Scandinavian crime writers -- particularly the older generation -- seem to make a virtue of dullness. Think of Martin Beck in the novels of Per Wahlöö and Maj Sjöwall, wearily tracking down laconic witnesses and piecing together flimsy scraps of evidence. Or Kurt Wallender in Henning Mankell's crime series, doggedly unraveling knots of deceit and venality as his self-doubt grows and his health declines.
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