‘What’s his name, Thomas? I’m not interested in calling the tax people. But if you’re protecting a serial killer, the fiscal will make sure you do a lot of time for helping him.’
Thomas looked far older than his 65 years. ‘Duffy. David Duffy.’
‘The SOCO?’ Art asked.
‘Yes. He was brilliant at embalming.’
‘You let him use your warehouse to kill women?’ Brodie said.
‘What? No. I explained what he did. And it wasn’t as if he was there on his own.’
‘How did Duffy know how to embalm?’ Brodie asked.
Crawford didn’t say a word. It was like he wanted to hear his client’s answer too.
‘He trained with me, back in the day. He was training to be an undertaker, but left to pursue forensics instead. Being an undertaker isn’t for everybody. I trained him but he left.’
‘He would know how to drain a woman’s blood and put bleach in?’
‘Of course he would. He was great at it, but a lot of them decide that being an undertaker isn’t for them. I trained a lot of people over the years. Some stuck at it, others didn’t. Duffy was one who decided to go into forensics instead.’
Brodie sat back in his chair. David Duffy had been a suspect seven years ago, but no evidence had surfaced. Now they had found out the man had trained as a funeral director. Somebody had dropped the ball. And since Brodie was the lead investigator, he was the one who had failed.
And because of that, a killer had been able to walk around unnoticed.
Now he was going to put a stop to it.
31
TWO WEEKS AGO
Patricia McRae’s house in Glenrothes was exactly the sort of place The Embalmer had expected – a tidy detached house with a well-maintained garden, net curtains in the windows and a doormat that read ‘Welcome’ in cheerful letters.
He’d been visiting Pat for three months now, ever since he’d ‘accidentally’ bumped into her at Tesco, spilling her shopping and apologising profusely while helping her gather scattered tins and packages. She’d been flustered, embarrassed, and when he’d suggested buying her a coffee by way of apology, she’d hesitated only briefly before accepting.
It had been absurdly easy.
Pat had been lonely, that much had been obvious from the start. Her husband had divorced her years ago and she’d been adrift, uncertain whether to mourn or rage or simply move on with her life. The Embalmer had provided exactly what she needed: attention, sympathy, the illusion of connection.
Now, as he sat in her living room on a Thursday afternoon, a cup of tea cooling on the side table beside him, he watched her move around the kitchen through the open doorway. She washumming something tunelessly, arranging biscuits on a plate with more care than the situation warranted.
She was trying to impress him. Still, after three months.
‘Here we are,’ Pat said brightly, carrying the plate into the living room. She’d changed since he’d arrived an hour ago, he noticed – swapped her casual jumper for something more fitted, touched up her make-up. She settled onto the sofa beside him, closer than strictly necessary, and offered the plate. ‘Chocolate digestives. Your favourite.’
‘You remembered.’ The Embalmer smiled, taking one. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Pat.’
She beamed at him, her hand briefly touching his arm. ‘Well, I like to pay attention. That’s what you do when you care about someone, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed.’ He bit into the biscuit, chewing thoughtfully. Time to steer the conversation where it needed to go. ‘You seem happier today. More settled.’
‘Do I?’ Pat tucked her hair behind her ear, a gesture he’d learned meant she was pleased. ‘I suppose I am. It’s been nice, these past few weeks. Having someone to talk to, someone who understands.’
‘I’m glad I can be here for you. I know things have been difficult, with Alan and everything.’
Pat’s expression clouded slightly at her husband’s name. ‘I try not to think about it too much. The police keep saying they’re investigating, but they’ve got nothing. Sometimes I wonder if he just… left. If he came back from holiday and decided to start over. People think I’m a fool for caring, since we’re divorced, but I’ll never stop caring about him.’
‘You’re not a fool.’ The Embalmer set his tea down and turned to face her more fully, his expression earnest. ‘You’re awoman who’s been put in an impossible situation through no fault of her own. Anyone would struggle with that uncertainty.’
