These are addictive; it's wonderful, and a near-forgotten pleasure, to devour books reflexively as I did when I was a kid. I've been moving the next one in this series from room to room for the past couple of days whilst I make myself finish a couple of other things first. I saw a review of another series (Ruth Galloway - after the archaeological element in Silence of the Grave - more archaeological mysteries really appeal) and the poster said they'd read all six novels in less than a fortnight - I could understand that happening with these Erlendur books...Silence of the Grave starts with a stonking first line: He knew at once it was a human bone, when he took it from the baby who was sitting on the floor chewing it. Superbly sinister and grubby. Yet this is a nice middle class household; 'he' is a medical student and family friend.I was quite swept up in this story, and it would have got 4.5 stars had it not been for a little cliche on the last page - which I'd hoped all the way through that the author wouldn't succumb to. It's at least as good a novel as Jar City, but there are no sociopolitical points I disagreed with. Both won the Nordic Glass Key in successive years, and Silence of the Grave also got the CWA Gold Dagger; I'm starting to get a sense of what characterises award-winning crime books: whilst they are a cut above some detective novels, they aren't necessarily 100% realistic, or free from genre tropes or the odd flaw (and the writing style may not satisfy those who expect something literary or stylistically notable), but they are very involving if you're in the right mood, and there's something out of the ordinary about the plot.Erlendur, Elínborg and stray yuppie Sigurður Óli, during a quiet period for the force, investigate c.70 year old human remains found on a building site. There's zero urgency to the case and this is no action thriller, yet Indriðason maintains suspense throughout as to whose grave it is, whilst the pathologist is on holiday and a meticulous archaeologist takes his time over the site. There's skilful placement of detail about the gradually uncovered skeleton, in the flashback story of a woman and her children subjected to severe domestic violence, and rumours about the missing fiancee of a merchant who'd once had plans to establish Iceland's first supermarkets.It was this book plus the chapters in Small Island about Queenie's job, and the routine, regional-news type crimes in early 2000s Danish TV series Unit One that made the penny drop that what I was really after was social work procedural, presented not as misery-memoir, but in the same matter of fact yet not unempathic way that these crime novels are written. Though of course crime solving presents more suspense, and a tidy conclusion in the way stories from many other public service occupations wouldn't. I don't like stories of serial killers, torture and gore though might read some, hopefully not very graphic, because I'm interested in the detective protagonist (I also don't quite get why some reviewers comment on how dark social realism like this is, but not serial killer novels.) What I'm finding most interesting in crime fiction are political thrillers quite removed from most people's lives, or the other end of the spectrum, storylines where the crimes emerge from a world of social exclusion and generational cycles of psychological issues. Silence of the Grave adds to the latter a historical and archaeological theme, so of course I was riveted. The story of the abused family dates only from the inter-war period, but the conditions of Icelandic life at the time make it seem potentially much older; its rural grit - and that of Erlendur's early life - is much like the environment in working class Scottish fiction of the nineteenth and earlier twentieth century. It has some differences from insightful stories of contemporary Western domestic abuse, because the woman is someone who, with access to modern services, would have got out fairly early on; she didn't come from an abusive background herself, doesn't want to stay, and took longer to succumb psychologically to her husband's aggression - it's the complete absence of support and protection that makes her so stuck. The book mentions once or twice that domestic violence services in Iceland are still inadequate (which is surprising given that it's now known for having a particularly egalitarian culture, and in the early to mid 2000s, when this was written, was a very well-off country). The story makes particular sense for its time, but given the social comment dimensions of Scandinavian crime fiction, must also be an exhortation to improve provision by presenting people who would very clearly use and benefit from it. At times the novel discusses causation via the abuse cycle, without ever minimising the horror of the experience, which is described as "soul death" - this is very well done, and it is not a book in which explanation could be seen as "excuse" by an angry reader, who felt a clinical approach failed to acknowledge what they'd seen.I can't quite explain how, but there is something very compassionate about the way Indriðason's characters are written. I've picked up these books a few times when annoyed, including with a character in another book who'd reminded me of an old acquaintance I disliked for no worthwhile reason, and soon I feel much better disposed and more understanding towards people in general. Sigurður Óli, who doesn't exactly seem suited for public services and who's the most potentially dislikeable character, has his dismissive tendencies reined in by the others. Erlendur is the stereotypical grumpy fiftysomething cop with baggage, but whilst he's not terribly consistent with those he's close to, he does have plenty of empathy for those at a little more distance. This is the fourth novel in the Icelandic series but only the second in English, so the sense of him "finally" opening up as he tells the full story of how his brother went missing in childhood must have been much greater in the original.It's also high time I stopped attempting to justify or explain reading books like this in the assumption that a lot of my friends / followers expect more 'literary' stuff. (Plus, it's part of what I was reading when I first joined - I'm going back to what I originally liked rather than being sidetracked or playing to a particular crowd of people I don't know.) Going to try not to do any more justifying after this post. I remember a GR review (but not which book it was) where someone was frustrated by the high ratings most Scandinavian crime fiction had; they thought the writing was pretty bad and found other reviews and ratings useless as a guide. They were simply looking for a different type of writing rarely found in this subgenre. (Reading ebook samples would solve that problem - it's not like you even need to buy or borrow anything, or go anywhere, to find out what the style is like.) I'm rating these things because I am enjoying them for what they are. (And sometimes my ratings are higher when the average is lower, because I like some thrillers in the same way I like so-bad-its-good action movies.)Though Indriðason mentions in one interview that his style is influenced by the Sagas. It has greater clarity than Anne Holt's or Asa Larsson's - both of whom I've read in the last few months - and I'm pretty sure there's very little clumsy infodumping in comparison, but I'm deliberately reading faster, so might not notice. It's easy to trot out comparisons with the sagas for any Icelandic writing, but I think it's warranted here. The striking thing about the sagas I've read so far is that only externals, actions, are described, very rarely thoughts - though a bit of life experience and psychology makes all sorts of currents and reasons apparent. Indriðason gives his characters more internality, but the spareness and clarity, and the amount of suspense and action clearly has some parallel. I've really enjoyed the translations by Bernard Scudder, but am not looking forward so much to those later in the series by Victoria Cribb. Scudder sadly died (and early by modern standards) whilst working on one of his books, and Cribb took over. I've never been quite happy with any of her translations I've read so far, and started to consider her the common factor - but possibly if I read her Indriðason translations fast instead of mulling over the style, that and an existing relationship to the characters and themes will make them enjoyable.
When I was a teenager, I was a big fan of detective novels, to the effect that I was contemplating the possibility of joining the Police force. I was even conducting my own investigations. When I was around 14, I liked a boy from church who was older than me. I found out his name, where he lived, that he had a sister and other information. I even followed him once. Then, one Sunday after the sermon, I approached him and blurted out everything I had found out about him. I remember I was awfully dressed, with a pair of woolen stockings that wrinkled around my knees. Maybe it was the first time I became aware of my clothes. To my surprise, the boy - Octavian, I remember his name even now - was not shocked by my boldness, instead he was very kind and asked what my name was. Nothing romantic came out of that encounter, but we remained friends. That's the way I was and I don't think I've changed too much over the years. I still like to fit pieces together, make connections and understand things. But one thing I stopped doing was following boys. That's not a proper review for this book, I know. The point is that I used to love detective novels in my youth. I haven't revisited the genre for quite a long time, but now I'm set upon finding some good such literature that could entertain me when I'm tired or stressed out. I want to get back that wonderful feeling when I was engrossed in a captivating investigation, red in the face with too much tension, oblivious to everything around me, even pretending to be sick so that I could skip school, stay home and read. Well, I'm aware that I might not get that feeling back, as I'm grown up now. But still, there is hope. Arnaldur Indriðason's novels are moderately good, the cases are puzzling and the investigation procedures keep me interested. I also prick my ears at every mention of Iceland and its people, because I have a genuine interest in this country. Indriðason's novels are not what I'm looking for, though, because there is no great tension, no shocking conclusion and - what bothers me the most - there are other layers to the story that I'm not really interested in, mainly the insights into the detectives' personal life. Honestly, they are boring. Still, these parts are way better than what I've found in Camilla Läckberg's The Hidden Child, which was a kind of soap opera. If you have some expectations from literature, please stay away from Camilla Läckberg!The two stars reflect my interest in only 1/3 of the novel, which dealt with the investigative part. One third was about events that happened long ago - a depressing account of an Icelandic family who had to put up with physical and mental abuse from a monster of a husband and father. This part was heart-wrenching and I couldn't bear it in its entirety, so I mostly read between the lines. The remaining 1/3 of the novel was about the detectives' personal lives, which I found rather boring, so I mostly subjected them to quick-reading techniques. The layers were interspersed, which made the actual plot thin and diluted.My request to you, the ones who read detective novels, is to recommend me good books that mainly deal with cases, investigations and with a plot that truly builds tension. I want to get that feeling back and I'm really getting frustrated that I can't! Or maybe I should learn to get over it...
What do You think about Silence Of The Grave (2006)?
Erlendur Sveinsson must be the only person in Iceland who prefers the “heavy, dark” days of winter over the “bright,” “frivolous” days of summer. Then again, that’s not so surprising. His dour disposition would make Edinburgh’s Rebus, Oxford’s Morse, or Ystad’s Wallander look like the cheery court of a homecoming princess. He has reason to be depressed. Estranged from his grown children, hated by his ex-wife, and guilt-ridden for his real and imagined failures, Erlendur spends evenings by the bedside of his daughter’s hospital bed, doubtful if she’ll ever awaken from a drug-induced coma. He mulls over why he left his family, wondering if he should have or could have been more involved in his children’s lives and struggles to say anything to fill the empty space surrounding his daughter. His emotional frigidity matches the desolation of his world outside, echoing themes of isolation and despair. So when a skeleton surfaces at a housing development, it represents not only a crime, but Erlendur’s biggest fears and regrets as a father, son, and brother.Silence of the Grave is structured with parallel plot lines: the police investigation Erlendur heads and the story of a woman and her abusive husband living on the outskirts of Reykjavik during WWII. Her story is brutal, and it’s difficult to get through scenes showing the husband’s emotional and physical battering of his wife and children. Much of the novel unearths family silences and secrets, and the subsequent police investigation uncovers how much abuse of that time remained as invisible as the deeply buried skeleton. For those who enjoy mysteries and crime fiction, this novel doesn’t have the switchbacks, and the twists & turns that make crime fiction a page-turning addiction. What does make it engrossing are the fully realized characters, both major and minor, and their responses to a half-century old murder, family taboos, and questions about what gives life meaning. (Library book)
—Cathleen
In this third book of the series, Inspector Erlander and his able staff of detectives are committed to identifying the body of a skeleton found at a construction site in the far suburbs of Reykjavik and determine to who is responsible. The problem is the skeleton might be so old, the perpetrator will probably have died years ago. They do however, proceed at a slow but steady pace making incremental progress while diligently following leads. Complicating matters for Erlander is watching his addicted and estranged daughter hospitalized in a coma and dealing with other more personal demons haunting him from his childhood.This compelling yet extremely dark mystery revolves around a particularly brutal case of domestic abuse during the World War 2 years in Iceland and is yet another excellent example of Scandinavian crime fiction peopled by unforgettable characters with totally unpronounceable names. Crime fiction that, like their long, cold winters, is extremely sad and depressing but well worth reading and appreciating for its originality, heart and soul.
—Ed
Jar City, the first mystery by Icelandic author Arnaldur Indriðason that features Inspector Erlendur Sveinsson of the Reykyavik police, traced the origins of a modern-day murder to a heinous crime that occurred some forty years before. The solution to the mystery turned on the idea of Iceland as a very insular society with a shallow genetic pool where most people are at least distantly related. In this second book in the series, we again get a very cold case - something that occurred during World War II. But was it truly a crime or simply a situation where justice was at last served?The story begins with the image of a baby gnawing on a human bone. A young medical student had dropped by a children's birthday party to pick up his young brother who was attending. As he sits waiting for the child to be ready to leave, he watches the honoree's younger sister who is gnawing on something that at first appears to be a toy, but, when he gets a closer look, he realizes it is actually a section of a human rib. He alerts the child's mother who asks the baby's brother what he knows about it. He takes them to the place where he picked up the interesting "rock" that he gave his sister to play with, and, there, they find more bones.The police are called. Inspector Erlendur and his team show up and discover what appears to be a very old burial. They contact an archaeologist who assembles a team and begins to dig to free the bones. It is an excruciatingly slow process, accomplished with small hand tools.While Erlendur is waiting around at the scene, he receives a cryptic and frantic phone call from his estranged daughter, Eva Lind, asking him to help her, but she hangs up before he can find out where she is. Eva Lind, whom we met in the first novel, is now about seven months pregnant and still a drug addict. She had had a huge fight with her father and left his apartment weeks before and he's had no contact with her since. Now he must try to find her.Erlendur tracks Eva Lind through some truly awful drug squats with residents that seem barely human. He discovers abused and neglected children along the way and calls social services for them. Finally, on a slim chance, he goes to a maternity home and finds Eva Lind there, passed out and bleeding on the grounds.She is taken to the hospital, in a coma, and the baby is delivered stillborn. She lingers there between life and death, never waking from the coma, with Erlendur spending as much time as he can by her side.But back to the old bones. The initial assessment is that they are 60 to 70 years old and Erlendur begins poking into the history of the community where they had been found, trying to find out who might have lived on that site during the period in question. It's a complicated investigation, but, ultimately, he and his team do come up with a name and they uncover a horror.At this point, the story develops on a parallel course. We learn of the family who lived where the bones were found, two adults and three children, one of them disabled. We also learn, haltingly, of the brutality which the woman and her children endured for years at the hands of the abusive husband and father. Meanwhile, the archaeologists continue their dig and eventually uncover a second set of bones on top of the first. They are the bones of a tiny baby or perhaps fetus.One of the things pointed out by the story is how little help there was for a brutalized wife during the period when the abuse occurred. When the police actually came to investigate, they would typically ask the woman whether she had been drinking and would end up shaking hands with the husband before they went back to their station. In some places, of course, that attitude hasn't changed much in seventy years.It's interesting to learn of this dysfunctional family in comparison to Erlendur's own fractured clan. His marriage had been broken when his children were young, and he left them. His ex-wife subsequently refused to allow him any access to the children and poisoned their minds against him, and it seems that Erlendur didn't try very hard to change that. But in this book, we do learn more of his background, his childhood, and why he behaved as he did and why he is such a morose, depressive character.I thought Indriðason did a very good job of tying all of these disparate plot lines together and showing their interconnectedness. He also used them very skillfully to develop fully realized characters with whom one can begin to empathize. In doing so, he created a very interesting and enjoyable read.
—Dorothy
