The Falls by Ian Rankin Page B

like. Do a nice portrait of you, maybe in your studio.’
    ‘It’s hardly a studio,’ Bev countered, stroking a finger down her neck, enjoying the thought. ‘Just the spare bedroom with my wheel and some drawings. I pinned white sheets to the walls to help with the light.’
    ‘Speaking of light,’ Holly broke in, staring at the sky meaningfully, ‘we’d better get a move on, eh?’
    ‘Perfect just now,’ the photographer explained to Bev. ‘Won’t stay that way for long.’
    Bev looked up too, nodding agreement, one artist to another. Rebus had to admit: Holly was good.
    ‘Do you want to stay here, mind the fort?’ he was now asking Rebus. ‘We’ll only be fifteen minutes.’
    ‘I’ve got to get back to Edinburgh. Any chance I can have your number, Mr Holly?’
    ‘Should have my card somewhere.’ The reporter began searching his pockets, produced a wallet and from it a business card.
    ‘Thanks,’ Rebus said, taking it. ‘And if I could have a quick word … ?’
    As he led Holly a few steps away, he saw that Bev was standing close beside the photographer, asking him if her clothes were suitable. He got the feeling she missed the presence of another artist in the village. Rebus turned his back on them, the better to mask what he was about to say.
    ‘Have you seen this doll thing?’ Holly was asking. Rebus nodded. Holly wrinkled his nose. ‘Reckon we’re wasting our time?’ His tone was matey, inviting the truth.
    ‘Almost certainly,’ Rebus said, not believing it, and knowing that once Holly saw the bizarre carving he wouldn’t believe it either. ‘It’s a day out of the city anyway,’ Rebus went on, forcing levity into his tone.
    ‘Can’t stand the countryside,’ Holly admitted. ‘Too far from the carbon monoxide for my liking. Surprised they sent a DI …’
    ‘We have to treat each lead seriously.’
    ‘Sure you do, I understand that. I’d still have sent a DC or DS, tops.’
    ‘Like I say—’ But Holly was turning away from him, ready to get back to work. Rebus gripped his arm. ‘You know that if this does turn out to be evidence, we could want it kept quiet?’
    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