Stooped, eyes down, Rebus started following and almost collided with a pair of legs. The cigarette had come to rest against the pointed toe of a gloss-black ankle-high stiletto. The legs above the shoes were covered in ripped black fishnet tights. Rebus stood up straight. The girl could have been anything from thirteen to nineteen years old. Dyed black hair lay like straw against her head, Siouxsie Sioux style. Her face was deathly white, the eyes and lips painted black. She was wearing a black leather jacket over layers of gauzy black material.

“Did you slash your wrists?” she asked, staring at his bandages.

“I probably will if you crush that cigarette.”

She bent down and picked it up, leaned forward to place it between his lips. “There’s a lighter in my pocket,” he said. She fished it out and lit the cigarette for him, cupping her hand expertly around the flame, keeping her eyes fixed on his as if to gauge his response to her nearness.

“Sorry,” he apologized, “this is my last one.” It was hard to smoke and speak at the same time. She seemed to realize this, because after a couple of inhalations, she plucked the cigarette from his mouth, then placed it in her own. Inside her black lace gloves, her fingernails were black, too.

“I’m no fashion expert,” Rebus said, “but I get the feeling you’re not just in mourning.”

She smiled enough to show a row of small white teeth. “I’m not in mourning at all.”

“But you go to Port Edgar Academy?” She looked at him, wondering how he knew. “Otherwise you’d probably still be in class,” he explained. “It’s only kids from Port Edgar who’re off just now.”

“You a reporter?” She returned the cigarette to his mouth. It tasted of her lipstick.

“I’m a cop,” he told her. “CID.” She didn’t seem interested. “You didn’t know the kids who died?”

“I did.” She sounded hurt, not wanting to be left out.

“But you don’t miss them.”