'Holmes meets Freud in this enjoyable whodunnit' Guardian 20040315

It is Vienna at the beginning of the last century, and Dr Max Liebermann is a young psychoanalyst - and disciple of Freud. Psychoanalysis is only just developing and viewed with a mixture of excitement and suspicion. The world of 1900s Vienna is one where philosophy, science and art are at their most exciting and flourishing, with the coffee shops full of men and women debating the latest cultural and political theories. Liebermann's good friend Oskar Rheinhardt is a Detective Inspector - hard working, but lacking Liebermann's insights and forensic eye and so it is through Rheinhardt that Libermann is called upon to help with police investigations surrounding the death of a beautiful young medium, in what seems at first to be supernatural circumstances. While Liebermann attempts to get to the bottom of the mystery, he also must decide whether he is to follow his father's advice and marry the beautiful but reserved Clara.

It is Vienna at the beginning of the last century, and Dr Max Liebermann is a young psychoanalyst - and disciple of Freud. Psychoanalysis is only just developing and viewed with a mixture of excitement and suspicion. The world of 1900s Vienna is one where philosophy, science and art are at their most exciting and flourishing, with the coffee shops full of men and women debating the latest cultural and political theories. Liebermann's good friend Oskar Rheinhardt is a Detective Inspector - hard working, but lacking Liebermann's insights and forensic eye and so it is through Rheinhardt that Libermann is called upon to help with police investigations surrounding the death of a beautiful young medium, in what seems at first to be supernatural circumstances. While Liebermann attempts to get to the bottom of the mystery, he also must decide whether he is to follow his father's advice and marry the beautiful but reserved Clara.

'Holmes meets Freud in this enjoyable whodunnit' Guardian

'God forgive me for what I have done. There is no such thing as forbidden knowledge. He will take me to hell - and there is no redemption'
It is Vienna in 1902 and the imperial city is alive with art, philosophy, music and science. But a sinister presence is casting a shadow over this sumptuous backdrop. A beautiful medium has been found shot dead adn Dr Max Liebermann, yound disciple of Freud, is called upon to help his good friend Detective Inspector Rheinhardt invesigate the mysterious circumstances that surround her death.
'An intriguing, impressive achievement - puts the psychological back into crime and written by a real expert.' Oliver James
'Smart detection and a mouthwatering view of Viennese cafe society...good prospects for the Liebermann series, of which this is book number one.' Literary Review

Frank Tallis is a writer and practising clinical psychologist in Harley Street. In 1999 he received a Writers' Award from the Arts Council of Great Britain and in 2000 he won the New London Writers' Award (London Arts Board). Love Sick is also published by Century. Frank lives and works in London.

It was the day of the great storm. I remember it well because my father - Mendel Liebermann - had suggested that we meet for coffee at The Imperial. I had a strong suspicion that something was on his mind . . .

A roiling mass of black cloud had risen from behind the Opera House like a volcanic eruption of sulphurous smoke and ash. Its dimensions suggested impending doom - an epic catastrophe on the scale of Pompeii. In the strange amber light, the surrounding buildings had become jaundiced. Perched on the rooftops, the decorative statuary - classical figures and triumphal eagles - seemed to have been carved from brimstone. A fork of lightning flowed down the mountain of cloud like a river of molten iron. The earth trembled and the air stirred, yet still there was no rain. The coming storm seemed to be saving itself - building its reserves of power in preparation for an apocalyptic deluge.

The tram bell sounded, rousing Liebermann from his reverie and dispersing a group of horse-drawn carriages on the lines.

As the tram rolled forwards, Liebermann wondered why his father had wanted to see him. It wasn't that such a meeting was unusual; they often met for coffee. Rather, it was something about the manner in which the invitation had been issued. Mendel's voice had been curiously strained - reedy and equivocal. Moreover, his nonchalance had been unconvincing, suggesting to Liebermann the concealment of an ulterior - or perhaps even unconscious - motive. But what might that be?

The tram slowed in the heavy traffic of the Karntner Ring and Liebermann jumped off before the vehicle had reached its stop. He raised the collar of his astrakhan coat against the wind and hurried towards his destination.

Even though lunch had already been served, The Imperial was seething with activity. Waiters, with silver trays held high, were dodging each other between crowded tables, and the air was filled with animated conversation. At the back of the café, a pianist was playing a Chopin mazurka. Liebermann wiped the condensation off his spectacles with a handkerchief and hung his coat on the stand.

'Good afternoon, Herr Doctor.'

Liebermann recognised the voice and without turning replied: 'Good afternoon, Bruno. I trust you are well?'

'I am, sir. Very well indeed.'

When Liebermann turned, the waiter continued: 'If you'd like to come this way, sir. Your father is already here.'

Bruno beckoned, and guided Liebermann through the hectic room. They arrived at a table near the back, where Mendel was concealed behind the densely printed sheets of the Weiner Zeitung.

'Herr Liebermann?' said Bruno. Mendel folded his paper. He was a thickset man with a substantial beard and bushy eyebrows. His expression was somewhat severe - although softened by a liberal network of laughter lines. The waiter added: 'Your son.'

'Ahh, Maxim!' said the old man. 'There you are!' He sounded a little irritated, as though he had been kept waiting.

After a moment's hesitation, Liebermann replied: 'But I'm early, father.'

Mendel consulted his pocket watch.

'So you are. Well, sit down, sit down. Another Pharis?er for me and . . . Max?' He invited his son to order.

'A Schwarzer, please, Bruno.'

The waiter executed a modest bow and was gone.

'So,' said Mendel. 'How are you, my boy?'

'Very well, father.'

'You're looking a bit thinner than usual.'

'Am I?'

'Yes. Drawn.'

'I hadn't noticed.'

'Are you eating properly?'

Liebermann laughed: 'Very well, as it happens. And how are you, father?'

Mendel grimaced.

'Achh! Good days and bad days, you know how it is. I'm seeing that specialist you recommended, Pintsch. And there is some improvement, I suppose. But my back isn't much better.'

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.'

Mendel dismissed his son's remark with a wave of his hand.

'Do you want something to eat?' Mendel pushed the menu across the table. 'You look like you need it. I think I'll have the Topfenstrudel.'

Liebermann studied the extensive cake-list: Apfeltorte, Cremeschnitte, Truffeltorte, Apfelstrudel. It ran on over several pages.

'Your mother sends her love,' said Mendel, 'and would like to know when she can expect to see you again.' His expression hovered somewhere between sympathy and reprimand.

'I'm sorry, father,' said Liebermann. 'I've been very busy. Too many patients . . . Tell mother I'll try to see her next week. Friday, perhaps?'

'Then you must come to dinner.'

'Yes,' said Liebermann, suddenly feeling that he had already committed himself more than he really wanted. 'Yes. Thank you.' He looked down at the menu again: Dobostorte, Gugelhupf, Linzertorte. The Chopin mazurka ended on a loud minor chord, and a ripple of applause passed through the caféaudience. Encouraged, the pianist played a glittering arpeggio figure on the upper keys, under which he introduced the melody of a popular waltz. A group of people seated near the window began another round of appreciative clapping.

Bruno returned with the coffees and stood to attention with his pencil and notepad.

'The Topfenstrudel,' said Mendel.

'The Rehrücken, please,' said Liebermann.

Mendel stirred the cream into his Pharisäer - which came with a tot of rum - and immediately started to talk about the family textile business. This was not unusual. Indeed, it had become something of a tradition. Profits had risen, and Mendel was thinking of expanding the enterprise: another factory, or even a shop, perhaps. Now that the meddling bureaucrats had lifted the ban on department stores, he could see a future in retail - new opportunities. His old friend Blomberg had already opened a successful department store and had suggested that they might go into partnership. Throughout, Mendel's expression was eager and clearly mindful of his son's reactions.

Liebermann understood why his father kept him so well informed. Although he was proud of Liebermann's academic achievements, he still hoped that one day young Max would step into his shoes.

Mendel's voice slowed when he noticed his son's hand. The fingers seemed to be following

2008-08-05 A clever story to keep you guessing

Frank Tallis has created a wonderful character in the form of Dr Max Liebermann. In many ways he is like an Austrian Sherlock Holmes, catching the murderer using his brain instead of modern day scientific methods.
This was close to being a 5 star read unfortunately the book used too many German words without giving a proper translation. It is one thing to mention a type of cake popular in Vienna but without an English translation it means nothing to me.