It was lunchtime by the time we got back to the CIB, and Wozza and I barely had time to process the evidence in the polaroids before we were called to a case of shoplifting at the local chemist. Uniforms would usually handle it, but they were stuck guarding the scene at a nasty traffic collision. According to D24, the shoplifting job involved a girl caught red-handed with a fistful of make-up at Filmore’s Pharmacy on the main street.

On the short drive over, Wozza said, ‘Five bucks you won’t get a confession. We build ’em tough in the country.’

‘You’re on,’ I said.

The chemist, a small man who looked to be in his mid-sixties, introduced himself in a halting voice as Greg Filmore. He seemed embarrassed and flustered by the circumstances. Like the man, the shop was neat and precise. Make-up, perfume and diet aids up front and a prescriptions counter at the back. A young woman in a white uniform and fawn cardigan on which was pinned a nametag reading DAWN ushered us out the back to a small staff area with a kitchenette and lunch table, where the alleged shoplifter sat. She was mid-teens with long black hair streaked with purple and blonde. Looked like a home job. She wore a yellow singlet over a black-and-white-striped T-shirt. Dressed for fashion, not warmth.

‘What’s your name, kid?’ I flicked open my police notebook and clicked my pen.

The girl sat sullenly in her chair. ‘Not sayin’ nuthin’ to youse coppers. I’m being falsely imprisoned!’

‘For someone who’s not saying anything, you’re sure talking a lot,’ I observed wryly.

The girl sniffed and wiped her forearm across her nose. ‘You have to read me my Miranda rights. I watch the telly; I know stuff.’

‘Should watch more local content,’ I said. ‘If I had a dollar for everyone who demanded their American constitutional rights …’

‘I didn’t do nuthin’.’

I nodded towards the items on the table next to the girl. ‘Dior mascara. You’ve got good taste.’

The girl’s eyes flashed. Accepting the compliment would mean admitting to the theft she was roundly denying.

‘Of course, that green Yves Saint Laurent eyeshadow isn’t exactly your colour.’

‘It totally is—’ The girl gasped at her mistake.

‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ I said. ‘Name?’

‘What’s going to happen to me?’ The girl’s bottom lip suddenly trembled, and she looked quite young, despite the thick black eyeliner.

‘Tell us your name and we’ll call your parents.’

‘I don’t have any,’ said the girl quietly.

I didn’t react. ‘Or call your guardian.’ I watched her closely. I waited for the snap. Waited. There it was: Ms Bravado met Ms Reality. The girl seemed to deflate and shrink in her seat.

‘Crystal Mowbray.’

‘Age?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘Address?’

Crystal hesitated. ‘What are you going to tell my uncle?’ She was suddenly a rabbit in the headlights.