{"product_id":"minds-eye-isbn-9780307387226","title":"Mind's Eye","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eInternational Bestseller \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHåkan 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“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.” —\u003ci\u003eRichmond Times-Dispatch\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Snappish, sardonic, unsentimental,  depressed, and quite possibly psychic, Van Veeteren is the most appealingly unlovable  hero since TV's crabby physician House.” —\u003ci\u003eO, The Oprah Magazine\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“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.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Sunday Times \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003cb\u003eMind's Eye\u003c\/b\u003e satisfies on every level. It is an intelligently written, cleverly plotted  tale, populated with believable characters. . . . Nesser was superb right out of  the gate.” —\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003eHåkan Nesser\u003c\/b\u003e was born in 1950 in Sweden. In 1993 he was awarded the Swedish Crime Writers' Academy Prize for new authors for his novel \u003ci\u003eMind's Eye\u003c\/i\u003e, and is the only author to have won the Academy's best novel award three times: in 1994 for \u003ci\u003eBorkmann's Point\u003c\/i\u003e; in 1996 for \u003ci\u003eWoman with Birthmark\u003c\/i\u003e; and in 2007 for \u003ci\u003eA Rather Different Story\u003c\/i\u003e. In 1999 he was awarded the Crime Writers of Scandinavia's Glass Key Award for the best crime novel of the year for \u003ci\u003eCarambole\u003c\/i\u003e. His novels have been published to wide acclaim in twenty-five countries.He woke up and was unable to remember his name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis eyes were throbbing. Threatening to grow out of their sockets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s like being born, he thought. I’m not a person. Merely a mass of suffering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe room was in darkness. He groped around with his free hand, the one that was not numb and tingling underneath him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, there was a bedside table. A telephone and a glass. A newspaper. An alarm clock.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe hands were slightly luminous. He recognized them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwenty past eight. Presumably in the morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe still had no idea who he was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe 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?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJohn? Janos?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, but something like that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps it was not something to look forward to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing else mattered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was locked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe leaned awkwardly forward. Put his hands on his knees to support himself, and checked the indicator on the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRed. As he’d thought. It was occupied.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe could feel the bile rising.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Open . . .” he tried to shout, but could produce no more than a croak. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Open up!” he tried again, and this time managed to produce the right sounds, almost. To stress the seriousness of his situation he belted several times with his clenched fists.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo response. Not a sound. Whoever was in there obviously had no intention of letting him in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was a sudden surge from his stomach. Or pos- sibly from even lower down . . . It was obviously a matter of seconds now. He staggered back along the hall. Into the kitchen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis time it seemed more familiar than ever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is definitely my home, he thought as he vomited into the sink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith the aid of a screwdriver he succeeded in unlocking the bathroom door. He had a distinct feeling that it was not the first time he’d done this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m sorry, but I really had to . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe entered the room and just as he switched on the light, he became quite clear about who he was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe could also identify the woman lying in the bathtub.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer name was Eva Ringmar and she was his wife of three months.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer body was strangely twisted. Her right arm hung over the edge at an unnatural angle. The well-manicured fingernails reached right down to the floor. Her dark hair was floating on the water. Her head was facedown, and as the tub was full to the brim, there could be no doubt that she was dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis own name was Mitter. Janek Mattias Mitter. A teacher of history and philosophy at the Bunge High School in Maardam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnown informally as J.M.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter these insights he vomited again, this time into the lavatory. Whereupon he took two more tablets out of the bottle and telephoned the police.","brand":"Vintage Crime\/Black Lizard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304872235237,"sku":"NP9780307387226","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307387226.jpg?v=1767732728","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/minds-eye-isbn-9780307387226","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}