The Heights

by Ian Rankin

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Suspense

Synopsis

#1 International bestselling author Ian Rankin returns with a razor-sharp, twisty standalone thriller—this one exposing the lives of the 1% in London’s most exclusive high rise

Facing Hyde Park, The Heights is London’s most coveted luxury high-rise apartment—designed to satisfy every need, with a gym, infinity pool, cinema, and more, where self-made owner-developer Allan Franklyn himself has claimed the penthouse duplex. His neighbors include some of “Money London’s” biggest personalities: a wealthy art dealer, a young heartthrob pop star, a foreign heiress, a gangster’s wife. The residents are used to service, deference, and privacy, all on their terms.

But when nighttime concierge Dwayne Hogarth is found dead in the lobby, none of that is in their control anymore, and everyone’s under the unwelcome scrutiny of Detective Sergeant Gillian Gish. Her questions begin with the party on the 4th floor the night Dwayne died, which ended with a fight; the missing key to one of the apartments; and a mysterious gap in the security camera footage. Before long, Gish uncovers the unsavory truths and dark secrets that lurk beneath the glittering facades of the building and its inhabitants.

Filled with shocking twists and unforgettable characters, The Heights confirms Ian Rankin’s status as one of the most original and compelling crime writers of our time.

Release date: November 3, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 256

Sample

Gish’s first view of the Heights was as she turned off Park Lane. London at 2 a.m. was as quiet as it ever got, but there was still traffic. No media as yet, but they would come. She noted that few of the darkened windows felt the need for curtains or blinds, reckoned those who could afford to live in the building would want the rest of the world to know what they were missing. There was a drop-off area in front of the entrance. Two vans and four unmarked cars were already parked. Gish added hers and got out, approaching the hindmost of the vans. The one in front with the pristine black paint job would belong to the mortuary, but this matt-grey one with the nicks and dents could only be scene of crime. Its rear doors were wide open, interior illuminated.

“Evening, George,” Gish said to the man who emerged from within.

He glanced over her left shoulder towards her vehicle. “Wages you’re on, I’d have expected something a bit flashier.”

“Wages I’m on, a loan of my mum’s Yaris is about as good as it gets.”

He reached back into the van and found what he knew she needed—a set of disposable hooded overalls and a pair of shoe covers. Gish started to get ready, nodding towards the parked vehicles. “Gang’s all here,” she commented.

“You’re the last,” he confirmed.

“Who’s leading scene of crime?”

“Mick Bentham. Should have been Lesley, but they did a swap. She got lucky.”

“How bad is it?”

“You’ll have seen worse.” He handed her a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Gish started pulling them on as she headed to the front door of the complex, wiggling her fingers.

The ground floor, unlike the rest of the building, was brightly lit, floor-to-ceiling glass windows and door showing her the reception area, with two sofas and a low granite table. A wall-mounted TV was playing high-grade computer animation, coloured shapes melting, coalescing, then reverting to their original form. Between the sofas stood what looked like a seven-foot-tall cactus, but red instead of green. A huddle of figures dressed identically to her could be seen around the reception desk. A uniformed officer guarded the door.

“Detective Sergeant Gillian Gish,” she told him, showing her warrant card. He made a note of her name on his clipboard and pressed a teardrop-shaped plastic fob against a discreet black box next to the door, which clicked open. Gish indicated the fob.

“Belongs to the deceased’s girlfriend,” the officer explained, pushing the door open.

Gish walked inside, controlling her breathing even though her heart had other ideas. She’d been to plenty of crime scenes; as similar as they were in many respects, each held its own special power. As she passed the cactus, she saw that it was glass, its needles formed of what looked like sex toys. Behind the reception desk stood an open doorway. The body lay on the floor, half in and half out of this other room. A glimpse inside showed her another desk, an array of blank CCTV screens, and a sink with a kettle alongside it. Detective Inspector Jack Milton appeared in the doorway, manoeuvring carefully past the corpse. He was closely followed by Mick Bentham. Milton’s eyes widened slightly when he recognised Gish.

“Thought Bob Jackson was on call-out tonight,” he said.

“Sick again, apparently.”

“Guy’s a complete waste of a cop’s salary,” Milton muttered. Then, gesturing towards Bentham, “You know Mick, right?”

“I know Gillian,” Bentham said, offering her a nodded greeting. There was a sheen of perspiration on his face, evidence that he’d been working the scene for some time.

“You saw the art?” Milton asked Gish. “Its twin is over by the lifts. Mick reckons they’re by…”

“The Chapman Brothers,” Bentham confirmed.

All three of them watched for a moment as Bentham’s crew worked the locus, photographing and filming, checking for latents, fibres, blood flecks.

“Deceased’s name is Dwayne Hogarth,” Milton said. “Night-shift security, but this being the kind of place it is, they’re all called ‘concierges.’ Twenty-three years old and has worked here just over a year.”

“Cause of death?”

“He was thumped from behind, but what probably killed him was his left temple connecting with a corner of the marble reception desk as he went down. Bleed on the brain, the doctor presumes. Autopsy will tell us more.”

“Such a waste,” Bentham added with feeling. He had found a tissue and was dabbing his forehead.

“Feeling the heat, Mick?” Milton asked.

“My time of life,” Bentham muttered. “Hot flushes, the works.”

“What about the girlfriend?” Gish asked Milton.

He studied her for a moment, wondering how she knew. “Found him lying right there and called it in. Her stopping by was a regular thing, apparently.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“To break the monotony, she says.” Milton tilted his head towards the ceiling. “She’s waiting for us upstairs in the spa.” He saw her eyes narrow. “Therapists on call twenty-four-seven,” he explained. “Fully fitted gym, Olympic-size infinity pool. There’s a cinema, too—reclining leather massage chairs and a popcorn machine, fridge full of champagne and ice cream. Then there’s the underground car park and the rooftop gardens…”

“Can’t think why we’re not all living here,” Bentham commented.

“Anything from the surveillance cameras?” Gish interrupted.

“System’s switched off.” Milton offered a shrug. “We’ll be asking the building’s owner about that. He lives in the penthouse.” He paused, running his tongue along his lips. “So what do you think happened?”

“Well, it’s not an accident,” Gish replied, nearing the body, her two colleagues in tow. “Smears of blood on the floor in front of the victim’s head. Whoever hit him started dragging him into the control room but then stopped for some reason.” She gestured towards the doorway. “Am I clear to take a look?”

Milton turned his head to check with Bentham, who in turn was checking the small bodycam clipped to his overalls. Every member of the scene-of-crime team wore them. The uniformed constable on door duty had worn one, too. Gish wondered for how much longer detectives would be immune.

“You’re clear,” Bentham eventually obliged.

“He was face-down,” Milton recited as they made to pass the body. “Girlfriend rolled him onto his back to check if he was breathing.”

Bentham’s team had moved aside to let the group past. Two or three of them knew Gish and nodded a greeting. The photographer was loading a fresh battery into his digital camera. Dwayne Hogarth was dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and slim black tie. The outfit probably came with the job, but the shoes were his own—cheap and scuffed. His head was turned to one side, eyes vacant and glassy. He was lean and of medium height. A tabloid newspaper sat on the desk, folded at the puzzles page. There was a pen there, too, branded with the words The Heights. The margins of the paper were a mass of doodles, but not a single puzzle had been attempted. Further along the desk sat another bank of blank CCTV monitors.

“He’s had a nosebleed,” Gish commented, noting the crusting around the nostrils.

“Doctor didn’t know what to make of that,” Milton said with a shrug.

“What did we find in his pockets?”

“Paper hankies with some blood on them, plus a fob, and a couple of bank cards in a plastic wallet. His outer jacket’s on a peg in the control room. House keys and small change.”

Stepping around the body, avoiding the congealed blood, Gish entered the control room. The surveillance screens remained blank. A small refrigerator hummed—she very much doubted it would be filled with champagne. There was a grey metal box fixed to one wall, a numerical keypad attached to the front. She touched a gloved finger to the side of the box and let it swing open. Inside sat several rows of hooks, each with a teardrop-shaped fob attached.

All except one.

Gish couldn’t see any obvious numbering system. She sensed Milton at her shoulder.

“I’m guessing this is usually kept locked,” she commented.

“But not when we got here,” Milton told her.

She pointed to the empty hook. “We need to know which door.” She turned and watched Milton give a slow nod.

“I’m hoping the building’s owner can help.”

“He lives on the premises, you said?”

“Duplex penthouse—he spelt it out for me. Means two whole floors.”

“So you’ve already met?”

“He saw the commotion outside, came down to the lobby. He was the one who suggested Rosa would be more comfortable in the spa.”

“Rosa’s the girlfriend?” Gish didn’t need an answer to the question.

“Waiting for us five floors up,” Milton said.

“Well, I’m ready if you are.”

Milton turned towards Mick Bentham, but Bentham was already back with his team, checking their progress, tissue still gripped in his hand. The lifts stood at the far end of the hallway. There were three altogether.

“One’s a service lift,” Milton explained. “God forbid the great and the good should have to rub shoulders with the servants.”

“We’re their servants, too, don’t forget,” Gish said with a thin smile, her eyes on the second cactus, this one blue rather than red. “Who did you say these were by?”

Milton shrugged. “Mick’s the knowledgeable one.”

“How come?”

“His daughter studied art history.”

“So what does she do now?”

“VIP hospitality at Arsenal.” He threw Gish a glance. “It wasn’t the degree that got her that job.”

“Let me guess—she’s a looker.”

“Gets it from her mum’s side, but don’t tell Mick I said that.”

The lift doors were opening. Both detectives stepped in, Milton producing another teardrop, tapping it against an electronic screen before adding the number of the floor they wanted. He noticed the look Gish was giving him. “Not from the hook,” he explained. “Owner handed it over. He had one to spare.”

“What’s his name?” Gish had begun to peel off her overalls, Milton copying her—Rosa would be in enough of a state, and they needed to seem as normal and unthreatening as possible.

“Allan Franklyn. That’s Allan with two ls and Franklyn with a y. He was very particular. Guy’s a high-end developer. Don’t suppose he got this piece of prime in a fire sale.”

“Maybe I’ll see if he’ll do me a deal.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with Tottenham… How’s your mum doing?”

“Carers come in three times a day, neighbours the rest of the time—makes a huge difference.”

“You should stipulate no night-time call-outs.”

“And miss the fun? She’d be mortified if she thought she was holding me back. Besides, she has a panic button.” Gish paused. “How about you—how’s Adam?”

“Still working as a barista, but reckons he might open his own place soon. God knows London needs another source of overpriced soya milk and caffeine. I tried to get Phoebe to have a word with him about finishing his studies…”

“Phoebe being?”

“Mick’s daughter. They’ve known one another since they were kids. I did wonder at one time if they might… But Adam had other ideas.”

“I keep forgetting how far back you and Mick go.”

“Which means we’ll bow out together, too—more or less.”

Gish looked at him. “Remind me how long?”

“Three months, two weeks, two days.”

“Not that you’re counting.”

“I’ve an app on my phone does that for me—same as Mick.”

“Joint retirement party?”

“We’re talking about it.”

Their smiles faded as the lift doors opened, delivering them into an expansive lounge area with doors off it. There were signs for treatment rooms, sauna, steam room, pool, and hyperbaric chamber. The pool itself was visible through a large window. It was lit from below, the water a shimmering blue. Two figures rose from a banquette as they approached. One was the constable who’d been acting as babysitter. Gish recognised her from the station. The other was a distraught young woman who could barely control the tremors running through her body. A waste-paper bin on the floor next to her was already half full with crumpled and sodden tissues. Her eyes were on the folded overalls the detectives were carrying.

“Rosa?” Gish checked, receiving a twitched nod in reply. She identified herself, Milton following suit.

“Let’s sit down again,” he added, gesturing for the constable to make way. Milton and Gish settled across from Rosa. Gish leant her elbows on her knees, narrowing the gap.

“This must be very distressing for you, Rosa,” she began quietly. “I’m so sorry for your loss. How long had you been going out together?”

“Four months.” Rosa plucked another tissue from the box and dabbed it to her reddened eyes.

“So Dwayne was already working here?”

“He liked the job. Said it was cushy, but the nights could be dull as.”

“He worked nights exclusively?”

“Ten till six.”

“And you often dropped in?”

“If I wasn’t asleep.”

“You live nearby?” Milton interrupted.

Rosa snorted. “Who can afford to live round here? I’m in Catford, and even that’s a stretch.”

“What about Dwayne?”

“Limehouse. He shares with his brother.” She paused. “Shared, I mean.” Fresh tears appeared in her eyes.

“And what do you do, Rosa?” Gish asked.

“Work in a café. I do some singing, too. R&B. Hoping a record company will take notice, like all the other thousands.”

“Is that how you two met?”

Rosa nodded. “In a club. Mark was DJing. That’s Dwayne’s brother. Black Markus, he calls himself.” She broke off, eyes widening. “Who’s going to tell him? And Dwayne’s mum and dad—who’s going to break the news?”

“It’ll be taken care of,” Milton assured her.

“Mark was here tonight, DJing at the party.”

“What party?” Gish glanced at Milton, who shrugged with one shoulder, indicating that this was coming as news.

“In one of the flats—except Dwayne was always told to call them ‘suites.’ He said to wait until the coast was clear before visiting.”

“What time did the two of you speak?”

“About eleven, but we didn’t speak—it was a text. He said the party was already winding down and everyone would be gone soon enough. I was singing in a bar in Soho.” She looked down at her loose-fitting jeans and top. “Changed before leaving, obviously.” She broke off as she thought of something. “That message of his, he added a PS—said he had something to tell me.”

“Can we take a look?”

Rosa gestured towards the constable. “She took it off me.”

“Standard procedure, Rosa,” Milton explained. “If you started sharing the news, Dwayne’s family wouldn’t have time to prepare themselves. Better if we break it to them—we’re trained at that sort of thing.”

Rosa nodded, seeing the sense of this. The constable handed the phone over and Rosa opened it to messages. Gish read from the screen before passing the device to Milton.

C U soon. Something to tell you.

“No clue as to what he might have been going to say?” Gish asked. Rosa shook her head. “Do you have his parents’ and brother’s details on here?” Rosa nodded again. “If you share those with the constable after we’re done, that would be helpful.”

Rosa had her hand out for the phone, but Gish returned it to the officer instead.

“Did anyone else ever visit Dwayne?” Milton enquired. “Other friends, I mean?”

“Only me.”

“And how long have you had that fob?” Rosa shifted uncomfortably. “You’re not in any trouble,” he assured her.

“Against the rules, though, isn’t it?”

“If Dwayne’s based in reception,” Gish added, “why couldn’t he just let you in?”

Rosa fidgeted again. “He liked it when I surprised him. He might be in the control room, or doing a floor patrol. When he came back, there I’d be.”

“Do you know if he gave a fob to anyone else?”

“Just me.”

“When you arrived tonight, did you see anyone outside—someone who might just have left?”

“No.”

“And after you found Dwayne, you didn’t go into the control room?”

Rosa shook her head. She looked from one detective to the other and then back again. “Someone killed him, didn’t they? For a second I thought maybe an accident…”

“No accident, Rosa,” Milton confirmed. He watched as her face collapsed. “Has he ever been in any trouble that you know of, made any enemies?”

She recovered, bristling. “Because he’s black, you mean?”

Milton ignored this. “No fallings-out or money worries?”

“Who doesn’t worry about money?” She broke off, eyes darting towards the swimming pool. “Well, none of this lot do, I suppose. But who’d want to hurt Dwayne?”

“That’s what we need to find out.” Milton was rising to his feet. “You’ll have to come to the station to make a formal statement. The constable here will accompany you. And if it’s OK with you, we’ll take fingerprints and a mouth swab.”

“Why?”

“Purposes of elimination.” Milton turned to the uniformed officer, gesturing towards Rosa’s phone. “Contact details for Dwayne’s next of kin,” he reminded her.

“Yes, sir.”

Gish made eye contact with Rosa. “How did Dwayne get on with the people who live here?”

“He liked the job.”

She forced a smile. “That’s not quite what I’m asking, Rosa.”

“Some liked him all right. Others pretended he didn’t exist.”

“And the other staff—I assume there are other staff?”

“Used to be two on a night shift until the cuts. Dwayne only ever sees the other concierges at changeover.”

“Cleaners? A handyman?” Gish took in her surroundings. “Gym, pool, spa attendants?”

Rosa gave a shrug.

“OK, one last thing—the passcode to Dwayne’s phone would be helpful.”

“That’s easy, it’s his birthday.” Rosa reeled it off.

Gish turned towards Milton, who, hands in pockets, seemed to have nothing to add. The constable reclaimed her perch as the two detectives returned to the lift.

“Excuse me?” Rosa had followed them. “My prints and stuff?” She watched Gish give a slow nod. “Sometimes we went to an empty suite or even one of the cars in the garage. Just for a change, you know?” Her eyes shifted to the floor, like a kid in school caught by the teacher.

“Thanks, Rosa,” Gish said, as the lift doors opened.

Another tap of the fob and they were heading upwards, not to a numbered floor this time but to one with the single letter P. Neither had anything to say, their minds busy sifting and filing. When the doors slid open, they were in a carpeted hallway, its walls festooned with gaudy paintings. Milton paused for a moment.

“Mick says that when this place opened, it was in the news—art collection worth north of seven figures.”

“You’d have to pay me to live with it,” Gish countered. “I’ve been here ten seconds and I’m getting a migraine.” She watched Milton press the bell of the single polished wooden door, making sure he was visible to the camera and therefore to whoever was inside.

The man who eventually opened the door seemed to Gish a born performer. His prematurely greying hair was slicked back from a high forehead, crisp white shirt open at the neck, displaying tufts of chest hair. He was tanned and toned, stretching an arm out in welcome, his shirt cuffs flapping, cufflinks removed.

“Ghastly,” he said. “Just bloody hellish.” The line sounded rehearsed.

“Mr. Franklyn,” Milton said, “this is Detective Sergeant Gish.”

Franklyn clasped her hand in both of his, squeezing the life from it, then led the two detectives past more art and into a vast open-plan living space with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, outside balconies visible. Gish couldn’t help herself, drawn to the view as if by a magnet. Hyde Park and its lamp posts lay spread out in front of her, the city twinkling and glittering all around.

“Let me show you something,” Franklyn said. “Dark glass!” he called out. The view in front of Gish vanished as the window went black.

“That’s quite a trick,” she was forced to admit.

“Damned expensive, but just one of the Heights’ many wow factors.” He fluttered his hands in front of him as he spoke.

“Not much wow factor from a body in your reception area,” Milton said coldly, bringing Franklyn’s act to an end. His face grew sombre.

“I’ve forgotten your name,” he said, apologetically.

“Detective Inspector Milton.”

“And your colleague downstairs, the one who recognised the Chapman Brothers?”

“Mick Bentham.”

“Bentham, yes.” Franklyn scratched at his jaw.

Gish had torn herself away from the window and was studying a large curving staircase in the middle of the room, each step made of illuminated glass. “How well did you know Dwayne Hogarth, Mr. Franklyn?” she asked.

“We chatted in passing. I’m not really a nightbird.” He glanced down at his attire. “With the occasional exception.”

“Were you at the party, sir?” Milton asked. He was prowling the room, studying the artworks and everything else.

“For a spell, yes.”

“Who was hosting this party?”

“Maeve, fourth floor.”

“How late did you stay?”

“It finished just after eleven.”

“Early for a party.”

“It wasn’t exactly a rave.”

“And then straight up here?”

“That’s right.”

“You went on your own, then?”

“My date had to head off early—flight to Paris in the morning.” Franklyn checked his watch. It was a solid timepiece with a metal bracelet and a complicated-looking fascia. “About three hours from now, actually.”

“You didn’t mention this party when we spoke earlier.”

He looked up. “I was in shock. Besides which, I very much doubt it’s of any relevance.”

Milton said nothing, continuing his circuit of the room. Gish cleared her throat.

“Dwayne didn’t have cause to report anything to you? Suspicious characters, attempted break-ins?”

“Absolutely not,” Franklyn stated. He leant in to blow some dust off a floor-standing sculpture.

“Does the same go for the other concierges?”

“Nothing’s been brought to my attention.”

“You’ll understand that we’ll need to check that with them?”

“Of course.”

“We’re told Dwayne used to have a night-shift colleague,” Milton said. He had come to rest in front of a metre-high maquette of the Heights, sealed in a glass display case. Franklyn joined him.

“My baby,” he said. “I put heart and soul into this project, same as I’ll do with the Heights 2.” He gestured towards the breakfast bar, where an architectural plan had been spread out. “Bigger and better than the Heights—but don’t tell any of my residents that.”

“Better how?”

“A larger pool and cinema, orangery and helipad on the roof, two chauffeured Rolls-Royces available day and night. Deposits payable by bitcoin, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Gish muttered, studying the plan. “Can you remind me what a hyperbaric chamber is?”

“Oxygenates the body—good for general wellness and longevity.”

“So you designed this?” Milton asked, nodding towards the maquette.

“God, no, my architect designed it. He lives right here, that’s how proud of it he is—and rightly so.”

“So what was your role?”

“I took the Heights from inspiration to finished majesty. That’s what the best developers do.”

“Right up until they have to start cutting back on costs?”

The colour rose to Franklyn’s cheeks. “The building’s dead at night. Two concierges proved more than we needed.”

“Who was it that hired Dwayne?” Gish asked, joining them in front of the maquette.

“Me personally.”

“So you’d have had him vetted?”

There was a pause before Franklyn answered. “Naturally.”

“Are all the properties occupied currently?” Milton asked.

“Lord, no. There are twenty-five suites in total—most take up a whole floor. Including this one, I’d say eleven are permanently occupied.”

“And the other fourteen?”

Franklyn offered a shrug. “A few are owned by hedge funds and overseas entities. One corporation retains theirs for visiting bigwigs.”

“And the rest?”

“A smattering of owners who live elsewhere but might require a London pied-à-terre. A few are still waiting for discerning buyers.”

“So how much are we talking about?” Milton enquired.

Franklyn made a show of doing the calculation. “Maybe fifteen?” he ventured.

“Fifteen million?” Milton checked.

“For one of the smaller suites,” Franklyn confirmed.

While Milton puffed out his cheeks, Gish had another question. “These ten occupants other than yourself—who would they be?”

“Discretion is one of the reasons people choose to live here. That and the security.”

“I wouldn’t say security’s your strong point, sir,” Gish co. . .