There’s something oddly satisfying about reading the first book in a long-running series—like standing at the mouth of a cave with a torch in hand, knowing there’s a vast and winding world ahead. You don’t know what you’ll discover in the dark, but you’re excited to go in.

That’s how I felt when I began Knots and Crosses, the first in Ian Rankin’s iconic Inspector Rebus series. A gritty, gloomy mystery with enough tension to twist your insides, this book crept into my 2024 reading pile quite unexpectedly. More on that later.

Let me start by saying: I was hooked. Not in the thunderbolt, oh-my-god-this-is-the-best-book-ever way, but in that slow burn, ‘I-can’t-stop-thinking-about-this-even-when-I’m-not-reading-it’ sort of way. Knots and Crosses doesn’t hit you like a punch. It seeps into your mind like fog rolling over the Edinburgh skyline—dense, cold, and impossible to ignore.

A Consuming Tale of Crime, Claustrophobia, and Conflicted Men

On the surface, Knots and Crosses is a crime thriller: young girls are being abducted and murdered across Edinburgh, and Inspector John Rebus, a somewhat broken, highly secretive, and deeply complex detective, finds himself in the middle of it. As the killings escalate, so does the pressure—media, the police force, and Rebus’s own buried traumas all claw at him, demanding answers.

What makes the book unsettling is how Rebus himself doesn’t seem to know anything. He’s not a step ahead of the killer; he’s not even on the right track for most of the book. In fact, he’s disturbingly oblivious. And that’s why it works.

The mystery isn’t just about the killer on the loose. It’s about Rebus himself. His past, his mind, his demons. Everything is entangled. There’s the serial killer plot, yes, but then there’s also Rebus’s strained relationship with his younger brother Michael, who might be involved in drug dealing. Rebus doesn’t even know how deep he’s in until it’s nearly too late. The dual strands of the murder investigation and his brother’s shady life begin to merge, revealing that nothing in Rebus’s world is untouched by darkness.

The plot thickens in a particularly claustrophobic way. You feel trapped with Rebus—trapped in his flat, in his memories, in his mistakes. There’s this greasy, cold, grey mood that coats every page. You can almost smell the stale cigarette smoke, oh goodness the cigarettes, and not just John. It’s noir, but it’s not glamorous noir. It’s noir with a hangover and a bad attitude.

The Man, The Myth, The Mystery: John Rebus

Let’s talk about the man himself—John Rebus.

A former Special Air Service (SAS) soldier with PTSD and a messy personal life, Rebus is not your average literary detective. He’s not suave, he’s not effortlessly brilliant, and he’s certainly not charming. He’s more like a wounded animal who sometimes snaps at people for sport.

And yet—he’s compelling. He’s complex. He’s contrived in the best possible way. You can feel Ian Rankin working through who Rebus is, who he could be. This is, after all, the first book in the series, and it shows. Rebus isn’t quite fully formed, but the outlines are there.

General consensus from readers seems to be that Rebus is an anti-hero worth rooting for. He’s gruff, cynical, and emotionally closed off, but he cares. He may pretend not to, but he absolutely does. Especially when the cases involve vulnerable people. Especially when children are dying. He may not have the emotional vocabulary to express it, but he’s shaken. Deeply.

There’s a memorable scene where Rebus realises he’s been receiving anonymous letters, each bearing a knot and a cross. At first, he dismisses them. Then someone calls in a police line and tells something to make Rebus panic. Then—like the stubborn man he is—he digs in. These symbols tie back to something traumatic, something repressed. And this is where Rankin excels: he shows us that Rebus is not only solving a crime, he’s solving himself.

Rebus is confident when the time comes. But not a moment before. He fumbles. He avoids. He drinks too much and smokes even more. But when it really matters—when it’s down to the wire—he’s got a kind of laser-sharp focus that’s both satisfying and slightly scary.

The 1987 Baby and My 2024 Library Obsession

Let’s take a moment to acknowledge the fact that Knots and Crosses was first published in 1987. I was still toddling around, probably munching on a teether and learning how not to fall face-first into furniture. Meanwhile, Ian Rankin was out there writing this dark, brooding debut that would go on to spawn twenty-something more novels and a cultural icon in Scotland.

Fast forward to 2024. I’ve been on a mild-to-moderate book-buying spree, which has spiralled into a full-blown build-a-mini-library obsession. I’ve started ordering surprise book boxes because there’s nothing quite like the thrill of not knowing what you’re going to get and then falling in love with a story you wouldn’t have picked for yourself.

That’s exactly how Knots and Crosses landed in my hands. It came in a surprise box, along with four other Rebus novels. In sequence. Coincidence? I think not. Fate, perhaps. I would have given credit to the bookseller had I not ordered these books from various website.

Anyway, I decided to start at the beginning (it was a pure coincidence that I opened up the bookshelf and picked the first one in the series), and it’s honestly been one of the best reading decisions I’ve made this year.

What Works (And What Doesn’t)

Let’s get into it—the nitty gritty.

What works:

1. Atmosphere
   The mood in this book is everything. Rankin paints Edinburgh as a city of shadows, of narrow alleyways and misty mornings, of secrets buried under centuries of stone. You don’t just read it—you live in it.

2. Psychological Depth
   The way the murder mystery is tied to Rebus’s own repressed trauma is brilliant. It’s not just a whodunnit—it’s a whydunnit, and a whatiswrongwithme-dunnit. You’re constantly trying to figure out the external mystery and the internal one.

3. Pacing and Structure
   The short chapters, sometimes half a page, shifting perspectives, and use of letters as a recurring motif keep things engaging. It’s a lean book, under 300 pages, but it packs a lot into its frame.

4. Character Complexity
   Rebus is flawed but layered. The supporting cast—his daughter Samantha, his ex-wife Rhona, colleague Gill Templer, and the annoying journalist Jim Stevens—all add texture to the world. Everyone’s got something going on beneath the surface. I, however, couldn’t shake out the woman that Rebus hooked up with, the one he ended up almost strangling. This man is…complex, let’s say.

What doesn’t work (quite as well):

1. The Ending Feels Rushed
   The big reveal is impactful, but the climax feels like it’s over too fast. I wanted more confrontation, more fallout, more oomph. The villain was just shot and died. It’s too simple for a story of such complexity, no?

2. Rebus’s Mental Health
   While it’s commendable that Rankin addresses PTSD and trauma, the book sometimes glosses over Rebus’s inner turmoil in favour of pushing the plot forward. Later books (so I hear) handle this better.

Why I’m Definitely Continuing the Series

Here’s the thing: Knots and Crosses isn’t just a good crime novel. It’s the beginning of something bigger. You can sense the potential bubbling under the surface. You finish the last page not only curious about the next case, but also curious about Rebus himself. Who is this man? What else has he done? Where does he go from here?

Lucky for me, I’ve got four more Rebus novels already sitting on my shelf. I didn’t plan it this way, but now it feels like a reading project of sorts—a slow, deliberate immersion into the dark world of John Rebus. And I’m all in.

I’m also intrigued to see how Rankin evolves as a writer. This first book, while engaging, shows some of the rawness of a debut. There are moments when you can feel the scaffolding of the plot. But that’s part of its charm. It’s gritty and rough around the edges—just like Rebus.

Final Thoughts

If you like your mysteries dark, your detectives morally grey, and your plots deeply entangled with psychology, Knots and Crosses is worth your time. It’s not flashy or high-octane, but it crawls under your skin and stays there.

Inspector Rebus might not be a character you love right away. He might not even be someone you like. But you’ll want to know what he does next. You’ll want to sit with him in that dingy flat and pour another glass of whisky and figure out what makes this man tick.

And that, I think, is the mark of a good series opener.

Rating: 4/5

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Have you read Knots and Crosses or any other Rebus novels? What’s your take on John Rebus—iconic detective or emotionally constipated trainwreck (or both)? Let’s talk noir, trauma, and Scottish weather in the comments below.

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