The
Snowman
by Jo Nesbo
576 pages, Vintage
(This
review is of the unabridged audio edition, read by Sean Barrett)
Review
by Pat Black
Audiobooks.
I’m big into them, now. We’re setting foot into a whole new world.
Stepping
gingerly into my aural canal; taking care not to tangle your boots in the rough
gorse at the entrance; hammering crampons into my cochlea; trudging ever east –
fudgy underfoot – in that slow, cotton wool-stuffed journey towards my brain.
I
was already cheating on my regular bookshelf with my Kindle. The two had come
to an understanding, if not quite a truce. The bookshelf knows that it has the
quality and the sturdiness I will forever come back to and treasure, but the
Kindle can always be counted on for a filthy 10 minutes before bed, or an even
dirtier thumb-trembler at lunchtime.
Now
I’m cheating on them both with audiobooks in the car. When will the house come
crashing down?
In
truth I wish I’d made this switch a couple of years ago, when I first started a
fairly long commute by car. Circumstances at the moment do not allow for much
in the way of reading time. It gets so that I dream of having a holiday somewhere
with a beach and blue water; when asked why, I honestly reply that it’s to
clear my books backlog.
I
think I might need help – actual hired help, personal readers to go through the
unread books round the clock, before reporting back to me later. I’d be a sort
of Barbara Cartland in reverse.
Anyway,
this was my second foray into the world of Audible.com, thanks to a
particularly thoughtful Christmas pressie, and it was just as enjoyable as my
first.
Jo
Nesbo’s books were a familiar sight on three-for-two tables at Waterstone’s and
elsewhere in the wake of Stieg Larsson’s stunning post-mortem success roughly a
decade ago. A few times I was almost tempted. Clever marketing, anyway; on the
front cover was an image of an attractive, if somewhat unsettled looking girl
with dark eyes and hair. Salander, you
think, almost subliminally. The cover and the author’s name scream “Scandie
Noir” at you, and that’s exactly what you get. To be fair to Nesbo, his work
was around long before Stieg Larsson’s, but this is the book that launched him
globally.
The Snowman is
centred on the Norwegian capital Oslo, and stars the grizzled police inspector
Harry Hole. According to the audiobook, you pronounce Hole as “hooleh”, close
to “hula”, and not, er, “hole”, as in the thing in your bucket, or your shoe,
or, eh…
The
same was true of the author’s name, which is more like “Nesb’” - the word
truncated after the B - rather than “Nesboh”. This was according to the
pronunciation used by the actor Sean Barrett, who narrates the whole book,
anyway. It may not actually be the way it’s intended to be spoken, though I
don’t doubt the actor has done his research.
Within
minutes of pressing Play, thoughts of Toast
of London were battling the spoken word for supremacy in my mind, but I
don’t say this to mock or belittle Barrett – it’s a brilliant performance, and
we’ll come back to that shortly.
The novel is a... *paste crime novel cliché here*.
Thrill ride? Roller-coaster? Page-turner? It is all of these things. How about
“a thoroughly entertaining and engaging psycho-thriller”?
Someone is picking off women who are married with
children - striking when the first snows of winter fall. The women often vanish
without trace, although there is one ghastly exception which shows us how
sadistic the murderer is. The killer leaves a calling card at the scene of the
disappearances, which gives him, or her, their tabloid name: a snowman, staring
at the windows of the house.
You will find a couple of nits to pick. A big one
is Hole: brilliant but maverick detective, bit of a loner, drink problem,
haunted by the past, still has loads of sex. He could be a Scandie Inspector
Rebus, but then Rebus comes from familiar stock in his own right. Inspector
Cliché.
“Stock” is a key
element of The Snowman. The very
uncomfortable topic of unfaithful mothers and cuckolded fathers unwittingly
raising children who are not their own is a big factor, as is a rare genetic
blood disorder which could ultimately point towards the killer's
identity.
Or not.
Suspects come
and go, some arousing suspicion, some avoiding it. There's a lot of “hey - this
person's the killer! No, wait, that's a rod
silde - this person's the killer! No, wait...”
This helps
muddy the waters sufficiently to allow the real killer to slither past the
reader undetected. They appear on your radar, of course, but Nesbo skilfully
makes you doubt the readings. As such, The
Snowman just about passes the key test of any mystery: Did you guess who
did it? Well, kinda, but they were on a shortlist, and I was never sure, even
after the moment they were unmasked.
This is the
ludic element of every mystery, thriller and whodunnit. There’s a game going on
between writer and reader, and the story has to dispense with logic at certain
times in order to fool you. It's a board game, with a host of suspects lined
up, motive attached, and all with a potential part to play. In a sense, if the
author wrong-foots you, they have to strain credibility in order to make it all
fit. It all makes sense in the end. It’s a big novel, and Nesbo handles the
story and its pay-off well. In considering this, I thought of Ian Rankin; he claims
he often has no idea who the killer is when he starts writing, the better to
surprise himself – and hopefully, his readers.
This book
felt like a series I'd read before owing to one or two stock types, but characterisation
is well handled. Hole is memorably described as having a “voice like a
lawn-mower”, and I'll praise Sean Barrett's performance in that respect right
away.
Then there's
Markus Skarra, Hole's colleague on the force. He's blunt, rude and faintly
moronic, fulfilling a sort of Inspector Lestrade function, blundering in and
getting things wrong, allowing Hole to narrow his eyes and make the correct
assessment. Skarra reminded me of more policemen of my acquaintance than Hole
did. And yet, despite some shocking sexism when he makes a terrible pass at a
colleague, I had a sneaking liking for Skarra.
But the chief
pleasure in The Snowman for me was in
the performance of the actor narrating the tale. I was tickled to find out
that Sean Barrett played the Priest With The Very Boring Voice in the Father Ted Christmas special, a shocking
20 years ago now. His voice certainly isn’t boring here, but it’s memorably
rich and deep. There’s a couple of Steven Toast-style moments – I’m sure that
isn’t how you pronounce “flaccid”, fella – but I admired the way he slipped
into and out of different characters’ voices without sounding silly. By and
large he goes for a Scandinavian burr for Hole and his own Actor English accent
for everyone else, but I was tickled when he opted for northern English tones
for Skarra. For all I know, that’s what people in parts of Oslo actually sound
like, but nonetheless it was inspired.
It’s a shame
he doesn’t try for a Scandie accent throughout – words like “panties” and “c*ck”
would sound terrific in a Norwegian accent, as would “nipples”. Maybe spoken
with an air of hysteria, like that lad with the goggles and the rifle at the
start of The Thing.
“Neecht! Neeples!”
“Nipples” are
significant in this story.
This is the
essence of hypocrisy coming from a Scotsman, but I heard a pleasing poetry in
the odd names and their pronunciation. Despite all those hard, abrupt
consonants bouncing off each other like drunks in a taxi queue, there’s a
strange mellifluousness in the Scandinavian tongue. It got so I would repeat
the names every time Sean Barrett uttered them. Katrine Bratt (“Brahtt-eh”).
Arve Stop (“Schtupp”). Idar Vetlesen. Markus Skarra. Zaphod Beeblebrokkse. I
loved rolling them around in my mouth.
So, hats off
to Sean Barrett – hours on end of reading, fully committed, with never a slip
or an undersold line. My only other experience of audiobooks prior to my
current kick was a thriller that I listened to during an insane phase of my
life when I walked to and from work every day. It was read by an American actor
who sounded bored for most of it. This made me bored, too, and I didn’t get to
the end. It put me off audiobooks for years. I’m pleased to say this production
has restored my faith in them.
However, sex
scenes read aloud… now, there’s the sticking point, so to speak. Naughty bits
in books are simply not meant to be experienced this way. They’re furtive
things, best kept private, or even secret, and they work best when
internalised. Actually saying those words aloud must be a bit like something bizarre
you blurt out during orgasm, and then spend the rest of your sex life trying to
live down.
How the poor
man didn’t corpse saying things like “she grabbed his throbbing d*ck” and “I’d
like to see your p*ssy”, I’ll never know. Maybe he did. Through the magic of digital
editing, it’s all seamless.
I dare you to
do it with your partner, your friends, or your workmates, the next time you
read a dirty bit in a book. Pick a deep, fruity voice… or a sharp, raspy one… imagine
John Hurt… hell, go Full Richard Burton… and let rip.
Next up on
the audio list: Wolf Hall.
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