Exit Music (Inspector John Rebus Series #17) by Ian Rankin, James Macpherson (Read by)

The Barnes & Noble Review

Mulish and melancholy, Detective Sergeant John Rebus of Edinburgh's CID first made himself known to the world 21 years ago in 1987's Knots and Crosses, Ian Rankin's second novel. Forty-one years old, divorced, unkempt, bulky, a human filtration system for smoke, booze, and caffeine, Rebus was and still is haunted by scenes from a murky past in the army and ruthless training in the elite ranks of the SAS. Elevated long ago to the rank of detective inspector, he is now a veteran of 16 novels, the dark star of countless sordid investigations, and a scourge to overbearing superiors. Through soul-drenching drizzle and "smirr," Rebus has prowled Edinburgh's mean streets, docksides, vandalized council estates, and sleazy clubs. Here is the other side of "The Athens of the North," scenes of neglected children, delinquent adolescents, and brutalized men and women, of drugs, prostitution, and pornography -- and lousy food: Looking at the interior of a car in Black and Blue, the eighth novel in the series, Rebus reflects on this iconic tableau, "chocolate wrappers, empty crisp bags, crushed bricks of orange juice and Ribena, the heart of the Scottish diet: sugar and salt. Add alcohol and you had heart and soul."

D.I. John Rebus is, in fact, the most famous protagonist of what is now called "Tartan Noir." But, alas, after all of it, after repeated suspensions from duty and bruising encounters with underworld lowlifes, after putting the collar on criminals of every stripe, from wide boys to high muckamucks, Rebus has arrived at mandatory retirement. Now, here is Exit Music to see the man off…or out…or away…or…something. It's 2006, and Inspector Rebus is finished: that's official. But whither Rebus the man? That is the question that grows as the pages dwindle in this, the old campaigner's 17th outing.

In one sense, at least, the series has come full circle, for the book begins just as the first one did: "The girl screamed once, only the once, but it was enough." With that, the similarities between that alpha and this omega fade. Rebus is no longer the isolated, self-conscious literary entity he was in Knots and Crosses, where plot and denouement were tightly wrapped up with his harrowing past and traumatized psyche. Though still introspective, he is more ample in every way, possessing a chronicled past and living in a fully realized world peopled by a cast of familiar characters. Despite the addition of a career's caseload of hard-core grief, Rebus's former angst has evolved into a more bracing belligerence and a sense of what is ridiculous in himself. The early Rebus, for instance, would never have been able to relax his grip on self-torment and laugh at himself as the present one does: " 'Bit maudlin tonight, are we John?' he asked himself out loud. Then gave a little chuckle, knowing he could maudle for Scotland."

The book, like the last few, finds Rebus feeling his age and obsolescence. Not only does retirement lie mere days ahead, but as if to underscore the detective's status as a relic, the grandson of a man he put away in prison has joined the police force. To be sure, in a remarkable burst of would-be cutting-edge savvy, the canny Rebus does snap up signed copies of a just-killed poet's last book, mouthing, to a fellow detective's considerable bemusement, "something very like 'eBay.' " Whoa, John! Still, predictably enough, computers annoy him, DNA analysis is a closed book, and he is, at best, made thoughtful by the ubiquity of CCTV -- one camera for every dozen citizens of the United Kingdom. What is more, the problem of finding a place to park in Edinburgh has now been joined by the even more dispiriting one of finding a place to smoke.

The case that launches the inspector's last outing begins with the death of the poet just mentioned, a Russian dissident. Persona non grata in his own country, he is found bludgeoned to death near a parking garage on a desolate street in Edinburgh. Elsewhere in the city, Russian fat-cat investors are being courted by suave Scottish bankers and high-level politicians. This is the New Scotland of global business; even gangland boss Big Ger Cafferty, Rebus's nemesis, has moved into apparently legitimate areas, cooking up some deal with yet another Russian, Sergei Andropov, a renegade operator on the outs with Russian authorities. Is the poet's death connected to all this? Or to the poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko in London, news of which is now breaking? "It wasn't so much the underworld you had to fear," reflects Rebus, "as the overworld."

Mind you, there's still plenty of danger emanating from the seamier side of Edinburgh. Pornography and drugs have their role, in this instance dragging a few of the better sort into their snare. Another death, this one the consequence of arson, darkens the picture further. Meanwhile, tension over Rebus's retirement mounts. There is unpleasantness and jockeying for position back at the station. His longtime colleague and friend Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke looks to be his likely successor and is, in fact, put in charge of the dead-poet case, with Rebus playing second fiddle -- not an instrument he handles with particular grace. Happily, he is soon enough -- and true to form -- suspended from duty, which, as usual, loosens things up between the two detectives. It does not, of course, interrupt Rebus's sleuthing, nor does it interfere with his obsession with Big Ger, whom he would dearly love to bring down before bidding police life adieu.

My lips are sealed on that score and much else. Suffice it to say, the denouement -- though not quite the word -- of Rebus's contest with Big Ger is strange and unexpected. I will tell you this, however: You cannot convince me for a minute that this is the last of John Rebus. No, sir. There's miles -- kilometers, that is -- left in him, and Rebus Redux is surely on the cards. On the other hand, to quote another Scot, Robert Burns, "There is no such uncertainty as a sure thing." --Katherine A. Powers

Katherine A. Powers writes the literary column "A Reading Life" for the Boston Sunday Globe and lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

From the Publisher

It's late in the fall in Edinburgh and late in the career of Detective Inspector John Rebus. As he is simply trying to tie up some loose ends before his retirement, a new case lands on his desk: a dissident Russian poet has been murdered in what looks like a mugging gone wrong.
Rebus discovers that an elite delegation of Russian businessmen is in town, looking to expand its interests. And as Rebus's investigation gains ground, someone brutally assaults a local gangster with whom he has a long history.
Has Rebus overstepped his bounds for the last time? Only a few days shy of the end to his long, controversial career, will Rebus even make it that far?

The New York Times - Janet Maslin

In format, this final installment is no different from the classic, ambling mysteries that have made Rebus so wildly popular. It starts small, with the discovery that a Russian dissident poet has been murdered in Edinburgh. Then it allows that event to shoot off the usual tangle of tentacles that complicate a Rebus investigation. The murder inquiry weaves and wanders at its own gait, stopping to consider such matters as the prospect of Scottish independence and the parallels between Scottish and Russian history, until Mr. Rankin suddenly picks up the pace. As ever, with consummate ease, he brings his story into sharp focus for its home stretch and shows how closely all the stories' seemingly unrelated events were actually connected…Elegiac as it is Exit Music sustains the series's cranky pleasures.

Publishers Weekly

James MacPherson's home-grown Scottish burr is put to excellent use narrating Rankin's 17th and possibly best crime novel featuring Det. Insp. John Rebus of the Edinburgh police. At 60, it's retirement time for Rebus and, as expected, Rankin's rebellious series hero isn't going quietly. Not with the murder of a dissident Russian poet to solve and a career-long battle with local crime lord Big Ger Cafferty to close down. MacPherson easily conveys Rebus's gruff impatience, Cafferty's deeper, nastier menace and Det. Siobhan Clarke's brittle coolness. He even manages to lose the burr long enough to get past several Russian-thick accents. Though Rebus's mention of perusing his unsolved cases in retirement offers some hope of future sleuthing, this reads like a farewell novel. Along with its expected well-crafted procedural elements, Rankin has included several moments of wistfulness and regret, and MacPherson makes the most of every one of them. A Little, Brown hardcover (Reviews, July 7). (Sept.)

Michael Adams - Library Journal

While John Rebus's legion of fans may be disappointed that this is the Edinburgh detective's last case, Edgar® and Gold Dagger® award winner Rankin (www.ianrankin.net) gives the gruff chap a solid send-off in this 17th and final series entry. Days before his retirement, Rebus is presented with the murder of a famous Russian poet, which leads him into unexpected avenues involving gangsters and business executives. Scottish actor James Macpherson aptly captures Rebus's prickly personality, though his Scots burr lurks in the background of his Russian accents. One of the best titles in the series; highly recommended for popular collections. [Audio clip available through www.hachettebookgroup.com; unabridged library-edition CD available from Recorded Books; the Little, Brown hc received a starred review, LJ 8/08.-Ed.]

Kirkus Reviews

Say it ain't so: Rebus retires. Having reached mandatory retirement age, Detective Inspector John Rebus has just ten days left before leaving Edinburgh's Gayfield Square police station. While he tries to interest his partner, Det. Sgt. Siobhan Clarke, in keeping his unsolved cases open, the pair is sent off to King's Stables Road, where a dissident Russian poet has come to an unsightly end. It might have been a mugging, but Rebus doubts it: There's too much fury in the killing, whose blood trail wends back to a car park. Tracing the poet's last hours turns up a curry dinner with a recording engineer, who dies when his tape archives go up in flames, and an odd group of drinking companions at the posh Caledonian Hotel, including a wealthy Russian businessman and Rebus's old nemesis Big Ger Cafferty, who controls most of Edinburgh's slums, drugs and vice. With Scottish Nationalists once more urging independence and entrepreneurial Russians angling to buy up much of the country with Cafferty as middleman, could the dead poet have upset negotiations? When the case becomes a hot potato, Rebus, overstepping bounds, is suspended three days before his retirement. The case ends with a triple-twist conclusion. One can only hope that as Conan Doyle revived Holmes and John Harvey brought back Charlie Resnick, Rankin will allow Rebus (The Naming of the Dead, 2007, etc.) several encores. Meanwhile, he goes out with panache and his usual ability to see through flummery.

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"I want to go home," the girl was complaining between sobs. She was standing, knees grazed. Her skirt was too short, the man felt, and her denim jacket was unlikely to keep out the cold. She looked familiar to him. He had considered - briefly considered - lending her his coat. Instead, he reminded her again that she needed to stay put. Suddenly their faces turned blue. The police car was arriving, lights flashing.

"Here they come," the man said, placing his arm around her shoulders as if to comfort her, removing it again when he saw his wife was watching.

Even after the patrol car drew to a halt, its roof light stayed on, engine left running. Two uniformed officers emerged, not bothering with their caps. One of them carried a large black torch. Raeburn Wynd was steep and led to a series of mews conversions above garages that would once have housed the monarch's carriages and horses. It would be treacherous when icy.

"Maybe he slipped and banged his head," the man offered. "Or he was sleeping rough, or had had a few too many ..."

"Thank you, sir," one of the officers said, meaning the opposite. His colleague had switched the torch on, and the middle-aged man realized that there was blood on the ground, blood on the slumped body's hands and clothes. The face and hair were clotted with it.

"Or someone smashed him to a pulp," the first officer commented. "Unless, of course, he slipped repeatedly against a cheese grater."

His young colleague winced. He'd been crouching down, the better to shine light onto the body, but he rose to his feet again. "Whose is the wreath?" he asked.

"My wife's," the man stated, wondering afterwards why he hadn't just said "mine."

"Jack Palance," Detective Inspector John Rebus said.

"I keep telling you, I don't know him."

"Big film star."

"So name me a film."

"His obituary's in the Scotsman."

"Then you should be clued up enough to tell me what I've seen him in." Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke got out of the car and slammed shut the door.

"He was the bad guy in a lot of Westerns," Rebus persisted. Clarke showed her warrant card to one of the uniforms and took a proffered torch from the younger of the two. The Scene of Crime Unit was on its way. Spectators had started gathering, drawn to the scene by the patrol car's blue beacon. Rebus and Clarke had been working late at Gayfield Square police station, hammering out a theory - but no prime suspect - in an unsolved investigation. Both had been glad of the break provided by the summons. They'd arrived in Rebus's wheezing Saab 900, from the boot of which he was now fetching polythene overshoes and latex gloves. It took him half a dozen noisy attempts to slam shut the lid.

"Need to trade it in," he muttered.

"Who'd want it?" Clarke asked, pulling on the gloves. Then, when he didn't answer: "Were those hiking boots I glimpsed?"

"As old as the car," Rebus stated, heading towards the corpse. The two detectives fell silent, studying the figure and its surroundings.

"Someone's done a job on him," Rebus eventually commented. He turned towards the younger constable. "What's your name, son?"

"Goodyear, sir ... Todd Goodyear."

"Todd?"

"Mum's maiden name, sir," Goodyear explained.

"Ever heard of Jack Palance, Todd?"

"Wasn't he in Shane?"

"You're wasted in uniform."

Goodyear's colleague chuckled. "Give young Todd here half a chance, and it's you he'll be grilling rather than any suspects."

"How's that?" Clarke asked.

The constable - at least fifteen years older than his partner and maybe three times the girth - nodded towards Goodyear. "I'm not good enough for Todd," he explained. "Got his eyes set on CID."

Goodyear ignored this. He had his notebook in his hand. "Want us to start taking details?" he asked. Rebus looked towards the pavement. A middle-aged couple were seated curbside, holding hands. Then there was the teenage girl, arms wrapped around herself as she shivered against a wall. Beyond her the crowd of onlookers was starting to shuffle forward again, warnings forgotten.

"Best thing you can do," Rebus offered, "is hold that lot back till we can secure the scene. Doctor should be here in a couple of minutes."

"He's not got a pulse," Goodyear said. "I checked."

Rebus glowered at him.

"Told you they wouldn't like it," Goodyear's partner said with another chuckle.

"Contaminates the locus," Clarke told the young constable, showing him her gloved hands and overshoes. He looked embarrassed.

"Doctor still has to confirm death," Rebus added. "Meantime, you can start persuading that rabble to get themselves home."

"Glorified bouncers, that's us," the older cop told his partner as they moved off.

"Which would make this the VIP enclosure," Clarke said quietly. She was checking the corpse again. "He's well enough dressed, probably not homeless."

"Want to look for ID?"

She took a couple of steps forward and crouched beside the body, pressing a gloved hand against the man's trouser and jacket pockets. "Can't feel anything," she said.

"Not even sympathy?"

She glanced up at Rebus. "Does the suit of armor come off when you collect the gold watch?"

Rebus managed to mouth the word "ouch." Reason they'd been staying late at the office so often -ebus only ten days from retirement, wanting loose ends tied.

"A mugging gone wrong?" Clarke suggested into the silence.

Rebus just shrugged, meaning he didn't think so. He asked Clarke to shine the torch down the body: black leather jacket, an open-necked patterned shirt that had probably started out blue, faded denims held up with a black leather belt, black suede shoes. As far as Rebus could tell, the man's face was lined, the hair graying. Early fifties? Around five feet nine or ten. No jewelry, no wristwatch. Bringing Rebus's personal body count to ... what? Maybe thirty or forty over the course of his three-decades-plus on the force. Another ten days, and this poor wretch would have been somebody else's problem - and still could be. For weeks now he'd been feeling Siobhan Clarke's tension: part of her, maybe the best part of her, wanted Rebus gone. It was the only way she could start to prove herself. Her eyes were on him now, as if she knew what he was thinking. He offered a sly smile.

"I'm not dead yet," he said, as the Scene of Crime van slowed to a halt on the roadway.

The duty doctor had duly declared death. The SOCOs had taped off Raeburn Wynd at top and bottom. Lights had been erected, a sheet pinned up so that onlookers no longer had a view of anything except the shadows on the other side. Rebus and Clarke were suited up in the same white hooded disposable overalls as the SOCOs. A camera team had just arrived, and the mortuary van was standing by. Beakers of tea had materialized from somewhere, wisps of steam rising from them. In the distance: sirens headed elsewhere; drunken yelps from nearby Princes Street; maybe even the hooting of an owl from the churchyard. Preliminary statements had been taken from the teenage girl and the middle-aged couple, and Rebus was flicking through these, flanked by the two constables, the elder of whom, he now knew, was called Bill Dyson.

"Rumor is," Dyson said, "you've finally got your jotters."

"Weekend after next," Rebus confirmed. "Can't be too far away yourself."

"Seven months and counting. Nice wee taxi job lined up for afterwards. Don't know how Todd will cope without me."

"I'll try to maintain my composure," Goodyear drawled.

"That's one thing you're good at," Dyson was saying, as Rebus went back to his reading. The girl who had found the body was called Nancy Sievewright. She was seventeen and on her way home from a friend's house. The friend lived in Great Stuart Street and Nancy in Blair Street, just off the Cowgate. She had already left school and was unemployed, though hoping to get into college some day to study as a dental assistant. Goodyear had done the interview, and Rebus was impressed: neat handwriting and plenty of detail. Turning to Dyson's notebook was like turning from hope to despair - a mess of hastily scrawled hieroglyphs. Those seven months couldn't pass quickly enough for PC Bill Dyson. Through guesswork, Rebus reckoned the middle-aged couple were Roger and Elizabeth Anderson and that they lived in Frogston Road West, on the southern edge of the city. There was a phone number, but no hint of their ages or occupations. Instead, Rebus could make out the words "just passing" and "called it in." He handed the notebooks back without comment. All three would be interviewed again later. Rebus checked his watch, wondering when the pathologist would arrive. Not much else to be done in the meantime.

"Tell them they can go."

"Girl's still a bit shaky," Goodyear said. "Reckon we should drop her home?"

Rebus nodded and turned his attention to Dyson. "How about the other two?"

"Their car's parked in the Grassmarket."

"Spot of late-night shopping?"

Dyson shook his head. "Carol concert at St. Cuthbert's."

"A conversation we could have saved ourselves," Rebus told him, "if you'd bothered to write any of it down." As his eyes drilled into the constable's, he could sense the question Dyson wanted to ask: What would be the bloody point of that? Luckily, the old-timer knew better than to utter anything of the kind out loud ... not until the other old-timer was well out of earshot.

Rebus caught up with Clarke at the Scene of Crime van, where she was quizzing the team leader. His name was Thomas Banks - "Tam" to those who knew him. He gave a nod of greeting and asked if his name was on the guest list for Rebus's retirement do.

"How come you're all so keen to witness my demise?"

"Don't be surprised," Tam said, "if the suits from HQ come with stakes and mallets, just to be on the safe side." He winked towards Clarke. "Siobhan here tells me you've wangled it so your last shift's a Saturday. Is that so we're all at home watching telly while you take the long walk?"

"Just the way it fell, Tam," Rebus assured him. "Any tea going?"

"You turned your nose up at it," Tam chided him.

"That was half an hour ago."

"No second chances here, John."

"I was asking," Clarke interrupted, "if Tam's team had anything for us."

"I'm guessing he said to be patient."

"That's about the size of it," Tam confirmed, checking a text message on his mobile phone. "Stabbing outside a pub at Haymarket," he informed them.

"Busy night," Clarke offered. Then, to Rebus: "Doctor reckons our man was bludgeoned and maybe even kicked to death. He's betting blunt force trauma at the autopsy."

"He's not going to get any odds from me," Rebus told her.

"Nor me," Tam added, rubbing a finger across the bridge of his nose. He turned to Rebus: "Know who that young copper was?" He nodded towards the patrol car. Todd Goodyear was helping Nancy Sievewright into the back seat, Bill Dyson drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

"Never seen him before," Rebus admitted.

"You maybe knew his granddad, though ..." Tam left it at that, wanting Rebus to do the work. It didn't take long.

"Not Harry Goodyear?"

Tam was nodding in confirmation, leaving Clarke to ask who Harry Goodyear was. "Ancient history," Rebus informed her.

Which, typically, left her none the wiser.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Exit Music by Ian Rankin Copyright © 2007 by John Rebus Limited. Excerpted by permission.
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