‘There’s a door back there,’ David Duffy said, pointing to the far wall. ‘Where they used to wheel the bodies in from the hearses. It leads directly outside, easier than trying to get back up those stairs.’
They moved through the basement, Breck manhandling Sherlock while Brodie supported Lucy, Duffy leading the way with Brodie’s torch. The door Duffy had indicated was heavy steel, but it opened onto a ramp that led up to ground level, to the sweet summer air that tasted like freedom after the chemical stench of the basement.
Lucy stumbled, nearly falling, but Brodie held her upright, his arm steady around her shoulders.
‘Backup,’ Brodie said, pulling out his phone with his free hand. ‘We need backup, an ambulance, forensics. And transport for our prisoner.’
As he made the call, relaying their location and situation, he kept his eyes on Sherlock, who was now on the ground again under Breck’s watchful eye. The pathologist had gone quiet, hisearlier confidence completely evaporated. He looked smaller now, diminished, just a man in cuffs rather than the monster he’d been in the basement.
It was finally over.
Seven years of hunting, of wondering, of living with the knowledge that The Embalmer had vanished without being caught. Seven years of carrying the weight of those unsolved murders, of the families who’d never got justice when the case went cold.
And now, standing in the cold morning mist outside an abandoned funeral parlour, Brodie felt the weight begin to lift.
Lucy was alive. They’d stopped Sherlock before he could complete his final exhibition. And Alan McRae, missing for weeks, would at least be returned to his sister for proper burial.
‘Sir,’ Lucy said, her voice hoarse from the gag and terror. ‘Thank you. If you hadn’t figured out the sand, if you hadn’t come?—’
‘Don’t,’ Brodie said gently. ‘Don’t think about what might have happened. You’re alive, and that’s what matters.’ He smiled at her. ‘We’re even now. You saved my life three years ago when Gabriel Kane tried to kill me.’
Lucy just smiled weakly at him and Brodie felt something catch in his throat. He couldn’t imagine Lucy not being on his team.
In the distance, they could hear sirens – multiple vehicles, coming fast. Backup was on the way, would be here in minutes. They just had to hold on, keep Sherlock secure, and make sure Lucy was cared for.
David Duffy stood apart from them, his arms wrapped around himself, looking lost and broken. Brodie would need to interview him extensively, would need to determine exactly how much he’d known or suspected about his friend’s activities. Butfor now, Duffy had helped save Lucy’s life, had thrown Alan McRae’s corpse at Sherlock to create the distraction they’d needed.
That had to count for something.
‘It’s over,’ Breck said, echoing Brodie’s thoughts. He stood with his boot on Sherlock’s shoulder, keeping him firmly in place. ‘Finally, after all these years, it’s over.’
Sherlock twisted his head and looked up at them, his dark eyes unreadable. ‘It’s never over, detective superintendent. Death is never over. I’ll be remembered for what I created, for the art I made from mortality. You think arresting me ends anything? I’m immortal now. Every textbook on serial killers, every documentary, every true crime podcast – they’ll all discuss my work. I’ve achieved something you never will.’
‘You’ve achieved nothing,’ Brodie said flatly. ‘You killed people. That’s all. There’s no art in it, no significance. You’re just another murderer who’ll spend the rest of his life in prison, forgotten by everyone except the families of your victims.’
For the first time, uncertainty crossed Sherlock’s face. ‘No. No, you’re wrong. I created something meaningful, something that will last?—’
‘You created nothing but grief,’ Lucy said, her voice stronger now despite her ordeal. ‘And you’re going to rot in a cell for it.’
Brodie held Lucy steady, watching the track for the first signs of the approaching vehicles. His phone was still in his hand, and he glanced down at it, seeing missed calls from Art and Cameron, text messages asking if he was all right, if they’d found Lucy. Breck had called Art, just to keep him in the loop.
He’d call them back soon, let them know everyone was safe, that the case was finally closed.
But for now, standing in the warm morning air with Lucyalive beside him and The Embalmer finally in custody, Brodie allowed himself a moment of something approaching peace.
They’d done it. After seven years, after too many victims, after months of investigation that had consumed every waking hour, they’d done it.
The game was over.
And this time, they’d won.
36
A MONTH LATER
Saturday
The Royal Edinburgh Hospital’s secure wing existed in a strange kind of silence – not the peaceful quiet of ordinary spaces, but the manufactured hush of a place where sound was controlled, monitored, managed. Brodie walked down the corridor, his footsteps absorbed by industrial carpeting, past doors with reinforced windows and magnetic locks that required authorisation to open.
