Chapter 19 #2
The thought made Hart’s stomach clench. He’d always prided himself on objectivity, on letting the evidence speak for itself. But evidence could be misinterpreted. Science wasn’t infallible, and neither were scientists.
He needed to be sure. Certain before he did anything with this information.
Hart spent the next hour documenting everything. He photographed the photographs, noting the discrepancies. He wrote his observations meticulously, comparing them to his original autopsy report. He cross-referenced with his case notes, the literature and every similar case in his files.
By the time he finished, the grandfather clock was chiming seven. Darkness had fallen completely over Burntisland, the street outside quiet save for the occasional passing car.
The evidence was circumstantial but compelling. The secondary ligature marks suggested something more complex than the simple domestic homicide McGregor had been convicted of. At minimum, it warranted a review. At worst, it represented a catastrophic failure of forensic investigation – his failure.
Hart sat back in his chair, suddenly exhausted. He was retired, and his reputation was built on decades of meticulous work. What would happen if he came forward with this? Would anyone listen to an old man second-guessing himself fifteen years later? Would it make any difference?
The doorbell rang, interrupting his thoughts.
Hart glanced at his watch – quarter past seven. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Perhaps Mrs Donnelly from next door, bringing round another casserole. Or a courier with a parcel too large for the letter box.
He made his way slowly to the front door, his joints stiff from sitting so long. He could make out a tall figure silhouetted against the street light through the frosted glass panel.
Hart opened the door, and recognition sparked immediately.
‘Good evening, professor,’ the man said with a warm smile. ‘I do apologise for calling so late.’
‘Not at all,’ Hart replied, genuinely pleased. ‘What a surprise. Please, come in out of the cold.’
The man stepped inside, stamping his feet politely on the mat. He was well dressed, as always – dark trousers, a quality wool coat, leather gloves. Hart noticed that his hair was greying at the temples now, but he still had that same air of quiet competence that had impressed Hart years ago.
‘Can I offer you something? Tea? I’m afraid the house is a mess – I’ve been sorting through old files all day.’
‘Actually, I brought something with me.’ The man reached into the leather satchel he carried.
‘I thought you might appreciate this.’ He produced a bottle of single malt whisky, an expensive brand Hart recognised but rarely bought for himself.
‘I remembered your preference from the last time we worked together.’
Hart smiled, touched by the thoughtfulness. ‘That’s very kind of you. Come to the sitting room – it’s warmer than the study.’
He led the way, gesturing for his guest to sit in the armchair by the fireplace while he fetched glasses from the kitchen. When he returned, the man had made himself comfortable, the bottle already open on the side table.
‘So,’ Hart said, settling into his own chair with a slight groan, ‘this is a pleasant surprise. How is life treating you?’
‘Pretty well, actually. How’s retirement?’ The man poured generous measures into both glasses.
‘Not the same as working. I miss the people, especially since my wife is gone.’
‘What are you up to these days?’ the visitor said. ‘Golf? Chess?’
Hart laughed. ‘Nothing much. Except looking through old cases I’d worked on.
Though I’m not sure my work was always as thorough as it should have been.
’ Hart took a sip of the whisky – smooth and peaty, really quite excellent.
‘Actually, I’ve been reviewing some old cases today.
The Kirkland murder, 2007. Do you remember it? ’
‘Rebecca Kirkland.’ The man’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his dark eyes. ‘Yes, I remember. The boyfriend was convicted.’
‘Thomas McGregor. Twenty-five years.’ Hart took another sip, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. ‘I’ve been looking at the autopsy photographs again.
There are some inconsistencies I didn’t notice at the time.
Secondary ligature marks that suggest the strangulation might have been more complex than we originally thought. ’
‘How interesting.’ The man leaned forward slightly. ‘What sort of inconsistencies?’
Hart found himself explaining, his scientific training taking over despite a growing sense that something wasn’t quite right. The room seemed warmer than it should be, and the edges of his vision had started to blur slightly. Perhaps he was more tired than he’d realised.
‘The angle of the marks,’ he continued, his tongue feeling thick.
‘They suggest two separate applications of force, at different times. Which would mean…’ He paused, struggling to organise his thoughts.
‘Which would mean McGregor might not have killed her. Might have found her dead, just as he claimed.’
‘And what do you plan to do with this information?’ The man’s voice was calm, almost gentle.
‘Report it, of course. Request a review. If I made an error…’ Hart tried to stand but found his legs wouldn’t cooperate. The glass slipped from his fingers, tumbling to the carpet. ‘What…’
‘Just a mild sedative, professor. Nothing that will show up in a standard toxicology screen. Your medical history – the heart condition, the high blood pressure – it makes you quite vulnerable, I’m afraid.’
The words took a moment to penetrate Hart’s increasingly foggy mind. Ice flooded through his veins when they did, despite the warmth radiating from his chest.
‘You,’ he whispered. ‘It was you.’
The man – The Embalmer, Hart’s mind supplied with horrible clarity – sat back in his chair, perfectly relaxed.
‘I’m impressed, professor. Even after all these years, even if you are compromised as you are now, your mind still works.
Yes. Rebecca Kirkland was one of my earliest works.
Not my first, but one of the first where everything came together properly: the artistry, the timing, the deflection. ’
‘The secondary marks,’ Hart managed, his heart hammering irregularly in his chest. ‘You strangled her twice.’
‘Once to render her unconscious. Then I had to wait, you see, for the right moment. For McGregor to be on his way to her flat. The timing had to be perfect. When I returned to complete the work, I was rushing slightly. The angle was different.’ The Embalmer’s voice held a note of what might have been regret.
‘A small imperfection in an otherwise flawless piece. It bothered me for years, actually. But you didn’t notice, and neither did anyone else. Not until now.’
Hart’s chest tightened, a band of pressure spreading across his sternum. He recognised the sensation – angina, brought on by stress and whatever The Embalmer had put in his drink. His medication was in the kitchen; it might as well be in Edinburgh for all the good it would do him now.
‘Why?’ The word came out as barely more than a breath.
‘Why Rebecca Kirkland? She was dying, professor. Pancreatic cancer, late stage. She had perhaps six months of agony ahead of her. I gave her a gift – a peaceful transition, carefully orchestrated. Her death had meaning, had purpose. And when McGregor arrived, when he panicked and touched her, contaminating the scene…’ The Embalmer smiled slightly.
‘Everything fell into place beautifully.’
‘You’re… insane,’ Hart gasped, his left arm going numb.
‘No.’ The voice was sharp now, cutting. ‘I’m an artist. Death comes for everyone, professor.
You know that better than anyone. I simply guide it, shape it, give it significance.
Do you know how many people die alone, unmourned, their passing unmarked by anything but a brief obituary?
I give them perfection. I give them immortality, in a way.
They become part of something greater than their mundane little lives. ’
The pressure in Hart’s chest was building, crushing. He tried to speak, to call out, but his throat wouldn’t work properly.
‘I am sorry, professor,’ The Embalmer continued, his tone almost conversational.
‘You were a good pathologist, one of the best. It’s unfortunate that after all these years of retirement, you suddenly decided to review old files.
If you’d stayed away from the Kirkland case, if you’d simply enjoyed your golden years…
’ He shook his head. ‘But men like us, we can never really let go of our work, can we?’
Hart’s vision was darkening at the edges, tunnelling down to a pinpoint. His body felt simultaneously numb and agonisingly heavy, as if the weight of all his years, all his failures, all the deaths he’d examined were pressing down on his chest.
The Embalmer stood, moving to crouch beside Hart’s chair.
‘You’ll be found tomorrow, perhaps the day after.
Your neighbour will notice the newspapers piling up.
They’ll find you here, in your chair, surrounded by your old files.
An elderly man who worked himself into an early grave, reviewing painful memories.
It’s actually quite poetic – the pathologist, consumed by guilt over past cases, literally worked himself to death. ’
Hart tried one last time to speak, call for help, or do anything. But his body was beyond his control now. The irregular hammering of his heart was slowing, becoming erratic, each beat weaker than the last.
‘The sedative will have worn off by the time they find you,’ The Embalmer said softly, standing.
‘And the catalyst I added – well, that’s designed to mimic the effects of extreme stress on a compromised cardiovascular system.
You had a heart attack, professor. Brought on by the stress of reviewing traumatic cases, by the weight of guilt, by the simple biological reality that your heart couldn’t handle the strain. ’
The darkness was closing in completely now. Hart’s last conscious thought was of Rebecca Kirkland, of her face in those autopsy photographs. He’d failed her once, fifteen years ago. And now he was failing her again, taking the truth to his grave.
The world faded to black.
The Embalmer stood over the body for several minutes, timing the seconds, watching for any sign of continued respiration or cardiac activity. When he was satisfied, he went to work with methodical efficiency.
The whisky glasses were cleaned thoroughly, one returned to the kitchen cabinet, the other – Hart’s – wiped down and replaced in the professor’s hand, a small amount of whisky poured into it and allowed to spill onto his fingers. The bottle returned to the satchel, to be disposed of miles away.
He moved through the house like a ghost, checking for any trace of his presence. In the study, he found Hart’s recent notes – pages of careful observations about the Kirkland case, the secondary ligature marks and the possibility of wrongful conviction.
All of it went into his satchel.
He paused at the desk, looking down at the scattered files. So much work, so much dedication. In another life, he and Hart might have been colleagues, might have shared a genuine appreciation for the intricacies of death and its investigation.
But Hart had seen too much. Had remembered too much. Had possessed that dangerous combination of skill, integrity and determination that made him a threat.
The Embalmer took one last look around the study, ensuring everything appeared as it should – an old man working late into the evening on his archive, his heart simply giving out under the strain.
The files would be found with him, evidence of his obsessive review of old cases. It would all make perfect sense.
He let himself out of the front door, closing it with a soft click. The street was empty, the neighbouring houses dark. His car was parked two streets away, close enough for a quick exit but far enough to avoid any potential witnesses connecting him to the house.
As he drove away from Dundee, the lights of the town receding in his rear-view mirror, The Embalmer allowed himself a moment of reflection.
Hart had been a worthy opponent, even if the professor hadn’t known they were opponents until the very end.
His work had been thorough, his observations astute.
If he’d had a few more hours and days, he might have pieced together enough evidence to cause real problems.
But The Embalmer had been watching. Waiting. He always did, for those few who got close to the truth. And he was always ready to act when necessary.
Behind him, Professor Fred Hart sat in his armchair, his eyes closed, his hand resting on the arm as if he’d simply fallen asleep after a long day’s work. The grandfather clock in the hallway continued its measured ticking, counting out the hours until his body would be discovered.
The files on his desk remained incomplete, and their terrible implications were never to be shared. The truth about Rebecca Kirkland, about Thomas McGregor’s innocence, about the killer who’d stood in his living room and calmly explained his work – all of it silenced.
The Embalmer drove through the dark streets, his mind already moving to the next project, the next carefully orchestrated death that would appear to be anything but murder. Hart had been an unfortunate necessity, a loose end that needed tying off.
The work would continue.
It always did.