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Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8) [Anglais] [Broché]

Jo Nesbo
4.8 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (5 commentaires client)
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Format Kindle EUR 6,49  
Relié, Séquence inédite EUR 20,08  
Relié EUR 24,85  
Broché EUR 9,27  
Broché, 12 septembre 2013 EUR 13,25  
Broché EUR 10,54  
CD, Livre audio, Version intégrale EUR 34,81  

Description de l'ouvrage

12 septembre 2013

The police urgently need Harry Hole

A killer is stalking Oslo's streets. Police officers are being slain at the scenes of crimes they once investigated, but failed to solve. The murders are brutal, the media reaction hysterical.

But this time, Harry can't help anyone

For years, detective Harry Hole has been at the centre of every major criminal investigation in Oslo. His dedication to his job and his brilliant insights have saved the lives of countless people. But now, with those he loves most facing terrible danger, Harry can't protect anyone.

Least of all himself.

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Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8) + Cockroaches: An early Harry Hole case + Phantom: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 7)
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Descriptions du produit


Chapter 5

Darkness and the temperature had fallen, and a pale moon was shining in through the window of Stian Barelli’s room when he heard his mother’s voice from the living room downstairs.

“It’s for you, Stian!”

He had heard their landline ringing and hoped it wasn’t for him. He put down the Wii controller. He was twelve under par with three holes left to play and thus very well on the way to qualifying for the Masters. He was playing Rick Fowler, as he was the only golfer in the Tiger Woods Masters who was cool and anywhere close to his own age, twenty-one. And they both liked Eminem and Rise Against and wearing orange. Of course Rick Fowler could afford his own flat whereas Stian still lived at home. But it was only temporary, until he got a scholarship to go to university in Alaska. All semi-decent downhill skiers went there if they got good results in the Nordic Junior Ski Championship and so on. Of course, no one became a better skier from going there, but so what? Women, wine and skis. What could be better. Perhaps the odd exam if there was time. The qualification could lead to an OK job. Money for his own flat. A life that was better than this, sleeping in the slightly too short bed under posters of Bode Miller and Aksel Lund Svindal, eating Mum’s rissoles and obeying Dad’s rules, training mouthy brats who according to their snow-blind parents had the talent to be a Kjetil André Aamodt or a Lasse Kjus. Operating the ski lifts in Tryvannskleiva for a wage they wouldn’t bloody dare give child workers in India. And that was how Stian knew it was the chairman of the Ski Club on the phone now. He was the only person Stian knew who avoided ringing people on their mobiles because it was a bit more expensive, and who preferred to force them to run downstairs in prehistoric houses that still had landlines.

Stian took the receiver his mother held out for him.


“Hi, Stian, Bakken here.” Bakken meant slope, and it really was his name. “I’ve been told the Kleiva lift’s running.”

“Now?” Stian said, looking at his watch. 11:15 at night. Closing time was at nine.

“Could you nip up and see what’s going on?”


“Unless you’re extremely busy, of course.”

Stian ignored the sarcasm in the chairman’s intonation. He knew he’d had two disappointing seasons and that the chairman didn’t think it was down to lack of talent but to the large amounts of time Stian did his best to fill with general idleness.

“I haven’t got a car,” Stian said.

“You can use mine,” his mother chipped in. She hadn’t gone away;
she was standing next to him with her arms crossed.
“Sorry, Stian, but I heard that,” the chairman commented laconically. “The Heming skateboarders must have broken in. I suppose they think it’s funny.”

It took Stian ten minutes to drive the winding road up to Tryvann Tower. The TV mast was a 118-metre-long javelin drilled into the ground at the top of Oslo’s north-western mountains.

He came to a halt in the snow-covered car park and noted that the only other vehicle there was a red Golf. He took his skis from the roof box, put them on and skated past the main building and up to where the main chairlift, Tryvann Ekspress, marked the top of the skiing facilities. From there he could see down to the lake and the smaller Kleiva lift with T-bars. Even though there was light from the moon it was too dark to check whether the bars were moving, but he could hear it. The hum of the machinery down below.

And as he set off, skiing in long, lazy curves, it struck him how strangely still it was up here at night. It was as if the first hour after they closed was still filled with the echoes of screams of pleasure, girls’ exaggerated whines of terror, boys’ testosterone-filled cries for attention, steel edges cutting into hard-packed snow and ice. Even when they switched off the floodlights the light seemed to hang in the air for a while. But then, gradually, it became quieter. And darker. And even quieter. Until the silence filled all the hollows in the terrain, and the darkness crept out from the forest. And it was as though Tryvann became a different place, a place which even for Stian, who knew it like the back of his hand, was so unfamiliar it might as well have been another planet. A cold, dark and uninhabited planet.
The lack of light meant he had to ski by feeling and try to predict how the snow and the ground would roll and pitch beneath the skis. But that was his special talent, which meant he always did best when there was bad visibility, heavy snow, mist, flat light: he could feel what he couldn’t see, he had that kind of clairvoyance some skiers just have and others—most of them—don’t. He caressed the snow, moving slowly to prolong the enjoyment. Then he was down and pulled up in front of the ski-lift hut.

The door had been smashed in.

There were splinters in the snow, and the door gaped wide open. It was only then that Stian realised he was alone. That it was the middle of the night, that at this moment he was in a deserted area where a crime had just been committed. Probably only a prank, but nevertheless. He could not be entirely sure. Sure it was only a prank. Sure he was on his own.

“Hello!” Stian shouted above the hum of the engine and rattle of the T-bars coming and going on the buzzing wire above him. And regretted it at once. The echo returned from the mountainside with the sound of his own fear. He was afraid. Because the brain had not stopped churning at “alone” and “crime,” it had carried on. Back to the old story. It wasn’t something he thought about during the day, but now and then when he was on the evening shift and there was hardly anyone on the slopes occasionally the story did creep out of the forest with the darkness. It had been late one night, a mild snowless December. The girl must have been drugged somewhere in the city centre and been driven up here. Handcuffs and hood. She had been transported from the car park to where the door had been smashed in and she was raped inside. Stian had heard that the fifteen-year-old girl was so small and slim that if she had been unconscious the rapist or rapists could easily have carried her from the car park. You could only hope she had been unconscious throughout. But Stian had also heard that the girl had been attached to the wall by two big nails, one under each collarbone, so that he or they could rape her standing up with minimal physical contact with the walls, floor or girl. That was why the police hadn’t found any DNA, fingerprints or clothing fibres. But perhaps that wasn’t true. What he knew was true was that they had found the girl in three places. At the bottom of Lake Tryvann they had found the torso and head. In the forest down from the Wyller slalom course half of her lower body. On the banks of Lake Aurtje
the other half. And it was because the two last parts were found so far apart and so far from where she had been raped that the police had speculated that there might have been two rapists. But that was all they had, speculation. The men—if they were men; there was no sperm to prove it—were never found. But the chairman and other jokers liked to tell younger club members doing their first evening shift that on still nights people said they had heard sounds from the hut. Screams. Nails being hammered into the wall.

Stian released his boots from the bindings and walked to the door. Bent his knees and tensed his calves, trying to ignore his racing pulse.

Jesus, what was he expecting to see? Blood and guts? Ghosts?

He reached inside the door, found the switch with his hand and twisted.

Stared into the lit room.

On the unpainted pine wall, hanging from a nail, was a girl. She was almost naked, only a yellow bikini covering the so-called strategic parts of her suntanned body. The month was December, and the calendar was last year’s. One very quiet evening, a few weeks before, in fact, Stian had masturbated in front of that picture. She was sexy enough, but what had excited him most was the girls passing outside the window. Him sitting there, stiffy in hand, only a metre from them. Especially the girls who took the T-bar on their own, who with an experienced hand placed the erect pole between their thighs and squeezed them together. The T-bar lifting their buttocks. Their backs arched as the extended spring attached to the pole and the wire contracted and jerked them away from him, out of sight, along the aerial tramway.

Stian entered the cabin. There was no doubt someone had been there. The power control was broken. The plastic knob lay in two sections on the floor, leaving the metal spindle sticking up from the console. He held the cold spindle between thumb and forefinger and tried to turn it, but it just slipped between his fingers. He walked over to the little fuse cupboard in the corner. The metal door was locked, and the key that used to hang from the string on the adjacent wall was gone. Strange. He went back to the console. Tried to pull the plastic covers off the controls for the floodlights and the music so he could swap one over, but realised he would destroy them as well; they were either glued or moulded. He needed something he could tighten round the spindle, a monkey wrench or something similar. As Stian pulled out a drawer from the table in front of the window he had a premonition. The same one he had when he was skiing blind.

He could feel what he couldn’t see. Someone was standing outside in the darkness watching him.

He looked up.

And into a face staring at him with large, wide-open eyes.

His own face, his own terrified eyes in the reflection in the... --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition CD .

Revue de presse

"Boasts the customary ability to render attempts at work and sleep futile until it is finished" (Jake Kerridge Daily Telegraph)

"As usual, the brilliant Nesbo is several steps ahead of you in this endlessly twisting, multi-layered thriller that also shines a light on the murky areas of Norway's upper echelons" (Natasha Harding Sun)

"Scandinavian crime thrillers don't come much darker or more tense than the best-selling Harry Hole series, and this tenth outing for the Norwegian detective is the best yet" (Deirdre O’Brien Sunday Mirror)

"In the dark world of Scandinavian crime, Jo Nesbo's novels are darker than most. Settle down with a glass of Akvavit and prepare for a long night" (Independent)

"Resistance is futile: Nesbo has some rare, Ancient Mariner-type gift for holding his readers completely in thrall until he has finished with us" (Jake Kerridge Sunday Express)

Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 528 pages
  • Editeur : Harvill Secker (12 septembre 2013)
  • Langue : Inconnu
  • ISBN-10: 1846555973
  • ISBN-13: 978-1846555978
  • Dimensions du produit: 23,4 x 15,2 x 4,4 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.8 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (5 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 22.105 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 great 5 novembre 2013
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
Nesbo's best. Thrilling. Non stop suspense. He has mastered the art of draging the reader though a maelstom of suspense
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Police 25 octobre 2013
Par Rachel
Le livre est tout de même déroutant. J'ai pas mal attendu Harry au début, je me demandais bien où il était, même si être avec Beate et toute l'équipe n'était pas déplaisant, tout de même Harry est le héro ! On découvre ce qui c'est passé à la suite du dernier tome, comment il est encore debout. Finalement Harry va pas mal, ça fait bizarre de le voir prendre aucune cuite ! Son cerveau fonctionne toujours aussi bien. La mort d'un des personnages m'a attristée... Les morts s'enchaîne et la police a bien du mal à savoir le pourquoi du comment, j'ai bien aimé comment Harry est intégré à l'enquête bien qu'au début il n'en fasse pas parti.
Il a fort à faire avec une jeune étudiante, il va essayer de tenir ses promesses. Et dans la foulée de savoir qui tue tout ces policiers de façon aussi macabre.
Difficile de savoir qui fait le coup, même si le tueur/tueuse, je le/la sentais pas. Plein de fausses pistes, de rebondissements (surtout un secret révélé auquel je ne m'attendais pas du tout !!! A savoir si cela va être ré-utilisé par la suite). Michaël Bellman lui essai de monter en grade, un hypocrite habile qui veut du pouvoir mais qui a aussi un 'terrible' secret. il faut toujours compté sur Truls.
La fin m'a laissé néanmoins sceptique, un goût amer. Harry ne m'a pas proprement déçu mais je croyais qu'il avait une autre éthique... Surtout un des personnages, avec sa froide détermination me fout désormais les pétoches. Excellent livre mais j'attends de voir si dans la suite l'adage 'tout finir par se savoir' va se vérifier...
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Police: A Harry Hole thriller 6 juillet 2014
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
Just when you think Jo Nesbo has finally wound down the Harry Hole series, he's come up with the best-written, most cleverly crafted so far (I'm hoping for more!). Each time I start a new Jo Nesbo book, I notice immediately the superiority of pace, content, humour and reluctance to put the book down, compared to whoever I was reading before, which must also be attributed to Laurie Thompson's superb translating. For anyone wondering where to start with the vast selection of Scandi crime on offer, it has to be Jo Nesbo.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Harry sur la voie du bonheur? 22 décembre 2013
Par Samantha
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
On retrouve Harry qu'on croyait avoir perdu dans l'opus précédent à un moment clef de son existence: faire le choix d'être heureux ou celui de redevenir une épave. Question difficile à laquelle il devra répondre alors qu'un tueur en série s'acharne sur la police et sur ses anciens collègues. Son génie et sa capacité analytique seront mis à rude épreuve alors que la mort rôde près des siens et que des proches sont assassinés dans de terribles circonstances. L'intrigue et le suspense vous tiendront éveillés jusqu'au…prochain livre. La suite annoncée se révèlera forcément noire. Que deviendront Harry, Rakel et Oleg? Jo Nesbo s'impose comme l'un des maîtres du suspense.
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0 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Comme d'habitude 12 avril 2014
Par Rémi
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
Si vous aimé les romans de la série Harry Hole vous serais enchanté de retrouvé votre personnage favori. Cependant il me semble que l'auteur joue plusieurs fois sur le même ressort pour maintenir le suspense au cours de l'histoire. Il cache une partie de l'information qu'il vous donne, vous faisant vous demander de quel personnage exactement il est en train de parler. Je trouve que c'est un peu trop facile mais sinon rien à redire. Peut être plus noir encore que certains
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