Chapter 30
FRIDAY
Friday morning broke cold and grey over Glenrothes, the sort of Scottish weather that seemed designed to match the bleakness of the task ahead.
Brodie arrived at the station just before nine, carrying two coffees and the weight of a night spent reviewing evidence from the warehouse raid.
He’d managed perhaps three hours of sleep, his mind churning through the implications of what they’d found.
Memorial plates for three victims. A workshop designed for staging death.
Detective Superintendent Breck was already inside the building, occupying an office on the second floor as a temporary command post. When Brodie knocked and entered, he found Breck standing by the window, gazing out at the car park, his shoulders tense with strain, like he was thinking about opening it and jumping out.
‘Morning, sir.’
Breck turned, his face pale and tense. He looked like he’d slept even less than Brodie. ‘Liam. Good, you’re here. I want to discuss the interview strategy before we bring Mitchell up.’
Brodie handed him one of the coffees and settled into a chair. ‘How’s he been overnight?’
‘Quiet. Barry Mitchell has been demanding a solicitor every hour on the hour, but Thomas Mitchell has barely said a word. Just sits there, staring at the wall.’ Breck sipped his coffee and grimaced at the taste.
‘His solicitor arrived twenty minutes ago – Richard Crawford from Edinburgh. Sharp bastard, expensive. Someone’s paying for quality representation. ’
‘You never see a poor undertaker.’
‘Or someone else is footing the bill.’ Breck moved away from the window, pulling out a chair opposite Brodie.
‘We’ve got twenty-four hours before we have to charge them or let them go.
The fiscal’s office is pushing for conspiracy to commit murder, but we need more than what we found in the warehouse.
We need a direct link between the Mitchells and The Embalmer’s victims. We need testimony that proves they knew what that facility was being used for. ’
‘The brass plates are a start,’ Brodie said. ‘Those weren’t made for legitimate funeral purposes. They’re trophies, commemorations of murder. And they were sitting in the Mitchells’ warehouse.’
‘Crawford will argue they were planted there, that his client had no knowledge of them, that anyone with access to the facility could have put them there.’ Breck rubbed his eyes. ‘We need Mitchell to talk. To give us something concrete.’
‘Then we push him. Hard.’ They needed more.
Brodie pulled out his notebook, flipping to the pages where he’d outlined his approach.
‘Mitchell’s been in the funeral business for forty years.
He’s seen every trick, handled every kind of death.
A man like that doesn’t just let someone use his facility without knowing what’s going on.
Either he’s complicit, or he’s being coerced.
Either way, he knows who The Embalmer is. ’
‘What’s your angle?’
‘Fear. Mitchell spent last night in a cell. His son spent the night in a cell. They’ve had a taste of what prison feels like.
I’m going to make him understand that unless he cooperates, unless he gives us what we need, that taste is going to become his permanent reality.
’ Brodie met Breck’s eyes. ‘And I’m going to make him believe we think he’s The Embalmer himself. ’
Breck was quiet for a moment, considering. ‘That’s a risk. If his solicitor thinks we’re overreaching, he’ll shut the interview down.’
‘Let him try. Mitchell knows something. I saw it in his face when we brought him in – he was terrified, but not surprised. He’s been expecting this. The question is whether we can scare him more than whoever he’s protecting.’
‘All right.’ Breck stood, draining the last of his coffee. ‘Let’s do it. Interview Room Three is set up. I’ll observe from the monitoring room, but I’ll step in if needed.’
Twenty minutes later, Brodie entered Interview Room Three with Art McKenzie at his side.
The room was deliberately uncomfortable – harsh fluorescent lighting, a metal table bolted to the floor, chairs that were just slightly too small for comfort.
The walls were painted an institutional beige that seemed designed to sap the will to live.
Thomas Mitchell sat on the far side of the table, his solicitor beside him.
Mitchell was in his sixties, Brodie estimated, with grey hair thinning on top and the slight paunch of a man who’d spent his life bending over coffins and examination tables.
His face was lined and weathered, his hands clasped on the table in front of him.
He wore the same clothes he’d been arrested in – dark trousers, a white shirt now wrinkled and stained with sweat.
Richard Crawford, by contrast, looked like he’d stepped out of a boardroom. Expensive suit, silk tie, briefcase positioned precisely beside his chair. He looked up as Brodie and Art entered, his expression neutral but his eyes sharp.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Brodie,’ Crawford said. ‘I trust my client will be treated appropriately during this interview?’
‘Your client will be treated exactly as the law requires,’ Brodie said, settling into his chair. Why? Did you think we were going to use a fucking hosepipe on him, he thought, but kept the sarcasm to himself.
Art sat beside him, arranging files on the table with deliberate care, then he activated the recording equipment, stating the date, time and persons present.
‘Interview with Thomas Mitchell, conducted by DCI Liam Brodie and DI Art McKenzie. Mr Mitchell is accompanied by his solicitor, Richard Crawford.’
‘Mr Mitchell, I’m going to ask you some questions about your business, about the warehouse facility in Perth, and about items found during our search of those premises. You understand you’re still under caution?’
Mitchell nodded, his throat working. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot from lack of sleep.
‘For the recording, Mr Mitchell has indicated his understanding.’
Brodie opened the first file, pulling out photographs of the brass memorial plates. He arranged them on the table, facing Mitchell, three images in a row. The engraved names were clearly visible: Sarah Morrison, Jennifer Walsh, Lisa Patterson.
‘Do you recognise these items, Mr Mitchell?’
Mitchell stared at the photographs, his face draining of colour. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
‘My client has never seen those items before,’ Crawford said smoothly. ‘If they were found on property associated with Mitchell and Son, they were placed there without his knowledge or consent.’
‘Really?’ Brodie leaned forward. ‘Because these aren’t just random pieces of brass, Mr Crawford.
These are coffin plates. Memorial plates of the sort used in the funeral industry.
And they bear the names of three murder victims. All were killed seven years ago by a serial murderer the press called The Embalmer. ’
Mitchell’s breathing had become audible, rapid and shallow.
‘Your client is in the funeral business,’ Brodie continued, his eyes locked on Mitchell. ‘He has the equipment to make these plates and the expertise to engrave them properly. And they were found in a warehouse facility that he owns and operates. So I’ll ask again – do you recognise these items?’
‘I…’ Mitchell’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘I’ve never seen them before. I don’t know how they got there.’
‘How long have you been operating the Perth warehouse facility?’
‘About twenty years. We needed overflow storage, space for preparation when the main facility was busy.’
‘And who has access to that warehouse?’
‘My son Barry. Myself. A few trusted employees who help with transport and preparation.’
‘No one else?’ Art asked, pulling out another file. ‘No freelance technicians? No consultants? No one who might have used the facility for purposes other than legitimate funeral business?’
Mitchell’s hands tightened on the table. ‘No. Just us.’
Crawford interjected. ‘My client is willing to cooperate fully, detective chief inspector. However, I must note that if you’re attempting to build a case that suggests Mr Mitchell is somehow involved in these historic murders, you’re on very shaky ground.
My client has alibis for relevant periods, and there’s no forensic evidence connecting him to any crime scene. ’
Brodie pulled out another photograph, which showed the preparation room in the warehouse – the stainless steel tables, the drainage channels and the cabinets full of embalming chemicals.
‘I’m suggesting he provided the facility where the murders were staged.
That he knowingly allowed someone to use his warehouse as a workshop for killing. ’
‘That’s absurd,’ Crawford said, but Mitchell made a slight sound, almost a whimper.
‘Is it?’ Brodie pulled out more photographs – victim photos, crime scenes. ‘These are the three young women who had their blood drained out of them and displayed on a beach like pieces of meat. We think they were murdered in your facility, either by you or your son.’
Mitchell was shaking now, his eyes darting between the photographs and his solicitor’s face.
‘My client runs a legitimate funeral business—’
‘Your client,’ Brodie interrupted, his voice hard, ‘spent last night in a cell. So did his son. That’s just a taste, Mr Mitchell, of what the rest of your life will look like.
Barlinnie or Saughton, sharing a wing with murderers and rapists, counting down the years until you die in a prison hospital bed. ’
‘Detective chief inspector, that’s hardly—’
‘Unless you help us.’ Brodie leaned back, his tone shifting slightly, offering an escape route.
‘Unless you tell us who you’ve been working with, using your facility, who made these memorial plates and left them in your warehouse.
Because right now, Mr Mitchell, we have enough evidence to charge you as The Embalmer himself. ’