Not Guildford! NYC, and damn proud of it. My mother's tongue used to cleave to the roof of her mouth from reading to me, now i pay others.
Jo Nesbo rides the waves created by poor dead Steig Larsson. Norway is not Sweden, but close enough for the publishers to hope that the magic of one trilogy will stick to another set of crime novels. Nesbo writes improbable and convoluted plot twists I cannot help but think are meant to appeal to the throngs of jaded thriller junkies who need a constant stream of fiction in their lives but can no longer be surprised to a straight forward good read. Harry Hole (pronounced Huy-youler, not HOLE) is a drunk and I cannot fathom why his girlfriend Raquel puts up with him excepting underneath her competence she must be just as damaged as he is. Why does the murderer compulsively build snow people at every scene? Perhaps a more appropriate question is why would I care? One thing I will say is that with a Nesbo book it is impossible to figure out prior to the end of the novel who done it. Because there is such a mesmerizing array of twirling red herrings so as to confuse even the most seasoned fiction reader. There is a disjointed quality to Nesbo's narrative that keeps one reading until the end, but ultimately when you finish the last page and finally know who did what to whom, you can only snort to yourself, turn off the itty bitty book light and punch your bed mate in the kidneys until they scootch over to their side of the bed. I enjoyed the Larsson books but will definitely give the rest of the Nesbo books a miss.