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Fleshmarket Close, Ian Rankin
Orion
Reviewed by Nick Churchouse (Courtesy of Taranaki Daily News)

As my first Ian Rankin novel, I resented having to embark on Fleshmarket Close to the tune of 64 million people saying, "Oh, he's really good", or the infinitely and detestably worse, "I've heard he's really good".

The result of these unsought opinions was that Rankin got the full brunt of my cynical snubbery before I'd even graced the pages with my bookmark. I cannot and will not equate a mile-long list of successful sellers and award citations all over an author's latest book cover with a guarantee that I'll lap it up. You can imagine my disappointment when I actually quite enjoyed the book.

You get what you come for with Fleshmarket Close, and I can imagine that Rankin's repertoire is somewhat akin to the John Grishams and Wilbur Smiths of the world. A different style but definitely thrillerific with ease.

Rankin builds whole neighbourhoods of intriguing characters around a nasty blend of murder, racism and human slavery. Good, bad, sad, mysterious, pitiful, funny, annoying, you name it, he's got it. They all scuttle and skulk through the topical theme, which ducks and dives, building slowly, fragmenting slightly, and in the end coming together like a good book should.

Having admittedly read a lot of Grisham and Smith over the years I can recommend Fleshmarket Close as a well-crafted episode in the eminently troubled Inspector John Rebus's (Rankin's recurring character) middle-aged, booze-addled, crime-fighting career. It's current, it's got suspense, there's the twist and it drags the reader in to ponder the emerging clues and solve the crime.

There's no surprises here, it won't stretch your sensibilities, challenge your intellect or delight with artistry of phrase. But it is top-notch detective fodder.