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.’