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orange plastic traffic cones lying around. They would make goalposts for a quick game of football, or chicanes for the bikers. Last year, some enterprising souls had put them to better use, using them to divert traffic off the main road and into the Gar-B, where youths lined the slip-road and pelted the cars with rocks and bottles. If the drivers ran from their vehicles, they were allowed to go, while the cars were stripped of anything of value, right down to tyres, seat-covers and engine parts.
    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, their 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 some 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,