The visitor picked up her journal, reading through her recent entries with careful attention.
‘You’ve been noticing the anomalies for two years? That’s longer than I realised. I’ve been very careful with my methods, but apparently not careful enough to fool someone with your level of expertise.’
Janice wanted to scream, to call for help, to do anything thatmight alert her neighbours or summon assistance. But her vocal cords were as paralysed as the rest of her. She could only watch as the visitor collected the wine bottle from tonight, wiping it carefully with a cloth before placing it in a carrier bag.
‘The compound I used is rather sophisticated. It mimics the effects of severe alcohol intoxication – loss of coordination, impaired judgement, eventually loss of consciousness. Combined with the wine you’ve already consumed tonight, it will paint a very convincing picture of someone who drank too much and made an impulsive, tragic decision.’
From a jacket pocket came a length of nylon rope. The sight of it sent fresh waves of terror through Janice’s paralysed body.
‘Suicide by hanging. Tragically common among people who live alone, particularly those dealing with depression or work-related stress. Your colleagues will remember that you’ve seemed stressed lately, questioning your own judgement.’
Janice’s mind screamed in protest, but her body remained frozen. The visitor moved with methodical precision, clearly having planned every detail.
‘The suicide note will be crucial, of course.’ Her laptop was opened – she hadn’t locked it. ‘You keep a journal, which makes this much easier. People who journal regularly are consistent with those who leave suicide notes.’
Fingers moved quickly across the keyboard. Janice couldn’t see the screen, couldn’t read what was being written, but she could imagine. A confession of depression, of feeling overwhelmed, of making mistakes. All the things that would make her colleagues nod sadly.
When the typing finished, he stepped back from the laptop. Then hands went under her armpits – she was conscious enough to understand but too paralysed to resist – and dragged her towards the bedroom.
‘I want you to understand that this isn’t personal. You’re simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, knowing things that could jeopardise work that’s far more important than you realise.’
The rope was secured with practised efficiency around her neck, the other end round the bedroom door handle. Professional knots that would hold under weight. He pulled tight.
‘The beauty of this method is that it will look entirely consistent with suicide. The alcohol in your system, the note on your computer, the documented history of work stress – everything points to a tragic but understandable decision. No one will question it.’
As the final preparations were made, Janice’s last coherent thought was about the journal entries she’d written, the patterns she’d documented. Would anyone read them? Would anyone understand what she’d been trying to say?
But the visitor had anticipated that. The journal was picked up, flipped through one final time, then tucked away. ‘Can’t leave evidence lying around. These will be destroyed, along with any copies you might have made.’
The last thing Dr Janice Nisbet saw was a familiar face, professionally composed, showing neither pleasure nor regret. Just the calm efficiency of someone completing a necessary task.
Then there was only darkness.
The discovery came the next morning when Janice failed to show up for work. A colleague with a spare key found her body.
The scene was tragic but clear. Dr Janice Nisbet, thirty-six years old, had taken her own life, apparently overwhelmed by depression and work stress. The suicide note on her computer explained everything – she’d been making mistakes, questioning her competence, feeling unable to cope.
The investigation was perfunctory. Suicide was sadlycommon, particularly among professionals living alone. The alcohol in her system suggested she’d been drinking before her fatal decision. Colleagues remembered she’d seemed stressed lately, raising concerns about cases that didn’t have problems.
The post-mortem noted asphyxiation due to hanging, with contributing factors of alcohol intoxication and probable depression. The report was filed, and work continued with the sombre professionalism expected after losing a valued colleague.
Janice Nisbet’s journal was never found. Her concerns about anomalies were never investigated. The patterns she’d noticed continued undisturbed.
And The Embalmer’s work went on, secure in the knowledge that another threat had been eliminated with characteristic precision.
24
Cameron had headed back to Glenrothes to coordinate with the forensics team processing the Burntisland beach scene, leaving Brodie and Lucy to follow up on the victim identification.
‘Another professional woman in her twenties,’ Lucy observed as they navigated through Dundee’s morning traffic. ‘Same demographic as all The Embalmer’s victims.’
‘Same pattern,’ Brodie agreed. ‘But the question is, why Claire Nisbet specifically? Why her and not someone else?’
The address took them to a three-storey Victorian house that had been converted into flats, with a small front garden and the kind of architectural details – corbels, bay windows, decorative stonework – that spoke of nineteenth-century prosperity. Art McKenzie’s car was already parked outside.
They found Art and Freya on the ground floor, talking to a middle-aged woman in a dressing gown who was clearly upset. The flat door stood open, revealing a neat living space with modern furniture and personal touches that suggested Claire Nisbet had been building a comfortable life for herself.
‘Sir,’ Art said, spotting Brodie and Lucy. ‘This is Mrs Henderson, Claire’s upstairs neighbour. She’s been helping us understand Claire’s living situation.’
