‘It was a senselessly violent crime: on a cold night in a remote Swedish farmhouse an elderly farmer is bludgeoned to death, and his wife is left to die with a noose around her neck. And as if this didn’t present enough problems for the Ystad police Inspector Kurt Wallander, the dying woman’s last word is foreign, leaving the police the one tangible clue they have–and in the process, the match that could inflame Sweden’s already smoldering anti-immigrant sentiments.
Unlike the situation with his ex-wife, his estranged daughter, or the beautiful but married young prosecuter who has piqued his interest, in this case, Wallander finds a problem he can handle. He quickly becomes obsessed with solving the crime before the already tense situation explodes, but soon comes to realize that it will require all his reserves of energy and dedication to solve.;
Blurb from the 2003 Vintage Crime /Black Lizard Edition
It is 1991. Kurt Wallander is a 42 year old Swedish detective for whom life could be better. He is in the middle of a divorce he does not want, his daughter is estranged and his father – an artist who paints the same Swedish landscape over and over again with or without a grouse – seems to be in the early stages of Alzheimers.
To add to his burden he is called out to a lonely farmhouse where an elderly couple have been brutally attacked and murdered. With her dying breath the wife says the word ‘foreign’ which sparks a rise in anti-immigrant anger and the murder of a Somalian refugee.
There seems no motive for the attack on the couple and Wallander – while trying to deal with his complex personal relationships – has to dig into the past of the farmer and his wife and also track down the refugee’s murderer before the situation escalates.
I am familiar with the Wallander series from Kenneth Branagh’s excellent portrayal in a TV series from some time ago. The novel is an excellent piece of work, managing to paint a portrait of Wallander himself against a background of bleak Swedish weather, obstructive bureaucracy and a UKIP-style rise of dangerous Nationalism.
The only problem I had with it – and this is a problem with me rather than the novel – was coming to terms with all the Swedish names and remembering which policeman was which. This did eventually resolve itself and didn’t really detract from my enjoyment of this.
I kind of empathise with Wallander, who seems doomed in some Scandinavian Shakespearean sense to be forever dealing with other people’s problems.
I am very much looking forward to reading the next.
Bodies In The Library 