The Falls

5

Saturday he went to the football with Siobhan. Easter Road was bathed in sunshine, the players throwing long shadows across the pitch. For a while, Rebus found himself following this shadow-play rather than the game itself: black puppet shapes, not quite human, playing something that wasn’t quite football. The ground was full, as only happened with local derbies and when Glasgow came to town. Today it was Rangers. Siobhan had a season ticket. Rebus was in the seat next to her, thanks to another season-ticket holder who couldn’t make it.

‘Friend of yours?’ Rebus asked her.

‘Bumped into him once or twice in the pub after the match.’

‘Nice guy?’

‘Nice family guy.’ She laughed. ‘When are you going to stop trying to marry me off?’

‘I was only asking,’ he said with a grin. He’d noticed that TV cameras were covering the game. They would concentrate on the players, the spectators a background blur or piece of half-time filler. But it was the fans who really interested Rebus. He wondered what stories they could tell, what lives they’d led. He wasn’t alone: around him other spectators seemed equally interested in the antics of the crowd rather than anything happening on the pitch. But Siobhan, knuckles white as she clenched either end of her supporter’s scarf, brought the same concentration to the game as she did to police work, yelling out advice to the players, arguing each refereeing decision with fans nearby. The man on Rebus’s other side was equally fevered. He was overweight, red-faced and sweating. To Rebus’s eyes, he seemed on the verge of a coronary. He’d mutter to himself, the noise growing in intensity until there was a final defiant hurl of abuse, after which he’d look around, smile sheepishly, and begin the whole process again.

‘Easy... take it easy, son,’ he was now telling one of the players.

‘Anything happening your end of the case?’ Rebus asked Siobhan.

‘Day off, John.’ Her eyes never left the pitch.

‘I know, I was just asking...’

‘Easy now... go on, son, on you go.’ The sweating man was gripping the back of the seat in front of him.

‘We can have a drink after,’ Siobhan said.

‘Try and stop me,’ Rebus told her.

‘That’s it, son, that’s the way!’ The voice growing the way a wave would. Rebus took out another cigarette. The day might be bright, but it wasn’t warm. The wind was whipping in from the North Sea, the gulls overhead working hard to stay airborne.

‘Go on now!’ the man was yelling. ‘Go on! Get right into that fat Hun bastard!’

Then the look around, the sheepish grin. Rebus got his cigarette lit at last and offered one to the man, who shook his head.

‘It relieves stress, you know, the shouting.’

‘Might relieve yours, pal,’ Rebus said, but anything after that was drowned out as Siobhan joined a few thousand others in rising up to scream their reasoned and objective judgement concerning some infringement Rebus — along with the referee — had missed.

Her usual pub was heaving. Even so, people were still piling in. Rebus took one look and suggested somewhere else. ‘It’s a five-minute walk, and it’s got to be quieter.’

‘Okay then,’ she said, but her tone was one of disappointment. The after-match drink was a time for analysis, and she knew Rebus’s abilities in this field were somewhat lacking.

‘And tuck that scarf away,’ he ordered. ‘Never know where you’ll bump into a blue-nose.’

‘Not down here,’ she said confidently. She was probably right. The police presence outside the stadium had been large and knowledgeable, channelling Hibs fans down Easter Road while the visitors from Glasgow were dispatched back up the hill towards the bus and railway stations. Siobhan followed Rebus as he cut through Lorne Street and came out on Leith Walk, where weary shoppers were struggling home. The pub he had in mind was an anonymous affair with bevelled windows and an oxblood carpet pocked with cigarette burns and blackened gum. Game-show applause crackled from the TV, while two old-timers carried out a swearing competition in the corner.

‘You sure know how to treat a lady,’ Siobhan complained.

‘And would the lady like a Bacardi Breezer? Maybe a Moscow Mule.’

‘Pint of lager,’ Siobhan said defiantly. Rebus ordered himself a pint of Eighty with a malt on the side. As they took their seats, Siobhan told him he seemed to know every bad pub in the city.

‘Thanks,’ he said without a trace of irony. ‘So,’ he lifted his glass, ‘what’s the news on Philippa Balfour’s computer?’

‘There’s a game she was playing. I don’t know much about it. It’s run by someone called Quizmaster. I’ve made contact with him.’

‘And?’

‘And,’ she sighed, ‘I’m waiting for him to get back to me. So far I’ve sent a dozen e-mails and no joy.’

‘Any other way we can track him down?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘What about the game?’

‘I don’t know the first thing about it,’ she admitted, attacking her drink. ‘Gill’s beginning to think it’s a dead end. She’s got me interviewing students instead.’

‘That’s because you’ve been to college.’

‘I know. If Gill’s got a flaw, it’s that she’s literal-minded.’

‘She speaks very highly of you,’ Rebus said archly, gaining him a punch on the arm.

Siobhan’s face changed as she picked up her glass again. ‘She offered me the liaison post.’

‘I thought she might. Are you going to take it?’ He watched her shake her head. ‘Because of what happened to Ellen Wylie?’

‘Not really.’

‘Then why?’

She shrugged. ‘Not ready for it, maybe.’

‘You’re ready,’ he stated.

‘It’s not real police work though, is it?’

‘What it is, Siobhan, is a step up.’

She looked down at her drink. ‘I know.’

‘Who’s doing the job meantime?’

‘I think Gill is.’ She paused. ‘We’re going to find Flip’s body, aren’t we?’

‘Maybe.’

She looked at him. ‘You think she’s still alive?’

‘No,’ he said bleakly, ‘I don’t.’

That night he hit a few more bars, sticking close to home at first, then hailing a taxi outside Swany’s and asking to be taken to Young Street. He made to light up but the driver asked him not to, and he noticed the No Smoking signs.

Some detective I am, he told himself. He’d spent as much time as possible away from the flat. The rewiring had come to a halt Friday at five o’clock with half the floorboards still up and runs of cable straggling everywhere. Skirting-boards had been uprooted, exposing the bare wall behind. The sparkies had left their tools — ‘be safe enough here’, they’d quipped, knowing his profession. They’d said they might manage Saturday morning, but they hadn’t. So that was him for the weekend, stumbling over lengths of wire and every second floorboard either missing or loose. He’d eaten breakfast in a café, lunch in a pub, and was now harbouring lubricious thoughts of a haggis supper with a smoked sausage on the side. But first, the Oxford Bar.

He’d asked Siobhan what her own plans were.

‘A hot bath and a good book,’ she’d told him. She’d been lying. He knew this because Grant Hood had told half the station he was taking her on a date, his reward for lending her his laptop. Not that Rebus had said anything to her: if she didn’t want him to know, that was fair enough. But knowing, he hadn’t bothered trying to tempt her with an Indian meal or a film. Only when they were parting outside the pub on Leith Walk had it struck him that maybe this had been bad manners on his part. Two people with no apparent plans for Saturday night: wouldn’t it have been natural for him to ask her out? Would she now be offended?

‘Life’s too short,’ he told himself, paying off the taxi. Heading into the pub, seeing the familiar faces, those words stayed with him. He asked Harry the barman for the phone book.

‘It’s over there,’ Harry answered, obliging as ever.

Rebus flipped through but couldn’t find the number he wanted. Then he remembered she’d given him her business card. He found it in his pocket. Her home number had been added in pencil. He stepped back outdoors again and fired up his mobile. No wedding ring, he was sure of that... The phone was ringing. Saturday night, she was probably...

‘Hello?’

‘Ms Burchill? It’s John Rebus here. Sorry to call you on a Saturday night.’

‘That’s all right. Is something the matter?’

‘No, no... I just wondered if maybe we could meet. It was all very mysterious, what you said about there being other dolls.’

She laughed. ‘You want to meet now?’

‘Well, I was thinking maybe tomorrow. I know it’s the day of rest and all, but we could maybe mix business with pleasure.’ He winced as the words came out. He should have thought it all through first: what he was going to say, how he was going to say it.

‘And how could we do that?’ she asked, sounding amused. He could hear music in the background: something classical.

‘Lunch?’ he suggested.

‘Where?’

Where indeed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken someone to lunch. He wanted somewhere impressive, somewhere...

‘I’m guessing,’ she said, ‘that you like a fry-up on a Sunday.’ It was almost as if she could feel his discomfort and wanted to help.

‘Am I so transparent?’

‘Quite the opposite. You’re a flesh-and-blood Scottish male. I, on the other hand, like something simple, fresh and wholesome.’

Rebus laughed. ‘The word “incompatible” springs to mind.’

‘Maybe not. Where do you live?’

‘Marchmont.’

‘Then we’ll go to Fenwick’s,’ she stated. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘Great,’ he said. ‘Half-twelve?’

‘I look forward to it. Goodnight, Inspector.’

‘I hope you’re not going to call me Inspector all the way through lunch.’

In the silence that followed, he thought he could hear her smiling.

‘See you tomorrow, John.’

‘Enjoy the rest of your...’ But the connection was dead. He went back inside the pub and grabbed the phone book again. Fenwick’s: Salisbury Place. Less than a twenty-minute walk from his flat. He must have driven past it a dozen times. It was fifty yards from Sammy’s accident, fifty yards from where a killer had tried to stick a knife in him. He would make the effort tomorrow, push those memories aside.

‘Same again, Harry,’ he said, bouncing on his toes.

‘You’ll wait your turn like everyone else,’ Harry growled at him. It didn’t matter to Rebus; didn’t bother him at all.

He was ten minutes early.

She walked in only five minutes later, so she was early too. ‘Nice place,’ he told her.

‘Isn’t it?’ She was wearing a black two-piece over a grey silk blouse. A blood-red brooch sparkled just above her left breast.

‘Do you live nearby?’ he asked.

‘Not exactly: Portobello.’

‘But that’s miles away! You should have said.’

‘Why? I like this place.’

‘You eat out a lot?’ He was still trying to digest the fact that she’d come all the way into Edinburgh for lunch.

‘Whenever I can. One of the perks of my PhD is that I call myself “Dr Burchill” whenever I’m making a booking.’

Rebus looked around. Only one other table was occupied: down near the front, a family party by the look of it. Two kids, six adults.

‘I didn’t bother booking for today. It’s never too busy at lunchtime. Now, what shall we have...?’

He thought about a starter and a main course, but she seemed to know that really he wanted the fry-up, so that was what he ordered. She went for soup and duck. They decided to order coffee and wine at the same time.

‘Very brunchy,’ she said. ‘Very Sunday somehow.’

He couldn’t help but agree. She told him he could smoke if he liked, but he declined. There were three smokers at the family table, but the craving was still a little way off.

They talked about Gill Templer to start with, finding common ground. Her questions were canny and probing.

‘Gill can be a bit driven, wouldn’t you say?’

‘She does what she has to.’

‘The pair of you had a fling a while back, didn’t you?’

His eyes widened. ‘She told you that?’

‘No.’ Jean paused, flattened her napkin against her lap. ‘But I guessed it from the way she used to speak about you.’

‘Used to?’

She smiled. ‘It was a long time ago, wasn’t it?’

‘Prehistoric,’ he was forced to agree. ‘What about you?’

‘I hope I’m not prehistoric.’

He smiled. ‘I meant, tell me something about yourself.’

‘I was born in Elgin, parents both teachers. Went to Glasgow University. Dabbled in archaeology. Doctorate from Durham University, then post-doctoral studies abroad — the USA and Canada — looking at nineteenth-century migrants. I got a job as a curator in Vancouver, then came back here when the opportunity arose. The old museum for the best part of twelve years, and now the new one.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s about it.’

‘How do you know Gill?’

‘We were at school together for a couple of years, best mates. Lost touch for a while...’

‘You never married?’

She looked down at her plate. ‘For a while, yes, in Canada. He died young.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Bill drank himself to death, not that his family would ever believe it. I think that’s why I came back to Scotland.’

‘Because he died?’

She shook her head. ‘If I’d stayed, it would have meant participating in the myth they were busy establishing.’

Rebus thought he understood.

‘You’ve got a daughter, haven’t you?’ she said suddenly, keen to change the subject.

‘Samantha. She’s... in her twenties now.’

Jean laughed. ‘You don’t know how old exactly though?’

He tried a smile. ‘It’s not that. I was going to say that she’s disabled. Probably not something you want to know.’

‘Oh.’ She was silent for a moment, then looked up at him. ‘But it’s important to you, or it wouldn’t have been the first thing you thought of.’

‘True. Except that she’s getting back on her feet again. Using one of those Zimmer frames old people use.’

‘That’s good,’ she said.

He nodded. He didn’t want to go into the whole story, but she wasn’t going to ask him anyway.

‘How’s the soup?’

‘It’s good.’

They sat in silence for a minute or two, then she asked him about police work. Her questions had reverted to the kind you asked of a new acquaintance. Usually Rebus felt awkward talking about the job. He wasn’t sure people were really interested. Even if they were, he knew they didn’t want to hear the unexpurgated version: the suicides and autopsies; the petty grudges and black moods that led people to the cells. Domestics and stabbings, Saturday nights gone wrong, professional thugs and addicts. When he spoke, he was always afraid his voice would betray his passion for the job. He might be dubious about methods and eventual outcomes, but he still got a thrill from the work itself. Someone like Jean Burchill, he felt, could peer beneath the surface of this and watch other things swim into focus. She would realise that his enjoyment of the job was essentially voyeuristic and cowardly. He concentrated on the minutiae of other people’s lives, other people’s problems, to stop him examining his own frailties and failings.

‘Are you planning to smoke that thing?’ Jean sounded amused. Rebus looked down and saw that a cigarette had appeared in his hand. He laughed, took the packet from his pocket and slid the cigarette back in.

‘I really don’t mind,’ Jean told him.

‘Didn’t realise I’d done it,’ he said. Then, to hide his embarrassment: ‘You were going to tell me about these other dolls.’

‘After we’ve eaten,’ she said firmly.

But after they’d eaten, she asked for the bill. They went halves on it, and found themselves outside, the afternoon sun doing its best to remove the chill from the day. ‘Let’s walk,’ she said, sliding her arm through his.

‘Where to?’

‘The Meadows?’ she suggested. So that was where they went.

The sun had brought people out to the tree-lined playing field. Frisbees were being thrown, while joggers and cyclists sped past. Some teenagers were lying with their T-shirts off, cans of cider beside them. Jean was painting some of the area’s history for him.

‘I think there was a pond here,’ she said. ‘There were certainly stone quarries in Bruntsfield, and Marchmont itself was a farm.’

‘More like a zoo these days,’ he said.

She threw him a glance. ‘You work hard on your cynicism, don’t you?’

‘It gets rusty otherwise.’

At Jawbone Walk she decided they should cross the road and start up Marchmont Road. ‘So where exactly is it you live?’ she asked.

‘Arden Street. Just off Warrender Park Road.’

‘Not far then.’

He smiled, trying for eye contact. ‘Are you angling for an invitation?’

‘To be honest, yes.’

‘The place is a tip.’

‘I’d be disappointed if it were anything else. But my bladder says it’ll settle for what’s available...’

He was desperately tidying the living room when he heard the toilet flush. He looked around and shook his head. It was like picking up a duster after a bomb-strike: futile. So instead he went back into the kitchen and spooned coffee into two mugs. The milk in the fridge was Thursday’s, but usable. She was standing in the doorway, watching him.

‘Thank God I have an excuse for all the mess,’ he said.

‘I had my place rewired a few years back,’ she commiserated. ‘At the time, I was thinking of selling.’ When he looked up, she saw she’d hit a chord.

‘I’m putting it on the market,’ he admitted.

‘Any particular reason?’

Ghosts, he could have told her, but he just shrugged instead.

‘A fresh start?’ she guessed.

‘Maybe. Do you take sugar?’ He handed her the mug. She studied its milky surface.

‘I don’t even take milk,’ she told him.

‘Christ, sorry.’ He tried taking the mug from her, but she resisted.

‘This’ll be fine,’ she said. Then she laughed. ‘Some detective. You just watched me drink two cups of coffee in the restaurant.’

‘And never noticed,’ Rebus agreed, nodding.

‘Is there space to sit down in the living room? Now that we’ve got to know one another a little, it’s time to show you the dolls.’

He cleared an area of the dining table. She placed her shoulder-bag on the floor and pulled out a folder.

‘Thing is,’ she said, ‘I know this may sound barmy to some people. So I’m hoping you’ll keep an open mind. Maybe that’s why I wanted to know you a bit better...’

She handed over the folder and he pulled out a sheaf of press cuttings. While she spoke, he started arranging them before him on the table.

‘I came across the first one when someone wrote a letter to the Museum. This was a couple of years back.’ He held up the letter and she nodded. ‘A Mrs Anderson in Perth. She’d heard the story of the Arthur’s Seat coffins and wanted me to know that something similar had happened near Huntingtower.’

The clipping attached to the letter was from the Courier. ‘Mysterious Find Near Local Hotel’: a coffin-shaped wooden box with a scrap of cloth nearby. Found beneath some leaves in a copse when a dog had been out for its daily walk. The owner had taken the box to the hotel, thinking maybe it was some sort of toy. But no explanation had been found. The year was 1995.

‘The woman, Mrs Anderson,’ Jean was saying, ‘was interested in local history. That’s why she kept the cutting.’

‘No doll?’

Jean shook her head. ‘Could be some animal ran off with it.’

‘Could be,’ Rebus agreed. He turned to the second cutting. It was dated 1982 and was from a Glasgow evening paper: ‘Church Condemns Sick Joke Find’.

‘It was Mrs Anderson herself told me about this one,’ Jean explained. ‘A churchyard, next to one of the gravestones. A little wooden coffin, this time with a doll inside, basically a wooden clothes-peg with a ribbon around it.’

Rebus looked at the photo printed in the paper. ‘It looks cruder, balsa wood or something.’

She nodded. ‘I thought it was quite a coincidence. Ever since, I’ve been on the lookout for more examples.’

He separated the two final cuttings. ‘And finding them, I see.’

‘I tour the country, giving talks on behalf of the Museum. Each time, I ask if anyone’s heard of such a thing.’

‘You struck lucky?’

‘Twice so far. Nineteen seventy-seven in Nairn, nineteen seventy-two in Dunfermline.’

Two more mystery finds. In Nairn, the coffin had been found on the beach; in Dunfermline, in the town’s glen. One with a doll in it, one without. Again, an animal or child could have made off with the contents.

‘What do you make of it?’ he asked.

‘Shouldn’t that be my question?’ He didn’t answer, sifted back through the reports. ‘Could there be a link with what you found in Falls?’

‘I don’t know.’ He looked up at her. ‘Why don’t we find out?’

Sunday traffic slowed them down, though most of the cars were heading back into the city after a day in the country.

‘Do you think there could be more?’ he asked.

‘It’s possible. But the local history groups, they pick up on oddities like that — and they’ve got long memories, too. It’s a close network. People know I’m interested.’ She rested her head against the passenger-side window. ‘I think I’d have heard.’

As they passed the road sign welcoming them to Falls, she smiled. ‘Twinned with Angoisse,’ she said.

‘Sorry?’

‘The sign back there, Falls is twinned with some place called Angoisse. It must be in France.’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘Well, there was a picture of the French flag next to the name.’

‘I suppose that would help.’

‘But it’s a French word, too: angoisse. It means “anguish”. Imagine that: a town called anguish...’

There were cars parked either side of the main road, making for a bottleneck. Rebus didn’t think he’d find a space, so turned into the lane and parked there. As they walked down to Bev Dodds’s cottage, they passed a couple of locals washing their cars. The men were middle-aged and casually dressed — cords and V-necks — but wore the clothes like a uniform. Rebus would bet that midweek, they were seldom without a suit and tie. He thought of Wee Billy’s memories: mums scrubbing their front steps. And here was the contemporary equivalent. One of the men said ‘hello’ and the other ‘good afternoon’. Rebus nodded and knocked on Bev Dodds’s door.

‘I think you’ll find she’s taking her constitutional,’ one man said.

‘Shouldn’t be long,’ added the other.

Neither had stopped work on his car. Rebus wondered if they were in some sort of race; not that they were rushing, but there seemed an element of competition, their concentration intense.

‘Looking to buy some pottery?’ the first asked, as he got to work on the front grille of his BMW.

‘Actually, I wanted a look at the doll,’ Rebus said, sliding his hands into his pockets.

‘Don’t think that’s likely. She’s signed some sort of exclusive with one of your rivals.’

‘I’m a police officer,’ Rebus stated.

The Rover owner snorted at his neighbour’s mistake. ‘That might make a difference,’ he said, laughing.

‘Odd sort of thing to happen,’ Rebus said conversationally.

‘No shortage of those around here.’

‘How do you mean?’

The BMW driver rinsed out his sponge. ‘We had a spate of thefts a few months back, then someone daubed the door of the church.’

‘Kids from the estate,’ the Rover driver interrupted.

‘Maybe,’ his neighbour conceded. ‘But it’s funny it never happened before. Then the Balfour girl goes missing...’

‘Do either of you know the family?’

‘Seen them around,’ the Rover driver conceded.

‘They held a tea party two months back. Opened the house. It was for some charity, I forget which. They seemed very pleasant, John and Jacqueline.’ The BMW driver glanced at his neighbour as he spoke the names. Rebus saw it as yet another element of the game their lives had become.

‘What about the daughter?’ Rebus asked.

‘Always seemed a bit distant,’ the Rover driver said hurriedly, not about to be left out. ‘Hard to strike up a conversation with her.’

‘She spoke to me,’ his rival announced. ‘We had quite a chin-wag once about her university course.’

The Rover driver glared at him. Rebus could foresee a duel: dampened chamoises at twenty paces. ‘What about Ms Dodds?’ he asked. ‘Good neighbour, is she?’

‘Bloody awful pottery,’ was the only comment.

‘This doll thing’s probably been good for business though.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ the BMW owner said. ‘If she has any sense, she’ll capitalise on it.’

‘Promotion’s the life-blood of any new business,’ his neighbour added. Rebus got the feeling they knew what they were talking about.

‘Small concession might do wonders,’ BMW man mused. ‘Teas, home baking...’ Both men had stopped working, growing thoughtful.

‘I thought that was your car in the lane,’ Bev Dodds said, striding towards the group.

While tea was being made, Jean asked if she could see some of the pottery. An extension at the back of the cottage housed both the kitchen and the spare bedroom, which had become a studio. Jean praised the various bowls and plates, but Rebus could tell she didn’t like them. Then, as Bev Dodds was sliding the various bangles and bracelets up her arms again, Jean praised those, too.

‘I make them,’ Bev Dodds said.

‘Do you?’ Jean sounded delighted.

Dodds put her arm out so she could take a closer look. ‘Local stones. I wash them and varnish them. I think they act a little like crystals.’

‘Positive energy?’ Jean guessed. Rebus could no longer tell if she was genuinely interested or just faking it. ‘Could I buy one, do you think?’

‘Of course,’ Dodds said delightedly. Her hair was windswept, cheeks red from the walk she’d just taken. She slid one of the bracelets from her wrist. ‘How about this? It’s one of my favourites, and just ten pounds.’

Jean paused at mention of the price, but then smiled and handed over a ten-pound note, which Dodds tucked into her pocket.

‘Ms Burchill works at the museum,’ Rebus said.

‘Really?’

‘I’m a curator.’ Jean had slipped the bracelet on to her wrist.

‘What a wonderful job. Whenever I’m in town, I try to make time for a visit.’

‘Have you heard of the Arthur’s Seat coffins?’ Rebus asked.

‘Steve told me about them,’ Dodds said. Rebus presumed she meant Steve Holly, the reporter.

‘Ms Burchill has an interest in them,’ Rebus said. ‘She’d like to see the doll you found.’

‘Of course.’ She slid open one of the drawers and brought out the coffin. Jean handled it with care, placing it on the kitchen table before examining it.

‘It’s quite well made,’ she said. ‘More like the Arthur’s Seat coffins than those others.’

‘“Others”?’ Bev Dodds asked.

‘Is it a copy of one of them?’ Rebus asked, ignoring this.

‘Not an exact copy, no,’ Jean said. ‘Different nails, and constructed slightly differently, too.’

‘By someone who’d seen the museum exhibit?’

‘It’s possible. You can buy a postcard of the coffins in the museum shop.’

Rebus looked at Jean. ‘Has anyone shown interest in the exhibit recently?’

‘How would I know that?’

‘Maybe a researcher or someone?’

She shook her head. ‘There was a doctoral student last year... but she went back to Toronto.’

‘Is there some connection here?’ Bev Dodds asked, wide-eyed. ‘Something between the museum and the abduction?’

‘We don’t know that anyone’s been abducted,’ Rebus cautioned her.

‘All the same...’

‘Ms Dodds... Bev...’ Rebus fixed her with his eyes. ‘It’s important that this conversation stays confidential.’

When she nodded understanding, Rebus knew that within minutes of them leaving, she’d be on the phone to Steve Holly. He left his tea unfinished.

‘We’d better be off.’ Jean took the hint, and placed her own cup on the draining-board. ‘That was lovely, thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. And thank you for buying the bracelet. My third sale today.’

As they walked back up the lane, two cars passed them. Day-trippers, Rebus guessed, on their way to the waterfall. And afterwards, maybe they’d stop by the pottery, asking to see the famous coffin. They’d probably buy something too...

‘What are you thinking?’ Jean asked, getting into the car and studying the bracelet, holding it up to the light.

‘Nothing,’ Rebus lied. He decided to drive through the village. The Rover and BMW stood drying in the late-afternoon sun. A young couple with two kids stood outside Bev Dodds’s cottage. The father had a video camera in his hand. Rebus gave way to four or five cars, then continued along the road to Meadowside. Three boys — maybe including the two from his previous visit — were playing football on the grass. Rebus stopped and wound down his window, calling out to them. They looked at him, but weren’t about to interrupt their game. He told Jean he’d only be a second, and got out of the car.

‘Hello there,’ he told the boys.

‘Who are you?’ The questioner was skinny, ribs protruding, and thin arms ending in bunched fists. His hair had been shorn to the scalp, and as he squinted into the light he managed to be four-feet-six of aggression and mistrust.

‘I’m the police,’ Rebus said.

‘We haven’t done nothing.’

‘Congratulations.’

The boy kicked the ball hard. It thundered into the upper thigh of one of the other players, leading the third to start laughing.

‘I was wondering if you knew anything about this spate of thefts I’ve been hearing about.’

The boy looked at him. ‘Get a grip,’ he said.

‘With pleasure, son. What’ll it be, your neck or your balls?’ The boy tried for a sneer. ‘Maybe you can tell me something about the church getting vandalised?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘No?’ Rebus sounded surprised. ‘Okay then, last shot... what about this wee coffin that’s been found?’

‘What about it?’

‘Have you seen it?’

The boy shook his head. ‘Tell him to sod off, Chick,’ one of his friends advised.

‘Chick?’ Rebus nodded, to let the boy know he was filing the information away.

‘Never saw the coffin,’ Chick said. ‘No way I’m going to knock on her door.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’s well fucking weird.’ Chick laughed.

‘Weird how?’

Chick was losing patience. Somehow he’d been duped into having a conversation. ‘Weird like the rest of them.’

‘They’re all a bunch of tampons,’ his pal said, coming to rescue him. ‘Let’s go, Chick.’ They ran off, collecting the third boy and the ball on their way. Rebus watched for a moment, but Chick didn’t look back. As he returned to the car, he saw that Jean’s window was down.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so I’m not the world’s best at asking questions of schoolkids.’

She smiled. ‘What did he mean about tampons?’

Rebus turned the ignition and glanced at her. ‘He meant they’re all stuck-up.’ He didn’t add the final word, didn’t need to. Jean knew exactly what he meant...

Late that Sunday night, he found himself on the pavement outside Philippa Balfour’s flat. He still had the set of keys in his pocket, but wasn’t going inside, not after what happened last time. Someone had closed the shutters in her living room and bedroom. No light was being allowed into the flat, none at all.

It was one week since her disappearance, and a reconstruction was under way. A WPC with a passing resemblance to the missing student had been dressed in clothes similar to the ones Flip might have been wearing that evening. A recently bought Versace T-shirt was missing from Flip’s wardrobe, so the WPC was wearing one just like it. She would walk out of the tenement and be photographed by the waiting newsmen. Then she’d walk briskly to the end of the street, where she’d step into a waiting taxi cab, commandeered for the purpose. She’d get out again and start climbing the hill towards the city centre. There would be photographers with her all the way, and uniformed officers stopping pedestrians and drivers, clipboards ready, questions prepared. The WPC would travel all the way to the bar on the South Side...

Two TV crews — BBC and Scottish — were readying to film the reconstruction. News programmes would show snippets of it.

It was an exercise, a way of showing that the police were doing something.

That was all.

Gill Templer, catching Rebus’s eye from the other side of the street, seemed to acknowledge as much with a shrug. Then she went back to her conversation with Assistant Chief Constable Colin Carswell. The ACC seemed to have a few points he wished to get across. Rebus didn’t doubt that the words ‘a swift conclusion’ would figure at least once. From past experience, he knew that when Gill Templer was irritated, she tended to play with a string of pearls she sometimes wore. They were around her neck now, and she had slipped a finger beneath them, running it back and forth. Rebus thought of all Bev Dodds’s bracelets, and what the kid called Chick had said: well fucking weird... Books of Wiccan in her living room, only she didn’t call it that, called it her ‘parlour’ instead. A Stones song popped into his head: ‘Spider and the Fly’, B-side to ‘Satisfaction’. He saw Bev Dodds as a spider, her parlour a web. For some reason the image, though fanciful, stuck with him...