The Embalmer lowered DCI Alan McRae’s unconscious body to the concrete floor, checking his pulse. Still alive. Good. McRae would need to be alive for what came next, for the careful staging that would turn his death into an unfortunate accident rather than murder.
The woman was still struggling on the table, her eyes wild above the gag. The Embalmer turned to her, his expression almost apologetic.
‘I’m sorry you have to witness this, and I’m afraid DCI McRae’s arrival has complicated an already delicate situation.’ He moved to check her restraints, ensuring they were secure. ‘You’ll both be found eventually. His death will look like an accident – perhaps a fall down the stairs while investigating a tip about the building. Yours will be more troubling, of course. Butyou’re going to be famous. Your face will be in the papers, on TV. You just won’t be able to see it.’
He took out the syringe and injected the liquid behind her ear. In a few seconds, she would be dead. No more struggling, no more fear.
The Embalmer stood back, surveying the scene with a critical eye. It would need work, careful preparation to make the narrative convincing. But he’d staged more complex scenarios than this. The key was in the details, in understanding how investigators thought, how they constructed narratives from evidence.
He’d learned that from watching them work, from standing beside them at crime scenes and autopsies, offering his expertise while they unknowingly examined his own handiwork.
It was almost beautiful, in its way. The symmetry of it, the way he could guide their understanding while remaining invisible.
But McRae had threatened that invisibility. Had seen patterns that should have remained hidden. And now he would pay the price for his insight, for his inability to let old cases remain cold.
The Embalmer checked his watch. He had hours yet before he needed to be anywhere else, hours to prepare the scene properly. McRae’s car would need to be located and then hidden.
So much to do. So many details to perfect.
But that was the art of it, wasn’t it? The careful attention to detail that transformed murder into mystery, that made the unnatural appear natural.
The Embalmer set to work, humming softly to himself as he prepared his canvas.
30
FRIDAY
Friday morning broke cold and grey over Glenrothes, the sort of Scottish weather that seemed designed to match the bleakness of the task ahead. Brodie arrived at the station just before nine, carrying two coffees and the weight of a night spent reviewing evidence from the warehouse raid. He’d managed perhaps three hours of sleep, his mind churning through the implications of what they’d found.
Memorial plates for three victims. A workshop designed for staging death.
Detective Superintendent Breck was already inside the building, occupying an office on the second floor as a temporary command post. When Brodie knocked and entered, he found Breck standing by the window, gazing out at the car park, his shoulders tense with strain, like he was thinking about opening it and jumping out.
‘Morning, sir.’
Breck turned, his face pale and tense. He looked like he’d slept even less than Brodie. ‘Liam. Good, you’re here. I want to discuss the interview strategy before we bring Mitchell up.’
Brodie handed him one of the coffees and settled into a chair. ‘How’s he been overnight?’
‘Quiet. Barry Mitchell has been demanding a solicitor every hour on the hour, but Thomas Mitchell has barely said a word. Just sits there, staring at the wall.’ Breck sipped his coffee and grimaced at the taste. ‘His solicitor arrived twenty minutes ago – Richard Crawford from Edinburgh. Sharp bastard, expensive. Someone’s paying for quality representation.’
‘You never see a poor undertaker.’
‘Or someone else is footing the bill.’ Breck moved away from the window, pulling out a chair opposite Brodie. ‘We’ve got twenty-four hours before we have to charge them or let them go. The fiscal’s office is pushing for conspiracy to commit murder, but we need more than what we found in the warehouse. We need a direct link between the Mitchells and The Embalmer’s victims. We need testimony that proves they knew what that facility was being used for.’
‘The brass plates are a start,’ Brodie said. ‘Those weren’t made for legitimate funeral purposes. They’re trophies, commemorations of murder. And they were sitting in the Mitchells’ warehouse.’
‘Crawford will argue they were planted there, that his client had no knowledge of them, that anyone with access to the facility could have put them there.’ Breck rubbed his eyes. ‘We need Mitchell to talk. To give us something concrete.’
‘Then we push him. Hard.’ They needed more. Brodie pulled out his notebook, flipping to the pages where he’d outlined his approach. ‘Mitchell’s been in the funeral business for forty years. He’s seen every trick, handled every kind of death. A man like that doesn’t just let someone use his facility without knowing what’s going on. Either he’s complicit, or he’s being coerced. Either way, he knows who The Embalmer is.’
‘What’s your angle?’
‘Fear. Mitchell spent last night in a cell. His son spent the night in a cell. They’ve had a taste of what prison feels like. I’m going to make him understand that unless he cooperates, unless he gives us what we need, that taste is going to become his permanent reality.’ Brodie met Breck’s eyes. ‘And I’m going to make him believe we think he’s The Embalmer himself.’
Breck was quiet for a moment, considering. ‘That’s a risk. If his solicitor thinks we’re overreaching, he’ll shut the interview down.’
‘Let him try. Mitchell knows something. I saw it in his face when we brought him in – he was terrified, but not surprised. He’s been expecting this. The question is whether we can scare him more than whoever he’s protecting.’
