Chapter 27
The call came through just after six in the evening, as Brodie was preparing to leave. His mobile buzzed against the desktop, the screen showing Detective Superintendent Breck’s name.
‘Brodie.’
‘We’ve got the warrant.’ Breck’s voice was clipped, businesslike. ‘Fiscal’s office pushed it through as an emergency authorisation. We’re going in tonight – the warehouse in Perth. I want you there.’
Brodie was already on his feet, reaching for his jacket. ‘When?’
‘Staging area is the Perth station. I’ve got local uniforms meeting us there. The sooner we get there, the better. In case the Mitchells are there again. This goes by the book, Liam. If the Mitchells or anyone else is on-site, we take no chances.’
‘Understood. I’m bringing McKenzie and Reid.’
‘Fine. But move your arse, Liam. I’ll see you up there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He ended the call. It had sounded like Breck was already in his car.
The older man was probably getting a head start.
Brodie knew his superior officer drove like a madman, as if he was having a blackout and the spirit of his dead granny had taken the wheel.
Breck’s car came with mandatory sick bags.
Brodie dialled Art’s mobile.
‘Boss?’
‘Get Cameron and meet me at Perth station in thirty minutes. We’ve got the warrant for the warehouse.’
The relaxation vanished from Art’s voice instantly. ‘On our way.’
Brodie grabbed his jacket and the case files, scanning the incident room as he moved. Lucy was still at her desk, working through witness statements from the Claire Nisbet case, her concentration absolute. She looked up as he approached.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Warehouse raid. Perth. We’re going in tonight.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘You should come. You’re part of this team now.’
Lucy’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded and stood, reaching for her own jacket. ‘Let me grab my gear.’
‘We leave right now. In case the bastards are planning to go there again.’
‘Let’s go.’
The drive to Perth took thirty minutes, Brodie pushing the Volvo harder than he normally would, the urgency of the warrant sitting heavy on his shoulders. Lucy sat beside him, quiet, reviewing the file on Barry, Thomas and the Mitchell funeral home on her tablet.
‘Sir,’ she said as they headed up the motorway. ‘If we do find evidence in the warehouse – bodies, preservation equipment, whatever – what’s the legal position with the Mitchells? Can we charge them?’
‘Depends what we find and whether we can prove they knew what it was being used for.’ Brodie overtook a lorry, pulling back into the left lane.
Perth station was bustling when they arrived, the car park filled with marked and unmarked vehicles. Brodie didn’t recognise anybody but he nodded to a few anyway. Art and Cameron were already there, talking with a group of Uniforms near the main entrance.
‘You all ready?’ Brodie asked, just as Breck came marching out of the station.
The Uniforms nodded that they were all ready to go.
They moved out of the station car park in a coordinated line, heading west towards the farm.
It was on the outskirts of Perth, a manky old place that had seen better days.
The warehouse sat at the end of a dirt track, isolated from its neighbours.
A chain-link fence surrounded the property, and there were no lights visible in the building itself.
Two vehicles were parked outside – a black Transit van with no markings on the side and a dark blue BMW that Art recognised as Barry Mitchell’s car.
‘Looks like someone’s home,’ Art murmured.
‘Then let’s give them a little fucking surprise,’ Brodie said.
As they entered the warehouse, Thomas and Barry Mitchell came out of the door that had been locked when Brodie was last there.
‘What’s going on?’ Thomas shouted.
‘We have a search warrant for these premises,’ Brodie shouted, and then Barry took a swing at one of the officers and was quickly subdued.
‘Get off me, ya bastard!’ Barry shouted, and his elderly father stepped forward and grabbed one of the officers.
‘Leave my fucking son alone! And you can shove that warrant up your arse, Brodie!’
Uniforms grabbed a hold of both men and restrained them.
Brodie walked over to a sergeant and nodded to the two men. ‘Arrest them and charge them with assaulting a police officer. I want them transferred to Fife in the morning.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Breck came storming in like he’d been outside downing a can of Red Bull before deciding to enter.
‘You, Breck, ya fucker,’ Barry said. ‘Just you fucking wait!’
‘Shut it. Get that pair of arseholes out of here.’
Barry kept on resisting as he was led away.
Breck turned to Brodie. ‘That was very fortuitous. Now we can search the place without that noisy bastard following us.’
‘I wonder what they were doing through that door,’ Lucy said.
‘Let’s go and find out,’ Brodie said, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves. The others followed suit. He walked through the doorway where the Mitchells had come from.
They followed him through the door into the first partitioned area. It had been set up as a preparation room – stainless steel tables, drainage channels in the floor, cabinets filled with instruments and chemicals. Everything was clean, almost obsessively so, but the purpose was unmistakable.
‘Embalming station,’ Breck said. ‘Full set-up – arterial injection equipment, cavity fluid, preservation chemicals. All top-of-the-line professional grade.’
‘Is that unusual?’ Lucy asked.
‘For a funeral home’s overflow facility? Not necessarily.’
They moved to the next section.
A wooden box, perhaps two feet long and a foot wide, its lid open. Inside, nestled in red velvet, were brass plates. Coffin plates, each one engraved with a name and dates.
Art moved closer, pulling out his phone to photograph them before anyone touched the evidence. ‘Boss, you need to see this.’
Brodie joined him, Lucy and Cameron crowding close. The plates gleamed under the harsh lighting, their engravings crisp and professional.
The first one read:
Sarah Morrison, 1990–2018, Beloved Daughter, Rest in Peace.
‘Sarah Morrison,’ Lucy said. ‘The first victim. Seven years ago.’
The second:
Jennifer Walsh, 1987–2018, Forever Remembered.
‘The second victim,’ Cameron said. ‘Found on Aberdour beach.’
The third:
Lisa Patterson, 1992–2018, Gone Too Soon.
‘Third victim. Found in Kinghorn.’ Art looked up at Brodie. ‘He kept them. He made memorial plates for his victims and kept them like… like trophies.’
Brodie leaned closer, studying the box. ‘Coffin lid plates.’ The box contained only the three from seven years ago.
Breck appeared in the doorway, his expression grim. ‘What have you found?’
Brodie gestured to the box. ‘Coffin lid plates for The Embalmer’s first three victims.’
‘The Mitchells took them off the coffins,’ Breck said.
‘I’ll bet the bastards took the bodies out, put them into cheap ones and resold the expensive coffins.’
‘How do you know they were expensive, sir?’ Cameron asked.
‘Because they wouldn’t have taken them out of cheap ones,’ Art said.
‘Bastards,’ Breck said.
They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the investigation pressing down on them. The warehouse had given them evidence, but was it enough to track down The Embalmer?
They continued the search along with the uniforms, poking around in cabinets and under sinks and every nook and cranny, until there was nothing left to search. An evidence team was called for and embalming tools were taken away.
‘There’s no guarantee that any of the equipment was used in the killings,’ Brodie said to Breck.
‘We can only pray.’
A little while later, they wrapped things up.
‘Get some rest,’ Brodie told them. ‘Tomorrow we interview the Mitchells, and we go through every piece of evidence from this warehouse with fresh eyes. We’re close now. Closer than we’ve ever been. We just need to hold it together a little longer.’
As they drove back towards Edinburgh in the darkness, Brodie stared out at the empty roads and thought about the brass plates sitting in evidence boxes, their engraved names a memorial to lives stolen, to art created from death.
Somewhere out in the dark, a man was walking about, planning his next kill. If Gabriel Kane was right, Brodie was on the list of victims.
And it was going to be his turn soon.