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 lifting it out of its box, but his fingers were too clumsy, the space between doll and coffin sides too tight. So he turned the container upside down and the doll slid into his palm. His first thought was to compare the cloth wraparound to the various materials on show in the parlour, but there were no obvious matches.

‘The cloth’s quite new and clean,’ she was whispering. He nodded. The coffin hadn’t been outdoors long. It hadn’t had time to stain or suffer damp.

‘I’ve seen some strange things, Bev …’ Rebus said, his voice trailing off. ‘Nothing else at the scene? Nothing unusual?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘I walk up that way every week. This,’ touching the coffin, ‘was the only thing out of place.’

‘Footprints … ?’ Rebus started, but he broke off. It was asking too much of her. But she was ready with an answer.

‘None that I could see.’ She tore her eyes away from the coffin and towards him again. ‘I did look, because I knew it couldn’t just have appeared out of thin air.’

‘Is there anyone in the village who’s keen on woodwork? Maybe a joiner … ?’

‘Nearest joiner is Haddington. Offhand, I don’t know anyone who’s … I mean, who in their right mind would do something like this?’

Rebus smiled. ‘I bet you’ve thought about it though.’

She smiled back. ‘I’ve thought of little else, Inspector. I mean, in general maybe I’d shrug something like this off, but with what’s happened to the Balfour girl …’

‘We don’t know anything’s happened,’ Rebus felt bound to say.

‘Surely it’s connected though?’

‘Doesn’t mean it’s not a crank.’ He kept his eyes on hers as he spoke. ‘In my experience, every village has its resident oddball.’

‘Are you saying that I—’ She broke off at the sound of a car drawing up outside. ‘Oh,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘that’ll be the reporter.’

Rebus followed her to the window. A young man was emerging from the driver’s side of a red Ford Focus. In the passenger seat, a photographer was fixing a lens on to his camera. The driver stretched and rolled his shoulders, as though at the end of a long journey.

‘They were here before,’ Bev was explaining. ‘When the Balfour girl first went missing. Left me a card, and when this happened …’ Rebus was following her into the narrow hall as she made for the front door.

‘That wasn’t the cleverest move, Ms Dodds.’ Rebus was trying to keep his anger in check.