FaceOff by Dennis Lehane, James Rollins, Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, R. L. Stine, Heather Graham, Jeffery Deaver, Peter James, Steve Martini, Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Joseph Finder, Lee Child, Raymond Khoury, Linwood Barclay, Steve Berry, John Sandford, M. J. Rose, Lisa Gardner, F. Paul Wilson, T. Jefferson Parker, John Lescroart, Linda Fairstein Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dennis Lehane, James Rollins, Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, R. L. Stine, Heather Graham, Jeffery Deaver, Peter James, Steve Martini, Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Joseph Finder, Lee Child, Raymond Khoury, Linwood Barclay, Steve Berry, John Sandford, M. J. Rose, Lisa Gardner, F. Paul Wilson, T. Jefferson Parker, John Lescroart, Linda Fairstein
like,” Grace echoed, meeting the older man’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“You work cold cases?” Rebus asked him.
“On top of my other duties,” Grace confirmed.
“I did that, too, until Siobhan here rescued me.” The way he said it made it sound as if he disliked being beholden.
“Much crime in your neck of the woods?” Potting was asking Clarke.
“Enough to keep us busy.”
“Stuff 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.
“Nice 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.
“Oh, 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.”
“Tribal,” Potting added. “Just two tribes at war.”
“Nearest we’d have up north,” Rebus commented, “would be the pitched battles at Celtic-Rangers games.”
“But this was different,” Grace said. “And I’ll tell you my theory if you like.”
“Go 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.”
“You still see it on a Saturday night,” Rebus added with a slow nod. “Young men sizing each other up, fueled, and wanting some attention.”
“Stick around a few hours,” Potting said, making show of checking his watch.
When the video was over, Rebus told the room that he needed a smoke.
“I’ll join you,” Grace said.
“Me, 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.
· · ·
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.
“Retired?” Rebus snorted. “Most of them are younger than me.” He looked around at the hundred or so faces.
“Full pension after thirty years,” Grace commented.
“It’s the same in Scotland,” Clarke explained. “But John isn’t having it.”
“Why 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.
“Just 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,
“You work cold cases?” Rebus asked him.
“On top of my other duties,” Grace confirmed.
“I did that, too, until Siobhan here rescued me.” The way he said it made it sound as if he disliked being beholden.
“Much crime in your neck of the woods?” Potting was asking Clarke.
“Enough to keep us busy.”
“Stuff 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.
“Nice 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.
“Oh, 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.”
“Tribal,” Potting added. “Just two tribes at war.”
“Nearest we’d have up north,” Rebus commented, “would be the pitched battles at Celtic-Rangers games.”
“But this was different,” Grace said. “And I’ll tell you my theory if you like.”
“Go 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.”
“You still see it on a Saturday night,” Rebus added with a slow nod. “Young men sizing each other up, fueled, and wanting some attention.”
“Stick around a few hours,” Potting said, making show of checking his watch.
When the video was over, Rebus told the room that he needed a smoke.
“I’ll join you,” Grace said.
“Me, 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.
· · ·
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.
“Retired?” Rebus snorted. “Most of them are younger than me.” He looked around at the hundred or so faces.
“Full pension after thirty years,” Grace commented.
“It’s the same in Scotland,” Clarke explained. “But John isn’t having it.”
“Why 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.
“Just 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,
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