It was August 1985 and I was a full-time student at the University of Edinburgh. When not studying, I was writing novels. By 1985 I’d written two. One had been rejected but the other had been accepted by a small press in Edinburgh and would be published the following February. I was now at work on a third, a detective story featuring a gnarly middle-aged guy called John Rebus.
August in Edinburgh is Festival time and that includes the International Book Festival. William McIlvanney was a guest on one particular day and I was determined to meet him. He was a writing hero of mine, a working-class Scot who had won literary prizes but had also recently started writing crime novels set in his home city of Glasgow. I headed to the Book Festival site armed with a well-read paperback and spotted the author almost immediately. I explained that I was writing something ‘similar to your Inspector Laidlaw books but set here rather than Glasgow’. He listened patiently, took the book from me and inscribed it with the words ‘Good luck with the Edinburgh Laidlaw’.
My first Inspector Rebus novel was published two years later, by which time I had abandoned university and was living in London with my wife. After four years there we moved to rural France where I became a full-time novelist. Having thought that Rebus would be around only for one book I’d moved on to spy fiction and thrillers, but a re-reading of William McIlvanney’s three Laidlaw books convinced me that I could use the crime novel to explore contemporary society in depth and with gripping storylines and memorable characters. Rebus returned, though McIlvanney himself had decided to stop after those three brilliant books, turning back to literary fiction, essays and poetry.
While in France, I did correspond intermittently with McIlvanney. These were the days of air mail letters, kept short so as not to accrue extra postage fees. But it would be the eighth Rebus novel, ‘Black and Blue’, before we would meet again in person. I’d moved with my family back to Edinburgh by then and was on a bookstore tour. I’d published almost a dozen books but was still far from a household name. So, on a rainy night in Glasgow, only a handful of people had turned up to listen to me. When William McIlvanney entered the room and sat down, it was as though an extra surge of electricity had been added to proceedings—the eyes of the audience were on him rather than me! Afterwards, he bought a book and the pair of us headed to a local bar for a whisky.
Fast-forward a few years and Willie is back at the Edinburgh International Book Festival. He is asked at his event about the Laidlaw novels and confesses that they are no longer in print. Those books had been a commercial and critical success, but there were stories he’s wanted to tell that could not (he felt) be contained in the tight confines of the mystery novel—despite his publisher telling him that if he kept writing them he would almost certainly become a wealthy man.
At the end of his event, Willie was approached by an editor from the Edinburgh-based Canongate Books. The editor wanted to see those Inspector Laidlaw books reissued, and a deal was struck. It was the beginning of an extraordinary third act in William McIlvanney’s life. Scottish authors came forward to heap praise on the man and his work and he began to realize how influential his books had been on a generation which included Denise Mina and Val McDermid as well as me. Those Laidlaw books belong more to the American hard-boiled tradition than the English ‘cosy’. Laidlaw explored the harsh realities of contemporary urban life, a world of poverty, injustice, violence and gangsters. He also used his scalpel to peel open Glasgow itself, showing a city which had once been proud and wealthy but was now faced with problems of post-industrialization, its communities hollowed out and mass unemployment a seeming fact of life which played into the hands of the corrupt and the venal.
The books were duly lauded and McIlvanney found himself headlining festivals where hundreds would pack out theaters for the chance to listen to him. I think this is what persuaded him to think again about the character of Jack Laidlaw—and to begin taking notes for a new book.
A book he would, alas, not live to complete.
In May 2020, I had just finished work on a new Rebus novel, A Song For The Dark Times. I was at a loose end—looser than normal, due to Covid restrictions. Canongate Books contacted me with the news that McIlvanney’s widow, Siobhan Lynch, had found Willie’s handwritten notes for a project entitled ‘The Dark Remains’. Canongate couldn’t be sure that there was enough there to be conjured into a novel—would I take a look and give them my opinion? A folder containing 100 pages duly arrived, the sheets typed up by Siobhan. It was a prequel to ‘Laidlaw’, set in 1972. Some scenes and chapters had been written in their entirety. Others were less substantial or did not exist at all. (There was, for example, no ending as such.) It was fascinating to be allowed inside the author’s head and to start to glean his approach to writing a book. I realized that he had plans for two books – one an early case for the detective and one his final case prior to retirement. Sadly, this latter was left as only a very few lines and comments, but there was enough there for the prequel—albeit with a lot of work to be done.
All of this I explained to Canongate, who then told me Siobhan Lynch wanted me to complete the task.
Deep breath, Ian.
This would be quite the undertaking. McIlvanney’s style differs from mine. Moreover his detective is not my detective, his city not my city. Besides which, in 1972 I was twelve years old and had never visited Glasgow. Could I capture William McIlvanney’s voice, ethos, characters and city? I told the publisher: no promises but I’ll give it a go.
I began by reading and re-reading the three extant novels. I was also fortunate in that, although travel restrictions meant I could not visit Glasgow, the National Library of Scotland had just reopened its doors in Edinburgh. This allowed me to spend time researching 1972 via the pages of the ‘Glasgow Herald’ newspaper. I also accessed street plans of the city from the 1970s, and consulted with Glasgow-based friends and fellow authors. None of which would mean anything if I could not replicate McIlvanney’s voice and vision. His writing style is more poetic than my own, his main character more of a philosopher than mine. It was important to me that this should read as William McIlvanney’s world and not mine. In other words, I was attempting an act of ventriloquism—if the reader could see and hear me at any point, I had failed.
No pressure.
The writing itself, however, while poignant, was also pleasurable. Since the setting was 1972 I had no need to consider computers or CCTV or cell-phones or DNA analysis. This would be a simpler world, a more straightforward world. It also provided me with some escape from the world of Covid—which was a relief in itself.
After a few months of writing, I was happy with what I’d produced, though still nervous of how it would be received. Willie’s editor at Canongate, Francis Bickmore, was enthusiastic although he asked for some changes. The eventual text was then sent to Siobhan Lynch, who afterwards sent me a handwritten letter. She told me she could not see ‘the joins’, which came as great relief. More than that, however, she felt as though Willie was in the room with her as she read the book. That sentiment touched me deeply and meant the world to me.
William McIlvanney was a great man and a great (and influential) writer. I had taken on The Dark Remains in the hope of both honoring him and of securing a new readership for his work.
I hope I’ve done him justice.
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