It was almost entirely devoid of literary merit.
The story would occasionally shudder to a halt so that the author could subject the reader to a "Ragged Trousered Philanthropists" style explicatory rant on misogyny in contemporary Sweden.
I've never read a book in which the characters made so many sandwiches. (It was strangely reminiscent of Sara Paretsky's VI Warshawski having a bath every two minutes.)
I read the section in which (plot spoiler ahead)
Yet on completing it, I went out and bought the next two volumes in the trilogy; a page turner indeed.