‘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?’