Drinking is one of those pastimes as old as society itself that would-be censors tend to worry about. Parents clamour over the potential influence on their children, whilst better-humoured critics decry its overblown use in fiction – one medical worker tallied up none other than James Bond’s average daily alcohol intake, based on a review of Fleming’s novel series, and concluded that the famously philandering spy would in reality be completely impotent; meanwhile, Pierce Brosnan risked his role as Bond on screen by refusing to smoke cigarettes. Were it not for him, the franchise-saving Daniel Craig version might never have happened.
Detective Inspector John Rebus first appeared in print in 1987 and, in a perhaps unlikely turn for a dropout from Fife, has become one of the most famous curmudgeonly heroes in the world. It’s often far trickier for UK-based crime authors to find success on the same scale as their US counterparts – at least it was in the days before Scandinavia made brooding and thematic the new gun-waving thriller – and as such critics have spent years analysing what makes Rebus and his readers tick.
In the case of the cop, there’s only one quick answer: a pint of heavy and a dram. Rebus is portrayed as a traditional east-coast Scot, a product of the crumbling mining towns amidst the decline of heavy industry and a hard man whose empathy and affection are far more inward than outward. His means of relaxation are lonely ones, including an extensive record collection, a personal library of thoughtful literature and sitting alone in his favourite bar, nursing a fat, black glass of 80-Shilling, a measure of whisky and – pre-2007 – a slow-burning cigarette. So, how does this image affect our view of the hero and, perhaps more importantly, what influence – if any – does it have?
This is done so well that the massively clichéd character doesn’t seem at all out of place and is far more believable than most of his womanising, day-saving counterparts. More than just a character, Rebus has become a tourist attraction. Maps of Edinburgh are included in each book and visitors to the city seek out his lonely Oxford Bar haunt. Perhaps it’s the nature of whisky itself as Scotland’s proudest product that staves off criticism of Rebus’ tastefully bad habits – after all, he wastes no time throwing back vodka just to lighten his head. So integral is his keen-eyed fondness for the stuff that, to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the series, Highland Park released a twenty-year old Rebus malt – a deep, smokey, caramel coloured whisky befitting a grizzled Scot with a taste for tobacco, the bottle embossed with matchstick crosses taken from the very first novel (If you fancy some of your own, expect to pay between one and three thousand pounds for this limited run treat).
Perhaps only the ending might have been done differently. Following countless decades of grim living and a plethora of warnings from colleagues and health professionals throughout the books, Rebus is still around in his mid-to-late sixties and back in the police force, demoted and working doggedly on cases that could ruin what’s left of his career. Crime writers, according to those we’ve spoken to, are often told that killing off the character at the end of a successful series can still affect sales of the back stock and is likely to be resisted by publishers. Whether Rebus will retire quietly with his pittance pension and a functioning liver or meet a tragic, Wallander-esque end remains to be seen. Meanwhile, few if any of his dedicated admirers are likely trying to emulate him.