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that endeavor quickly intrude, and the “good idea of the night before” ends up in a drawer, never to see the light of day. So Peter James and Ian Rankin knew the challenges that lay in arranging a meeting between their two respective heroes.
    For one thing Roy Grace and John Rebus are of different generations and backgrounds. They have vastly different ideas about law enforcement. For another, they operate five hundred miles apart—Grace in Brighton, a resort city on the south coast of England—Rebus in Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland. Both countries, while constituents of the United Kingdom, have different legal systems, different rules and regulations.
    Night and day to each other actually.
    So how, realistically, could these two men meet and do business together?
    Fans of John Rebus know he’s a big music fan, growing up in the early 1960s with The Who as his heroes. One of The Who’s best-known albums, Quadrophenia, is set partially in Brighton, at a time when rival gangs (the Mods and the Rockers) would battle on its waterfront. For many people in the United Kingdom the pitched and brutal wars between the clean-cut, smartly dressed Mods and the long-haired, leather-jacketed Rockers are what Brighton is all about.
    So here was the germ of an idea.
    A crime from that era, brought to light decades later on a deathbed in Edinburgh. Rebus has to decide if it is worth investigating such ancient history and eventually asks Roy Grace for help. Along the way both men journey into the other’s universe, coming to appreciate the differences and gaining an understanding of how the other views the criminal world.
    Like I said.
    It’s night and day.
    There was also room for both of the characters’ sidekick/colleague to make an appearance and engage in some gentle sparring, too. The result is a story that adds to the mythology of both Peter’s and Ian’s series, while staying true to the spirit of all their books.

In the Nick of Time
    H IS NAME WAS JAMES KING and he had something to confess.
    His wife was waiting for Rebus in the hospital corridor. She led him to the bedside without saying much, other than that her husband had “only a week or two, maybe less.”
    King was prone on the bed, an oxygen mask strapped to his gaunt, unshaven face. His eyes were dark-ringed, his chest rising and falling with what seemed painful effort. He nodded at his wife and she took it for an instruction, drawing the curtains around the bed so that King and Rebus were shielded from the other patients. The man pulled the mask down so it rested against his chin.
    “ID?” he demanded. Rebus dug out his warrant card and King peered at the photograph before offering an explanation. “Wouldn’t put it past Ella to rope some poor sod into pretending. She thinks the drugs must have done it.”
    “Done what?” Rebus was lowering himself onto a chair.
    “Got me imagining things.” King paused, studying his visitor. “You don’t look much younger than me.”
    “Thanks for that.”
    “But it means you’ll remember the Mods? Early sixties?”
    “I’m not sure they made it this far north. We had the music, though . . .”
    “I grew up in London. Had the Lambretta and the clothes. My wages either went on one or the other. Weekend trips—Brighton and Margate. I liked Brighton better . . .” King drifted off, his eyes becoming unfocused. There was a tumor in him that had grown too large to be dealt with. Rebus wondered what painkillers the doctors were giving him. He had a headache of his own—maybe they had a few pills to spare. There was loud wheezing from somewhere beyond the curtain—another patient jolted into life by a coughing fit. King blinked away whatever memories he’d been replaying.
    “Your wife,” Rebus said. “When she called us she said there was something you wanted to say.”
    “That’s what I’m doing,” King retorted, sounding irritated. “I’m telling you the story.”
    “About your days as a