In the Nick of Time Read Free Page B

teens to mid-sixties. At every stage he was portrayed with different hairstyles, with and without beard or moustache. They reminded Roy Grace of police Identi-Kit drawings.
    â€œBloody hell,” Rebus muttered, stepping farther into the room. “It’s James King.” He turned to Ollie Starr. “Where did these—?”
    â€œMy memory,” Starr said, flatly.
    â€œYou’ve not seen him?”
    â€œNot since the day he stuck a knife in me.”
    â€œThe likeness is amazing.”
    â€œMeaning you’ve got the bastard.” The muscles in Starr’s face seemed to relax a fraction. “Never forgot his face,” he continued. “And I was a student at Hornsey School of Art. Promising future, they said, maybe doing adverts and stuff. Instead of which, I’ve just been drawing him, year after year, hoping one day I’d see him.”
    Siobhan Clarke cleared her throat. “We think the man who attacked you is critically ill in hospital.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œThat answers my first question.”
    Starr’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that, then?”
    â€œWhether you’d want to go ahead with a prosecution after all this time.” She paused. “Against a man with not long to live.”
    â€œI want to see him,” Starr growled. “I need to see him, face-to-face, the closer the better. He has to be shown what he did. Ruined my life, and the only thing that kept me going was the dream.”
    â€œWhat dream?” Grace asked.
    â€œThe dream of you lot coming here, delivering the news.” Starr blinked back a tear. We all have our dreams, eh?” His voice cracked a little. “But a man’s reach should exceed his grasp / Or what’s a heaven for?”
    Grace was moved that the man had read Browning. He lived in a tip, yet clutched at beauty. How different might his life have been if . . . ?
    If.
    He caught John Rebus’s eye, and then Siobhan Clarke’s, and knew they were thinking the same thing—while Potting tried to examine Clarke’s legs without her noticing.
    â€œWe’d need to bring you to Edinburgh quickly,” Rebus was saying. “Could you fly up Monday?”
    â€œTrain might be less hassle,” Starr said. “Give me time to decide whether to spit in his face first or go straight for a punch.”
    Â·Â Â Â·Â Â Â·
    Hospitals always made Roy Grace feel uncomfortable. Too many memories of visiting his dying father and, later, his dying mother. Late on Monday afternoon he followed Rebus and Clarke along the corridor of the Royal Infirmary. It looked new, no smells of boiled cabbage or disinfectant. Transport had been awaiting the group at Waverley Station, Clarke making sure the visitors glimpsed the famous castle before they headed to the outskirts of the city. As Rebus pushed open the doors to the ward, Grace glanced back in the direction of Potting and Starr. Neither man showed any emotion.
    â€œOkay?” Grace checked, receiving two separate nods in reply.
    Rebus, however, had come to a sudden stop, Grace almost colliding with him. The bed in the corner was empty, the table next to it bare.
    â€œShit,” Rebus muttered, eyes scanning the room. Plenty of patients, but no sign of the only one that mattered.
    â€œCan I help?” a nurse asked, her face arranged into a professional smile.
    â€œJames King,” Rebus informed her. “Looks like we’re too late.”
    â€œOh dear, yes.”
    â€œHow long ago did he die?”
    The smile was replaced with something more quizzical. “He’s not dead,” she explained. “He went into remission. It happens sometimes, and if I were the religious sort . . .” She shrugged. “Spontaneous and inexplicable, but there you are. Mr. King’s back home in the bosom of his family, happy as the proverbial Larry!”

    TWENTY MINUTES LATER, REBUS KNOCKED on