The farmhand nodded again. ‘They own this land … some of it, any road.’

Rebus looked around, realising for the first time that there wasn’t a single dwelling or building in sight, other than the petrol station. ‘I thought they just had the house and grounds.’

Now the farmhand shook his head.

‘Where is their place, by the way?’

For the first time, the man locked eyes with Rebus. Satisfied with whatever checks he’d been making, he was cleaning his hands by rubbing them down his faded denims. ‘The track the other end of town,’ he said. ‘About a mile up that way, big gates, you can’t miss them. The falls are up there too, about halfway.’

‘Falls?’

‘The waterfall. You’ll want to see it, won’t you?’

Behind the farmhand, the land rose gently. Hard to imagine any point nearby high enough for a waterfall.

‘Wouldn’t want to waste your tax money on sightseeing,’ Rebus said with a smile.

‘It’s not sightseeing though, is it?’

‘What is it then?’

‘The scene of the bloody crime.’ Exasperation had crept into the man’s voice. ‘Don’t they tell you anything back in Edinburgh … ?’

A narrow lane wound uphill out of the village. Anybody passing through would probably assume, as Rebus had, that it was leading to a dead end, maybe turning into somebody’s driveway. But it opened out a little eventually, and at that point Rebus pulled the Saab up on to the verge. There was a stile, as the local had explained. Rebus locked his car – city instinct, hard to resist – and climbed over, into a field where cows were grazing. They showed about as much interest in him as the farmhand had. He could smell them, hear their snorts and munching. He did his best to avoid the cow-pats as he walked towards a line of nearby trees. The trees indicated the route of the stream. This was where the waterfall could be found. It was also where, the previous morning, Beverly Dodds had found a tiny coffin, and within it a doll. When he found the waterfall from which Falls had derived its name, he laughed out loud. The water dropped a full four feet.