Chapter 8
PRESENT DAY
The Royal Edinburgh Hospital’s secure wing looked like what it was – a place where dangerous people were kept away from the world. Brodie signed in at reception, surrendered his phone and keys and submitted to the metal detector with the weary patience of someone who’d done this before.
Dr Gabriel Kane was waiting for him in the consultation room, sitting behind a table bolted to the floor.
He looked exactly the same as he had three years ago when Brodie had helped put him here – thinning hair, the kind of unremarkable appearance that had let him kill seventeen people before anyone suspected the quiet pathologist. He looked the same as he had two weeks ago when he had last seen him.
‘Liam,’ Kane said, smiling like they were old friends meeting for coffee. ‘I was wondering when you’d come to see me.’
‘Gabriel.’ Brodie took the chair across from him. The orderlies were waiting outside the door, although Brodie didn’t think the doctor was a threat to him. He kept a pen tucked into his sock, just in case. ‘How did you know I’d be coming?’
‘The news, obviously. A young woman was found on a Fife beach, positioned as if she were sleeping. Very artistic. Very familiar.’ Kane’s eyes were bright with interest. ‘The Embalmer’s back, isn’t he?’
‘That’s what I’m here to ask you.’
Kane leaned back as far as his restraints would allow. ‘You want my professional opinion? As one artist commenting on another’s work?’
‘I want your opinion as someone who understands how serial killers think.’
‘Same thing, really.’ Kane’s smile widened. ‘The Embalmer was always an artist, Liam. Creating tableaux, arranging his subjects with such precision. Those crime scene photos were beautiful, in their way.’
Brodie kept his expression neutral. Kane fed on reactions, on any sign that his words were having an effect. ‘So you think it’s the same killer?’
‘Oh, absolutely. The artist has returned to his gallery.’ Kane’s voice carried conviction. ‘I have no doubt this is the original killer back to work. The positioning, the attention to detail – you can’t fake that level of… commitment.’
‘He started seven years ago and killed for eighteen months before stopping. Why start again now?’
Kane was quiet for a moment, studying Brodie’s face with the intensity of a scientist examining a specimen. ‘Who says he stopped?’
‘The killings stopped. September 2019, no more bodies.’
‘The killings you know about stopped. The signature killings, the beach displays.’ Kane leaned forward as much as his chains would allow. ‘But a true artist doesn’t simply stop creating, Liam. He evolves. Experiments. Tries new media.’
The thought made Brodie’s skin crawl. ‘You think he’s been killing all along?’
‘I think he’s been perfecting his craft. Seven years is a long time to practise, to refine technique, to develop new methods.’ Kane’s eyes gleamed. ‘The Embalmer you’re looking for now is not the same killer who stopped in 2019. He’s better. More sophisticated.’
‘Then why return to the original signature? Why risk exposure?’
‘Because something’s changed. Something that made him want to announce his return in the most dramatic way possible.’ Kane paused, watching Brodie carefully. ‘The question is, what’s different now from seven years ago?’
Brodie considered the question. The investigation team was different back then. The location was the same. The only significant difference was—
‘You’re back,’ Kane said quietly, reading his thoughts. ‘You were part of the original investigation, then you moved on to other cases, other cities. And now you’re back in Fife, investigating The Embalmer again.’
‘The killing took place before I was called in,’ Brodie said.
Kane’s smile was patient, almost patronising. ‘You were back in Fife two weeks ago, Liam. The missing DCI case. Think about it.’
The words hit Brodie like a physical blow. DCI McRae’s disappearance. He’d been in Fife for two weeks, working a case but also asking questions, interviewing witnesses, working the case. If Kane was right, if The Embalmer had been watching, waiting…
‘You think he killed Emma Richardson because I was back in Fife?’
‘I think he killed Emma Richardson to get your attention. To bring you back to the game.’ Kane leaned back, satisfied with the effect of his words. ‘The Embalmer remembers you, Liam. You were one of the few investigators who really understood his work, appreciated the artistry involved.’
‘I was trying to catch him.’
‘Same thing. You saw what others missed. You understood that this wasn’t random violence or sexual murder – this was performance art.
’ Kane’s voice dropped to almost a whisper.
‘He respected you for that. And now he wants to play again. The killings for the last seven years have been to satiate a thirst he has, a thirst for killing. Now he wants to play the game again.’
Brodie felt sick. The idea that his presence in Fife might have triggered Emma Richardson’s murder was almost unbearable. ‘You’re saying this is personal?’
‘Everything’s personal with killers like us, Liam.
We don’t kill strangers – we kill symbols, representations, pieces in a larger puzzle.
’ Kane studied Brodie’s expression with professional interest. ‘The Embalmer is excited about this new challenge. He’s confident he’s going to win again, no matter how long it takes.
Six months? A year? Longer? You and your team were the ones who gave up last time. He won.’
‘We didn’t give up. The case went cold.’
‘Not from his perspective. You lost the last time, and he wants to beat you again. The killings in between meant nothing to him. This means everything. You mean everything.’
‘What about David Duffy? He was the prime suspect seven years ago.’
Kane waved dismissively. ‘Duffy’s a red herring. Always was. Too obvious, too convenient. Real artists don’t get caught through sloppy police work – they get caught because they want to be caught, when they’re ready to end the performance.’
‘So who is he?’
‘Someone with medical knowledge, obviously. The positioning of those bodies requires understanding of anatomy, of how death affects muscle tone and rigor mortis. Someone with access to information about police procedures. And someone with patience – the ability to wait between killings without losing focus.’ Kane leaned forward again, his voice becoming urgent.
‘But most importantly, Liam – someone who’s been watching you.
Learning about you. Studying your methods and your cases. ’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re part of his story now. You always were, from the moment you joined that first investigation.
The Embalmer doesn’t just kill random victims – he creates scenes, tells stories, builds narratives.
’ Kane’s eyes were bright with excitement.
‘And every good story needs a worthy antagonist.’
A guard knocked on the door, signalling that visiting time was over. Kane smiled as Brodie stood to leave.
‘One more thing, Liam. When you catch him – and you will, because that’s how his story is supposed to end – remember that he’s been planning this reunion for a long time. Every move you make, every decision you take, he’s already considered. He’s been writing this script for years.’
‘Any advice?’
Kane’s smile turned cold. ‘Don’t let him finish the story the way he wants to. Artists hate it when someone else controls the ending.’
As Brodie walked back through the hospital’s security checkpoints, Kane’s words echoed in his mind.
The idea that The Embalmer had been killing all along, perfecting his craft in secret, was terrifying enough.
But the suggestion that Emma Richardson had died specifically to draw Brodie back into the game made him feel complicit in her murder.
He thought about the timeline Kane had suggested. Two weeks ago, he’d been in Fife investigating DCI McRae’s disappearance. If someone had been watching, waiting for his return, it would explain the timing of Emma Richardson’s murder.
But it raised an even more disturbing question: what had happened to DCI Alan McRae?
Had he stumbled on to something that The Embalmer couldn’t allow to become public?
Or had he become another victim in a seven-year killing spree that had somehow remained hidden?
Or had he just had a mental breakdown and left?
No. Art McKenzie was confident the boss wasn’t like that.
Brodie’s phone rang as he reached his car. A call from McKenzie. ‘We’re at Thomas Mitchell’s place and he’s not a happy camper. He refuses to talk to anybody other than you. He remembers you from the last time.’
‘And I remember him. He’s a pain in the arse,’ Brodie said.
‘Will I tell him you’re on the way?’
‘Yes, do that. But I’m just leaving Edinburgh. Make sure he knows that anybody coming along to plan a funeral will be greeted by police cars with their blue lights on. And if the blue lights aren’t flashing yet, get them on. I’ll be there as soon as.’
‘Yes, sir.’ McKenzie hung up.
As he started the engine and pulled out of the hospital car park, Brodie couldn’t shake Kane’s final warning. If The Embalmer really had been planning this reunion for seven years, then everything that happened from now on would be part of his script.
The question was whether Brodie could change the ending before it was too late.