By Leif GW Persson
From a grasp of Scandinavian crime fiction--the first in an excellent sequence of novels based round the investigations of 1 irascible, stubborn, and intensely thirsty Swedish police officer: Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström of the nationwide homicide Squad.
Detective Bäckström is Persson's repeatedly repulsive but undeniably exceptional comedian creation--an unforgettable cop winding his means in the course of the black comedy of against the law scene, and coping with to disillusioned approximately every person within the process.When a newspaper supply boy reveals a sixty eight year-old alcoholic mendacity useless in his apartment--beaten with a saucepan lid and hammer, after which strangled--everyone expects an open-and-shut homicide case, every body that's yet Hawaiian-shirt clad Detective Bäckström who's been assigned to guide the research crew. lower than strict orders from his health care professional to enhance his wellbeing and fitness as speedy as attainable, Bäckström has started stumbling to paintings walking, or even consuming greens. The police strength isn't what it was once even though, and now that it's crowded with ladies and foreigners resisting a drink is more durable than ever sooner than. but if the newspaper boy is going lacking Bäckström's suspicions are confirmed right, giving his irrepressible mixture of good fortune and laziness an opportunity to save lots of the day, whereas coping with to disappointed approximately every person within the technique.
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Additional info for Backstrom: He Who Kills the Dragon
A man named Charlie Butler jumped in. “You got two kinds of whites in this city,” he said, “and two kinds of blacks. You got whites who’ll beat you if you come into their neighborhood. They live around Bridgeport and on the Southwest Side. Then you got another group that just won’t invite you in. They’ll call the police if you come in their neighborhood—like where you live, in Hyde Park. ” Charlie was a retired factory worker, a beefy man with tattooed, well-developed arms, a college football star from long ago.
Someone else patted me down. The guy with the too-big hat who had taken my clipboard looked over the papers and then handed everything back to me. He told me to go ahead and ask a question. By now I was sweating despite the cold. I leaned backward to try to get some light to fall on the questionnaire. The first question was one I had adapted from several other similar surveys; it was one of a set of questions that targeted young people’s self-perceptions. ”I read. ” The guy with the too-big hat began to laugh, which prompted the others to start giggling.
Pretty soon they were all in a better mood. They even gave me a bottle. By now it was well into the evening. No one seemed to have anywhere to go. The young men just sat in the stairwell telling one another all kinds of stories: about sexual conquests, the best way to smoke a marijuana cigarette, schoolteachers they’d like to have sex with, the rising cost of clothing, cops they wanted to kill, and where they would go when their high-rise building was torn down. This last fact surprised me. Nothing in our records at the university suggested that these projects were closing.