The reason you haven’t found anything is simple. I haven’t been here, officer. At least not this past year. And the housekeeper does a thorough job with her vacuum cleaner.’

Jo Nesbo made his millions writing compelling fiction featuring Harry Hole, a Scandinavian detective. I have read all of these books and found each and every one of them a first class read, in structure, style and plot. So, when I find Nesbo's new book with 'Harry Hole' in bold lettering on the front cover I did not hesitate to buy it. But what did I find? A collection of short stories, most of which were science fiction. I put Simone’s coffee cup down on the tablecloth on her coffee table. Her coffee cup. Her tablecloth. Her coffee table. Even the dish of chocolates in the middle of the table is hers. Things. Strange how little things mean once you’re dead. One way or another. The stories were read by a variety of narrators, several of whom I was already familiar with. All performances were excellent. I straighten the liquorice wrapper between my fingers. ‘Lakris – lakrits – lakrids’ it says. Danish and Swedish as well as Norwegian. Easy to understand anyway. It’s good when neighbours speak almost the same language. The officer has slumped deeper into the armchair. Not surprising really; so far I’ve said nothing of interest to the investigation. But he shows no sign of wanting to stop me either.From the Jealousy Man: "That it was true what they said, a confession is a story that's just waiting for an audience."

The title story, “The Jealousy Man,” is an above-average novella. Here, Inspector Nikos Balli has flown to a small Greek isle called Kalymnos. There he meets up with a colleague, George Kostopoulos, where they discuss the case that Balli has been assigned --- the disappearance of Julian Schmid. The prime suspect, and probably the last person to see him alive, is his twin brother, Franz. I can’t tell you much about Nesbo’s previous short story collection Karusellmusikk – my Norwegian is not what it should be – but if this compendium of jealousy, greed, twists and violence is anything to go by, it's probably brilliant. A caveat for potential investors first, though. Nesbo's boozy and brooding detective Harry Hole doesn’t appear, but frankly, he isn’t required, and a bit of rest and recovery probably won't do him any harm. He went right through the wringer in Knife. La isla de las ratas es el primero de la parte sobre el poder, un relato más largo tipo apocalíptico, un poco Mad Max, con una anarquía y grupos de pandillas amenazando por las calles. Me gustó, en especial el final pues dentro de todo el protagonista mantuvo su brújula moral de siempre, pero fue capaz de obtener lo que quería. Es un relato un poco más duro que los otros, más cruel y frustrante. Maculadora estuvo bien, interesante por el tema de la vida eterna y el costo que esta podría tener, volvemos a tener un protagonista con un fuerte código moral que se mantiene firme a sus principios, a pesar de traspasar otros. Ejecutarte no sería en ningún caso una venganza suficiente. Porque, sí, quiero que te arrepientas. Quiero que sientas el mismo dolor que yo al perder a uno de tus seres más queridos. Y quiero que sientas la misma culpa que yo por no haber protegido lo bastante a tu familia. No soy mejor persona por eso. Pero los seres humanos tenemos la capacidad única de renunciar a aquello que nos proporciona una satisfacción a corto plazo en aras de algo que tiene una finalidad superior" I think about adding a light laugh, but instead – and quite unexpectedly – the little anecdote gives rise to an emotional avalanche. I feel something swelling in my throat. I’ve no intention of saying anything at all but then I hear my own tormented whisper:And yet I’ve never been jealous of Henrik Bakke. Isn’t that funny? At least not in the sense of hating him or having a grudge against him. I think the way I looked at it was that he was just another guy same as me, he loved Simone more than anything else on earth. I actually thought of him more as someone in the same boat as me than as a rival.’ Jo Nesbø već nam je pokazao i dokazao kako se izvrsno snalazi i u kriminalističkim serijalima i u samostalnim trilerima, i u re-tellingu Shakespearea, pa čak i u romanima za djecu. A kakav je u formatu kratke priče? Pogađate: jednako dobar! The writing is typical Nesbø, which, for those who have read some of his work, will know is steeped in symbolism and a deeper analysis of the emotional being. Hidden meanings and ideas permeate the narrative, such that the reader may play close attention to get all that Nesbø presents in his writing. With stories that vary in length, it is even more important to pay attention, as there are times when a piece is over before it really begins, meaning the reader will miss what is being presented. You’re thinking she wasn’t the type to take her own life. And you’re absolutely right. Don’t ask me how, officer, but I know she was murdered.’ I read that when Henrik Bakke found her he thought at first she was asleep. Pity he wasn’t there when she died. He might have learned something. I mean, it must be fascinating to study a human being in transit between life and death, don’t you think?’

This architect, Henrik Bakke, I don’t know how she met him. She always said she met him after I moved out, and at first I believed her. But friends have told me how naive I was, pointing out that the guy moved in almost immediately. Before my side of the bed was even cold, as one of my friends put it. And yet, officer – and I know this may sound strange – it’s actually a sort of comfort to know that it was her feelings for someone else that ruined everything for us. That what Simone and I had wasn’t the kind of thing that just burns itself out of its own accord. That it took love to conquer love.’ Maybe it was a bit hasty of me to just give up everything like that. After all, she was a wealthy young woman, good for fourteen million, whereas I am a debt-ridden photographer with a little too much faith in his own business skills. Simone supported my idea of starting my own studio along with six other photographers. If not financially then at least morally. But once a second body arrives on his slab I’m pretty sure the coroner is going to be able to work it out, don’t you think? That the murder weapon was right there in front of you the whole time?’ OK. So that wasn’t exactly true. I was jealous of Henrik Bakke. At least the first time I met him. Let me explain. One day he called me at my office and asked if we could meet, he had some papers for me from Simone. I knew these must be the divorce papers, and even though it was, of course, unspeakable of her to use her new lover to deliver them I was curious to know who he was and so I agreed to a meeting at a restaurant. I presume he was just as curious about me.

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We were the perfect Twist couple, Simone and I,’ I say, and halfway expect the officer to raise one eyebrow and give me a puzzled look. ‘I’m not thinking of the dance but the chocolate,’ I explain. The officer evidently doesn’t have a sense of humour. ‘I like liquorice and nougat and I hate banana creams. As it happens she loved the banana creams. You know, the ones with the yellow-and-green wrapping. Oh yes, of course, you’ve already . . . If ever we had guests I had to take them all out before I put the dish out, so she could have them herself the next day.’ The officer looks as though he might be preparing a response, a long and complex response that’s going to require a lot of thought. I continue. I should have taken the coffee table. Because I like this coffee table. I like the small dents on its surface, souvenirs of our wild parties, the paint splashes from the time I decided to paint everything in the living room green, and the one leg that was ever so slightly crooked from the first and only time we ever made love on it. This was my first Jo Nesbø book and I enjoyed most of his stories and his dark humour and plot twists. His Harry Hole novel's are meant to be excellent so I look forward to diving into them one day.

Anyway, he turned out to be a really nice person – polite without being servile, intelligent but in a discreet way, and with a humorous appreciation of the comical aspect of our situation. We drank a couple of beers, and when he began after a while to talk about Simone it didn’t take long for me to realise that he was having exactly the same trouble with her as I had had. She was a cat. She came and went as she pleased, she was spoiled and moody, and loyalty was not her most outstanding quality. If I can put it like that. He complained of all the men friends she had and wondered why she couldn’t have female friends like other women. Talked about the nights she’d come home drunk after he’d gone to bed, and all the new and exciting people she’d met who she was so keen to tell him about. In a sort of aside he asked if I’d seen her since we’d split up and I’d moved out, and with a smile I had to tell him no. The smile was because I had realised that he was probably more jealous of me than I was of him. Isn’t that something of a paradox, officer?’ Simone loved chocolates. Especially Twist. Every Saturday when I did the shopping at Kiwi I used to buy a big bag of them. It was one of our few routines. It was a sort of anchor in a life based on opportunism, whims, the occasional evening meal together and, as a rule, waking up in the same bed. We blamed our jobs, and I believed that everything would be different once we had a child. That would bring us together. A child. I remember how shaken she was the first time I brought it up. Is that a smile I see curling the officer’s lips? He doesn’t respond. Of course not, he’s under an oath of silence as regards anything to do with the investigation. All the same, at the thought of Henrik Bakke being a suspect I can’t help but smile as well. I don’t even try to hide it. We smile. She said. As though it was one of her father’s subsidiary companies and not a marriage she was talking about. Naturally, I had been much too proud to even look at her list. Too hurt to take anything at all from the overgrown villa in Vinderen where we had shared both the good and – the way I remembered it – the very few bad days.Jo Nesbo of course has the right to write whatever he wants, but I think the publisher should present it to the reading public in an honest manner. They did not. The presentation was sly and dishonest and designed to deceive. I won't fall for it again. Not that things were so important for her when she was alive either. I’ve just been explaining all this to the officer. That she told me I could take anything I wanted when she threw me out – the stereo, the TV, books, kitchen equipment, you name it. She was ready for it. She’d decided this was going to be a civilised breakup.