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Forlag Gollancz
Utgivelsesår 2011
Format Paperback
ISBN13 9780575097582
Språk Engelsk
Sider 432
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Dette er morsomme fantasybøker. Humoren ligger der hele tiden og dukker opp i situasjoner og replikker. Men først og fremst er dette fantasy, og krim, må man vel kunne si. De to hovedpersonene er tross alt politi og bøkene handler om noen som bryter loven. Siden disse noen havner i kategorien overnaturlige eller i alle fall delvis menneskelige, så er det «det magiske politiet» som tar seg av sakene. Bøkene er fantastisk fine, jeg nyter det jeg leser og gleder meg nå til å fortsette med neste bok.
Hele min omtale finner du på bloggen min Betraktninger
My dad always said that a trumpet player likes to aim his weapon at the audience, but a sax man likes to cut a good profile and that they always had a favourite side. It being an article of faith with my dad that you don’t even pick up a reed instrument unless you’re vain about the shape your face makes when you’re blowing down it.
'How do you want to do this?' asked Nightingale.
'You're the expert, sir,' I said.
'I looked into the literature on this,' said Nightingale, 'and it wasn't very helpful.'
'There's a literature about this?'
'You'd be amazed, Constable, about what there's a literature on.'
When I'm considering this I find it helpful to quote the wisdom of my father, who once told me, 'Who knows why the fuck anything happens?'
'Can you prove you're dead?' I asked.
'Whatever you say, squire,' said Nicholas, and stepped forward into the light.
He was transparent, the way holograms in films are transparent. Three-dimensional, definitely really there and fucking transparent. I could see right through him to the white tent the forensic team had set up to protect the area around the body.
Right, I thought, just because you've gone mad doesn't mean you should stop acting like a policeman.
'Can you tell me what you saw?' I asked.
Officially I belong to ESC9, which stands for Economic and Specialist Crime Unit 9. Otherwise known as "The Folly", also known as the unit that nice, well-brought-up coppers don't talk about in polite company.
This is because nothing builds character like being abused, spat at and vomited on by members of the public.