Chapter 20
PRESENT DAY
The mortuary at Dunfermline was a modern facility attached to the Queen Margaret Hospital, all clean lines and fluorescent lighting designed to make death seem clinical rather than tragic.
Brodie had been here twice before on other cases, and the smell – antiseptic with an underlying sweetness that no amount of cleaning could quite eliminate – was depressingly familiar.
He and Lucy Warren pushed through the main entrance and into the post-mortem suite, where Sherlock’s office was.
‘First time in this mortuary?’ Brodie asked Lucy, noticing her taking in the surroundings with careful attention.
‘Third, actually. A different pathologist was here when you were recovering after being stabbed. I spent two very long days going through post-mortem records.’ Lucy’s expression was neutral, professional. ‘I learned more about decomposition rates than I ever wanted to know.’
Before Brodie could respond, a door opened and Dr Ronald Holmes appeared, wearing surgical scrubs under a white coat and that characteristic expression of alert intelligence that had earned him his nickname.
He was lean and fit-looking, with dark hair and sharp features that gave him a professorial air.
His eyes were his most striking feature – pale blue and intensely focused, the kind of eyes that seemed to catalogue everything they saw.
‘DCI Brodie,’ Holmes said, extending his hand. ‘Good to see you again, though I wish it were under better circumstances. I understand we have developments in the Emma Richardson case?’
‘Actually, we’re here about a different matter.’ Brodie shook Holmes’s hand, noting the firm grip. ‘This is DI Lucy Warren…’
‘I know. We’ve met before.’ Sherlock beamed a smile at her. ‘How have you been, Lucy?’
Lucy smiled. ‘Fine thanks. You?’
‘I muddle on.’ He turned to Brodie. ‘Let’s get a coffee. I have a kettle and a jar of instant. And milk in the fridge, but not where the dead rest.’ He laughed at his own joke.
Lucy smiled at him and her eyes sparkled.
‘Sounds good, Ronnie,’ she said, not using the doctor’s nickname.
‘Lead the way, Sherlock,’ Brodie said, and they walked through to his office, where the kettle was filled, ready for duty. He flicked the switch and it turned on. Sherlock pottered around with three mugs and the jar of instant.
‘We could always head out to the pub, if coffee doesn’t grab your fancy,’ he said.
Lucy smiled. ‘I’d like that.’
‘When we’re not on duty, of course,’ Brodie said to her.
Sherlock made a face behind Brodie’s back and she laughed. ‘That’s what I meant, sir,’ Lucy said.
Brodie watched the interaction with interest. Holmes was usually professional but reserved, yet he seemed genuinely animated talking with Lucy.
At this point, he realised that they must have got together when she worked through here three years ago, and it was obvious that they liked each other. More than liked each other.
‘Dr Holmes,’ Brodie began, ‘we’re investigating some historical connections to The Embalmer case. One name that keeps coming up is Dr Mark Finlay, biochemist at Ninewells. He died about four years ago. And his niece is Emma Richardson, our victim.’
‘Mark’s niece. Holy crap. That’s awful.’ Holmes’s expression sobered immediately. ‘Yes, I remember Mark. Terrible thing, his death. He was a friend, actually.’
‘You knew him personally?’
‘We both worked at Ninewells – different departments, but the medical staff aren’t that large.
We’d often end up in the same pub on Friday nights, unwinding after the week.
Mark was brilliant, absolutely brilliant with biochemistry, but…
’ Holmes paused, seeming to choose his words carefully.
‘He had some unusual interests outside of work.’
‘What kind of interests?’ Lucy asked.
Holmes gestured towards the coffee mugs. ‘Milk, anyone?’
Brodie and Lucy shook their heads.
The kettle clicked off and Sherlock poured the water. He stirred each one and passed two over.
‘Mark Finlay,’ Holmes began, settling into his chair while Brodie and Lucy took the seats across from him. ‘Wonderful colleague, terrible conspiracy theorist. He was convinced that there were patterns in everything, hidden connections that only he could see.’
‘What kind of conspiracies?’ Brodie asked, sipping at the hot liquid which was pretty good.
‘Oh, everything.’ Holmes’s tone was affectionate but exasperated, the way people talk about friends whose quirks they’ve learned to tolerate.
‘He was absolutely convinced that the Loch Ness monster was actually an alien scout, mapping our planet for invasion. He believed that world governments were controlling populations through subliminal messages in television broadcasts. Thought that if you stepped too far out of line, questioned the wrong things, you’d simply disappear – vanished by some shadowy organisation. ’
Lucy raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s quite a world view.’
‘It was exhausting, honestly. Mark would get a few drinks in him and start going on about how the fluoride in water was a mind-control agent, or how certain celebrities were actually government plants designed to distract us from real issues.’
‘Did his conspiracy theories ever focus on anything related to The Embalmer case?’ Brodie asked carefully.
Holmes’s expression grew more serious. ‘Actually, yes. Towards the end, Mark became fixated on The Embalmer murders. He was convinced there was some grand conspiracy involved, that people in positions of authority were protecting the real killer. He’d spend hours analysing the victim timeline, looking for patterns that he was sure proved his theories. ’
‘What kind of patterns?’
‘Nothing that made much sense to the rest of us. He thought the positioning of the bodies corresponded to astronomical events, or that the victims were chosen because of their connections to specific organisations.’ Holmes leaned back in his chair and drank some of his own coffee.
‘The thing about Mark was that he had a brilliant analytical mind, but he couldn’t distinguish between meaningful patterns and random coincidence.
Everything looked like evidence to him. It was strange why he was fixated on The Embalmer case, as the murders took place in Fife, and we worked in Dundee, so the actual PMs weren’t done in Ninewells. ’
Brodie made notes, processing this new information about Finlay’s character. ‘When you performed his post-mortem, was there anything suspicious about his death?’
‘Not at all. Straightforward myocardial infarction – heart attack.’ Holmes’s response was immediate and professional.
‘Mark had several risk factors: high stress, poor diet, probably wasn’t sleeping well based on what I knew of his work habits.
The autopsy showed significant arterial plaque, evidence of previous minor cardiac events.
His death was tragic but not unexpected, medically speaking. ’
‘No indication of foul play?’
Holmes looked genuinely puzzled. ‘None whatsoever. Why would there be? Mark died of natural causes, pure and simple. If you’re thinking his conspiracy theories about The Embalmer got him killed, I can assure you that’s not the case.
He died of a heart attack in his home. There was nothing suspicious about it, according to the procurator fiscal. And myself.’
Lucy shifted in her chair. ‘Did Dr Finlay seem particularly stressed or worried in the time before his death?’
‘Absolutely. That’s actually one of the reasons I was concerned about his health.
He was always obsessing about something, and his behaviour got worse the more he had to drink.
’ Holmes’s expression became more animated.
‘There was one night at the pub, when Mark was going on about The Embalmer case as usual. But he seemed more agitated than normal, more convinced that he’d discovered something important. ’
‘What had he discovered?’
‘He wouldn’t say, which was unusual for Mark.
Normally he’d talk your ear off about his latest theory.
But that night he kept saying he had proof, that he was going to expose everything, that people needed to know the truth.
’ Holmes paused, remembering. ‘I told him to take it easy, to stop obsessing over these conspiracy theories. I’d seen the signs before in other colleagues – the stress, the fixation, the declining health.
I knew he was heading for trouble if he didn’t slow down. ’
‘Was anyone else there that night?’ Brodie asked.
‘Several of our usual crowd. Dr Janice Nisbet was there – she was a medical director at Ninewells, wonderful at her job.’
‘Dr Janice Nisbet?’
‘Yes. Tragic, actually – she died before Mark. Suicide, unfortunately. Found hanging in her flat.’ Holmes’s expression turned sombre. ‘Depression is terribly common in our field. We see death every day, and sometimes it takes a toll that people don’t recognise until it’s too late.’
‘You performed her post-mortem as well?’ Lucy asked quietly.
‘I did. We were short-staffed and I was the senior pathologist available and had to do it.’ Holmes’s voice carried genuine sadness.
‘Janice was meticulous, detail-oriented, exactly the kind of person you want in pathology. But she’d started drinking more and more.
Friday night in the pub wasn’t a social night for her any more; it was a race to see how fast she could get drunk.
Many times, some of our colleagues had to take her home.
I had a word with her, but she said she wasn’t an alcoholic; she just liked drinking.
She’d been struggling with work stress, questioning her competence.
The suicide note she left made it clear she’d been suffering for some time. ’
‘Dr Holmes,’ Brodie said carefully, ‘did Dr Finlay ever discuss his theories with Dr Nisbet? Did they share similar concerns about The Embalmer case?’