Even before Jim Taggart first snarled, “Thuz bin a murrr-durrr” in the early 80s in his long-running eponymous TV drama, Scotland was known for a particularly gritty form of crime fiction.
Tartan Noir’s pioneer was William McIlvanney, whose 70s Laidlaw novels depicted crime and policing with a then-groundbreaking combination of jarring frankness and compassion.
A statistical analysis might now show Scotland produces more successful crime writers per capita than anywhere else in the wurr-uld.
This is the motive, means and opportunity of Bloody Scotland, an annual book festival drawing about 13,000 attendees, online or in impressive queues, to Stirling – once home to the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots.
The festival attracts global headliners, this year including Kathy Reichs, an early populariser of forensics in fiction, Slow Horses author Mick Herron, Kate Atkinson and a key festival supporter, Sir Ian Rankin, whose character, Rebus, concurrently inhabits books, stage shows, TV series and audiobooks.
What gives so many of Britain’s far north Gaels such aptitude for inventing evil remains a cliffhanger? A single residential area in Edinburgh once housed Rankin, Atkinson, JK Rowling, Alexander McCall Smith and Maggie O’Farrell – all contriving death and destruction in their distinctive styles.
MC Beaton, another Scot, turned from romance to crime – creating Hamish Macbeth and Agatha Raisin – “because there are so many people I’d like to murder”. She offed a scriptwriter in a Macbeth book because she so disapproved of the nice-ified television version of her sly Highland constable.
Aside from the puzzle of Scotland’s sky-high fictional crime rate, festival participants this year pondered the mass appeal of crime fiction.
Given there’s now lucrative literary murder/detection by children, cats and dogs, pensioners – as in Richard Osman’s Thursday Murder Club blockbusters – and even (a somewhat-reimagined) Jane Austen, the genre has evolved prodigiously.
Nicci Gerrard, who with husband Sean French, writes the Nicci French bestsellers, posited everyone had dark, furious, bitter thoughts and fantasies they would never act on, but were fascinated by stories in which people did. “And everyone is a little bit … odd.”
Thriller writer TM Logan said some appeal lay in extrapolated fear, instancing his fretting en route to collect his daughter from university about what he’d do if she wasn’t there. She was – but not in his latest book, The Daughter.
There’s a surprising lack of malice aforethought in these imaginary crimes. Herron, whose phenomenally popular spy novels feature the noisome, boorish anti-hero Jackson Lamb, said being planning- and research-avoidant, he hadn’t a clue as he wrote what would happen from one week to the next. Canadian Shari Lapena said she never decided whodunnit until near her twisty books’ end.
Rankin confessed that after nearly 30 years, he still didn’t really know or understand Rebus. Fantasy crime series Rivers of London’s author Ben Aaronovitch said numerous of his bit-part characters, including talking foxes, simply “refused to leave”.
As for early experiences toward the path of literary carnage, Herron cited The Wind in the Willows, marvelling at its inclusion of larceny, home-invasion, vehicle conversion, gang violence, prison breaks, kidnapping and grooming.
“I should warn you, though, that we know who the mole is quite early on.”
There were also confessions from these virtual serial killers.
Rankin said he nearly killed off Rebus at the end of his first crime book, and as the character was now retired, 80, and banged up, “I might have to pension him off to Richard Osman.”
If only Rebus could guest-lecture at the University of Otago, where McIlvanney’s professor son Liam, also a successful novelist, heads the Centre for Irish and Scottish Studies that has taught Tartan Noir – now a venerated cultural touchstone.
Nae a wurrd o’ this to Taggart, mind.
