Chapter 31
TWO WEEKS AGO
Patricia McRae’s house in Glenrothes was exactly the sort of place The Embalmer had expected – a tidy detached house with a well-maintained garden, net curtains in the windows and a doormat that read ‘Welcome’ in cheerful letters.
He’d been visiting Pat for three months now, ever since he’d ‘accidentally’ bumped into her at Tesco, spilling her shopping and apologising profusely while helping her gather scattered tins and packages.
She’d been flustered, embarrassed, and when he’d suggested buying her a coffee by way of apology, she’d hesitated only briefly before accepting.
It had been absurdly easy.
Pat had been lonely, that much had been obvious from the start. Her husband had divorced her years ago and she’d been adrift, uncertain whether to mourn or rage or simply move on with her life. The Embalmer had provided exactly what she needed: attention, sympathy, the illusion of connection.
Now, as he sat in her living room on a Thursday afternoon, a cup of tea cooling on the side table beside him, he watched her move around the kitchen through the open doorway. She was humming something tunelessly, arranging biscuits on a plate with more care than the situation warranted.
She was trying to impress him. Still, after three months.
‘Here we are,’ Pat said brightly, carrying the plate into the living room.
She’d changed since he’d arrived an hour ago, he noticed – swapped her casual jumper for something more fitted, touched up her make-up.
She settled onto the sofa beside him, closer than strictly necessary, and offered the plate. ‘Chocolate digestives. Your favourite.’
‘You remembered.’ The Embalmer smiled, taking one. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Pat.’
She beamed at him, her hand briefly touching his arm. ‘Well, I like to pay attention. That’s what you do when you care about someone, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed.’ He bit into the biscuit, chewing thoughtfully. Time to steer the conversation where it needed to go. ‘You seem happier today. More settled.’
‘Do I?’ Pat tucked her hair behind her ear, a gesture he’d learned meant she was pleased. ‘I suppose I am. It’s been nice, these past few weeks. Having someone to talk to, someone who understands.’
‘I’m glad I can be here for you. I know things have been difficult, with Alan and everything.’
Pat’s expression clouded slightly at her husband’s name.
‘I try not to think about it too much. The police keep saying they’re investigating, but they’ve got nothing.
Sometimes I wonder if he just… left. If he came back from holiday and decided to start over.
People think I’m a fool for caring, since we’re divorced, but I’ll never stop caring about him. ’
‘You’re not a fool.’ The Embalmer set his tea down and turned to face her more fully, his expression earnest. ‘You’re a woman who’s been put in an impossible situation through no fault of her own. Anyone would struggle with that uncertainty.’
‘You’re sweet.’ Pat’s hand found his, her fingers intertwining with his own.
The Embalmer allowed his thumb to stroke the back of her hand, a gesture he’d calculated to seem both intimate and reassuring. ‘I want to be here for you, Pat. But I have to admit, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’
Her expression shifted to concern. ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’
‘Not wrong, exactly. Just… complicated.’ He manufactured a sigh, looking away as if gathering courage. ‘I’ve been seeing someone. Well, not exactly seeing. It’s more that I’ve met someone, and there’s a connection there, but the timing is all wrong.’
Pat’s hand stiffened in his, her smile becoming fixed. ‘Oh. I see.’
‘It’s not what you think.’ The Embalmer squeezed her hand, bringing his gaze back to hers. ‘The woman I’ve met, she’s… she’s in a relationship. With someone else. And I know it’s wrong, I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I can’t help it. And the thing is, I don’t know what to do about it.’
‘This woman,’ Pat said carefully. ‘Do you love her?’
‘I think I might.’ The Embalmer looked down at their joined hands.
‘But she’s told me we have to keep things quiet for now.
Her boyfriend – he’s the jealous type, apparently.
Works at a bowling club, has a bit of a temper.
She’s worried about what he might do if he found out she was talking to someone else. ’
‘That sounds difficult.’
‘It is. And the worst part is, I understand why she has to be careful. But it makes everything so complicated. I can’t see her openly, can’t even call her sometimes because he might see her phone. We have to sneak around like teenagers, and I hate it.’ He smiled at her.
She laughed. ‘You know it isn’t too serious with my boyfriend and me. It was just a fling. I met Dick at the bowling club, but he’s nothing in comparison to you. I’ve fallen in love with you, but I have to end it with him, so we’ll still have to be careful.’
He laughed too. ‘Then I shall profess my love for this new lady I met.’ He knew he had her in the palm of his hand now. ‘I love you, Pat. But I don’t want to sour things with you and your boyfriend.’
‘I love you, too. And don’t worry, he’s history.’
He leaned in and kissed her.
It had been a close thing when two of Alan’s colleagues had come round and he, The Embalmer, had been waiting for Pat while she went out to the store to get them something for dinner.
He had told her he would stay out of sight until they left, but what he didn’t tell her was, if they discovered him in the house, he’d kill them both.
She was quiet momentarily, then said, ‘Actually, there’s something I should probably tell you too. About Alan.’
The Embalmer kept his expression neutral, interested but not too eager. ‘Oh?’
‘He came to see me before he went on holiday.’ Pat’s voice dropped, almost conspiratorial.
‘We met in the trail car park and we sat and talked. He was scared, I could tell. Kept looking over his shoulder like he thought someone was following him. We met in my car – he didn’t want to come to my house, just in case. ’
‘That must have been frightening for you.’
‘It was. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, just kept saying he’d got involved in something, that he’d made mistakes and now people were watching him.’ Pat’s hand tightened on his. ‘He gave me an envelope, told me to keep it safe, to give it to the police if anything happened to him.’
The Embalmer’s pulse quickened, but he kept his voice calm. ‘Did you? Give it to the police?’
‘No. I couldn’t. Because then they’d know he’d come to see me, and they’d start asking questions about why I didn’t report it immediately, why I kept it secret.
And the truth is…’ She looked away, her cheeks colouring.
‘The truth is, part of me was glad he was scared. Glad he was suffering, after what he’d put me through. I know that makes me sound terrible.’
‘It makes you sound human.’ The Embalmer stroked her hand soothingly. ‘What was in the envelope?’
‘I don’t know. I never opened it. I was too angry at him, and then when time passed and nothing happened, I assumed he’d just been being paranoid.
You know how Alan could be – always seeing conspiracies, always thinking someone was out to get him.
’ Pat finally looked back at The Embalmer.
‘Should I have given it to the police? Do you think it’s important? ’
‘I think,’ The Embalmer said carefully, ‘that you were in a very difficult position, and you made the best decision you could at the time. Where is the envelope now?’
‘Still in my car, actually. In the glovebox. I kept meaning to deal with it, but…’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘I suppose I just wanted to forget about it.’
‘That’s understandable.’ The Embalmer wasn’t worried about the boyfriend. He would simply kill him. The thought made him feel excited. That’s exactly what he’d do; he’d kill him. But later.
He stayed for dinner, they made love in the shower, then afterwards, Pat suggested they open a bottle of wine. The Embalmer thought it was probably also used as dish detergent, it was that bad, but Pat liked it, and it would make it easier for her to swallow the liquid he would put in her glass.
And that’s what he did.
‘I’m feeling light-headed now,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Would you like to go through to the bedroom?’
‘Not now, Pat. I don’t think you’re in any fit state. But let’s see if we can get that envelope from the car.’
He helped her to her feet and she staggered, but he was strong and held on tight.
He put her in the driving seat before snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves.
She gave him the keys and he got her into the driving seat and rummaged about in the glovebox and found the letter.
He took it and put it in an inside pocket.
Pat had dozed off. Perfect.
He took the garden hose off the garage wall and stuck one end in the exhaust pipe, making sure that it was secure. Then he shoved the other end in the car, went around to Pat’s side and started the engine.
When he had first come to her house, he was careful what he touched and wiped everything down afterwards. He didn’t touch door handles if he could help it, and insisted on washing the dishes when they had eaten and had a drink.
Pat had confided in him that her doctor had prescribed Temazepam for her because she wasn’t sleeping. He had gone into the bathroom and then crunched them up with two teaspoons (carefully washed afterwards) and put the medication in her drink.
When the police came, they would find her dead or unresponsive. Even if she survived the carbon monoxide poisoning from the exhaust fumes, she would be mentally damaged. But he thought with the drink and the fumes, she wouldn’t make it.
He quietly left the house, and wondered what Alan McRae had written in the letter he had given Pat.
He would soon find out.