Ian Rankin | Fiction
1987, 179 pages
An eleven-year-old girl is killed. A nine-year-old girl is sexually assaulted and then killed. A baby is sexually assaulted. Every conversation occurs over cigarettes, spilled food, and alcohol. And I am only on page 28. My heart and soul do not need this kind of depressing vitriol. I am reading no more Ian Rankin.
August 2024
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Sorry you didn’t like this. This was his first book. I’ve read most of the Inspector Rebus series. Character development, writing, storylines get better.
So, do you think I am being premature?