by Craig Cabell
Surely Cafferty is a little more complex than that? In one of my interviews with Rankin, for Fleshmarket Close (5 November 2004), he opened up a little more when I queried the big gangster coming down to London in his youth. ‘Cafferty’s an amalgam of several real-life Glasgow “gangsters”. I’ve definitely read accounts of how such real-life ’60s villains as Jimmy Boyle made the trip to London and did strong-arm work for the likes of the Krays and the Richardsons. This may have been mentioned in Boyle’s own autobiography, or in one of the many true crime books written about the Glasgow underworld… I definitely came across the info somewhere. One of these days I’m going to write a short story – maybe a long story – about Cafferty’s early years, written from his point of view.’
A young Cafferty book? Well, the path seems to have gone cold on that for the moment… but as for Glasgow-based gangsters assisting the Krays and Richardsons in the ’60s, ‘Scotch’ Jack Dixon and Ian Barrie are very good examples of Scots who came down to London to join the Kray firm, so there could be an interesting story there for ‘Big Ger’ – or rather Rankin.
But I have one more observation regarding the London connection:
‘A handy lesson with “Big Ger” after you. He really makes people disappear, doesn’t he? Dumping them at sea like that. That’s what he does, isn’t it?’
The Black Book
This scene is straight out of the supposed history books, where Freddie Foreman, king of the London underworld, supposedly disposed of the body of Jack ‘The Hat’ McVitie as a favour to the Kray Twins, by giving him a burial at sea. Giving ‘Big Ger’ the label of Scotland’s answer to Foreman is credible in the light of his involvement in the Rebus series after The Black Book.
Rankin has mentioned the murder of McVitie a couple of times in his novels (Tooth and Nail and Black and Blue), and it is interesting that he uses Freddie Foreman’s alleged techniques as a consequence.45
One day, while drinking in the Oxford Bar, Rankin was told about a hotel in Princes Street that burned down in mysterious circumstances and, along with the memories he had of the smell of the breweries in the west of the city, he brought together the essence of the story that would feature a brewing family, the mystery of the burned-down hotel, ‘Big Ger’, St Leonard’s and Siobhan Clarke.
This was the beginning of the grown-up Rebus. Rankin would consider that that happened from Strip Jack, but I think not. The natural break comes at the beginning of The Black Book when we meet Rebus at his new desk at St Leonard’s. It is only there that the new beginning is complete, with important new characters and real-life Edinburgh pubs.
The Black Book is also significant to us in as much as it reintroduces Rebus’s brother Michael. Michael is looking up his brother in Edinburgh after serving three years of a five-year prison sentence for drug dealing, as a consequence of the events in Knot and Crosses (the detail of the court case and the infrequent prison visits Rebus makes are not given in any of the books, which is a bit of a shame).
Throughout The Black Book there are tensions between the Rebus brothers. This isn’t the self-assured Michael Rebus we meet at the beginning of the first novel. This man has been humbled and is at the point of rebuilding his life, relying, like so many other less-than-entitled brothers throughout history, on his sensible sibling (sic) to pull his life back together again. Michael becomes a pathetic figure and Rebus has more than one argument with him.
This development of character takes Rebus much further away from Rankin’s personal life, not because he doesn’t have a brother, but because he has never had to treat someone – or be treated – in such a way, and there is no obvious connection with the reality of Rankin’s life. This is another reason why The Black Book is the first ‘grown-up’ Rebus novel: the characters have taken on their own momentum. They really begin to speak for themselves – not just Rebus but Patience (Rebus’s latest girlfriend), Holmes, ‘The Farmer’ Watson, Lauderdale, Dr Curt. The series is really one for the faithful fan by this stage.
Only if people were reading the books in order could they appreciate the way the characters interacted, the history they have shared with each other. In a more naive way, the same could be said for Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels. If they are read in the order they were written then the reader makes certain connections and cross-references, which they wouldn’t identify if they read the books out of sequence. Such is the consequence of reading series fiction: even through self-contained novels there has to be familiarity – synergy, continuity – between novels.
‘The past was certainly important to Edinburgh. The city fed on its past like a serpent with its tail in its mouth. And Rebus’s past seemed to be circling around again too.’
The Black Book
The above quote echoes the legend of Edinburgh being built on the back of a serpent (also mentioned in Mortal Causes) but it also sums up the novel, in as much as it clearly shows that Edinburgh’s past is haunting the modern-day city, just as Rebus’s past is haunting him. It’s like Rebus and his city are spiritually joined at the hip – as Rankin is with his adopted city? Maybe.
In a way, The Black Book attempts to wrap up much of the unfinished business of the series thus far and introduces a new real-life police station and real Edinburgh pubs too. This would naturally allow Rankin to explore and analyse his Edinburgh without watering things down through pure fiction, which is what he had done before. The reality has stood him in good stead ever since, especially regarding police procedure, as he told me: ‘In the past I made most of it up. And the police officers started coming up to me and saying “I love your books but you got that little bit wrong.”
‘I started writing the books when I was still a student, and I didn’t know how the police worked. I didn’t even know that there were 15 people in a Scottish jury, I thought there were 12, like Twelve Angry Men. I didn’t know that there were three possible verdicts in a Scottish court. You can have Not Proven as well as Not Guilty and Guilty. Not Proven means you think they did it but it hasn’t been proved to the jury’s satisfaction.
‘So there was a learning process going on, but it became a lot easier when cops came up to me and said “I loved the books…” because I would say “What’s your phone number?” and I would start pestering them for information, and it’s got to the stage now where the police in Scotland are very friendly to me. They understand that Rebus is a maverick but they like the fact that this guy doesn’t follow the rules all of the time, because in their ideal policing world they wouldn’t have to do all the paperwork, form-filling – they would be able to get on with the job that Rebus is getting on with.’
So the novels are fantasies for the police force? Certainly quality fiction, as Rankin enthuses: ‘The beauty of writing fiction about the police is you can leave out all the boring stuff. An inquiry will have lots of dead and loose ends. You get none of that in a book – you can hint at it but you don’t have to put it all in. The problem with the cops who try and write books – and some do try with very good cause – is they don’t know what to leave out. They put too much detail in and the whole thing gets bogged down for the reader. It’s too realistic. The thriller is different. I used to write thrillers and people who read thrillers have different expectations. They want to believe that they’re learning stuff and they are very techi-minded, so they do want to know how a Heckler Koch MP5 works. They want the nuts and bolts of it, every little detail. I gave it up because it was too much like hard work. Freddie Forsyth has got a lot to answer for!’
Despite all this, Rankin did have some fun with The Black Book (even though he admits that it is a darker novel than its predecessor). While in America spending the money of the Chandler-Fulbright Award, he visited New Orleans and entered a dive with an Elvis theme. It was here that Rankin conceived the idea of the Heartbreak Café in Edinburgh, an Elvis-themed restaurant with its ‘Love Me Tenderloin’, ‘King Shrimp Creole’ and my personal favourite ‘Blue Suede Choux’.
It is irritating that c
ritics underrate Rankin’s sense of humour. Despite the excellent – but dark – book jackets and the often grim subject matter, there is no doubt that Rankin’s books possess a keen sense of humour and, to be frank, it is something prevalent across the CID when dealing with tough – and often nasty – work. The old adage of ‘if you don’t laugh you’ll cry’, is an everyday occurrence in such environments.
CHAPTER NINE
THE CITY BENEATH THE STREETS
‘Dark, dark, dark. The sky quiet save for the occasional drunken yell.’
Mortal Causes
There is a city beneath the streets in Edinburgh: a gothic subterranean cavern of intrigue and spine-chilling possibility. Rankin found such delights when visiting Mary King’s Close in Edinburgh’s Old Town (not too far away from Fleshmarket Close, which would provide its own inspiration for a future book). As legend would have it, during the 1600s plague was rife in Edinburgh and the people of Mary King’s Close either died, or moved out and didn’t move back again. Then there was a fire, so each end of the close was blocked and eventually it was built upon – until such time when the people of Edinburgh could make it a tourist attraction and inspire a local writer to write a novel about it! The book would be called Mortal Causes.
Rankin considers Mortal Causes to be a little outdated in as much as it looked at the IRA and its influence in Scotland. Maybe it was a tried and proven theme but the story was a good one and set to the backdrop of the Edinburgh Festival. Vanderhyde makes a cameo appearance and the concept of Sword and Shield is expanded.
Mortal Causes is a book full of religious tension between Catholics and Protestants. When an ordinary Edinburgh woman plucks up the courage to ask an Orangeman why they hate the Catholics, but rushes on before getting his response, we can appreciate how the people of Edinburgh hide their true feelings as easily as their macabre past at Mary King’s Close.
Mortal Causes, like many Rankin novels, is subtle and showcases how the author can deal with big topics in a sensitive way. Maybe, with reference to Northern Ireland, Rankin had some help from his wife whose family is Irish, because he thoroughly understood the nuances of the different organisations that cause unrest and despair by their acts of violence and terror. Rankin observes and then explores this similar mentality in Scotland through Mortal Causes. He has told me that one of the things he hates about his country is how the past dictates a prejudice against others – mainly the English – and how that tarnishes the here and now.
There is a lighter side to Mortal Causes: the Edinburgh Festival in full flow, the Fringe happening on the street and being enjoyed by the young Siobhan Clarke – and perhaps endured by the older John Rebus, who seems to breathe a sigh of relief as the case ends at the same time as the Festival. The young and the old, history and the here and now, how the past influences the future: there are many avenues to explore in Mortal Causes and big questions to face. What is interesting is how Rankin does this without detriment to the story. He doesn’t give the reader a Bono-like diatribe: he plants the seeds and lets you draw your own conclusion, while tying the story up nicely for you as his side of the bargain.
Rebus is totally absorbed in the case, as ever, almost ‘obsessive’ about it. Somebody has been murdered in Mary King’s Close. No ordinary murder. The victim had been six-packed (shot in the elbows, knees and ankles), a form of punishment typical of the IRA, Rebus knows, as he remembers clearly his time in Ireland as part of the British Army. But unlike the IRA punishment, this six-pack was concluded with a bullet to the head.
Because he knows a little about the IRA, Rebus takes things as personally as usual – this is endearing to the reader but frustrating for the character.
‘“It’s about time the tourists learned the truth,” Rebus said…’
Mortal Causes
Although we observe that Rankin is ‘obsessive’, he is not as destructive as Rebus. He lets his books absorb him, looking into the hidden depths of Edinburgh for more complex storylines. Rankin doesn’t possess the melancholy – the loneliness – of John Rebus but he does see the cynical truth behind the face of the Edinburgh Festival.
‘He … detested the Festival. It took away from them their Edinburgh and propped something else in its place, a facade of culture which they didn’t need and couldn’t understand.’
Mortal Causes
Nowadays Rankin is an important figure at the Edinburgh Book Festival. He undertakes talks, solo or with other writers (such as Neil Gaiman in 2009 and Reggie Nadelson in 2010), and he meets the fans at book signings. In that respect, he has attached himself to part of the veneer of the city but hell, you’ve got to have a bit of fun!
CHAPTER TEN
JUST A SHOT AWAY
‘Curt got to his feet… “And now he’s gone to the other place.”
“It’s just a shot away,” said Rebus.’
Let It Bleed
Rankin’s next novel was Let It Bleed. He describes it as a political novel. It is quite clear from the text that he wanted to mention changes in local politics in Scotland as a major theme, perhaps to take some of his ideas broached in Strip Jack further.
The story opens with a car chase towards the Forth Bridge in a blizzard. Rebus is more than a little concerned with his CI’s (Lauderdale’s) speed and when an accident occurs, it is his boss who is thrown through the windscreen. Rebus is unhurt apart from a toothache, which develops with the story!
What is life-changing for Rebus is his ex-girlfriend Gill Templer getting temporary promotion to CI as a consequence of the crash. This is a surprise to Rebus and his colleague DI Alister Flower, as they think they are in line for promotion. Flower takes the news badly and conducts a swearing match with himself in the toilet as a consequence, while Rebus accepts that he is not promotion material and decides to congratulate Gill. She, it turns out, is less than gracious, mentioning that they have no emotional connection any more. Rebus accepts this to begin with, but it seems that Gill has more problems dealing with their past than he does, to the extent where Rebus loses his temper over her attitude towards him (and for once, not without some justification).
As it turns out, the men have more problems adapting to a female boss than the women. Siobhan Clarke seems to have a spring in her step with the sudden appearance of Gill Templer from Fife, but Rebus – who should be bothered – isn’t, because the problems are on Gill’s side, not his.
What is also significant in this story is, once more, Rebus’s relationship with his daughter Samantha. Towards the beginning of the book there is a very telling phone call from Sammy. Afterwards, Rebus chastises himself for not being fatherly in his response to his daughter’s general questions. If only ‘life had a rewind button’, he muses. Rewind for the phone call, or his whole career as a father, is unclear. Probably the latter, but Rebus wouldn’t rate his whole influence on Sammy as poor.
There is a nice piece that concludes Part One of Let It Bleed. Rankin takes the most important characters in the story thus far and speculates on how well they sleep at night. It’s a great summary of the characters, with Gill Templer ‘unperturbed’ and the missing girl ‘…’ (i.e. nobody knows). How was she sleeping? What type of sleep was it? Eternal? Rebus believes at one stage that she could have run away to London. It seems that ‘running away’ is a recurring theme in Rankin’s books, present ever since his first half-hearted efforts as a boy.
‘Edinburgh was a lucky fucking town.’
Let It Bleed
Let It Bleed is a revealing novel. When Rebus learns from Sammy that Patience’s cat was killed by a neighbour’s dog, he doesn’t just lack sympathy, he carries on with the reason he called in the first place. This is more than just inconsiderate, it’s Rebus being oblivious to the world that should matter most to him. Sammy had been blamed for locking the cat-flap and she is terribly upset because she didn’t do it, but Rebus is wrapped up in the nuances of his line of inquiry and that sums up the whole reason why his relationships have failed him throughout his life.
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There are two sides of the coin, of course. If Rebus wasn’t so single-minded when it came to work, some cases wouldn’t have been solved so quickly – especially relevant for kidnap cases where there is a clear race against time. So is Rebus unselfish?
Not by any stretch of the imagination! He’s just totally dedicated – absorbed – by his work. And when that work is taken away? Ah, now that actually happens in Let It Bleed. The Farmer (Chief Superintendent Watson) tells Rebus to take ‘a week, ten days’ off. Not a formal suspension, but the next best thing. Almost straight away Rebus becomes melancholy, believing that ‘police routine gave his daily life its only shape and substance.’ Does this imply that Rebus couldn’t – or wouldn’t – care much about personal relationships if he had the time? Possibly, but then: ‘He loathed his free time, dreaded Sundays off. He lived to work, and in a very real sense he worked to live, too…’ Shouldn’t this feeling send warning bells through him – what preparations had he made for retirement? Did he really want to improve relationships with the women in his life? And if he didn’t, surely there was something there for his daughter?
Did Rebus care about her after the cat’s death? Not really. More interestingly, in a later book, The Hanging Garden, we find, in a flashback sequence, that he simply fell asleep on a beach when he was meant to be looking after his baby daughter (but more about that later).
