They needed a distraction. They needed something to shift the dynamic, to create an opening.
He shifted slightly, the scalpel moving fractionally away from Lucy’s throat. Not much, but enough that Brodie’s breath came slightly easier.
‘You killed Mark Finlay, didn’t you?’ Brodie said.
‘Yes. The old codger was poking about into cases of people I’d murdered, and he thought he was on to something. And Janice Nisbet. Some young female police officer. I can’t remember her name now, but she had been looking at photos and poking her nose in instead of just moving boxes from one place to another. I have literally killed so many people that I can’t remember them all, but I am so skilled that they all looked like an accident. And it didn’t hinder things when I was the one doing the post-mortem, like with Mark Finlay.’
‘Very clever,’ Brodie said.
‘I knew I had to resurrect the game again,’ Sherlock continued, staring into space for a second. ‘Just to see if you could beat me this time. If you’d learned anything, if you’d become good enough to catch me. And you did! You figured it out! Though admittedly not quite fast enough to save young Lucy here.’
He smiled down at Lucy, who was staring up at him with undisguised hatred above the gag.
‘We had such a great night together last night, Lucy. Such a wonderful evening. I felt almost guilty, knowing what I was planning. But that’s what makes the art perfect, you see – the intimacy before the death, the connection and then the severance. Colleague, friend, lover.’ His smile widened. ‘And now victim.’
‘Let her go, Sherlock,’ Brodie said. ‘You don’t need her. You have me now. Swap her for me.’
‘She’s going to be yet another victim of The Embalmer,’ Sherlock announced as if sharing thrilling news. ‘And then I will kill you both. David can watch, finally understanding what I’ve been creating. It’ll be beautiful, truly. The detective who almost caught me, dying in the same place where I learned my craft. Full circle.’
David Duffy had moved even closer to Sherlock, close enough now to touch him. ‘Let me watch,’ he said, his voice strange and distant. ‘I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be right beside someone as they lose their life – to see it happen, to understand it.’
Sherlock laughed, pleased. ‘Of course, my friend. You can assist. First, we’ll position her properly and ensure the lighting is correct. Then we can make the arterial cut and insert the tube for the embalming fluid?—’
David Duffy grabbed Alan McRae’s corpse and heaved it off the table with surprising strength. The dead detective’s body flew through the air, arms and legs flopping grotesquely, and crashed into Sherlock with the full force of dead weight propelled by fury and desperation.
The scalpel went flying, clattering across the floor as Sherlock screamed – surprise and rage mixing in a sound that was barely human. He staggered backwards and fell, McRae’s corpse tangled with his legs, and before he could recover David had grabbed Lucy and yanked her off the table, pulling her clear of danger.
Breck moved with the speed of a man twenty years younger, covering the distance to Sherlock in three strides. His boot connected with the pathologist’s groin in a kick that would have made a professional footballer proud.
Sherlock’s scream reached a new pitch, his hands going to his crotch as he went into a foetal position, McRae’s body falling away from him.
Brodie rushed to Lucy, his hands already working at the gag in her mouth, pulling it free. She gasped, sucking in air, her eyes streaming with tears that might have been relief or terror or both.
Duffy stood nearby, breathing hard, a scalpel in his hand.
Brodie tensed, ready to fight if Duffy moved towards them with the blade. But Duffy just looked at it, then at Brodie, his expression exhausted and broken.
‘Relax,’ Duffy said quietly. ‘I’m only going to cut the bindings. Get her free.’
He moved behind Lucy, who flinched but held still as Duffy carefully cut through the plastic ties binding her wrists. Then he knelt and cut the bindings around her ankles, his movements precise and gentle.
When Lucy was free, Duffy tossed the scalpel away, the blade skittering across the floor to join the one Sherlock had dropped.
‘I’m not with him,’ Duffy said, meeting Brodie’s eyes. ‘He wanted me to come here to show me something. I trusted him, because we were very good friends a long time ago. Bastard. He fucking ruined my life.’
Brodie nodded, filing away questions for later. Right now, they needed to secure Sherlock and get Lucy out of this nightmare basement.
Breck had Sherlock face down on the floor, a knee pressing into his back, cuffing him with practised efficiency. The pathologistwas still gasping, tears streaming down his face from the pain, all his earlier composure shattered.
‘It isn’t supposed to end like this,’ Sherlock gasped. ‘This isn’t how the story ends. I’m the artist; I control the narrative?—’
‘Shut up,’ Breck said flatly, ‘or you’ll get another boot in the fucking bollocks.’ He hauled Sherlock to his feet with no gentleness whatsoever.
Sherlock just stared at him, his face a mask of confusion, pain and rage.
Brodie had one arm around Lucy, supporting her weight as she tried to stand on legs that weren’t quite ready to bear her. She was shaking, her whole body trembling with shock and delayed reaction.
‘I’ve got you,’ Brodie said quietly. ‘You’re safe now. It’s over.’
