Chapter 21
Art McKenzie had been a detective long enough to know when someone was trying to look inconspicuous and failing spectacularly.
Barry Mitchell, driving his father’s BMW, kept checking his rear-view mirror every thirty seconds – the kind of behaviour that screamed guilty conscience to anyone paying attention.
‘He knows we’re here,’ Cameron said from the passenger seat, shifting slightly to get a better view of the BMW three cars ahead.
‘He suspects. Doesn’t mean he knows for certain.’
‘Why don’t you swerve the car a few more times and let him know for sure?’
‘Cheeky bastard. If I let you drive, you’d be so close that he would offer you a fucking tow rope.
’ Art maintained a careful distance, keeping two cars between them and the BMW as they headed north on the M90.
‘Besides, if he was really worried about being followed, he’d have taken a different route or pulled over to confront us. This is just general paranoia.’
‘Aye, see what happens to the bastard if he pulls over and gets out to have a go. After hearing about my wife being with Magic Willie, I’m looking to let off some steam.’
‘Will you relax about him? I’m sure Morag will see the error of her ways.’ Art looked at him. ‘You just have to play it cool.’
They’d been following Barry since he’d left Mitchell and Son Funeral Directors’ business fifteen minutes ago, watching as he’d driven north out of Dunfermline. Brodie was still on the line.
‘We’re in Perth, near an old farm with a huge shed at the back. There’s a boarded-up petrol station and service place along the road. We’ll pull in there where we can see the warehouse from here.’
‘Right. Give me the final directions.’
Art told him. ‘I’ll have Cameron text the detail so you can put it in your satnav.’
‘I shouldn’t be long. Don’t approach him until DI Warren and I get there.’
Brodie hung up and Cameron relayed the information to Lucy.
The sky was black, threatening rain in that peculiarly Scottish way where you couldn’t tell if it would hold off for hours or open up in the next five minutes.
‘Cheerful place,’ Cameron observed. ‘Perfect setting for a horror film.’
‘Or for doing things you don’t want witnesses to see.’ Art kept watching as Barry’s BMW wound deeper into the farm, past collapsed fencing and vehicles that had been left to rust where they’d broken down.
The estate was larger than Art had initially realised, spreading across what must have been thirty or forty acres.
Art drove past the entrance and stopped.
Across the way was an abandoned house with an area at the side for parking.
He pulled in there and turned the lights out as they faced the road.
Through the sparse hedgerow, they could see the lights of the BMW. The beams lit up Barry Mitchell as he walked forward to one of the old warehouses, took some keys out and let himself in.
Art immediately pulled their car behind a section of collapsed fence about fifty yards away, positioning it so they had a clear view of the warehouse but wouldn’t be immediately visible to anyone looking back. He killed the engine and they both settled in to watch.
‘What do you reckon he’s doing here?’ Cameron asked, pulling out a pair of binoculars from the glovebox.
‘Nothing good, that’s for certain.’ Art accepted the binoculars when Cameron handed them over, rubbing the eyepieces with his sleeve before focusing on the warehouse.
‘They’re clean,’ Cameron said.
‘Not saying they’re not, but I wouldn’t use a phone without cleaning the earpiece either,’ Art replied, keeping the binoculars up to his eyes. ‘Manky bastard.’
‘Do you think Barry Mitchell’s The Embalmer?’ Cameron asked with the same enthusiasm he’d use if he was telling Art the results from the clinic were negative.
Art lowered the binoculars and looked at him. ‘Cool your jets there, for God’s sake. I’m beginning to wonder if you’re the fucking Embalmer.’
Cameron grinned. ‘I think that Brodie thinks Alan McRae is our man.’
‘For God’s sake. Innocent until proven guilty.’
‘Tell McRae that when he’s creeping about your house in the middle of the night with a fucking axe.’
Art felt a shiver run down his neck, and mentally reminded himself to shove a dining chair under the door handle after he got home. Checking that McRae wasn’t in the house first, of course.
‘That’s enough, Christ,’ he said, lifting the binoculars again.
The building was maybe forty feet wide by sixty feet deep, with a large roller door on one side and what looked like a standard entrance door on the other. Windows were set high in the walls, dark and impenetrable from this distance.
Barry sat in his car for a full minute, engine still running, apparently checking his phone or perhaps just gathering his courage. Then he got out, walked to the side door with quick, purposeful strides and disappeared inside the building.
‘Let’s see what he’s up to first. Could be legitimate business.’ Art kept the binoculars trained on the warehouse, watching for any sign of activity. ‘Could be nothing more interesting than storage or paperwork.’
‘Maybe he’s going in there to ride about on his pet unicorn,’ Cameron said. ‘Wanker.’
‘Magic Willie’s really got under your skin, hasn’t he?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Let me put it this way, I wouldn’t give you a can of petrol and a box of matches right now. Magic Willie would just be called Magic after that.’
They waited. Five minutes passed with no change. The warehouse remained silent and dark, no lights visible through the high windows, no sounds carried by the wind that had sprung up.
Ten minutes. Cameron shifted in his seat, clearly getting restless. ‘How long do we give him?’
‘As long as it takes,’ Art replied, though he was wondering the same thing. What was Barry doing in there that required this much time?
‘He’s maybe in there chopping up his old man,’ Cameron said.
‘Why would he do that?’
Cameron turned to Art in the dark of their car.
‘Did you not see him before? He looked like he was fucking daft. Like some wee cog in his brain stripped itself and now he’s running downhill with no brakes.
Maybe he’s The Embalmer and he’s changed tack and he’s just going to let somebody have it with an axe. ’
‘What’s this obsession you have with axes? Chopping people up, McRae in my house with a fucking axe. You’re giving me the creeps. Wee bastard. Shut your hole about people using an axe.’
‘I have been thinking about axes recently, haven’t I? Ever since Magic Willie started showing my wife how to dance horizontally,’ Cameron said.
‘You don’t know for sure that he’s shagging your wife.’
‘I said dancing. I can’t bring myself to use the word “shagging”.’
‘A shag is a type of dance. So maybe he is giving her a shag.’ Art thought about lifting the binoculars again but he had started to feel the cramp grip his arms.
‘This conversation went down a dark road,’ Cameron said, slouching down in the seat.
Fifteen minutes after entering, Barry finally emerged.
But his demeanour had changed – he was moving quickly now, almost rushing, looking around nervously as if checking for observers.
He pulled out his phone as he walked to the BMW, speaking to someone with gestures that suggested agitation or concern. Art picked up the binoculars again.
‘Something’s spooked him,’ Cameron observed.
‘Or he didn’t find what he was looking for.’ Art lowered the binoculars as Barry climbed into his car. ‘Either way, he’s done here.’
The BMW’s engine started, and within seconds Barry was driving back towards the farm’s exit, passing their position without seeming to notice the unmarked Ford tucked behind the old house. His speed suggested urgency, or possibly fear.
‘That was quick for someone who drove all this way,’ Cameron said. ‘Fifteen minutes, whatever he was doing, and then straight back out?’
‘Exactly what I was thinking.’ Art waited until Barry’s car had disappeared around a corner, then started their engine. ‘Only one way to find out what’s so interesting about that warehouse.’
Just then, Lucy was pulling alongside Art in her car. She turned it off and got out, climbing into the back of their car.
‘Hey, Art, Cameron.’
‘Lucy,’ Art said.
‘Ma’am,’ Cameron said.
‘Where’s Mitchell?’ she asked.
‘He was over in that warehouse behind the old farm building. It mostly looks abandoned but he went in,’ Art said. ‘He came back out and left.’
‘Where the hell was he doing there?’ Cameron wondered aloud, checking the map on his phone. ‘There’s nothing out here except farms and old industrial sites.’ He picked up the binoculars and pointed them at the warehouse.
‘Maybe that’s the point,’ Art replied. ‘You want privacy; you don’t stay in populated areas.’
Just then, another set of headlight beams cut through the darkness and the car pulled in, the lights dying.
Brodie got out and slipped into Art’s car. ‘Move the seat up a bit, Art, there’s a good lad.’
Art moved his seat an inch, glad he hadn’t had to drive in this position all the way here. ‘Barry Mitchell left a few minutes ago,’ he told Brodie.
‘Right, it looks abandoned, so let’s drive up and have a look. We’ll leave our cars here,’ he said, nodding to Lucy, who agreed.
Art drove back out onto the road and turned into the farm’s driveway, driving slowly towards the building, the tyres crunching over gravel and broken glass.
Up close, the warehouse looked even more decrepit – rust stains running down the metal siding like tears, weeds growing through every crack in the concrete apron that surrounded it.
They got out of the car, and Art immediately noticed something that made his detective’s instincts prickle with warning. ‘You smell that?’
Cameron sniffed the air, frowning. ‘Smell what?’
‘Gas. Natural gas, maybe propane. Faint, but it’s definitely there.’ Art moved towards the side door Barry had used, noting that it appeared to be slightly ajar. ‘That’s a safety concern. Legitimate reason to investigate without a warrant.’ He looked at Brodie. ‘Your call, sir.’
Brodie nodded. ‘I didn’t drive up here to smell manure. But I can smell gas.’
‘Gas leak in an abandoned building? That’s a public safety issue. We’d be negligent not to check it out.’ Art pushed the door open slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer interior. ‘Besides, the door’s already open. Someone’s left it unsecured.’
The warehouse was mostly empty, which somehow made it feel more sinister than if it had been full of stored goods.
The concrete floor was cracked and stained, with patterns that might have been oil or might have been something else.
Exposed roof beams created a cathedral-like space overhead, and windows set high in the walls let in weak grey daylight that didn’t quite reach the corners.
But there was evidence of recent activity.
Tyre tracks in the dust showed that vehicles had been in here fairly recently – certainly more recently than the building’s abandoned appearance would suggest. Areas of the floor had been swept or cleared, creating clean patches among the general deterioration.
And in the far corner, barely visible in the dim light, was what looked like a workspace – a table with various items on it, chairs around it, some kind of equipment.
‘Someone’s been using this place,’ Cameron observed quietly, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space.
‘Question is, for what?’ Art moved forward carefully, scanning the space for any signs of immediate danger. ‘The gas smell’s coming from somewhere in the back of the building, probably a broken line or disconnected tank. Nothing immediately explosive, but enough to justify our presence here.’
‘Christ, am I supposed to remember all of this for my report?’ Cameron said.
‘Talk it out loud. It’s easier to remember when we get back to the station.’
‘I’ll start by writing something like, ex-detective inspector McKenzie made me do it.’
‘Aye, that’s it, son, teamwork.’ Art made a face and tutted.
‘Right you two, keep your eyes peeled,’ Brodie said. He had brought a torch and was shining it around the warehouse. There were racks along one wall. Then the light caught a door at the back, next to a roller door.
‘Let’s check that out,’ Brodie said.
Lucy had her own torch and was sweeping it around the empty place, turning round to make sure nobody had slipped in behind them. And then she saw it, lying on the floor, sticking out from under a rack.
A Police Scotland warrant card. And not just any warrant card.
Art stepped closer, reading the name printed on the official identification: DCI Alan McRae.
The warehouse suddenly felt very cold despite the mild temperature outside.
The implications crashed over Art like a wave – Alan McRae, missing for two weeks, last known to be investigating The Embalmer case and asking uncomfortable questions about Thomas Mitchell.
And here was his warrant card, in a warehouse owned by Mitchell, hidden well enough that Barry Mitchell apparently couldn’t find it during his rushed visit.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Cameron breathed.
‘Where exactly did you find that?’ Brodie asked, his voice carefully controlled despite the adrenaline coursing through his system.
‘Behind those pipes, near the floor.’
Brodie crouched down, examining the area without touching anything. If there had been a struggle here, if McRae had been fighting for his life, his warrant card could have come loose from his pocket or belt and disappeared behind the pipes without anyone noticing.
‘Art,’ Cameron’s voice was tight, ‘if Alan McRae’s warrant card is here…’
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. If McRae’s warrant card was here, in a building owned by the man he’d been investigating, it meant something very bad had happened in this warehouse.
And Barry Mitchell’s rushed visit tonight suggested he either didn’t know the card was there or had come to retrieve it after realising it had been missed during the clean-up.
Art pulled out his phone, his mind already racing through the procedures they’d need to follow. But then when they were in court and came up with the gas excuse for coming in here, they could throw out the warrant card evidence.
‘We need to get out of here,’ he said, taking the warrant card.