Ian Rankin
The Iconic Number One Bestseller

‘Whatever he writes, it will be worth reading . . . Rankin has redefined the genre’

Guardian

‘Rankin is a phenomenon’

Spectator

‘Britain’s No. 1 crime writer’

Mirror

‘One of Britain’s leading novelists in any genre’

New Statesman

‘Worthy of Agatha Christie at her best’

Scotsman

‘Quite simply, crime writing of the highest order’

Express

‘Unmatched in the field of British crime fiction’

The Times

‘Delightful, impossible-to-fault crime writing from a virtuoso of the craft’

Daily Mail

In my end is my beginning

Words Mary Queen of Scots had embroidered in French
on her clothing shortly before her execution


This is my truth, tell me yours
Manic Street Preachers

Now

John Rebus had been in court plenty of times, but this was his first time in the dock. As the charge was being read out for the jury’s benefit, he took it all in. Things hadn’t yet recovered from COVID. Apart from the judge and Rebus, everyone was masked, and there were cameras and monitors everywhere. The jury were being housed elsewhere – a cinema on Lothian Road – as a health precaution. He could see them courtesy of one of the large monitors, just as they could see him.

He tried to remember his first time giving evidence in a case, but couldn’t. It would have been the 1970s, not quite half a century ago. The lawyers, court officials and judge had probably looked much the same. Today Rebus was flanked by two uniformed guards, as would have been the case back then. He’d been in the witness box once when the accused had tried barging his way out of the dock to have a go at him, one of the guards hauling him back. What was the accused’s name? Short and skinny, with curly hair. Began with an M, maybe. Ach, everybody’s memory started going eventually, didn’t it? It wasn’t just him. An age thing, like the COPD that meant he was allowed to keep an inhaler in his pocket along with his face mask.