If you hail from Northern Europe, you’ve probably already read it. If not, you might need a short introduction.

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Nesbo’s series of cold–hearted crime thrillers are widely acknowledged in Scandinavia, strolling onto the local bestseller’s list with the ease of snowshoes. His success is largely attributed to his lovable, frosty-natured protagonist, Detective Harry Hole. Armed only with a name worthy of an adult filmstar and the grim determination of a self destructive alcoholic, Hole solves the crimes that nobody else can. His tried and tested character formula is rounded out further with daddy issues, promiscuity and a general misanthropic grouchiness. So far, so flawed anti-hero.

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Enter our titular villain. To counter our protagonist in this instalment, Nesbo breathes into life an infidelity-hating sadist who only strikes when the snow begins to fall and is always one step ahead of Hole and the police. The stage is set for a gory, tension filled cat and mouse chase, and no one quite knows who is who. Has Harry finally met his match?

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The Snowman promised to be a chilling read.

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Which explains the crushing disappointment I’ve felt since it failed to live up to that promise. Sure, Nesbo can tell a decent yarn, the plot twists when it needs to twist, turns when it needs to turn. However, it suffers from a flawed central conceit. Snowmen simply aren’t scary. See, the reason why the killer only kills after snowfall is because their calling card is a roughly built snowman, often decorated with a trophy from the victim’s body. The intended implication of this is terrifying. The snowman should act as a signifier of the killer’s omnipotence, their absolute ability to evade the authorities and take their time doing so – as well as assigning a supernatural quality to the killings, as if winter itself is responsible.

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What springs to mind instead is not that terrific cocktail of uncertainty and dread, but instead a murderer swearing as they fumble with half frozen fingers in the dark, attempting to build a snowy homunculus that doesn’t fall apart at the slightest breeze. The complexity of the calling card just makes the killer seem implausible, and that is its greatest failing. Successful suspension of disbelief is a critical component of any genre fiction, without it, a truly unsettling reading experience is impossible.

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At least it’s better than the abominable film.

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4/10