Free Mortal Causes by Ian Rankin

garages, he slowed only fractionally as he bumped the car up first onto the pavement and then onto the grass. ‘It’s not my car,’ he explained.
    They drove beside the path past the garages and a high-rise, until there was nowhere else to go. When Burns stopped, the car was resting about twelve feet from the community centre.
    ‘I can walk from here,’ said Rebus.
    Kids who’d been lying on the centre’s roof were standing now, watching them, cigarettes hanging from open mouths. People watched from the path and from open windows, too. Burns turned to Rebus.
    ‘Don’t tell me you wanted to sneak up on them?’
    ‘This is just fine.’ He opened his door. ‘Stay with the car. I don’t want us losing any tyres.’
    Rebus walked towards the community centre’s wide open doors. The teenagers on the roof watched him with practised hostility. There were paper planes lying all around, some of them made airborne again temporarily by a gust of wind. As Rebus walked into the building, he heard grunting noises above him. His rooftop audience were pretending to be pigs.
    There was no preliminary chamber, just the hall itself. At one end stood a high basketball hoop. Some teenagers were in a ruck around the grounded ball, feet scraping at ankles, hands pulling at arms and hair. So much for non-contact sports. On a makeshift stage sat a ghetto blaster, blaring out the fashion in heavy metal. Rebus didn’t reckon he’d score many points by announcing that he’d been in at the birth. Most of these kids had been born after Anarchy in the UK , never mind Communication Breakdown .
    There was a mix of ages, and it was impossible to pick out Peter Cave. He could be nodding his head to the distorted electric guitar. He could be smoking by the wall. Or in with the basketball brigade. But no, he was coming towards Rebus from the other direction, from a tight group which included black t-shirt from Rebus’s first visit.
    ‘Can I help?’
    Father Leary had said he was in his mid-twenties, but he could pass for late-teens. The clothes helped, and he wore them well. Rebus had seen church people before when they wore denim. They usually looked as if they’d be more comfortable in something less comfortable. But Cave, in faded denim jeans and denim shirt, with half a dozen thin leather and metal bracelets around his wrists, he looked all right.
    ‘Not many girls,’ Rebus stated, playing for a little more time.
    Peter Cave looked around. ‘Not just now. Usually there are more than this, but on a nice night …’
    It was a nice night. He’d left Patience drinking cold rose wine in the garden. He had left her reluctantly. He got no initial bad feelings from Cave. The young man was fresh-faced and clear-eyed and looked level headed too. His hair was long but by no means untidy, and his face was square and honest with a deep cleft in the chin.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Cave said, ‘I’m Peter Cave. I run the youth club.’ His hand shot out, bracelets sliding down his wrist. Rebus took the hand and smiled. Cave wanted to know who he was, a not unreasonable request.
    ‘Detective Inspector Rebus.’
    Cave nodded. ‘Davey said a policeman had been round earlier. I thought probably he meant uniformed. What’s the trouble, Inspector?’
    ‘No trouble, Mr Cave.’
    A circle of frowning onlookers had formed itself around the two of them. Rebus wasn’t worried, not yet.
    ‘Call me Peter.’
    ‘Mr Cave,’ Rebus licked his lips, ‘how are things going here?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘A simple question, sir. Only, crime in Pilmuir hasn’t exactly dropped since you started this place up.’
    Cave bristled at that. ‘There haven’t been any gang fights.’
    Rebus accepted this. ‘But housebreaking, assaults … there are still syringes in the playpark and aerosols lying –’
    ‘Aerosols to you too.’
    Rebus turned to see who had entered. It was the boy with the naked chest and denim jacket.
    ‘Hello, Davey,’ said Rebus. The ring