‘Just a mild sedative, professor. Nothing that will show up in a standard toxicology screen. Your medical history – the heart condition, the high blood pressure – it makes you quite vulnerable, I’m afraid.’
The words took a moment to penetrate Hart’s increasingly foggy mind. Ice flooded through his veins when they did, despite the warmth radiating from his chest.
‘You,’ he whispered. ‘It was you.’
The man –The Embalmer, Hart’s mind supplied with horrible clarity – sat back in his chair, perfectly relaxed. ‘I’m impressed, professor. Even after all these years, even if you are compromised as you are now, your mind still works. Yes. Rebecca Kirkland was one of my earliest works. Not my first, but one of the first where everything came together properly: the artistry, the timing, the deflection.’
‘The secondary marks,’ Hart managed, his heart hammering irregularly in his chest. ‘You strangled her twice.’
‘Once to render her unconscious. Then I had to wait, you see, for the right moment. For McGregor to be on his way to her flat. The timing had to be perfect. When I returned to complete the work, I was rushing slightly. The angle was different.’ The Embalmer’s voice held a note of what might have been regret. ‘A small imperfection in an otherwise flawless piece. It bothered me for years, actually. But you didn’t notice, and neither did anyone else. Not until now.’
Hart’s chest tightened, a band of pressure spreading across his sternum. He recognised the sensation – angina, brought on by stress and whatever The Embalmer had put in his drink. His medication was in the kitchen; it might as well be in Edinburgh for all the good it would do him now.
‘Why?’ The word came out as barely more than a breath.
‘Why Rebecca Kirkland? She was dying, professor. Pancreatic cancer, late stage. She had perhaps six months of agony ahead of her. I gave her a gift – a peaceful transition, carefully orchestrated. Her death had meaning, had purpose. And when McGregor arrived, when he panicked and touched her, contaminating the scene…’ The Embalmer smiled slightly. ‘Everything fell into place beautifully.’
‘You’re… insane,’ Hart gasped, his left arm going numb.
‘No.’ The voice was sharp now, cutting. ‘I’m an artist. Deathcomes for everyone, professor. You know that better than anyone. I simply guide it, shape it, give it significance. Do you know how many people die alone, unmourned, their passing unmarked by anything but a brief obituary? I give them perfection. I give them immortality, in a way. They become part of something greater than their mundane little lives.’
The pressure in Hart’s chest was building, crushing. He tried to speak, to call out, but his throat wouldn’t work properly.
‘I am sorry, professor,’ The Embalmer continued, his tone almost conversational. ‘You were a good pathologist, one of the best. It’s unfortunate that after all these years of retirement, you suddenly decided to review old files. If you’d stayed away from the Kirkland case, if you’d simply enjoyed your golden years…’ He shook his head. ‘But men like us, we can never really let go of our work, can we?’
Hart’s vision was darkening at the edges, tunnelling down to a pinpoint. His body felt simultaneously numb and agonisingly heavy, as if the weight of all his years, all his failures, all the deaths he’d examined were pressing down on his chest.
The Embalmer stood, moving to crouch beside Hart’s chair. ‘You’ll be found tomorrow, perhaps the day after. Your neighbour will notice the newspapers piling up. They’ll find you here, in your chair, surrounded by your old files. An elderly man who worked himself into an early grave, reviewing painful memories. It’s actually quite poetic – the pathologist, consumed by guilt over past cases, literally worked himself to death.’
Hart tried one last time to speak, call for help, or do anything. But his body was beyond his control now. The irregular hammering of his heart was slowing, becoming erratic, each beat weaker than the last.
‘The sedative will have worn off by the time they find you,’ The Embalmer said softly, standing. ‘And the catalyst I added –well, that’s designed to mimic the effects of extreme stress on a compromised cardiovascular system. You had a heart attack, professor. Brought on by the stress of reviewing traumatic cases, by the weight of guilt, by the simple biological reality that your heart couldn’t handle the strain.’
The darkness was closing in completely now. Hart’s last conscious thought was of Rebecca Kirkland, of her face in those autopsy photographs. He’d failed her once, fifteen years ago. And now he was failing her again, taking the truth to his grave.
The world faded to black.
The Embalmer stood over the body for several minutes, timing the seconds, watching for any sign of continued respiration or cardiac activity. When he was satisfied, he went to work with methodical efficiency.
The whisky glasses were cleaned thoroughly, one returned to the kitchen cabinet, the other – Hart’s – wiped down and replaced in the professor’s hand, a small amount of whisky poured into it and allowed to spill onto his fingers. The bottle returned to the satchel, to be disposed of miles away.
He moved through the house like a ghost, checking for any trace of his presence. In the study, he found Hart’s recent notes – pages of careful observations about the Kirkland case, the secondary ligature marks and the possibility of wrongful conviction.
All of it went into his satchel.
He paused at the desk, looking down at the scattered files. So much work, so much dedication. In another life, he and Hart might have been colleagues, might have shared a genuine appreciation for the intricacies of death and its investigation.
But Hart had seen too much. Had remembered too much. Had possessed that dangerous combination of skill, integrity and determination that made him a threat.
The Embalmer took one last look around the study, ensuring everything appeared as it should – an old man working late into the evening on his archive, his heart simply giving out under the strain. The files would be found with him, evidence of his obsessive review of old cases. It would all make perfect sense.
He let himself out of the front door, closing it with a soft click. The street was empty, the neighbouring houses dark. His car was parked two streets away, close enough for a quick exit but far enough to avoid any potential witnesses connecting him to the house.
As he drove away from Dundee, the lights of the town receding in his rear-view mirror, The Embalmer allowed himself a moment of reflection. Hart had been a worthy opponent, even if the professor hadn’t known they were opponents until the very end. His work had been thorough, his observations astute. If he’d had a few more hours and days, he might have pieced together enough evidence to cause real problems.
But The Embalmer had been watching. Waiting. He always did, for those few who got close to the truth. And he was always ready to act when necessary.
Behind him, Professor Fred Hart sat in his armchair, his eyes closed, his hand resting on the arm as if he’d simply fallen asleep after a long day’s work. The grandfather clock in the hallway continued its measured ticking, counting out the hours until his body would be discovered.
