Dark Music: A novel

by David Lagercrantz Narrated by Simon Vance

Overview

INTERNATIONAL BEST SELLER ¿ Inspired by Sherlock Holmes, an exhilarating new thriller from the best-selling author of The Girl in the Spider's Web-a murder investigation in which two unlikely allies race to uncover a shadowy international conspiracy.

Professor Hans Rekke is a world authority on interrogation techniques, capable of dizzying feats of logic and observation. He was born into wealth and power and has a picture-perfect wife and daughter. But he also has a fragile psyche that falls apart under pressure.
 
Micaela Vargas is a street-smart police officer, the daughter of Chilean political refugees, who grew up in the projects on the outskirts of Stockholm and has two brothers on the wrong side of the law. She is tenacious and uncompromising, and desperate to prove herself to her fellow cops.
 
Micaela needs Hans's unique mind to help her solve the case of a murdered asylum-seeker from Afghanistan. Hans needs Micaela to save him from himself. Together, they need to find the killer before they're both silenced for good.

Editorial Reviews

OCTOBER 2022 - AudioFile

Simon Vance is a master voice actor, preternaturally skilled with accents, whether from Stockholm or Kabul, upper class or gutter thug. He’s an ideal fit with David Lagercrantz, the Swedish thriller writer who presents here a Sherlock Holmes simulacrum for a new and global century. Hans Rekke is a brilliantly deductive psychology professor, musically gifted eccentric, and world-class pillhead. Micaela, his Watson, is a Chilean-Swedish policewoman. In their first collaboration, Rekke helps Micaela prove that a refugee Afghan footballer was not murdered, as her bosses insist, by a drunken soccer dad. She in turn helps Rekke crawl out of the prescription cornucopia in his medicine cabinet. The plot intrigues, and Vance’s portrayals of these richly varied characters is virtuosic. More, please. B.G. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award © AudioFile 2022, Portland, Maine

Publishers Weekly

06/27/2022

In this promising series launch set in 2003 from Lagercrantz (Fall of Man in Wilmslow), police officer Micaela Vargas, whose parents came to Sweden as political refugees from Chile, joins forces with Prof. Hans Rekke, “a specialist in interrogation techniques” who teaches at Stanford University, to investigate the murder of a soccer referee after a match. The victim was a refugee from Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, and Micaela’s incessant probing soon leads them into the murky waters of international terrorism, questionable CIA interrogation methods, and a war against music carried out by the Taliban in the late 1990s. Rekke and Micaela enjoy a Holmes and Watson–like relationship, complete with a Mycroft counterpart in brother Magnus Rekke, a government undersecretary with his own hidden agenda. Though the story advances slowly at first, it gains momentum once the pieces begin to fall into place. Rekke’s drug and alcohol addictions, along with his inability to focus, at times threaten to make him a caricature, but Micaela’s depth of character bodes well for future entries. Not just Sherlock Holmes fans will want to check this one out. Agent: Jessica Bab, Brave New World. (Aug.)

From the Publisher

"Dark Music is a terrifically well-wrought book that grabs readers and tugs them through a dangerous deductive adventure.”
—The Wall Street Journal

“Rekke [is a] gem of a character . . . Kudos to Lagercrantz and translator Giles for a compelling read.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred)

“Lagercrantz has created a complex, Holmes-and-Watson alliance here that’s enhanced by brooding Scandinavian atmosphere, nuanced internal conflicts, and sharp-edged cultural divides. A well-constructed series starter, offering more to come.”
—Christine Tran, Booklist

“A promising series launch . . . Vargas’s depth of character bodes well for future entries. Not just Sherlock Holmes fans will want to check this one out.
—Publishers Weekly

“A crime thriller inspired by Sherlock Holmes, written by the author who successfully continued writing Stieg Larssson’s Millennium Trilogy, sounds like a dream. But it’s happened . . . Lagercrantz has penned a classic murder mystery . . . You’ll love the massive contrast in styles of the two main characters, as they cope with the ups and downs of a complicated investigation—one Holmes himself would have loved to solve.”
—Alan Jones, The Independent
 
“David Lagercrantz, who inherited Stieg Larsson’s mismatched investigators in his sequels to the Millennium series, introduces an odd couple of his own . . . It has a cosmopolitan collection of oddball characters, and themes as diverse as classical music and Sweden’s anti-terrorist policies.” 
—John Dugdale, The Sunday Times (London), “Best Thriller Books of 2022 So Far”

“A rich, engrossing novel.”
—Natasha Cooper, Literary Review

“This book kept me up half the night . . . It works brilliantly . . . David Lagercrantz knows his craft.”
—Expressen
 
“A must-read . . . Another writer might have gotten lost in a swamp of clichés. But not David Lagercrantz . . . Lagercrantz skillfully navigates a complex plot.”
—Smålandsposten
 
“Very entertaining . . . The depiction of this duo’s friendship is finely tuned and poignant, and I have only good things to say about the suspense.”
—Svenska Dagbladet
 
“We are without a doubt dealing with a dynamic duo . . . Both affecting and engaging.”
—Göteborgs-Posten

“Don’t be surprised by the success of the Rekke/Vargas series . . . There is an enormous amount of research behind this story.”
—Dagens Nyheter
 
“Lagercrantz really captures readers . . . We like Rekke and Vargas—both as partners and as individuals.”
—Kulturnytt, Swedish Radio

OCTOBER 2022 - AudioFile

Simon Vance is a master voice actor, preternaturally skilled with accents, whether from Stockholm or Kabul, upper class or gutter thug. He’s an ideal fit with David Lagercrantz, the Swedish thriller writer who presents here a Sherlock Holmes simulacrum for a new and global century. Hans Rekke is a brilliantly deductive psychology professor, musically gifted eccentric, and world-class pillhead. Micaela, his Watson, is a Chilean-Swedish policewoman. In their first collaboration, Rekke helps Micaela prove that a refugee Afghan footballer was not murdered, as her bosses insist, by a drunken soccer dad. She in turn helps Rekke crawl out of the prescription cornucopia in his medicine cabinet. The plot intrigues, and Vance’s portrayals of these richly varied characters is virtuosic. More, please. B.G. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award © AudioFile 2022, Portland, Maine

Kirkus Reviews

★ 2022-06-08
This dark murder mystery by the bestselling Swedish author who continued Stieg Larsson’s Millennium series plumbs the depths of Taliban depravity.

In 2003, youth soccer coach and Afghan refugee Jamal Kabir is murdered in Stockholm, his skull crushed by a rock. Once police realize that an enraged soccer dad did not commit the crime, they begin to dig—and to discover the killer, they must learn more about the victim. Was Kabir “some sort of terrorist”? Why had he smashed a woman’s clarinet in Kabul? Women musicians had been banned from practicing their craft since 1992, but once the Taliban took power, “what had previously been prohibited became downright dangerous.” Police officer Micaela Vargas is part of the investigating task force, which hires renowned Stanford psychology professor Hans Rekke to assist. Vargas is an honest, hardworking young cop who happens to have a lowlife brother with criminal ties, while Rekke takes homicide investigation to a whole new level. The esteemed “specialist in interrogation techniques” is a pill-popping wreck who can hardly keep himself and his family together, but his observational powers rival those of Sherlock Holmes. He looks at a cop’s hand and deduces that he’d been at the firing range that day, that he has tennis elbow but doesn’t play tennis, and that the crown of his watch is about to fall off because of movements caused by his suppressed neurosis. Remarkable snap observations, Micaela observes. Not really, Rekke replies. It’s just one of many from this gem of a character. The complex plot includes the CIA with references to Abu Ghraib and the Salt Pit prison, but that’s not the main focus. The ending hints at a Rekke-Vargas sequel, and that would be most welcome.

Kudos to Lagercrantz and translator Giles for a compelling read.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940175480918
Publisher:	Penguin Random House
Publication date:	08/23/2022
Series:	Rekke Series , #1
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

ONE
JULY 19, 2003
It was meaningless bullshit. All of it.
Chief Inspector Fransson was delivering a long, peevish exegesis about what an idiot the assistant commissioner was and Micaela Vargas could no longer listen. It was too hot in the car, and the splendid mansions of Djursholm lay outside.
“Did we go past it?” she said.
“Calm down, young lady—this isn’t exactly my usual neighborhood,” Fransson said, fanning himself with his hand.
They drove on down toward the water, stopping at a tall gate with a CCTV camera and an entry phone. It opened after a few words from Fransson and they rolled into a large courtyard, past a fountain and up to a sumptuous mansion built from ochre-coloured stone, its large windows and colonnaded frontage overlooking the sea.
Micaela felt more nervous still. She was a local community beat cop, but this summer she’d become part of a murder inquiry because she possessed certain knowledge about the suspected assailant, Giuseppe Costa. She had mostly been tasked with running errands and doing basic checks. Nevertheless, she had been permitted to come along today to visit Professor Rekke, who would be able to assist them with their investigation—or so the assistant commissioner said.
White stone steps led up to the house, and standing on the terrace at the top was a woman in ivory cotton trousers and a blue blouse that fluttered in the wind.
“I suppose that must be the wife,” Fransson said.
The woman looked like a film star. Micaela got out of the car feeling sweaty and uncomfortable, and crossed the raked gravel to the house.
TWO
FOUR DAYS EARLIER
More often than not, Micaela would arrive at work early. But that morning, she was sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast although it was past nine o’clock. The phone rang. It was Inspector Jonas Beijer.
“We have to go see the assistant commissioner,” he said.
He didn’t say why. But it was clear it wasn’t optional. She went to the mirror in the hall and pulled on her sweatshirt, an extra-­large one that sat on her loosely. You look like you want to hide, her brother Lucas would have said. But she thought it suited her. She brushed her hair and combed down her bangs so that they almost concealed her eyes, then headed off to the Tunnelbana.
Micaela had just turned twenty-six. There weren’t many people on the Tunnelbana. She had a whole group of seats to herself and was soon lost in her own thoughts.
It was no surprise that the case interested the top brass. The murder itself might have been an outburst of madness, a drunken act. But there were other elements that explained the attention on the investigation. The deceased—Jamal Kabir—had been a soccer referee and a refugee from Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, and he had been beaten to death with a rock after a junior soccer game at Grimsta IP. It went without saying that Assistant Commissioner Falkegren wanted a piece of the action.
She got off at Solna Centrum and continued toward the police station on Sundbybergsvägen, thinking to herself that today was the day she would put her foot down and tell everyone what she thought was wrong with the investigation.
Martin Falkegren was the youngest assistant police commissioner in the country; he was forward-looking, and wanted to keep up with what was new. People said he wore his ideas like medals across his chest, which he guessed was not meant kindly. But he was proud of his openness, and this time, yet again, he had tried a different approach. They might get angry. But, as he had told his wife, it was the best lecture he had ever attended. It was worth a try.
He set out extra chairs and bottles of Ramlösa mineral water as well as two bowls of liquorice his secretary had bought on her mini-cruise to Finland, and listened for the sound of footsteps in the hallway. No-one seemed to be on their way yet. For a moment he pictured the investigating officer, Carl Fransson, standing before him, with his hefty body and critical gaze. Frankly, he thought to himself, he couldn’t blame him. No detective wants the bosses involved in his inquiry.
But these were special circumstances. The murderer, a batshit, narcissistic Italian, was manipulating the shirts off their backs. It was an embarrassment—nothing less.
“Sorry, am I the first to arrive?”
It was the young Chilean officer. He couldn’t recall her name, but he ­remembered that Fransson wanted her off the team—he’d said she was a pain.
“Welcome. I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure,” he said, proffering a hand.
She took it in a firm handshake and he looked her over from head to foot. She was short and stocky, with thick curly hair and long bangs combed down over her forehead. Her eyes were big and restless and shone with a dark intensity. There was something about her that immediately attracted him yet also kept him at a distance, and he was tempted to hold on to her hand a little longer. But her expression warned him against that, and he muttered instead:
“You know Costa, don’t you?”
“I know of him,” she said. “We both come from Husby.”
“How would you describe him?”
“He’s a bit of a showman. He used to sing to us outside the flats. He can get pretty aggressive when he drinks.”
“Yes, that much is obvious. But why is he lying to our faces?”
“I don’t know whether he’s lying,” she said, and he didn’t like that.
It was inconceivable that they might have the wrong guy. The evidence was substantial and they were preparing to charge him. All that was missing was a confession. But he didn’t have time to tell her that. He heard the others approaching along the hallway and stood up to congratulate them.
“Good job. I’m proud of you guys,” he said, and while he might have tried harder to include the Chilean girl, he did not correct himself.
His attempt to sound collegial was unsuccessful.
“What a senseless incident. And all because the referee didn’t award a penalty.”
He was just trying to get the conversation started, but Fransson seized the opportunity to lecture him and said it was far more complicated than that. There was a clear motive, he said, which might not be a motive to the likes of you and me, but it was to an alcoholic soccer dad without any impulse control who lived for his son’s successes on the field.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “But my God . . . I saw the game tape. Costa was completely insane, while the referee . . . What’s his name again?”
“Jamal Kabir.”
“. . . while Jamal Kabir was the picture of calm. Talk about poise.”
“That’s what they said.”
“And him waving his hands. Elegant, right? As if he were controlling the whole game.”
“It is a rather unusual style, it’s true,” Fransson said, at which point Martin Falkegren turned his gaze away from him and resolved to regain control of the conversation.
He wasn’t there for chit-chat.
Micaela fidgeted. The atmosphere was not exactly relaxed, despite Falkegren trying his best to be one of the guys. But that was a hopeless project from the very start, and not just because he always smiled. He wore a shiny suit and loafers with tassels.
“How’s our evidence looking otherwise, Carl?” he said. “I spoke briefly with . . .”
Falkegren looked at her. But he couldn’t remember her name, or his thoughts were elsewhere, because he left the sentence hanging until Fransson interjected and outlined the evidence. As always when he spoke, it sounded convincing, as if all they needed was a verdict. That might have been why the assistant commissioner wasn’t really listening. He muttered:
“Absolutely. None of the evidence is directly weakened by the observations in the P7.”
“I think that’s right,” Fransson said, and Micaela looked up from her notepad.
The P7, she thought. The damn P7. She had gotten hold of it some ten days ago and still wasn’t entirely clear what it was. It seemed to be a report on the preliminary examination conducted by the forensic psychiatrist. She had read it with a certain degree of expectation, and had been disappointed almost right away. Antisocial personality disorder was the conclusion. Costa was, in other words, some sort of psychopath. She didn’t believe it.

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