In Memoriam - Lauren Milne Henderson

 In Memoriam

Lauren Milne Henderson (aka Rebecca Chance)

30th September 1966 - March 2026

It is with deep sadness that the crime writing community have learned of the recent death of the award-winning crime writer Lauren Milne Henderson. As well as being an author Lauren worked as a journalist for a number of well-known newspapers and magazines.

Under the name of Lauren Milne Henderson, she was the author of the Sam Jones series featuring sculptor turned sleuth Sam Jones. The first book in the series is Dead White Female was published in 1995 and it was followed by six more books.  Too Many Blondes (1996), The Black Rubber Dress (1997) Freeze My Margarita (1998) The Strawberry Tattoo (1999), Chained (2001) and Pretty Boy (2002)

 

Following on from her Sam Jones series she also wrote the Young Adult Kiss/Scarlett series starting with Kiss Me Kill Me in 2008 which featured 16-year-old Scarlett Wakefield who must clear her name after the last boy she kisses dies in her arms and she is accused of his death. There were 3 more books in this series published. Kisses and Lies (2009), Kisses in the Dark (2010) and Kisses of Death (2011). Kiss Me Kill Me was nominated for an Anthony Award in 2009.

For a long period, she was a regular attendee at a number of crime writing festivals especially Bouchercon during the 1990s and 2000s.

Under the name Rebecca Chance she was also the author of 10 glamourous thrillers and what was known as ‘Bonkbusters’.  Whilst all standalones previous characters could be found in other books.  The first book in the series was Divas (2009) and the last book Killer Affair (2017). Killer Heels (2012), Bad Angels (2012) Killer Queens (2013) and Bad Brides (2014) all made the Sunday Times Best seller list.

In 2002 together with Stella Duffy, Lauren edited Tart Noir an anthology of women-behaving-badly crime stories.

Lauren also wrote 3 romantic comedies between 2003 and 2005.

As a non-fiction author she wrote the Jane Austen’s Guide to Dating (2005). Alongside over 100 well-known crime writers she contributed to the Anthony, Agatha and Macavity Award wining Books to Die For where she wrote two personal essays under the names Lauren Henderson on Agatha Christie’s Endless Night and as Rebecca Chance on Have His Carcass by Dorothy L Sayers.

 Lauren was also one of the contributors to Barry Forshaw’s 2 volume British Crime Writing: An Encyclopaedia. She wrote the essay on Peter O’Donnell and Modesty Blaise. She was also featured in the Encyclopaedia as an author in her own right.

In 2014 under the name of Rebecca Chance and along with crime writer Laura Lippman a travel article was published in The New York Times entitled ‘Murder, They Wrote’ about a trip that they took on the Orient Express.

In 2020 Lauren Henderson short story #MeTwo won the CWA Short Story Dagger. It was published in the anthology Invisible Blood which was edited by Maxim Jakubowski and brought together various short stories focusing on themes of contemporary crime and social issues.

In 2024 Lauren attended the CWA Daggers that took place in London.  Rather sadly and with

much regret it was the last time we saw each other.   I have incredibly fond memories of hanging out with her especially when we managed to find ourselves attending the same Bouchercon. I specifically remember closing the bar with her in Baltimore. It was the first one I attended and it was a joy to see her as at the time I knew very few people.

Lauren’s death is a great loss to the crime writing community and she will be sorely missed by not only fellow crime writers but all her fans. Our condolences to all of her family and friends.

 

 

500 Square Foot of History

“His bedroom and his bathroom looked out on a tiny court containing a sundial and a silversmith. Few people who walked down St James’s Street knew of the court’s existence.” – The Human Factor by Graham Greene

One November day, many years ago, I was walking back from a meeting near St James’s Park in London and spotted an intriguing passageway I’d never noticed before. Lined with dark panels, it appeared to lead to a little courtyard and the sign on the wall named it Pickering Place. Peering down the covered passage, what I glimpsed of the courtyard appeared secluded and private, so I carried on my way but, curiosity piqued, I looked it up on the train home.

As a teenager, my father had given me Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City to read, and, as an already-avid crime fiction fan, the idea of a varied and eccentric community investigating a murder immediately popped into my head. The idea recurred several times over the years, and I even spent a month in San Francisco in my twenties, staying in a Barbary Lane-style courtyard, exploring the city I’d read so much about, but the idea was transient and unfixed, and the exact way in which I could bring these people together in a UK setting eluded me.

Until the day I discovered Pickering Place. Described as the smallest residential square in London – and it really is small, about 500 square feet – it was rich with history. Sometimes, it only takes a word or a phrase to spark an idea for a writer, and ‘the smallest square in London’ was enough for me. The idea for a crime novel set in a London square immediately began to form, and that was before I read the wealth of history in this tiny place. 

Formerly part of Henry VIII’s real tennis courts, it was acquired by builder Thomas Stroud in 1731, who built many of the houses surrounding the square. By 1741 however, William Pickering, a coffee merchant, had taken ownership. He was son-in-law to Widow Bourne, the founder of Berry Bros. & Rudd Ltd, the historic wine merchants who have been operating next door on St James’s Street since 1698.

In the 18th century, Pickering Place became something of a ‘scene’ and, as a secluded, unseen corner of St James’s, attracted all sorts of unsavoury activity from the aristocratic society in the neighbourhood. It gained a reputation for gambling, bear-baiting, cock-fighting, bare-knuckle boxing, and even as a location for illegal duels. One of its most famous duellists was rumoured to be Beau Brummell, famous dandy and inventor of the cravat, whose statue stands in nearby Jermyn Street. It has even been suggested that the last duel in London was fought there, but since pistols were the weapon of choice for duellists by then, the limited square footage would make that unlikely. The words ‘fish’ and ‘barrel’ spring to mind.

The square appeared to clean up its act in the 19th century however, becoming home to the Texan Republic’s legation until Texas joined the United States in 1845, and in 1914 was put to use as a temporary recruitment and sign-up spot for The Royal Fusiliers. The historians at Berry Bros. & Rudd even discovered photographs in their archive from 1922 showing Pickering Place being used as a film set, the film’s title unknown but featuring two duelling, costumed swordsmen. A source of those ‘last duel’ rumours, perhaps. In the 1950s, writer Graham Greene lived there, in a flat above an oyster bar and below General Auchinleck, using the square as inspiration for the living quarters of Colonel Daintry in his novel, The Human Factor. 

Did you know London still had lamplighters? I didn’t, until I went back to Pickering Place to explore. I found that not only was the square truly tiny, it was also very beautiful, with Georgian architecture, iron railings, and an original, still-used Victorian gas lamp. My fictional Marchfield Square sprang fully to life for me that day, albeit on a larger plot and with fewer people, and the story of a special and quite improbable place in London was born.

Sadly, Pickering Place’s gas lamp has now been converted to LED but there are still over 250 left in the area, looked after by a devoted group of skilled engineers. The commitment of others to preserve and document our history also inspired the second book in the Marchfield Mysteries, Murder Like Clockwork, although setting the books in London has provided an embarrassment of riches in that respect.

While the idea for Marchfield Square appeared to download itself to my brain in a single moment – an eclectic residential community in the heart of London, overlooked by a wealthy, somewhat mysterious widow – the rest of the story came in snippets, inspired by the history of the square. The characters include a coffee addicted writer, a military man, and a retired film actor, all part of a community of found family hiding their secrets in the shadows… And then I asked the question: what would happen to that community if the wrong person moved in? 

When I finally sat down to write 10 Marchfield Square it was 2021. Even for me, that was a long time for an idea to percolate, but sometimes, the moment is just right. Publishing was rediscovering the joy of crime novels with heart and humour, and the book flowed easily, and I had a great time planting little references to Pickering Place in its pages.

One thing most writers have in common is our curiosity, our need to look up (and subsequently rabbit-hole) even the idlest of thoughts. And even if that research never makes it into a book, I sure none of us would have it any other way. 

For more in depth history about Pickering Place, do visit the sites of Berry Bros. and Rudd, The London Gasketeers, and The Paris Review.

Murder Like Clockwork by Nicola Whyte. (Bloomsbury Publishing)

An empty house that isn't empty. A victim who vanishes. An impossible crime? Every Thursday at midday Audrey Brooks cleans the Petrov house. Mr Petrov is never home - in fact he seems to use the house purely as storage for his impressive collection of antiques - but that doesn't affect the care with which Audrey mops, polishes, and carefully winds each of the dozens of beautiful clocks that decorate the tall, elegant, empty London mansion. Until the morning she finds a corpse in the back bedroom, the pristine walls and floor covered in blood, and flees the house in panic. Fifteen minutes later, the police arrive... and find nothing. No body. No blood. The only thing slightly out of the ordinary is the clock in that back bedroom, which is now running four minutes slow. With no victim, the police are convinced there was no murder, but Audrey knows better. A man has been killed, and if they won't do anything about it, she - and her annoying friend Lewis - will. Whodunnit is one thing, but this detective duo must also wrestle with when - and where on earth is the body? It's not long since they solved the murder of their neighbour, so they're not rookie sleuths, and at least this time the case has no connection to their home. Does it?

More information about Nicola Whyte and her books can be found on her website. She can also be found on Facebook. She can also be found on Instagram, X, Bluesky and Threads @nixawhy.

Simon Mason on The Dangerous Man

The Dangerous Stranger is the fifth story in a series featuring a pair of mis-matched detectives in Oxford, both called Wilkins. Ryan Wilkins is Oxford born and bred, white, a chav who grew up on what the Americans would call a ‘trailer park,’ badly dressed, badly behaved, semi-feral in fact, with a chip on his shoulder and anger-management issues generally brought into play by encounters with privileged elites. Ray Wilkins is a member of the privileged elites, London-Nigerian, privately educated with a double first in PPE from Balliol College, Oxford, handsome, nattily dressed, articulate and suave, the golden boy of Thames Valley Police – until, much against his will, he was paired with Ryan. They are not related. They do not get on.

Oddly, what they get are results.

This new story is a thought-experiment. What if Oxford – gentle city of poets and scholars – had experienced a riot, as so many cities in the UK did, after the Southport murders? An out-of-control crowd lobbing Molotov cocktails at a hotel housing asylum seekers. And also: what if a young refugee was actually burned to death? (It’s an Oxford tradition, after all, if in abeyance for many centuries and formerly restricted to Jews and archbishops.) And furthermore: what if the victim then turned out not to be a refugee at all?

Perhaps it sounds very political. But the impulse wasn’t to discuss politics; the story seemed to arise naturally out of the anger and fear. There is action, for sure, but as Chandler said, what counts is emotion; and it seemed to me that there were unusual amounts of this arising, unstoppably, chaotically, from the basic situation I imagined.

This emotion affects all the characters, in different ways. Because it’s the fifth book in a series, some of the characters have naturally been around for a while. Little Ryan, for instance, Ryan’s four-year-old son. And his father, Ryan Senior, released early from prison (overcrowding issues) and now resident, to his disgust, in a hostel for rehabilitating prisoners. The Wilkins’s Superintendent is familiar too, fresh, steely and blonde as ever, but having to cope with a disciplinary enquiry, which tests her considerable reserves to the limit, and the Chief Constable, a massive, battered, malevolent presence, who openly hopes to get rid of those Wilkins ‘clowns’.

But there are new characters too. A sly criminal from Rotherhithe who hates Oxford even as his job keeps him there. An eager new DC, William, who simply won’t shut up and is a little too naïve for his own good. ‘Milky’ Nolan, twelve years old, excited to find himself at his first riot. Yemi Kosoko, world food grocery shopkeeper in Oxford’s ethnic Cowley Road and his friend, the chess-playing eccentric academic Nicholas Kinghorn, who dyes his beard lilac to remind him of weddings in Ghana. And finally, most important of all, Jallo (other names unknown, age unknown, country of origin unknown) who finds himself sleeping rough in Oxford’s nooks and crannies, and knows himself to be in horrible danger.

I like Oxford’s nooks and crannies, I must admit. I like the city’s double nature. Its deep Englishness (dons and quadrangles, meadows and river), and simultaneous air of foreignness (all those foreign post-grads, language students and care workers). I like its strange blend of permanence (we who live here) and transience (those who arrive and go, students, tourists). And I like its rooted elderly and great waves of youth. It seems to me excitingly unstable. Perhaps it’s that quality that gives rise to stories, not all of which it wants to tell.

The Dangerous Man by Simon Mason (Quercus Publishing) £16.99 Out Now

On a warm and pleasant evening in Oxford, gentle city of poets and scholars, rioters outside a hotel full of asylum seekers set a young refugee on fire. The city - the country - convulses in shock. Is this who we are? It's international news of the very worst kind, and the Chief Constable demands immediate and exemplary action in bringing the perpetrators to justice. The detectives leading the investigation fill him with misgivings, however: DIs Ryan and Ray Wilkins (no relation), Thames Valley's detective pantomime horse, one Oxford-educated, the other Oxford-trailer park. He doesn't understand why they work together. 'Do they even get on?' 'Somehow that doesn't seem necessary,' their Superintendent replies. Who burned the boy alive? Was it a far-right extremist? Was it an ordinary person who had simply gone along to watch and got caught up in the emotion? Could it even be one of the children who were there? Deploying a range of investigative skills, some standard, some unconventional and some frankly nuts, the Wilkinses do what they do: results with chaos. But when they discover that the victim was not an asylum seeker after all, or even a resident of the hotel, the whole investigation kicks into a completely different configuration.

The Shots review of The Dangerous Man can be found here.

Useful Idiots by Neil Lancaster

Writers are generally divided into two camps in how they deal with the difficult task of coming up with an idea for a book and then how to attack the job of getting the words down. 

We are either known as “plotters,” which is kind of self-explanatory, as in you plot all the story out, you know the story beats, and you know how it ends. 

Or.. we can be what is known in the trade as “pantsers,” which of course isn’t a word. However, it basically means you write by the “seat of your pants.” Sounds great, right?

So, as a dedicated “pantser,” mind I decided when planning the 7th Max Craigie novel I would change how I work, and come up with a cogent plot before I started typing onto the blank word document. 

But what? I’ve written about, drug runners, corrupt cops, long-term missing people, and even a psychotic serial killer stalking the Scottish Highlands. Then it hit me. Espionage. I’m a huge fan of spy novels, but really, as an ex-cop, police procedurals are where my expertise lies. Could I mix the two? 

You bet I could, but what’s the angle that links the words of counter-espionage, and modern policing in Scotland? So, I did what I always do. I stared into space, and hoped. It’s not that proactive, but it’s a thing, and so far, I’ve been lucky. Something would show up. 

And it did! 

Real life came to the rescue, with a shocking and high-profile case that hit the news right when I needed it. On the 20th March 2024 a large fire was set using an accelerant at a warehouse in East London. Eight fire appliances were required along with 60 firefighters to quell the blaze, which caused in excess of £1.4 million in damage.

But this was a factory with a difference. This premises was storing property and aid that was bound for Ukrainian forces engaged in the blood-soaked war that was still raging on that continent.

Not an insurance job. Not revenge. Not even wanton damage for damage’s sake, which we see plenty of. This was an attack commissioned by the proscribed Russian state proxy Wagner Group but carried out by a group of petty London criminals in exchange for comparatively modest sums of cash. 

The ringleader Dylan Earl, a petty criminal from London made contact with the Wagner group by joining a broadcast channel on the social messaging application Telegram.

He began chatting with two account handles called ‘Privet Bot’ and ‘Lucky Strike.’ Earl knew that these accounts were supportive of Russia, and he accepted an offer of money to undertake operations, the first of which as the East London factory attack.

His Co-conspirator Jake Reeves had helped Earl recruit a group of men, all petty criminals involved in drug supply to carry out the arson. 

After the group’s arrests, the whole plot was essentially uncovered by their communications on secure messaging sites where they openly talked of working for Wagner, and the sums they were being paid. None of the group had ever received training, nor travelled to Russia. They were just useful idiots. Petty criminals willing to be exploited in exchange for cash, who are now all serving long prison sentences.

This is hardly Le Carre, is it? I mean, where are the gadgets? Where are the double-agents? 

So what had changed?

The reality is that operational nature of Russian intelligence operations has changed. The world has changed, and it was two distinct events which propagated this. 

The poisoning of Sergei, and Yulia Skripal by deploying the weapons grade nerve-agent Novichok on British soil in Salisbury in 2018. This caused a massive response from the UK by the expulsion of 153 Russian “diplomats,” by the end of 2018. 

The next incident was a little more explosive. 

Russia invaded Ukraine.

Russia’s ability to propagate operational activity was severely compromised firstly by the lack of agents working undercover in Embassies, and secondly because of how the world has changing. Everyone now has a digital footprint. It’s harder to work covertly in a hostile foreign state in a perpetually online world.

So, the use of the criminal proxy model is attractive for a number of reasons. 

Firstly, a low-level petty criminal is cheap. The sums in the Dylan Earl case were comparatively modest. £2-3, 000 to torch a factory. 

Russia no doubt could carry out these acts with agents of the GRU, as they did in Salisbury. Or, for less money, and less risk, they could deploy useful idiots, who they never even have to meet. 

As a writer, this is manna from heaven, serious though it is. Espionage is no longer the preserve of a suave guy in a dinner suit, driving an Aston Martin. It could be the 17-year-old hoodie-wearing yob from a rough estate in inner London.

So, the sixth in the DS Max Craigie series, The Dark Heart was born. It’s a story that opens with a car bomb in York, when a renowned is killed in a devastating explosion in York, authorities quickly attribute the attack to Islamic extremists. But as the investigation unfolds, it becomes clear that all is not as it seems. Are dark forces really trying to sow division in the UK, and if so, why? 

The Dark Heart by Neil Lancaster. (HarperCollins Publishers) Out Now

A deadly bombing. When renowned author Dr. Daniel Solomon is killed in a devastating explosion in York, authorities quickly attribute the attack to Islamic extremists. But as the investigation unfolds, it becomes clear that all is not as it seems. A dark conspiracy. DS Max Craigie uncovers a chilling connection between a series of brutal murders, each victim linked by a secret that someone is determined to protect. A dangerous game. With the number of victims growing and an elusive figure known as The Cashier operating in the shadows, Max must navigate a web of corruption and hatred. Can he unravel the truth before more lives are lost?

More information can be found on his website.  He can also be found on Facebook @NeilLancasterCrime. On Instagram @neil_lancaster_crime and on X @neillancaster66 

 

Left Coast Crime - Lefty Awards

Left Coast Crime 2026 San Francisco Schemin' presented the Lefty Awards in four categories at our 36th annual convention. The categories were: Humorous, Historical, Debut, and Best. 

2026 Lefty Award nominees for books published in 2025:

Lefty for Best Humorous Mystery Novel: 

Scot’s Eggs by Catriona McPherson

Lefty for Best Historical Mystery Novel for books set before 1970. (The Bill Gottfried Memorial): 

The Case of the Missing Maid by Rob Osler

Lefty for Best Debut Mystery Novel: 

Whiskey Business by Adrian Andover

Lefty for Best Mystery Novel (not in other categories): 

Rivers of Lies by James L’Etoile

Left Coast Crime Conventions are annual events sponsored by mystery fans, both readers and authors. Held in the western half of North America, LCC’s intent is to host an event where readers, authors, critics, librarians, publishers, and other fans can gather in convivial surroundings to pursue their mutual interests. Lefty Awards have been given since 1996. 

Returning to The City, where Left Coast Crime held its first two conventions, the 36th Annual Left Coast Crime Convention took place in San Francisco, February 26 – March 1, 2026. This year’s Guests of Honor were authors Robin Burcell and Gary Phillips. Randal Brandt was the Fan Guest of Honor, and author Leslie Karst served as Toastmaster.

Left Coast Crime is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit corporation holding annual mystery conventions in the West. Each LCC convention raises money to support a local literary organisation, and is staffed entirely by volunteers. This year the charity was the San Francisco Public Library literacy program.

Congratulations to all the nominated authors and winners.

Tracy Maton on Writing What You Love

I began writing The Artful Anna Harris as an act of rebellion. After many false starts, two previous novels had come close but ultimately failed to find a publisher so, dripping with disappointment, I decided to have one last shot. If that didn’t work I’d shut my laptop and use it as a tray. Bizarrely, this decision was freeing. Self-censorship went out of the window. In came a delicious playfulness.

Writers are advised to ‘Write what you love’ and ‘Write what you know’ and ‘Kill your darlings,’ which is the much-quoted idea that you must cut aspects you adore if they do not serve the narrative or the character. Not overly keen on being told what to do, I adopted two out of three.

What do I love? I love The Talented Mr Ripley, coming to the book from Minghella’s wonderful 1999 film adaptation. I carried on to read many of Highsmith’s other novels, all of which feature excellent anti-heroes. Highsmith had a talent for creating often unlikeable, in many ways ordinary characters who commit heinous acts that are, in the context of the story, entirely justifiable. By offering a window into the minds of these flawed people, the sort of people you pass by every day, we are invited to collude. And colluding is all too easy. I think I’ve always enjoyed rooting for those who behave badly, from my teenage reading of Bronte’s Wuthering Heights – Heathcliffe is detestable – to Frank Cauldhame, the violent, isolated teenage narrator of Banks’ The Wasp Factory; from Tartt’s The Secret History which features a whole cast of anti-heroes to the emotionally stunted Istvan in David Szalay’s Flesh, last year’s winner of the Booker Prize. How much more interesting to side with someone you know you shouldn’t?

So, onto what do I know. I know English villages, their community spirit and their spitefulness, their hidden secrets and their open lies.

Put the two together and I give you my Ripley-esque anti-hero, Anna Harris, who is living in a suffocatingly pretty village surrounded by her boyfriend’s extended family. Everything in the garden is rosy until the vivacious Sofia arrives on the scene and unleashes what Anna tries so hard to keep at bay. As Anna shares her innermost thoughts, she invites you to take her side. I’m biased, but I don’t think that’s too much to ask. 

The book is full of darlings that I refused to kill. Choosing instead to give you Anna in all her glory, the beautiful and the ugly. As a nod to Highsmith, or maybe just for fun, I wove little vignettes from Ripley’s story. Fans will spot the references.

Despite her morally ambiguous character, I like Anna very much. I wonder who else will become a fan.

Warning: if you like justice to be done, look away.

The Artful Anna Harris by Tracy Maton (Profile Books) Out Now '

You are quite the chameleon, aren't you? You could wear anything, do anything, and yet you choose plain, plain, plain. Is it all a front for a secret life?' When the vivacious Sofia Carstairs arrives in her sleepy country village, Anna knows her life will never be the same again. Her new best friend is carefree, elegant and intoxicating. Her life doesn't revolve around church flower arrangements or Sunday lunches with the in-laws. Sofia reminds Anna of the person she used to be, before she worked so hard to fit in that she practically disappeared. But is it enough to just be Sofia's friend? Anna wonders what it would be like to be Sofia, if only for a little while. But once Anna starts pretending, she finds it easy to pretend the rules don't apply to her. How far will Anna go to get what she wants.And what will she do to those that stand in her way?

You can find Tracy Maton on Instagram @tracymatonwriter

 

American Mystery Classics Collection

Penguin presents timeless reads for slower summers: the American Mystery Classics collection is a chance to revisit the great American crime novels that shaped the genre, perfect for fans of golden age detectives, locked-room stories, and mysteries featuring cats. Curated by Otto Penzler, the world’s foremost authority on crime fiction, the series brings together the smartest, cosiest, most ingenious mysteries of the Golden Age and beyond, newly presented for modern readers

Timeless Reads 

for Slower Summers

14th May 2026        14th May 2026            11th June 2026

             9th July 2026,    17th September 2026  17th September 2026

Discover a collection of forgotten classics – the ultimate suitcase library

 

About the Author

Otto Penzler owns The Mysterious Bookshop in New York City and founded the Mysterious Press and Otto Penzler Books. He has written and edited several books, including the Edgar Award-winning Encyclopaedia of Mystery and Detection, and is the series editor of the annual Best American Mystery Stories of the Year.

Extract fromThe Murder Pool by Stella Blómkvist

In the afternoon I get an unexpected call.

‘My name’s Thórunn and I’m Hörður Sæmundarson’s daughter.’

‘What do you want from me?’ I ask coldly.

‘I’m here at the hospital and he very much wants to speak to you.’

‘I was almost dead once, thanks to your father,’ I reply. ‘So it’s understandable that I have no desire to meet him again.’

‘Dad regrets so many of the things he did before he went through rehab,’ Thórunn replies. ‘He’s a different man today.’

I doubt that. It’s a long time since I stopped believing in fairy tales.

‘Why does he want to talk to me?’ I ask, all the same.

‘Dad’s convinced the cops have betrayed him. He says they have no interest in arresting the men who assaulted him in the middle of the night.’

‘And what does that have to do with me?’

‘He wants to take the police to court for damages.’

‘A damages case?’

‘Yes. Dad says he received this horrific treatment because of the lies the police spread about him.’

‘Does he have proof?’

‘So he says.’

Hardnut Höddi’s daughter has finally sparked my interest.

‘How’s he going to prove it?’

‘Dad wants to tell you himself if you’ll come to the hospital.’

What else can I do?

Thórunn waits in the corridor while I confer with her father.

The hospital smell hits me hard. Hörður Sæmundarson looks even worse in the high-tech hospital bed than he did on the district court’s flat-screen. I can only imagine how the rest of his body looks after that pounding.

There are injuries to his head and hands, with blood seeping through to stain the bandages.

‘I’ve never once offered an apology for anything I’ve done, but I’m doing it now,’ he says, wetting his split lips with the tip of his tongue.

‘Isn’t it late in the day for that?’

‘I was off my head on dope and madness back then, but got myself clean a few years ago,’ he replies. ‘I deeply regret my behaviour towards you and others who were left hurt.’

‘The forgiveness of sins isn’t exactly my department.’

‘All the same, I want you to know that I turned over a new leaf and have done my best to work honestly since I was last released from Litla Hraun three years ago.’

‘Your daughter said something about launching a damages case?’

‘You already know that those who assaulted me believed I’d passed information to Vígbergur Antonsson that led to that big cocaine bust.’

‘You’re saying that’s a lie?’

‘Yes. I knew nothing about that cocaine operation until it was on the news.’

‘And you blame the police for spinning this?’

‘I know that cops cooked it up,’ Hörður says. ‘They were going to use this lie to catch me in a trap, to force me to give false evidence against Vígbergur.’

‘It’s one thing to know, but being able to prove it in court is something else.’

Höddi struggles to cope with the pain as he shifts in bed.

‘The assailants wore masks and gloves. But I recognised the ringleader’s voice.’

‘Aha?’

‘That was Jónsteinn Ingólfsson.’

This takes me totally by surprise.

‘Have you told the cops?’

‘No. I named no names to the cops because Jónsteinn is under their protection, just as Sigvaldi was before he skipped the country.’

‘But you have no direct evidence to prove that Jónsteinn was the one who administered this treatment?’

Hörður again wets his bruised lips.

‘I might have proof,’ he replies. The old man’s taken me by surprise again.

‘Such as what?’

‘I have a security camera in the living room where I was beaten up. It should have been activated as soon as it all started.’

Wow!

‘And do the cops know about this hidden camera?’ I ask, leaning closer.

‘No. I don’t trust them.’

‘Understandably.’

‘I don’t trust anyone, but I’ll have to trust you.’

‘Why?’

‘You know them as well as I do, you know they’re not to be trusted.’

I nod agreement.

‘You’ll have to collect the hard drive, copy the recording and save both somewhere safe,’ he says.

I look Höddi up and down for a moment.

Why should I help this bastard? Unless..?

‘Is there anything on this hard drive that could be to Vígbergur’s advantage?’

‘Yes.’

That reply does it.

‘I’m up for it as long as I can use the data as I see fit.’

‘You can do that. But you’ll have to tread carefully. If the cops hear about the camera, they can make evidence disappear.’

‘You seem to have even less faith in the cops than I do.’

‘Some of them are good guys, like Vígbergur. There are others who are as corrupt as fuck, and I speak from long experience because I’ve had dealings with some of the worst shitbags.’

I can’t hold back a smile.

Scum always recognise their own, as Mother ​said​.

In the afternoon I get an unexpected call.

‘My name’s Thórunn and I’m Hörður Sæmundarson’s daughter.’

‘What do you want from me?’ I ask coldly.

‘I’m here at the hospital and he very much wants to speak to you.’

‘I was almost dead once, thanks to your father,’ I reply. ‘So it’s understandable that I have no desire to meet him again.’

‘Dad regrets so many of the things he did before he went through rehab,’ Thórunn replies. ‘He’s a different man today.’

I doubt that. It’s a long time since I stopped believing in fairy tales.

‘Why does he want to talk to me?’ I ask, all the same.

‘Dad’s convinced the cops have betrayed him. He says they have no interest in arresting the men who assaulted him in the middle of the night.’

‘And what does that have to do with me?’

‘He wants to take the police to court for damages.’

‘A damages case?’

‘Yes. Dad says he received this horrific treatment because of the lies the police spread about him.’

‘Does he have proof?’

‘So he says.’

Hardnut Höddi’s daughter has finally sparked my interest.

‘How’s he going to prove it?’

‘Dad wants to tell you himself if you’ll come to the hospital.’

What else can I do?

Thórunn waits in the corridor while I confer with her father.

The hospital smell hits me hard. Hörður Sæmundarson looks even worse in the high-tech hospital bed than he did on the district court’s flat-screen. I can only imagine how the rest of his body looks after that pounding.

There are injuries to his head and hands, with blood seeping through to stain the bandages.

‘I’ve never once offered an apology for anything I’ve done, but I’m doing it now,’ he says, wetting his split lips with the tip of his tongue.

‘Isn’t it late in the day for that?’

‘I was off my head on dope and madness back then, but got myself clean a few years ago,’ he replies. ‘I deeply regret my behaviour towards you and others who were left hurt.’

‘The forgiveness of sins isn’t exactly my department.’

‘All the same, I want you to know that I turned over a new leaf and have done my best to work honestly since I was last released from Litla Hraun three years ago.’

‘Your daughter said something about launching a damages case?’

‘You already know that those who assaulted me believed I’d passed information to Vígbergur Antonsson that led to that big cocaine bust.’

‘You’re saying that’s a lie?’

‘Yes. I knew nothing about that cocaine operation until it was on the news.’

‘And you blame the police for spinning this?’

‘I know that cops cooked it up,’ Hörður says. ‘They were going to use this lie to catch me in a trap, to force me to give false evidence against Vígbergur.’

‘It’s one thing to know, but being able to prove it in court is something else.’

Höddi struggles to cope with the pain as he shifts in bed.

‘The assailants wore masks and gloves. But I recognised the ringleader’s voice.’

‘Aha?’

‘That was Jónsteinn Ingólfsson.’

This takes me totally by surprise.

‘Have you told the cops?’

‘No. I named no names to the cops because Jónsteinn is under their protection, just as Sigvaldi was before he skipped the country.’

‘But you have no direct evidence to prove that Jónsteinn was the one who administered this treatment?’

Hörður again wets his bruised lips.

‘I might have proof,’ he replies. The old man’s taken me by surprise again.

‘Such as what?’

‘I have a security camera in the living room where I was beaten up. It should have been activated as soon as it all started.’

Wow!

‘And do the cops know about this hidden camera?’ I ask, leaning closer.

‘No. I don’t trust them.’

‘Understandably.’

‘I don’t trust anyone, but I’ll have to trust you.’

‘Why?’

‘You know them as well as I do, you know they’re not to be trusted.’

I nod agreement.

‘You’ll have to collect the hard drive, copy the recording and save both somewhere safe,’ he says.

I look Höddi up and down for a moment.

Why should I help this bastard? Unless..?

‘Is there anything on this hard drive that could be to Vígbergur’s advantage?’

‘Yes.’

That reply does it.

‘I’m up for it as long as I can use the data as I see fit.’

‘You can do that. But you’ll have to tread carefully. If the cops hear about the camera, they can make evidence disappear.’

‘You seem to have even less faith in the cops than I do.’

‘Some of them are good guys, like Vígbergur. There are others who are as corrupt as fuck, and I speak from long experience because I’ve had dealings with some of the worst shitbags.’

I can’t hold back a smile.

Scum always recognise their own, as Mother ​said​.

In the afternoon I get an unexpected call.

‘My name’s Thórunn and I’m Hörður Sæmundarson’s daughter.’

‘What do you want from me?’ I ask coldly.

‘I’m here at the hospital and he very much wants to speak to you.’

‘I was almost dead once, thanks to your father,’ I reply. ‘So it’s understandable that I have no desire to meet him again.’

‘Dad regrets so many of the things he did before he went through rehab,’ Thórunn replies. ‘He’s a different man today.’

I doubt that. It’s a long time since I stopped believing in fairy tales.

‘Why does he want to talk to me?’ I ask, all the same.

‘Dad’s convinced the cops have betrayed him. He says they have no interest in arresting the men who assaulted him in the middle of the night.’

‘And what does that have to do with me?’

‘He wants to take the police to court for damages.’

‘A damages case?’

‘Yes. Dad says he received this horrific treatment because of the lies the police spread about him.’

‘Does he have proof?’

‘So he says.’

Hardnut Höddi’s daughter has finally sparked my interest.

‘How’s he going to prove it?’

‘Dad wants to tell you himself if you’ll come to the hospital.’

What else can I do?

Thórunn waits in the corridor while I confer with her father.

The hospital smell hits me hard. Hörður Sæmundarson looks even worse in the high-tech hospital bed than he did on the district court’s flat-screen. I can only imagine how the rest of his body looks after that pounding.

There are injuries to his head and hands, with blood seeping through to stain the bandages.

‘I’ve never once offered an apology for anything I’ve done, but I’m doing it now,’ he says, wetting his split lips with the tip of his tongue.

‘Isn’t it late in the day for that?’

‘I was off my head on dope and madness back then, but got myself clean a few years ago,’ he replies. ‘I deeply regret my behaviour towards you and others who were left hurt.’

‘The forgiveness of sins isn’t exactly my department.’

‘All the same, I want you to know that I turned over a new leaf and have done my best to work honestly since I was last released from Litla Hraun three years ago.’

‘Your daughter said something about launching a damages case?’

‘You already know that those who assaulted me believed I’d passed information to Vígbergur Antonsson that led to that big cocaine bust.’

‘You’re saying that’s a lie?’

‘Yes. I knew nothing about that cocaine operation until it was on the news.’

‘And you blame the police for spinning this?’

‘I know that cops cooked it up,’ Hörður says. ‘They were going to use this lie to catch me in a trap, to force me to give false evidence against Vígbergur.’

‘It’s one thing to know, but being able to prove it in court is something else.’

Höddi struggles to cope with the pain as he shifts in bed.

‘The assailants wore masks and gloves. But I recognised the ringleader’s voice.’

‘Aha?’

‘That was Jónsteinn Ingólfsson.’

This takes me totally by surprise.

‘Have you told the cops?’

‘No. I named no names to the cops because Jónsteinn is under their protection, just as Sigvaldi was before he skipped the country.’

‘But you have no direct evidence to prove that Jónsteinn was the one who administered this treatment?’

Hörður again wets his bruised lips.

‘I might have proof,’ he replies. The old man’s taken me by surprise again.

‘Such as what?’

‘I have a security camera in the living room where I was beaten up. It should have been activated as soon as it all started.’

Wow!

‘And do the cops know about this hidden camera?’ I ask, leaning closer.

‘No. I don’t trust them.’

‘Understandably.’

‘I don’t trust anyone, but I’ll have to trust you.’

‘Why?’

‘You know them as well as I do, you know they’re not to be trusted.’

I nod agreement.

‘You’ll have to collect the hard drive, copy the recording and save both somewhere safe,’ he says.

I look Höddi up and down for a moment.

Why should I help this bastard? Unless..?

‘Is there anything on this hard drive that could be to Vígbergur’s advantage?’

‘Yes.’

That reply does it.

‘I’m up for it as long as I can use the data as I see fit.’

‘You can do that. But you’ll have to tread carefully. If the cops hear about the camera, they can make evidence disappear.’

‘You seem to have even less faith in the cops than I do.’

‘Some of them are good guys, like Vígbergur. There are others who are as corrupt as fuck, and I speak from long experience because I’ve had dealings with some of the worst shitbags.’

I can’t hold back a smile.

Scum always recognise their own, as Mother ​said​.

The Murder Pool by Stella Blómkvist (translated by Quentin Bates) Corylus Books

Sometimes murder runs in the family. Or does it? When a well-known artist is found in Snorri's Pool with an axe buried deep in his chest, Stella Blómkvist is immediately thrown in at the deep end, brought in to defend the apparently harmless young man the police have in their sights as the killer. The man's mother had spent time prison, convicted of the killing of a personal trainer, despite her protestations of innocence. Stella can't help being drawn into both the cold case and this fresh murder, with a trail of guilt that stretches half-way around the world. As if she doesn't have enough to keep her busy, Stella's pursuing a political high-flyer suspected of being a serial rapist, and defending a senior police officer on corruption charges that have all the hallmarks of a vendetta. But the toughest challenges Stella faces are among her own loved ones… With a razor-sharp tongue and a moral compass all of her own, Stella Blómkvist has a talent for attracting trouble. Her trademark explosive mix of murder, intrigue and surprise has made this of Iceland's best-loved crime series.