‘The Embalmer case,’ he said.
‘Exactly. This is either the same killer, or someone who studied his work very carefully. Help me move her over.’
Brodie and Art helped Sherlock raise the woman up on one side but there was nothing underneath.
‘No handbag,’ Brodie said.
‘Handbag?’ Sherlock said.
‘Oh, I forgot, you didn’t work this case before, doc. We kept it out of the papers. The killer would leave the victim’s handbag underneath her in the sand. Not this time though.’
‘This could be a different killer, then?’ Sherlock said. ‘Even though the blood has been drained.’
‘It’s hard to say. Maybe he just changed his MO.’
‘Right. I’ll get the crew to load her into the van and get her across to Dunfermline.’
‘OK, doc. Catch you later,’ Brodie said. He felt something cold settle in his stomach. Was The Embalmer back? He had started killing seven years ago, in 2018. Was he back and starting where he’d left off? It would seem that way. But what about the lack of a bag underneath?
If he was back, the question was, why now?
4
The Central Records Warehouse looked like a place where information went to die.
Brodie pulled into the car park behind Art and Cameron, studying the grey concrete building that squatted between a shuttered electronics factory and a storage facility. No windows, no architectural pretensions, just function over form. The kind of place that housed decades of police work in climate-controlled anonymity.
‘Cheerful,’ Cameron said, getting out of the car.
‘Shithole,’ Art replied. ‘At least this stuff’s organised.’
Inside, they all signed in and were admitted through the back. The warehouse stretched away into darkness. Row after row of metal shelving disappeared into the gloom, loaded with banker’s boxes that contained the accumulated paperwork of Fife’s criminal history. The air smelled like old cardboard and dust. And possibly lingering BO.
It was silent, except for the clanging of a metal cabinet somewhere in the distance. It reminded Brodie of the night he hadbeen stabbed in the depository of the library in Edinburgh, something he had barely survived.
‘You’d be looking for The Embalmer files,’ said a voice from the shadows.
‘Fuck me,’ Art said, jumping slightly.
A woman emerged from behind a row of metal shelving, as if she’d been standing there, waiting to jump out at her visitors. She was middle-aged, maybe mid-forties, attractive with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She smiled at them, showing a nice set of teeth, and Brodie couldn’t tell if they were false or not. Her name badge read:Rose Clark, senior archivist.
‘Word travels fast,’ Art observed, his heart still beating rapidly.
‘It’s not like I have a crystal ball. I had a phone call from MIT a little while ago.’ She laughed. ‘Usually you tell me you’re coming, Art. And I wait with bated breath.’
‘Been busy this morning, Rose.’ Art’s cheeks started to go red, like he spent too much time here and didn’t brag about it in the office.
‘Did you find the files?’ Brodie asked.
Rose looked at him as if he was daft, or taking the piss. ‘Of course I found the files. I’m the big cheese in here. I can find anything. Tell him, Art.’
Art nodded and winked at Rose before looking at Brodie. ‘She can. She can find anything.’
‘Great. How many boxes?’ Brodie asked, not liking the smell of must and dust getting up his nostrils. He much preferred the smell of seawater.
‘Sixteen,’ Rose answered.
The three detectives stood looking at her, waiting for somebody to make the next move. Like, who was actually going to lift the boxes. Art looked like he was bracing himself to throwCameron in front of Rose, just in case push really did come to shove.
