Blog Tour - A Lethal Legacy by Guðrún Guðlaugsdóttir tr. Quentin Bates

Welcome to the latest stop on the blog tour for A Lethal Legacy by Guðrún Guðlaugsdóttir translated by Quentin Bates. A Lethal Legacy was published by Corylus Books on 20 September 2025 as both an ebook and in paperback.

A Lethal Legacy is the first book from Icelandic author Guðrún Guðlaugsdóttir to have been translated into English and I am very pleased today to be able to share the teaser extract below.

Blurb:

Nothing has changed at Bjargarlækur for as long as anyone can remember – so are moves to bring change to this remote farm in the Icelandic countryside a motive for murder? 

Three elderly siblings have lived more or less peacefully in this isolated place their whole lives, until Brynjólfur is found dead in his own bed. Called on to help out at the farm, freelance journalist Alma is far from certain that the old man died a natural death. Determined establish the facts of the matter, she finds herself caught up in a vicious family feud.

Sisters Klara and Thórdís are unable to agree on the future of the farm, just as others with an interest in the place circle hungrily around them. Echoes of missed opportunities, lost love and age-old crimes surface as a reckoning takes a bitter toll on those left behind – and Alma struggles to get to the truth.

Extract

The sinister side to this was that from whatever angle you were to look at this, Brynjólfur could hardly have taken his own life. It was far more likely that someone else had routed carbon monoxide into his room. Who could have done it, and why? And how?

She left the room. The house was quiet. At this moment she would have given anything to have had Sveinbjörg there. Instead, she would have to cope with all this on her own, maybe even accept that she could be in danger herself.

Her thoughts went to the incident on the stairs. Perhaps it wasn’t her imagination that she had been pushed to fall down the stairs? Who could have done that? It couldn’t have been Klara, who was still seated in the chair when she went back to her room. Could she have got to her feet, despite her condition, and followed her? Was she maybe not as ill as she made out?

Thórdís was a more likely perpetrator. The floors in the attic didn’t creak, only the stairs. Or could someone have been in Thórdís’s room, and made their way out unseen? But then wouldn’t she have heard the stairs creak? She recalled that the stairs hadn’t creaked as loudly when she went down after speaking to Klara. She'd assumed that this was due to the damp. Maybe someone had managed to sneak downstairs? Or was Bjargarlækur haunted after all?

Then there was the other aspect of this. Why would someone at the farm or in the district wish to do her harm? At that point she had no inkling that Brynjólfur could have been murdered. Had she blurted out something relevant? Or had she said anything that could turn out badly for someone? What had she been told? That Thórdís dyed her hair and was Rósa’s friend. That Rósa was determined to get the farm. That Thorbjörn could be brewing moonshine in the workshop. None of this could conceivably be a motive for murder.

Alma recalled Gunnhildur mentioning having heard the sound of an engine from the workshop when she woke during the night. Had Brynjólfur’s Volvo been pushed out and another vehicle driven into the workshop during the night? If so, what car? Rósa’s car, or Thorbjörn’s? Or Jón’s? Birgir’s car had been seen down by the road, so could that have been driven into the workshop? And hadn’t Brynjólfur’s car always been kept in the workshop? Gunnhildur was supposed to be the one holding the key, but Alma had found the key locked away in Brynjólfur’s room. Did someone else have a key to the Volvo, had started it up and channelled the exhaust up to Brynjólfur’s room? Was it a possibility that Brynjólfur hadn’t taken a sleeping pill, but had instead gone down to the workshop and started the car – and then gone upstairs to die? That was a very distant possibility. But then someone would have had to have hidden any traces the following morning. No, she decided. That last possibility was too far-fetched. He had taken his medication to help him sleep and Gunnhildur had watched him swallow his pill. Or what?

The footprints in the basement and the length of green hose came suddenly to mind. Did this have something to do with Thorbjörn’s moonshining, or had it been used for another purpose? Was that piece of hose anything to do with Thorbjörn?

That left the big question. Was there a murderer on the loose at Bjargarlækur?

---

Guðrún Guðlaugsdóttir trained in drama, and after having been on the stage she became a producer and later a reporter for Icelandic state broadcaster RÚV. She subsequently had a 25-year career as a journalist for daily newspaper Morgunblaðið, making a name for herself for the quality of her interviews with people from all walks of life.

Her literary output has been prodigious, having written biographies, books of interviews, collections of short stories and a book of verse, as well as the enduringly popular series of novels featuring the exploits of journalist Alma Jónsdóttir.

Guðrún lives in Kópavogur. She has no plans to retire, and is still writing when most people of her age are taking it easy.

Many thanks to Ewa, Quentin and Guðrún Guðlaugsdóttir for this extract and do please check out the rest of the stops =>

Blog Tour - Murder Tide by Stella Blómkvist tr. Quentin Bates

Welcome to the latest stop on the blog tour for Murder Tide by Stella Blómkvist translated by Quentin Bates. Murder Tide was published by Corylus Books on 4 July 2025 as an ebook with the paperback to follow on 1 August 2025.

Murder Tide is the third book from mysterious* Icelandic author Stella Blómkvist to be translated into English and I am very pleased today to be able to share a teaser extract:

One of the tough guys steps in front of me on the pavement.

‘You’re coming with us,’ he says.

‘Says who?’

‘Oddgeir wants to meet you.’

‘Our car’s right there,’ the other hardnut says, taking my arm.

I ask for names and numbers, but they pay no attention.

‘Get your hands off me,’ I tell him, ice-cold.

‘We don’t want any trouble.’

‘You refuse to show any identification and try to manhandle me,’ I snap back. ‘That’s an offence and I’ll have you in court.’

‘Oddgeir’s waiting for you.’

I get in the car with them.

They drive off and accompany me to Oddgeir’s office where he appears to be in a meeting with two of his subordinates.

‘Are you off your head?’ I demand.

‘You have a memory stick that I suspect contains information relating to a serious crime,’ he replies, looking down his nose at me.

‘Fucking bullshit.’

‘Give me the stick.’

‘Or what?’

‘Or I’ll have one of my men search through your pockets.’

‘You’re threatening me with being physically manhandled a second time by your men?’

‘As you should know better than anyone, it’s a punishable offence to obstruct the work of the police in investigating a serious crime.’

‘I haven’t obstructed your work,’ I reply. ‘But you have obstructed my legal work.’

‘Where’s the memory stick?’

I shrug.

Oddgeir nods to his muscular sidekicks. They dip their fingers into the pockets of my leather jacket – and they find the memory stick.

‘Gummi! Take a look at this right away!’ he orders one of his men.

The man snatches up the memory stick and rushes from the room.

‘You’re in serious trouble,’ Oddgeir says. ‘You could make it a lot better by handing over the encryption key.’

‘What key?’

‘I know Sævar wrote down the key for you.’

‘You’re telling me you know what was said in a confidential conversation between myself and my client at Litla Hraun? If that’s the case, then that’s another offence to add to the list.’

Gummi opens Oddgeir’s office door. He stands there in the doorway and looks awkwardly at his boss.

‘What?’

‘There are no encrypted files on this memory stick.’

‘What, then?’

‘Just ordinary video files.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

Gummi goes over to his boss’s desk, plugs in the memory stick and opens it.

Queen appear on the screen.

‘We are the champions,’ Freddie Mercury sings with all his heart, his voice filling the drug squad office.

Oddgeir turns pale. Then his face flushes deep red.

‘I knew all along that Sævar was messing with us,’ he says.

‘Not at all,’ I say coldly.

‘There’s no other explanation.’

‘Yes, there is and it’s very simple. I know your dirty tricks, and now I have evidence.’

I fish my phone from my pocket.

‘I’d best call the commissioner so he’s ready when my official complaint against you and your department lands on his desk.’

Oddgeir’s face swells with anger.

‘But you can keep the memory stick as a memento,’ I add as a parting shot.

---

*Enormously popular in Iceland where the Stella Blómkvist books have been a bestselling series since their appearance in the 1990s, the books have been published under a pseudonym – and the author’s identity remains a secret. Who is behind the mysterious Stella Blómkvist is a question that crops up regularly, but it looks like it’s going to remain a mystery…

-- -

Many thanks to Ewa, Quentin and Stella Blómkvist for this extract and do please check out the rest of the stops =>

Blog Tour: Black Storms by Teresa Solana tr. Peter Bush

Welcome to the final stop on the blog tour for Black Storms by Teresa Solana translated by Peter Bush and published by Corylus Books.

I am very pleased to be able to share an extract from Black Storms (below) (and Euro Crime has reviewed Teresa Solana's previous novels here.)

A country that doesn't acknowledge its past is destined to repeat its mistakes.

Why murder a sick old man nearing retirement? An investigation into the death of a professor at the University of Barcelona seems particularly baffling for Deputy Inspector Norma Forester of the Catalan police, as word from the top confirms she's the one to lead this case.

The granddaughter of an English member of the International Brigades, Norma has a colourful family life, with a forensic doctor husband, a hippy mother, a squatter daughter and an aunt, a nun in an enclosed order, who operates as a hacker from her austere convent cell.

This blended family sometimes helps and often hinders Norma's investigations.

It seems the spectres of the past have not yet been laid to rest, and there are people who can neither forgive nor forget the cruelties of the Spanish Civil War and all that followed.

Extract

The man who was about to commit murder left home at six-thirty, after telling his girlfriend Mary he’d business to see to and checking his car keys were in his pocket. He’d not driven his third-hand Seat Ibiza for days. Its shabby appearance was protection against petty thieves even in a street like theirs where he usually parked it. Nonetheless, when he saw the thick layer of dust and the obscenities a finger had scrawled on the bonnet, sides and windows, he decided a filthy car would attract attention and it might be worth his while to shell out on a wash. The queue he found at the garage started to wear his patience thin. However, he cooled down after taking a glance at his watch: the professor had given him an appointment for eight forty-five and there was no point being early. He had more than enough time. No need to worry.

He drove his gleaming Seat up the Gran Via towards the Plaça d’Espanya, and then turned down Entença on his way to Roma. As soon as he reached the Plaça dels Països Catalans, he left the car in a parking lot and went into Sants station, all set on melting into the crowd. He was sure nobody would notice him in that chaotic, crowded spot—that’s why he’d chosen it—and hurried into the lavatories gripping his black backpack. It contained all he needed to carry out his plan of action: a disguise, latex gloves so he didn’t leave fingerprints, and a length of plastic-covered clothesline. It was an old, light backpack, nothing too flashy to attract thieves on the lookout for easy pickings from commuters and tourists.

He found an empty stall in the gents, checked the catch was working and rather nervously shut himself inside. He took a wrap from his pocket, prepared a line of coke and racked his brain wondering how he’d eke out his meagre supplies until Mary brought a fresh consignment. The cocaine revitalised him, and with the drug still buzzing in his brain, he took off his shirt and jacket and donned the disguise he’d crammed into his backpack. All he needed from now on was inside a corduroy bag he slung over his shoulder that radically transformed his appearance when it was combined with the jeans, the shirt with the Mao collar that was a couple of sizes too big, and a Palestinian scarf he’d bought at the same hippy stall where he’d found the shirt. Just in case, a khaki cap and fake Ray-Bans hid his eyes, hair and part of his face. When he emerged from the lavatories and glanced at the queue at the ticket counter, he could only smile. Nobody would ever recognize him in that jazzy disguise.

He went to the left-luggage office and deposited the backpack in a locker before catching the Line 3 metro. Twenty minutes later the man who was about to commit murder was walking along La Rambla on his way to the history department. While he progressed steadily, trying to dodge the bustling pedestrians and bedazzled tourists in his way, he felt altogether pleased with himself and his brainwave pseudonym and doctoral-student status. Had the professor smelled a rat, he might have caught him out and told someone, even informed the police, but his ploy had worked a treat. The professor had swallowed the lot and agreed to see him in his office in the evening, after classes, when the corridors of the department would have shed their daytime throng of students and professors, and he could avoid dozens of potential witnesses eyeing his every move. If everything went to plan, terminating the professor’s life would be simple enough. So far, the man about to commit murder had calculated right. But only so far.

Teresa Solana is a multi-award-winning Catalan crime writer and literary translator, renowned for her inventive, distinctive style. Her first crime series has been translated into several languages, and her short story collection The First Prehistoric Serial Killer was longlisted for the CWA Short Story Dagger Award in 2019. Black Storms is full of Teresa Solana’s signature humour, but also reflects social issues and acknowledges the weight of history that is part of Catalonia’s psyche.

Peter Bush is one of the most distinguished literary translators into English, and has translated from French, Spanish and Portuguese, as well as from Catalan. Not only active as a translator, he has also been a key figure in developing literary translation as an academic discipline.

Many thanks to Ewa Sherman, Teresa Solana, Peter Bush and Corylus Books for this extract and the opportunity to be involved.

Now check out the previous stops on the Tour!

Blog Tour: Extract from Shrouded by Sólveig Pálsdóttir tr. Quentin Bates

Welcome to the latest stop on the blog tour for Shrouded by Sólveig Pálsdóttir translated by Quentin Bates. 

I am very pleased to be able to share an extract from Shrouded, the fourth to be translated into English, in this Icelandic 'Ice and Crime' series which began with The Fox, and was followed by Silenced and then Harm.

A retired, reclusive woman is found on a bitter winter morning, clubbed to death in Reykjavik's old graveyard.

Detectives Guðgeir and Elsa Guðrún face one of their toughest cases yet, as they try to piece together the details of Arnhildur's austere life in her Red House in the oldest part of the city.

Why was this solitary, private woman attending séances, and why was she determined to keep her severe financial difficulties so secret?

Could the truth be buried deep in her past and a long history of family enmity, or could there be something more?

A stranger keeps a watchful eye on the graveyard and Arnhildur's house. With the detectives running out of leads, could the Medium, blessed and cursed with uncanny abilities, shed any light on Arnhildur’s lonely death?

Extract

She again felt her own rapid heartbeat and her breath came with difficulty. The events of the evening had certainly been distressing enough to upset her and she felt a deep fatigue that settled on her whole body. Every step was an effort and the snow that clung to her boots seemed to be as heavy as lead. After making her way along Suðurgata, she had no choice but to pause and lean against the graveyard wall. She felt faint, could barely breathe and the weight in her chest was increasing. What was wrong with her? Was this a heart attack? Shouldn’t she feel her arm tingling? Or was this a stroke, but wasn’t a terrible headache a warning of what was to come? Arnhildur pulled off a glove and felt in her pocket for her old-fashioned phone. She was frightened but didn’t know who to call. Now she had the feeling that a brick had been placed on her chest. Terrified, she tried to think of anyone she could call for help, but nobody came to mind. She’d have to call an ambulance. She tried to punch in the emergency number but wasn’t sure if she was finding the right buttons. Now she couldn’t see clearly, and tried to feel for the buttons, but arthritis had robbed her fingertips of any sensitivity. Something crunched in the snow behind her. Now someone would undoubtedly come to her aid. She looked over the graveyard wall, peering among the gravestones and the bare branches, but saw nothing there but darkness. She glanced around, but the street was as deserted as before. Once again, she heard the clear crunch of footsteps coming her way. Someone was coming through the graveyard.

‘Hello? Anyone there?’ she called out as loudly as she could. There was no response and she couldn’t be sure that her voice was audible. ‘Will you help me? Hello? Help, please.’ Her voice was faint but she hoped it would carry through the winter silence.

There was no response, but she could hear and sense more clearly that someone was approaching.

‘I need help…’ She hesitated at the sound of something breaking, a tree branch broken off. What was going on? She pressed herself against the graveyard wall, knowing that she had to support herself while the world spun around her. The sound of panting breaths drew closer, and then there was a voice that said something she was unable to make out clearly.

‘Who’s there?’ The weight in her chest was increasing. ‘Hello!’

There was nothing to be seen across the street, not even the pavement, just the dim glow of lights from houses and along the street by the lake.

‘Who are you?’ Arnhildur whispered, her voice feeble. She was faint and she heard a sound, almost like the howl of a dog, but couldn’t be sure if it came from her or someone else. Was she suffering an attack that distorted her senses? She summoned the last of her energy to ask again for assistance.

‘Could you help me? I can’t see the buttons…’

Before she could say any more, she felt a heavy blow to her head and shards of pain flashed through her nerves. She dropped to her knees. Heavy breaths and gasps could be heard, someone swearing.

This was a voice she’d heard before and she tried to see who was speaking, but saw nothing even though she felt that her eyes were open. Now she sensed that hands were grasping her under the arms and she was being dragged. There was an indistinct scraping sound, panting and her body bumped across the uneven ground, but she no longer felt anything. Then there was another blow, and the ice-cold snow settled to cover ​her​.

***

Many thanks to Ewa, Sólveig, Quentin and Corylus Books for this extract and the opportunity to be involved.

Now check out the rest of the Tour!

Blog Tour - Murder at the Residence by Stella Blómkvist tr. Quentin Bates

I'm very pleased to be today's stop on the Blog Tour for Murder at the Residence by Stella Blómkvist tr. Quentin Bates. 

I have a teaser extract for you. 

You can read a review of Murder at the Residence at yesterday's stop at Books'n'Banter.

Murder at the Residence by Stella Blómkvist 

Translation Quentin Bates

Corylus Books

‘Let me up the stairs, guys,’ I say.

One of them spreads his arms wide.

‘Come to daddy, baby,’ he croons.

I try to push my way between the men. But they both grab. They’re holding on tight.

The younger one says something in a language I don’t understand. Just then, he slides a hand up my leg, over the top of one tall black boot.

His pal sniggers.

I glare into dark, drunken eyes.

‘You want to go to prison?’ I snap, in English.

‘Me no prison,’ the man replies, shaking his head.

‘I’m a lawyer,’ I continue in the same harsh tone. ‘Hands off. Right now. Or I’ll have you both charged with assault.’

‘No fucking prison,’ the guy repeats, reluctantly withdrawing his hand.

The other one does the same.

The blonde grabs my arm.

‘You real lawyer?’ she asks in stiff English.

‘Of course.’

‘Can I talk with you?’

‘No. I’m going home.’

‘Please. I’m desperate.’

There’s anguish in her dark eyes.

‘All right.’

Those horny-as-hell guys aren’t going to let the blonde get away without getting what they’ve been waiting so long for. They encircle her. Their voices babble. Banknotes are waved. Euros and dollars.

She manages to calm them down. It looks like she’s promised to come right back to deal with their needs.

I’m not going to interfere in private enterprise. Let alone meddle in every patriarchy’s oldest profession. But these girls’ enthusiasm for their work seems to be at a low ebb, if they need to pep themselves up with a blast of white powder between clients.

The girl follows me up the stairs. There are three of the boys in black in full uniform waiting at the top of the stairs. Two of them are young bucks. One’s fair. The other has dark hair. The third is a red-haired girl. Looks hardly more than twenty.

‘Do good business down there?’ the fair-haired one asks in easy English, with a superior grin on his face.

‘Has the police college stopped teaching youngsters manners?’ I retort, my voice waspish.

The grin slips from the face of the boy in black.

‘Show me your ID,’ he orders.

‘My name’s Stella Blómkvist and I’m a lawyer,’ I say coldly, handing him a business card. ‘Come to my office if you need to talk to me.’

Many thanks to Ewa, Stella, Quentin and Corylus Books for this extract and the opportunity to be involved.

Tomorrow's stop is at Emerald Reviews.