‘Right now, we focus on why we came. Kim Gillard and the Nisbet case. If there’s a connection between Janice Nisbet’s death and our current victims, we need to find it.’
They climbed out of the car. Ninewells Hospital was a sprawling complex of buildings, its brutalist architecture softened somewhat by landscaping and the constant flow of people – patients, visitors and staff in various coloured scrubs and uniforms.
The reception area was busy, the smell of disinfectant and floor polish mixing with coffee from a nearby café. Brodieapproached the desk while Lucy and Art hung back, and after a brief conversation with the receptionist, he returned with visitor badges.
‘Kim’s expecting us. She’s in the pathology department, basement level.’ Brodie handed out the badges. ‘Art, Lucy – I think it might be better if you two wait in the staff canteen. Kim’s doing us a favour by talking to us at all. Multiple detectives might make her nervous, especially with all the scrutiny pathology departments have been under lately.’
Lucy nodded. ‘Fair enough. We’ll grab some coffee and go over our notes from the Duffy interview.’
‘Good. I’ll text you when I’m done.’
They separated at the lifts, Brodie descending while his colleagues found their way to the ground-floor canteen. The basement corridor was quieter, fluorescent lights humming overhead, the linoleum floor polished to a dull sheen. Brodie had been here before, though not recently – pathology departments were necessary but uncomfortable places, where the dead were examined with clinical detachment and the secrets of violence were laid bare.
He found Kim Gillard’s office tucked away at the end of a corridor marked ‘Authorised Personnel Only’. The door was ajar, and he could hear the soft sound of classical music drifting out – something baroque, harpsichord and strings.
Brodie knocked gently.
‘Come in, detective chief inspector.’
Kim Gillard looked up from her desk, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She was in her late fifties, Brodie estimated, with iron-grey hair pulled back in a neat bun and sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. She wore a white coat over sensible trousers and a blue blouse, and the desk before her was covered in files and journals.
‘Dr Gillard. Thank you for seeing me.’
‘Kim, please.’ She gestured to the chair across from her desk. ‘I must admit, your call intrigued me. The Nisbet case was years ago, and as I recall, it was fairly straightforward.’
Brodie settled into the chair, pulling out his notebook. ‘That’s what I’m hoping to verify. We’re investigating a series of deaths that may be connected, and Janice Nisbet’s name came up in our inquiries.’
Kim’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘Connected to current cases? That’s interesting. What makes you think there’s a link?’
‘I’d rather not say too much at this stage – don’t want to bias your recollection of the case. But anything you can tell me about the circumstances of Ms Nisbet’s death would be helpful.’
Kim considered this for a moment, then turned to her computer. ‘Let me pull up the records. It’s been a while, but I remember the case. Poor Janice. I couldn’t believe it.’ Her fingers moved across the keyboard with practised efficiency. ‘Here we are. Janice Nisbet, age thirty-six, found deceased in her home in Broughty Ferry on the fifteenth of June, four years ago.’
‘The post-mortem was conducted by Ronald Holmes,’ Kim continued, reading from the screen.
‘And the cause of death?’
‘Determined to be suicide by hanging. There was no sign of forced entry, no evidence of a struggle. She left a note.’
‘Could her death have been staged?’
Kim removed her glasses, rubbing the bridge of her nose. ‘I don’t see how. There are quite a few doctors who commit suicide. It’s the job; it brings a lot of stress.’
Brodie chatted a little bit more with Kim, but sensing he wasn’t going to get any more information out of her, he said his goodbyes.
He made his way back to the canteen, finding Lucy and Art ata corner table surrounded by empty coffee cups and open notebooks. They looked up as he approached, reading the tension in his face.
‘We need to get back to Glenrothes,’ Brodie said without preamble. ‘We have work to do.’
‘Jesus,’ Lucy breathed. ‘How many cases are we talking about?’
‘I don’t know yet. But I want to find out.’
As they drove back towards the city centre, Brodie stared out of the window, his mind racing. Alan McRae’s warrant card. Barry Mitchell fleeing to Perth in the middle of the night.
The pattern was there. He could feel it, just out of reach, like a word on the tip of his tongue.
They just needed to pull the right thread to make the whole thing unravel.
