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Zusatztext “Lean! atmospheric and full of existential uncertainty. . . . Nesser isn't interested in life's pretty offerings. His detectives expect the worst because they have seen the world go wrong too often.” — Richmond Times-Dispatch “Snappish! sardonic! unsentimental! depressed! and quite possibly psychic! Van Veeteren is the most appealingly unlovable hero since TV's crabby physician House.” — O! The Oprah Magazine “In a class of its own. . . . This stunning novel by one of Sweden's foremost crime writers might have been written as a script for Alfred Hitchcock.” — The Sunday Times (London) “ Mind's Eye satisfies on every level. It is an intelligently written! cleverly plotted tale! populated with believable characters. . . . Nesser was superb right out of the gate.” — BookPage Informationen zum Autor Håkan Nesser Klappentext International Bestseller Håkan Nesser is firmly established as one of the world's bestselling crime novelists. And now the novel that introduced Chief Inspector Van Veeteren is available for the first time in English. The swift conviction left Van Veeteren uneasy: Janek Mitter woke one morning with a brutal hangover and his wife dead in the bathtub. With only the flimsiest defense, he is found guilty and imprisoned in a mental institution. But when Mitter is murdered in his bed, Van Veeteren regrets not following his gut and launches an investigation into the two murders. As the chief inspector delves deeper, the twisted root of these violent murders will shock even him. He woke up and was unable to remember his name. His pains were legion. Shafts of fire whirled around in his head and throat, his stomach and chest. He tried to swallow, but it remained an attempt. His tongue was glued to his palate. Burning, smoldering. His eyes were throbbing. Threatening to grow out of their sockets. It’s like being born, he thought. I’m not a person. Merely a mass of suffering. The room was in darkness. He groped around with his free hand, the one that was not numb and tingling underneath him. Yes, there was a bedside table. A telephone and a glass. A newspaper. An alarm clock. He picked it up, but halfway it slipped through his fingers and fell onto the floor. He fumbled around, took hold of it again, and held it up, close to his face. The hands were slightly luminous. He recognized them. Twenty past eight. Presumably in the morning. He still had no idea who he was. ... He didn’t think this had happened before. He had certainly woken up and not known where he was. Or what day it was. But his name . . . had he ever forgotten his name? John? Janos? No, but something like that. It was there, somewhere in the background, not only his name but everything. . . . Life and lifestyle and extenuating circumstances. Lying there waiting for him. Behind a thin membrane that would have to be pierced, something that had not woken up yet. But he was not really worried. He would know soon enough. Perhaps it was not something to look forward to. The pain behind his eyes suddenly got worse. Possibly the strain of thinking had caused it; but it was there, whatever. White hot and excruciating. A scream of flesh. Nothing else mattered. The kitchen was to the left and seemed familiar. He found the pills without difficulty; he was becoming increasingly sure that this was his home. No doubt everything would become clear at any moment. He went back into the hall. Kicked against a bottle standing in the shadow cast by a bookcase. It rolled away over the parquet floor and ended up under the radiator. He shuffled to the bathroom. Pressed down the handle. It was locked. He leaned awkwardly forward. Put his hands on his knees to support himself, and checked the ...
