A Question of Blood (2003) by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page B

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: I’m not in mourning at all. “If anything, I’m jealous.” Again, her eyes were boring into his. He couldn’t help wondering how she would look without the makeup. Pretty, probably; maybe even fragile. Her painted face was a mask, something she could hide behind.
    “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