“Don’t miss this one.”—USA Today
"A masterful job." -Michael Connelly
It is called kaamos--two weeks of unrelenting darkness and soul-numbing cold that falls upon Finnish Lapland, a hundred miles into the Arctic Circle, just before Christmas. Some get through it with the help of cheap Russian alcohol; some sink into depression.
This year, it may have driven someone mad enough to commit murder. The brutalized body of a beautiful Somali woman has been found in the snow, and Inspector Kari Vaara must find her killer. It will be a challenge in a place where ugly things lurk under frozen surfaces, and silence is a way of life.
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Disclaimer: Please be advised that this excerpt contains some graphic language.
I’m in Hullu Poro, The Crazy Reindeer, the biggest bar and restaurant in this part of the Arctic Circle. It was remodeled not long ago, but pine boards line the walls and ceiling, like an old Finnish farmhouse. Nouveau rustic decor.
Even though it’s early afternoon, a couple hundred people are here. The bar is crowded and noisy. It’s minus forty degrees Celsius outside, too cold to ski. The rush of wind from racing downhill would cause instant frostbite on even the smallest patch of exposed skin. The lifts are closed, so people are drinking instead.
My wife, Kate, is the general manager of Levi Center, a complex of restaurants, bars, a two-hundred-room hotel and an entertainment arena that holds almost a thousand people. Hullu Poro is only part of a massive operation in the biggest ski resort in Finland, and Kate runs it all. I’m proud of her.
Kate is behind the bar, talking to Tuuli, the shift manager. I’m eavesdropping on their conversation because I’m a cop, and Kate may want to have Tuuli arrested.
“I think you played with the inventory on the computer,” Kate says. “You transferred liquor to other sales points, made it look like it disappeared from other bars, but you brought the bottles here, sold them out of this bar and pocketed the money.”
Tuuli smiles and replies in Finnish. In a calm voice, she unleashes an eloquent stream of vicious invective. Kate has no idea of the ways in which Tuuli has insulted her.
Kate is five foot ten and slim. She’s wearing jeans and a cashmere sweater. Her long cinnamon hair is swept up in a chignon. Men around the bar sneak glances at her.
"Please speak English so I can understand you,” Kate says. “If you can’t explain where the liquor went, you’re fired. I’m considering pressing charges against you.”
Tuuli’s face is unreadable. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kate is an expert in ski resort management. The owners of Levi Center wanted to expand the resort, so they brought her here to Finland from Aspen a year and a half ago to oversee the changes.
“I checked the dates and times on the computer system,” Kate says. “The inventory transfers are consistent with times you were on duty. No one else could have done it. Six hundred euros worth of liquor went missing last month. You’ve been working here for three months. Want me to check the other two months?”
Tuuli mulls it over. “If you give me a week’s pay and a letter of recommendation,” she says, “I’ll resign without protesting to the union.”
Kate folds her arms. “No severance pay, no letter. If you file a protest, I’ll prosecute.”
Tuuli fingers a bottle of Johnny Walker on the shelf. The dull shine of her eyes tells me some of the stolen booze has been going down her throat. I know drunks. She’s considering bludgeoning Kate with the bottle. She glances at me and I shake my head. Tuuli takes her hand off the bottle and tries the conciliatory approach.
“Let’s sit down and talk about this.”
Kate signals to the bouncer at the front door and he comes over. “This conversation is over,” she says. “Take Tuuli to get her things, then escort her out. She’s banned from the bar.”
“You’re a cunt,” Tuuli says.
Kate smiles. “And you’re unemployed. You’re also banned from every bar in Levi owned by this firm.”
That’s most of them. In effect, Tuuli is ostracized. She clenches her teeth and fists.“Vitun huora.” Fucking whore.
Kate looks at the bouncer. “Get her out of here.”
He puts a hand on Tuuli’s shoulder and guides her away.
When Kate turns to me, she looks ice-calm. “I have to do a couple things in the office, I’ll just be a few minutes.”
I lean on the bar while I wait for her. A tourist asks Jaska, the bartender, “Just how far north are we?”
Jaska puts on the condescending face he reserves for foreigners.
“You Australians aren’t too good with . . . ” he can’t find the word and reverts to Finnish. “Maantiede. Drive that way for one day and you reach the Barents Sea, the end of the world.” He’s pointing west.
“Some Finns aren’t too good with geography either,” I say. “That way is toward Sweden.” I turn ninety degrees. “The North Pole is that way.” I point east. “Russia is over there. We’re a hundred miles inside the Arctic Circle.”
“Inspector Vaara and I went to high school together,” Jaska says. “He got better grades than me.”
“Thanks for the lesson,” the Aussie says. “It’s hard to get oriented when it’s dark all the time. You’re a policeman?”
“Have one on me officer. What are you drinking?”
“Beer. We had a gold rush in the Arctic a little over a hundred years ago, and the brand name means ‘The Gold of Lapland.’ ”
Jaska makes drinks for the tourists and chats about skiing conditions.
It’s supposed to warm up to minus fifteen tomorrow, still bitter cold, but safe enough so that with proper clothing skiers can hit the slopes again.
It’s good for me to make my presence felt here, to discourage locals whose idea of a good time is to get drunk and beat up or otherwise harass tourists. I look to the other side of the room. The Virtanen brothers are here, prime candidates for such behavior. By the end of the night, like as not, they’ll pull knives on each other. One of these days one will kill the other, and the survivor will die of loneliness.
Jaska hands me my beer. “Jotain muuta?” Anything else?
“A ginger ale for Kate.”
While Jaska gets it for her, I go over to the Virtanen brothers’ table. “Kimmo, Esa, how’s it going?”
The brothers look sheepish. My presence makes them nervous.
“Fine Kari,” Esa says. “How’s your gorgeous American wife?”
My marriage to a foreigner causes suspicion and consternation among the less progressive thinkers of our small community, but also envy, because of Kate’s success and good looks.
“She’s good. How are your mom and dad?”
“Mom can’t speak since the stroke, and— you know how he is— Dad is Dad,” Esa says, and Kimmo nods drunken agreement.
Esa and Kimmo and I grew up in the same neighborhood. Esa means their father has been drunk for weeks. Every winter he stays tanked on cheap Russian medical alcohol through kaamos, the dark time, until spring, and even then his sobriety is measured only in relation to his alcohol-induced winter coma. I wonder if their mother can’t speak, or if she’s so worn out that she has nothing left to say. “Give them my best. You two stay out of trouble tonight.”
Kate comes out from the back room. I get our drinks and we go to a table in the nonsmoking section.
I set her ginger ale on the table in front of her.
“Kiitos.” Thank you. She can’t speak Finnish yet, but she tries to use the few words and phrases she knows. “I could use a beer right now,” she says, “but I guess I’m going to have to wait seven months for my next one.”
Kate is pregnant with our first child. She told me two weeks ago while we celebrated our birthdays. We were born two days shy of eleven years apart, on opposite sides of the world.
Kate has put away her tough facade. She’s trembling. “Tuuli,” she says, “is not a pleasant person.”
“She’s a thief. Why didn’t you have me arrest her?”
“Recovering the small amount she stole doesn’t balance against the bad press associated with theft by an employee. Word will get around. That’s why I fired her in front of Jaska. If anyone else is stealing, they’ll stop.”
“You have the day off tomorrow?” I ask. “You could use one.”
Kate manages a coquettish smile. “I’m going skiing.”
I don’t want her to, but can’t think of a reasonable objection.
“Do you think you should?”
She takes my hand. Before I met Kate, I didn’t like public displays of affection, but now I can’t remember why. “I’m pregnant,” she says, “not crippled.”
In fact, we’re both slightly crippled. Me from a gun shot, Kate from a skiing accident that shattered her hip. We both limp. “Okay, I’ll go ice fishing.”
She closes her eyes for a second, stops smiling and rubs her temples.
“You feeling all right?” I ask.
She sighs. “When I first came to Finland to interview for my job, it was summer. The sun was up twenty-four hours a day. Everyone here seemed so happy. I met you. They offered me a lot of money to run Levi, a great career opportunity. The Arctic Circle seemed exotic, an exciting place to live.”
She looks down at the table. Kate isn’t given to complaining. I want to know what’s on her mind, so I prod her. “What changed?”
“This winter, I feel like the cold and dark will never end. I get it now that people weren’t happy, just drunk. It makes me depressed. It’s terrible. Being pregnant in Finland seems scary, makes me homesick for the States. I don’t know why.”
It’s two thirty p.m. on December sixteenth. We won’t see daylight again until Christmas day, and then only a glimmer. She’s right. That’s the way things are here in winter. A bunch of depressed hard drinkers freezing in an endless night. Kaamos is tough on everyone. I can see how being pregnant here would make her feel vulnerable and frightened.
My cell phone rings. “Vaara.”
“It’s Valtteri. Where are you?”
“In Hullu Poro with Kate. What’s up?”
He doesn’t speak.
“There’s been a murder, and I’m looking at the body.”
“Tell me who and where.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s Sufia Elmi, that black movie star. It’s bad. She’s in a field on Aslak’s place, about thirty yards off the road.”
“Anybody there with you?”
“Antti and Jussi. They were the responding officers.”
“Anything that requires immediate attention, like a suspect?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then seal off the crime scene and wait for me.” I hang up.
“Problem?” Kate asks.
“You could say that. Somebody’s been murdered in a snowfield on Aslak Haltta’s reindeer farm.”
“You mean where we met?”
She looks at me and I read pain in her eyes. “I wish you didn’t have to go,” she says.
I didn’t realize how much she needs me right now, and I don’t want to leave her. “Me too. Can we talk about this later?”
She nods but looks sad as I kiss her good-bye.
I step outside into the dark, and the cold makes my face burn. I take a deep breath to clear my mind, feel the hair in my nostrils freeze, check my watch. It’s two fifty-two p.m. I call Esko Laine, the provincial medical examiner, tell him there’s been a murder and to meet me at the crime scene. He’s getting ready to go to sauna, sounds a little drunk and less than pleased.
The car skitters on the ice as I pull out of Hullu Poro’s parking lot. I light a cigarette and crack the window, despite it being minus forty. Nicotine and cold are a good combination for thinking.
Finland has a population of only five and a half million people, but a lot of violent crime. Per capita, our murder rate is about the same as most American big cities. The overwhelming majority of our murders are intimate events. We kill the people we love, our husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, parents and friends, almost always in drunken rages.
This is different. In a country as sensitive to insinuations of racism as Finland, the murder of a black, female public figure will explode across national headlines. It’s never happened before. If the actress, Sufia Elmi, has been murdered, I’ve got a big problem.
Finns are sensitive about race relations because by and large we’re closet racists. As I once explained to Kate, it’s not the overt racism of the American kind she’s accustomed to, but a quiet racism. The passing-over of foreigners for promotions, a general disregard and disdain. I compared it to politics. Americans ramble on about politics but have a low voter turnout. Finns seldom talk about politics, but around eighty percent vote in presidential elections. We don’t talk about hatred, we hate in silence. It’s our way. We do everything in silence.
I’ve heard jokes about Sufia, local rednecks snickering over their beers, talking about how they’d like to do it with the knockout nigger movie star, but never anything threatening. If we’re lucky, Sufia’s killer is a tourist and we can avoid cultural implications. I hope it’s a German. Germans are a petty hatred I inherited from my grandparents, who despised them for burning down half of Finnish Lapland during World War II.
During the war, my grandmother found a German soldier frozen to death on a mountainside and dragged him down to show her friends. She told me it was the happiest day of her life. In my work, I find them a terrible annoyance. German tourists will steal anything. Silverware, salt and pepper shakers, toilet paper.
I know a little about Sufia from the newspapers. Looks as much as talent have earned her a minor career as a B-movie starlet in Finnish film, and she’s wintering here in Levi. The first time I saw her, I found myself staring. I was embarrassed at first, but then I noticed she inspired that reaction in everyone, even women.
Sufia wore a cocktail dress that didn’t do much to conceal spectacular breasts. Her waist was so small I could have wrapped my hands around it, and high heels accented the slender legs of a gazelle. Her black skin was flawless and her angelic face bore a combination of youth, beauty and innocence. She had obsidian eyes and a look of perpetual amusement that charmed everyone around her.
Sufia is, or was, a physical anomaly, so beautiful that it didn’t seem possible for a creature like her to exist. What seemed a gift may have drawn the wrong kind of attention and gotten her killed. The first inclination of so many people in this world, when confronted by beauty, is to destroy it.
I pull off the road onto the drive leading into Aslak Haltta’s reindeer farm, park next to Valtteri’s squad car and get ready for the hours I’m going to spend in the cold processing the crime scene. A winter field uniform is wadded up in the backseat of my Saab. Marine-blue police coveralls, they’re lined and heavy, should keep me warm enough to do my job. I pull them on over my jeans, sweater and a layer of thermal underwear.
The neighborhood I grew up in starts on the other side of the road, about two hundred yards away. It will have to be canvassed during the investigation. No doubt my parents will enjoy acting like they’re being accused of murder.
All I can see from here is snow. Valtteri’s headlights are on to illuminate the crime scene, so I leave mine on too. They cut a swath through the darkness, and I see Valtteri standing twenty yards ahead of me with Jussi, Antti and Aslak. I leave the comfort of the heated car and take the two fishing-tackle boxes I use for a crime kit from the trunk.
Valtteri wades toward me through the snow. It’s deep, frozen hard on the surface but powdery underneath, and trudging through it makes him lurch until he reaches the driveway.
“Don’t go over there yet,” he says.
“Is it that bad?”
“Just take a second and brace yourself.”
Valtteri is a devout Laestadian and to my mind overobsessed with his strict, revivalist version of Lutheranism, but he’s a good man and a good officer. If having eight kids and going to church every Sunday and most evenings makes him happy, it’s okay by me. I turn on a flashlight and start toward the crime scene.
When I get about five yards away, I see a naked corpse embedded in the snow. I’m certain it’s Sufia Elmi. When I see what’s been done to her, I understand why Valtteri warned me. I’ve investigated more than a few homicides, but never seen anything so cruel. I set down the fishing-tackle boxes and take a moment to steady myself.
Judging by the indentations in the snow, it looks like the killer parked, then either dragged Sufia or forced her to crawl away from the car. The snow is about three feet deep and she’s sunk about half that distance into it. She managed to thrash enough to make a snow angel. Her black body is ensconced in white snow stained with red blood. In places, blood has spattered and sprayed two yards away from her. Her corpse is starting to cool, and silver frost is forming on her dark skin, making it shimmer.
A car pulls off the road and I figure it’s Esko the coroner. The responding officers, Antti and Jussi, are standing there shivering, even though, like me, they have on heavy winter field uniforms and thick hats and gloves. They’re looking useless and might pollute the crime scene tramping around, moving to keep warm. I tell Jussi to walk back up to where the driveway meets the road and look for discarded evidence. If there is any, it will be easy to find with the glare of his flashlight on unbroken snow.
Antti is our best artist. I take graph paper and a pencil from a tackle box and tell him to make sketches of the crime scene, not an easy task in this bitter cold. He puts chemical hand warmers inside his gloves to keep his fingers from getting stiff and starts drawing.
Esko comes over and nods hello, doesn’t speak. I tell him to take a look around.
I get two cameras out of the tackle boxes, one film and one digital, a couple external flash units and a tape recorder. Winter here is an endless night, but the snow reflects what little light there is and casts everything a dim murky gray. I use a Leica M3 to shoot film photos of the surroundings. Old Leicas are well made and don’t use batteries, so they almost never fail because of cold-weather conditions.
Snow photography isn’t easy. If you use lights or flashes at more than a forty-five-degree angle, everything disappears in the glare.
It has to be done with polarizing filters and lights at the level of the snow. I give the cameras to Valtteri. “You know what to do, right?” I ask.
Valtteri nods, starts setting up the external flash units. “I was going to take my boys deer hunting tomorrow,” he says. “Now I don’t think I have the stomach for it.”
I wouldn’t either. “Take photos with both cameras,” I say. “I want the snow as intact as possible so evidence doesn’t get mashed up in it, so try to walk in your own footprints.”
I rub my gloved hands together, try to warm them up. It’s seldom this cold, even here in the lower part of the Arctic Circle, and it creates an odd sensation. There’s a feeling of both heightened and deprived senses. Exposed parts of the body first burn, then ache, then go numb. The senses of touch and smell disappear. The cold makes my eyes run and the tears freeze on my cheeks. I have to squint and it’s difficult to see. Nothing moves, birds don’t sing.
There would be silence, but cold has a sound of its own. The branches of trees freeze solid and crack under the weight of snow with sounds like muted gunshots. The snow freezes so hard that its surface contracts and takes on a pebbled texture. It crackles underfoot, even when I think I’m standing still.
We’re in a field about thirty yards east of the main road. A barn with a pen outside it for sick and birthing reindeer stands twenty yards to the north. Aslak’s reindeer number in the thousands, and they’ve earned him a handsome living. His house, an expensive ranch-style brick, is another hundred yards northeast. Christmas lights in the distant windows wink on and off. To the south and west are only barren fields and icy forests.
The atmosphere is one of isolation, of desolation. It seems an ideal spot for a murder. I picture the murderer turning off the main road, killing his engine and cutting his headlights, gliding to a stop a little way down the drive. The sky is cloudy, no moon or stars illuminate the dark afternoon. The nearest homes are a football field away in one direction, two football fields in the other. The murderer had privacy and time. If he heard noise or saw lights, all he had to do was start his car and drive away before being spotted.
Aslak looks down at Sufia, leans on a shotgun, smokes a home-rolled cigarette. I guide him a few yards away from the body and light one myself. “See anything?”
“Not much. I came out to feed the dogs and saw headlights. I went back and got my gun"—he holds up a Mossberg twelve gauge pump—“and came over to see what was going on. I got here in time to see a car drive away. Then I saw her like this. I had my cell phone with me and called the police.”
“What kind of car?”
Aslak seems unperturbed. I’ve known him since I was a kid. He’s a Saame reindeer herder, an aboriginal Lapland Finn and a tough old bastard. “It was pretty far away, some kind of sedan.”
“How long ago did it leave?”
Aslak checks his watch. “ Fifty-two minutes.”
I look at Valtteri. “You didn’t set up roadblocks?”
“The only thing I could think to do was call you.”
“And I asked you if anything required immediate attention.”
Fuckup number one. If this case goes wrong, not just Valtteri will be blamed, but me as well, since I’m in charge. He’s embarrassed and I don’t press it.
Valtteri and I get some sticks and drive them into the snow. We spool out crime-scene tape and seal off a few yards of the tire tracks, then do the same in a ten-yard square around the body. Footprints span a fifteen-foot distance between the body and the tire tracks. We tape those off too, so we can make spray-wax casts later.
The driveway hasn’t been plowed for a couple days and has a few inches of powdery snow on it. Under the right conditions, tire tracks are as individual and identifiable as fingerprints. These look crisp enough to get the manufacturer and model, but maybe not the specific set of tires. The footprints are in deep snow and won’t yield much, but we might get a shoe size. Esko waits until we finish before he starts his examination.
Sufia is beautiful no longer. What’s left of her tells the story of an agonizing death. My first task is to describe this horror in detail. It makes me feel sad, and inadequate, because the only person able to describe such depths of suffering would have been Sufia herself. Valtteri starts shooting pictures. The flash pops every few seconds and lights up the blood and snow and Sufia, and I feel like I’m living in a grainy black-and-white photograph.
I start the tape recorder, and Esko takes out a notebook and pen. I’ll do a verbal description while he does a written one, for the same reason that Antti draws while Valtteri photographs, to rule out the chance of documentation being lost. I kneel down in the snow beside her. “Let me know if I miss anything.”
He nods. I run the beam of my flashlight up and down her body and start.
“General observations. A nude female body. The victim is black. A cord"—I take off my glove, reach over and touch it—“of silk or similar synthetic material, is around her neck, and ligatures suggest it was used as a means of control. The snow is disturbed in a five-yard line between the tire tracks and the location of her body. It appears she either crawled or was dragged from the vehicle to her present location.”
“Dragged, I think,” Esko says.
“The snow is unbroken outside the immediate vicinity of the body and drag line. Her arms are raised at forty-five-degree angles over her head. Her legs are spread, and the indentations in the snow indicate that she thrashed around as her killer assaulted her. Evidence such as other weapons or her clothing would be readily visible were they present. They’re not. The victim is mutilated. Her face is brutalized, but I recognize her. She’s the actress Sufia Elmi. The words neekeri huora, nigger whore, have been cut into her stomach.”
My worst fears are confirmed. This is a hate crime. It’s hard to believe anyone could have hated her so much. The question, despite the words carved on her stomach, is what could have inspired this kind of hatred? Was it her race, her beauty, or something else?
“A half-liter Lapin Kulta beer bottle has been broken off at the neck and inserted, broken end first, by means of twisting and cutting, into the victim’s vagina. No glass shards from the shattered bottle are evident. The victim was hit with a blunt instrument, which left a contusion on her forehead.”
Esko stoops down beside me. “She was struck twice. Probably with a carpenter’s hammer.”
I nod. “Probably with a carpenter’s hammer. Her eyes have been gouged out, maybe with the broken bottle. A superficial piece of skin from her right breast, about three by four inches, is sliced off and located beside the victim, near her left shoulder. There’s a long deep cut across her lower abdomen. Her throat is slashed. The clean cuts suggest the killer used an edged weapon, not the beer bottle, to inflict those wounds.”
“He left the piece of her breast,” Esko says. “Not a trophy taker.”
“At least three instruments appear to have been used to mutilate the victim, one blunt and heavy, as evidenced by the two blows to the head, and two sharp ones, one the beer bottle and the other an edged weapon.”
“I’d guess a serrated hunting knife,” Esko says.
“Have I missed anything?” I ask.
“I don’t think so.”
Something glints in the beam of my flashlight. I get down close to her. “What’s this stuff on her face?”
I point out three small streaks. “By her nose, on her cheek.”
“I don’t know,” Esko says.
“Think he spit on her?”
“It doesn’t look viscous enough for saliva.”
“It wouldn’t even be noticeable if she was white. Hard to see it as it is. Make sure you get a sample for testing. Anything else?”
Esko shakes his head no. He takes her hands, careful to keep from disturbing the snow lodged under her manicured fingernails, looks them over and puts plastic bags around them. He takes blood samples from various areas in the snow around the body, and a sample of the liquid on her face. “Listen,” he says, “I’m out of my depth, I’ve never handled anything like this. This is going to be international news and I’m afraid I’ll fuck it up.”
I appreciate his feelings. It’s been a long time since I conducted a difficult murder investigation. Plus, it’s near Christmas and four officers from our force of eight are on vacation.
We don’t even have an evening shift—we’re taking turns being on call at night. Even our dispatcher is on vacation. It’s an ideal time to commit a murder. A local would know this, and it bothers me.
“We have tire tracks,” I say, “and the body will yield a lot of evidence. We’ll solve this.”
We kneel in the snow and look at each other for a few seconds, both at a loss for words. From the pen outside the barn, a pregnant reindeer looks on with indifference. Aslak stands not far away, rolling a cigarette. I want this not to have happened. I want to be at home with Kate, to lay my hand on her belly and imagine our child growing inside it. I look across the snowfield. Aslak’s house is a shadow in the distance. Almost a year and a half ago, Kate and I met in his backyard.
The Saame people, Laplanders, suffer a lot of prejudice here, like Eskimos in Alaska. Every year on midsummer, Aslak throws a lavish party, invites friends, neighbors and the more prominent members of the community. Maybe it’s a way of proving to himself and everybody else how much he’s achieved despite the odds against him. Maybe it’s his way of saying, “Fuck you, I’m Saame and I’m richer than you are.” He has his own midsummer tradition: roasting a whole reindeer on a spit like other people roast wild boar. I’ve never seen anyone else do that.
Kate and I met at Aslak’s party. It was getting late, but this is the land of the midnight sun and in summer, especially after a few drinks, it’s easy to lose track of time because of the constant daylight. It feels like early evening all night long. I heard a voice speaking English and saw it belonged to a tall redhead across the lawn. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Kate was standing in a crowd, talking to a girl named Liisa, an assistant manager at Levi Center. Liisa and I had gone out a couple times a while back, but it never amounted to anything. I walked over.
They were drunk and giddy.
“Kari, this is Kate Hodges,” Liisa said. “She’s in Finland interviewing to be the new general manager of Levi Center. Kate, this is Kari Vaara. He’s the chief of police here. His name means Rock Danger.”
Kate burst out laughing. “Rock Danger, like a name in a bad movie?”
I had never thought about it. The idea made me laugh too. “It could mean that. Kari means rock, scar, shoal or reef. Vaara means hill, danger, risk or pitfall. So my name could be Reef Hill or Scar Pitfall. However you look at it, it sounds stupid in English. I promise it sounds better in Finnish.”
“You speak excellent English,” Kate said.
“Kari is a smart guy,” Liisa said. “He speaks Swedish and Russian too.”
“My Russian is weak,” I said.
“I was just telling Kate about midsummer,” Liisa said. “I explained that midsummer marks the summer solstice and is also Finnish Flag Day, that we have a tradition of going to sauna and having a big bonfire at midnight. Care to add anything?”
“Midsummer is the longest day of the year and a pagan festival of light,” I said. “It was Christianized into a celebration of the nativity of St. John the Baptist. That’s why in Finnish it’s called Juhannus. For pagans, it was a potent magical night, mostly for young women seeking men or wanting children or both. The burning of the bonfire is associated with beliefs concerning fertility, cleansing of the soul and the banishing of evil spirits.”
“Rock Danger,” Kate said, “you sound like an educated man.”
I smiled. “I’m a font of useless information.”
Kate pulled Liisa away a few steps. They whispered back and forth. I stood in the middle of a group of drunk people munching roasted reindeer and potato salad off paper plates, watched Kate and thought again how beautiful she was. She and Liisa finished their palaver and came back. “So this pagan thing,” Kate said. “Does it mean women can ask men out on midsummer?”
“I’m certain it does,” I said.
Alcohol had worked Kate’s courage up and, during their chat, Liisa had tried to teach her to speak a sentence in Finnish. “Komea mies,” she said, “lähtisitkö ulos ja pane minua syömään?”
Her pronunciation was strange, but what she said was clear enough. People around us burst out laughing. I felt my face turn red. She meant to say, “Handsome man, would you like to go out to dinner with me?” but what came out was something like, “Handsome man, would you like to go out and fuck me for dinner?”
Kate’s face turned red too. “What did I say wrong?” she asked.
Liisa whispered it to her.
Kate’s eyes fluttered like she was going to cry. She walked away from the people still laughing at her.
I went after her. She turned and looked at me, humiliated.
“I’d love to take you to dinner,” I said.
Then she saw the humor, managed a smile.
“They’re going to light the bonfire soon,” I said. “Want to go watch it with me?”
“That would be nice,” she said.
She took my hand, it surprised me. We started walking. “You limp,” she said. “How come?”
“Somebody shot me. How come you limp?”
We held hands and watched the bonfire in silence. Afterward, I asked Kate if she would like to come over to my house for a drink.
“Where do you live?” she asked.
“About a poronkusema from here.”
“How far is that?”
“A poronkusema is a Laplander measure of distance that means ‘reindeer piss.’ A reindeer can’t urinate when it pulls a sled, and it gets a clogged urinary tract if you don’t stop and let it pee once in a while. A poronkusema is about ten miles, around thirty minutes of riding on a sled.”
“You really are a font of useless information,” she said.
We went to my place. Six weeks later we were engaged. Nine months later we were married.
It’s hard to believe that this place, the site of an event that led to such happiness for me, is now the scene of such tragedy. I look down again at Sufia’s mangled corpse. “Esko . . . ”
I need to ask the question but I’m afraid to hear the answer. “How much of what happened do you think she was conscious for?”
“She’s such a mess that I can’t say without an autopsy. I’ve been wondering the same thing. Still, it could have been worse.”
He stands up and brushes the snow off his pants. “She could have lived through it.”
I look down at Sufia the snow angel. Her face changes and I imagine Kate naked and slaughtered, dead in a snowfield. The wave of sadness I felt earlier renews itself, and for the first time in my life I’m sorry that Finland has no death penalty.
What People are Saying About This
"SNOW ANGELS is a raw-edged noir thriller. Thompson keeps it foreign and darkly exotic, yet his protagonist, reminiscent of Spade, Marlowe, Hammer and Archer, is warmly recognizable. A classic American feel in the Arctic Circle-an incredible feat."--(Lou Manfredo, author of RIZZO'S WAR, Minotaur lead title Fall 2009)
"Taut and mesmerizing. James Thompson chills and fascinates with his tale of dark deeds set amid endless winter nights, proving in so many different ways that December in Finland can be deadly!"--(Lisa Gardner, New York Times-bestselling author of THE NEIGHBOR)
"This book is wonderful. It took me right in, dropped me into a strange new world, and kept me captivated from first to last page. James Thompson has done a masterful job with Snow Angels!"--(Michael Connelly, New York Times-bestselling author of THE SCARECROW)
“Thompson's style is on the dark end of the ‘Nordic Noir’ spectrum. The genre — with its stark and often violent police procedurals — has proved wildly successful…The marquee names have come from Sweden — think Stieg Larsson's Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, or Henning Mankell's Wallander series — but Norway's Jo Nesbo and Iceland's Arnaldur Indridason and Yrsa Sigurdardottir have also made their mark with international readers. Thompson stands out from that crowd by writing in English and telling Vaara's gritty narrative in the first person. ”The New York Times
“In his dozen years of living in Finland…Thompson has absorbed enough cold, dark atmosphere for a spot on the roster of top Nordic crime writers—Mankell, Nesbø, Indrioason and the like.”—The New York Post
“The laconic voice of Inspector Kari Vaara is at the same time dangerous and human, his world cold, barren, yet intriguingly exotic.”—Peter Høeg, New York Times bestselling author of Smilla’s Sense of Snow
Praise for the Inspector Vaara Novels
“The tone evokes Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, but the plot takes off fast, the themes are universal and James Thompson tells a nighttime tale as only a bartender can.”—Michael Simon, author of The Last Jew Standing
“The stark Nordic setting will appeal to fans of Scandinavian crime fiction…Will remind readers of Martin Cruz Smith’s Gorky Park.”—Library Journal
“Thompson’s portrait of Lapland in the depths of winter is starkly and realistically drawn…An outstanding series debut.”—Booklist (starred review)
“Intriguing glimpses of Finnish culture…Tangled small-town relationships and lust also fuel this noir-ish thriller.”—Publishers Weekly
“Stellar…Thompson elegantly threads Finland’s compelling national history with Vaara’s own demons in this taut, emotionally wrought novel.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Like the books of the late Stieg Larsson, Thompson’s reflect the gray cold of Nordic winters…But Thompson’s books move more quickly (and violently) than Larsson’s.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Impossible to put down…Essential reading for all fans of...Stieg Larsson.”—Booklist (starred review)
"SNOW ANGELS is a hardboiled American-style mystery, painted on a backdrop of a Finland winter, a climate of perpetual darkness and rampant alcoholism. It's the kind of world that brings out the worst in people. The tone evokes Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policemen's Union, but the plot takes off fast, the themes are universal, and James Thompson tells a nighttime tale as only a bartender can."--(Michael Simon, author of THE LAST JEW STANDING)
"The laconic voice of Inspector Kari Vaara is at the same time dangerous and human, his world cold, barren, yet intriguingly exotic, his story fast, brutal, yet told with a sort of laid-back calm."--(Peter Hoeg, author of SMILLA'S SENSE OF SNOW)
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
What made this book so good to me is that I needed to throw out what I ususally know about police thrillers and learn a whole new way of thinking. That is what happens in a place where it is virtually dark all the time during the winter, super cold, police do things that we would consider ultra corrupt, poor chain of evidence controls and the most gruesome killer only faces a maximum of 12 years in prison. Kari Vaara is a Finnish detective told to solve quickly a grisly murder of a Somalian actress. The woman was murdered in the style of the Black Dalhia of the United States. To top things off the main suspect is Seppo, the man who took Kari's wife Heli away from him several years ago (a conflict of interest that would cause a mistrial in the US). All this happens around the Christmas holidays and Kari is further pressured by his American wife who has had enough of the Finnish way of doing things and the long dark winters. She wants Kari to leave the Finnish police and move back to Colorado with her. As the book progresses we feel Kari's torment from all ends, including the haunting memories of Kari's sister, who perished in a skating accident while she was with Kari. As the case progresses Kari can't figure out if the killer was one or different combinations of multiple individuals. On top of it all, the darkness seems to set off more murders and a suicide. I never read a novel quite like this one and found it both fascinating and unsettling at the same time. The book cover calls the tale a Kari Vaara story so that implies that Kari will be back to do it again. I will look for future tales.
I started Snow Angels on a lazy Sunday morning. I finished Snow Angels the same night. Yes, it was that good. And a genre I love - mystery thrillers. It's newly released today from Penguin Canada. It is Kaamos in Finland - the darkest time of the year, just before Christmas. Inspector Kari Vaara is looking forward to Christmas with his newly pregnant, American wife. Instead, he is called out to a murder scene in the bitter cold. The victim is a beautiful Somali refugee who had become a minor movie star in Finland. The crime is horrific and seems both racially and sexually motivated. Vaara resists having another squad from Helsinki coming in to run the case. But has he bitten off more than he can handle? And that's just the beginning. The plot twists and turns. What seemed to be an obvious solve took a sharp left turn more than once, keeping me guessing. Vaara himself is an interesting character. He is highly intelligent, but sometimes makes a call based on emotion, with repercussions. The subplot involving his wife's unhappiness with Finland lets us discover Vaara as a human, not just a cop. And his wife's unhappiness brings another character to the book - the dark, the bleakness, the isolation that is Finland in the dead of winter. Thompson writes what he knows. The descriptions of the cold and the lives of those enduring that cold made me shiver. (-40 degrees) Read an excerpt of Snow Angels. Caught up with the Steig Larsson? Definitely read Snow Angels. Fans of Michael Connelly take note - he has provided a cover blurb for Snow Angels - "Masterful". James Thompson's story is interesting as well. He was born and raised in Kentucky, but has lived in Finland for 10 years now. He is fluent in both Swedish and Finnish. Snow Angels is his first English book. An author who is now firmly on my must read list. Cannot wait for #2 in the Vaara series!
It is called Kaamos.two weeks of darkness and soul-numbing cold that falls on a Finland area, a hundred miles into the Arctic Circle. Some get through it with vices like cheap Russian alcohol and some sink into deep depression. This year it drove someone crazy enough to commit murder. When the body of a Somali woman is found dead in the snow, it is up to Inspector Kari Vaara to find her killer. This won't be easy in an ugly place where darkness hides secrets and silence is a way of life. This book was completely overtaking! I started and never put it down. It is very hard to leave the setting once you start reading. It is a very dark, bleak, raw and in your face but, almost in a "that's just the way it is here" kind of way! I enjoyed the crime novel aspect of the book. It will definitely make you feel something.good or bad. Reviewed by Catherine Peterson for Suspense Magazine
Vaara promises to join the ranks of memorable serial detectives. His character has depth and a history to support it. He does come dangerously close to tedium as he generates a veritable limitless range of suspects and scenarios to explain the murder of a beautiful "sometime actress" apparently vacationing in Finland. But the setting is so intriguing and the minor characters are so well drawn that they more than make up for minor flaws, and ultimately the plot unfolds well.
The place in Finland where this story takes place is in the way north of the country within the Arctic circle. Lapland is an area that contains parts of Sweden, Russia, Norway and Finland. It's a way of life most of us are unfamiliar with, almost endless darkness during half the year. The main character's wife is having her own problems with it. The story involves the murder of a Somali women. It was very well told. As I have relatives that have Finnish roots, it was so nice to see names that I am familiar with. I will read the next book as well.
For those who enjoy a great Scandinavian mystery, James Thompson has started a terrific atmospheric Finlander mystery with SNOW ANGELS. Thompson was born in America but has lived in Finland for ten years. He makes thorough use of the differences between culture, weather, personalities and murder statistics in Finland and USA in this deceptively psychological mystery. Inspector Kari Vaara is newly married and looking forward to Christmas, when he's confronted with a particularly brutal murder of a beautiful young starlet. Problems arise because she is one of the relatively new refugees from Somalia. The murder was sexually brutal, perhaps racially motivated, and is culturally charged. Worse yet, Vaara's ex wife's lover seems to be the prime suspect. Emotions flair in a country where emotions are usually kept inside. Clues begin to add up quickly, but soon there are too many suspects who are powerful and/or too close to Vaara's personal life. Relationships with family and co-workers make things still more complicated. Thankfully, there are already two more books in this series because after reading this book, mystery fans will find they have a new favorite author.
I was pleasantly surprised by the continuous excitement and suspense in Snow Angels. Thompson did an excellent job with twists and turns--would recommend it to all.
Glad I didnt miss this one
¿Endless night can drive anyone to murder.¿When I think of Finland, I see a cold, bright and friendly place. The country in these pages, is a dark, inhospitable place, a frigid alien world, where the sun refuses to rise, for months at a time, leading to a staggering homicide rate.This is the first book in a Scandinavian crime series, featuring a tough cop named Kari Vaara. A beautiful Somali actress has been found, brutally murdered. Inspector Vaara investigates and soon finds himself, plunging into a cesspool, of hate, revenge and retribution. This well-written police procedural, might not be for the faint of heart, but if you are willing to jump aboard this exceptional thriller, it will take you to some very dark, unexpected places. Bring ear-muffs and a strong stomach.
Except for some insights into aspects of Finnish society and culture, this book did not have many redeeming elements. Poorly written, so many short sentences! The characters were shallow, the plot poor. Plus the murder was unnecessarily gruesome.
I rated this book higher than I otherwise would have because I felt I learned a lot about Finland and the Finns. Kari, the hero cop, was struggling with too many suspects, and I was too. What compounded the problem was Finnish names - something I'm used to from a steady diet of Scandinavian books - but here I had no clue as to gender and that made it harder than usual. Then Kari identified 4 potential crime scenarios, each with multiple suspects, and multiple variations. ???? The conclusion didn't seem real world at all, but despite all this I still might read book 2 in this series, presuming there is a book 2.
A bit hard to follow and relied a little too much on coincidence, but in all a very good book. Will read this author again.
In northern Finland above the Arctic Circle, the snowfields of a rural reindeer farm are the scene of a gruesome murder. The victim is a minor celebrity, a gorgeous Somali immigrant film actress. The chief of the small local police force could bring in the national police but instead keeps the case and works with his Christmas-holiday depleted staff while balancing life with his newly-pregnant American wife, his dysfunctional birth family, and, for that matter, his completely dysfunctional town: it's Kaamos, the pre-Christmas polar night, when there is darkness 24 hours a day.While there are many suspects and more bodies to come, overhanging all is the character of a land where people are often driven to drink, violence or suicide by the lack of light. It pervades the book and is an extraordinary addition to the ambiance. I found myself depressed just reading and imaging the characters' lives, thinking about how humans came to live in such a place over the eons while slowly moving outwards from the warmer areas of the world. Along with a gripping mystery which kept me glued to the pages, the ever-present darkness of the landscape pushed me to finish and get my mind into the sunlight again, even though I was reading in a sunlit room myself. The author is an American who has lived in Finland for the last decade, but while there is an American flavor to plot, the culture and lifestyle of Finland is a strong presence. I'll certainly be looking for a sequel, but maybe I'll read the next one in the summer. Highly recommended.
a very intriguing debut. I'm not sure if the book interested me more because of the story, the characters, or the insight into Finland, a country I know virtually nothing about. Whatever the case it added up to very interesting read. It will equally interesting to see where this author goes from here. Right now he reminds me of a Finnish Greg Iles.
This book leaves me with very mixed feelings. It is a page turner and I could not put it down. On the other hand, I felt the graphic violence and sexual crimes were used in almost a gimimicky way to keep the reader's interest. I didn't think that character development was accomplished to truly understand motivations. The book did leave me wondering about Finland and their true feelings about immigration and the long winters, drinking and suicide. I do think that books deserve kudos for making a reader want to know more about a situation(s). This book does make a reader think about other cultures and what is happening within it.
I like the book for the input on finnish culture it gave us. I was a bit disappointed by the story line... The author was trying to hard to keep us guessing by shifting the blame on every character without ever disputing anything. If it wouldn't have been for the last few pages, this crime could have gone unsolved....
In spite of the fact that my coworker noted many critics did not like this novel, I read it anyway. And guess what? I liked it. A lot. I understand the criticism, some parts of the plot were a bit far fetched, but it didn't bother me. Nor did the fact that it was a Finnish mystery, written by an American in English and in first person. It's the story of a detective, his American wife and the murder he stumbles into. The murders increase, as does the detective's personal connection to the dead. I found the story to be enthralling and chilling and quite fun to read. But then again, I love these atmospheric Scandinavian mysteries.
This is the first book in a new series featuring Inspector Kari Vaara. What sets this book apart from other detective novels is that it takes place in Finland. It also takes place during the bleakest time of the year when it is constantly dark and extremely cold. Anyone who finds regular winters long and difficult will be able to appreciate how much worse this time of year can be. Just when I thought I had the plot figured out it changed! Needless to say there are enough surprising developments to keep your interest. I enjoyed this book and think you will as well.
Unfortunately for James Thompson's Snow Angels, I read The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest right before attempting Snow Angels. Having enjoyed Larsson's depiction of Sweden enormously, I was eager to sample a Finnish mystery. Try as I might, I just couldn't get into Snow Angels, particularly after the characterizations Larsson has given us. To make matters worse, Thompson's female characters are stereotypical and uninteresting. His wife is tall, gorgeous, capable, endlessly patient and sensual and will to wait and pick up the pieces when the hero staggers home after solving the mystery and decimating the bad guys. I may try to go back and give this one another try but for now I am giving it two stars and can't wholeheartedly recommend it.
This book is difficult to put down (but is a fast enough read that you could finish it in a couple sittings). The setting is interesting and well-detailed and the characters feel real, even though they are not "normal". I don't know how accurate it is in terms of Finnish life, but the story portrays a bleak, drunken, depressing and depraved community. Very bleak and depraved, and a lot of bad things are going on in this story - but the overall sense is that justice prevails.The characters names are Finnish and thus are unfamiliar - the gender of nearly all the characters is not distinguishable by their names alone - which makes it more difficult than usual to remember who each character is. But the mystery keeps you wondering and the progression of the story makes you want to continue reading. The story is wrapped up nicely, but the main character is well enough fleshed out (and sufficiently interesting) that a future novel starring him is completely feasible. The final 3 pages or so were a "recap" of the plot which seemed to take away some of the "oomph"; I'm not sure why this recap is there since it's completely unnecessary.I will read more by this author and likely more with this detective - the setting is foreign enough to be surprising, but realistic enough to be understandable.
I started Snow Angels on a lazy Sunday morning. I finished Snow Angels the same night. Yes, it was that good. And a genre I love - mystery thrillers. It's newly released today from Penguin Canada.It is Kaamos in Finland - the darkest time of the year, just before Christmas. Inspector Kari Vaara is looking forward to Christmas with his newly pregnant, American wife. Instead, he is called out to a murder scene in the bitter cold. The victim is a beautiful Somali refugee who had become a minor movie star in Finland. The crime is horrific and seems both racially and sexually motivated. Vaara resists having another squad from Helsinki coming in to run the case. But has he bitten off more than he can handle?And that's just the beginning. The plot twists and turns. What seemed to be an obvious solve took a sharp left turn more than once, keeping me guessing. Vaara himself is an interesting character. He is highly intelligent, but sometimes makes a call based on emotion, with repercussions. The subplot involving his wife's unhappiness with Finland lets us discover Vaara as a human, not just a cop. And his wife's unhappiness brings another character to the book - the dark, the bleakness, the isolation that is Finland in the dead of winter. Thompson writes what he knows. The descriptions of the cold and the lives of those enduring that cold made me shiver. (-40 degrees)Read an excerpt of Snow Angels.Caught up with Steig Larsson? Definitely read Snow Angels. Fans of Michael Connelly take note - he has provided a cover blurb for Snow Angels - "Masterful".James Thompson's story is interesting as well. He was born and raised in Kentucky, but has lived in Finland for 10 years now. He is fluent in both Swedish and Finnish. Snow Angels is his first English book. An author who is now firmly on my must read list. Cannot wait for #2 in the Vaara series!
Snow Angels is a dark mystery/thriller written by an American but set in a small skiing town a hundred miles north of the Arctic circle in Finland during the cold winter darkness. Kari Vaara is in charge of a small police station when the mutilated body of a Somali film actress is found on a reindeer farm in his jurisdiction. Suspicion quickly falls on her Finnish lover who, coincidentally, is also the man his ex-wife left him for some thirteen years earlier.Thompson has lived in Finland and describes the land and culture with an outsider's eye, which is to say, he is attuned to what is unusual and noteworthy. He uses Vaara's wife, an American, to voice criticism of Finnish culture, a touch that felt very real to me. Unfortunately, Vaara himself sounded American in places, Finnish in others. That quibble aside, this book has a wealth of details about life in Finland, from offshoot religious groups to the importance of alcohol in daily life.That said, the mystery itself defied reason. It had its moments, but didn't hold together, especially the unbelievable ending. This was clearly a debut novel, but Thompson shows signs of being able to develop an interesting series, he just isn't there yet.
Wow did this book get to me at the right time. A thriller set in Finland in the middle of December¿dark and depression and cabin fever. Reading this in the middle of December when I am so sick of the darkness and the cold ¿ perfect timing.That aside, ¿Snow Angels¿ is just a plain old good read. It¿s a thriller, with maybe a few too many gory details for my taste, but one that has a very strong, compelling main character. Inspector Kari Vaara is the antithesis of the stock ¿hard bitten detective¿ that turns me off most books in this genre. To the point where after discovering a brutal murder, his emotional reaction draws the reader even closer.¿I¿ve seen murder before, bad car wrecks, nothing like this.¿¿¿She looks ate me, reads my pain. I don¿t want her to see it but don¿t know how to hide it. ¿I just don¿t get how one human being could do something like that to another.¿I suppose it¿s odd when talking about murder to say that it is refreshing to read that, but it¿s certainly different and far more believable that the usual hard-bitten detective that most books usually trot out.Part of what makes Vaara so interesting is his heritage, the details of which I found fascinating. I know next to nothing about Finland/Finnish culture and there are many details of it included in the book. Whether or not they are 100% true, they certainly set an interesting stage¿one totally different than the culture that I am used to.¿Next to medicine, law enforcement is the most admired profession in Finland. The national police force is one of the best in the world and almost free of corruption. As an inspector, I¿m one of the most respected members of the community.¿ As envious as I am of this, it does my jaded heart good to believe that might be true.The writing in clean and crisp and my major complaint is that I read this book too quickly. According to my copy of ¿Snow Angels¿ ¿ it appears that this may be the first book of a series ¿ so I will make note of James Thompson¿s name and look forward to his next book.
Despite a plot that stretches the bounds of credulity, Snow Angels by James Thompson fields a solid first entry for a new police procedural series starring Inspector Kari Vaara. It's kaamos, the darkest time of the year above the Arctic Circle in Finland, when Inspector Vaara is called to the scene of a brutal murder of a B-movie star, Sufia Elmi, a beautiful black Somali immigrant. Besides the sexual sadism suggested by the victim's injuries, Vaara must also immediately consider whether the murder is racially motivated. Blacks in the Arctic Circle are rare, and the silent racism practiced by Finns can't be ruled out as a motive for murder. Also complicating Vaara's investigation is the discovery that the victim was the mistress of Seppo Niemi, the man who a decade ago had stolen the Inspector's ex-wife, Heli, away while he was hospitalized with injuries sustained in the line of duty. Although Vaara is happily remarried to Kate, an American resort manager working in Finland, the history between two men leaves the Inspector open to accusations of bias and harassment. As Vaara works through various theories for his growing list of suspects, which includes his own ex-wife and father, he finds it difficult to know if his personal feelings are clouding his judgment. When the son of Valterri, one of his officers, hangs himself and later his ex-wife Heli is found murdered, the Inspector must reconsider the possible motives for Suvi's death. For Vaara the location of Heli's death also raises the ghost of his sister, Suvi, who had drowned in the same spot while skating with her brother as their father was ice-fishing nearby. Impending fatherhood creates further angst for the harried Inspector as he tries to comfort his pregnant wife who is suffering from the depression common among Finns during the Arctic winter, when it's constantly dark and constantly cold.Finland in winter is not a country for the faint of heart and Thompson pulls no punches in his depiction of life in the small communities of Lapland, where beauty and brutality coexist in eye and mind of the native inhabitant. In Vaara, however, the author also gives us a very complex, three-dimensional character who knows his roots and values the meaning of family. These strengths of setting and character go far in overcoming the overdone conclusion to the murders of Sufia and Heli. Snow Angels is an excellent beginning to what I hope are many more Inspector Vaara investigations.
In what can be described as noir-procedural, James Thompson introduces Inspector Vaara, a Police Chief limping among the villages and ski resorts of northern Finland. Snow Angels is the first novel of an expected series, and it opens with the mutilation murder of a Somali-born star of Finnish B-movies.As the mystery begins to wend its way into Vaara's personal life, the bodies pile up and his home-life suffers. He never seems to take action, letting events roll over him until he is forced to act, then inevitably makes the wrong decision. He is blind to the simple explanations, instead choosing to believe his own concoction of wealthy conspirators and international intrigue. In the final pages, little he has done has helped solve the mystery.Thompson writes all of this in the present tense, which I presume is meant to make it feel more immediate, but just feels more like a gimmick than anything else. Plus, it creates confusion: "I've still never figured out if [he] is a good actor, smarter than he seems, or if he really is the complete dolt I take him for." When did this thought happen? Is it at the time of the events happening in the next sentence, or is it in retrospect, after the case has been closed?But, Thompson is excellent at conveying a sense of place. His Finland in December is dark, depressing, and drunk, and through Vaara's American wife, the reader understands exactly how forbidding this place is to outsiders. It's rare for a novel set in Europe to feel foreign, but Thompson accomplishes this quite well.Overall, Snow Angels was uneven and unbelievable, but Thompson shows some promise.