the aliens are coming, stuff like that.’
‘Did he share his theories with anyone official?’ Brodie asked. ‘Not the conspiracy ones, but things that people had missed?’
‘He tried. Called the police several times, but I don’t think anyone took him seriously. They probably thought he was just another member of the public with amateur theories.’ Martin paused. ‘Though I do remember he was excited about something the week before he died. Said he finally had someone who’d listen to him.’
