The Naming of the Dead (Inspector John Rebus Series #16)

The Naming of the Dead (Inspector John Rebus Series #16)

by Ian Rankin

Paperback(Mass Market Paperback - Reprint)

$7.99 View All Available Formats & Editions

Overview

The leaders of the free world descend on Scotland for an international conference, and every cop in the country is needed for front-line duty...except one. John Rebus's reputation precedes him, and his bosses don't want him anywhere near Presidents Bush and Putin, which explains why he's manning an abandoned police station when a call comes in. During a preconference dinner at Edinburgh Castle, a delegate has fallen to his death. Accident, suicide, or something altogether more sinister? And is it linked to a grisly find close to the site of the gathering? Are the world's most powerful men at risk from a killer? While the government and secret services attempt to hush the whole thing up, Rebus knows he has only seventy-two hours to find the answers.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780316018869
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Publication date: 09/01/2008
Series: Inspector John Rebus Series , #16
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 592
Product dimensions: 4.00(w) x 6.50(h) x 1.00(d)

About the Author

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.

Hometown:

Edinburgh, London and France

Date of Birth:

April 28, 1960

Place of Birth:

Cardenden, Scotland

Education:

Edinburgh University

Read an Excerpt

The Naming of the Dead


By Ian Rankin

Little, Brown and Company

Copyright © 2006 John Rebus Limited
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-316-05757-8


Chapter One

In place of a closing hymn, there was music. The Who, "Love Reign o'er Me." Rebus recognized it the moment it started, thunderclaps and teeming rain filling the chapel. He was in the front pew; Chrissie had insisted. He'd rather have been further back: his usual place at funerals. Chrissie's son and daughter sat next to her. Lesley was comforting her mother, an arm around her as the tears fell. Kenny stared straight ahead, storing up emotion for later. Earlier that morning, back at the house, Rebus had asked him his age. He would be thirty next month. Lesley was two years younger. Brother and sister looked like their mother, reminding Rebus that people had said the same about Michael and him: the pair of you, the spitting image of your mum. Michael ... Mickey, if you preferred. Rebus's younger brother, dead in a shiny-handled box at the age of fifty-four, Scotland's mortality rate that of a third world nation. Lifestyle, diet, genes-plenty of theories. The full postmortem hadn't come through yet. Massive stroke was what Chrissie had told Rebus on the phone, assuring him that it was "sudden"-as if that made a difference.

Sudden meant Rebus hadn't been able to say good-bye. It meant his last words to Michael had been a joke about his beloved Raith Rovers soccer team ina phone call three months back. A Raith scarf, navy and white, had been draped over the coffin alongside the wreaths. Kenny was wearing a tie that had been his dad's, Raith's shield on it-some kind of animal holding a belt buckle. Rebus had asked the significance, but Kenny had just shrugged. Looking along the pew, Rebus saw the usher make a gesture. Everyone rose to their feet. Chrissie started walking up the aisle, flanked by her children. The usher looked to Rebus, but he stayed where he was. Sat down again so the others would know they didn't have to wait for him. The song was only a little more than halfway through. It was the closing track on Quadrophenia. Michael had been the big Who fan, Rebus himself preferring the Stones. Had to admit, though, albums like Tommy and Quadrophenia did things the Stones never could. Daltrey was whooping now that he could use a drink. Rebus had to agree, but there was the drive back to Edinburgh to consider. The function room of a local hotel had been booked. All were welcome, as the minister had reminded them from the pulpit. Whiskey and tea would be poured, sandwiches served. There would be anecdotes and reminiscences, smiles, dabs at the eyes, hushed tones. The staff would move quietly, out of respect. Rebus was trying to form sentences in his head, words that would act as his apology.

I need to get back, Chrissie. Pressure of work.

He could lie and blame the G8. That morning in the house, Lesley had said he must be busy with the buildup. He could have told her, I'm the only cop they don't seem to need. Officers were being drafted in from all over. Fifteen hundred were coming from London alone. Yet Detective Inspector John Rebus seemed surplus to requirements. Someone had to man the ship-the very words DCI James Macrae had used, with his acolyte smirking by his shoulder. DI Derek Starr reckoned himself the heir apparent to Macrae's throne. One day, he'd be running Gayfield Square police station. John Rebus posed no threat whatsoever, not much more than a year away from retirement. Starr himself had said as much: Nobody'd blame you for coasting, John. It's what anyone your age would do. Maybe so, but the Stones were older than Rebus; Daltrey and Townshend were older than him too. Still playing, still touring. The song was ending now, and Rebus rose to his feet again. He was alone in the chapel. Took a final look at the purple velvet screen. Maybe the coffin was still behind it; maybe it had already been moved to another part of the crematorium. He thought back to adolescence, two brothers in their shared bedroom, playing 45s bought down Kirkcaldy High Street. "My Generation" and "Substitute," Mickey asking about Daltrey's stutter on the former, Rebus saying he'd read somewhere that it had to do with drugs. The only drug the brothers had indulged in was alcohol, mouthfuls stolen from the bottles in the pantry, a can of sickly stout broken open and shared after lights-out. Standing on Kirkcaldy promenade, staring out to sea, and Mickey singing the words to "I Can See for Miles." But could that really have happened? The record came out in '66 or '67, by which time Rebus was in the army. Must have been on a trip back. Yes, Mickey with his shoulder-length hair, trying to copy Daltrey's look, and Rebus with his military crew cut, inventing stories to make army life seem exciting, Northern Ireland still ahead of him ...

They'd been close back then, Rebus always sending letters and postcards, his father proud of him, proud of both the boys.

The spitting image of your mum.

He stepped outside. The cigarette packet was already open in his hand. There were other smokers around him. They offered nods, shuffling their feet. The various wreaths and cards had been lined up next to the door and were being studied by the mourners. The usual words would crop up: condolence and loss and sorrow. The family would be in our thoughts. Michael wouldn't be mentioned by name. Death brought its own set of protocols. The younger mourners were checking for text messages on their phones. Rebus dug his own out of his pocket and switched it on. Five missed calls, all from the same number. Rebus knew it from memory, pushed the buttons, and raised the phone to his ear. Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke was quick to answer.

"I've been trying you all morning," she complained.

"I had it switched off."

"Where are you anyway?"

"Still in Kirkcaldy."

There was an intake of breath. "Hell, John, I completely forgot."

"Don't worry about it." He watched Kenny open the car door for Chrissie. Lesley was motioning to Rebus, letting him know they were headed for the hotel. The car was a BMW, Kenny doing all right for himself as a mechanical engineer. He wasn't married; had a girlfriend, but she hadn't been able to make it to the funeral. Lesley was divorced, her own son and daughter off on holiday with their dad. Rebus nodded at her as she got into the back of the car.

"I thought it was next week," Siobhan was saying.

"I take it you're phoning for a gloat?" Rebus started walking toward his Saab. Siobhan had been in Perthshire the past two days, accompanying Macrae on a recon of G8 security. Macrae was old pals with Tayside's assistant chief constable. All Macrae wanted was a look around, his friend happy to oblige. The G8 leaders would meet at Gleneagles Hotel, on the outskirts of Auchterarder, nothing around them but acres of wilderness and miles of security fence. There had been plenty of scare stories in the media. Reports of three thousand U.S. Marines landing in Scotland to protect their president. Anarchist plots to block roads and bridges with hijacked trucks. Bob Geldof had demanded that a million demonstrators besiege Edinburgh. They would be housed, he said, in people's spare rooms, garages, and gardens. Boats would be sent to France to pick up protesters. Groups with names like Ya Basta and the Black Bloc would aim for chaos, while the People's Golfing Association wanted to break the cordon to play a few holes of Gleneagles's renowned course.

"I'm spending two days with DCI Macrae," Siobhan was saying. "What's to gloat about?"

Rebus unlocked his car and leaned in to slide the key into the ignition. He straightened again, took a last drag on his cigarette, and flicked the butt onto the roadway. Siobhan was saying something about a Scene of Crime team.

"Hold on," Rebus told her. "I didn't catch that."

"Look, you've got enough on your plate without this."

"Without what?"

"Remember Cyril Colliar?"

"Despite my advancing years, the memory's not quite packed in."

"Something really strange has happened."

"What?"

"I think I've found the missing piece."

"Of what?"

"The jacket."

Rebus found that he'd lowered himself onto the driver's seat. "I don't understand."

Siobhan gave a nervous laugh. "Me neither."

"So where are you now?"

"Auchterarder."

"And that's where the jacket's turned up?"

"Sort of."

Rebus swung his legs into the car and pulled the door shut. "Then I'm coming to take a look. Is Macrae with you?"

"He went to Glenrothes. That's where the G8 control center is." She paused. "Are you sure you should be doing this?"

Rebus had started the engine. "I need to make my apologies first, but I can be there inside the hour. Will I have any trouble getting into Auchterarder?"

"It's the calm before the storm. When you're driving through town, look for the sign to the Clootie Well."

"The what?"

"Easier if you just come and see for yourself."

"Then that's what I'll do. Scene of Crime on their way?"

"Yes."

"Which means word will get around."

"Should I tell the DCI?"

"I'll let you decide." Rebus had wedged the phone between his shoulder and his cheek so he could steer the maze-like course to the

gates of the crematorium.

"You're breaking up," Siobhan said.

Not if I can help it, Rebus thought to himself.

Cyril Colliar had been murdered six weeks before. Age twenty, he'd been locked away on a fixed ten-year stretch for a vicious rape. At the end of the sentence, he'd been released, despite the reservations of prison warders, police, and social services. They figured he was as big a threat as ever, having shown no remorse, denying his guilt despite DNA evidence. Colliar had returned to his native Edinburgh. All the bodybuilding he'd done in prison paid off. He worked as a nighttime bouncer and daytime muscle. His employer on both counts was Morris Gerald Cafferty. Big Ger was a villain of long standing. In had been Rebus's job to confront him about his latest employee.

"What do I care?" had been the retort.

"He's dangerous."

"Way you're hassling him would try the patience of a saint." Cafferty swinging from side to side on his leather swivel chair, behind his desk at MGC Lettings. Anyone was slow with the weekly rent on one of Cafferty's flats, Rebus guessed that was where Colliar would take over. Cafferty owned minicabs, too, and at least three raucous bars in the less salubrious parts of town. Plenty of work for Cyril Colliar.

Right up until the night he'd turned up dead. Skull caved in, the blow coming from behind. Pathologist figured he'd have died from that alone, but just to make sure, someone had added a syringe of very pure heroin. No indication that the deceased had been a user. Deceased was the word most of the cops on the case had used-and grudgingly at that. Nobody bothered with the term victim. Nobody could say the words out loud-Bastard got what he deserved-that wasn't the done thing these days.

Didn't stop them from thinking it, sharing it through eye contact and slow nods. Rebus and Siobhan had worked the case, but it had been one among many. Few leads and too many suspects. The rape victim had been interviewed, along with her family and her boyfriend from the time. One word kept coming up in discussing Colliar's fate: "Good."

His body had been found near his car, down a side street next to the bar where he'd been working. No witnesses, no scene-of-crime evidence. Just the one curiosity: a sharp blade had been used to slice away part of his distinctive jacket, a black nylon bomber emblazoned with the phrase CC Rider on the back. This was what had been removed, so that the white inner lining was revealed. Theories were in short supply. It was either a clumsy attempt to disguise the deceased's identity, or there had been something hidden in the lining. Tests had proved negative for traces of drugs, leaving the police to shrug and scratch their heads.

To Rebus, it looked like a hit. Either Colliar had made an enemy, or a message was being sent to Cafferty. Not that their several interviews with Colliar's employer had been enlightening.

"Bad for my reputation" was Cafferty's main reaction. "Means either you catch whoever did it ..."

"Or?"

But Cafferty hadn't needed to answer. And if Cafferty got to the culprit first, it would be the last that was ever heard of them.

None of which had helped. The inquiry had hit a wall around the same time G8 preparations started focusing minds-most of them driven by images of overtime pay-elsewhere. Other cases had intruded, too, with victims-real victims. The Colliar murder team had been wound down.

Rebus lowered his driver's-side window, welcoming the cool breeze. He didn't know the quickest route to Auchterarder; he knew Gleneagles could be reached from Kinross, so had headed that way. A couple of months back, he'd bought a GPS for the car, but he hadn't got round to reading the instructions yet. It lay on the passenger seat, screen blank. One of these days he'd take it to the garage that installed the car's CD player. An inspection of the backseat, floors, and trunk had failed to turn up anything by The Who, so Rebus was listening to Elbow instead-Siobhan's recommendation. He liked the title track, "Leaders of the Free World." Stuck it on repeat. The singer seemed to think something had gone wrong since the '60s. Rebus tended to agree, even coming at it from a different direction. He guessed the singer would have liked more change, a world run by Greenpeace and the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, poverty made history. Rebus had been on a few marches himself in the '60s, before and after joining the army. It was a way to meet girls if nothing else. Usually there was a party somewhere afterward. These days, though, he saw the '60s as the end of something. A fan had been stabbed to death at a Stones concert in 1969, and the decade had petered out. The 1960s had given youth a taste for revolt. They didn't trust the old order, certainly didn't respect it. He wondered about the thousands who would descend on Gleneagles, confrontation a certainty. Hard to imagine it in this landscape of farms and hillsides, rivers and glens. He knew that Gleneagles's very isolation would have been a factor in its choice as venue. The leaders of the free world would be safe there, safe to sign their names to decisions that had already been made elsewhere. On the stereo, the band was singing about climbing a landslide. The image stuck with Rebus all the way to the outskirts of Auchterarder.

He didn't think he'd been there before. All the same, he seemed to know the place. Typical small Scottish town: a single, well-defined main street with narrow side roads leading off, built with the notion that people would walk to their local shops. Small, independently owned shops at that; he didn't see much that would inflame the antiglobalization campaigners. The baker was even selling limited-edition G8 pies.

The good folk of Auchterarder, Rebus seemed to recall, had been vetted under the guise of providing them with ID badges. These would be necessary so they could cross the eventual barricades. Yet as Siobhan had pointed out, there was an eerie tranquillity to the place. Only a few shoppers and one carpenter who seemed to be measuring windows for protective boards. The cars were muddy 4x4s, which had probably spent more time on farm tracks than motorways. One woman driver was even wearing a head scarf, something Rebus hadn't seen in a while. Within a couple of minutes, he was at the far end of town and heading toward the A9. He did a three-point turn and this time kept his eyes open for signposts. The one he wanted was next to a pub, pointing down a lane. He signaled, following the road past hedges and driveways, then a newer housing estate. The landscape opened before him, showing distant hills. In moments he was out of town again, flanked by neat hedgerows that would leave their mark on his car if he had to make way for a tractor or delivery van. There were some woods to his left, and another sign told him this was home to the Clootie Well. He knew the word from clootie dumpling, a sticky steamed dessert his mother had sometimes made. He remembered the taste and texture as being similar to Christmas pudding, dark and cloying and sugary. His stomach gave a small protest, reminding him that he hadn't eaten in hours. His stop at the hotel had been brief, a few quiet words with Chrissie. She'd hugged him, just as she had back at the house earlier that morning. All the years he'd known her, there hadn't been many hugs. In the early days, he'd actually fancied her; awkward under the circumstances. She'd seemed to sense this. Then he'd been best man at the wedding, and, during one dance, she'd blown mischievously in his ear. Later, on the few occasions when she and Mickey had been separated, Rebus had taken his brother's side. He supposed he could have called her, said something, but he hadn't. And when Mickey had gotten into that spot of bother, ended up in jail, Rebus hadn't visited Chrissie and the kids. Mind you, he hadn't visited Mickey that often either, in jail or since.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from The Naming of the Dead by Ian Rankin Copyright © 2006 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.

What People are Saying About This

Harlan Coben

There is a reason this guy is a #1 bestseller all over the world. Pick up The Naming of the Dead, read the first few pages, and then thank me later.

Lee Child

The best living British crime writer.

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

Naming of the Dead (Inspector John Rebus Series #16) 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 28 reviews.
KenCady More than 1 year ago
Scottish Terriers are known hunters, so it is apt that the detectives here are Scottish. I picked this book up because of its Edinburgh setting and wasn't disappointed as many tourist haunts play into the story. The story unfolds slowly and at a relaxing pace, but the mystery keeps the pages turning as Rankin plays his card so cleverly. Our detective Rebus isn't exactly superman, or a super cop, just another Scottish drinker who can't seem to let the darker forces get a leg up. Determining who those forces are is a good deal of the book's work. One thing Rankin did get wrong in the book: the name of President Bush's dog. It's Barney, yet another Scottish Terrier.
loveseabooks on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Kept my interest with no boring plot. Mmy neighbor gave this book to read. Unfortunately, he forgot to tell me that this book was part of a series and that it was best that I read the earlier novels by Ian Rankin. Still, I struggled through "The Naming of the Dead" and finished it six days later. If you are a fan of this author and have read the series you probably are thrilled with the character Detective Inspector John Rebus, but coming in cold with this character I found myself trying to comprehend exactly who he was. One thing, I never found him to be boring and the plot kept my interest. I was hoping for an exciting mystery to unfold and by mid point in the story it did.The author's writing is style flows easily and he has a knack for describing in detail the scenes, police procedures, crime scenes and the traits of the characters. Overall, in my opinion this is a wonderful mystery novel, even though it is clouded by coming in late to the series. I'll definitely try another novel by Mr. Rankin that revolves around the Rebus character.
-Eva- on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
With the 2005 G8 summit as background, Rebus is again going head-to-head with his arch-nemesis, "Big Ger" Cafferty. For those of us who weren't there, this installment of the series presents a very illustrative picture of the protesters, the marches, and the rest of the circus surrounding the summit. I must admit to laughing a little extra at Rebus' apparent involvement in Dubya's infamous crash. And then I'll just add what I say about every book in this series: Rankin is a genius when it comes to characters and dialogue and I can't stop myself from rereading certain bits out loud, just to revel in the sometimes hilarious writing.
nbmars on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The main ¿character¿ of this Inspector Rebus mystery is actually the G8 Summit, which took place in Edinburgh at the Gleneagles Hotel in Scotland in July of 2005. [The G8 (Group of Eight) is a forum for the heads of the richest industrialized countries: France, Germany, Italy, Russia, Japan, the United Kingdom, the United States, and Canada. In addition, the President of the European Commission has been formally included in summits since 1981.]The G8 meetings present thorny challenges for police, faced with the threat of terrorists as well as the inevitable groups of protestors who are now a routine part of global summits. For the 2005 conference, Scotland put together a security plan known as Operation Sorbus, named after the berry of the rowan tree, which according to folklore wards off evil spirits. There were 10,000 police on standby; watchtowers; an exclusion zone; a no-fly zone; surveillance cameras; horse and dog units; and even an airship to spot troublemakers and beam back video footage to officers on the ground. In this book, the 17th novel in the popular Inspector Rebus series, Detective Inspector John Rebus, a known troublemaker, has been assigned to stay back at the police station, ¿manning the ship.¿ He manages to get over to the Summit area anyway after an apparent suicide of a preconference dinner attendee, a young politician who plunged from the walls of Edinburgh Castle. Furthermore, his colleague, Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke, has found some clues near the G8 Summit grounds relating to a serial killer case on which they are working.Both the London and Scotland police chief try to keep Rebus and Clarke from interfering with the G8 proceedings, but the two detectives are determined to work on behalf of the victims of the crimes they are investigating. They liken their quest to that of the G8 protestors who climb to the top of Edinburgh's Calton Hill to commemorate the lives lost during the Iraq conflict in a ceremony called "Naming the Dead." Rebus knew that, being so close to retirement, he could late these cases go:"Nobody¿d blame you for coasting¿Nobody but the dead.¿But he has spent his life dedicated to the dead, at the cost of the living:"Rebus thought of how he had let his own family drift away from him, first his wife and daughter, and then his brother. Pushing them away because the job seemed to demand it, demanded his unconditional attention. No room for anyone else . . . Too late now to do anything about it.¿Siobhan too, has her doubts. She says to Rebus: "People die, and we look back into their lives . . . and we can¿t change anything. . . . It¿s not enough, is it? . . . Just¿symbolic¿because there¿s nothing else you can do.¿`What are you talking about?¿ he asked with a smile.`The naming of the dead,¿ she told him¿.¿The detectives engage in some creative subterfuge to get onto the G8 grounds to investigate the murders. They eventually resolve the crimes, but don't seem to make any progress at all in curing their angst.Discussion: In this penultimate book in the Rebus series, the inspector is almost sixty, and he is, as Siobhan notes, ¿obsessed and sidelined; cranky and mistrusted.¿ Plus he drinks from morning until bedtime, when he basically passes out in a drunken stupor. Incredibly, all the alcohol doesn¿t seem to affect his performance much.He continues to flout the rules, to talk back to superiors, consort with criminals, lie, and do whatever else it takes to solve crimes, which he continues to do brilliantly enough to allow him to get away with all the rest of his behavior. He works mainly with Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke, who clearly looks up to Rebus even as she fears that she may end up too much like him. Her presence provides a welcome foil to Rebus, whose surly demeanor and constant drinking can get irritating, even as it seems much more realistic than so many dashing, close-to-perfect detectives.This is not the usual detective series. The plo
maiamaia on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
H'm, I read detective novels as Rankin calls them for a good quick read when I don't want to get bogged down in a long book, so rating depends on plot efficiency etc. not believable emotional scenes. Has some great 'ideas' or 'conceits' or 'gimmicks' such as using Edinburgh during the G8 and reminding you of all the stuff that was forgotten because of the London bombings that followed, a good metaphor for the effects of a violent end, and the 'Clootie Well', and plenty of plot, BUT for some reason this perfectly accomplished novel fails to add plot developments at regular intervals - it builds up for a few chapters and then Rebus and Shiv bomb around all over the place but do nothing, and the clues don't lead on...I'm sure it'll be beautifully tied together at the end (about 50 pages to go, will change this review if change mind) but it's the opposite of a good Holmes with its unfolding clues: it's a perfectly adequate crime read, but that is annoying. A book like this takes me a day to read, if you're more likely to take a week, don't read it as you'll get frustrated, but it's not terrible.
sibley40 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Avery good mystery with a great and complicated protagonist.
poulantik on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I have read nearly all of Rankins' and he is getting better and better.
kambrogi on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This book is essentially well-written within the constraints of its genre (crime fiction), so once I started I had to finish (an annoying obsession of mine). Feelings are mixed. It takes place in Scotland, written by a Scot writer, and so is filled with a lot of unfamiliar language: Scottishisms, Britishisms and policeisms that I could not understand. The plot was broad and the compelling characters few, but overall it was an interesting story with a nod toward something thoughtful with its setting wrapped around the G8 conference in Edinburgh and the London bombings that followed it. It also has a nice ongoing use of rock music allusions that was well-integrated. Not a bad read, but forgettable.
ebethe on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Rebus is always good, like pizza, but this time not as great.
jmcclain19 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
My first Rankin novel. It was slow going early on, in fact I abandoned it twice to go to other books. But I am glad that I went back to it. The novel picked up after about 100 pages and roared to the finish. DS Siobhan Clarke is a fascinating character, dealing with the internal angst of being a cop with parents who are protestors to the core. Meanwhile DI Rebus at times can be a bit of a caricature - the old 'me against the world non conformist' detective stereotype. That being said, the base story was excellent - Who really cares if someone is out murdering rapists & killers? DI Rebus does, and it doesn't matter what hoops he has to jump thru, or roadblocks he has to drive thru to catch the serial killer. The eventual serial killer was a nice unexpected twist and using the backdrop of the G8 Summit in Edinburgh was an interesting look at the microcosm of how off kilter that whole affair is for all involved (protestors, G8 participants & area residents). Was a good transition series to go to after finishing up the Harry Bosch Michael Connelly series.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
LoveSeaStories More than 1 year ago
Mmy neighbor gave this book to read. Unfortunately, he forgot to tell me that this book was part of a series and that it was best that I read the earlier novels by Ian Rankin. Still, I struggled through "The Naming of the Dead" and finished it six days later. If you are a fan of this author and have read the series you probably are thrilled with the character Detective Inspector John Rebus, but coming in cold with this character I found myself trying to comprehend exactly who he was. One thing, I never found him to be boring and the plot kept my interest. I was hoping for an exciting mystery to unfold and by mid point in the story it did. The author's writing is style flows easily and he has a knack for describing in detail the scenes, police procedures, crime scenes and the traits of the characters. Overall, in my opinion this is a wonderful mystery novel, even though it is clouded by coming in late to the series. I'll definitely try another novel by Mr. Rankin that revolves around the Rebus character.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
tencatsinvt More than 1 year ago
This is another book in the Inspector Rebus series. Ian Rankin can tell a good story with unexpected twists along the way...just to keep you off balance. He is wonderful with character development and making the Scottish background come alive on the page. If you like Rankin, you'll like this book.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago