Set in Darkness (Inspector Rebus, Bk 11)
Author:
Genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense
Book Type: Paperback
Author:
Genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense
Book Type: Paperback
Rookie on Rankin's murder squad, May 27, 2013
This was the first and only Ian Rankin mystery in the John Rebus series that I've read. Many in the series precede this one, and several follow, but I had no reader's investment in any of it except fond memories of Edinburgh (which Rankin only fleetingly burnished). I started in the middle of the series on purpose--I wasn't sure I wanted to invest more than one-book's time in Inspector Rebus. As I read, I felt like the newcomer at a family affair, or the rookie on the homicide squad; who are these people and how can they be so, well, impossibly quirky. Coming into the middle of some new world isn't easy. Rankin's characters don't make it any easier. Rebus, a near-retirement eccentric nothing-to-lose solitary non-team player drunk-in-denial, might be the thickest mystery-solver I've run across. Others of this ilk ( Colin Dexter's Inspector Morse in Oxford comes to mind) at least are steeped in knowledge, culture, and cleverness. Rebus knows every pub in town and drives a Saab; does anyone with half a brain voluntarily drive a Saab?
His colleagues suspect Rebus gets them to do the shoe-leather legwork, and then puts the pieces together, and while he shares the credit, he certainly hasn't earned much for himself. As a new guy, I had to agree. Rebus gets junior coppers to do the detecting, while he drinks and gets set up and played by his pretty-boy rival on the police force (who Rebus clumsily gets near killed), his superiors, just about all the suspects (including one on his deathbed, who still has the last laugh on hapless Rebus), his friends, and his crime boss nemesis. When the latter uses Rebus to eliminate the competition and gets Rebus bludgeoned in the process, I felt hardly a smidgeon of sympathy for the thick-headed Inspector; what's not to disdain when the signals are flashing but stubbornness and self-righteousness are blinding? I preferred the crime-boss, and he was about as sympathetic as the snake whose fangs are buried in your leg.
I imagine Rankin's characters translated beautifully into the several series of television dramas. Rebus paints his characters and scenes in water-colors and leaves a lot of white space for brilliant details to be added. Other "Tartan Noir" series I've watched entertainingly captured the quixotic Scots, and made losers like Rebus and his colleagues far more sympathetic on the screen than they were on the pages of this novel. As a first-time reader, I was about as unhappy and frustrated with Rebus (and Rankin) as his police colleagues, his superiors, and the families and friends of the victims, one just mutters 'put down the booze, stop being a shite, and get on with it, Inspector.' That kind of "charm" takes a deal of getting used to. And after the pounding Rebus takes in this case, maybe that retirement isn't a bad thought after all. Whether there is another Rebus case in my future is an open question.
This was the first and only Ian Rankin mystery in the John Rebus series that I've read. Many in the series precede this one, and several follow, but I had no reader's investment in any of it except fond memories of Edinburgh (which Rankin only fleetingly burnished). I started in the middle of the series on purpose--I wasn't sure I wanted to invest more than one-book's time in Inspector Rebus. As I read, I felt like the newcomer at a family affair, or the rookie on the homicide squad; who are these people and how can they be so, well, impossibly quirky. Coming into the middle of some new world isn't easy. Rankin's characters don't make it any easier. Rebus, a near-retirement eccentric nothing-to-lose solitary non-team player drunk-in-denial, might be the thickest mystery-solver I've run across. Others of this ilk ( Colin Dexter's Inspector Morse in Oxford comes to mind) at least are steeped in knowledge, culture, and cleverness. Rebus knows every pub in town and drives a Saab; does anyone with half a brain voluntarily drive a Saab?
His colleagues suspect Rebus gets them to do the shoe-leather legwork, and then puts the pieces together, and while he shares the credit, he certainly hasn't earned much for himself. As a new guy, I had to agree. Rebus gets junior coppers to do the detecting, while he drinks and gets set up and played by his pretty-boy rival on the police force (who Rebus clumsily gets near killed), his superiors, just about all the suspects (including one on his deathbed, who still has the last laugh on hapless Rebus), his friends, and his crime boss nemesis. When the latter uses Rebus to eliminate the competition and gets Rebus bludgeoned in the process, I felt hardly a smidgeon of sympathy for the thick-headed Inspector; what's not to disdain when the signals are flashing but stubbornness and self-righteousness are blinding? I preferred the crime-boss, and he was about as sympathetic as the snake whose fangs are buried in your leg.
I imagine Rankin's characters translated beautifully into the several series of television dramas. Rebus paints his characters and scenes in water-colors and leaves a lot of white space for brilliant details to be added. Other "Tartan Noir" series I've watched entertainingly captured the quixotic Scots, and made losers like Rebus and his colleagues far more sympathetic on the screen than they were on the pages of this novel. As a first-time reader, I was about as unhappy and frustrated with Rebus (and Rankin) as his police colleagues, his superiors, and the families and friends of the victims, one just mutters 'put down the booze, stop being a shite, and get on with it, Inspector.' That kind of "charm" takes a deal of getting used to. And after the pounding Rebus takes in this case, maybe that retirement isn't a bad thought after all. Whether there is another Rebus case in my future is an open question.
