Headhunters

“From page 90 on, the plot of Headhunters is so convoluted (and unbelievable) that the publisher ought to give merit badges to readers who were able to follow it. . . . Headhunters—though a better novel than The Snowman, his most recent novel reviewed at nyjb—shares with its predecessor a baffling disregard for fairness to the reader. That, a veteran writer or reader might say, is what necessitates all the explaining Mr. Nesbø does in his narratives. The events of a story should be all the explanation that is necessary.”

For the first 90 of its 265 pages, Headhunters is an excellent novel. After that, it runs off the rails into near mediocrity. The exploits described from page 90 on don’t merely strain credulity, they give it a hernia. And the narrator’s explanations of the novel’s twists and turns are, well, explainy, which is a cardinal sin in fiction writing. Ideally, the reader—all by himself or herself—sees that, yes, Action A vis à vis Consequences B and C does make sense after all.

The narrator, one Roger Brown, is a corporate headhunter, one of the best in Norway, who moonlights as an art thief to pay the bills that come with 1) living far beyond one’s means and 2) lacking the will to say no to an extravagantly expensive (and beautiful) wife.

Brown is a master at his day job because he is a master at reading people and knows all the psychological tricks of interviewing. But then along comes the interviewee (Clas Greve) who is Brown’s match, and maybe then some. And, best of all for the lover of a good yarn, Greve just happens to own an original Rubens. Alfred Hitchcock would have loved it!

Mr. Nesbø needs help with plotting, mainly because he relies too much on misdirection that isn’t fair to the reader. But he can write. First-rate are the scenes in which Greve’s character are limned, and the scene in which Brown at last gets his hands (gloved, of course) on the Rubens after sneaking into Greve’s apartment just can’t be done any better, and the way that scene ends is exquisite—but alas, it would be a crime worse than art theft to say more and spoil it for the prospective reader.

From page 90 on, the plot of Headhunters is so convoluted (and unbelievable) that the publisher ought to give merit badges to readers who were able to follow it. Brown’s first-person narration helps us to understand him. He is driven by, and knows he is driven by, an inferiority complex about his short stature. Then there was that nasty scene when his father caught him cheating at chess and showed him what a checkmate with five knuckles feels like. But Greve’s motivation was lost on this reader, and Diana, the lovely wife, is mere cardboard.

But let’s be clear about this: Mr. Nesbø is a bestselling author, selling in the millions, to hear his publisher tell it, so he must be doing something—indeed a lot of somethings—right. Unfortunately, plotting isn’t one of them, for Headhunters—though a better novel than The Snowman, his most recent novel reviewed at nyjb—shares with its predecessor a baffling disregard for fairness to the reader. That, a veteran writer or reader might say, is what necessitates all the explaining Mr. Nesbø does in his narratives. The events of a story should be all the explanation that is necessary.