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.