This Swedish mystery is pretty good, even though it breaks one of the most basic rules. The strength of the characterization, and the typical Scandinavian grim curtness largely make up for it.
It's the first of the Inspector Van Veeteren series. An exceptionally depressed and gruff cop, apparently he works largely by instinct, rather than deduction. What he figures out, as he does so, is...
more This Swedish mystery is pretty good, even though it breaks one of the most basic rules. The strength of the characterization, and the typical Scandinavian grim curtness largely make up for it.
It's the first of the Inspector Van Veeteren series. An exceptionally depressed and gruff cop, apparently he works largely by instinct, rather than deduction. What he figures out, as he does so, is not revealed to the reader, so there is that extra level of mystery, which is kind of fun. But the payoff of learning how he figured it out is entirely missing. The explanation is short and at the very end, and while the facts are revealed, to moderate satisfaction, how they were obtained isn't. Dang. I'll read maybe one more of this guy, and if it's the same, that will be all.
On further thought, the strength of this book is the way the narration enters into the heads of the various characters, policemen, criminals, and victims alike. Some of whom are somewhat crazy. Good stuff.
Excerpts:
The door closed behind the chielf inspector. Mitter looked away. If he excluded his former father-in-law and his coleague who taught chemistry and physics, Jean-Christopher Colmar, Van Veeteren must be the most unsympathetic person he had ever come across. When the man sat down at the table and started chewing his ever-present toothpick, it struck Mitter that it might be an idea to admit to everything. Just to get rid of him. Just to be left in peace.
He pressed his forehead against the wall. It felt good. At any moment he could choose to be completely normal; it was an act of the will, nothing else -- to choose the thinnest and most durable and grayest of all the lines of thought and cling to it like a blind priest. How could he not miss her? In the same way as you don't miss the unbearable. As a young tiger doesn't miss its own death.
--"What did you write in the fax?" Münster fidgeted. He's gone and done something silly again, Van Veeteren thought. I'll have his guts for garters if he's made a mess of things! --"Er, I asked him to confirm the dates, and to be available for telephone contact -- I said you would be speaking to him. If he answers the fax, you can call him tomorrow morning." Van Veeteren took out his toothpick and considered it for a few moments. --"Well done, Münster!" he said eventually. Münster blushed. A man who's turning forty ought to have stopped blushing, Van Veeteren thought. Especially as he's a police officer. But never mind. Van Veeteren stood up. --"Let's go play badminton now!"
He stayed at home on Friday....Sat at the kitchen table. Listened to the rain. Chewed at a justifiably thick sandwich of whole-grain bread with cheese and cucumber. The morning paper was spread out in front of him, and suddenly, he had that feeling. A feeling of well-being. He tried to suppress it, but it was there all the time, warm and persistent and totally unambiguous. A feeling of gratitude for the infinite riches of life. No matter what happened, seven days from now, he would be having breakfast on the balcony of his hotel room in Sydney. ...By then he would either have captured a murderer, or resigned his job. It was a game with only winners. A morning dripping with freedom. No dog throwing up in front of the refridgerator. No wife thinking of moving back in with him. The door locked. The telephone unplugged. ...Dammit all, life was a symphony. Then he thought about Mitter. And Eva Ringmar, whom he had never met while she was still breathing. She was the one it was all about. And he realized that the symphony was in a minor key.
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