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 him 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?’