Pendergast: That is correct.
Preston: What did she do?
Pendergast: She was a chemist of no small talent, which is all I am going to say on that subject. I believe I’ve already made it clear that I would prefer to avoid personal topics. Mr. Preston, would you care to be questioned about that streak of mental instability in your own family? For example, I understand that your brother Richard-
Preston: [Loudly clearing his throat] The interview is about you, not me.
Pendergast: Quite.
Child: Moving on, I wonder if you would tell us about some of your more interesting cases.
Pendergast: Other than the ones which you have so regrettably sensationalized in your books? On a personal level, the most remarkable case I worked on was in Tanzania -the attacks of the red lion.
Preston: The “red lion”?
Pendergast: It was, according to the local tribal legend, a monstrous lion that attacked only at night; it had an unquenchable hunger for human flesh. And it was of a color never before seen. The killings flared up while I was on a bushbuck hunting trip. Over the space of five evenings, twenty-four people were killed, their livers eaten.
Child: How horrible. But I assume-since you call it a “case”-the murderer turned out to be human?
Pendergast: More or less.
Preston: More or less? What does that mean?
Pendergast: There are degrees of humanity, Mr. Preston. The two of you wrote up my recent case in Medicine Creek, Kansas; you should know that. In any case, the chief presented me with a brace of elephant tusks by way of thanks. [He nods to a doorway] They make a rather dramatic entrance to my study, don’t you think?
Child: Was this the same hunting expedition on which your wife accompanied you? Where you were charged by the Cape buffalo?
Pendergast: Yes. In fact, my wife was instrumental in working out some of the highly peculiar psychological aspects. It was our last case together.
Preston: If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to her?
Pendergast: [Stiffly] That question lies outside the bounds of this interview. Earlier, I said there are many things about me you will never know. The fate of my beloved wife is one of those. Now, gentlemen, if you don’t mind, this interview is over; Proctor will see you out.
IAN RANKIN
Born in Fife, Scotland, Rankin went to the University of Edinburgh, majoring in English. Writing profusely, he sold several short stories and then a slim novel, The Flood (1986), which had a very small print run. In 1987, he wrote his first John Rebus novel, Knots and Crosses, which also had a modest printing. After a spy novel, Watchman (1991), he returned to Rebus with Tooth and Nail (1992) and continued to write about the Scottish policeman until 2008, when Rebus took his last case in Exit Music. Rankin also wrote three novels as Jack Harvey in the early nineties: Witch Hunt, Bleeding Hearts, and Blood Hunt.
In 1991, he received a Chandler-Fulbright Award, with a substantial cash prize that had to be spent in America, which he then toured with his wife, Miranda.
Rankin’s breakout book was Black and Blue, which won the British Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger as the best novel of 1997. In 2005, he was given the highest honor bestowed by that organization when he received the Cartier Diamond Dagger for lifetime achievement. He won the Best Novel Edgar® in 2004 for Resurrection Men.
A television series based on the Rebus character began in 2000 with John Hannah in the title role; Ken Stott took over in 2005.
Achieving unprecedented success in the UK, Rankin still holds a Guinness world record for simultaneously occupying eight of the top ten spots on the Scottish bestseller list.
Ian Rankin lives in Edinburgh with his wife and two sons.
JOHN REBUS
BY IAN RANKIN
I
“Male hero (a policeman?)”
That was my first note to myself, dated March 15, 1985, about the character who would eventually become Detective Inspector John Rebus. I was twenty-four years old and a postgraduate student at the University of Edinburgh. I was living in a shared apartment with two other (female) postgrads in Arden Street. I’d been in the city six and a half years, and still I couldn’t fathom the place. My doctoral thesis was concentrating on the novelist Muriel Spark, and through her I was beginning to investigate the Edinburgh of the imagination. In Spark’s most celebrated work, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Miss Brodie is a descendant of William Brodie, a real historical character. Brodie was a deacon of the city, a councillor, cabinetmaker, and a man who lived a double life. Respectable and industrious by day, he led a masked gang into the homes of his victims by night, robbing them of their valuables. Brodie was trying to fund his lavish lifestyle (including a couple of demanding mistresses), and had diversified into lock-fitting, meaning he had little trouble gaining unlawful entry. When caught and found guilty, he was hanged on a scaffold he had helped to modernize as part of his day job.
Deacon Brodie provided the template for another great character from Scottish literature, Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Henry Jekyll. Muriel Spark was a huge fan of Stevenson, and my research took me to The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The idea of the doppelgänger had been explored before, however, in James Hogg’s Confessions of a Justified Sinner, so I had to read that book too. At the same time, I was becoming fascinated by contemporary literary theory, enjoying the “game-playing” aspect of storytelling. Eventually, I would name my own fictional detective after a type of picture-puzzle, and the mystery in his first adventure would be solved with the help of a professor of semiotics.
That’s the problem with Knots and Crosses (and one reason I find it hard to read the book these days)-it is so obviously written by a literature student. Rebus reads too many books and even quotes from Walt Whitman (a writer whose works he really shouldn’t have known). He is overly literate, perhaps because I didn’t quite know him. I was twenty-four and knew little enough of life outside the confines of academia. I certainly didn’t know what it would be like to work as a cop. The plot of Knots and Crosses demanded that Rebus be a seasoned pro, so I made him forty years old. He’s separated from his wife and has a young daughter. Really, this guy was unlike me in so many ways, and our one resemblance-that love of literature-made him less than realistic.
It seems to me now that I wasn’t interested in Rebus as a person. He was a way of telling a story about Edinburgh, and of updating the doppelgänger tradition. Knots and Crosses was self-consciously based on Jekyll and Hyde, just as a later Rebus novel, The Black Book, would use Justified Sinner as its starting point. The thing is, I’d always been a bit of an outsider, always tried to present several faces to the world. I’d grown up in a fairly tough neighborhood-in a town of seven thousand inhabitants-which had existed only as a hamlet and a couple of farms until coal was discovered at the start of the twentieth century. That’s when my grandfather shifted the family east from the Lanarkshire coalfields. Homes were constructed quickly (and cheaply) to house the new labor force. There wasn’t even time to think up names for the streets, so they just got numbers instead. My dad (the youngest of seven) didn’t work down in the mines, but all his brothers did. By the time I came along, however, the coal was running out. The klaxon that signaled the start of each new shift fell silent one day, and that was that. Not that I took much of this in, being too busy living a completely separate life inside my own head.
There was another world in there-a fantastical world filled with spaceships and soldiers and constant thrilling adventure. In winter, I’d pretend that my bed was an Arctic encampment-which wasn’t so far from the truth. There was heating only in the living room downstairs, and in the winter months I’d wake up to a thin film of ice on the insides of my windows. But even that ice seemed strange and wonderful to my young imagination. I’d be under the thick blankets with a flashlight and a good supply of comic books-British and American. Soon I was even making my own versions, folding sheets of paper and slitting the edges to make little eight-page booklets that I would cover with doodles and drawings-more spaceships, more soldiers. I think I remember showing one of my creations to my mum, who seemed bemused. Maybe she’d spotted something I hadn’t: an absolute lack of artistic ability.