‘How did that feel?’
Gill held up a finger. ‘Don’t push this, Siobhan. I’ve enough on my plate as it is.’ It seemed she was about to say something more, but she merely wagged the finger and forced a smile. ‘We’ll talk later,’ she said, sliding past Siobhan and pushing open the door to the loos. Then she paused. ‘Ellen’s no longer liaison officer. I was thinking of asking you … ’ The door closed behind her.
‘Don’t do me any favours,’ Siobhan said, but she said it to the same closed door. It was as if Gill had hardened overnight, the humiliation of Ellen Wylie an early show of strength. The thing was … Siobhan did want liaison, but at the same time she felt disgusted with herself, because she’d enjoyed watching the press conference. She’d enjoyed Ellen Wylie’s defeat.
When Gill emerged from the toilets, Siobhan was sitting on a chair in the corridor. Gill stood over her, gazing down.
‘The spectre at the feast,’ she commented, turning away.
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 cafe; 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 Al. 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 Haddingion, 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 sigu 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 farm hand 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 sigu?’
'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 farm hand 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 farm hand 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 farm hand 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 farm hand, 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 any
thing 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 farm hand 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 Balfour’s 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.