In the Nick of Time Read Free Page A

that he needed a smoke.
    â€œI’ll join you,” Grace said.
    â€œMe, too,” added Potting, pulling his pipe from his pocket.
    Siobhan Clarke shook her head. “You lads run along.” Then she aimed the remote at the DVD player, ready to watch the clips all over again.
    Â·Â Â Â·Â Â Â·
    After fish and chips at the Palm Court on Brighton Pier, they headed to Withdean Stadium and entered the pub, where the reunion was in full swing.
    â€œRetired?” Rebus snorted. “Most of them are younger than me.” He looked around at the hundred or so faces.
    â€œFull pension after thirty years,” Grace commented.
    â€œIt’s the same in Scotland,” Clarke explained. “But John isn’t having it.”
    â€œWhy not?” Grace sounded genuinely curious.
    Clarke was watching Rebus head to the bar, Potting hot on his heels. “It’s gone beyond being a job to him,” she offered. “If you can understand that.”
    Grace thought for a moment, then nodded. “Completely.”
    By the time they got to the bar, Potting was explaining to Rebus that Harveys was the best local pint.
    â€œJust so long as it’s not the sherry,” Rebus joked.
    Once they had their drinks, Potting led them over to the retired inspector Jim Hopper, who had attended the badly injured Ollie Starr on that Saturday afternoon in 1964. Hopper was a giant of a man, with a shaven head rising from apparently neckless shoulders, giving him the appearance of an American football player. But his eyes were sympathetic, his demeanor gentle. Potting handed him a drink. He took a sip before speaking.
    â€œI told Ollie you might be coming to speak to him. He seemed hellish relieved. Ever since that assault, his life’s turned to a bucket of turds.”
    â€œYou’ve kept in touch with him?” Rebus nudged.
    â€œI have, yes. To tell the truth, I’ve always felt partways responsible. If we’d had more men on the ground that day, or we’d spotted him being chased.” Hopper winced at the memory. “I was withhim in the ambulance. He thought he was dying, poured out his whole story to me, as if I was the last friend he’d ever have.”
    â€œDo you think he’d be able to identify the assailant after all this time?” Clarke asked quietly.
    â€œNo doubt about it. Couldn’t happen now, of course, with CCTV and DNA. Nobody’d get away with it.”
    â€œIt was half a century back,” Rebus reminded Hopper. “You sure his memory’s up to it?”
    A grim smile broke across the retired officer’s face. “You need to see for yourselves.”
    â€œSee what?”
    â€œVisit him and you’ll find out.”
    â€œIs he married?” Clarke asked.
    Hopper shook his head. “Far as he’s concerned, his life ended that day. Stabbed in the chest, then the cowards just walked away.”
    There was silence for a moment. They were in a bubble, far from the chatter and gossip around them.
    â€œGive us his address,” Rebus ordered, breaking the spell.
    Â·Â Â Â·Â Â Â·
    Roy Grace had been in some shitholes in his time, and Ollie Starr’s ground-floor flat, on the other side of the wall from the Brighton and Hove refuse tip, was down there with the worst of them. It was dank, with dark mold blotches on one wall of the tiny hall. As they strode through into the sitting room, there were empty beer bottles littering the place, an ashtray overflowing with butts, soiled clothing strewn haphazardly on the floor, and an ancient, fuzzy television screen displaying a football match.
    But none of the detectives looked at the football. All of them stared, with puzzled faces, at the pencil sketches that papered almost every inch of the otherwise bare walls. From each of theman expressionless man stared out. He was the same man in every drawing, Grace realized, but he was aged progressively, from late