The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Stories
Ian Rankin
Language: English
Pages: 496
ISBN: 0316296805
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
There is no detective like Ian Rankin's Detective Inspector John Rebus, a man The New Yorker calls "the ideal sleuth."
Brilliant, irascible and frequently frustrating to both his friends and his long-suffering bosses, John Rebus has made the dark places of Edinburgh his home for over two decades. THE BEAT GOES ON collects all of Ian Rankin's Rebus short stories for the first time, including two never-before published tales written specifically for this collection. From his beginnings as a young Detective Constable right up to his dramatic, but not quite final, retirement, Rebus shines as he investigates the sinister cases that are his specialty including a gruesome student death, the brutal murder of a woman at the crux of a love triangle, and an audacious jewel heist. THE BEAT GOES ON confirms once again that DI John Rebus is "one of the great modern cops" (Washington Post).
Peril at End House (Hercule Poirot, Book 8)
The Red Trailer Mystery (Trixie Belden, Book 2)
… flattered.’ Rebus: ‘Whose idea was it to leave?’ ‘Hers. I think she saw me glance at my watch. Horrible thing to say, but I was thinking of last trains. “You’re not leaving?” she said. She sounded aghast that I might be. “It’s Friday night, you need to live!” Then she mentioned her hotel and how it had a bar that would be getting lively. I honestly thought that was where we were heading.’ Another pause. ‘No, I’m lying. I hoped that after the bar there’d be an invite to her room. I was
‘Will Forensics tell us that’s blood, Mrs Forbes?’ Rebus enquired quietly. Clarke had stepped past him to switch off the kettle, and to stand guard near the display of chef’s knives. But Barbara Forbes had gone very still, one hand clasped in the other as when they’d first set eyes on her. ‘So here’s what I think,’ Rebus intoned. ‘Either you saw the original email, in which case you were maybe the one who deleted it, not knowing it would linger on the machine. Or else it was the text you saw,
tranquillity’. They were narratives. My characters went places, and did things or things happened to them. There were always consequences. I started writing short stories, influenced by Ian McEwan, Jayne Anne Phillips, and anyone else I happened to be reading at the time. I was trying to find out two things: what I wanted to write about; and how to do the actual writing. It took me a while to realise that the thing I really wanted to write about was enveloping me and embracing me every step of
reading, the city I’d made my home, and the blood that had soaked into its pavements and roadways. Yet it still seems to me that he appeared as a bolt from the blue. I’ve looked at photos of myself in my student room in Arden Street, and have pored over my diaries from the time, seeking clues. The notes I jotted down prior to starting the novel shed very little light. I saw the book as ‘a metaphysical thriller’, but spent very little time delineating Rebus’s character. I wanted the story to
Rebus glanced at his watch. It was eleven-fifty. He groaned. ‘Late afternoon, I’d imagine,’ said Lauderdale, trying to soften the blow now that Rebus was heading for the canvas. This had been a bit of a mess all round. He’d only just received final confirmation himself that Monsieur Cluzeau was on his way. ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘the French like to take a long lunch, don’t they? Notorious for it. So I don’t suppose he’ll be here till after three.’ ‘Fine, he can take us as he finds us. What am I