A Question of Blood (Inspector John Rebus Series #14)

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When a former soldier and recluse murders two 17-year-old students at a posh Edinburgh boarding school, Inspector John Rebus immediately suspects there is more to the case than meets the eye.
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2005 Mass-market paperback New. No dust jacket as issued. Mass market (rack) paperback. Glued binding. 532 p. Inspector Rebus Mysteries (Paperback). Audience: General/trade.

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A Question of Blood (Inspector John Rebus Series #14)

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Overview

When a former soldier and recluse murders two 17-year-old students at a posh Edinburgh boarding school, Inspector John Rebus immediately suspects there is more to the case than meets the eye.
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Editorial Reviews

The New York Times
A Question of Blood confirms Mr. Rankin's place — for those who don't already know him, although his preceding Resurrection Men reached American best-seller lists — as part of the nouveau-noir pantheon that dominates contemporary mystery writing. Character, setting and conscience count for at least as much as plot does in the masculine, brooding work of Dennis Lehane, Michael Connelly, Harlan Coben, George P. Pelecanos and Jonathan Kellerman, not to mention Peter Robinson, another stellar British practitioner of this craft. — Janet Maslin
The Washington Post
Between Rebus's investigation of the school shootings and the department's investigation of Rebus, Rankin has an abundance of plot to spin, and he does so with his usual skill. But it is not plot alone that has made Rankin one of England's most popular crime novelists. This series's strength starts with Rebus himself, who after 14 novels has emerged as the baddest of the bad boys of modern crime fiction. He is fiftyish, overweight, alcoholic, a chain smoker, surly, short-tempered, divorced, estranged from his family, a loner, a nut about obscure rock-and-roll groups, hostile to all authority and possibly psychotic. Needless to say, women love him -- ladies love outlaws -- and his police colleagues tolerate him because he's an ace detective. — Patrick Anderson
Publishers Weekly
The 14th novel to feature the always compelling (and, as his name suggests, perpetually puzzling) John Rebus begins with what seems to be a uniquely American crime: a madman enters a school and starts shooting, killing two students and wounding a third before turning the gun on himself. But we're in Rankin country-a perpetually damp and morally bankrupt Edinburgh-with Rebus and Siobhan Clarke searching for the real story behind what seems an act of sheer madness. This immensely satisfying police procedural has plenty of forensic science, but Rebus knows that "none of it might make them any the wiser about the only question that mattered....The why." Why did Lee Herdman, a drop-out of the U.K. version of the Special Forces, go on a rampage? Why was James Bell, the son of a self-righteous Scottish M.P., merely wounded? And why are two Army investigators sniffing around the case? A subplot has Rebus himself under suspicion of murder: a minor criminal is found dead, burned in an apartment fire, and Rebus shows up with heavily bandaged hands the next morning. The detectives encounter every stratum of contemporary Scottish society, from angry teenage toughs and petty criminals to the privileged and the powerful. It's a complex narrative, perhaps too much so at times, but the plot is less important than Rebus himself, a brilliantly conceived hero who is all too aware of his own shortcomings. In an essentially amoral society, his moral compass is always pointed steadily towards the truth. (Feb. 9) Forecast: According to the English newspaper The Guardian, Rankin books account for 10% of all crime book sales in the U.K. Already a #1 bestseller in Britain, A Question of Blood is bound to enfold more American readers in the Rankin cult. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
If a butterfly bites the dust in Rotterdam, what's the fallout in Edinburgh? A web of delicate relationships lies at the heart of the latest entry in Rankin's benchmark Inspector Rebus series (after Resurrection Men). Rebus finds himself in hot water again, this time literally, with severely scalded hands, the result of either too hot dish- or bathwater. After the stalker of a colleague turns up dead-in a fire-suspicion naturally falls on Rebus, who is suspended for the duration of the investigation. Meanwhile, a school shooting reminiscent of the Dunblane massacre in 1996 leaves two students and the assailant dead, with a third wounded. It all seems elementary enough, until Rebus, with time on his bandaged hands, is called in as a consultant, complicating matters by unraveling the simplistic solutions. When everything falls into place, drugs, Rotterdam diamonds, and the Edinburgh goth scene are all shown to play a part. And as Rebus investigates the school assailant-a Special Air Service dropout and loner-embarrassing parallels develop between them that are appropriate enough to the city that spawned Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. A good choice for public libraries. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 10/15/03.]-Bob Lunn, Kansas City P.L., MO Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Once again up on charges, DI John Rebus defies suspension and scalded hands to work two difficult cases. Rebus's first problem is how to prove to his partner, Siobhan Clarke, and their boss, DCI Gill Templer, that despite severely burned fingers, he didn't set Martin Fairstone ablaze to avenge his stalking and brutalizing of Siobhan. Trying to circumvent Templer's wrath and needing Siobhan to drive until his hands heal, Rebus responds with her to DI Bobby Hogan's need for help with a pair of 17-year-old corpses in South Queensferry, one the son of a judge, the other the son of Rebus's cousin Allan. Also lying dead is the shooter, ex-SAS soldier Lee Herdman. Recovering at home with his dad, a publicity-hungry anti-gun Scottish MP, is the tragedy's sole survivor: wounded student James Bell. Why did Herdman target the youngsters, then kill himself? Rebus is stymied by two hostile SAS investigators who always seem to be in his way, perhaps covering up evidence, perhaps planting some. And too many people are distracted by nubile Teri Cotter's Web site, which shows her bedroom antics 24/7. Meanwhile, Siobhan has acquired a second stalker, and Rebus seems fixated on the antics of lowlife Peacock Johnson and his gofer, Evil Bob. A notch below quintessential Rankin (Resurrection Man, Feb. 2003, etc.) with a wrap-up that doesn't quite ring true and a Rebus too dependent on painkillers and single-malt. But Siobhan-now there's a lassie to admire. Author tour. Agent: Dominick Abel
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780316159180
  • Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
  • Publication date: 1/28/2005
  • Series: Inspector John Rebus Series , #14
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 544
  • Product dimensions: 4.25 (w) x 7.00 (h) x 1.25 (d)

Meet the Author

Ian Rankin

Ian Rankin is a #1 international bestselling author. Winner of an Edgar Award and the recipient of a Gold Dagger for fiction and the Chandler-Fulbright Award, he lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife and their two sons.

Biography

"I grew up in a small coal-mining town in central Scotland. I was always interested in stories. Even though the town had no book stores (and my parents were not great readers), I made full use of the local library. It was mind-boggling to me that (at the age of 11 or 12) I could not gain access to a movie theatre to see such classics as The Godfather, A Clockwork Orange, or Straw Dogs, yet no one stopped me from borrowing these titles from my library. Books seemed to have about them a whiff of the illicit and the dangerous. That was all the encouragement I needed. I went to university in 1978, joined a punk band (on vocals), and continued to write a lot of song lyrics and poems. However, I found that my poems were actually 'telling stories', and so started to write short stories.

A few of these found publication and even won some awards. Then one story raged out of control and became my first novel. It was never published, but that didn't matter: I was now a novelist. I stumbled on Detective Inspector John Rebus by accident while attempting to write an update of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde: Rebus would be my Jekyll, his Hyde a character from his past. Along the way, I discovered that a cop is a good 'tool,' a way of looking at contemporary society, its rights and wrongs. Rebus, I decided, would stick around. Meantime, I finished unviersity, moved to London for four years (where I worked first as a college secretary, later as a hi-fi/audio journalist), then rural France for six years. Both my sons were born in France. By the time the oldest had reached school age, we'd decided to move back to Scotland. I now live and work in Edinburgh, and the Rebus novels have gone from strength to strength in terms of sales and recognition."

Author biography courtesy of Little, Brown & Company

Good To Know

Before making it as an author Rankin held a wide variety of gigs, including working in a chicken factory, as a swineherd, a grape-picker, and a tax collector. He even performed as the frontman of the short-lived punk band, The Dancing Pigs.

He has broken Irvine Welsh and Iain Banks's records, with six titles in the Scottish top 10 bestseller list simultaneously.

His favorite/inspirational books include pretty much anything by James Ellroy, Ruth Rendell, and Raymond Chandler—plus classics of Scottish Literature such as Robert Louis Strevenson's Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, James Hogg's Confessions of a Justified Sinner, and Muriel Spark's The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. Other "desert island" titles include Martin Amis's Money, Anthony Burgess's Earthly Powers, Anthony Powell's A Dance to the Music of Time and Ian McEwan's First Love, Last Rites.

His favorite web site is http://www.oxfordbar.com — the official web site of Rebus's favourite Edinburgh tavern!

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    1. Also Known As:
      Jack Harvey
    2. Hometown:
      Edinburgh, London and France
    1. Date of Birth:
      April 28, 1960
    2. Place of Birth:
      Cardenden, Scotland
    1. Education:
      Edinburgh University
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt

A Question of Blood


By Ian Rankin

Little, Brown

Copyright © 2003 John Rebus Limited
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-316-09564-8


Chapter One

There's no mystery," Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke said. "Herdman lost his marbles, that's all."

She was sitting by a hospital bed in Edinburgh's recently opened Royal Infirmary. The complex was to the south of the city, in an area called Little France. It had been built at considerable expense on open space, but already there were complaints about a lack of useable space inside and car-parking space outside. Siobhan had found a spot eventually, only to discover that she would be charged for the privilege.

This much she had told Detective Inspector John Rebus on her arrival at his bedside. Rebus's hands were bandaged to the wrists. When she'd poured him some tepid water, he'd cupped the plastic glass to his mouth, drinking carefully as she watched. "See?" he'd chided her afterwards. "Didn't spill a drop." But then he'd spoiled the act by letting the cup slip as he tried to maneuver it back on to the bedside table. The rim of its base hit the floor, Siobhan snatching it on the first bounce.

"Good catch," Rebus had conceded. "No harm done. It was empty anyway."

Since then, she'd been making what both of them knew was small talk, skirting questions she was desperate to ask and instead filling him in on the slaughter in South Queensferry. Three dead, one wounded. A quiet coastal town just north of the city. A private school, taking boys and girls from ages five to eighteen. Enrollment of six hundred, now minus two.

The third body belonged to the gunman, who'd turned his weapon on himself. No mystery, as Siobhan had said. Except for the why.

"He was like you," she was saying. "Ex-army, I mean. They reckon that's why he did it: grudge against society." Rebus noticed that her hands were now being kept firmly in the pockets of her jacket. He guessed they were clenched and that she didn't know she was doing it.

"The papers say he ran a business," he said. "He had a powerboat, used to take out water-skiers." "But he had a grudge?"

She shrugged. Rebus knew she was wishing there was a place for her at the scene, anything to take her mind off the other inquiry - internal this time, and with her at its core. She was staring at the wall above his head, as if there were something there she was interested in other than the paintwork and an oxygen outlet.

"You haven't asked me how I'm feeling," he said. She looked at him. "How are you feeling?" "I'm going stir-crazy, thank you for asking." "You've only been in one night." "Feels like more."

"What do the doctors say?" "Nobody's been to see me yet, not today. Whatever they tell me, I'm out of here this afternoon." "And then what?"

"How do you mean?" "You can't go back to work." Finally, she studied his hands. "How're you going to drive or type a report? What about taking phone calls?"

"I'll manage." He looked around him, his turn now to avoid eye contact. Surrounded by men much his age and sporting the same grayish pallor. The Scots diet had taken its toll on this lot, no doubt about it. One guy was coughing for want of a cigarette. Another looked like he had breathing problems. The overweight, swollen-livered mass of local manhood. Rebus held up one hand so he could rub a forearm over his left cheek, feeling the unshaven rasp. The bristles, he knew, would be the same silvered color as the walls of his ward.

"I'll manage," he repeated into the silence, lowering the arm again and wishing he hadn't raised it in the first place. His fingers sparked with pain as the blood pounded through them. "Have they spoken to you?" he asked.

"About what?" "Come on, Siobhan ..."

She looked at him, unblinking. Her hands emerged from their hiding place as she leaned forwards on the chair. "I've another session this afternoon."

"Who with?" "The boss." Meaning Detective Chief Superintendent Gill Templer. Rebus nodded, satisfied that as yet it wasn't going any higher. "What will you say to her?" he asked.

"There's nothing to tell. I didn't have anything to do with Fairstone's death." She paused, another unasked question hanging between them: Did you? She seemed to be waiting for Rebus to say something, but he stayed silent. "She'll want to know about you," Siobhan added. "How you ended up in here."

"I scalded myself," Rebus said. "It's stupid, but that's what happened." "I know that's what you say happened ..." "No, Siobhan, it's what happened. Ask the doctors if you don't believe me." He looked around again. "Always supposing you can find one."

"Probably still combing the grounds for a parking space." The joke was weak enough, but Rebus smiled anyway. She was letting him know she wouldn't be pressing him any further. His smile was one of gratitude.

"Who's in charge at South Queensferry?" he asked her, signaling a change of subject.

"I think DI Hogan's out there." "Bobby's a good guy. If it can be wrapped up fast, he'll do it." "Media circus by all accounts. Grant Hood's been drafted in to handle liaison."

"Leaving us short-changed at St. Leonard's?" Rebus was thoughtful. "All the more reason for me to get back there." "Especially if I'm suspended ..."

"You won't be. You said it yourself, Siobhan-you didn't have anything to do with Fairstone. Way I see it, it was an accident. Now that something bigger's come along, maybe it'll die a natural death, so to speak."

"'An accident.'" She was repeating his words. He nodded slowly. "So don't worry about it. Unless, of course, you really did top the bastard."

"John ..." There was a warning in her tone. Rebus smiled again and managed a wink.

"Only joking," he said. "I know damned fine who Gill's going to want to see in the frame for Fairstone." "He died in a fire, John."

"And that means I killed him?" Rebus held up both hands, turning them this way and that. "Scalds, Siobhan. That's all, just scalds." She rose from the chair. "If you say so, John." Then she stood in front of him, while he lowered his hands, biting back the sudden rush of agony. A nurse was approaching, saying something about changing his dressings.

"I'm just going," Siobhan informed her. Then, to Rebus: "I'd hate to think you'd do something so stupid and imagine it was on my behalf." He started shaking his head slowly, and she turned and walked away. "Keep the faith, Siobhan!" he called after her.

"That your daughter?" the nurse asked, making conversation. "Just a friend, someone I work with." "You something to do with the Church?"

Rebus winced as she started unpeeling one of his bandages. "What makes you say that?"

"The way you were talking about faith." "Job like mine, you need more than most." He paused. "But then, maybe it's the same for you?"

"Me?" She smiled, her eyes on her handiwork. She was short and plain-looking and businesslike. "Can't hang around waiting for faith to do anything for you. So how did you manage this?" She meant his blistered hands.

"I got into hot water," he explained, feeling a bead of sweat beginning its slow journey down one temple. Pain I can handle, he thought to himself. The problem was everything else. "Can we switch to something lighter than bandages?"

"You keen to be on your way?" "Keen to pick up a cup without dropping it." Or a phone, he thought. "Besides, there's got to be someone out there needs the bed more than I do."

"Very public-minded, I'm sure. We'll have to see what the doctor says."

"And which doctor would that be?" "Just have a bit of patience, eh?"

Patience: the one thing he had no time for. "Maybe you'll have some more visitors," the nurse added. He doubted it. No one knew he was here except Siobhan. He'd got one of the staff to call her so she could tell Templer that he was taking a sick day, maybe two at the most. Thing was, the call had brought Siobhan running. Maybe he'd known it would; maybe that's why he'd phoned her rather than the station.

That had been yesterday afternoon. Yesterday morning, he'd given up the fight and walked into his GP's office. The doctor filling in had taken one look and told him to get himself to a hospital. Rebus had taken a taxi to A&E, embarrassed when the driver had to dig the money for the fare out of his trouser pockets. "Did you hear the news?" the cabbie had asked. "A shooting at a school."

"Probably an air gun." But the man had shaken his head. "Worse than that, according to the radio ..."

At A&E, Rebus had waited his turn. Eventually, his hands had been dressed, the injuries not serious enough to merit a trip to the Burns Unit out at Livingston. But he was running a high temperature, so they'd decided to keep him in, an ambulance transferring him from A&E to Little France. He thought they were probably keeping an eye on him in case he went into shock or something. Or it could be they feared he was one of those self-harm people. Nobody'd come to talk to him about that. Maybe that's why they were hanging on to him: waiting for a psychiatrist with a free moment.

He wondered about Jean Burchill, the one person who might notice his sudden disappearance from home. But things had cooled there a little. They managed a night together maybe once every ten days. Spoke on the phone more frequently, met for coffee some afternoons. Already it felt like a routine. He recalled that a while ago he'd dated a nurse for a short time. He didn't know if she still worked locally. He could always ask, but her name was escaping him. It was a problem: he had trouble sometimes with names. Forgot the odd appointment. Not a big deal really, just part and parcel of the aging process. But in court he found himself referring to his notes more and more when giving evidence. Ten years ago he hadn't needed a script or any prompts. He'd acted with more confidence, and that always impressed juries - so lawyers had told him.

"There now." His nurse was straightening up. She'd put fresh grease and gauze on his hands, wrapped the old bandages back around them. "Feel more comfortable?" He nodded. The skin felt a little cooler, but he knew it wouldn't last.

"You due any more painkillers?" The question was rhetorical. She checked the chart at the bottom of his bed. Earlier, after a visit to the toilet, he'd looked at it himself. It gave his temperature and medication, nothing else. No coded information meant to be understood only by those in the know. No record of the story he'd given when he was being examined.

I'd run a hot bath ... slipped and fell in. The doctor had made a kind of noise at the back of his throat, something that said he would accept this without necessarily believing it. Overworked, lacking sleep - not his job to pry. Doctor rather than detective.

"I can give you some paracetamol," the nurse suggested. "Any chance of a beer to wash them down?" She smiled that professional smile again. The years she'd worked in the NHS, she probably didn't hear too many original lines. "I'll see what I can do."

"You're an angel," Rebus said, surprising himself. It was the sort of thing he felt a patient might say, one of those comfortable clichés. She was on her way, and he wasn't sure she'd heard. Maybe it was something in the nature of hospitals. Even if you didn't feel ill, they still had an effect, slowing you down, making you compliant. Institutionalizing you. It could be to do with the color scheme, the background hum. Maybe the heating of the place was complicit, too. Back at St. Leonard's, they had a special cell for the "maddies." It was bright pink and was supposed to calm them down. Why think a similar psychology wasn't being employed here? Last thing they wanted was a stroppy patient, shouting the odds and jumping out of bed every five minutes. Hence the suffocating number of blankets, tightly tucked in to further hamper movement. Just lie still ... propped by pillows ... bask in the heat and light ... Don't make a fuss. Any more of this, he felt, and he'd start forgetting his own name. The world outside would cease to matter. No job waiting for him. No Fairstone. No maniac spraying gunfire through the classrooms ...

Rebus turned on his side, using his legs to push free the sheets. It was a two-way fight, like Harry Houdini in a straitjacket. The man in the next bed over had opened his eyes and was watching. Rebus winked at him as he levered his feet into fresh air. "Just you keep tunneling," he told the man. "I'll go for a walk, trickle the earth out of my trouser leg."

The reference seemed lost on his fellow prisoner ... Siobhan was back at St. Leonard's, loitering by the drink machine. A couple of uniforms were seated at a table in the small cafeteria, munching on sandwiches and crisps. The drink machine was in the adjoining hallway, with a view out to the car park. If she were a smoker, she would have an excuse to step outside, where there was less chance of Gill Templer finding her. But she didn't smoke. She knew she could try ducking into the underventilated gym farther along the corridor, or she could take a walk to the cells. But there was nothing to stop Templer using the station's PA system to hunt down her quarry. Word would get around anyway that she was on the premises. St. Leonard's was like that: no hiding place. She yanked on the cola can's ring pull, knowing what the uniforms at the table would be discussing -same thing as everyone else.

Three dead in school shoot-out. She'd scanned each of the morning's papers. There were grainy photos of both the teenage victims: boys, seventeen years old. The words "tragedy," "waste," "shock," and "carnage" had been bandied about by the journalists. Alongside the news story, additional reporting filled page after page: Britain's burgeoning gun culture ... school security shortfalls ... a history of suicide killers. She'd studied the photos of the assassin-apparently, only three different snaps had so far been available to the media. One was very blurry indeed, as if capturing a ghost rather than something made of flesh and blood. Another showed a man in overalls, taking hold of a rope as he made to board a small boat. He was smiling, head turned towards the camera. Siobhan got the feeling it was a publicity shot for his water-skiing business.

The third was a head-and-shoulders portrait from the man's days in military service. Herdman, his name was. Lee Herdman, age thirty-six. Resident in South Queensferry, owner of a speedboat. There were photos of the yard where his business operated from. "A scant half-mile from the site of the shocking event," as one paper gushed.

Ex-forces, probably easy enough for him to get a gun. Drove into the school grounds, parked next to all the staff cars. Left his driver's-side door open, obviously in a hurry. Witnesses saw him barge into the school. His first and only stop, the common room. Three people inside. Two now dead, one wounded. Then a shot to his own temple, and that was that.

Continues...


Excerpted from A Question of Blood by Ian Rankin Copyright © 2003 by John Rebus Limited. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

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( 13 )
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Sort by: Showing 1 – 19 of 13 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 7, 2004

    Compelling story...great characters

    After seeing glowing reviews of his work in the New York Times and Washington Post, I finally read this book¿and it is excellent. The writing is precise and the characters are interesting and real. The plot is creative and the words capture the settings so well that you can easily picture Edinburgh without having ever been there. I was beginning to worry that I would fall into a deep depression when I finished the Harry Bosch series by Michael Connelly, but Ian Rankin¿s John Rebus (Bosch¿s Scottish contemporary) is similarly complex and brooding (and immensely likeable).

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 1, 2012

    I am the proud owner of over 1,000 nook-books, in under two year

    I am the proud owner of over 1,000 nook-books, in under two years, thanks to my wonderful three kids, who realized what an outlet & rr this mode of reading would be to their 70 yr old Mum, with a fantastic husband of 46 years with 7 yrs of AZ. I am an American, born & raised in Edinburgh, Scotland with my Nana & her Family, having been unloaded by the birth mother from Fochabers, Mostodloch on April 12th 1942. I grew up in Piersfield Terrace, went to Parson's Green Elementary, taking short-cuts through the park, past Hollyrood Palace, home. Finally to Portobello High School, in hand-me-down almost navy jacket, white blouse & navy skirt. I wound up ordering, and will order all of Ian Rankin's Books. Mainly, because he is an exceptional writer, but he takes my mind and heart up & down the streets of Edinburgh I loved. Continue your great artistic mind, lad. I offer you a Five Star Guide to all who read you. Clare Spence Johnson{Mrs. David}........

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 15, 2004

    A Convoluted Ending

    The novel is a good read. I would agree with Kirkus that the the ending was too involved. For once, a few loose threads might have improved the finale. Still, Rebus and Clarke are one of the most interesting teams in detective fiction. Good hard-boiled stuff.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 30, 2004

    Will satisfy the author¿s vast readership.

    His superior DCI Gill Templer thinks he did the crime. His partner Siobhan Clarke is certain he did the crime. The evidence is circumstantial, but DI John Rebus had a motive as the victim Martin Fairstone was stalking and harassing Siobhan. John¿s severely burned fingers and hands that he claims came from scalding water, could have easily come from the fire that engulfed Martin............................................ When DI Bobby Hogan needs help on the investigation of the murders of two teens in South Queensferry, John persuades Siobhan to chauffer him there. One victim is the son of a judge while the other is a second cousin to Rebus. The third dead person at the scene is the killer, former SAS soldier Lee Herdman. The only survivor is the wounded son of a Scottish MP who takes advantage of the tragedy by spouting anti-gun propaganda to the media. As the SAS interferes with the case, other seemingly peripheral matters to include a new stalker of Siobhan complicates this strange homicide investigation in which motive fails to surface.............................. Though interesting, this Rebus is not quite on the par of excellence of most of Ian Rankin¿s police procedural tales. The handicapped John on drugs to ease his pained hands shows little impact except some physical problems like driving as he gets around too easily with this level of burn. Still Rebus remains one of the best and his efforts to prove he did not commit arson and murder while trying to look beyond the obvious in what appears to be an open and shut case, makes for two fine inquiries that will satisfy the author¿s vast readership............................ Harriet Klausner

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