They drove in tense silence, both of them working the problem from different angles.
Brodie’s phone rang again. Superintendent Breck this time.
‘Did you pick up that bastard Duffy?’
‘There’s no sign of him. A neighbour saw him getting into a car with another person driving, possibly a male. We don’t know who it is. Or if it’s even something suspicious. It could be he’s with a friend,’ Brodie said.
‘Christ. If this guy’s The Embalmer, and Duffy knew about it, then maybe he’s in extreme danger. Unless he’s working with him, of course.’
‘It’s something we’ve given thought to,’ Brodie said.
‘Then he’s either our best lead or he’s already dead,’ Breck finished grimly. ‘I’ll authorise additional resources. Get me a list of any properties, vehicles or known associates connected to David Duffy. We’ll blanket the area, check every location.’
‘That’s the thing, sir; we’ve not been able to find anything on him.’
‘Fuck’s sake. I want to boot that bastard Duffy right in the nuts. He’s been playing us for fools for years. He said he wasbeing framed, that he didn’t know anything. I’ll talk to you later.’
They were close now. So close he could feel it.
But close wasn’t enough. Not when lives hung in the balance.
Not when every minute might be the difference between finding David Duffy alive or adding his name to the growing list of The Embalmer’s victims.
33
Friday evening settled over Edinburgh with the promise of the weekend ahead for some people. Lucy Warren stood in her Leith flat, staring at her wardrobe. She was tired and wanted nothing more than to sit with a glass of wine and watch some TV, but one of her friends had texted her, saying they were heading into town for a few drinks and invited her along.
Her social life was all over the place as it was, which meant non-existent. She had texted back that she could only stay for a couple. That was fine. Her few friends knew she worked crazy hours.
The past week had been exhausting – the warehouse raid, the discovery of the memorial plates, the endless interviews and dead ends in the search for David Duffy. They’d followed up on every lead Art and Cameron could find and come up with nothing.
Brodie had finally sent everyone home at six o’clock earlier that evening, insisting they all needed rest, that fresh eyes tomorrow would serve them better than exhausted officers stumbling through evidence on a Friday night. Lucy had been grateful –her body ached with tiredness, her mind felt like fog and the thought of a normal Friday evening doing something that wasn’t police work had seemed like a small miracle.
She settled on dark jeans and a green silk blouse that she knew looked good on her, casual enough not to seem like she was trying too hard but nice enough to show she’d made an effort. Minimal make-up, her hair loose rather than pulled back in its usual work ponytail. When she checked herself in the mirror, she saw someone who looked almost like the Lucy she’d been before joining the force, before the job had consumed every waking hour.
They were going to meet in a pub on Cockburn Street at eight o’clock, which gave her plenty of time to walk there from the tram stop in St Andrew Square, maybe browse some shop windows on the way.
She decided to jump in a taxi instead of using the tram.
Cockburn Street was heaving. Friday night crowds heading out for their own evenings – groups of friends spilling out of pubs, couples walking hand in hand, the ordinary rhythms of city life that felt almost foreign after a week spent immersed in death and investigation.
By the time the taxi reached Cockburn Street, it was 8.55p.m. The pub was easy to spot, its warm lights and bustling interior visible through large windows. Lucy went inside. Her friends weren’t there. Maybe they were running late? She shook her head. This was just the meeting point. They might have had a swift one. She sent a text to her friend but there was no answer. Maybe her phone was sitting in the bottom of a handbag, or switched off.
At nine, she admitted defeat. Her friends weren’t coming, or they’d been. She didn’t want to sit here all night on her own.
Lucy stepped back out into the cold Edinburgh night,disappointment gripping her. She pulled out her phone to try texting again, then stopped. What was the point? If they’d really wanted Lucy to be there, they would have waited. They knew she didn’t work bankers’ hours. Fuck them. Then she chastised herself. It wasn’t their fault, it was hers.
She started walking, down Cockburn Street, towards Waverley Bridge. She would get a tram at St Andrew Square and go home, have an early night and be fresh for work tomorrow.
The street was busy with Friday night revellers, people spilling out of bars and restaurants, music drifting from open doorways. Lucy was absorbed in her own thoughts, in her mixture of disappointment and wounded pride.
Somebody bumped into her shoulder and she spun round, her reflexes sharp.
‘Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,’ the man said.
She looked up and found herself face to face with Ronald Holmes, the pathologist from Dunfermline. She couldn’t think of him as Sherlock all the time.
‘Lucy!’ Holmes seemed genuinely delighted to see her, his face lighting up with recognition. ‘What a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you frequented Edinburgh on Friday nights.’
