by Ian Rankin
‘After we’ve eaten,’ she said firmly.
But after they’d eaten, she asked for the bill. They went halves on it, and found themselves outside, the afternoon sun doing its best to remove the chill from the day. ‘Let’s walk,’ she said, sliding her arm through his.
‘Where to?’
‘The Meadows?’ she suggested. So that was where they went.
The sun had brought people out to the tree-lined playing field. Frisbees were being thrown, while joggers and cyclists sped past. Some teenagers were lying with their T-shirts off, cans of cider beside them. Jean was painting some of the area’s history for him.
‘I think there was a pond here,’ she said. ‘There were certainly stone quarries in Bruntsfield, and Marchmont itself was a farm.’
‘More like a zoo these days,’ he said.
She threw him a glance. ‘You work hard on your cynicism, don’t you?’
‘It gets rusty otherwise.’
At Jawbone Walk she decided they should cross the road and start up Marchmont Road. ‘So where exactly is it you live?’ she asked.
‘Arden Street. Just off Warrender Park Road.’
‘Not far then.’
He smiled, trying for eye contact. ‘Are you angling for an invitation?’
‘To be honest, yes.’
‘The place is a tip.’
‘I’d be disappointed if it were anything else. But my bladder says it’ll settle for what’s available …’
He was desperately tidying the living room when he heard the toilet flush. He looked around and shook his head. It was like picking up a duster after a bomb-strike: futile. So instead he went back into the kitchen and spooned coffee into two mugs. The milk in the fridge was Thursday’s, but usable. She was standing in the doorway, watching him.
‘Thank God I have an excuse for all the mess,’ he said.
‘I had my place rewired a few years back,’ she commiserated. ‘At the time, I was thinking of selling.’ When he looked up, she saw she’d hit a chord.
‘I’m putting it on the market,’ he admitted.
‘Any particular reason?’
Ghosts, he could have told her, but he just shrugged instead.
‘A fresh start?’ she guessed.
‘Maybe. Do you take sugar?’ He handed her the mug. She studied its milky surface.
‘I don’t even take milk,’ she told him.
‘Christ, sorry.’ He tried taking the mug from her, but she resisted.
‘This’ll be fine,’ she said. Then she laughed. ‘Some detective. You just watched me drink two cups of coffee in the restaurant.’
‘And never noticed,’ Rebus agreed, nodding.
‘Is there space to sit down in the living room? Now that we’ve got to know one another a little, it’s time to show you the dolls.’
He cleared an area of the dining table. She placed her shoulder-bag on the floor and pulled out a folder.
‘Thing is,’ she said, ‘I know this may sound barmy to some people. So I’m hoping you’ll keep an open mind. Maybe that’s why I wanted to know you a bit better …’
She handed over the folder and he pulled out a sheaf of press cuttings. While she spoke, he started arranging them before him on the table.
‘I came across the first one when someone wrote a letter to the Museum. This was a couple of years back.’ He held up the letter and she nodded. ‘A Mrs Anderson in Perth. She’d heard the story of the Arthur’s Seat coffins and wanted me to know that something similar had happened near Huntingtower.’
The clipping attached to the letter was from the Courier. ‘Mysterious Find Near Local Hotel’: a coffin-shaped wooden box with a scrap of cloth nearby. Found beneath some leaves in a copse when a dog had been out for its daily walk. The owner had taken the box to the hotel, thinking maybe it was some sort of toy. But no explanation had been found. The year was 1995.
‘The woman, Mrs Anderson,’ Jean was saying, ‘was interested in local history. That’s why she kept the cutting.’
‘No doll?’
Jean shook her head. ‘Could be some animal ran off with it.’
‘Could be,’ Rebus agreed. He turned to the second cutting. It was dated 1982 and was from a Glasgow evening paper: ‘Church Condemns Sick Joke Find’.
‘It was Mrs Anderson herself told me about this one,’ Jean explained. ‘A churchyard, next to one of the gravestones. A little wooden coffin, this time with a doll inside, basically a wooden clothes-peg with a ribbon around it.’
Rebus looked at the photo printed in the paper. ‘It looks cruder, balsa wood or something.’
She nodded. ‘I thought it was quite a coincidence. Ever since, I’ve been on the lookout for more examples.’
He separated the two final cuttings. ‘And finding them, I see.’
‘I tour the country, giving talks on behalf of the Museum. Each time, I ask if anyone’s heard of such a thing.’
‘You struck lucky?’
‘Twice so far. Nineteen seventy-seven in Nairn, nineteen seventy-two in Dunfermline.’
Two more mystery finds. In Nairn, the coffin had been found on the beach; in Dunfermline, in the town’s glen. One with a doll in it, one without. Again, an animal or child could have made off with the contents.
‘What do you make of it?’ he asked.
‘Shouldn’t that be my question?’ He didn’t answer, sifted back through the reports. ‘Could there be a link with what you found in Falls?’
‘I don’t know.’ He looked up at her. ‘Why don’t we find out?’
Sunday traffic slowed them down, though most of the cars were heading back into the city after a day in the country.
‘Do you think there could be more?’ he asked.
‘It’s possible. But the local history groups, they pick up on oddities like that – and they’ve got long memories, too. It’s a close network. People know I’m interested.’ She rested her head against the passenger-side window. ‘I think I’d have heard.’
As they passed the road sign welcoming them to Falls, she smiled. ‘Twinned with Angoisse,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘The sign back there, Falls is twinned with some place called Angoisse. It must be in France.’
‘How do you work that out?’
‘Well, there was a picture of the French flag next to the name.’
‘I suppose that would help.’
‘But it’s a French word, too: angoisse. It means “anguish”. Imagine that: a town called anguish …’
There were cars parked either side of the main road, making for a bottleneck. Rebus didn’t think he’d find a space, so turned into the lane and parked there. As they walked down to Bev Dodds’s cottage, they passed a couple of locals washing their cars. The men were middle-aged and casually dressed – cords and V-necks – but wore the clothes like a uniform. Rebus would bet that midweek, they were seldom without a suit and tie. He thought of Wee Billy’s memories: mums scrubbing their front steps. And here was the contemporary equivalent. One of the men said ‘hello’ and the other ‘good afternoon’. Rebus nodded and knocked on Bev Dodds’s door.
‘I think you’ll find she’s taking her constitutional,’ one man said.
‘Shouldn’t be long,’ added the other.
Neither had stopped work on his car. Rebus wondered if they were in some sort of race; not that they were rushing, but there seemed an element of competition, their concentration intense.
‘Looking to buy some pottery?’ the first asked, as he got to work on the front grille of his BMW.
‘Actually, I wanted a look at the doll,’ Rebus said, sliding his hands into his pockets.
‘Don’t think that’s likely. She’s signed some sort of exclusive with one of your rivals.’
‘I’m a police officer,’ Rebus stated.
The Rover owner snorted at his neighbour’s mistake. ‘That might make a difference,’ he said, laughing.
‘Odd sort of thing to happen,’ Rebus said con
versationally.
‘No shortage of those around here.’
‘How do you mean?’
The BMW driver rinsed out his sponge. ‘We had a spate of thefts a few months back, then someone daubed the door of the church.’
‘Kids from the estate,’ the Rover driver interrupted.
‘Maybe,’ his neighbour conceded. ‘But it’s funny it never happened before. Then the Balfour girl goes missing …’
‘Do either of you know the family?’
‘Seen them around,’ the Rover driver conceded.
‘They held a tea party two months back. Opened the house. It was for some charity, I forget which. They seemed very pleasant, John and Jacqueline.’ The BMW driver glanced at his neighbour as he spoke the names. Rebus saw it as yet another element of the game their lives had become.
‘What about the daughter?’ Rebus asked.
‘Always seemed a bit distant,’ the Rover driver said hurriedly, not about to be left out. ‘Hard to strike up a conversation with her.’
‘She spoke to me,’ his rival announced. ‘We had quite a chin-wag once about her university course.’
The Rover driver glared at him. Rebus could foresee a duel: dampened chamoises at twenty paces. ‘What about Ms Dodds?’ he asked. ‘Good neighbour, is she?’
‘Bloody awful pottery,’ was the only comment.
‘This doll thing’s probably been good for business though.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ the BMW owner said. ‘If she has any sense, she’ll capitalise on it.’
‘Promotion’s the life-blood of any new business,’ his neighbour added. Rebus got the feeling they knew what they were talking about.
‘Small concession might do wonders,’ BMW man mused. ‘Teas, home baking …’ Both men had stopped working, growing thoughtful.
‘I thought that was your car in the lane,’ Bev Dodds said, striding towards the group.
While tea was being made, Jean asked if she could see some of the pottery. An extension at the back of the cottage housed both the kitchen and the spare bedroom, which had become a studio. Jean praised the various bowls and plates, but Rebus could tell she didn’t like them. Then, as Bev Dodds was sliding the various bangles and bracelets up her arms again, Jean praised those, too.
‘I make them,’ Bev Dodds said.
‘Do you?’ Jean sounded delighted.
Dodds put her arm out so she could take a closer look. ‘Local stones. I wash them and varnish them. I think they act a little like crystals.’
‘Positive energy?’ Jean guessed. Rebus could no longer tell if she was genuinely interested or just faking it. ‘Could I buy one, do you think?’
‘Of course,’ Dodds said delightedly. Her hair was windswept, cheeks red from the walk she’d just taken. She slid one of the bracelets from her wrist. ‘How about this? It’s one of my favourites, and just ten pounds.’
Jean paused at mention of the price, but then smiled and handed over a ten-pound note, which Dodds tucked into her pocket.
‘Ms Burchill works at the museum,’ Rebus said.
‘Really?’
‘I’m a curator.’ Jean had slipped the bracelet on to her wrist.
‘What a wonderful job. Whenever I’m in town, I try to make time for a visit.’
‘Have you heard of the Arthur’s Seat coffins?’ Rebus asked.
‘Steve told me about them,’ Dodds said. Rebus presumed she meant Steve Holly, the reporter.
‘Ms Burchill has an interest in them,’ Rebus said. ‘She’d like to see the doll you found.’
‘Of course.’ She slid open one of the drawers and brought out the coffin. Jean handled it with care, placing it on the kitchen table before examining it.
‘It’s quite well made,’ she said. ‘More like the Arthur’s Seat coffins than those others.’
‘“Others”?’ Bev Dodds asked.
‘Is it a copy of one of them?’ Rebus asked, ignoring this.
‘Not an exact copy, no,’ Jean said. ‘Different nails, and constructed slightly differently, too.’
‘By someone who’d seen the museum exhibit?’
‘It’s possible. You can buy a postcard of the coffins in the museum shop.’
Rebus looked at Jean. ‘Has anyone shown interest in the exhibit recently?’
‘How would I know that?’
‘Maybe a researcher or someone?’
She shook her head. ‘There was a doctoral student last year … but she went back to Toronto.’
‘Is there some connection here?’ Bev Dodds asked, wide-eyed. ‘Something between the museum and the abduction?’
‘We don’t know that anyone’s been abducted,’ Rebus cautioned her.
‘All the same …’
‘Ms Dodds … Bev …’ Rebus fixed her with his eyes. ‘It’s important that this conversation stays confidential.’
When she nodded understanding, Rebus knew that within minutes of them leaving, she’d be on the phone to Steve Holly. He left his tea unfinished.
‘We’d better be off.’ Jean took the hint, and placed her own cup on the draining-board. ‘That was lovely, thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. And thank you for buying the bracelet. My third sale today.’
As they walked back up the lane, two cars passed them. Day-trippers, Rebus guessed, on their way to the waterfall. And afterwards, maybe they’d stop by the pottery, asking to see the famous coffin. They’d probably buy something too …
‘What are you thinking?’ Jean asked, getting into the car and studying the bracelet, holding it up to the light.
‘Nothing,’ Rebus lied. He decided to drive through the village. The Rover and BMW stood drying in the late-afternoon sun. A young couple with two kids stood outside Bev Dodds’s cottage. The father had a video camera in his hand. Rebus gave way to four or five cars, then continued along the road to Meadowside. Three boys – maybe including the two from his previous visit – were playing football on the grass. Rebus stopped and wound down his window, calling out to them. They looked at him, but weren’t about to interrupt their game. He told Jean he’d only be a second, and got out of the car.
‘Hello there,’ he told the boys.
‘Who are you?’ The questioner was skinny, ribs protruding, and thin arms ending in bunched fists. His hair had been shorn to the scalp, and as he squinted into the light he managed to be four-feet-six of aggression and mistrust.
‘I’m the police,’ Rebus said.
‘We haven’t done nothing.’
‘Congratulations.’
The boy kicked the ball hard. It thundered into the upper thigh of one of the other players, leading the third to start laughing.
‘I was wondering if you knew anything about this spate of thefts I’ve been hearing about.’
The boy looked at him. ‘Get a grip,’ he said.
‘With pleasure, son. What’ll it be, your neck or your balls?’ The boy tried for a sneer. ‘Maybe you can tell me something about the church getting vandalised?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘No?’ Rebus sounded surprised. ‘Okay then, last shot … what about this wee coffin that’s been found?’
‘What about it?’
‘Have you seen it?’
The boy shook his head. ‘Tell him to sod off, Chick,’ one of his friends advised.
‘Chick?’ Rebus nodded, to let the boy know he was filing the information away.
‘Never saw the coffin,’ Chick said. ‘No way I’m going to knock on her door.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she’s well fucking weird.’ Chick laughed.
‘Weird how?’
Chick was losing patience. Somehow he’d been duped into having a conversation. ‘Weird like the rest of them.’
‘They’re all a bunch of tampons,’ his pal said, coming to rescue him. ‘Let’s go, Chick.’ They ran off, collecting the third boy and the ball on their way. Rebus watched for a moment, but Chick didn’t look back. As he returned to
the car, he saw that Jean’s window was down.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so I’m not the world’s best at asking questions of schoolkids.’
She smiled. ‘What did he mean about tampons?’
Rebus turned the ignition and glanced at her. ‘He meant they’re all stuck-up.’ He didn’t add the final word, didn’t need to. Jean knew exactly what he meant …
Late that Sunday night, he found himself on the pavement outside Philippa Balfour’s flat. He still had the set of keys in his pocket, but wasn’t going inside, not after what happened last time. Someone had closed the shutters in her living room and bedroom. No light was being allowed into the flat, none at all.
It was one week since her disappearance, and a reconstruction was under way. A WPC with a passing resemblance to the missing student had been dressed in clothes similar to the ones Flip might have been wearing that evening. A recently bought Versace T-shirt was missing from Flip’s wardrobe, so the WPC was wearing one just like it. She would walk out of the tenement and be photographed by the waiting newsmen. Then she’d walk briskly to the end of the street, where she’d step into a waiting taxi cab, commandeered for the purpose. She’d get out again and start climbing the hill towards the city centre. There would be photographers with her all the way, and uniformed officers stopping pedestrians and drivers, clipboards ready, questions prepared. The WPC would travel all the way to the bar on the South Side …
Two TV crews – BBC and Scottish – were readying to film the reconstruction. News programmes would show snippets of it.
It was an exercise, a way of showing that the police were doing something.
That was all.
Gill Templer, catching Rebus’s eye from the other side of the street, seemed to acknowledge as much with a shrug. Then she went back to her conversation with Assistant Chief Constable Colin Carswell. The ACC seemed to have a few points he wished to get across. Rebus didn’t doubt that the words ‘a swift conclusion’ would figure at least once. From past experience, he knew that when Gill Templer was irritated, she tended to play with a string of pearls she sometimes wore. They were around her neck now, and she had slipped a finger beneath them, running it back and forth. Rebus thought of all Bev Dodds’s bracelets, and what the kid called Chick had said: well fucking weird … Books of Wiccan in her living room, only she didn’t call it that, called it her ‘parlour’ instead. A Stones song popped into his head: ‘Spider and the Fly’, B-side to ‘Satisfaction’. He saw Bev Dodds as a spider, her parlour a web. For some reason the image, though fanciful, stuck with him …