‘It was Mrs Anderson herself told me about this one,’ Jean explained. ‘A churchyard, next to one of the gravestones. A little wooden coffin, this time with a doll inside, basically a wooden clothes-peg with a ribbon around it.’

Rebus looked at the photo printed in the paper. ‘It looks cruder, balsa wood or something.’

She nodded. ‘I thought it was quite a coincidence. Ever since, I’ve been on the lookout for more examples.’

He separated the two final cuttings. ‘And finding them, I see.’

‘I tour the country, giving talks on behalf of the Museum. Each time, I ask if anyone’s heard of such a thing.’

‘You struck lucky?’

‘Twice so far. Nineteen seventy-seven in Nairn, nineteen seventy-two in Dunfermline.’

Two more mystery finds. In Nairn, the coffin had been found on the beach; in Dunfermline, in the town’s glen. One with a doll in it, one without. Again, an animal or child could have made off with the contents.

‘What do you make of it?’ he asked.

‘Shouldn’t that be my question?’ He didn’t answer, sifted back through the reports. ‘Could there be a link with what you found in Falls?’

‘I don’t know.’ He looked up at her. ‘Why don’t we find out?’

Sunday traffic slowed them down, though most of the cars were heading back into the city after a day in the country.

‘Do you think there could be more?’ he asked.

‘It’s possible. But the local history groups, they pick up on oddities like that – and they’ve got long memories, too. It’s a close network. People know I’m interested.’ She rested her head against the passenger-side window. ‘I think I’d have heard.’

As they passed the road sign welcoming them to Falls, she smiled. ‘Twinned with Angoisse,’ she said.

‘Sorry?’

‘The sign back there, Falls is twinned with some place called Angoisse. It must be in France.’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘Well, there was a picture of the French flag next to the name.’

‘I suppose that would help.’

‘But it’s a French word, too: angoisse. It means “anguish”. Imagine that: a town called anguish …’

There were cars parked either side of the main road, making for a bottleneck. Rebus didn’t think he’d find a space, so turned into the lane and parked there. As they walked down to Bev Dodds’s cottage, they passed a couple of locals washing their cars. The men were middle-aged and casually dressed – cords and V-necks – but wore the clothes like a uniform. Rebus would bet that midweek, they were seldom without a suit and tie. He thought of Wee Billy’s memories: mums scrubbing their front steps. And here was the contemporary equivalent. One of the men said ‘hello’ and the other ‘good afternoon’. Rebus nodded and knocked on Bev Dodds’s door.

‘I think you’ll find she’s taking her constitutional,’ one man said.