Jar City (aka Tainted Blood) (Reykjavik, Bk 1)
Author:
Genres: Literature & Fiction, Mystery, Thriller & Suspense
Book Type: Paperback
Author:
Genres: Literature & Fiction, Mystery, Thriller & Suspense
Book Type: Paperback
My second Inspector Erlandur novel, and now officially one of my new guilty pleasures.
Not really a "who dunnit" but more like a "why dunnit" and a "how dunnit," Indridason's detective Elendur doesn't so much solve the mystery as beat it to death with a stick, following every possible lead with a doggedness that requires Olympic-standard patience of both the reader and his long-suffering colleagues. Erlandur blindsides suspects/witness/innocent bystanders with seemingly pointless questions. He draws (reasonable) associations from his case with his own grim family dynamic, and the plight of his daughter, Eva Lind, drug addict on a stumbling road to recovery and now, heaven help us, mother to be. He nukes another microwave meal, and chain-smokes, in spite of the worrying pain in his chest. He drinks a lot of coffee.
Yes, Erlandur puts the added "grim" into grim Scandi-noir -- making Wallender look like a blessed little ray of sunshine, and British sad sacks like Vera, Inspector Banks, Rebus etc look like a bunch of comedians. (There are, I promise you, some moments of wry humor. Such moments are to be cherished.)
But what I find fascinating -- what I'm reading it for, and what will, I think, keep me reading on, in spite the less-than-elegant prose -- are the insights into a surprisingly alien culture right on the edge of Europe, a world very like the one our grandparents (great grandparents?) probably knew, in which your whole world was encompassed by a couple dozen square miles, and anything further might have been the far side of the moon -- you had heard of it, of course, but the idea that you might ever live or even visit there was almost like science fiction. A world where you knew everyone in that territory, and were probably related to half of them (at least at a "99th cousin, once removed" basis), and you knew, or at least had suspicions about, all of their dark, dirty secrets. And they know yours ...
Erlandur's current investigation plays out in this hothouse environment, and comes to a surprisingly moving conclusion in a world where a relatively small genetic gene pool has life and death consequences for both the guilty and the innocents. Good stuff!!
Not really a "who dunnit" but more like a "why dunnit" and a "how dunnit," Indridason's detective Elendur doesn't so much solve the mystery as beat it to death with a stick, following every possible lead with a doggedness that requires Olympic-standard patience of both the reader and his long-suffering colleagues. Erlandur blindsides suspects/witness/innocent bystanders with seemingly pointless questions. He draws (reasonable) associations from his case with his own grim family dynamic, and the plight of his daughter, Eva Lind, drug addict on a stumbling road to recovery and now, heaven help us, mother to be. He nukes another microwave meal, and chain-smokes, in spite of the worrying pain in his chest. He drinks a lot of coffee.
Yes, Erlandur puts the added "grim" into grim Scandi-noir -- making Wallender look like a blessed little ray of sunshine, and British sad sacks like Vera, Inspector Banks, Rebus etc look like a bunch of comedians. (There are, I promise you, some moments of wry humor. Such moments are to be cherished.)
But what I find fascinating -- what I'm reading it for, and what will, I think, keep me reading on, in spite the less-than-elegant prose -- are the insights into a surprisingly alien culture right on the edge of Europe, a world very like the one our grandparents (great grandparents?) probably knew, in which your whole world was encompassed by a couple dozen square miles, and anything further might have been the far side of the moon -- you had heard of it, of course, but the idea that you might ever live or even visit there was almost like science fiction. A world where you knew everyone in that territory, and were probably related to half of them (at least at a "99th cousin, once removed" basis), and you knew, or at least had suspicions about, all of their dark, dirty secrets. And they know yours ...
Erlandur's current investigation plays out in this hothouse environment, and comes to a surprisingly moving conclusion in a world where a relatively small genetic gene pool has life and death consequences for both the guilty and the innocents. Good stuff!!
