A detective was at the back of the room, whom Brodie had met briefly but didn’t know well: DS Freya Munro.
Brodie stood up as Breck sat down.
‘I was drafted seven years ago, as the serving DI back then had fallen down a set of concrete steps and broken his leg. We had what turned out to be the first of seven victims killed by somebody whom the press called The Embalmer. For some reason known only to him, he drained his victims’ blood and added some bleach in its place. There was a huge investigation, but he was never caught, and then he just stopped. All of his victims were found on a beach in Fife, like the latest victim.’
Freya shot her hand up. ‘Are we sure it’s him, or could it be a copycat?’
‘It could go either way just now. The Embalmer has been quiet for years, so if it is him, we need to know why he’s back. Why now?’
‘Was there any new signature to suggest it could be a copycat?’ Breck asked.
Brodie shook his head. ‘No. Just the exsanguination andplacing the body on the beach. Not everybody has the skill to pull off draining somebody’s blood, but with a bit of determination, it’s possible. I’m sure there’s a video of how to do it somewhere online. Right now, though, I think we should consider this to be the original killer until we know otherwise.’
‘Who were the victims back then, sir?’ Freya asked.
Brodie pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and looked at it. ‘We’ll put this information on the whiteboard, but this is a list of the victims. Sarah Morrison, twenty-eight, Burntisland, March 2018. Jennifer Walsh, thirty-one, Aberdour, June 2018. Lisa Patterson, twenty-six, Kinghorn, October 2018. Carol Thompson, twenty-nine, Dalgety Bay, December 2018. Claire Davidson, twenty-seven, Inverkeithing, February 2019. Rachel Stewart, thirty, Burntisland, April 2019. Karen Mills, thirty-two, Aberdour, September 2019.’
‘Thanks, DCI Brodie,’ Breck said.
‘All coastal,’ Cameron observed, studying the map they’d created.
‘All within a twenty-mile radius,’ Art added. ‘He knew the area.’
Brodie studied the crime scene photographs they’d pinned to the boards. The positioning was identical in every case – arms at sides, legs straight, heads tilted slightly upward like sleeping angels.
‘What about forensics?’ Art asked.
‘That’s the problem,’ Breck replied, picking up a thick folder. ‘Almost nothing. No DNA, no fibres, no useful fingerprints. A few partial shoe impressions, but nothing distinctive. Whoever this was, he knew what he was doing.’
‘Or he got lucky seven times in a row.’
‘Nobody gets that lucky.’
Cameron was reading through one of the files. ‘Says here themain suspect was David Duffy, SOCO. Suspended pending investigation in November 2019.’
‘Two months after the last victim,’ Breck said. ‘The timing was… suggestive.’
Brodie remembered Duffy – sandy hair, tired eyes, the kind of quiet competence that made him good at his job, and the kind of access and knowledge that would make him perfect for these crimes.
‘Where is he now?’
‘He lives in Kirkcaldy. He maintained his innocence and had theories about who really did it,’ Breck said.
‘What kind of theories?’
‘Wild ones. Conspiracy theories, cover-ups, frame jobs. The usual deflection tactics. But there was absolutely no proof he was the killer. No DNA was ever found, no forensics, nothing.’
Brodie studied the timeline again. Seven victims, then nothing. An abrupt stop that coincided with the investigation focusing on Duffy.
‘We should talk to him.’
‘About the new victim?’
‘About everything. If he’s innocent, he might have insights we missed. If he’s guilty…’ Brodie shrugged. ‘Seeing how he reacts to news of another body could be instructive.’
Cameron was already reaching for his phone. ‘I’ll get his address.’
While Cameron made his calls, Brodie continued studying the evidence. The crime scene photos were particularly troubling – not because of what they showed, but because of what they didn’t. No signs of struggle, no apparent cause of death, no indication of how the victims had got to the beaches where they were found.
