As I wind down from too many late nights, long train journeys and early starts, I turn to re-reading Rankin and his brilliant detective novels, featuring D.I Rebus and Edinburgh. It is like slipping on a familiar jumper and an old pair of polyester socks. Whenever I read Rebus, I long for drizzle, microwaved dinners and an electric fire. Rankin does not do picturesque Britain, there are no twee hills, anti-macassars smell of damp and the only food served is whisky and crisps. Rebus and Rankin deliver cynical politics, disillusion and belief. The characters are as real as the crack on your wall and the plots mean you can't put the books down. Read 'The Naming of the Dead' you won't regret it.