‘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 h
im 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 nutters 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 s
aid.
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.