‘I know. Logically, I know that. But logic doesn’t always help at three in the morning when you’re lying awake thinking about bodies arranged on beaches.’
Ruth reached across the table and took his hand. ‘You’ll catch him. You always do. And when you do, it won’t matter what Gabriel Kane said or didn’t say. What matters is stopping a killer before anyone else dies.’
They finished breakfast and cleared away the dishes together. Ruth suggested a walk, and Brodie agreed immediately – getting out of the flat, out of his own head, seemed like exactly what he needed.
The morning was warm and breezy. They walked down to the waterfront, following the path until they came to Newhaven Lighthouse. A strong wind came in off the sea, but it felt brisk, and Brodie thought it was helping to make him focus on the problem at hand.
‘I can’t wait until we can go back to Spain,’ Ruth said, linking her arm through his. ‘Maybe next spring? A week in Málaga, justthe two of us. No murders, no cases, no mobile phones going off in the middle of the night.’
‘That sounds perfect,’ Brodie said, meaning it. They’d had a holiday in Spain, spent a glorious week on the Costa del Sol doing absolutely nothing except eating good food and lying on the beach. ‘We could stay at that same hotel, the one with the balcony overlooking the sea.’
‘And we could actually relax this time, instead of you checking your messages every five minutes because you were convinced something terrible would happen while you were away.’ Ruth’s tone was teasing but affectionate.
‘I wasn’t that bad.’
‘You were exactly that bad. But I love you anyway.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘I just want to feel the sun again, you know? Wade in the sea, get sand between my toes, read terrible novels and drink sangria at lunch.’
Brodie looked at her so abruptly that Ruth stumbled slightly.
‘What? What is it?’
‘What did you just say?’
Ruth looked confused. ‘About sangria? I know it’s not sophisticated, but?—’
‘No, before that. About the sand.’
‘Getting sand between my toes?’ Ruth’s confusion deepened. ‘Liam, what’s wrong?’
But Brodie’s mind was racing, pieces suddenly clicking into place with almost audible precision. Sand between the toes. Sand. Beach.
‘That’s it,’ Brodie breathed. ‘Christ, that’s it. There’s been something hovering just outside my mind, something I couldn’t quite grasp. Now I know what it is.’
‘Know what? Liam, you’re not making sense.’
But Brodie was already pulling out his mobile, his handsmoving with urgent purpose. ‘I have to go. I have to call Lucy. Ruth, I’m sorry, but this is important?—’
‘It’s fine, let’s go. Whatever you’ve just figured out, go.’
They hurried back to the flat, Brodie’s mind churning through implications and connections. Inside, he grabbed his jacket and keys while simultaneously trying to call Lucy. The phone rang four times, then went to voicemail.
‘Lucy, it’s Brodie. Call me as soon as you get this. It’s urgent.’
He tried again. Still no answer.
‘She’s not picking up,’ Brodie said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. ‘I need to talk to her about something. See if she remembers the same as me. If she even saw it.’
‘Maybe she went out last night?’ Ruth asked. ‘Maybe she’s still asleep, or her phone’s on silent.’
‘Maybe.’ But something about Lucy not answering bothered Brodie, a small nagging worry that he pushed aside. They all knew that they had to be available seven days a week when they were dealing with a murder.
But he remembered Gabriel Kane’s words as they had sat in the interview room in the hospital, about how he, Brodie, was the reason The Embalmer had come back, and how Brodie was in danger.
Brodie knew then. Knew that Lucy wasn’t having a lie-in.
She had been taken by The Embalmer.
It was his way of getting to Brodie.
