‘She seemed satisfied with my explanation at the time.’
Lucy leaned forward. ‘Dr Holmes, in your professional opinion, is there any chance that someone might have induced a heart attack?’
Holmes considered the question seriously. ‘Theoretically, yes. There are substances that can cause cardiac arrest – potassium chloride, certain drugs, various toxins. But they require specific administration methods, and they generally leave traces that a thorough post-mortem would detect.’
‘And you found no such traces in Dr Finlay’s case?’
‘None. The autopsy was comprehensive, including full toxicology screening. Everything pointed to natural cardiac arrest caused by underlying coronary artery disease.’ Holmes paused. ‘Why are you asking these questions? Do you have reason to believe Mark’s death was suspicious?’
‘We’re exploring all possibilities,’ Brodie replied neutrally. ‘The Embalmer case has several unexplained elements, and Dr Finlay’s interest in it makes his death worth examining closely.’
‘Well, I can assure you from a medical perspective, there was nothing unusual about Mark’s death. It was tragic – he had years of productive work ahead of him – but medically straightforward.’ Holmes glanced at his watch. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Just one more thing,’ Lucy said. ‘The night at the pub whenyou and Dr Nisbet talked to Dr Finlay about his health – was anyone else there who might remember the conversation?’
Holmes thought for a moment. ‘Dr Emily Field from biochemistry was there. And I think Thomas Mitchell stopped by – he runs the funeral home in Dunfermline, I believe, but his property was outside of Dundee at the time. He sometimes joined us for drinks when he’d been dealing with paperwork at the hospital, and he and Mark seemed very friendly. Oh, and David Duffy, the ex-SOCO. He was often at the same pub, though I don’t recall if he was actually part of our conversation that night. But I remember somebody saying he had a thing for Janice, and to be honest, it appeared that she liked him. The two of them would find a table in a corner and chat. I remember there were all sorts of rumours about him being a killer, but this didn’t seem to bother Janice. Maybe sober Janice wouldn’t have spoken to him, but drunk Janice liked a laugh with him.’
Brodie made careful notes. The circle was getting tighter – all the same names appearing in different contexts, all connected to The Embalmer case in various ways.
‘How did David Duffy seem to you?’
‘Like somebody you would pass on the street without looking at twice. Unremarkable.’
‘Thank you for your time, Dr Holmes,’ Brodie said, standing. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Always happy to assist.’ Holmes stood as well, shaking their hands.
As they stopped at their cars, Brodie looked across at her. ‘I’m going up to Kelty to see Eric.’
‘Okay.’ She looked at her watch. It was approaching what normal people would call dinner time, and she still had to go back to the station to pick up some of her personal stuff before going home to… what? A frozen dinner and some girly film where the girl gets her man in the end? Jesus. What a life. ‘Tell him I said hi,’ she said.
Then Brodie’s phone rang. He held up a finger for Lucy to tell her to wait when he saw the name on the screen. Art McKenzie.
‘Art,’ he said, pressing the button to answer. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Sir, Cameron and I wanted to come back to Mitchell’s funeral parlour and sit across the road in the petrol station. Just to observe. And now Barry Mitchell’s left in his BMW and we’re following him. He’s heading north on the M90. I just wanted to let you know.’
‘Tell me more.’ Brodie listened and nodded and told Art he’d meet them both. ‘Keep me in the loop. Call me in a couple of minutes and Cameron can call Lucy. Let us know where you’re going.’
‘Will do, sir.’
He hung up and looked at Lucy. ‘I know you’ve been working hard today, so you don’t have to come if you don’t want to, but Art and Cameron are following Barry Mitchell up the M90.’
Lucy smiled. ‘I’ve got nothing else to do.’
‘Come on then, Norrie nae mates. Art’s going to call me in a minute. You too, just in case you wanted in.’
‘Okay, I’ll race you.’ She opened the text.
‘No bloody speeding. And we will not be racing.’
She smiled at him, jumped into her car, and took off.
‘Oh fuck off,’ Brodie said, as he fumbled with his phone. His son Eric would have had the bloody address in the satnav by now. He typed it in, and by the time he rolled out of the car park, there was no sign of Lucy.
21
Art McKenzie had been a detective long enough to know when someone was trying to look inconspicuous and failing spectacularly. Barry Mitchell, driving his father’s BMW, kept checking his rear-view mirror every thirty seconds – the kind of behaviour that screamed guilty conscience to anyone paying attention.
