The Falls (16 page)

She smiled. ‘It
was
a long time ago, wasn’t it?’

‘Prehistoric,’ he was forced to agree. ‘What about you?’

‘I hope I’m not prehistoric.’

He smiled. ‘I meant, tell me something about yourself.’

‘I was born in Elgin, parents both teachers. Went to Glasgow University. Dabbled in archaeology. Doctorate from Durham University, then post-doctoral studies abroad – the USA and Canada – looking at nineteenth-century migrants. I got a job as a curator in Vancouver, then came back here when the opportunity arose. The old museum for the best part of twelve years, and now the new one.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s about it.’

‘How do you know Gill?’

‘We were at school together for a couple of years, best mates. Lost touch for a while …’

‘You never married?’

She looked down at her plate. ‘For a while, yes, in Canada. He died young.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Bill drank himself to death, not that his family would ever believe it. I think that’s why I came back to Scotland.’

‘Because he died?’

She shook her head. ‘If I’d stayed, it would have meant participating in the myth they were busy establishing.’

Rebus thought he understood.

‘You’ve got a daughter, haven’t you?’ she said suddenly, keen to change the subject.

‘Samantha. She’s … in her twenties now.’

Jean laughed. ‘You don’t know how old exactly though?’

He tried a smile. ‘It’s not that. I was going to say that she’s disabled. Probably not something you want to know.’

‘Oh.’ She was silent for a moment, then looked up at him. ‘But it’s important to you, or it wouldn’t have been the first thing you thought of.’

‘True. Except that she’s getting back on her feet again. Using one of those Zimmer frames old people use.’

‘That’s good,’ she said.

He nodded. He didn’t want to go into the whole story, but she wasn’t going to ask him anyway.

‘How’s the soup?’

‘It’s good.’

They sat in silence for a minute or two, then she asked him about police work. Her questions had reverted to the kind you asked of a new acquaintance. Usually Rebus felt awkward talking about the job. He wasn’t sure people were really interested. Even if they were, he knew they didn’t want to hear the unexpurgated version: the suicides and autopsies; the petty grudges and black moods that led people to the cells. Domestics and stabbings, Saturday nights gone wrong, professional thugs and addicts. When he spoke, he was always afraid his voice would betray his passion for the job. He might be dubious about methods and eventual outcomes, but he still got a thrill from the work itself. Someone like Jean Burchill, he felt, could peer beneath the surface of this and watch other things swim into focus. She would realise that his enjoyment of the job was essentially voyeuristic and cowardly. He concentrated on the minutiae of other people’s lives, other people’s problems, to stop him examining his own frailties and failings.

‘Are you planning to smoke that thing?’ Jean sounded amused. Rebus looked down and saw that a cigarette had appeared in his hand. He laughed, took the packet from his pocket and slid the cigarette back in.

‘I really don’t mind,’ Jean told him.

‘Didn’t realise I’d done it,’ he said. Then, to hide his embarrassment: ‘You were going to tell me about these other dolls.’

‘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 conversationally.

‘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.