These days "tartan noir" or "tartan crime" are well known terms - Scottish authors, set in Scotland and drawing liberally from Scottish life. Most crime and noir readers had heard the names of Ian Rankin, Val McDermid, Denise Mina or Peter May (and usually at least a few of them) and know what to expect from them. But the genre had not existed for very long - its start is usually connected to William McIlvanney and his Laidlaw trilogy. I've read most of the modern authors but never went back to Laidlaw - so it was about time for me to finally go and read the novels that started it all.

William McIlvanney is not what you would expect from a crime writer - he won multiple awards for his literary work (including the Whitbread Award (aka the Costa under its old name) before deciding that crime/noir is a good genre to use for his next book. The result was Laidlaw - a novel that won him the Silver Dagger (the second book in the trilogy will win it again - 6 years later).

A young woman is sexually assaulted and after that killed in Glasgow. The eccentric D.I. Jack Laidlaw is assigned to the murder and his unconventional methods takes him around the city, in places where most policemen won't even try to go into. As his bosses know him pretty well, they assign him a new partner, Constable Harkness - who is asked both to assist Laidlaw and to report on him. The relationship between the two men evolve as the novel runs its course - the younger man starts realizing that not everything is black and white. And that is not just about the police work or the criminals - Laidlaw often decides to share his opinions on things they both see - thus providing an almost social commentary of the Glasgow he is creating.

We know who the killer is long before the end of the novel - the murder is almost treated as a springboard to tell the story of Glasgow and the story of how Laidlaw catches the man. In addition to the underbelly of the city where Laidlaw is more respected than the police (or "polis" as they would say locally) is, there is also the complication of the victim's family - who are set on finding the killer and avenging the dead woman.

And then there is the language -- the usage of slang and the local dialects in the dialogues makes the novel hard to read if you are not used to it. They are not unreadable but they take a bit to get used to it (and occasional rereading to see if you got it right). At the same time his language outside of this verges on the poetical (a gritty poetical but still poetical) and that mix can be a bit jarring. But it also shows where the style of some of my favorite Scottish noir/crime authors come from - I can see the influence in almost all of them (it is also a bit hard to get your mind from trying to tell you that this sounds like Rankin or McDermid - just to realize a second later that it is the other way around really).

Not an easy read sometimes and despite it being the first in the genre, it may not work for everyone. But if you enjoy the genre, it may be worth checking it - because it is also a brilliant work of detective fiction - even when it is hard to read. ( )

In 1966, Scottish novelist, poet and essayist William McIlvanney (1936-2015) won the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize for his debut novel Remedy is None. In 1975, he won the Whitbread Novel Award for Docherty, a gritty piece of historical fiction about a Scottish mining family in the early 20th Century. Having thus been anointed as a “literary” writer, the publication of crime novel Laidlaw in 1977 came as a surprise, if not a shock. What was McIlvanney doing, putting his literary credentials at risk by writing a detective novel? Laidlaw would be followed by two other instalments in a trilogy featuring the eponymous Glasgow detective, establishing his creator (with the benefit of hindsight) as the father of “tartan noir”, an ongoing inspiration for the likes of Ian Rankin and Val McDermid. The reaction to the publication of the novel in the 1970s, however, shows that a certain suspicion towards “genre fiction” has long been an unsavoury aspect of the literary world. Reading Laidlaw, on the other hand, proves that why this snobbery is completely off the mark.

At face value, the novel is a tribute to both the American “hardboiled” genre and to Continental fiction (a là Simenon), with which it shares several recognisable tropes. A young woman is sexually assaulted and brutally murdered in Glasgow and D.I. Jack Laidlaw is assigned to the case. Laidlaw, who keeps “Kierkegaard, Camus and Unamuno” hidden in a drawer in his desk “like caches of alcohol”, is an eccentric figure with unusual investigative methods, “a potentially violent man who hates violence”. When constable Harkness is asked by his superiors to partner up with Laidlaw, he is expected not just to help the older detective but also to report on him and keep his wilder behaviour in check. The case leads the duo through the seedy underbelly of Glasgow, where Laidlaw enjoys the grudging respect of dubious figures. But the “polis” are not the only once seeking the murderer. The relatives of the victim are looking for him to avenge her death, whilst criminals associated with him want him out of the way because of the unwelcome attention the crime has brought to their activities. The investigation turns into a race against time, with the murderer in danger of becoming the new victim.

Despite its nods to the genre, McIlvanney brings to this novel some idiosyncratic twists. One of them is the setting – no longer an American metropolis, or London (another “capital” of crime fiction) but 1970s Glasgow with which Laidlaw (and possibly, his creator) seems to have a love-hate relationship. The Glaswegian backdrop is evoked not only through the descriptions within the novel, but also through the judicious use of dialect.

Then there’s the plot. Unlike your typical whodunnit, the murderer is revealed quite early on, as is his motive. The reader’s pleasure does not derive from the unmasking of the perpetrator but, rather, from learning how Laidlaw will get to his man and from a curiosity as to whether others will get to the ‘prey’ before he does. This is as much of a thriller as a “detective” novel.

Laidlaw also gives McIlvanney the opportunity to explore the same socialist themes which underlie his other “non-crime” work. The conversations between the inspector and an increasingly respectful Harkness give voice to pithy social commentary which lays bare the bigotry (whether fuelled by class, religion or other factors) within the world McIlvanney portrays.

What gives Laidlaw is peculiar style, however, is its use of language – the unlikely, yet arresting, images which pepper the text. The victim’s father has a face which looks “like an argument you couldn’t win”. The police mortuary is “the tradesmen’s entrance to the Court”, where “the raw materials of justice” are delivered, “corpses that are precipitates of strange experience, alloys of fear and hate and anger and love and viciousness and bewilderment, that the Court will take and refine into comprehension”. Laidlaw is sickened when he realises that “the first law is real estate, and people are its property”. This is crime fiction, but it is also poetry.

https://endsoftheword.blogspot.com/2020/03/laidlaw-by-william-McIlvanney-Canonga... ( )

In 1966, Scottish novelist, poet and essayist William McIlvanney (1936-2015) won the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize for his debut novel Remedy is None. In 1975, he won the Whitbread Novel Award for Docherty, a gritty piece of historical fiction about a Scottish mining family in the early 20th Century. Having thus been anointed as a “literary” writer, the publication of crime novel Laidlaw in 1977 came as a surprise, if not a shock. What was McIlvanney doing, putting his literary credentials at risk by writing a detective novel? Laidlaw would be followed by two other instalments in a trilogy featuring the eponymous Glasgow detective, establishing his creator (with the benefit of hindsight) as the father of “tartan noir”, an ongoing inspiration for the likes of Ian Rankin and Val McDermid. The reaction to the publication of the novel in the 1970s, however, shows that a certain suspicion towards “genre fiction” has long been an unsavoury aspect of the literary world. Reading Laidlaw, on the other hand, proves that why this snobbery is completely off the mark.

At face value, the novel is a tribute to both the American “hardboiled” genre and to Continental fiction (a là Simenon), with which it shares several recognisable tropes. A young woman is sexually assaulted and brutally murdered in Glasgow and D.I. Jack Laidlaw is assigned to the case. Laidlaw, who keeps “Kierkegaard, Camus and Unamuno” hidden in a drawer in his desk “like caches of alcohol”, is an eccentric figure with unusual investigative methods, “a potentially violent man who hates violence”. When constable Harkness is asked by his superiors to partner up with Laidlaw, he is expected not just to help the older detective but also to report on him and keep his wilder behaviour in check. The case leads the duo through the seedy underbelly of Glasgow, where Laidlaw enjoys the grudging respect of dubious figures. But the “polis” are not the only once seeking the murderer. The relatives of the victim are looking for him to avenge her death, whilst criminals associated with him want him out of the way because of the unwelcome attention the crime has brought to their activities. The investigation turns into a race against time, with the murderer in danger of becoming the new victim.

Despite its nods to the genre, McIlvanney brings to this novel some idiosyncratic twists. One of them is the setting – no longer an American metropolis, or London (another “capital” of crime fiction) but 1970s Glasgow with which Laidlaw (and possibly, his creator) seems to have a love-hate relationship. The Glaswegian backdrop is evoked not only through the descriptions within the novel, but also through the judicious use of dialect.

Then there’s the plot. Unlike your typical whodunnit, the murderer is revealed quite early on, as is his motive. The reader’s pleasure does not derive from the unmasking of the perpetrator but, rather, from learning how Laidlaw will get to his man and from a curiosity as to whether others will get to the ‘prey’ before he does. This is as much of a thriller as a “detective” novel.

Laidlaw also gives McIlvanney the opportunity to explore the same socialist themes which underlie his other “non-crime” work. The conversations between the inspector and an increasingly respectful Harkness give voice to pithy social commentary which lays bare the bigotry (whether fuelled by class, religion or other factors) within the world McIlvanney portrays.

What gives Laidlaw is peculiar style, however, is its use of language – the unlikely, yet arresting, images which pepper the text. The victim’s father has a face which looks “like an argument you couldn’t win”. The police mortuary is “the tradesmen’s entrance to the Court”, where “the raw materials of justice” are delivered, “corpses that are precipitates of strange experience, alloys of fear and hate and anger and love and viciousness and bewilderment, that the Court will take and refine into comprehension”. Laidlaw is sickened when he realises that “the first law is real estate, and people are its property”. This is crime fiction, but it is also poetry.

https://endsoftheword.blogspot.com/2020/03/laidlaw-by-william-McIlvanney-Canonga... ( )

The original dark Scottish procedural, written by a poet, and it shows. The language is surprising, sometimes very funny, which is saying a lot considering how dark this book is. Set in 70s Glasgow, the story follows the detective Laidlaw as he searches in his less than conventional ways for the murderer of a young woman.

Laidlaw is the model of the wounded detective, sustaining family troubles and doubts about his profession, society, and humanity at large. Speaking of professional athletes, he calls them the 'temple prostitutes of capitalism', and that sounds just right. It is an intensely visual book as well; so much of the time I could see the setting even when the parties spoke in the dialect of lower-class and underground criminal Glasgow (once in a while I had to look up a slang word, just to be sure.) All the people are real, often angry, sometimes desperate, weighed down by their particular loss.

There are two more Laidlaw books written by McIlvaney, and I am told Ian Rankin has been tapped to continue the series. I'll read up and see how he does. ( )

LAIDLAW. The Laidlaw Investigation Book 1 is written by William McIlvanney.
The title is Book 1 of 3 of The Laidlaw Investigations.
The Laidlaw Trilogy is a groundbreaking book; considered to be one of, if not THE founding book of the Tartan Noir movement.
In Laidlaw, the first book of the trilogy, we meet Jack Laidlaw, a “hard-drinking philosopher-detective whose tough exterior cloaks a rich humanity and keen intelligence.”
An excellent read. Gritty. Rough. Violent. Classic Noir. Classic Tartan Noir.
**** ( )