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: Extract from Harm by Solveig Pálsdóttir tr. Quentin Bates

Welcome to the latest stop on the blog tour for Harm by Solveig Pálsdóttir translated by Quentin Bates. 

I am very pleased to be able to share an extract from Harm, the third in this Icelandic 'Ice and Crime' series which began with The Fox, and then Silenced.

Harm is available to buy now.

When wealthy doctor Ríkarður Magnússon goes to sleep in his luxurious caravan and doesn’t wake up, detectives Guðgeir Fransson and Elsa Guðrún are called to the Westman Islands to investigate what looks like murder.

Suspicion immediately falls on Ríkharður’s young, beautiful and deeply troubled girlfriend – but there are no easy answers in this case as they are drawn into family feuds, disgruntled friends and colleagues, and the presence of a group of fitness-obsessed over-achievers with secrets of their own.

As their investigation makes progress, Guðgeir and Elsa Guðrún are forced to confront their own preconceptions and prejudices as they uncover the sinister side of Ríkharður’s past.

Harm is the third novel featuring the soft-spoken Reykjavík detective Guðgeir Fransson to appear in English. Sólveig Pálsdóttir again weaves a complex web of intrigue that plays out in the Westman Islands, remote southern Iceland and Reykjavík while asking some searching questions about things society accepts at face value – and others it is not prepared to tolerate.

Extract

Diljá was startled from sleep a noise from somewhere. It took her a moment to realise where she was as she stared at the pile of mattresses at her side. Before long she recalled that she was in the upstairs space of the summer house owned by Ingi Thór and Eygló. She rolled over onto her front and crawled to the small window, taking care not to be seen. There was nothing to be seen outside and she wriggled closer, peering out and listening. She was sure she could hear the sound of a car in the distance, and she watched as a small jeep drove down the track from one of the other summer houses. Someone was leaving. She pulled back from the window and hoped that she hadn’t been spotted. Now she needed a little more time to think things over and look for a way out of this predicament.

She had no idea what the time was, or how long she had been asleep. There was a television downstairs and she switched it on, quickly scanning the news media.

Man found dead in Herjólfsdalur.

It was just a short news item, but she read it again and again. There was no more information in the full text than the headline had provided. There was no mention of her disappearance, or anything referring to the group’s trip to the Westman Islands, other than that the deceased was a fifty-two-year-old man from Reykjavík.

What options were now open to her? Give herself up and try to explain, in the forlorn hope that she would get away with it?

No. Nobody would believe her. Was she prepared to be remanded in custody, to be shut away in a cramped, windowless cell? Her claustrophobia was so severe that even taking the lift from one floor to the next was too much for her. A stream of thoughts whirled through her mind, one after another, and it was difficult to keep them under some kind of control. Occasionally María Líf appeared in her thoughts, and that magnified her misery. Her stomach made a strange sound, and she realised that she hadn’t eaten since the night before. Something to eat would help her think straight. She found the bag of goods she had picked up at the shop by the Landvegur crossroads. Two of the hotdogs went into a pot and she rooted around for ketchup and mustard in one of the cupboards, and smeared both onto some bread. The aroma sharpened her hunger and she wolfed down the two sausages. It was years since she had last eaten processed food of this kind, but her stomach didn’t rebel and she felt better for it.

She took a quick shower and washed her hair. The green towel on a hook must have been hung up wet, as it was stiff to the touch. Diljá dried herself vigorously, hard enough to leave her skin red and tender. The steam from the shower had left a mist on the mirror, and when she looked at her reflection she saw the raw skin, eyes puffed with tears and the worry on her face.

‘You always fuck everything up, you idiot,’ she snarled angrily at her own reflection.

***

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Blog Tour: Extract from Silenced by Solveig Pálsdóttir tr. Quentin Bates

Welcome to the second stop on the blog tour for Silenced by Solveig Pálsdóttir translated by Quentin Bates. The first stop was at the Nordic Lighthouse

I am very pleased to be able to share an extract from Silenced, the second in this Icelandic 'Ice and Crime' series which began with The Fox.

Silenced will be available to buy from 15 April.

As a police team is called in to investigate a woman’s suicide at the Hólmsheiði prison outside Reykjavík, to detective Guðgeir Fransson it looks like a tragic but straightforward case.

It’s only afterwards that the pieces begin to fall into place and he takes a deeper interest in Kristín Kjarr’s troubled background, and why she had found herself in prison.

His search leads him to a series of brutal crimes committed twenty years before and the unexplained disappearance of the prime suspect, whose wealthy family closed ranks as every effort was made to keep skeletons securely hidden in closets – while the Reykjavík police struggle to deal with a spate of fresh attacks that bear all the hallmarks of a copycat.

And here's the teaser extract:

Guðgeir had seen more than a few cells during his career. They were all much the same, with a bed, table and chair, as well as an overpowering sense of claustrophobia. But this one with its lively pictures on the walls was an exception, presenting a stark contrast to the lifeless woman on the bed. Leifur looked her over for a moment before he put his bag on the floor, pulled on a pair of gloves and set about gathering evidence.

‘Are these her pictures?’ Guðgeir asked.

‘Yes, she’s an artist,’ Svala replied in a low voice from by the door. ‘Was, I mean,’ she corrected herself. ‘Kristín had recently begun painting again after a long break. She was incredibly talented, fantastic stuff.’

Svala bit her lip and fell silent.

‘There’s something odd about all this,’ she said, hesitating, shaking her head slowly. ‘These last few weeks she had been working flat-out, as if she had been preparing for a big exhibition. She hardly even stopped for meals.’

‘Did she have much else to do with her time?’ Guðgeir asked, looking down at the woman on the bed. Her brown hair was cropped short and her face was made up of fine lines. Her ears were pierced, with a delicate silver ring in each one. Her arms were at her sides, hands closed. His eye was caught by the ring finger of her right hand, and a heavy silver ring with a striking emblem. He took a picture of it with his phone.

‘No, not exactly,’ Svala said. ‘There isn’t much to do, but all the same…’ she was about to place a hand on the body.

‘Don’t,’ Leifur said quickly. He looked up from what he was doing and glared at Svala. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

‘Of course, sorry,’ she muttered, withdrawing her hand.

Leifur gave her a smile, as if to soften his harsh words, and paused to inspect the pictures on the walls.

‘They’re beautifully done,’ he admitted.

‘That’s right. Kristín was artistic and a sensitive soul. I can’t understand why she did this. I just don’t get it at all,’ she sighed, a look of despair in her eyes. ‘She lived a life that was so much richer than most people you meet in here do. Spiritually, I mean.’

‘Creative people frequently tend to be vulnerable,’ Leifur said, sounding philosophical. ‘She wanted to leave something behind.’

‘Kjarr. Kristín Kjarr,’ Guðgeir said, as if to himself. ‘Did she have any children?’ he asked.

Svala shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘No suicide note to be seen here,’ Leifur announced.

‘Are any of the other prisoners aware of this yet?’ Guðgeir asked, stepping cautiously past a large plastic cup that lay on the floor.

‘No, none of them,’ Svala said, running hands through her reddish hair, pushing it back behind her ears, which gave her the look of a young girl. ‘But I’m sure some of them noticed that Kristín didn’t show up this morning.’

‘Could you let the priest know that he can go and see the family?’ Guðgeir said. ‘We’ll come down to the office when we’re finished, and it would be useful to have a chat with you then, Svala. You seem to have known Kristín well.’

She nodded, anxious to be helpful, but also relieved to be released from the discomfort of being present. Guðgeir waited for her footsteps in the corridor to fade away before he turned to Leifur.

‘Don’t you think this is all weird?’ he asked, rubbing his chin, the dark bristles rough against his hand.

***

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