The Falls by Ian Rankin

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