The Falls

14

It was a Sunday afternoon of sharp, low sunlight, the shadows impossibly long and skewed into an elastic geometry. Trees bowed by the wind, clouds moving like oiled machines. Falls, twinned with Anguish... Rebus drove past the signpost, glanced towards Jean, quiet in the passenger seat. She’d been quiet all week; slow to answer her phone or come to the door. The doctor’s words: nothing time can’t heal...

He’d given her the option, but she’d decided to come with him. They parked next to a sparkling BMW. There were traces of soapy water in the gutters. Rebus pulled on the hand-brake and turned to Jean.

‘I’ll only be a minute. You want to wait here?’

She thought about it, then nodded. He reached into the back for the coffin. It was wrapped in newspaper, a frontpage headline by Steven Holly. He got out of the car, leaving his door open. Knocked on the door of Wheel Cottage.

Bev Dodds answered. She had a smile fixed to her face and a frilly apron tied across her chest.

‘Sorry, not a tourist,’ Rebus said. Her smile faded. ‘Doing a roaring trade in tea and buns?’

‘What can I do for you?’

He lifted up the parcel. ‘Thought you might like this back. It’s yours, after all, isn’t it?’

She parted the sheets of newsprint. ‘Oh, thanks,’ she said.

‘It really is yours, isn’t it?’

She wouldn’t look at him. ‘Finders keepers, I suppose...’

But he was shaking his head. ‘I mean, you made it, Ms Dodds. This new sign of yours...’ He nodded in its direction. ‘Care to tell me who made it? I’m willing to bet you did it yourself. Nice piece of wood... I’m guessing you’ve a few chisels and such-like.’

‘What do you want?’ Her voice had grown chilly.

‘When I brought Jean Burchill here — there she is in the car, and she’s fine by the way, thanks for asking — when I brought her here, you said you often went to the Museum.’

‘Yes?’ She was staring over his shoulder, but averted her gaze when Jean’s eyes met hers.

‘Yet you’d never come across the Arthur’s Seat coffins.’ Rebus affected a frown. ‘It should have clicked with me right there.’ He stared at her, but she didn’t say anything. He watched her neck redden, watched her turn the coffin in her hands. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘brought you some extra business, eh? But I’ll tell you one thing...’

Her eyes were liquid; she brought them up to meet his. ‘What?’ she asked, voice cracking.

He pointed a finger at her. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t tag you sooner. I might have said something to Donald Devlin. And then you’d look like Jean back there, if not a damned sight worse.’

He turned away, headed back to the car. On the way, he unhooked the ‘Pottery’ sign and tossed it into the gutter. She was still watching from her doorway as he started the ignition. A couple of day-trippers were approaching along the pavement. Rebus knew exactly where they were headed and why. He made sure to turn the steering-wheel hard, running the sign over, front and back tyres both.

On the way back into Edinburgh, Jean asked if they were going to Portobello. He nodded, and asked if that was okay with her.

‘It’s fine,’ she told him. ‘I need someone to help me move that mirror out of the bedroom.’ He looked at her. ‘Just until the bruises have healed,’ she said quietly.

He nodded his understanding. ‘Know what I need, Jean?’

She turned towards him. ‘What?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘I was hoping you might tell me...’