‘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 wecouldhave 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 hetook 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.
