John Rebus
Rather
be the Devil, by Ian Rankin
384
pages, Orion
Review
by Pat Black
Rebus
is off the force, but still on the case, in Rather be the Devil.
There
were fears that when the inspector finally turned in his warrant card, we’d
seen the last of him. But as he nudges his golden years, Rebus still likes to
carry out inquiries in his own way – it’s just that while in retirement, he
isn’t exactly following the letter of the law. He never did anyway.
I
will admit that I found Rebus hard to get into at first. The first three novels
in Ian Rankin’s long-running series were okay, but nothing special – it was
only when I got an omnibus edition featuring Let It Bleed, Black And Blue and The Hanging Garden that I recognised how good they had become.
Black And Blue –
which sees Rebus going after Glasgow’s true-life serial killer Bible John,
while a copycat murderer stalks Edinburgh – is one of the finest modern
Scottish novels, period. Twenty years after that Tartan Noir landmark, Rankin’s
books are enviably smooth, fine-tuned machines. The lesson for muggles is: You
do something for long enough, and you enjoy what you do, then you will get good
at it. You might even become the best.
This
is the 21st Rebus novel. I felt Rankin painted himself into a corner
by having his inspector age in real-time, but he’s sticking to it, and even
using time’s relentless work as a means of opening up new and interesting
territory. Now retired, in his sixties and not in the best of health, Rebus
spends his time looking into old, unsolved cases.
One
of these dates from the late 1970s, and concerns Maria Turquand, the wife of a wealthy
businessman who was strangled in Edinburgh’s Caledonian Hotel on the same night
a big touring rock band was in town. There were lots of suspects, but little
evidence, and the killer was never caught.
The
case gnaws at Rebus. So does something else – an intrusion on his lung, subject
to tests. Rebus calls this Shadowy internal foe Hank Marvin, and refers to it
almost affectionately, but he’s worried about it. After a lifetime of cigarettes,
bacon rolls, real ales and neat Scotch, a series of health kicks are under way for
this classic central belt male. He attempts a diet, he’s canned the booze and
the ciggies, and he’s even flirting with exercise in step with a new pet dog –
but you get the feeling that horse has all but disappeared over the hill.
Rebus
speaks to a fellow former cop who worked on the Turquand case, who is now
earning pin money as a bouncer. The day after their chat, the retired policeman
bobs up in the Water of Leith, quite dead, totally murdered.
Next
up, Darryl Christie, a young pretender to “Big Ger” Cafferty’s gangland throne
in Edinburgh, has been given a solid beating. This raises fears among Police
Scotland’s finest that the two men’s armies might be gearing up for a turf war.
Like Rebus, Cafferty is more or less retired, but suspicion comes the ageing Mr
Big’s way - despite the fact that known flake and troublemaker Craw Shand has confessed
to carrying out the doin’.
We’re
not finished yet. There’s another plotline, concerning a businessman connected
to Christie who has disappeared, along with a big chunk of cash which the
police suspect was being laundered for some shady people from former Soviet
territory.
Closing
in on thirty years after the Berlin Wall fell, we seem to have gone back to using
eastern Europeans as a trope for “indescribably bad people” in fiction. Is this
racist? It’s certainly a cliché. I’ve done it myself, I have to confess. “Aw
naw – it’s McGlutsky! The baddest comrade in town! You’ll know him by his hard
consonants!”
It’s
not on the same level as the “yellow peril” racism of Fu Manchu and Ming the
Merciless (is the latter the green peril, in fact?), but it rests in the same
wall-mounted unit. Next thing you know, we’ll be worrying about hard Glaswegians.
We have to be wary of cliché, and that’s true of big or small writers, whether
they’re producing candy floss or filet
mignon. I guess Sax Rohmer and others had no idea how terrible their work
would appear to readers 100 years later (though they caused a fair stink at the
time).
Before
the Wall came down, a very wise teacher of mine said in response to a gag
someone made at the expense of the Soviet Union: “It’s all propaganda. Focus on
the people.”
In
Rankin’s defence – and my own – Russian and Ukrainian gangsters exist, all right, and dirty money and power
linked to property owned by people from these places are an issue in British
society; no doubt about that either. We might blame capitalism at this point, assume
a sage expression, and withdraw.
Looking
after the Darryl Christie and dirty cash inquiries are Malcolm Fox, last seen
haunting Police Scotland’s internal affairs department, and series stalwart Siobhan
Clarke, a detective working at the recently unified force’s Gartcosh nerve centre
with a team who don’t take kindly to newcomers.
I
have to admit, at one point I was struggling to remember what the Gartcosh team
were supposed to be investigating.
Ian
Rankin has stated that he doesn’t write these stories to a detailed plan –
reasoning that if he can fool himself, he can fool the reader. In some of the
older books, this haphazard method really shows. Hide & Seek, his second novel, was a 200-page search for a
plot, rather than a series of clues for Rebus to follow in order to solve a
mystery. In this, an old observation about the series comes into play: that
they’re not really crime novels, more of an anatomy lesson dissecting
Scotland’s dark, divided heart. I wondered at the time if Rankin knew himself
where he was going with it when he started writing; it seems not.
Now,
though, the books are tightly and convincingly plotted. If Rankin truly does
just wind himself up and go, carrying all this stuff in his head, or
discovering it as he travels, then it’s a remarkable skill. Any one of the plot
strands in this book would have made a decent case alone. Rankin untangles this
spaghetti junction of storylines and protagonists with a deft hand.
Deliciously,
Rebus and Fox don’t really get on. The internal affairs guy is a straight
shooter, while Rebus rarely colours inside the lines. Fox is also easy to wind
up, which Rebus mercilessly exploits. However, Fox is an excellent copper, and
the two men recognise each other’s strengths, and help each other out. Clarke,
while certainly no mother hen, keeps the pair of them in line. Fox and Clarke
are also fond of each other, and there’s surely a situation brewing there.
The
principals are all compromised in some way. Rebus is almost pally with Ger
Cafferty, his crime lord nemesis. This put me in mind of Smiley versus Karla in
John Le Carre’s work – there’s a bit too much respect on the part of the good
guy, whereas the baddie will simply do the dirty without any hesitation. In
order to bring down Cafferty for good, Rebus will surely have to sink to his
level. Elsewhere, Fox is badly exposed by a family member with a problem, while
Clarke has been caught on camera after getting out of control on a night out.
Rebus
has a few things to worry about as his clock begins to run down – chiefly “Hank
Marvin”, lurking somewhere in his chest cavity – but he’s still the same snarky,
natural-born Scottish cynic we’ve all grown up with.
The
former inspector is a curious character. I sometimes forget that he is meant to
be a tough guy, having joined the police after leaving the SAS. But I never
think of him as the type to bust heads or get into scraps, even when he does.
Rebus
is actually a flyman – crafty, full of tricks, outsmarting people first and
foremost because he enjoys it. Someone you can’t really trust. Rebus seems more
of a natural thief or mountebank than a policeman or a guardian. He’s closer to
Craw Shand than Ger Cafferty, on the masculinity spectrum.
Everything
ties off nicely, and (a curious effect you get with e-readers that don’t give
you a percentage count) the book seems to finish all too soon despite being a
good length.
It’s
an excellent read. Fans will be well pleased. There’s a new one of these every
year – with another due out in a matter of weeks, in fact. What more can you
ask for?
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