Chapter 9
The drive to Fife gave Brodie forty-five minutes to think about Gabriel Kane’s words, and he didn’t like where his thoughts were leading him.
The idea that The Embalmer had been killing for seven years without detection suggested a level of sophistication that made their original investigation look amateurish.
He tried Kane’s theory on for size as he crossed the Forth Bridge.
Two weeks ago, he’d been in Fife investigating a crime after DCI McRae’s disappearance.
Standard missing-person protocols – interviews with colleagues, family, friends.
His presence hadn’t exactly been secret.
If someone had been watching, waiting for his return, it would have been easy enough to spot him.
Brodie found the funeral home exactly where Art had said it would be.
Mitchell and Son occupied a large Victorian house set back from the road, painted in tasteful grey with gold lettering on a wooden sign by the driveway.
Behind the main building, two modern warehouses sat on what looked like a couple of acres of private land, surrounded by high hedging that provided privacy from the neighbouring properties.
Professional, established and respected, this was exactly the kind of business that could operate for decades without attracting unwanted attention.
Art and Cameron were waiting by their car, parked in front of the main building. Both looked frustrated.
‘Nobody has made a move to search?’ Brodie said.
Art shook his head. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to talk to him, sir. If he doesn’t let us look around, you and I both know we won’t get a warrant. There’s no cause.’
‘You’re right. But he was a shifty old bastard back then. Same with the son. I took an instant dislike to the wee bastard. Creepy as all fuck.’
‘When Barry showed up,’ Cameron said, ‘as soon as he saw us, he went white as a sheet. They started making excuses about why they couldn’t talk to us today and how they’d need their solicitor present for any formal interview. Just like what the old man said.’
‘Guilty behaviour,’ Brodie observed.
‘Gets better. While we were talking to Mitchell senior in the office, Barry disappeared for about ten minutes. When he came back, he was sweating and his hands were dirty, like he’d been handling something in one of the warehouses.’
Brodie studied the buildings. The warehouses were substantial – big enough to house multiple vehicles, store coffins and funeral supplies, and possibly even prepare facilities. There was plenty of space for activities that wouldn’t be visible from the road. ‘Any obvious surveillance?’
‘Nothing we can see from here. But the hedging blocks sight lines from neighbouring properties, and the access road is private. Someone could come and go without being noticed.’
The front door of the main building opened, and two men emerged.
The older one was clearly Thomas Mitchell – tall, silver-haired, wearing an expensive suit that spoke of financial success.
The younger man beside him looked nervous, his eyes darting between the police officers and the warehouses behind them.
‘Mr Mitchell,’ Brodie said, approaching them. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Brodie. I understand you’ve been speaking with my colleagues.’
Mitchell’s handshake was firm and professional.
‘I know who you are. We met a long time ago. I’m not fucking senile.
I’ve told your officers we’re happy to cooperate with any legitimate police inquiry.
However, given the nature of their questions, I think it would be appropriate to have our solicitor present. ’
‘What nature would that be?’
‘Questions implying some connection between our business and historical criminal activity. Questions about our financial records, client relationships and professional procedures.’ Mitchell’s tone was measured, careful.
‘The kind of questions that could damage our reputation if misunderstood or taken out of context.’
Art stepped forward. ‘I said we could have forensic accountants in here to examine your accounts if we had any suspicion of financial irregularity.’
‘We get suspicious when we think people are hiding things, Mr Mitchell,’ Brodie said.
‘Do you now? I suppose you want a DNA swab?’ Barry blurted out.
Mitchell senior calmly looked at his son, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he would have been given a bloody good belting if he was five.
‘Excuse my son’s outburst, but we’re worried about being tarnished without any real reason.
I mean, we don’t want to be associated with this nutcase that’s running about murdering women. ’
Barry Mitchell looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. He looked so much older than Brodie remembered him to be, soft around the middle, with the pale complexion of someone who spent most of his time indoors. His hands were clean now, but Brodie saw dirt under his fingernails.
‘Mr Mitchell,’ Brodie addressed the son, ‘how long have you worked in the family business?’
‘Since I left school.’ Barry’s voice was higher than his father’s, and he was less confident. ‘Always wanted to follow in the family tradition.’
‘Must be rewarding work. Helping families through difficult times.’
‘It is. Very rewarding.’ Barry glanced at his father, looking for guidance.
‘I’m sure you take pride in the quality of your services. The attention to detail.’
‘We do. We take great care with… with everything we do.’
Thomas Mitchell stepped closer to his son, a protective gesture that didn’t go unnoticed.
‘If you have specific questions about our business practices, I’d prefer to address them through proper channels.
We’ve been serving this community for over seventy years.
My father before me, and now my son is preparing to take over the business after I retire. Our reputation speaks for itself.’
Barry looked like he would rather do anything else rather than run the business on his own. He was probably more interested in touching dead women than ledgers and spreadsheets. Although there was probably staff to do office work.
‘I’m sure it does,’ Brodie replied. ‘We’re particularly interested in your services from 2018 to 2019. Some unusual cases from that period.’
The reaction was immediate. Barry’s face went pale, and he took an involuntary step backwards. Thomas Mitchell’s expression hardened.
‘Chief Inspector, I think this conversation needs to end. You can contact our solicitor if you have legitimate questions about our business. You’ll need a warrant if you want to search our premises.’
‘Is there something specific you’re concerned about us finding?’
‘I’m concerned about protecting our business from unfounded allegations and fishing expeditions.
’ Mitchell’s voice carried steel now. ‘This is a family business built on trust and discretion. As I just said, in case you’re hard of hearing, we won’t have that reputation damaged by speculation or innuendo. ’
Cameron stepped forward. ‘We could get that warrant, Mr Mitchell. Might take a few hours, but we could have officers here with legal authority to search every inch of your property.’
‘Then I suggest you do that.’ Thomas Mitchell turned towards the house, then paused. ‘Why don’t you ask your colleague, Alan McRae? I’m sure he has a few tales to tell.’
As the Mitchells retreated into the house, Brodie studied the warehouses again. Whatever had spooked Barry Mitchell was likely in one of those buildings. The question was whether they could get a warrant based on suspicious behaviour and David Duffy’s suspicions.
‘What do you think?’ Art asked.
‘I think Barry Mitchell knows something his father doesn’t want him to discuss.’ Brodie pulled out his phone. ‘Freya, how long for that warrant?’
‘Depends on what we can justify to a magistrate. Suspicious behaviour and old allegations might not be enough.’
‘What about the connection to an active murder investigation? Emma Richardson was killed using the same signature as three victims who were buried by this business.’
‘That’s better.’
Brodie speed-dialled Breck’s number. ‘Sir, it’s Brodie. We need a search warrant for Mitchell and Son funeral home. Priority request.’
‘What’s your justification?’
‘Connection to an active murder investigation, suspicious behaviour from persons of interest, and a connection to previous Embalmer victims.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I know it was seven years ago that he did those funerals, but it’s relevant given current circumstances. Plus we’ve got one of the subjects acting guilty when we started asking questions.’
Breck was quiet for a moment. ‘There’s no proof of any wrongdoing, is there?’
‘Not that we know of.’
Breck sighed on the other end of the phone. ‘I’ll make some calls. How soon do you need it?’
‘Yesterday. These people are spooked. If there’s evidence here, they might try to destroy it.’
‘Give me two hours.’
After ending the call, Brodie walked around the property’s perimeter, studying the layout.
The main house faced the road, with the two warehouses set back about fifty yards behind it.
A narrow access road ran between the buildings, wide enough for a hearse or delivery truck.
The hedging was thick and well maintained, providing complete privacy from neighbouring properties.
‘Professional setup,’ he said when Art and Cameron joined him. ‘Someone could bring a body here in the middle of the night and no one would see anything.’
‘You think they’ve been storing bodies for The Embalmer?’ Art said.
‘Or worse. What if Mitchell is The Embalmer?’ Cameron said. ‘The younger one, I mean, not the old boy. He looks like he couldn’t take care of a rubber balloon.’
‘Don’t underestimate anybody, son,’ Brodie said. ‘Especially somebody who’s proficient in using mortuary tools.’
The thought hung in the air between them. A funeral home would be the perfect cover for a serial killer. Access to preservation chemicals, knowledge of human anatomy, facilities for body preparation and a legitimate reason for having recently deceased people on the premises.
‘It would explain why Barry Mitchell looked like he was going to be sick when we started asking questions,’ Art added.
‘I think we’re going off at a tangent here,’ Brodie said. ‘I don’t think Mitchell and Son are working with The Embalmer. The killer is focused and, from what I saw before, narcissistic. One of the Mitchells is either the killer or they’re up to something dodgy.’
‘Either way, we’re on to something. The question is whether we can get that warrant before they clean house,’ Art said.
As if summoned by his words, Barry Mitchell emerged from the house and walked quickly towards the larger warehouse. He glanced nervously at the police officers, then disappeared inside the building.
‘Should we follow him?’ Art asked.
‘No. That would be a waste of time. Now that we’ve spoken to them, they’ll be on their guard.’ Whatever secrets Mitchell and Son were hiding, they were about to be exposed.
Brodie hoped they wouldn’t be too late to prevent another victim from joining The Embalmer’s collection.