Later in the year, when the road needed digging up, a lot of drivers ignored. the genuine traffic cones and as a result drove into newly dug ditches. By next morning, abandoned vehicles had been stripped to the bone. The Gar-B would have stripped the paint if they could.
You had to admire their ingenuity: Give these kids money and opportunity and they'd be the saviours of the capitalist state. Instead, the state gave them dole and daytime TV. Rebus was watched by a gang of pre-teens as he parked. One of them called out.
`Where's yir swanky car?’
`It's no' him,' said another, kicking the first lazily in the ankle. The two of them were on bicycles and looked like the leaders, being a good year or two older than their cohorts. Rebus waved them over.
'What is it?’
But they came anyway.
'Keep an eye on my car,' he told them. `Anyone touches it, you touch them, okay? There's a couple of quid for you when I get back.’
'Half now,' the first said quickly. The second nodded. Rebus handed over half the money, which they pocketed.
`Naebody'd touch that car anyway, mister,' said the second, producing a chorus of laughter from behind him.
Rebus shook his head slowly: the patter here was probably sharper than most of the stand-ups on the Fringe. The two boys could have been brothers. More than that, they could have been brothers in the 1930s. They were dressed in cheap modern style, but had shorn heads and wide ears and sallow faces with dark-ringed eyes. You saw them staring out from old photographs wearing boots too big for them and scowls too old. They didn't just seem older than the other kids; they seemed older than Rebus himself.
When he turned his back, he imagined them in sepia.
He wandered towards the community centre. He'd to pass dome lock-up garages and one of the three twelve- storey blocks of flats. The community centre itself was no more than a hall, small and tired looking with boarded windows and the usual indecipherable graffiti. Surrounded by concrete, it had a low flat roof, asphalt black, on which lay four teenagers smoking cigarettes. Their chests were naked, their t-shirts tied around their waists. There was so much broken glass up there, they could have doubled as fakirs in a magic show. One of them had a pile of sheets of paper, and was folding them into paper planes which he released from the roof. Judging by the number of planes littering the grass, it had been a busy morning at the control tower.
Paint had peeled in long strips from the centre's doors, and one layer of the plywood beneath had been punctured by a foot or a fist. But the doors were locked fast by means of not one but two padlocks. Two more youths sat on the ground, backs against the doors, legs stretched in front of them and crossed at the ankles, for all the world like security guards on a break. Their trainers were in bad repair, their denims patched and torn and patched again. Maybe it was just the fashion. One wore a black t-shirt, the other an unbuttoned denim jacket with no shirt beneath.
'It's shut,' the denim jacket said.
`When does it open?’
'The night. No polis allowed though.’
Rebus smiled. 'I don't think I know you. What's your name?’
The smile back at him was a parody. Black t-shirt grunted an undeveloped laugh. Rebus noticed flecks of white scale in the youth's hair. Neither youth was about to say anything. The teenagers on the roof were standing now, ready to leap in should anything develop.
`Hard men,' said Rebus. He turned and started to walk away. Denim jacket got to his feet and came after him.
'What's up, Mr Polisman?’
Rebus didn't bother looking at the youth, but he stopped walking. `Why should anything be up?’
One of the paper planes, aimed or not, hit him on the leg. He picked it up. On the roof, they were laughing quietly.
`Why should anything be up?’ he repeated.
`Behave. You're not our usual plod.’
'A change is as good as a rest.’
`Arrest? What for?’
Rebus smiled again. He turned to the youth. The face was just leaving acne behind it, and would be good looking for a few more years before it started to decline. Poor diet and alcohol would be its undoing if drugs or fights weren't. The hair was fair and curly, like a child's hair, but not thick. There was a quick intelligence to the eyes, but the eyes themselves were narrow. The intelligence would be narrow too, focusing only on the main chance, the next deal. There was quick anger in those eyes too, and something further back that Rebus didn't like to think about.
'With an act like yours,' he said, 'you should be on the Fringe.’
`I fuckn hate the Festival.’
'Join the club. What's your name, son?’
'You like names, don't you?’
'I can find out.’
The youth slipped his hands into his tight jeans pockets. 'You don't want to.’
`No?’
A slow shake of the head. `Believe me, you really don't want to.’
The youth turned, heading back to his friends. `Or next time,' he said, `your car might not be there at all.’
Sure enough, as Rebus approached he saw that his car was sinking into the ground. It looked like maybe it was taking cover. But it was only the tyres. They'd been generous; they'd only slashed two of them. He looked around him. There was no sign of the pre-teen gang, though they might be watching from the safe distance of a tower- block window.
He leaned against the car and unfolded the paper plane. It was the flyer for a Fringe show, and a blurb on the back explains that the theatre group in question were uprooting from the city centre in order to play the Garibaldi Community Centre for one night.
`You know not what you do,' Rebus said to himself.
Some young mothers were crossing the football pitch. A crying baby was being shaken on its buggy springs. A toddler was being dragged screaming by the arm, his legs frozen in protest so that they scraped the ground. Both baby and toddler were being brought back into the Gar-b. But not without a fight.
Rebus didn't blame them for resisting.
4
Detective Sergeant Brian Holmes was in the Murder Room, handing a polystyrene cup of tea to Detective Constable Siobhan Clarke, and laughing about something.
`What's the joke?’
asked Rebus.
'The one about the hard-up squid,' Holmes answered.
`The one with the moustache?’
Holmes nodded, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. `And Gervase the waiter. Brilliant, eh, sir?’
'Brilliant.’
Rebus looked around. The Murder Room was all purposeful activity. Photos of the victim and the locus had been pinned up on one wall, a staff rota not far from it. The staff rota was on a plastic wipe-board, and a WPC was checking names from a list against a series of duties and putting them on the board in thick blue marker-pen. Rebus went over to her. `Keep DI Flower and me away from one another, eh? Even if it means a slip of the pen.’
'I could get into trouble for that, Inspector.’
She was smiling, so Rebus winked at her. Everyone knew that having Rebus and Flower in close proximity, two
