In the Nick of Time Read Free

of Brighton and Hove. It’s this Saturday at the Sportsman Pub at Withdean Stadium.”
    â€œFrom what I’ve heard tell of Rebus, he wouldn’t say no to a drink.”
    Potting perked up. “Reckon DI Clarke might be tempted, too?”
    â€œShe might.” Grace studied his calendar. It was Wednesday. The rest of his week, including the weekend, was clear. He’d promised to spend time with his beloved Cleo and their baby, Noah. If this could be cleared up on Saturday, he’d have all day Sunday. Then again, how would Rebus and Clarke feel about working a weekend? “Give me their number in Edinburgh,” he said.
    Â·Â Â Â·Â Â Â·
    At ten thirty AM Saturday morning, after collecting John Rebus and Siobhan Clarke from an early Gatwick flight, Grace and Potting drove them into Brighton, with just the one detour so they could sightsee the beach and pavilion.
    â€œBeen here before?” Potting asked Clarke, turning his head to study her more closely.
    â€œNo,” she said, eyes on the scenery.
    â€œGets busy on the weekend,” Grace explained. “Day-trippers from London.”
    â€œJust like nineteen sixty-four,” Rebus commented.
    â€œJust like,” Grace echoed, meeting the older man’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
    â€œYou work cold cases?” Rebus asked him.
    â€œOn top of my other duties,” Grace confirmed.
    â€œI did that, too, until Siobhan here rescued me.” The way he said it made it sound as if he disliked being beholden.
    â€œMuch crime in your neck of the woods?” Potting was asking Clarke.
    â€œEnough to keep us busy.”
    â€œStuff we get here—”
    But Grace broke in, cutting Potting off. “It’s not a competition.”
    But of course it was, and always would be, and when Grace next met Rebus’s gaze in the mirror, the two men shared a thin smile of acknowledgment.
    In a conference room at Sussex House CID HQ, coffee was made before they sat to watch a video compiled by Amy Hannah of media relations. She had put together a selection of clips from Saturday, May 19, 1964, accompanied by a soundtrack from the era: The Dave Clark Five, Kinks, Rolling Stones, Beatles, and others.
    â€œNice touch,” Rebus commented as “The Kids Are Alright” played.
    With the blinds down they watched the massed ranks of Mods, between the Palace and West Piers, many of them on scooters, wearing slim ties, tab-collared shirts, sharp suits, and fur-collared parka jackets, wielding knives, and the Rockers, in studded leather jackets, some of them swinging heavy chains and other implements. The Rockers looked little different to modern-day Hells Angels, apart from the pompadour hairstyles.
    Battle raged, battalions of Brighton police officers in whitehelmets on foot and on horseback, flailing their batons while being belted with stones and bottles.
    Siobhan Clarke sucked air in through her mouth. “I had no idea,” she said.
    â€œOh, it was bad,” Grace told her. “My mum said my dad used to come home regularly with a black eye, bloodied nose, or fat lip.”
    â€œTribal,” Potting added. “Just two tribes at war.”
    â€œNearest we’d have up north,” Rebus commented, “would be the pitched battles at Celtic-Rangers games.”
    â€œBut this was different,” Grace said. “And I’ll tell you my theory if you like.”
    â€œGo ahead.”
    Grace leaned forward in his seat. “They were the first generation ever in our country that didn’t have to go and fight a war. They had to get their aggression out on something, including each other.”
    â€œYou still see it on a Saturday night,” Rebus added with a slow nod. “Young men sizing each other up, fueled, and wanting some attention.”
    â€œStick around a few hours,” Potting said, making show of checking his watch.
    When the video was over, Rebus told the room