The author is billed as a master of the thriller, superior even to Stieg Larsson.
In truth, he is merely a pale heir.
Harry Hole is a Norwegian crime-squad detective specializing in serial killers.
Following an investigation in which the perpetrator attempted to murder his wife and son, Harry quit the force and sank into despair in Hong Kong, amidst alcohol, drugs, and gambling.
There, a detective named Kaja tracks him down to convince him to assist the police with another serial killer case.
The thriller unfolds, relying primarily on dense dialogue, across several narrative threads: the hunt for the criminal (with multiple investigative leads), the turf war between different factions of the Norwegian police to spearhead the fight against crime, and Harry’s personal struggle in search of his own equilibrium.
As one of the potential culprits puts it,

you cannot cheapen your feelings like that.
You try to dodge the fact that you, like anyone else, are guided by concepts of right and wrong

.
And Harry is, deep down, a knight in search of truth, yet he continues to “wander in circles,” unable to find his roots.
Throughout the story, he consistently makes the right choices, yet these do not lead him to find “the place to which he belongs.”
And the novel closes with Harry, triumphant over crime, but returning to Hong Kong in search of himself.

The book is interminable, in the sense that it seems to draw to a close only to reopen again and again, exhausting the reader.
The problem is that it lacks suspense, and the protagonists—Harry and Kaja in particular—remain entirely on the surface, their motivations and personal developments never fully coming into focus.

Why avoid it? It is a pointless book, fit only for the beach.

The Leopard