"That night he did something so controversial that he’d rather be suspected of murder than tell anyone what he was really doing. What could possibly be worse than that?"
Trainee journalist Annika Bengtzon has secured a summer placement at Sweden’s biggest tabloid newspaper. She’s desperate for this to be her big break, although manning the tip-off phoneline isn’t quite what she had in mind… Until a caller tells her that the naked body of a young woman has been found in a nearby cemetery.
As she pieces together details of the young woman’s life, Annika stumbles across video footage that places the main suspect hundreds of miles from the crime scene, right at the time of the murder.
Are the police looking for the wrong man? There is suddenly far more at stake here than Annika’s career, and the more questions she asks, the more she leaves herself dangerously exposed.
©2011 Liza Marklund (P)2011 Random House Audio Go
Buyer beware – this is not crime fiction it is very bad chick lit more suitable for a comic strip aimed at the early teens.
It is yet another leap onto the very lucrative Scandinavian gravy train started by real intelligent writers such as Henning Mankel & Jo Nesbo. As in the case of the execrable Camilla Lackberg, Liza Marklunds heroine is a vacuous, self-pitying ninny. She feels sick, she has a slight headache, she feels dizzy, thirsty zzzzz….. She cries because she has her period and has forgotten to buy tampons, although we know she has sanitary towels in her handbag because we have been told so earlier in this infuriating travesty of literature. She is a dreadful narcissistic, arrogant and stupid monstrosity - Bridget Jones meets Heidi’s idiot sister.
I mention the plot last because it is a drab and unattractively flaccid thing hardly worth a mention. Like a bad piece of knitting it is full of holes and loose ends and has not been constructed with any semblance of care.
Miss Marklund has peppered her book with pretentious pseudo intellectual moralising on the ethics of journalism in an attempt; presumably to con us into thinking we have not wasted our time and money. She also has a nauseating go at some Freudian descriptions of perverted sex and the odd bit of lyricism such as, ”the rain hung like a wet curtain outside”
Yet again another deplorable effort has made its way on to the printed page. How?
The reader is not bad but it's a chick lit voice.
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