Chapter 23
Dr Janice Nisbet sat at her kitchen table in her Dundee flat, a glass of Merlot within easy reach and her journal open to a fresh page.
The wine was good – better than she usually bought – a gift from a colleague who’d stopped by earlier in the week.
She’d been saving it for a quiet evening like this, when the weight of the day needed something to help ease it off her shoulders.
She knew she had been drinking more and more these days, but she couldn’t help it.
The taste had a grip on her, and she knew she was heading for alcoholism, but she was only knocking on the door just now.
Entering into that state was only a short time away, but she would cross that bridge later.
She lived alone and mostly preferred it that way.
Twelve years working in pathology had given her an appreciation for solitude, for quiet evenings where the only voices were on the radio and the only demands were the ones she placed on herself.
Tonight, though, the solitude felt heavier than usual.
The cases that had been troubling her at work seemed to follow her home, settling into her thoughts like unwelcome guests.
Janice picked up her pen and began to write, the familiar ritual helping to organise her concerns into something manageable.
After a few minutes, she paused, taking a sip of wine.
It tasted slightly bitter, but good wine often had that initial sharpness before the flavour mellowed.
She’d never been much of a wine connoisseur – preferred a decent beer, honestly – but this evening seemed to call for something a bit more sophisticated.
Janice lived on the third floor of a converted Victorian building, with views over the Tay that she’d fallen in love with when she first moved in.
The location was perfect for work – close enough to Ninewells that she could walk on good days, isolated enough that she didn’t have to deal with noisy neighbours or constant street traffic.
Janice wrote steadily, documenting her concerns with the careful precision that had made her an excellent medical director.
She’d always been detail-oriented, the kind of person who noticed when things didn’t quite add up.
In her work, that quality was invaluable.
Pathology demanded precision, demanded that you see what was actually there rather than what you expected to see.
Lately, though, that sharp eye for detail had been causing her problems.
The doorbell rang, making Janice jump so violently that wine sloshed over the rim of her glass. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart hammering. Christ, she was jumpy tonight. Too much time thinking about death and anomalies and things that didn’t add up.
Through the peephole, she saw a familiar figure standing in the hallway, holding what looked like a bottle of wine and wearing an apologetic expression. Someone from work, someone she trusted, someone who’d always been professional and helpful.
Janice opened the door, surprised but not alarmed. ‘Oh! What are you doing here?’
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you. I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d stop by to apologise.
’ The visitor held up an expensive-looking wine bottle.
‘I was rather dismissive of your concerns about the Preston case earlier. That was unprofessional. Your observations are always valuable, and I should have listened more carefully.’
Despite her surprise at the unexpected visit, Janice felt herself softening. This colleague had always been respectful of her expertise despite differences in their positions. If they’d made the effort to come and apologise in person, it suggested they genuinely valued their working relationship.
‘You really didn’t need to do that,’ she said, stepping aside. ‘But I appreciate the gesture.’
‘I brought what I’m told is a rather nice Rioja. Perhaps we could discuss the Preston case properly? Away from the office, without all the usual time pressures?’ The visitor followed her into the kitchen, setting the bottle carefully on the counter. ‘Though I see you’re already enjoying a glass.’
‘Yes, I do enjoy a glass of wine in the evening to unwind.’
‘Here, let me pour you a glass of this stuff. I’ve heard it’s great, and the lady in the shop recommended it. I can’t tell wine from a glass of raspberry juice, and I envy people who do.’ He poured her a healthy measure.
She picked it up and drank some. ‘Cheers. But aren’t you having any?’
‘I’m more of a beer man. If you have any?’
She smiled. ‘I do.’ She took a bottle from the fridge and opened it, passing it over.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
Janice gestured towards her journal on the table. ‘I was actually just writing about some of my concerns. Not just the Preston case, but a pattern I’ve been noticing over the past couple of years.’
Something flickered across the visitor’s face – an expression there and gone so quickly that Janice almost missed it.
Later, she would remember that moment as the point when she should have realised something was wrong.
But in the moment, distracted by the wine and the unexpected company, she didn’t register the warning sign.
‘A pattern?’ The voice was carefully neutral.
‘Several cases over the past two years where the lab work doesn’t quite match the official findings,’ Janice heard herself explaining, even as part of her brain wondered why she was sharing this outside of work hours.
The wine must be affecting her more than she’d realised – she usually held her alcohol better than this.
‘Small anomalies, nothing dramatic on their own, but consistent enough to make me think there might be something systematic going on.’
The visitor stood very still, expression fixed like a mask. ‘That’s quite a serious suggestion. You’re implying there might be errors in our pathology reports?’
‘Not errors, exactly. Just… inconsistencies that I can’t fully explain.
’ Janice felt suddenly tired, the room seeming to tilt slightly around her.
The warmth from the heating felt oppressive now, making her head swim.
‘Sorry, I think the wine’s affecting me more than it should. I’m not usually such a lightweight.’
‘Perhaps you should sit down.’ The voice seemed to come from somewhere far away, echoing slightly. ‘You do look rather pale.’
Janice tried to focus, but her vision was blurring at the edges. The room was spinning now, and her limbs felt heavy, disconnected from her body as if they belonged to someone else. ‘I don’t feel well. I think I might need to—’
‘I know.’ The voice had changed, losing its apologetic softness.
‘The wine I gave you contains a rather elegant compound. Delayed action, tasteless when dissolved properly, virtually undetectable once it’s been metabolised.
One of the benefits of certain professional knowledge – you learn which substances work best for specific purposes. ’
Janice tried to stand, tried to move towards the door or her phone or anything that might help her, but her body wouldn’t cooperate.
She slumped back in her chair, conscious but unable to move, able to hear and understand but completely paralysed.
Her mind screamed at her limbs to respond, but nothing happened.
She was trapped in her own body, a prisoner watching everything unfold with terrible clarity.
‘I’m sorry it’s come to this,’ the voice continued, moving around her kitchen with disturbing familiarity.
‘You’re an excellent medical director, Janice.
Thorough, detail-oriented, meticulous in your work.
Unfortunately, those same qualities make you extremely dangerous to people who need their work to remain unquestioned. ’
The visitor picked up her journal, reading through her recent entries with careful attention.
‘You’ve been noticing the anomalies for two years? That’s longer than I realised. I’ve been very careful with my methods, but apparently not careful enough to fool someone with your level of expertise.’
Janice wanted to scream, to call for help, to do anything that might alert her neighbours or summon assistance.
But her vocal cords were as paralysed as the rest of her.
She could only watch as the visitor collected the wine bottle from tonight, wiping it carefully with a cloth before placing it in a carrier bag.
‘The compound I used is rather sophisticated. It mimics the effects of severe alcohol intoxication – loss of coordination, impaired judgement, eventually loss of consciousness. Combined with the wine you’ve already consumed tonight, it will paint a very convincing picture of someone who drank too much and made an impulsive, tragic decision. ’
From a jacket pocket came a length of nylon rope. The sight of it sent fresh waves of terror through Janice’s paralysed body.
‘Suicide by hanging. Tragically common among people who live alone, particularly those dealing with depression or work-related stress. Your colleagues will remember that you’ve seemed stressed lately, questioning your own judgement.’
Janice’s mind screamed in protest, but her body remained frozen. The visitor moved with methodical precision, clearly having planned every detail.
‘The suicide note will be crucial, of course.’ Her laptop was opened – she hadn’t locked it. ‘You keep a journal, which makes this much easier. People who journal regularly are consistent with those who leave suicide notes.’
Fingers moved quickly across the keyboard. Janice couldn’t see the screen, couldn’t read what was being written, but she could imagine. A confession of depression, of feeling overwhelmed, of making mistakes. All the things that would make her colleagues nod sadly.
When the typing finished, he stepped back from the laptop. Then hands went under her armpits – she was conscious enough to understand but too paralysed to resist – and dragged her towards the bedroom.
‘I want you to understand that this isn’t personal. You’re simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, knowing things that could jeopardise work that’s far more important than you realise.’
The rope was secured with practised efficiency around her neck, the other end round the bedroom door handle. Professional knots that would hold under weight. He pulled tight.
‘The beauty of this method is that it will look entirely consistent with suicide. The alcohol in your system, the note on your computer, the documented history of work stress – everything points to a tragic but understandable decision. No one will question it.’
As the final preparations were made, Janice’s last coherent thought was about the journal entries she’d written, the patterns she’d documented. Would anyone read them? Would anyone understand what she’d been trying to say?
But the visitor had anticipated that. The journal was picked up, flipped through one final time, then tucked away. ‘Can’t leave evidence lying around. These will be destroyed, along with any copies you might have made.’
The last thing Dr Janice Nisbet saw was a familiar face, professionally composed, showing neither pleasure nor regret. Just the calm efficiency of someone completing a necessary task.
Then there was only darkness.
The discovery came the next morning when Janice failed to show up for work. A colleague with a spare key found her body.
The scene was tragic but clear. Dr Janice Nisbet, thirty-six years old, had taken her own life, apparently overwhelmed by depression and work stress. The suicide note on her computer explained everything – she’d been making mistakes, questioning her competence, feeling unable to cope.
The investigation was perfunctory. Suicide was sadly common, particularly among professionals living alone. The alcohol in her system suggested she’d been drinking before her fatal decision. Colleagues remembered she’d seemed stressed lately, raising concerns about cases that didn’t have problems.
The post-mortem noted asphyxiation due to hanging, with contributing factors of alcohol intoxication and probable depression. The report was filed, and work continued with the sombre professionalism expected after losing a valued colleague.
Janice Nisbet’s journal was never found. Her concerns about anomalies were never investigated. The patterns she’d noticed continued undisturbed.
And The Embalmer’s work went on, secure in the knowledge that another threat had been eliminated with characteristic precision.