Chapter 36
A MONTH LATER
Saturday
The Royal Edinburgh Hospital’s secure wing existed in a strange kind of silence – not the peaceful quiet of ordinary spaces, but the manufactured hush of a place where sound was controlled, monitored, managed.
Brodie walked down the corridor, his footsteps absorbed by industrial carpeting, past doors with reinforced windows and magnetic locks that required authorisation to open.
He’d been here before, of course. He had visited Gabriel Kane multiple times over the past few years. Those visits had been professional, necessary, part of the investigation. This one was different. This one was about closure.
The observation room was small, barely more than a cupboard with a window. Through the one-way glass, Brodie could see the secure interview room beyond – white walls, minimal furniture, everything designed to prevent harm or suicide.
And in the centre of the room, sitting in a chair that had been bolted to the floor, was the man who had once been Dr Ronald Holmes, who had reinvented himself as The Embalmer and played God with other people’s lives for only he knew how long.
He was dressed in the hospital’s standard-issue clothing – white track bottoms, a white sweatshirt, white Crocs.
The outfit stripped away any sense of identity or status, reducing him to just another patient in a secure psychiatric facility.
His hair, which had been carefully styled when Brodie had last seen him properly, now hung limp and unwashed. His face, was blank, expressionless.
He just sat there, staring into space, hands resting on his knees. Waiting for something or someone that would never come.
‘He sits like that for hours,’ a voice said behind Brodie.
Brodie turned to find Dr Iris Murray, the psychiatrist who was overseeing Sherlock’s evaluation. She was in her fifties, with grey-streaked black hair pulled back in a severe bun and the kind of calm, assessing eyes that came from years of dealing with the criminally insane.
‘Has he said anything?’ Brodie asked.
‘Very little. He answered questions during the initial assessment – confirmed his identity, discussed his childhood, acknowledged what he had done. But there was no affect, no emotion. It was like listening to someone read from a script.’ Dr Murray moved to stand beside Brodie, looking through the glass at her patient.
‘He’s pleading insanity, as I’m sure you’re aware. ’
‘Will it work?’
‘Almost certainly. His psychiatric history, combined with the nature of his crimes and his current presentation, suggests severe dissociative disorder with psychotic features. He genuinely seems to have believed he was creating art, that his murders had aesthetic and philosophical significance.’ Dr Murray’s tone was clinical, but Brodie heard the disgust beneath it.
‘He won’t stand trial. He’ll remain here, in secure psychiatric care, for the rest of his life. ’
‘That’s too good for him,’ Brodie said quietly.
‘Perhaps. But it’s what the law allows.’ Dr Murray checked her watch. ‘You’re here to see Dr Kane, yes? He’s been expecting you.’
‘Has he?’
‘Oh yes. He’s been telling everyone who’ll listen that you’d come to see him one last time before the case was officially closed. He seems quite pleased about it, actually.’
They walked together down the corridor to another secure wing, another set of locked doors that required Dr Murray’s authorisation to open.
Gabriel Kane’s room was larger than Sherlock’s, a concession to his status as a long-term resident and model patient.
It had a proper bed, a desk with books, even a small window that looked out onto the hospital grounds – though the glass was reinforced and the window didn’t open.
Kane was sitting at his desk when they entered, flanked by two orderlies who stood against the wall with the watchful stillness of men trained to respond to violence in milliseconds. He looked up as Brodie entered, his face breaking into a genuine smile.
‘DCI Brodie! Or should I say, the conquering hero returns?’ Kane stood, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. ‘Please, sit. Dr Murray, thank you for facilitating this visit.’
‘I’ll be right outside,’ Dr Murray said, her tone making it clear this was both information and warning. ‘Twenty minutes, gentlemen. That’s all the authorisation allows.’
She left, the door closing and locking behind her with a definitive click.
Kane settled back into his chair, his pale eyes studying Brodie. ‘You look tired, Liam. But satisfied. The weight of the case is gone, isn’t it? You’ve finally caught your Embalmer.’
‘He’s pleading insanity,’ Brodie said, not bothering with pleasantries.
‘Of course he is.’ Kane’s smile widened.
‘And he’ll succeed. I’ve spoken with him, you know.
Dr Murray arranged it – she thought it might be therapeutic for him to talk with someone who understood his particular psychology.
It was fascinating, really. He genuinely believes he created something meaningful, something that will outlast all of us. ’
‘He killed people. That’s all he did.’
‘But he killed them beautifully, Liam. With precision and care and artistry. That’s what makes him different from the common murderer.
He elevated death to something transcendent.
’ Kane leaned forward slightly, his expression earnest. ‘I’m not defending what he did, you understand.
But I am acknowledging the skill involved, the planning, the sheer audacity of operating for so long without detection. ’
Brodie met Kane’s eyes steadily. ‘You were right, doctor. Me returning to Fife set the game rolling again. When Holmes saw me, when we worked together on that case in Kirkcaldy, it awakened something in him. He wanted to play the game again, wanted to see if I could catch him this time.’
‘And you almost didn’t,’ Kane observed. ‘If it hadn’t been for that sand on the car mat, if you hadn’t made that intuitive leap… He would have killed DI Warren and disappeared again. Perhaps for another seven years, perhaps forever. You came very close to losing, Liam.’
‘But I didn’t lose.’
‘No. You won. Barely, but a win is a win.’ Kane sat back, steepling his fingers. ‘Tell me about the friend. David Duffy. What’s become of him?’
‘He had nothing to do with it,’ Brodie said. ‘We’ve interviewed him extensively, checked his movements, his communications, everything. He genuinely didn’t know what Holmes was doing.’
‘He saved your detective’s life,’ Kane said. ‘Threw a corpse at him to create a distraction. That must have taken considerable courage, or considerable desperation.’
‘Both, I think.’ Brodie thought about David Duffy’s face in that basement, the mixture of horror and determination when he’d realised what his friend truly was.
‘He couldn’t save Alan McRae – didn’t even know McRae was being held prisoner, didn’t know Holmes was a killer when McRae died.
But when he understood, when he saw what was about to happen to Lucy, he acted. ’
‘Redemption through violence,’ Kane mused. ‘How very Scottish of him. And DI Warren? How is she coping?’
‘She’s resilient. Shaken, obviously, but she’s strong.
She’ll recover.’ Brodie paused, then added, ‘Though I think she’ll be off men for a while.
Finding out the person you spent the evening with, the person you invited back to your flat, is actually a serial killer.
That’s going to take time to process.’ He didn’t tell Kane that Lucy had known Holmes briefly some years ago.
That was something he didn’t need to know.
‘She’ll blame herself,’ Kane said with certainty.
‘For not seeing the signs, for being manipulated. But she shouldn’t.
Holmes was exceptionally skilled at presenting whatever face was most useful to him.
He fooled colleagues for years, fooled you, fooled everyone.
DI Warren never had a chance of seeing through him. ’
‘I’ll make sure she understands that.’
They sat in silence for a moment, detective and serial killer.
‘Thank you,’ Brodie said finally. ‘For your help during the investigation. Your insights into The Embalmer’s psychology were valuable, even if some of them were… uncomfortable to hear.’
Kane waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’m always happy to assist law enforcement, Liam. It keeps my mind sharp, gives me something to focus on besides these four walls. Besides, there’s a certain satisfaction in helping catch a killer who’s better than I am.’
‘Better?’
‘More careful. More patient. More successful at evading detection.’ Kane’s smile turned wistful.
‘I was caught because I became arrogant, because I believed I was untouchable. Holmes might have avoided that fate if you hadn’t returned to Fife, if he hadn’t felt compelled to test himself against you one more time.
His ego was his downfall, just as mine was. ’
‘And now you’re both here. Two serial killers in the same secure hospital. Does that give you some sense of kinship?’
‘Hardly. Holmes and I are fundamentally different creatures.’ Kane’s expression turned contemptuous. ‘He killed for art, for the aesthetic pleasure of creating beautiful death. I killed because I felt compelled, but in a different way. Our motivations were entirely different.’
‘You both killed innocent people,’ Brodie pointed out. ‘The “why” doesn’t change that.’
‘Perhaps not. But it matters to me.’ Kane stood, moving to his small window, looking out at the grounds. ‘Tell me, Liam – now that you’ve caught your Embalmer, what will you do? Return to your quiet life in Edinburgh? Retire to Spain with your lovely wife?’
‘We’re too young to retire And she’s not my wife.’
Kane smiled. ‘But she will be. One day. I see a certain light in her eyes every time she mentions you. Not everybody has that in their life.’
‘I’ll keep working. There are always more cases, always more killers to catch.’
‘Always chasing the next monster,’ Kane said softly. ‘Always trying to impose order on chaos, to solve puzzles that can’t truly be solved. That’s what makes you such an excellent detective, Liam. You can’t let go. You can’t accept that some questions don’t have answers.’
‘This one did. We caught him.’
‘You caught one man. But The Embalmer is bigger than Ronald Holmes now. He’s a legend, a cautionary tale, a media sensation.
People will study him for decades, write books about him, make documentaries.
In a way, he’s achieved exactly what he wanted – immortality through his work.
’ Kane turned back from the window. ‘Does that bother you? That by catching him, you’ve also ensured his legacy? ’
Brodie considered this. ‘Better a remembered killer in custody than an unknown one still operating. The families of his victims deserve to know justice was done.’
‘Justice.’ Kane laughed softly. ‘Such a comforting word. Such a useful fiction we tell ourselves to make sense of senseless things.’
One of the orderlies shifted slightly, a reminder that the visit had time limits, that Brodie’s twenty minutes were nearly up.
Brodie stood, preparing to leave. ‘Goodbye, Dr Kane. I don’t expect I’ll be visiting again.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you will. The case is closed, and you have no further need of my particular expertise.
’ Kane extended his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Brodie shook it.
‘But if you ever find yourself hunting another clever killer, another monster who thinks they’re smarter than you, you know where to find me. ’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
As Brodie moved towards the door, Kane called out one last time. ‘Liam? Take care of DI Warren. I’ve grown rather fond of her.’
‘I will.’
The door closed behind him, the lock engaging automatically. Dr Murray was waiting in the corridor, clipboard in hand.
‘How did it go?’ she asked.
‘As well as could be expected. He’s still the same Kane – brilliant, manipulative, convinced he’s the smartest person in any room.’
‘And probably correct about that, which makes him even more dangerous.’ Dr Murray walked with Brodie towards the exit, past more locked doors, more small windows into rooms where the criminally insane lived out their sentences. ‘Will you be visiting Dr Holmes again?’
‘I don’t think so. But never say never.’
‘Good. The less contact they have with the outside world, the better. Men like Kane and Holmes… they feed off attention, off the knowledge that people still fear them or find them fascinating. The best punishment we can give them is to forget they exist.’
Brodie signed out at the security desk, collected his belongings from the locker, and stepped out into the warm afternoon.
The hospital sat on extensive grounds in Morningside, surrounded by high walls and careful landscaping.
It looked almost peaceful from outside, like a private estate rather than a place where Scotland’s most dangerous minds were locked away.
His phone buzzed with a text from Ruth:
We’re at the café. Take your time.