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.
28
The drive back to Edinburgh seemed to take forever. Lucy sat in the passenger seat of Brodie’s car, exhaustion settling into her bones like a physical weight. The motorway was quiet, the rush over hours ago.
Brodie was quiet, his attention focused on the road, but Lucy could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly. The warehouse had shaken all of them – the brass plates, the embalming room.
Lucy closed her eyes, but all she could see were those memorial plates gleaming under the harsh warehouse lights, their engraved names a catalogue of death. Sarah Morrison. Jennifer Walsh. Lisa Patterson.
What made them special? What had they meant to him that the others hadn’t?
‘You did good work tonight,’ Brodie said, breaking the silence. His voice was rough with fatigue.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Lucy opened her eyes, watching the lights of Edinburgh begin to appear on the horizon. ‘Do you think Alan McRae is still alive?’
Brodie was quiet for a moment. ‘I don’t know. If The Embalmer sees him as a liability, if he knows too much or has become unreliable…’ He shook his head. ‘But McRae is also potentially useful. He has access, credibility, expertise. The Embalmer might need him for whatever he’s planning next.’
‘I wonder what prompted him to start looking into the murders.’
‘Hopefully we’ll get to ask him.’ Brodie rubbed his eyes with one hand, keeping the other on the wheel. ‘We’ll know more once we interview the Mitchells tomorrow. If they’re willing to talk, if they’ll tell us who they’ve been working with…’
