Praise for Ian Rankin
‘Rankin weaves his plot with a menacing ease … His prose is understated, yet his canvas of Scotland’s criminal underclass has a panoramic breadth. His ear for dialogue is as sharp as a switchblade. This is, quite simply, crime writing of the highest order’
Daily Telegraph
‘A series that shows no signs of flagging … Assured, sympathetic to contemporary foibles, humanistic, this is more than just a police procedural as the character of Rebus grows in moral stature … Rankin is the head capo of the MacMafia’
Time Out
‘Rankin has followed one success with another. Sardonic and assured, the novel has a powerful and well-paced narrative. What is striking is the way Rankin uses his laconic prose as a literary paint stripper, scouring away pretensions to reveal the unwholesome reality beneath’
Independent
‘Rankin strips Edinburgh’s polite façade to its gritty skeleton’
The Times
‘A teeming Ellroy-esque evocation of life at the sharp end in modern Scotland … Rankin is the finest Scottish crime writer to emerge since William McIIvanney’
GQ
‘Rebus resurgent … a brilliantly meshed plot which delivers on every count on its way to a conclusion as unexpected as it is inevitable. Eleventh in the series. Still making waves’
Literary Review
‘His fiction buzzes with energy … Essentially, he is a romantic storyteller in the tradition of Robert Louis Stevenson … His prose is as vivid and terse as the next man’s yet its flexibility and rhythm give it potential for lyrical expression which is distinctly Rankin’s own’
Scotland on Sunday
‘Top notch … the bleakness is unrelenting, but it quite suits Mr Rankin who does his best work in the dark’
New York Times
‘The internal police politics and corruption in high places are both portrayed with bone-freezing accuracy. This novel should come with a wind-chill factor warning’
Daily Telegraph
‘Detective Inspector Rebus makes the old-style detectives with their gentle or bookish backgrounds, Alleyn, Morse, Dalgliesh, look like wimps … Rankin is brilliant at conveying the genuine stench of seedy places on the dark side of Scotland’
Sunday Telegraph
‘It’s the banter and energy, the immense carnival of scenes and charaters, voices and moods that set Rankin apart. His stories are like a transmission forever in the red zone, at the edge of burnout. This is crime fiction at its best’
Washington Post
Born in the Kingdom of Fife in 1960, Ian Rankin graduated from the University of Edinburgh in 1982, and then spent three years writing novels when he was supposed to be working towards a PhD in Scottish Literature. His first Rebus novel, Knots and Crosses, was published in 1987, and the Rebus books are now translated into over thirty languages and are bestsellers worldwide.
Ian Rankin has been elected a Hawthornden Fellow, and is also a past winner of the Chandler-Fulbright Award. He is the recipient of four Crime Writers’ Association Dagger Awards including the prestigious Diamond Dagger in 2005 and in 2009 was inducted into the CWA Hall of Fame. In 2004, Ian won America’s celebrated Edgar award for Resurrection Men. He has also been shortlisted for the Anthony Awards in the USA, and won Denmark’s Palle Rosenkrantz Prize, the French Grand Prix du Roman Noir and the Deutscher Krimipreis. Ian Rankin is also the recipient of honorary degrees from the universities of Abertay, St Andrews, Edinburgh, Hull and the Open University.
A contributor to BBC2’s Newsnight Review, he also presented his own TV series, Ian Rankin’s Evil Thoughts. He has received the OBE for services to literature, opting to receive the prize in his home city of Edinburgh. He has also recently been appointed to the rank of Deputy Lieutenant of Edinburgh, where he lives with his partner and two sons. Visit his website at www.ianrankin.net.
By Ian Rankin
The Inspector Rebus series
Knots & Crosses – paperback – ebook
Hide & Seek – paperback – ebook
Tooth & Nail – paperback – ebook
Strip Jack – paperback – ebook
The Black Book – paperback – ebook
Mortal Causes – paperback – ebook
Let it Bleed – paperback – ebook
Black & Blue – paperback – ebook
The Hanging Garden – paperback – ebook
Death Is Not The End (novella)
Dead Souls – paperback – ebook
Set in Darkness – paperback – ebook
The Falls – paperback – ebook
Resurrection Men – paperback – ebook
A Question of Blood – paperback – ebook
Fleshmarket Close – paperback – ebook
The Naming of the Dead – paperback – ebook
Exit Music – paperback – ebook
Other Novels
The Flood – paperback – ebook
Watchman – paperback – ebook
Westwind
A Cool Head (Quickread) – paperback – ebook
Doors Open – paperback – ebook
The Complaints – paperback – ebook
Writing as Jack Harvey
Witch Hunt – paperback – ebook
Bleeding Hearts – paperback – ebook
Blood Hunt – paperback – ebook
Short Stories
A Good Hanging and Other Stories – paperback – ebook
Beggars Banquet – paperback – ebook
Non-Fiction
Rebus’s Scotland – paperback
Ian Rankin
Tooth & Nail
For Miranda, again,
but this time for Mugwump too …
Contents
Cover
Title
Dedication
Praise for Ian Rankin
About the Author
By Ian Rankin
Introduction
Prologue
The Chamber of Horrors
Underground
Catching a Bite
Fibs
Churchill
Know This, Womin
The Gallery
Family
Acknowledgements
Copyright
I lived in London for four years, from 1986 to 1990, during which time my home was a maisonette in Tottenham, not far from the River Lea. When I left for France in the summer of 1990, some friends took on the maisonette. We kept in touch. Tooth & Nail was eventually published in the spring of 1992, only it wasn’t called Tooth & Nail; it was called Wolfman, the name of the serial killer who stalks the book. A few months after publication, my friends in Tottenham sent me a photo they’d taken of a subway between my old home and the river (where the first murder in the book takes place). The subway’s gloomy interior comprised white tiles, and on this surface, in six-foot-high black capitals, someone had painted the name ‘Wolfman’.
I keep the photo close at hand even now, to remind myself that there are some fans an author just doesn’t want to meet.
Ever.
It was my editor in the USA who mentioned that Wolfman made my story sound like a horror novel, and it was his idea to rename the book Tooth & Nail for the American audience. The title seemed resonant, and chimed with my first two Rebus adventures. When my current publisher Orion got hold of the rights to the book, I persuaded them that it should become Tooth & Nail in the UK too.
The book is set in London, the only Rebus novel so far to take place outside Scotland. Basically, I wanted Rebus to be more of an outsider than ever. In London, he’s a fish out of water. He can’t begin to comprehend the city, doesn’t even know what a bagel is, and no one around him understands his accent and dialect (to such an extent that passa
ges from the book have become teaching aids in some Scottish primary schools). In essence, I was using Rebus to explore my own feelings about the London I had known, just at a time when I was preparing to leave the place.
From the early 1970s until May 1990, I’d kept a page-a-day diary. For whatever reason, I stopped soon after arriving in France. However, an entry for 11 March that year reads: ‘I’ve started, half-heartedly, a new Rebus novel, though I know I should plan more and research more before I really get into it. It’s going to be called Wolfman, if it ever gets off the ground.’ I think some of the impetus for the book came from the spectacular success of the American author Thomas Harris. I’d spent a sleepless night reading The Silence of the Lambs from cover to cover. The man had a huge talent and sales to match, and I wanted some of the latter. The serial killer was in vogue and there seemed an endless fascination with the psychology and pathology of evil. It was fortunate for me that my editor, Euan Cameron, was not as easily seduced by trends. I remember that when I sent him the first version of the manuscript, he told me there was far too much sex and violence in the story and asked for cuts in both departments. I’d learned a valuable lesson: that the two can be suggested without having to show either in graphic and voyeuristic detail.
During my time in London, I’d served jury duty at the Old Bailey, a bizarre and unsatisfactory experience which was to provide me with an abundance of detail and anecdotes for the Old Bailey scenes in Tooth & Nail. The trial I’d attended had been full of farcical moments, starting with an arresting officer called De’Ath, a prosecutor who didn’t know the difference between 180° and 360°, and a juror who said, ‘I think he done it, but I don’t want him going to prison for it’, then voted Not Guilty, leading to the prisoner escaping sentence. (The police foul-up in the book which allows Tommy Watkiss to go free actually happened during my trial, but in real life no one noticed except we jurors.)
I took lots of notes about the Old Bailey – its interior layout; security issues; the route from the courtroom to the jury room – and was stopped one day by a security guard as I left the building. He asked to see my notes, seemed horrified by them, and tore them up in front of me. I thanked him and stepped outside, where I proceeded to write them all down again as he watched helplessly through a window.
Tooth & Nail is notable for introducing the character of Morris Gerald Cafferty – aka ‘Big Ger’ – the gangster who runs Edinburgh. In this book, he has a cameo only, but it was enough to persuade me that I could do more with him. I also started to introduce Scottish words into the text, perhaps to ensure that I wouldn’t lose them entirely. After all, living in rural south-west France, I had few opportunities to say things like ‘wersh’ (meaning sour), ‘winching’ (going steady) and ‘hoolit’ (drunk). In time, some of these words would even start to creep into the Oxford English Dictionary, with the Rebus novels cited for reference.
Crivvens.
Having said in the diary entry quoted above that ‘I should plan more and research more’, I should confess here that the lengthy list of acknowledgements at the end of Tooth & Nail is actually an extended joke. Each recipient is a friend of mine, and I just wanted to sneak as many of their names into the book as I could. Steve Adams and Fiona Campbell, for example, were our next-door neighbours in Tottenham, while Tiree Macgregor and Don Nichol had been literature postgrads during my own time at the University of Edinburgh. Professor J. Curt, however, deserves special mention. He’s my mate Jon Curt. I shared a flat with him for an intensely boozy year when I was a postgrad and he was finishing his MA. As well as being a student, Jon was part-time barman at the Oxford Bar. Without him, I might never have found what was to become Rebus’s favourite watering-hole. I rewarded Jon with a professorship in Tooth & Nail, and would later turn him into Dr Curt, pathologist and friend of Rebus in many of the later novels.
The book also contains one of my favourite one-liners in any of my novels. I won’t give the game away here, but watch out for the mention of a ‘nudist beach’ …
April 2005
‘How many wolves do we feel on our heels, while our real enemies go in sheepskin’
Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano
Prologue
She drives home the knife.
The moment, she knows from past experience, is a very intimate one. Her hand is gripped around the knife’s cool handle and the thrust takes the blade into the throat up to the hilt until her hand meets the throat itself. Flesh upon flesh. Jacket first, or woollen jersey, cotton shirt or T-shirt, then flesh. Now rent. The knife is writhing, like an animal sniffing. Warm blood covering hilt and hand. (The other hand covers the mouth, stifling screams.) The moment is complete. A meeting. Touching. The body is hot, gaping, warm with blood. Seething inside, as insides become outsides. Boiling. The moment is coming to an end all too soon.
And still she feels hungry. It isn’t right, isn’t usual, but she does. She removes some of the clothing; in fact, removes quite a lot of it, removes more, perhaps, than is necessary. And she does what she must do, the knife squirming again. She keeps her eyes screwed tightly shut. She does not like this part. She has never liked this part, not then, not now. But especially not then.
Finally, she brings out her teeth and sinks them into the white stomach, until they grind together in a satisfying bite, and whispers, as she always does, the same four words.
‘It’s only a game.’
* * *
It is evening when George Flight gets the call. Sunday evening. Sunday should be his blessed relief, beef and Yorkshires, feet up in front of the television, papers falling from his lap. But he’s had a feeling all day. In the pub at lunchtime he’d felt it, a wriggling in his gut like there were worms in there, tiny blind white worms, hungry worms, worms he could not hope to satisfy. He knew what they were and they knew what they were. And then he’d won third prize in the pub raffle: a three-foot high orange and white teddy bear. Even the worms had laughed at him then and he’d known the day would end badly.
As it was doing now, the phone as insistent as last orders. Ringing with whatever bad news couldn’t wait until the morning shift. He knew what it meant of course. Hadn’t he been expecting it these past weeks? But still he was reluctant to pick up the receiver. At last he did.
‘Flight speaking.’
‘There’s been another one, sir. The Wolfman. He’s done another.’
Flight stared at the silent television. Highlights of the previous day’s rugby match. Grown men running after a funny-shaped ball as though their lives depended on it. It was only a bloody game after all. And propped up against the side of the TV that smirking prize, the teddy bear. What the hell could he do with a teddy bear?
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘just tell me where …’
‘After all, it is only a game.’
Rebus smiled and nodded at the Englishman across the table. Then he stared out of the window, pretending once more to be interested in the blur of dark scenery. If the Englishman had said it once, he had said it a dozen times. And during the trip, he had said little else. He also kept stealing precious legroom from Rebus, while his collection of empty beer cans was creeping across the table, invading Rebus’s space, pushing against the neatly folded stack of newspapers and magazines.
‘Tickets, please!’ yelled the guard from the other end of the carriage.
So, with a sigh, and for the third time since leaving Edinburgh, Rebus sought out his ticket. It was never where he thought it was. At Berwick, he’d thought it was in his shirt pocket. It was in the outer top pocket of his Harris tweed jacket. Then at Durham he’d looked for it in his jacket, only to find it beneath one of the magazines on the table. Now, ten minutes out of Peterborough, it had moved to the back pocket of his trousers. He retrieved it, and waited for the guard to make his way forward.
The Englishman’s ticket was where it had always been: half-hidden beneath a beer can. Rebus, although he knew every word almost by heart, glanced again at the back page of one of his
Sunday papers. He had kept it to the top of the pile for no reason other than a sense of devilment, enjoying the thick black letters of the headline – SCOTS WHA HAE! – beneath which was printed the story of the previous day’s Calcutta Cup clash at Murrayfield. And a clash it had been: no day for weak stomachs, but a day for stout hearts and determination. The Scots had triumphed by thirteen points to ten, and now here Rebus was on a late evening Sunday train packed with disappointed English rugby supporters, heading towards London.
London. Never one of Rebus’s favourite places. Not that he was a frequent visitor. But this was not pleasure. This was strictly business, and as a representative of the Lothian and Borders Police, he was to be on best behaviour. Or, as his boss had put it so succinctly, ‘No fuck-ups, John.’
Well, he would do his best. Not that he reckoned there was much he could do, right or wrong. But he would do what he could. And if that meant wearing a clean shirt and tie, polished shoes and a respectable jacket, then so be it.
‘All tickets, please.’
Rebus handed over his ticket. Somewhere in the corridor up ahead, in the no-man’s-land of the buffet car between first and second class, a few voices were raised in a verse of Blake’s Jerusalem. The Englishman across from Rebus smiled.