" The cigarette was tucked behind his right hear, and he pawed at it, not quite catching it as it fluttered to the ground, against 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."Ian Rankin - A question of blood, 2003
"Two dancers emerged from behind a curtain and started working the room. Hard to say if they've been giving private dances or taking a cigarette break. One started to approach Rebus, her smile evaporating as he shook his head. The barman asked him what he was drinking.
'I'm not,' he said. 'Just need to borrow your lighter.' A pair of high heel had stopped in front of him. Their owner wriggled her way down until she was at eye level with him. Rebus broke off lighting his cigarette long enough to tell her he needed a word.
'I've a break coming in five minutes,' Molly Clark said. She turned towards the barman. 'Ronnie, give my friend here a drink.'
'Fine,' Ronnie answered, 'but it's coming out of your wages.'
She ignored him, stretching herself upright again and treading gingerly towards the other end of the bar."
Ian Rankin - The naming of the dead, 2006
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