Editorial Reviews. Review. “This stand-alone gives us a brilliant array of variously flawed human beings involved in a tale of intricate plotting, excellent. Headhunters by Jo Nesbo. Read an Excerpt. download Headhunters. By Jo Nesbo . See all books by Jo Nesbo . With Headhunters, Nesbø has accomplished [a] brilliant and elegant thriller. The eBooks you want at the lowest prices. Read "Headhunters" by Jo Nesbo available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. With Headhunters, Jo Nesbø has crafted a.

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Jo Nesbo Headhunters Ebook

Read "Headhunters" by Jo Nesbo with Rakuten Kobo. Roger Brown has it all. He's the country's most successful headhunter. He has a beautiful wife and a. Results 1 - 10 of 25 download Jo Nesbo eBooks to read online or download in PDF or ePub on With Headhunters, Jo Nesbø has crafted a funny, dark, and twisted. eBook . Headhunters Jo Nesbo is one of the world's bestselling crime writers, with The Leopard, Phantom, Police, The Son and his latest Harry Hole.

Click on the cover image above to read some pages of this book! Formatting may be different depending on your device and eBook type. Roger Brown has it all: And if his job as a headhunter ever gets dull, he has his sideline as an art thief to keep him busy. At a gallery opening, his wife introduces him to Clas Greve. Not only is Greve the perfect candidate for a position that Brown is recruiting for; he is also in possession of one of the most sought-after paintings in modern art history. Roger sees his chance to become rich beyond his wildest dreams, and starts planning his biggest theft ever. But soon, he runs into trouble - and it's not long before the hunter becomes the hunted General Format: English Number Of Pages: Random House. Help Centre. My Wishlist Sign In Join.

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I can still picture his application for the security boss job: it had contained so many spelling mistakes that I had burst out laughing. I slid off the stool and walked over to his table. He gave a fleeting smile to indicate that he had finished with it. I took the paper without a word and went back to my place at the counter.

One minute later I heard the front door close and when I peered at the mirror again, Ove Kjikerud had gone. I flicked through to the shares pages, discreetly wrapped my hand around the key that had been left there and slipped it into my jacket pocket. When I returned to the office there were six text messages waiting for me on my mobile phone. I deleted five without reading them and opened the one from Diana. She had added a smiley with sunglasses, one of the sophistications of the Prada telephone I had given her on her thirty-second birthday this summer.

But we both knew what she wanted most.

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And which I was not going to give her. Nonetheless she had lied and kissed me. What more can you ask of a woman? We have conquered empires, thought the smartest thoughts, laid the most beautiful female stars of the screen: in short we have always been on the lookout for the biggest platform shoes.

Many an idiot has made the discovery that some blind people are good musicians and that some autistic people can work out square roots in their heads, and this has led them to conclude that all handicaps are a blessing in disguise.

Firstly, that is nonsense. Secondly, I am, despite everything, not a dwarf, just marginally under average height. Thirdly, over seventy per cent of all people in the highest management positions are of above-average height in their respective countries. Height also has a positive correlation with intelligence, income and popularity surveys.

When I nominate someone for a top job in business, height is one of my most important criteria. Height instils respect, trust and authority. Short people move around in the sediment, they have a hidden plan, an agenda which revolves around the fact that they are short. I provide them with a head that is good enough, placed on the body they want. They are not qualified to judge the first; they can see the second with their own eyes.

The world is full of people who pay serious money for bad pictures by good artists. And mediocre heads on tall bodies. I steered my new Volvo S80 round the bends, climbing up towards our new, beautiful and somewhat too expensive home on Voksenkollen.


I bought it because Diana had this pained expression on her face when we were being shown round. The vein on her forehead that tended to expand when we made love had turned blue and was quivering above her almond-shaped eyes.

She had raised her right hand and drawn short strands of fine, straw-coloured hair behind her right ear as if to hear better, to listen carefully to be sure her eyes had not deceived her; that this was the house for which she had been searching.

And there was no need for her to say a word; I knew it was. Even as the gleam in her eyes died when the estate agent told us that they already had an offer of one and a half million over the asking price, I knew I had to download it for her. Because this was the only offering I could make to compensate for talking her out of having the child she wanted. I no longer quite remember the arguments I had used in favour of abortion, just that none of them had been the truth.

Which was that even though we were two people with exorbitant square metres, there was no room for a child. That is, no room for a child and me. For I knew Diana. She was, in contrast to me, perversely monogamous. I would have hated the child from day one. So instead I had given her a new start, a home, and a gallery. I swung into the drive. The garage door had sensed the car a long time ago and opened automatically.

The Volvo glided into the chilly darkness and the engine breathed its last as the door slid to behind me. I went out through the side door of the garage and along the flagstone path leading up to the house.

I often thought that we could sell up, move into something a bit smaller, a bit more normal, a bit more practical even. But every time I came home and it was like now, with the low afternoon sun causing the contours to stand out clearly, the play of light and shade, the autumnal forest behind, glowing like red gold, I knew it was impossible.

Quite simply because I loved her and could therefore do nothing else. And with that came the rest: the house, the financial drain of a gallery, the costly and unnecessary demonstrations of my love and the lifestyle we could not afford.

All to alleviate her longing. I unlocked the house, kicked off my shoes and deactivated the alarm within the twenty seconds I had before a bell would go off at Tripolis. Diana and I had discussed the code for a long time before reaching an agreement. She had wanted it to be DAMIEN after her favourite artist Damien Hirst, but I knew that was the name she had given our aborted child, and thus I insisted on a random collection of letters and numbers that could not be guessed.

And she had given in. As always, when I stood up to her, tough on tough. Or tough on soft.


For Diana was soft. Not weak, but soft and flexible. Like clay where even the slightest pressure leaves a mark. The strange thing was that the more she gave in, the bigger and stronger she became. And the weaker I became. Until she towered above me like a gigantic angel, a firmament of guilt, debts and bad conscience. I walked upstairs to the living room and kitchen, took off my tie, opened the Sub-Zero fridge and helped myself to a bottle of San Miguel.

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Not the usual Especial but , the extra mild beer that Diana preferred because it was brewed according to purity laws. From the living-room window I looked down on the garden, the garage and the neighbours. Oslo, the fjord, Skagerrak, Germany, the world.

And discovered I had already finished the beer. I fetched another and went down to the ground floor to change for the private view. Passing the Forbidden Room I noticed the door was ajar. I pushed it open and at once saw that she had laid fresh flowers by the tiny stone figure standing on the low, altar-like table beneath the window. The table was the only furniture in the room and the stone figure looked like a child monk with a contented Buddha smile.

It was a mizuko jizo, a figure that according to Japanese tradition protected aborted children, or mizuko - meaning a water child.

I had brought the figure home after an unsuccessful headhunt in Tokyo. It was the first months after the abortion while Diana was still shattered, and I had thought it might be of some comfort.

Which — if you mix in a bit of Japanese-style Buddhism — is waiting to be reborn. I never told Diana about the last part. To begin with, I had been happy, and she had seemed to find comfort in the stone figure.

But as her jizo gradually became an obsession and she wanted it in the bedroom, I had to put my foot down. And I said that from then on that she should not pray or make sacrifices to the figure. Although on that particular point I had never been tough.

For I knew that I could lose Diana. And that would be unforgivable. Three hundred and fifty thousand on the legal market. Hardly more than two hundred on mine. Fifty per cent to the fence, then twenty per cent to Kjikerud. Eighty thousand to me. That was the usual split; hardly worth the trouble and definitely not the risk. The picture was in black and white. Just right for a piece of A2 paper.

Eighty thousand. Too little to pay for the next quarterly instalment of the mortgage. The electrifying first installment of the Harry Hole series.

Look out for the latest Harry Hole novel, The Thirst , available now. Harry is free to offer assistance, but he has firm instructions to stay out of trouble. The victim is a twenty-three Look out for the latest Harry Hole When the Norwegian ambassador to Thailand is found dead in a Bangkok brothel, Inspector Harry Hole is dispatched from Oslo to help hush up the case.

For years, detective Harry Hole has been at the center of every major criminal investigation in Oslo. His brilliant When Harry Hole moved to Hong Kong, he thought he was escaping the traumas of his life in Oslo and his career as a detective for good. The murder victim, a self-declared Tinder addict. The one solid clue—fragments of rust and paint in her wounds—leaves the investigating team More about Jo Nesbo.

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