Lucy leaned in, and he met her halfway, their lips meeting in a kiss that was gentle and unhurried. His hand came up to cup her cheek, and she leaned into the touch, feeling something in her chest unknot, some tension she’d been carrying for longer than she’d realised finally releasing.
When they broke apart, Sherlock’s expression was soft and affectionate. ‘You’re quite remarkable, DI Warren.’
‘Lucy,’ she corrected. ‘When I’m not at work, I’m just Lucy.’
‘Then Lucy it is.’ Sherlock stood and offered his hand, pulling her to her feet. ‘I can sleep on the couch,’ he said with a grin.
Lucy led him towards the bedroom, her heart racing but her mind clear. Tomorrow she’d go back to being DI Warren, professional and focused. Tomorrow she’d chase leads and interview suspects and piece together evidence.
But tonight, for just a few hours, she was simply Lucy – a woman who’d had a nice dinner, several drinks, and met someone who made her feel like a person rather than just a police officer.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
For now, this was enough.
34
SATURDAY
Saturday morning light filtered through the curtains of Brodie’s flat in Leith, softer than the harsh weekday alarm clock routine. He woke gradually, aware of Ruth’s breathing beside him, the quiet comfort of a weekend morning with nowhere urgent to be.
Except he did have somewhere to be. The case never really left him, even on Saturday mornings. David Duffy was still missing, and somewhere The Embalmer was planning his next move, painting the next installation in his grotesque art.
Work was calling, but he would be there in a little while. For now, it was a quiet breakfast on an early Saturday morning.
He slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake Ruth yet, and padded to the kitchen in bare feet. Their flat overlooked the Forth, Fife in the distance. It was a nice flat, nicer than anything Brodie had lived in during his years as a bachelor copper, and he was still getting used to the idea that this was home, that Ruth had made it home.
He started breakfast – nothing fancy, just bacon and eggs, toast, the Saturday morning fry-up that was his one consistent culinary achievement. The smell of cooking bacon driftedthrough the flat, and within minutes he heard Ruth stirring, the familiar sounds of her waking up and making her way to the bathroom.
By the time she appeared in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in her dressing gown with her dark hair sleep-tousled, Brodie had plates ready and was pouring tea.
‘You’re spoiling me,’ Ruth said, kissing his cheek and settling at the small kitchen table.
‘It’s Saturday. I’m allowed to spoil you on Saturdays. Even though I have to work and you don’t.’
‘Oh, aren’t you hard done by?’ She laughed. ‘I have to go grocery shopping later, and believe me, I’d rather be working.’
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind of companionable quiet that came from years of knowing each other, of not needing to fill every moment with conversation.
‘You’re thinking about the case,’ Ruth observed, not looking up from her eggs.
‘That obvious?’
‘You get this expression. Like you’re somewhere else entirely, just going through the motions of breakfast.’ She looked up at him, her green eyes sharp despite the early hour. ‘Want to talk about it?’
Brodie set down his fork. ‘We’re missing something. I can feel it, right there at the edge of my mind, but I can’t quite grasp it. Every time I think I’m close, it slips away.’
‘Tell me what you know. Sometimes talking it through helps.’
So Brodie laid it out – the bodies on the beaches seven years ago, the sudden reappearance of similar murders now, the meticulous staging of each death.
‘And Kane,’ Brodie said, his voice dropping slightly. ‘Gabriel Kane, sitting in the Royal Edinburgh, telling me that I’m thereason The Embalmer came back. That my return to Fife triggered something.’
Ruth was quiet for a moment, processing. ‘Kane’s brilliant, but he’s also manipulative. He could be telling the truth, or he could be playing games, trying to get inside your head.’
‘Yes.’ Brodie pushed his plate away, appetite gone. ‘Because what if he’s right? What if The Embalmer really did come back because of me, because I returned to Fife and somehow that set things in motion? Then every death from this point forward is at least partially my fault.’
‘That’s not how responsibility works, and you know it,’ Ruth said firmly. ‘Killers make choices. They choose to kill. You didn’t force anyone to commit murder, Liam. You’re just trying to stop them.’
