This is a book containing 12 short stories. Part 1 is seven shorts about jealousy. Part 2 is five shorts about power. Before my review I've listed the twelve short stories in the book and given them a rating between 1-5. The good thing about Twist is the wrapping,’ I say. ‘That you can change your mind. You can wrap it up again without anyone’s being able to see it’s been opened. Unlike most other things. Confessions, for example. Once a confession has been so to speak unwrapped then that’s it, it’s too late.’

Each of these stories could be a primer in the seven deadly sins, as it seems Nesbø focuses on a different one in each tale. He divides the pieces into different subcategories, and you will understand why once you read them all.And yet I’ve never been jealous of Henrik Bakke. Isn’t that funny? At least not in the sense of hating him or having a grudge against him. I think the way I looked at it was that he was just another guy same as me, he loved Simone more than anything else on earth. I actually thought of him more as someone in the same boat as me than as a rival.’ You found those little bottles of cyanide solution in the cellar, didn’t you, officer?’ The chocolate melts on my tongue, and I can feel the hard centre against my soft palate. ‘One was missing. I took that with me when I was thrown out. Not really sure why. I was pretty far down, maybe I had some idea of doing away with myself. You make hydrocyanic acid from cyanide, but you probably know that?’

Maybe it was a bit hasty of me to just give up everything like that. After all, she was a wealthy young woman, good for fourteen million, whereas I am a debt-ridden photographer with a little too much faith in his own business skills. Simone supported my idea of starting my own studio along with six other photographers. If not financially then at least morally. On paper the money was hers, but it was her father who pulled the strings. The insistence on a prenup when we got married was, of course, his idea. He probably saw it all, how she’d soon grow out of her longhaired young photographer with his lofty dreams and his ‘artistic ambitions’.And I also know that murder is bound to look bad for me as the scorned husband. It gives me a motive. I could have come to see her, I knew where she kept the poison, I could have slipped it into her coffee and then left. I imagine that’s why you’ve been to my place, to see if there’s a match between any of my clothes and the fibres you found here in Simone’s house.’ Me gustó que dentro de todo dio la sensación que los relatos eran crueles (siempre habían asesinatos de por medio), pero tenían un tono de esperanza y de bondad mezclada con toda la crueldad detrás. Además, a pesar de lo frustrante que podían llegar a ser por ciertas injusticias la mayoría tuvo un final que dejaba una sensación de satisfacción por el desenlace que tomaba la historia. I'm not typically drawn to short stories, but I am a fan of Nesbo's Harry Hole series, so this seemed like a logical choice for a winter's read. The book is divided into two parts, the first titled "Jealousy" (which is the theme of the stories), the second "Power" (its theme.) All the stories were clever, but as with any collection,there are standouts.

I can’t tell you much about Nesbo’s previous short story collection Karusellmusikk – my Norwegian is not what it should be – but if this compendium of jealousy, greed, twists and violence is anything to go by, it's probably brilliant. A caveat for potential investors first, though. Nesbo's boozy and brooding detective Harry Hole doesn’t appear, but frankly, he isn’t required, and a bit of rest and recovery probably won't do him any harm. He went right through the wringer in Knife. OK. So that wasn’t exactly true. I was jealous of Henrik Bakke. At least the first time I met him. Let me explain. One day he called me at my office and asked if we could meet, he had some papers for me from Simone. I knew these must be the divorce papers, and even though it was, of course, unspeakable of her to use her new lover to deliver them I was curious to know who he was and so I agreed to a meeting at a restaurant. I presume he was just as curious about me. Before becoming a crime writer, Nesbo played football for Norway’s premier league team Molde, but his dream of playing professionally for Spurs was dashed when he tore ligaments in his knee at the age of eighteen. After three years military service he attended business school and formed the band Di Derre (‘Them There’). They topped the charts in Norway, but Nesbo continued working as a financial analyst, crunching numbers during the day and gigging at night. When commissioned by a publisher to write a memoir about life on the road with his band, he instead came up with the plot for his first Harry Hole crime novel, The Bat.

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A veritable crime lover’s delight from a true master of mystery and suspense. Experience the #1 New York Times best-selling author as never before in this dark and thrilling short story collection that takes us on a journey of twisted minds and vengeful hearts.

The writing is typical Nesbø, which, for those who have read some of his work, will know is steeped in symbolism and a deeper analysis of the emotional being. Hidden meanings and ideas permeate the narrative, such that the reader may play close attention to get all that Nesbø presents in his writing. With stories that vary in length, it is even more important to pay attention, as there are times when a piece is over before it really begins, meaning the reader will miss what is being presented. I counted on you arresting Henrik Bakke as soon as you had the results of the autopsy. I presumed it would be an easy matter to work out that the cyanide came from the chocolates that Bakke had indisputably brought into the house. The officer sits with head bowed. As though he’s the one confessing to murder by poison rather than me.

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I read that when Henrik Bakke found her he thought at first she was asleep. Pity he wasn’t there when she died. He might have learned something. I mean, it must be fascinating to study a human being in transit between life and death, don’t you think?’