The Return Of The Dancing Master [Hardcover]

"Henning Mankell is by far the best writer of police mysteries today. He is in the great tradition of those whose work transcend their chosen genre to become thrilling and moral literature." --Michael Ondaatje
"As full and rich as any American police procedural of the last 20 years. . . . You'll shiver with the cold of a Scandinavian winter." --"The Plain Dealer
"Compelling...there's no one better at the genre. . . . His characters are his greatest invention." --"San Francisco Chronicle
"It's time to admit that the cutting edge of mystery writing has shifted overseas. . . . The Return of the Dancing Master gives homicide a moody elegance." --"Time
"Violence strikes with quick and shocking ferocity in The Return of the Dancing Master. . . . With its expansive time frame and meticulous procedural details, the story has a density that demands-and rewards-intellectual movement." --"The New York Times Book Review
"Mankell weaves a mournful spell through all his mysteries by adopting a calm, dispassionate tone that artfully underlines an abiding humanism for psychic as well as physical suffering. . . . [Its] ice-cold logic . . . sends a shiver down the spine. . . . Features the same masterful sense of atmosphere . . . that Mankell brings to all his writing." --"The Boston Globe
"Spellbinding. . . . Mankell fascinates." --"Los Angeles Times
"The pressure mounts, with unpredictable dead-ends and beguiling about-turns. The uncertainty makes the reader alert to every nuance, suspicious of everyone. . . . Mankell [is] the Nordic king of European thriller writers." --"The Observer (London)
"Gruesome enough to satisfy any gore-loving mystery reader. . . .[Mankell] has emerged as the natural heir to the great Swedish crime novelists Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo." --"The New York Times
"Absorbing, chilling and dripping with evil atmosphere." --"The Times
"[Mankell] is an expert at writing about logical action and reactions. . . . Nothing can spoil the enjoyment of this superbly crafted mystery." --"Orlando Sentinel
"Irrestible. . . . [Mankell] is a master at constructing gripping, intricately plotted police procedurals with a strong dose of social commentary. . . . The appeal . . . [is] the sheer brutal imaginativeness of the crimes." --"Business Week
"Delightfully morbid. . . . Steering between literature and suspense, [Mankell's] measured prose recalls those gloomy precisionists Peter Handke and Patricia Highsmith." --"The Guardian
"The new cast are introduced with customary brilliance, and the political edge suggests a fine new direction from this immense talent." --"Scotland on Sunday
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Kurt Wallander fans will love this new novel from Henning Mankell. Featuring a new cast of characters this novel marks the end of the Kurt Wallander Mysteries and prepares the way for many more mysteries to come.

Herbert Molin, a retired police officer, lives alone in a remote cottage in northern Sweden. Two things seem to consume him; his passion for the tango, and an obsession with the "demons" he believes to be pursuing him. Early one morning shots shatter Molin's window- by the time his body is found it is almost unrecognisable. Stefan Lindman is another off-the-job police officer. On extended sick leave due to having cancer of the tongue Lindman hears about the murder of his former colleague and, in a bid to take his mind off his own problems, decides to investigate. As his investigation becomes increasingly complex it is with both horror and disbelief that Lindman uncovers links to a global web of neo-Nazi activity. Written with all the usual flair so highly commended by Mankell fans this intricate crime novel, with its cast of new characters, heralds the end of the Kurt Wallander Mysteries and yet, ultimately, it leads the story back to Wallander's Ystad where a new outstanding series of thrillers can begin. (20030303)

'Questions of responsibility and morality, of justice and democracy, are explicitly raised. And this is unusual in detective fiction. Superbly translated by Laurie Thompson, I found this book a worthy successor to the Wallander whodunits' Ian Thomson, Sunday Telegraph --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Henning Mankell was born in Stockholm in 1948. He is the author of many works of fiction, including the nine novels in the Kurt Wallander series. He has worked as an actor, theatre director and manager in Sweden and in Mozambique where he is now head of the Teatro Avenida in Maputo. (20030303)

PART 1

Harjedalen / October - November 1999

CHAPTER 1

He woke in the night, besieged by schadows. It had started when he was 22. Fifty-four years of sleepless nights, constantly besieged by shadows. He'd only managed to sleep after taking heavy doses of sleeping pills. He knew the shadows had been there when he woke, even if he’d been unaware of them.

This night, now drawing to its close, was no exception. Nor did he have to wait for the shadows – or the visitors, as he sometimes called them – to put in an appearance. They generally turned up a few hours after darkness fell.Were there without warning, by his side, with silent white faces. He’d got used to their presence after all the years, but he knew he couldn’t trust them. One of these days they’d be bound to break loose. He didn’t know what would happen then. Would they attack him, or would they betray him? There had been times when he’d shouted at them, hit out in all directions to drive them off. He’d kept them at bay for a while. Then they’d be back and stay until dawn. He’d sleep in the end, but usually for only a few hours because he needed to get up and go to work.

He’d been tired all of his adult life. He had no idea how he’d got by. Looking back, he could recognise only an endless string of days that he’d somehow or other muddled through. He had hardly any memories unconnected with his tiredness. In photographs taken of him he always looked haggard. The shadows had also taken their revenge on him during his two marriages: his wives had been frustrated by his constant state of unease, and the fact that when he wasn’t working, he was always half asleep. They’d lost patience with finding him up for most of the night, and he’d never been able to explain why he couldn’t sleep like a normal person. In the end they’d left him, and he’d been alone again.

He looked at his watch. 4.15 a.m. He went to the kitchen and poured himself coffee from the thermos he’d made before going to bed. The thermometer outside the window showed minus two. If he didn’t remember to change the screws holding it in place, before long it would fall. He moved the curtain, and the dog started barking out there in the darkness. Shaka was the only security he had. He’d found the name he’d given his Norwegian elkhound in a book – he couldn’t remember the title. It had something to do with a powerful Zulu chieftain, and he’d thought it a suitable name for a guard dog. Short and easy to shout. He took his coffee into the living room. The thick curtains were securely drawn. He knew that already, but felt compelled to keep checking. He checked the windows.

Then he sat at the table again and contemplated the jigsaw pieces spread out before him. It was a good puzzle. It had lots of pieces and demanded imagination and perseverance to solve it. Whenever he finished a puzzle, he would burn it and immediately start on a new one. He made sure he always had a store of puzzles. It was a bit like a smoker and his cigarettes. For years he’d been a member of a worldwide club devoted to the culture of jigsaw puzzles. It was based in Rome, and every month he’d get a newsletter with information about puzzle-makers who had ceased trading and others who had entered the field. As early as the mid-’70s it had struck him how hard it was to find really good puzzles – that is, hand-sawn ones. He didn’t think much of the mechanically produced ones. There was no logic in the way the pieces were cut, and they didn’t fit in with the patterns. That might make them hard to solve, but the difficulties were mechanically contrived. Just now he was working on a puzzle based on Rembrandt’s The Conspiracy of the Bathavians under Claudius Civilis. It had 3,000 pieces and had been made by a specialist in Rouen. He’d once driven down to visit the man. They’d talked about how the best puzzles were the ones with the most subtle nuances of light. And how Rembrandt’s colour schemes made the greatest demands.

He sat holding a piece that obviously belonged in the background of the painting. It took him nearly ten minutes to find where. He checked his watch again: 4.30. Hours to go before dawn, before the shadows would withdraw and he could get some sleep. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.