The Falls

3

‘I was expecting some pavement artist,’ Donald Devlin said. To Rebus’s eyes, he was wearing the exact same clothes as when they’d last met. The retired pathologist was seated at a desk beside a computer and the only detective at Gayfield Square who seemed to know how to use the Facemaker programme. Facemaker was a database of eyes, ears, noses and lips, consolidated by special effects which could morph the details. Rebus got an idea of how the Farmer’s old colleagues had been able to graft his features on to beefcake torsos.

‘Things have moved on a little,’ was all Rebus said, in reply to Devlin’s comment. He was drinking coffee from a local café; not up to his barista’s standards, but better than the stuff from the station’s vending machine. He’d had a broken night, waking up sweating and shaking in his living-room chair. Bad dreams and night sweats. Whatever any doctor could tell him, he knew his heart was okay — he could feel it pumping, doing its work.

Now, the coffee was just barely stopping him from yawning. The detective at the computer had finished the draft and was printing it out.

‘There’s something... something not quite right,’ Devlin said, not for the first time. Rebus took a look. It was a face, anonymous and forgettable. ‘It could almost be female,’ Devlin went on. ‘And I’m pretty sure he was not a she.’

‘How about this?’ the detective asked, clicking the mouse. Onscreen, the face developed a full, bushy beard.

‘Oh, but that’s absurd,’ Devlin complained.

‘DC Tibbet’s idea of humour, Professor,’ Rebus apologised.

‘I am doing my best, you know.’

‘We appreciate that, sir. Lose the beard, Tibbet.’

Tibbet lost the beard.

‘You’re sure it couldn’t have been David Costello?’ Rebus asked.

‘I know David. It wasn’t him.’

‘How well do you know him?’

Devlin blinked. ‘We spoke several times. Met one another on the stairs one day, and I asked him about the books he was carrying. Milton, Paradise Lost. We started a discussion.’

‘Fascinating, sir.’

‘It was, believe me. The laddie’s got a brain on him.’

Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Think he could kill someone, Professor?’

‘Kill someone? David?’ Devlin laughed. ‘I doubt he’d find it quite cerebral enough, Inspector.’ He paused. ‘Is he still a suspect?’

‘You know what it’s like with police work, Professor. The world’s guilty until proven otherwise.’

‘I thought it was the other way round: innocent until proven guilty.’

‘I think you’re confusing us with lawyers, sir. You say you didn’t really know Philippa?’

‘Again, we passed on the stairs. The difference between David and her is that she never seemed to want to stop.’

‘Bit stuck-up, was she?’

‘I don’t know that I would say that. She was, however, raised in a somewhat rarefied atmosphere, wouldn’t you think?’ He grew thoughtful. ‘I bank with Balfour’s, actually.’

‘Have you met her father then?’

Devlin’s eyes twinkled. ‘Good Lord, no. I’m hardly one of their more important clients.’

‘I meant to ask,’ Rebus said. ‘How’s your jigsaw coming along?’

‘Slowly. But then that’s the inherent pleasure of the thing, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve never been one for jigsaws.’

‘But you like your puzzles. I spoke to Sandy Gates last night, he was telling me all about you.’

‘That must have done BT’s profits a power of good.’

They shared a smile and got back to work.

At the end of an hour, Devlin decided that a previous incarnation had been closer. Thankfully, Tibbet had stored each and every version.

‘Yes,’ Devlin said. ‘It’s far from perfect, but I suppose it’s satisfactory...’ He made to rise from his chair.

‘While you’re here, sir...’ Rebus was reaching into a drawer. He pulled out a fat dossier of photographs. ‘Some pictures we’d like you to look at.’

‘Pictures?’

‘Photos of Ms Balfour’s neighbours, friends from university.’

Devlin was nodding slowly, but with no show of enthusiasm. ‘The process of elimination?’

‘If you feel you’re up to it, Professor.’

Devlin sighed. ‘Perhaps some weak tea to aid concentration...?’

‘I think we can manage weak tea.’ Rebus looked over to Tibbet, who was busy with his mouse. As Rebus got closer, he saw a face on the screen. It was a pretty good resemblance of Devlin’s own, save for the addition of horns. ‘DC Tibbet will fetch it,’ Rebus said.

Tibbet made sure to save the image before rising from his chair...

By the time Rebus got back to St Leonard’s, news was coming in of another thinly veiled search, this time of the lock-up on Calton Road where David Costello garaged his MG sports car. The forensic unit from Howdenhall had been in, finding nothing of apparent consequence. They already knew Flip Balfour’s prints would be all over the car. No surprise either that some of her belongings — a lipstick, a pair of sunglasses — were in the glove compartment. The garage itself was clean.

‘No chest freezer with a padlock on it?’ Rebus guessed. ‘No trapdoor leading to the torture dungeon?’

Distant Daniels shook his head. He was playing errand boy, transferring paperwork between Gayfield and St Leonard’s. ‘A student with an MG,’ he commented, shaking his head again.

‘Never mind the car,’ Rebus told him. ‘That lock-up probably cost more than your flat.’

‘Christ, you could be right.’ The smile they shared was sour. Everyone was busy: highlights of yesterday’s news conference — with Ellen Wylie’s performance edited out — had been broadcast on the nightly news. Now, sightings of the missing student were being followed up, meaning lots of phone calls...

‘DI Rebus?’ Rebus turned towards the voice. ‘My office.’

And it was her office. Already, she was making it her own. Either the bunch of flowers on the filing cabinet had freshened the air, or she’d used something out of a can. The Farmer’s chair had gone, too, replaced by a more utilitarian model. Where the Farmer had often slouched, Gill sat straight-backed, as if poised to rise to her feet. She held a piece of paper out, so that Rebus had to get out of the visitor’s chair to reach it.

‘A place called Falls,’ she said. ‘Do you know it?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Me neither,’ she confided.

Rebus was busy reading the note. It was a telephone message. A doll had been found in Falls.

‘A doll?’ he said.

She nodded. ‘I want you to go take a look.’

Rebus burst out laughing. ‘You’re having me on.’ But when he looked up, her face was blank. ‘Is this my punishment?’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe for being drunk in front of John Balfour.’

‘I’m not that petty.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder.’

She stared at him. ‘Go on, I’m listening.’

‘Ellen Wylie.’

‘What about her?’

‘She didn’t deserve it.’

‘You’re a fan of hers then?’

‘She didn’t deserve it.’

She cocked a hand to her ear. ‘Is there an echo in here?’

‘I’ll keep saying it till you start listening.’

There was silence in the room as they held one another’s stare. When the phone rang, Gill seemed inclined not to answer. Eventually she reached out a hand, eyes still locked on Rebus.

‘Yes?’ She listened for a moment. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll be there.’ She broke eye contact to put the phone down, sighed heavily. ‘I have to go,’ she told Rebus. ‘I’ve a meeting with the ACC. Just go to Falls, will you?’

‘Wouldn’t want to get under your feet.’

‘The doll was in a coffin, John.’ She sounded tired all of a sudden.

‘A kids’ prank,’ he said.

‘Maybe.’

He checked the note again. ‘It says here Falls is East Lothian. Let Haddington or somewhere take it.’

‘I want you to take it.’

‘You’re not serious. It’s a joke, right? Like telling me I tried chatting you up? Like telling me I was to see a doctor?’

She shook her head. ‘Falls isn’t just in East Lothian, John. It’s where the Balfours live.’ She gave him time for this to sink in. ‘And you’ll be getting that appointment any day...’

He drove out of Edinburgh along the A1. Traffic was light, the sun low and bright. East Lothian to him meant golf links and rocky beaches, flat farming land and commuter towns, fiercely protective of their own identities. The area had its share of secrets — caravan parks where Glasgow criminals came to hide — but it was essentially a calm place, a destination for day-trippers, or somewhere you might detour through on the route south to England. Towns such as Haddington, Gullane and North Berwick always seemed to him reserved, prosperous enclaves, their small shops supported by local communities which looked askance at the retail-park culture of the nearby capital. Yet Edinburgh was exerting its influence: house prices in the city were forcing more people further out, while the green belt found itself eroded by housing and shopping developments. Rebus’s own police station was on one of the main arteries into town from the south and east, and over the past ten years or so he’d noticed the increase of rush-hour traffic, the slow, pitiless convoy of commuters.

Falls wasn’t easy to find. Trusting to instinct rather than his map-book, he managed to miss a turning and ended up in Drem. While there, he stopped long enough to buy two bags of crisps and a can of Irn-Bru, had a bit of a picnic right there in the car, his window down. He still thought he was out here to prove a point, the point being to put him in his place. And as far as his new Detective Chief Super was concerned, that place was some distant outpost called Falls. Snack finished, he found himself whistling a tune he only half remembered. Some song about living beside a waterfall. He got the feeling it was something Siobhan had taped for him, part of his education in post-seventies music. Drem was just a single main street, and that street was quiet around him. The odd passing car or lorry, but no one on the pavement. The shopkeeper had tried engaging him in conversation, but Rebus hadn’t had anything to add to her remarks about the weather, and he hadn’t been about to ask directions to Falls. He didn’t want to look like a bloody tourist.

He got the map-book out instead. Falls barely registered as a dot. He wondered how the place had come by its name. Knowing how things went, he wouldn’t be surprised to find that it had some obscure local pronunciation: Fails or Fallis, something like that. It took him only another ten minutes along winding roads, dipping and rising like a gentle roller-coaster, before he found the place. It would have taken less than ten minutes, too, had a combination of blind summits and slow-moving tractor not reduced his progress to a second-gear crawl.

Falls wasn’t quite what he’d been expecting. At its centre was a short stretch of main road with houses either side. Nice detached houses with well-tended gardens, and a row of cottages which fronted the narrow pavement. One of the cottages had a wooden sign outside with the word Pottery painted neatly on it. But towards the end of the village — more of a hamlet actually — was what looked suspiciously like a 1930s council estate, grey semis with broken fences, tricycles sitting in the middle of the road. A patch of grass separated this estate from the main road, and two kids were kicking a ball back and forth between them, with little enthusiasm. As Rebus drove past, their eyes turned to study him, as though he were some rare species.

Then, as suddenly as he’d entered the village, he was out into countryside again. He stopped by the verge. Ahead in the distance he could see what looked like a petrol station. He couldn’t tell if it was still a going concern. The tractor he’d overtaken earlier came past him now, then slowed so it could make a turn into a half-ploughed field. The driver didn’t pay Rebus any heed. He came to a juddering halt and eased himself from the cab. Rebus could hear a radio blaring inside.

Rebus opened his car door, slamming it shut after him. The farmhand still hadn’t paid him any attention. Rebus rested his palms against the waist-high stone wall.

‘Morning,’ he said.

‘Morning.’ The man was tinkering with the machinery at the back of his tractor.

‘I’m a police officer. Do you know where I could find Beverly Dodds?’

‘At home probably.’

‘And where’s home?’

‘See the cottage with the pottery sign?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s her.’ The man’s voice was neutral. He still hadn’t so much as glanced in Rebus’s direction, concentrating instead on the blades of his plough. He was thick-set, with black curly hair and a black beard framing a face that was all creases and curves. For a second, Rebus was reminded of cartoon drawings from the comics of his childhood, strange faces that could be viewed either way up and still make sense. ‘To do with that bloody doll, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Piece of bloody nonsense, going to you lot about that.’

‘You don’t think it has anything to do with Ms Balfour’s disappearance?’

‘Course it hasn’t. Kids from Meadowside, that’s all it is.’

‘You’re probably right. Meadowside’s that patch of houses, is it?’ Rebus nodded back towards the village. He couldn’t see the boys — they, along with Falls, were hidden around a bend — but he thought he could hear the distant thud of the football.

The farmhand nodded agreement. ‘Like I said, waste of time. Still, it’s yours to waste, I suppose... and my taxes paying for it.’

‘Do you know the family?’

‘Which one?’

‘The Balfours.’

The farmhand nodded again. ‘They own this land... some of it, any road.’

Rebus looked around, realising for the first time that there wasn’t a single dwelling or building in sight, other than the petrol station. ‘I thought they just had the house and grounds.’

Now the farmhand shook his head.

‘Where is their place, by the way?’

For the first time, the man locked eyes with Rebus. Satisfied with whatever checks he’d been making, he was cleaning his hands by rubbing them down his faded denims. ‘The track the other end of town,’ he said. ‘About a mile up that way, big gates, you can’t miss them. The falls are up there too, about halfway.’

‘Falls?’

‘The waterfall. You’ll want to see it, won’t you?’

Behind the farmhand, the land rose gently. Hard to imagine any point nearby high enough for a waterfall.

‘Wouldn’t want to waste your tax money on sightseeing,’ Rebus said with a smile.

‘It’s not sightseeing though, is it?’

‘What is it then?’

‘The scene of the bloody crime.’ Exasperation had crept into the man’s voice. ‘Don’t they tell you anything back in Edinburgh...?’

A narrow lane wound uphill out of the village. Anybody passing through would probably assume, as Rebus had, that it was leading to a dead end, maybe turning into somebody’s driveway. But it opened out a little eventually, and at that point Rebus pulled the Saab up on to the verge. There was a stile, as the local had explained. Rebus locked his car — city instinct, hard to resist — and climbed over, into a field where cows were grazing. They showed about as much interest in him as the farmhand had. He could smell them, hear their snorts and munching. He did his best to avoid the cow-pats as he walked towards a line of nearby trees. The trees indicated the route of the stream. This was where the waterfall could be found. It was also where, the previous morning, Beverly Dodds had found a tiny coffin, and within it a doll. When he found the waterfall from which Falls had derived its name, he laughed out loud. The water dropped a full four feet.

‘Not exactly Niagara, are you?’ Rebus crouched down at the foot of the waterfall. He couldn’t be sure exactly where the doll had been lying, but he looked around anyway. It was a scenic spot, probably popular with the locals. A couple of beer cans and some chocolate wrappers had found their way here. He stood up and surveyed the land. Scenic and isolated: no habitations in sight. He doubted anyone had seen whoever placed the doll here, always supposing it hadn’t been washed down from above. Not that there was much above. The burn could be traced in its meandering route down the hillside. He doubted there was anything up there except wilderness. His map didn’t even show the burn, and there’d be no dwellings up there, just hills where you could walk for days without seeing another human soul. He wondered where the Balfours’ house was, then found himself shaking his head. What did it matter? It wasn’t dolls he was chasing out here, coffin or no coffin... it was wild geese.

He crouched down again, rested a hand in the water, palm up. It was cold and clear. He scooped some up, watched it trickle through his fingers.

‘I wouldn’t drink any,’ a voice called. He looked up into the light, saw a woman emerging from the line of trees. She wore a long muslin dress over her thin frame. With the sun behind her, the outline of her figure was discernible beneath the cloth. As she came forward, she ran a hand behind her head to pull back long curly blonde hair, taking it out of her eyes. ‘The farmers,’ she explained. ‘All the chemicals they use run off the soil and into the streams. Organo-phosphates and who knows what.’ She seemed to tremble at the thought.

‘I never touch the stuff,’ Rebus said, drying his hand on his sleeve as he stood up. ‘Are you Ms Dodds?’

‘Everybody calls me Bev.’ She stuck out a skeletal hand which itself was at the end of a tapering arm. Like chicken bones, Rebus thought, making sure not to squeeze too hard.

‘DI Rebus,’ he said. ‘How did you know I was here?’

‘I saw your car. I was watching from my window. When you drove up the lane, I just knew instinctively.’ She bounced on her toes, pleased to have been proved right. She reminded Rebus of a teenager, but her face told a different story: laughter lines around the eyes; the skin of the cheekbones sagging. She had to be in her early fifties, albeit with the zest of someone far younger.

‘You walked?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said, looking down at her open-toed sandals. ‘I was surprised you didn’t come to me first.’

‘I just wanted a look around. Where exactly was it you found this doll?’

She pointed towards the fall of water. ‘Right at the foot, sitting on the bank. It was completely dry.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because I know you’ll have been wondering if it floated downstream.’

Rebus didn’t let on that he’d been thinking exactly this, but she seemed to sense it anyway and bounced on her toes again.

‘And it was out in the open,’ she went on. ‘I don’t think it could have been left there by accident. They’d have noticed and come back for it.’

‘Ever considered a career in the police, Ms Dodds?’

She tutted. ‘Please, call me Bev.’ She didn’t answer his question, but he could see she was pleased by it.

‘I don’t suppose you brought it with you?’

She shook her head, which sent her hair tumbling, so that she had to draw it back again. ‘It’s down in the cottage.’

He nodded. ‘Lived here long, Bev?’

She smiled. ‘Haven’t quite got the accent yet, have I.’

‘You’ve a way to go,’ he admitted.

‘I was born in Bristol, spent more years than I care to remember in London. Divorce sent me scampering, and this is where I ran out of breath.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Five, six years. They still call my home “the Swanston cottage”.’

‘The family who lived there before you?’

She nodded. ‘Falls is that kind of place, Inspector. Why are you smiling?’

‘I wasn’t sure how it would be pronounced.’

She seemed to understand. ‘Funny, isn’t it? I mean, there’s just the one little waterfall, so why “Falls”? Nobody seems to know.’ She paused. ‘It was a mining village.’

His forehead furrowed. ‘Coal mines? Here?’

She stretched out her arm towards the north. ‘A mile or so that way. Little came of it. This was back in the thirties.’

‘Which was when they built Meadowside?’

She nodded.

‘But there’s no mining now?’

‘Not for forty years. I think most of Meadowside is unemployed. That patch of scrubland, it’s not the meadow in question, you know. When they built the first houses there was a proper meadow there, but then they needed more houses... and they built right on top of it.’ She shivered again, and changed the subject. ‘Think you can get your car turned?’

He nodded.

‘Well, take your time,’ she said, beginning to move away. ‘I’ll head back and make some tea. See you at Wheel Cottage, Inspector.’

‘Wheel,’ she explained, pouring water into the teapot, for her potter’s wheel.

‘It began as therapy,’ she went on. ‘After the break-up.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But I found out I was actually quite good at it. I think that surprised quite a number of my old friends.’ The way she said these last two words made Rebus think that these friends had no place in her new life. ‘So maybe “wheel” stands for the wheel of life too,’ she added, lifting the tray and leading him into what she called her ‘parlour’.

It was a small, low-ceilinged room with bright patterns everywhere. There were several examples of what he took to be Beverly Dodds’s work: glazed blue earthenware shaped into dishes and vases. He made sure she noticed him noticing them.

‘Mostly early stuff,’ she said, trying for a dismissive tone. ‘I keep them for sentimental reasons.’ Bangles and bracelets slid down her wrists as she pushed her hair back again.

‘They’re very good,’ he told her. She poured the tea and handed him a robust cup and saucer of the same blue colouring. He looked around the room but couldn’t see any sign of a coffin or doll.

‘In my workshop,’ she said, seeming to read his mind again. ‘I can fetch it, if you like.’

‘Please,’ he said. So she got up and left the room. Rebus was feeling claustrophobic. The tea wasn’t tea at all but some herbal alternative. He considered pouring it into one of the vases, but pulled out his mobile instead, intending to check for messages. The screen was blank, no signal showing. The thick stone walls perhaps; either that or Falls was in a dead zone. He’d known it happen in East Lothian. There was just the one small bookcase in the room: arts and crafts mostly, and a couple of volumes on ‘Wiccan’. Rebus picked one up, started to flip through it.

‘White magic,’ the voice behind him said. ‘A belief in the power of Nature.’

Rebus put the book back and turned towards her.

‘Here we are,’ she said. She was carrying the coffin as though part of some solemn procession. Rebus took a step forward and she held it at arm’s length towards him. He lifted it gently from her, as he felt was expected, and at the same time a thought hurtled through his brain: she’s unhinged... this is all her doing! But his attention was diverted to the coffin itself. It was made of a dark wood, aged oak maybe, and held together with black nails, akin to carpet tacks. The wooden panels had been measured and sawn, the cut edges sandpapered but otherwise untreated. The whole thing was about eight inches long. It wasn’t the work of a professional carpenter; even Rebus, who wouldn’t know an awl from his elbow, could tell that. And then she lifted off the lid for him. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, fixed on his, awaiting his response.

‘It was nailed shut,’ she explained. ‘I prised it open.’

Inside, the small wooden doll lay with arms flat by its sides, its face rounded but blank, dressed in scraps of muslin. It had been carved, but with little artistry, deep grooves in the surface where the chisel had done its work. Rebus tried lifting it out of its box, but his fingers were too clumsy, the space between doll and coffin sides too tight. So he turned the container upside down and the doll slid into his palm. His first thought was to compare the cloth wraparound to the various materials on show in the parlour, but there were no obvious matches.

‘The cloth’s quite new and clean,’ she was whispering. He nodded. The coffin hadn’t been outdoors long. It hadn’t had time to stain or suffer damp.

‘I’ve seen some strange things, Bev...’ Rebus said, his voice trailing off. ‘Nothing else at the scene? Nothing unusual?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘I walk up that way every week. This,’ touching the coffin, ‘was the only thing out of place.’

‘Footprints...?’ Rebus started, but he broke off. It was asking too much of her. But she was ready with an answer.

‘None that I could see.’ She tore her eyes away from the coffin and towards him again. ‘I did look, because I knew it couldn’t just have appeared out of thin air.’

‘Is there anyone in the village who’s keen on woodwork? Maybe a joiner...?’

‘Nearest joiner is Haddington. Offhand, I don’t know anyone who’s... I mean, who in their right mind would do something like this?’

Rebus smiled. ‘I bet you’ve thought about it though.’

She smiled back. ‘I’ve thought of little else, Inspector. I mean, in general maybe I’d shrug something like this off, but with what’s happened to the Balfour girl...’

‘We don’t know anything’s happened,’ Rebus felt bound to say.

‘Surely it’s connected though?’

‘Doesn’t mean it’s not a crank.’ He kept his eyes on hers as he spoke. ‘In my experience, every village has its resident oddball.’

‘Are you saying that I—’ She broke off at the sound of a car drawing up outside. ‘Oh,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘that’ll be the reporter.’

Rebus followed her to the window. A young man was emerging from the driver’s side of a red Ford Focus. In the passenger seat, a photographer was fixing a lens on to his camera. The driver stretched and rolled his shoulders, as though at the end of a long journey.

‘They were here before,’ Bev was explaining. ‘When the Balfour girl first went missing. Left me a card, and when this happened...’ Rebus was following her into the narrow hall as she made for the front door.

‘That wasn’t the cleverest move, Ms Dodds.’ Rebus was trying to keep his anger in check.

Hand on the doorhandle, she half turned towards him. ‘At least they didn’t accuse me of being a crank, Inspector.’

He wanted to say, but they will, but the damage was already done.

The reporter’s name was Steve Holly, and he worked for the Edinburgh office of a Glasgow tabloid. He was young, early twenties, which was good: maybe he’d take a telling. If they’d sent one of the old pros out, Rebus wouldn’t even have bothered trying.

Holly was short and a bit overweight, his hair gelled into a jagged line, reminding Rebus of the single strand of barbed wire you got at the top of a farmer’s fence. He had a notebook and pen in one hand, and shook Rebus’s with the other.

‘Don’t think we’ve met,’ he said, in a way that made Rebus suspect his name was not unknown to the reporter. ‘This is Tony, my glamorous assistant.’ The photographer snorted. He was hefting a camera bag over one shoulder. ‘What we thought, Bev, is if we take you to the waterfall, have you picking the coffin up off the ground.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Saves the hassle of setting up an interior shot,’ Holly went on. ‘Not that Tony would mind. But stick him in a room and he comes over all creative and arty.’

‘Oh?’ She looked appraisingly at the photographer. Rebus repressed a smile: the words ‘creative’ and ‘arty’ had different connotations for the reporter and Bev. But Holly was quick to pick up on it, too. ‘I could send him back later, if you like. Do a nice portrait of you, maybe in your studio.’

‘It’s hardly a studio,’ Bev countered, stroking a finger down her neck, enjoying the thought. ‘Just the spare bedroom with my wheel and some drawings. I pinned white sheets to the walls to help with the light.’

‘Speaking of light,’ Holly broke in, staring at the sky meaningfully, ‘we’d better get a move on, eh?’

‘Perfect just now,’ the photographer explained to Bev. ‘Won’t stay that way for long.’

Bev looked up too, nodding agreement, one artist to another. Rebus had to admit: Holly was good.

‘Do you want to stay here, mind the fort?’ he was now asking Rebus. ‘We’ll only be fifteen minutes.’

‘I’ve got to get back to Edinburgh. Any chance I can have your number, Mr Holly?’

‘Should have my card somewhere.’ The reporter began searching his pockets, produced a wallet and from it a business card.

‘Thanks,’ Rebus said, taking it. ‘And if I could have a quick word...?’

As he led Holly a few steps away, he saw that Bev was standing close beside the photographer, asking him if her clothes were suitable. He got the feeling she missed the presence of another artist in the village. Rebus turned his back on them, the better to mask what he was about to say.

‘Have you seen this doll thing?’ Holly was asking. Rebus nodded. Holly wrinkled his nose. ‘Reckon we’re wasting our time?’ His tone was matey, inviting the truth.

‘Almost certainly,’ Rebus said, not believing it, and knowing that once Holly saw the bizarre carving he wouldn’t believe it either. ‘It’s a day out of the city anyway,’ Rebus went on, forcing levity into his tone.

‘Can’t stand the countryside,’ Holly admitted. ‘Too far from the carbon monoxide for my liking. Surprised they sent a DI...’

‘We have to treat each lead seriously.’

‘Sure you do, I understand that. I’d still have sent a DC or DS, tops.’

‘Like I say—’ But Holly was turning away from him, ready to get back to work. Rebus gripped his arm. ‘You know that if this does turn out to be evidence, we could want it kept quiet?’

Holly nodded perfunctorily and tried for an American accent. ‘Get your people to speak to my people.’ He released his arm and turned back to Bev and the photographer. ‘Here, Bev, that what you’re wearing? I just thought, nice day like this, maybe you’d be comfier in a shorter skirt...’

Rebus drove back up the lane, not stopping by the stile this time, keeping going, wondering what else he might find. A half-mile further along, a wide driveway surfaced with pink chippings ended abruptly in a set of tall wrought-iron gates. Rebus pulled over and got out of the car. The gates were padlocked shut. Beyond them he could see the driveway curve through a forest, the trees blocking any view of a house. There were no signs, but he knew this had to be Junipers. High stone walls either side of the gates, but eventually tapering down to a more manageable height. Rebus left his car, walked a hundred yards down the main road, then hoisted himself over the wall and into the trees.

He got the feeling that if he tried a short cut, he could end up wandering the woods for hours, so he made for the driveway and hoped that around the curve he wouldn’t find another, and another after that.

Which was precisely what he did find. He wondered idly about deliveries: how did the postman get on? Probably not something that concerned a man like John Balfour. He’d walked a full five minutes before the house came into view. Its walls had aged the colour of slate, an elongated two-storey Gothic confection with turrets either end. Rebus didn’t bother getting too close, couldn’t even be sure there’d be anyone home. He supposed there’d be security of some kind — maybe a police officer manning the phone — but if so it was low-key. The house looked on to a spread of manicured lawn, flowerbeds either side. There was what looked like a paddock beyond the far end of the main building. No cars or garages, probably out of sight around the back. He couldn’t imagine anyone actually being happy in such a dour setting. The house almost seemed to have a frown on it, a warning against gaiety and ill manners. He wondered if Philippa’s mother felt like an exhibit in some locked museum. Then he caught sight of a face at an upstairs window, but as soon as he saw it, it vanished again. Some apparition maybe, but a minute later the front door was hauled open and a woman came running down the steps and on to the gravel driveway. She was heading towards him, wild hair obscuring her face. When she tripped and fell, he ran forwards to help her, but she saw him coming and got quickly to her feet, ignoring her skinned knees and the chippings still sticking to them. A cordless phone had slipped from her hand. She picked it up.

‘Stay away!’ she shrieked. When she pushed the hair away from her face, he saw that it was Jacqueline Balfour. As soon as the words were out, she seemed to regret them, and put up two pacifying hands. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Just... just tell us what it is you want.’

And then he realised, realised that this stricken woman standing before him thought he was her daughter’s abductor.

‘Mrs Balfour,’ he said, raising his own hands, palms out towards her, ‘I’m a police officer.’

She had stopped crying finally, the pair of them seated on the front step, as if she were unwilling to let the house take possession of her again. She kept saying she was sorry, and Rebus kept saying he was the one who should be apologising.

‘I just didn’t think,’ he said. ‘I mean, I didn’t think anyone would be home.’

Nor was she alone. A WPC had come to the door, but had been ordered firmly by Jacqueline Balfour to ‘just go away’. Rebus had asked if she wanted him to go too, but she’d shaken her head.

‘Is there something you’ve come to tell me?’ she asked, handing back his dampened handkerchief. Tears: tears he’d caused. He told her to keep it, and she folded it neatly, then unfolded it and started the process again. She still hadn’t seemed to notice the damage to her knees. Her skirt was tucked between them as she sat.

‘No news,’ he said quietly. Then, seeing all hope drain from her: ‘There might be a lead down in the village.’

‘The village?’

‘Falls.’

‘What sort of lead?’

Suddenly he wished he’d never started. ‘I can’t really say just now.’ An old fallback and one that wouldn’t work here. All she had to do was say something to her husband, and he’d be on the phone, demanding to know. And even if he didn’t, or if he hid the news of the strange find from her, the media would hardly be so tactful...

‘Did Philippa collect dolls?’ Rebus asked now.

‘Dolls?’ She was playing with the cordless phone again, turning it in her hand.

‘It’s just that someone found one, down by the waterfall.’

She shook her head. ‘No dolls,’ she said quietly, as if feeling that somehow there should have been dolls in Philippa’s life, and that their absence reflected badly on her as a mother.

‘It’s probably nothing,’ Rebus said.

‘Probably,’ she agreed, filling the pause.

‘Is Mr Balfour at home?’

‘He’ll be back later. He’s in Edinburgh.’ She stared at the phone. ‘No one’s going to call, are they? John’s business friends, they’ve all been told to keep the line clear. Same thing with family. Keep the line clear in case they phone. But they won’t, I know they won’t.’

‘You don’t think she’s been kidnapped, Mrs Balfour?’

She shook her head.

‘What then?’

She stared at him, her eyes red-veined from crying, and shadowed underneath from lack of sleep. ‘She’s dead.’ It came out almost in a whisper. ‘You think so too, don’t you?’

‘It’s far too early to be thinking that. I’ve known MisPers turn up weeks or months later.’

‘Weeks or months? I can’t bear the thought. I’d rather know... one way or the other.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘About ten days ago. We went shopping in Edinburgh, just the usual places. Not really meaning to buy anything. We had a bite to eat.’

‘Did she come to the house often?’

Jacqueline Balfour shook her head. ‘He poisoned her.’

‘Sorry?’

‘David Costello. He poisoned her memories, made her think she could remember things, things which never happened. That last time we met... Flip kept asking about her childhood. She said it had been miserable for her, that we’d ignored her, hadn’t wanted her. Utter rubbish.’

‘And David Costello put these ideas in her head?’

She straightened her back, took a deep breath and released it. ‘That’s my belief.’

Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Why would he do something like that?’

‘Because of who he is.’ She left the statement hanging in the air. The ringing of the phone was a sudden cacophony. She fumbled to find the right button to press.

‘Hello?’

Then her face relaxed a little. ‘Hello, darling, what time will you be home...?’

Rebus waited till the call was finished. He was thinking of the press conference, the way John Balfour had said ‘I’ rather than ‘we’, as if his wife had no feelings, no existence...

‘That was John,’ she said. Rebus nodded.

‘He’s in London a lot, isn’t he? Doesn’t it get lonely out here?’

She looked at him. ‘I do have friends, you know.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. You probably go into Edinburgh a lot.’

‘Once or twice a week, yes.’

‘Do you see much of your husband’s business partner?’

She looked at him again. ‘Ranald? He and his wife are probably our best friends... Why do you ask?’

Rebus made show of scratching his head. ‘I don’t know. Just making conversation, I suppose.’

‘Well don’t.’

‘Don’t make conversation?’

‘I don’t like it. I feel like everyone’s trying to trap me. It’s like at business parties, John’s always warning me not to give anything away, you never know who’s fishing for some info on the bank.’

‘We’re not competitors here, Mrs Balfour.’

She bowed her head a little. ‘Of course not. I apologise. It’s just...’

‘No need for apologies,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet. ‘This is your home, your rules. Wouldn’t you say?’

‘Well, when you put it like that...’ She seemed to brighten a little. All the same, Rebus reckoned that whenever Jacqueline Balfour’s husband was at home, it was his rules they played by...

Inside the house, he found two colleagues sitting comfortably in the lounge. The WPC introduced herself as Nicola Campbell. The other officer was CID based at Fettes HQ. His name was Eric Bain, more usually called ‘Brains’. Bain was seated at a desk upon which sat a land-line telephone, notebook and pen, and a recording machine, along with a mobile phone connected to a laptop. Having established that the current caller was Mr Balfour, Bain had slid the headphones back down around his neck. He was drinking strawberry yoghurt straight from the pot, and nodded a greeting at Rebus.

‘Cushy number,’ Rebus said, admiring the surroundings.

‘If you don’t mind the crushing boredom,’ Campbell admitted.

‘What’s the deal with the laptop?’

‘It connects Brains to his nerdy friends.’

Bain wagged a finger at her. ‘It’s part of the TT technology: tracking and tracing.’ Concentrating on the last vestiges of his snack, he didn’t see Campbell mouth the word ‘nerd’ at Rebus.

‘Which would be great,’ Rebus said, ‘if there was anything worth the effort.’

Bain nodded. ‘Lots of sympathy calls to start with, friends and family. Impressively low number of crackpots. Not being listed in the book probably helps.’

‘Just remember,’ Rebus warned, ‘the person we’re looking for might be a crackpot too.’

‘Probably no shortage of butters around here,’ Campbell said, crossing her legs. She was seated on one of the room’s three sofas, copies of Caledonia and Scottish Field spread out in front of her. There were other magazines on a table behind her sofa. Rebus got the feeling they belonged to the house, and that she’d read each and every one of them at least once.

‘How do you mean?’ he asked.

‘Been through the village yet? Albinos in the trees picking at banjos?’

Rebus smiled. Bain looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t see any,’ he said.

Campbell’s look said it all: that’s because in some parallel world, you’re up in the trees with them...

‘Tell me something,’ Rebus said, ‘at the press conference, Mr Balfour mentioned his mobile phone...’

‘Shouldn’t have done that,’ Bain said, shaking his head. ‘We’d asked him not to.’

‘Not so easy to trace a mobile call?’

‘They’re more flexible than land-lines, aren’t they?’

‘But still traceable?’

‘Up to a point. Lot of dodgy mobiles out there. We could trace one to an account, only to find it’d been nicked the previous week.’

Campbell suppressed a yawn. ‘You see how it is?’ she told Rebus. ‘Thrill after thrill after thrill...’

He took his time heading back into town, aware of traffic picking up in the opposite direction. The rush hour was starting, executive cars streaming back into the countryside. He knew of people who commuted to and from Edinburgh every day now from as far afield as the Borders, Fife and Glasgow. They all said housing was to blame. A three-bedroom semi in a nice part of the city could cost £250,000 or more. For that money, you could buy a big detached place in West Lothian, or half a street in Cowdenbeath. On the other hand, Rebus had had cold callers to his flat in Marchmont. He’d had letters addressed to ‘The Occupier’ from desperate buyers. Because that was the other thing about Edinburgh: no matter how high the prices seemed to go, there were always buyers. In Marchmont it was often landlords, looking for something to add to their portfolio, or parents whose kids wanted a flat near the university. Rebus had lived in his tenement twenty-odd years, and had seen the area change. Fewer families and old people, more students and young, childless couples. The groups didn’t seem to mix. People who’d lived in Marchmont all their lives watched their children move away, unable to afford a place nearby. Rebus didn’t know anyone in his tenement now, or the ones either side of him. As far as he could tell, he was the only owner-occupier left. More worrying still, he seemed to be the oldest person there. And still the letters and offers came, and the prices kept rising.

Which was why he was moving out. Not that he’d found a place to buy yet. Maybe he’d go back into the rental market, that way he had freedom of choice: a year in a country cottage, then a year by the seaside, and a year or two above a pub... The flat was too big for him, he knew that. Nobody ever stayed in the spare bedrooms, and many nights he slept on the chair in the living room. A studio flat would be big enough for him; everything else was excess.

Volvos, BMWs, sporty Audis... they were all passing him on their way home. Rebus was wondering if he wanted to commute. From Marchmont he could walk to work. It took about fifteen minutes, the only exercise he ever got. He wouldn’t fancy the drive every day between Falls and the city. The streets had been quiet when he’d been there, but he guessed tonight the narrow main road would be lined with cars.

When he started looking for a parking space in Marchmont, however, he was reminded of another reason for moving out. In the end, he left the Saab on a yellow line, and went into the nearest shop for an evening paper, milk, rolls and bacon. He’d called into the station, asked if he was needed: he wasn’t. Back in his flat, he took a can of beer from the fridge and settled into his chair by the living-room window. The kitchen was more of a mess than usual: some of the hall stuff was in there while the rewiring went on. He didn’t know when the electrics had last been done. He didn’t think they’d been touched since he bought the place. After the rewiring, he had a painter booked to slap on some magnolia, freshen the place up. He’d been told not to make too many renovations: whoever bought the place would probably just do it all over again anyway. Rewiring and decorating: he’d stop at that. The Property Centre had said it was impossible to tell how much he’d get for the place. In Edinburgh, you put your home on the market for ‘offers over’, but that premium could reach thirty or forty per cent. A conservative estimate valued his Arden Street shell at £125,000 to £140,000. There was no mortgage outstanding. It was cash in the bank.

‘You could retire on that,’ Siobhan had told him. Well, maybe. He’d have to split it with his ex-wife, he supposed, even though he’d written her a cheque for her share of the place soon after they’d split up. And he could slip some money to Sammy, his daughter. Sammy was another reason for selling, or so he told himself. After her accident, she was finally out of the wheelchair but still used a pair of sticks. Two flights of tenement stairs were beyond her... not that she’d been a regular visitor even before the hit-and-run.

He didn’t have many visitors, was not a good host. When his ex, Rhona, had moved out, he’d never got round to filling the gaps she’d left. Someone had once described the flat as ‘a cave’, and there was some truth in this. It provided a form of shelter for him, and that was about all he asked of it. The students next door were playing something semi-raucous. It sounded like bad Hawkwind from twenty years before, which probably meant it was by some fashionable new band. He looked through his own collection, came up with the tape Siobhan had made, and put it on. The Mutton Birds: three songs from one of their albums. They came from New Zealand, somewhere like that, and one of the instruments had been recorded here in Edinburgh. That was about as much as she could tell him about them. The second song was ‘The Falls’.

He sat back down again. There was a bottle on the floor: Talisker, a clean, honed taste. Glass beside it, so he poured, toasted the reflection in the window, leaned back and closed his eyes. He wasn’t having this room redecorated. He’d done it himself not that long back, his old friend and ally Jack Morton helping. Jack was dead now, one of too many ghosts. Rebus wondered if he’d leave them behind when he moved. Somehow he doubted it, and deep down, he would miss them anyway.

The music was all about loss and redemption. Places changing and people with them, dreams shifting ever further beyond reach. Rebus didn’t think he’d be sorry to see the back of Arden Street. It was time for a change.