Chapter 18
PRESENT DAY
Wednesday
The drive to Fettes station took Brodie through the morning Edinburgh traffic, past the rugby fields at Goldenacre and along Ferry Road to the modernist concrete structure that housed Fettes station.
He’d been up since five, his mind still processing everything his sister Moira had told him about staging heart attacks and the implications for Mark Finlay’s death.
Fettes was busier than the Fife station Brodie had been working from, with the constant flow of personnel that came with being a major administrative hub. He made his way up to the MIT offices, where Detective Superintendent Rob Cross had said he’d meet him.
Cross was in his office, door open, working through what looked like budget reports with the kind of expression that suggested he’d rather be on a golf course, even though he didn’t play golf. He looked up as Brodie appeared in the doorway.
‘Here’s the late shift,’ Cross said with a grin.
‘I was working the late shift last night when I was confirming something for this case you threw me into in Fife,’ Brodie replied, settling into the chair across from Cross’s desk.
‘Ah, yes, The Embalmer. Nasty business.’ Cross’s expression turned more serious. ‘You better watch out for yourself, Liam. From what I’m hearing, this case has a habit of making people disappear.’
‘That’s why I’m here. We need another body on the ground.’ Brodie pulled out his phone, checking his notes. ‘DC Morven Fraser is still in Greece, and we’re a team member short for the amount of ground we need to cover.’
‘You want Lucy Warren?’
‘If you can spare her.’
Cross leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve always said you’re as good as a man short, Brodie. If you need Lucy, take her. Just make sure you bring her back in one piece.’
There was a knock on the door, and DI Lucy Warren appeared, looking professional in a dark suit and carrying a leather portfolio. At six feet tall, she had a commanding presence that served her well in interrogation rooms.
‘Sir, you wanted to see me?’
‘Come in, Lucy.’ Cross gestured to the empty chair. ‘DCI Brodie needs your help with a case in Fife. Serial killer investigation.’
Lucy’s eyes sharpened with interest. ‘The Embalmer case? I’ve been following it in the bulletins.’
‘That’s the one,’ Brodie confirmed. ‘We’re looking at a complex conspiracy, possible cover-up murders, and we need someone with your analytical skills to help piece it together.’
‘Christ, you don’t need to grovel, Liam. I said you could take her,’ Cross said, putting a pen in his mouth as a substitute for a cigarette.
‘When do you need me?’
‘Now, if you’re available. I know it’s short notice—’
‘That’s fine.’ Lucy’s response was immediate. ‘I’ve been working cold cases for the past month. This sounds more urgent.’
‘It is,’ Brodie said grimly. ‘Pack for a few days. We’re based out of Glenrothes station, but the investigation covers most of Fife.’
‘Pack for a few days?’ Cross said. ‘Is she helping out with a murder or are you two running away together?’
‘I meant notepads and stuff like that,’ Brodie said, his cheeks turning pink.
‘Your face says different.’
‘If we were running away together, we’d just email you an F-you, sir,’ Lucy said.
‘That’s true,’ Cross said, taking the pen out of his mouth. ‘I also assumed Fife didn’t have a shortage of pens and pads.’
‘Let’s get out of here before this goes downhill,’ Brodie said.
‘And remember,’ Cross said, ‘no drinking on duty. Unless you invite me along.’
‘You’ll be our first call, sir,’ Lucy said.
‘Sure,’ Cross said. ‘It’s scary how you lie with a straight face.’
‘Thank you, sir. And I just want to say how fantastic a boss you are.’
‘Oh shut up. Keep the smoke and mirrors for Brodie there.’
Lucy grinned.
After brief logistics discussions with Cross, Brodie and Lucy headed for the car park. They’d take separate vehicles – Lucy would need her own car for the duration of the assignment, and Brodie had equipment in his boot that he’d need for the investigation.
The drive to Glenrothes took them across the Queensferry Crossing, the steel structure gleaming in the morning sun.
Brodie led the way, Lucy following in her silver Audi, and they made good time through the light midday traffic.
By the time they pulled into the Glenrothes station car park, it was just after noon.
The incident room was busy when they arrived, officers working phones and computers, the whiteboards covered with photographs and timelines that had grown significantly more complex since Brodie had first arrived.
Art McKenzie looked up as Brodie entered, nodded a greeting, then did a double take when he saw Lucy behind him.
‘Reinforcements,’ Brodie announced. ‘Everyone, this is DI Lucy Warren from Edinburgh MIT. Lucy, this is DI Art McKenzie, DS Cameron Reid and DS Freya Munro.’
Handshakes were exchanged, along with the kind of professional assessment that came with meeting new team members. Detective Superintendent Chris Breck emerged from his office, drawn by the commotion.
‘DI Warren, welcome to Fife.’ Breck’s handshake was firm. ‘I hope Brodie warned you about what you’re walking into.’
‘He mentioned it might be complicated, sir.’
‘That’s putting it mildly.’ Breck gestured towards the whiteboards. ‘We’ve got seven historical victims, one recent murder, one missing DCI and a growing list of suspicious deaths that may all be connected.’
While Brodie made coffee – terrible station coffee that tasted like it had been heated up by somebody sitting on it – he briefed Lucy on the case developments.
She listened carefully, taking notes in her neat handwriting, asking sharp questions that showed she was already processing the information.
‘So we’re looking at why he came back after six years,’ Lucy summarised. ‘The Embalmer’s signature killings – young women positioned on beaches – and why he stopped back then.’
‘Exactly,’ Brodie confirmed. ‘He stopped in September 2019, after killing for eighteen months.’
Freya Munro approached their table, looking pleased with herself.
‘Sir, I tracked down Dr Mark Finlay’s nephew.
Philip Martin, lives in Cupar. I explained we were investigating circumstances around his uncle’s death, and he’s agreed to meet with you this afternoon.
He has papers from his uncle.’ She looked at her watch.
‘He’ll be home now, he told me, and to just give him a quick call to let him know you’re on your way. He mentioned getting the kettle on.’
‘Good work, Freya. We’ll have to break the news about Emma Richardson too. She’s his cousin.’ Brodie checked his watch. ‘Lucy, feel up to a house call?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘He might have better coffee than this pish.’ He looked around. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ Breck said. ‘We need to get better coffee in here, and whoever is buying it should stop buying the cheap stuff.’
Brodie heard somebody say under their breath that maybe if Breck chipped in, they would get better stuff.
Nobody owned up to buying it, so they blamed it on Morven Fraser, who wasn’t there to defend herself.
The drive to Cupar didn’t take long. The sun was out for now, but promising nothing for later on. His friend, ‘pishing down’, was waiting for the word to go.
Philip Martin lived in a renovated farmhouse on the outskirts of town, the kind of property that spoke of comfortable middle-class success.
Martin answered the door himself – a man in his early forties with the same sharp features Brodie had seen in photographs of Mark Finlay.
He welcomed them into a living room that managed to be both traditional and modern, with exposed beams and contemporary furniture coexisting comfortably.
‘I have to admit, I was surprised to get the call,’ Martin said, settling into an armchair, indicating for the detectives to grab a pew. ‘Uncle Mark died four years ago. Heart attack, completely sudden. What’s this about?’
‘We’re investigating some deaths that may be connected to a case your uncle was interested in,’ Brodie explained carefully. ‘We also have the unfortunate task of letting you know that your cousin, Emma Richardson, was found dead.’
‘Jesus. Emma? I haven’t seen her in a long time.’
‘Did you keep in touch at all?’ Lucy asked.
‘Not really. Not even Christmas cards. I mean, we were civil, but to be honest, I think the last time we met was at Uncle Mark’s funeral.’ He shook his head. ‘You know how some families only come together when there’s a funeral. That was my family.’ He looked at Brodie. ‘How did she die?’
‘She was murdered, Mr Martin,’ Brodie said.
He sucked in a breath. ‘Oh my God. Have you caught whoever did it?’
‘Not yet. We’re working on it.’
Martin leaned back into his chair, his face taking on a faraway look for a moment, clearly either reminiscing or wondering if he was getting away with murder. Brodie was leaning towards the former, or else the man was a world-class actor.
‘We’re trying to understand what he might have known, what he might have been working on before he died.’
‘The Embalmer thing?’ Martin’s response was immediate. ‘Uncle Mark was obsessed with that case. Kept saying something wasn’t right about it, that the deaths didn’t make sense.’
Lucy leaned forward. ‘Did he explain what he meant?’
‘Not in detail. He was a biochemist, not a detective, but he had this analytical mind that couldn’t let puzzles go unsolved.
’ Martin smiled sadly. ‘He’d see patterns in things, connections that other people missed.
With The Embalmer case, he kept saying the timings of the deaths were too precise, too controlled.
He was also rambling in the pub one night.
We’d had a few beers, and he said that there were things there that everybody else had missed. ’
‘What did he mean by that?’ Brodie asked.
‘I don’t know. He was always into conspiracy theories, so I didn’t think much more about it. You know, the aliens are coming, stuff like that.’