If there's such a thing as a made-for-television detective, Commissario Soneri is it: something of a loner, contemptuous of his bosses, in need of an injection of joie de vivre (which only a good dinner seems to give him), but very engaging nonetheless.
So it's no surprise that Valerio Varesi's dour hero has become the central character of a successful series. A cover note describes this book as "a visceral thriller" but it lacks the tension, plot twists and the big "reveal" that would make it so. Indeed, there's little suspense, as we learn Soneri's theory early in the story then follow his dogged, Maigret-like progress towards the expected outcome. This is a slow-moving story – but perhaps that's what real detective work is: deliberate and methodical, unlike many drama-filled adventures we see onscreen.
Like the protagonists themselves, essentially a bunch of bitter old men, the story is brooding and rather cheerless. And therein, oddly, lies its appeal. The spare and effective prose (kudos to Joseph Farrell for his translation) is almost poetic, particularly in its evocation of the bleak River Po in mid-winter.
