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British version of Brooklyn nine-nine set in Edinburgh? Set me up. There is a chilling stillness that lingers in Netflix’s latest crime drama Dept Q; a stillness that settles into the bones after the screen fades to black.
Adapted from Jussi Adler-Olsen’s bestselling Danish novels and reimagined for a Scottish setting, the nine-part series manages to blend the psychological gravity of Nordic noir with the gritty realism of British police procedurals. The result is a haunting and intelligent thriller that does not shy away from emotional depth or human complexity.
At the heart of the story is DCI Carl Morck, played by the ever-consistent Matthew Goode. He is a man walking around with emotional scar tissue so thick it isolates him from the world.
After a police operation goes violently wrong, leaving a partner dead and another paralysed, Morck is quietly exiled to the dreary basement of Edinburgh’s police headquarters. There, he is assigned to a new “cold case” unit meant more for public relations optics than actual results. But the past has a nasty habit of refusing to stay buried.
Morck is joined by Akram, a Syrian refugee and former detective, portrayed compellingly by Alexej Manvelov, and Rose, played by Chloe Pirrie, a brilliant but psychologically unstable desk officer. Their dynamic becomes the emotional core of the show; fraught, unpredictable and intensely human. Together, this unlikely trio combs through long-forgotten files, resurrecting both cases and ghosts from the shower quarters long abandoned at the bottom of the police station.
The first major investigation is the disappearance of Merritt Lingard, a prosecutor who vanished five years ago. The story unfolds through two timelines; one following the detectives, the other offering flashbacks from Lingard’s point of view during her years in captivity. This narrative structure is not just stylistically effective, but also emotionally resonant. It allows viewers to feel both the urgency of the investigation and the suffocating dread of long-term confinement. The audience does not just want the mystery solved; they also want justice, healing and some semblance of closure.
Director Scott Frank, known for The Queen’s Gambit and Godless, brings his signature cinematic pacing to Dept Q. Each episode feels carefully constructed, with tight writing and a moody visual aesthetic. The Gothic architecture of Edinburgh plays almost like a fourth character, its misty alleys, stone courthouses and shadowy corridors reinforcing the show’s psychological tension. The series is less concerned with jump scares and explosive reveals than with emotional excavation. It does not rush the story, but it does not drag either. It breathes.
Performance-wise, Dept Q is a masterclass in restraint. Matthew Goode brings a quiet intensity to Morck, embodying the kind of man who is slowly imploding under the weight of guilt and unresolved grief. Manvelov, as Akram, is a revelation. He balances dignity with heartbreak, portraying a man grappling not only with the trauma of war and displacement but also with the alienation of being a stranger in a cold, bureaucratic system. Pirrie’s Rose, meanwhile, is the most unpredictable of the bunch, her dissociation and flashes of brilliance are depicted with psychological accuracy and emotional empathy.
What truly sets Dept Q apart from other crime dramas is its psychological depth. It does not treat trauma as a plot device or a passing reference. It treats it as the central force shaping these characters’ actions and interactions. Morck’s aloofness is not just detective bravado; it is a form of emotional paralysis. Akram’s silence is not mystery—it is learned survival. Rose’s instability is not weakness; it’s a symptom of a system that discards people when they break. Each of the characters is, in their own way, processing loss, disillusionment and the weight of unfinished stories.
That is not to say the show is without flaws. The pacing, while effective for some, may feel too slow for viewers accustomed to the more frenetic rhythms of Line of Duty or Bodyguard. The villain in the Lingard case, though chilling, veers at times into the archetypal, lacking the emotional complexity afforded to the leads. And while the relocation from Copenhagen to Edinburgh mostly works, there are moments where the show feels like it is caught between two cultural identities—wanting to retain the cold efficiency of Nordic noir while borrowing the emotionality of British drama.
These are small issues in a series that otherwise achieves something rare: it makes the viewers care deeply. Not just about the crime, but also about the people who carry its aftermath. Dept Q understands that justice is rarely clean; healing is never linear; and redemption, if it comes at all, comes quietly.
In an age of increasingly formulaic crime shows, Dept Q stands out as something richer. It is a show that trusts its audience to think, to feel and to sit with discomfort. It offers no easy answers and no neat endings. What it offers instead is honesty. In a genre built on illusion that feels revolutionary.
Dept Q is a moody, methodical and emotionally resonant crime thriller that elevates the genre with psychological insights and strong performances. It keeps one glued to the screen till the end. There is probably not going to be a more soul-rejuvenating series out this year.
The writer has a degree in psychology with a minor in mass communication.She can be reached atukmaryam2gmail.com