Not to be confused with the Conan Doyle mystery, Leif Persson’s The Dying Detective takes on a 25 year old murder case and the dying detective who will solve it. In the opening chapter our protagonist and detective-hero, Lars Martin Johansson, has a stroke. While in his hospital bed he is asked to solve the cold case of a murdered girl. Disregarding medical advice, he sets about investigating. Lots of phone calls, some strange encounters with socialist-medicine-helpers and an unrelenting (and perplexing) desire to eat herring ensue.
It is in keeping with the genre of Swedish mystery novels (is that a genre? whatever) in equal parts silly and totally absorbing. I had the book with me at the doctor’s office, and my doctor asked whether it would be entertaining enough to keep her captive after a long shift and while her children ran around, and I emphatically argued that it would be. It’s the sort of mindless, page-turning nonsense that you want on a long flight, or in a waiting room. I’ll admit I’m tired of reading about (young) women being murdered, but perhaps that’s a complaint to take up with society rather than the author.
So yeah, enjoy on your next flight or don’t, whatever suits.
Literary Vice 