But it does. The Naming of the Dead begins with the funeral of Rebus' brother and gives him this and other reasons to mourn. Even as Rankin distributes a trail of breadcrumbs that runs sneakily through the book's many subplots and encounters, he suffuses this story with a sense of loss, not least because Rebus is made mindful of his own youthful rebelliousness. There's only so much of his past he can cling to by quoting the Who and educating Siobhan about rock trivia (like how Steely Dan got its name).
The Naming of the Dead is filled with family relationships that threaten to come undone. Siobhan defied her parents to become a cop, but now she starts wanting to feel more like a daughter. The victims of those sex crimes have aggrieved, protective relatives, and at least one marriage is headed for the rocks. A couple of menacing paternal types, a councilman and a much less dangerous mobster, manipulate their underlings and expect the kind of fealty they can no longer command. The title suggests a way of honoring the lost when all else has failed.
A book with this many plot elements risks becoming amorphous and overcomplicated. But Rankin doesn't get lost that way. In his backhanded, reluctant way Rebus winds up uniting all the book's loose ends, and seeing how he accomplishes this is a pleasure. Besides, The Naming of the Dead isn't really about its detective plot. It's about Rebus' taking stock, not only of his own past but also of the world around him.
The sight of Edinburgh overtaken by an angry public spectacle winds up stirring his memories in a profound, melancholy way. But it's not Rankin's style to say so. Far better and more typical to put it this way: "Funny to think it'll be back to old clothes and porridge next week."
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