grew so narrow, traffic had to use passing places. Every now and then he caught glimpses of the estuary behind the buildings on the left. Across the road, the single-story row of shops was topped with a terrace, itself fronted by houses. Two elderly women were standing by an open front door, their arms folded as they shared the latest rumors, eyes flitting towards Rebus, knowing him for a stranger. Their scowls dismissed him as just another ghoul.
He walked on, passing a newsagent’s. Several people had gathered inside, sharing information from the evening paper’s early printing. A news crew passed him on the other side of the road-a different crew from the one outside the school gates. The cameraman carried his camera in one hand, tripod slung over the other shoulder. Soundman with his rig hanging by his side, headphones around his neck, boom held like a rifle. They were on the lookout for a good spot, led by a young blond woman who kept peering down vennels in her search for the perfect shot. Rebus thought he’d seen her on TV, reckoned the crew were probably from Glasgow. Her report would start:
He’d seen it at Lockerbie and didn’t doubt Dunblane had been the same. Now it was South Queensferry’s turn. He came to a curve in the road, beyond which was the esplanade. Stopping for a moment, he turned back to view the town, but most of it was hidden: behind trees, behind other buildings, beyond the arc he’d just traveled. There was a seawall here, and he decided it was as good a place as any to light the spare cigarette Bobby Hogan had gifted him. The cigarette was tucked behind his right ear, and he pawed at it, not quite catching it as it fluttered to the ground, a gust sending it rolling. 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.”
She caught his meaning, nodding as she remembered her own words:
“Jealous?”
“They’re dead, aren’t they?” She watched him nod, then gave a shrug of her own. Rebus looked down at the cigarette, and she took it from him, placing it in her mouth again.
“You want to die?”
“I’m just curious, that’s all. I want to know what it’s like.” She made an O of her lips and produced a swirling circle of smoke. “You must have seen dead people.”
“Too many.”
“And how many’s that? Ever watched someone die?”
He wasn’t about to answer. “I’ve got to be going.” She made to give him what little was left of the cigarette, but he shook his head. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Teri.”
“Terry?”
She spelled it for him. “But you can call me Miss Teri.”
Rebus smiled. “I’ll assume that’s an assumed name. Maybe I’ll see you around, Miss Teri.”
“You can see me whenever you like, Mr. CID.” She turned and started walking into town, confident in her inch- and-a-half heels, hands brushing her hair back and letting it fall, then giving a little wave of one lace-gloved hand. Knowing he was watching, enjoying playing the role. Rebus reckoned she qualified as a Goth. He’d seen them in town, hanging around outside record shops. For a time, anyone who fitted the description had been banned from entering Princes Street Gardens: a municipal edict, something to do with a trampled flowerbed and the knocking over of a litter bin. When Rebus had read about it, he’d smiled. The line stretched back from punks to teddy boys, teenagers undergoing their rites of passage. He’d been pretty wild himself before he’d joined the army. Too young for the first wave of teddy boys, but growing into a secondhand leather jacket, a sharpened steel comb in the pocket. The jacket hadn’t been right-not biker goods but three-quarter length. He’d cut it shorter with a kitchen knife, threads straggling from it, the lining showing.
Some rebel.
Miss Teri disappeared around the bend, and Rebus headed for the Boatman’s, where Siobhan was waiting with the drinks.
“Thought I was going to have to drink yours,” she said by way of complaint.
“Sorry.” He cupped the glass in both hands and lifted it. Siobhan had found them a corner table, nobody close by. Two piles of paperwork sat in front of her, alongside her lime soda and an open packet of peanuts.
“How are the hands?” she asked.
“I’m worried I may never play the piano again.”
“A tragic loss to the world of popular music.”
“You ever listen to heavy metal, Siobhan?”
“Not if I can help it.” She paused. “Maybe a bit of Motorhead to get the party started.”
“I was thinking of the newer stuff.”
She shook her head. “You really think we’re all right here?”
He looked around. “Locals don’t seem interested. It’s not like we’re going to be flashing autopsy photos or anything.”
“There are pictures of the crime scene, though.”
“Keep them tucked away for now.” Rebus swallowed another mouthful of beer.
“You sure you can drink with those tablets you’re taking?”
He ignored her, nodded towards one of the piles instead. “So,” he said, “what have we got, and how long can we stretch this assignment out for?”
She smiled. “Not keen on another meeting with the boss?”
“Don’t tell me you’re looking forward to it?”
She seemed to give this some thought, then offered a shrug.
“You glad Fairstone’s dead?” Rebus asked.
She glared at him.
“Just curious,” he said, thinking again of Miss Teri. He made a show of trying to slide one of the top sheets towards him, until Siobhan took the hint and did it for him. Then the two of them sat side by side, not noticing the light outside waning as the afternoon slurred towards evening.
