The Falls

by Ian Rankin

  ‘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 A1. 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 Haddington, 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 sign 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 farmhand 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 sign?’

  ‘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 farmhand 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 farmhand 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 farmhand 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 hi
s 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 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.

  ‘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.