{"product_id":"the-return-isbn-9781400030330","title":"The Return","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eInternational Bestseller \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChief Inspector Van Veeteren is forced to unlock the secrets of a nearly perfect  murder in this taut psychological thriller.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn a rainy April day, a body—or what  is left of it—is found by a young girl. Wrapped in a blanket with no hands, feet,  or head, it signals the work of a brutal, methodical killer. The victim, Leopold  Verhaven, was a track star before he was convicted for killing two of his ex-lovers.  He consistently proclaimed his innocence, however, and was killed on the day of his  return to society. This latest murder is more than a little perplexing and Chief  Inspector Van Veeteren is determined to discover the truth, even if it means taking  the law into his own hands.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The mystery of a headless corpse . . . brings insight to the puzzle of human behavior.”  —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Foreboding. . . . A number of crime writers try  to explore morality and motivation. . . .  Nesser achieves more than most.” —\u003ci\u003eDeseret  News\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Every bit enjoyably creepy as his previous offering.\" —\u003ci\u003eEntertainment World\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mystery fans should rejoice.” —\u003ci\u003eRichmond Times-Dispatch\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.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was the first and the last day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe steel door was locked behind him and the metallic click hovered for a while in the cool morning air. He took four paces, paused and put down his suitcase. Closed his eyes, then opened them again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA thin morning mist hung over the deserted car park, the sun was just rising over the nearby town and the only sign of life was the flocks of birds swooping over the fields that surrounded the cluster of buildings. He stood there for a few seconds and indulged his senses. The scent of newly harvested corn wafted into his nostrils. The dazzling light quivered over the asphalt. In the distance, a mile or so to the west, he could hear the persistent hum of traffic on the freeway that carved a path through the open countryside. The sudden realization of the world’s true dimensions gave him a moment of vertigo. He had not set foot outside these walls for twelve years; his cell had been seven feet by ten, and it dawned on him that it was a long way to the town and the railroad station. An incredibly long way, perhaps impossibly far on a day like this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had been offered a taxi, that was normal practice, but he declined. Didn’t want to take a shortcut into the world at this early stage. Wanted to feel the burden and the pain and the freedom in every step he took this morning. If he were to have a chance of succeeding in the task he had set himself, he understood what he needed to overcome. Overcome and get the better of.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe picked up his suitcase and started walking. It didn’t weigh much. A few changes of underwear. A pair of shoes, a shirt, pants and a toiletry bag. Four or five books and a letter. He had tried on the clothes he was wearing and signed for them at the equipment store the previous day. Typical prison clothing. Black synthetic-leather shoes. Blue pants. Pale gray cotton shirt and a thin windcheater. As far as the locals were concerned he would be as easily identifiable as a Roman Catholic priest or a chimney sweep. One of the many who wandered into the railroad station carrying a cardboard suitcase, eager to leave. Having spent time out here in The Big Gray between the municipal forest and the motorway. Having been so near and yet so far away. One of them. The easily identifiable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Big Gray. That’s what they called it around here. For him it was nameless—just a brief stretch of time and hardly any space. And it was a long time since he’d been worried about other people staring at him; a long time since he’d been forced to turn his back on that kind of superficial and pointless contact. He had left his former life without hesitation; there was no alternative, and he’d never longed to return. Never.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou could say he had never really been a part of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sun rose. He had to stop again after a hundred yards. Wriggled out of his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. Two cars overtook him. A couple of warders, presumably, or some other staff. Prison people in any case. Nobody else ventured out here. There was only The Big Gray here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe set off once more. Tried to whistle but couldn’t hit upon a tune. It occurred to him that he ought to have sunglasses: Maybe he could buy a pair when he got to town. He shaded his eyes with his hand, squinted and scrutinized the townscape through the dazzling haze. At that very moment church bells started ringing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe glanced at his wristwatch. Eight. He wouldn’t be able to catch the first train. There again, he hadn’t really wanted to: better to sit in the station café over a decent breakfast and today’s paper. No rush. Not this first day, at least. He would carry out the task he’d set himself, but the precise timing depended on factors he knew nothing about as yet, naturally enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after. If all these years had taught him anything, anything at all, it was precisely this. To be patient.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePatience.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe continued walking purposefully toward town. Took possession of the deserted, sun-drenched streets. The shady alleys leading from the square. The worn cobbles. Strolled slowly along the path by the brown, muddy river where listless ducks drifted in a state of timeless inertia. This was in itself something remarkable—walking and walking without coming up against a wall or a fence. He paused on one of the bridges and watched a family of swans huddled together on a muddy islet, in the shade cast by chestnut trees on the riverbank. Observed the trees as well, their branches that seemed to stretch down as much as upward. Toward the water as well as the sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe world, he thought. Life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA spotty youth stamped his ticket with obvious distaste. Single ticket, yes, of course. He gave him a look, then headed for the newsstand. Bought two newspapers and some men’s magazine or other featuring large, naked breasts, without displaying the slightest embarrassment. Next, a pot of coffee in the café, freshly made sandwiches with jam and cheese. A cigarette or two. Another hour to go before the train, and it was still morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first morning of his second return, and the whole world was full of time. Innocence and time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHours later he was nearly there. He’d been alone in the carriage for the last few miles. Looked out through the scratched, dirty window; watched fields, forests, towns and people marching past—and suddenly everything fell into place. Took on their own specific significance. Buildings, roads, the subtle interplay of the countryside. The old water tower. The soccer fields. The factory chimneys and people’s back gardens. Gahn’s Furniture Manufacturers. The square. The high school. The viaduct and the houses along Main Street. The train ground to a halt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs he disembarked he noticed that the platform had a new roof of pale yellow plastic. The station building had been renovated. New signs as well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eApart from that it was just as before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe took a cab. Left the town behind. A quarter of an hour’s drive with nothing said, following the shore of the lake that sometimes vanished, sometimes glittered beyond cornfields and copses of deciduous trees, and then he was there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You can stop after the church. I’ll walk the last bit.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe paid and got out. There was something vaguely familiar about the driver’s wave as he drove off. He waited until the car had made a U-turn and disappeared behind the dairy. Then he picked up his suitcase and the plastic carrier bag of groceries and set out on the last lap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sun was high in the sky now. Sweat was running down his face and between his shoulder blades. It was farther than he remembered, and more uphill.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut then, it was twelve years since the last time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe house was also twelve years older, but it was still there. She had cleared a path as far as the steps, as promised, but no more. The borderline between garden and forest seemed to be blurred, birch saplings had invaded, grass and undergrowth were three or four feet high along the house walls. The roof of the barn was sagging, the roof tiles seemed to be rotting away, an upstairs windowpane was broken, but it didn’t bother him. Insofar as he had expected anything, it all came more or less up to expectations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe key was hanging under the gutter, as it should have been. He unlocked the door. Had to give it a heave with his shoulder in order to open it. It seemed to have swelled a bit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt smelled stuffy, but not excessively so. No rot, no mice, apparently. There was a note on the kitchen table.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wished him all the best, it said. That was all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe put his suitcase and the plastic carrier on the sofa under the clock and looked around. Started to walk round the house and open windows. He paused in front of the mirror in the bedroom and examined his own image.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had aged. His face was gray and hollow. His lips thinner and more severe. His neck looked puffy and wrinkled. His shoulders lopsided and somehow dejected.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFifty-seven years old, he thought. Twenty-four behind bars. No wonder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe turned his back on himself and started looking for a gun. He had to have a gun, no matter what, so he’d better find one right away. Before he started having second thoughts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs evening approached he sat in the kitchen with the letter. Read it through one more time, his cup of coffee standing on the flowery tablecloth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt wasn’t long. One and a half pages, almost. He closed his eyes and tried to see her in his mind’s eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer dark eyes, marked already by death, on the other side of the grill. Her hands wringing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd her story.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, there was no other way.","brand":"Vintage Crime\/Black Lizard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304776683749,"sku":"NP9781400030330","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400030330.jpg?v=1767741221","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-return-isbn-9781400030330","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}