Never judge a book by its cover' may be a tired old warning, but

‘Never judge a book by its cover’ may be a tired old warning, but it still deserves an occasional airing.

Such as for the one pictured here..

The excessively busy artwork is intended as an instant eye-catcher. But the author’s name probably means little to all except deeply committed lovers of nordic noir.

It is such a contrast to the 72-point bold caps that the big names attract. They make a cover designer’s work almost redundant. They are bright beacons, designed to dazzle bystanders and lure them to making an instant purchase.

In this case, the publisher has an each-way bet. The crowded cover could boost sales or attract only an occasional sideways glance. And the size of the typeface for the author’s name is a reflection of his ranking in the crime writing hierarchy.

So much for the eye to scope; so much for the brain to unravel. Nothing makes an impact.

The book’s purchase was a response to another reader’s recommendation on social media. Good old old word of mouth proving yet again to be the best of all marketing tools.

Except that this time it was a big letdown. For this reader it was really hard work. Certainly not a book that merits being described as a page-turner.

A handful of beta readers and previewers hail it as the work of “the Norwegian crime-writing sensation.” They variously describe it as ‘chilling’, ‘gripping’, or ‘terrifying’.

Not so. More in the nature of a narcotic, a soothing soporific, better than a pill at bedtime.

Yet I pressed on valiantly, partly out of curiosity – what was I missing that others had found so addictive? – and partly for lack of a handy substitute.

I battled on to the very end, keen to see what others had found ‘thrilling’ and ‘scary’.

Sadly, after 521 pages and eighty-nine chapters, I was none the wiser as to who dunnit. Or how, or why. And didn’t really care.

Maybe something gets lost in the translation or perhaps Bjork is a ponderous writer who lacks the light touch more usually seen in crime fiction.

The author keeps his foot pushing down hard on the soft pedal throughout the final pages. Gently, gently; no wham bang or sudden surprises.

My reward for dogged determination was the supreme example of an anti-climax.

Normally I would shy away from penning a negative review. As I have mostly done when critiquing restaurants, films and theatrical performances. Why promote the blatantly poor or bad?

With I’m Travelling Alone I continue to wonder what did I miss that others seemingly enjoyed? I set out with good intent, so why and how were my hopes dashed?

Reviewing and critiquing are all very subjective. Everyone has their likes and dislikes and opinions will always be divided. But once in a while words of caution have to be written: Enter here at your own risk.

.This is one such case.

As indicated by the cover, Samuel Bjork’s story is based around a young schoolgirl found hanging in the woods close to home. More similar gruesome discoveries are made.

The death count rises. A serial killer is on the loose. Targeting children with links to the investigators

Police detective Holder Munch is charged with catching the killer. He has close connections to the victims and also to Mia Kruger, one of the oddball colleagues he includes in his team of crime-fighters.

It is an inbred and isolated community set in one of Norway’s numerous lake-lands. An otherworldly air hangs over everything. and adds to the mystery of the killer’s reasoning and purpose.

So many threads, so many misfits. So many loose ends and so much suspicion. None of which is helped by having so many characters whose names begin with the same letter – Mia, Miriam, Marion, Margrete, Munch, Mikkleson, Mork and Markus being just one example.

Sort that lot out, and their intricate and fragile relationships, and you could be on your way to gaining more from this tortuous tale than was my lot.