Facing Hyde Park, The Heights is London’s most coveted luxury high-rise apartment, where self-made owner-developer Allan Franklyn himself has claimed the penthouse duplex. His neighbors include some of “Money London’s” biggest personalities: a wealthy art dealer, a young heartthrob pop star, a foreign heiress, a gangster’s wife. The residents are used to service, deference, and privacy, all on their terms. But when nighttime concierge Dwayne Hogarth is found dead in the lobby, none of that is in their control anymore, and everyone’s under the unwelcome scrutiny of Detective Sergeant Gillian Gish.
One of the genre’s greats, Rankin draws the criminals and police well, but this story’s real strength is its attention to working-class Londoners. Continuing crime fiction’s grand tradition of exploring corruption and exploitation, The Heights is angry when it needs to be, derisive when deserved, and deft enough to leaven things with understated gags (like the developer who can’t stop reminding people that the building contains suites, thank you very much, not flats).
The writing is as confident, propulsive and informed as one would expect from Rankin, and in the extra space he has given himself, he leads us down a convincingly realistic number of blind alleys. Ultimately, though, there are just too many characters for the plot’s own good: fine if you read the novel in one go. If you can’t, you might struggle to scale The Heights.
Even after decades writing Rankin keeps up with society and popular culture and has given The Heights a thoroughly contemporary novel. As is often the case with his work, there is compelling story with plenty of twists, the truth not coming fully into view until the closing stages ... While some may worry that a move away from Edinburgh has diluted his power as a storyteller, The Heights captures everything that makes the Rebus books so popular and shows that even after 40 years at the top of his game that he has plenty left to offer.
