‘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 lidopen. 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.’
