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.

 

Extract from A Lethal Legacy by Guðrún Guðlaugsdóttir

‘What’s going on?’ Alma demanded.

‘Nothing's going on. Thórdís and I have been discussing Thorbjörn and myself taking over the management of the land here. Now that Brynjólfur’s no longer with us, someone has to look after the place,’ Rósa said, clearly less than delighted to see Alma appear.

‘I’ve told you that I’m not ready,’ Thórdís said absently, and continued leafing through the old album. Rósa pushed the sheet of paper closer.

‘A decision needs to be made. It’s too late to regret things once you’re dead,’ she said.

‘I’m still alive, and so is my sister Klara. It can wait,’ Thórdís said in a blank voice.

The door was abruptly wrenched open and Thorbjörn strode in with a bolt gun in his hands.

‘Sign it, you old bitch. Or do you want this fucking museum? Sign it or you’ll have me to deal with. You’ve strung us along for long enough.’

‘Thorbjörn, you’re blind drunk,’ Thórdís retorted, completely calm. ‘You’re not going to shoot me like you did the livestock?’

‘Fuck you. Sign it. Alma can witness it,’ Thorbjörn said, brandishing the gun.

‘Thorbjörn, stop this. Have you been drinking?’ Alma said.

‘You seem to think you know what I drink, don’t you? Fucking moonshine, isn’t it?’

‘Stop it, man. This is out of order. How can you behave like this? You really think it’ll do any good?’ Rósa demanded.

‘Then just shoot me. That’s maybe for the best. Whatever you do, I’m not signing anything,’ Thórdís said.

‘You’re refusing? Why were you stringing my wife along, telling her she could inherit? Do you think we don’t have any feelings? We’ve lost everything and were destitute. Do you know what that's like? You’ve never lost anything or dared to live. So sign, you old witch.’

Thorbjörn took a step closer to her, holding the gun and with a grim look on his face.

‘For heaven’s sake, stop it, will you? This has gone way too far,’ Rósa said in exasperation.

‘Out of my way, or I’ll shoot you and this nosy hack as well.’

‘What the hell’s going on? You’re not going to shoot all these women?’ Birgir Ragnarsson said, appearing suddenly in the middle of the parlour. ‘Put the gun down, man. Before someone gets hurt.’

Thorbjörn didn’t look at him, but stepped closer to Thórdís, pointing the gun at her. He was clearly very drunk, unable to hold the weapon steady.

Birgir didn’t hesitate. He went smartly over to Thorbjörn and swept the gun from his hands. It went off with a deafening report and the shot hit the memorial shield, shattering it. Birgir took hold of Thorbjörn by the scruff of the neck and bundled him out of the room.

Rósa stooped to pick up the gun. Alma’s heart pounded. Would she fire it? Hardly. Thórdís had signed nothing.

Rósa stood with the gun in her hands when Birgir returned.

‘Give me that, and leave these people in peace,’ he ordered.

Rósa looked up at him in amazement, and handed him the gun.

‘The police ought to take the pair of you away,’ Birgir snapped as he marched out with the gun in his hand.

A Lethal Legacy by Guðrún Guðlaugsdóttir (Corylus Books) Out Now

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.

Guðrún Guðlaugsdóttir can be found on Facebook.

Crimes of the System by Jon Atli Jonasson

 

Above: Jon Atli Jonasson at Capital Crime London, 2025

We’ve been energised by the recent debut in English of the work of Icelandic writer, screenwriter, playwright and poet Jon Atli Jonasson; reviewing BROKEN last month when it was released in Hardcover by Corylus Books and now on the eve of its debut in Paperback on August 1^st 2025 – the author agreed to give Shots Magazine’s readers a little insight -

My first foray into crime writing came in the form of a serialized radio drama centered on Iceland’s most notorious criminal case: the Guðmundur and Geirfinnur case. The case involves the disappearance of Guðmundur Einarsson and Geirfinnur Einarsson in 1974. Although they had the same last name, they were not related. Six individuals were convicted of their suspected murders, based primarily on confessions — often referred to as the Reykjavik confessions—obtained by police during prolonged and intense interrogations. Notably, the convictions were secured without the discovery of the victims’ bodies, eyewitnesses, or any forensic evidence.

In the years that followed, public opinion in Iceland shifted, with many believing the six were wrongfully convicted. On 27 September 2018, 44 years after the disappearances, the Supreme Court of Iceland acquitted five of the original six suspects. In 2013, an official police investigation report was submitted to the Office of the State Prosecutor. On 24 February 2017, the Interior Ministry's Rehearing Committee recommended that the case be reheard by the Supreme Court of Iceland. As part of its evaluation, the commission's review of the 1974 Geirfinnur case incorporated the work of Gísli Guðjónsson, a former Icelandic detective and internationally renowned expert on suggestibility and false confession, whose research introduced the concept of "Memory Distrust Syndrome.” This theory suggests that under severe psychological stress — including conditions like solitary confinement and sleep deprivation — a person may lose confidence in their own memory and instead place undue trust in external sources, such as interrogators. This can ultimately result in false confessions made in an effort to end the psychological pressure.

My serialized radio play uses the premise of the hardships the defendants were subjected to under the solitary confinement. This case didn’t just devastate the lives of the accused — it cast a long shadow over many others as well. For decades, it stood as one of the most profound and lasting scars on Icelandic society. In March 2013, following an 18-month investigation, the Icelandic government released a report exposing serious flaws in the original police inquiry. It highlighted systemic incompetence and instances of abuse, including the use of solitary confinement, improper administration of medication, inhumane treatment such as water torture and sleep deprivation, denial of legal representation, and a presumption of guilt. The report also noted the absence of key elements typically required for a credible case: forensic evidence, the victims' bodies, and any clear motive. The case contains too many complexities to be adequately addressed in a single blog post. However, it is evident that the accused were perceived not merely as criminals but as a significant challenge to the established order. They were young individuals introducing new ideas. This was fundamentally a generational conflict, in which the older generation employed the full force of the legal system and the media to suppress societal change.

The government’s report on the case reveals only a small part of the full story. My main concern with the report is that it was authored by representatives of the very system responsible for this miscarriage of justice. It managed to erase the human experience behind the text in the way bureaucracy does so efficiently. When I wrote my version of events as a serialized radio play, I went directly to the source. I spoke with the accused who were still alive, retired police officers, and others connected to the case. I had access to their secret prison diaries and personal letters. I also talked with their children — many of whom grew up largely without them—as well as other family members, retired journalists, and prison guards.

The purpose of this blog post isn’t to portray myself as a hero. I was simply searching for compelling drama. However, during the research and scriptwriting process, I began to recognize the deeper potential of the crime genre. How it can tell big stories. I’m a big fan of Richard Price and his masterpiece novel Clockers which is set in a fictional New Jersey city called Dempsy. His brilliant depiction of everyone involved in the drug trade — criminals and law enforcement alike—stands as a great example of how crime fiction can vividly explore systemic urban decay and the social forces that trap individuals within it. Richard Price continues the tradition established by Swedish authors Sjöwall and Wahlöö, who pioneered crime fiction as a sharp critique of social and political institutions. Like them, Price uses the genre not just to tell a story, but to expose deeper societal issues.

This approach strongly influenced the framing of my first crime novel, Broken, set in contemporary Iceland. I also felt it had been a while since anyone in Iceland had written a crime thriller that explores the state of the nation from both the perspectives of law enforcement and the criminal world. Crime is constantly changing and evolving. During my research I came across a new type of criminal with a mind-set that contrasts sharply with the traditional gangster. They don’t get their hands dirty in the same way; instead, they follow a morning routine, read biographies of Elon Musk and Steve Jobs, and view themselves more as entrepreneurs than drug dealers; violence is delegated to experts: The Icelandic underworld has also grown more intricate because of the arrival of foreign gangs in Iceland and the type of crimes being committed. As the divide between the wealthy and the impoverished grows wider, social tensions escalate, leading to increased desperation among those left behind. This fuels a rise in violent crime, including more frequent murders. Xenophobia also plays a significant role, further destabilizing already fragile social structures.

But at the core of my novel, I still hope you find a story of two flawed but compassionate cops determined to make a difference.

(c) 2025 Jon Atli Jonasson

Shots Magazine would like to thank Quentin Bates of Corylus Books for his help in getting this article from the author of Broken.

Read the Shots Review HERE

All photos © 2025 Quentin Bates, Marina Sofia and Michael Stotter

Extract from Murder Tide by Stella Blómkvist

‘Where is this man you dreamed?’

‘He was tied to some kind of construction, and there’s seaweed floating all around him.’

‘Yes, but whereabouts in the country?’

‘I don’t know that.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘There was black tape covering the lower half of his face so I couldn’t recognise him, but I felt I ought to know him.’

She closes her eyes.

‘His hair is dark grey and there’s fear and horror in his eyes,’ she continues, as if in a trance. ‘This man knows he is about to die, knows there’s nothing he can do, knows he’s caught in death’s grip.’

Phew!

I know from my own experience the dreadful feeling of helplessness when every escape route is closed. When there’s no way home.

She leans forward and stares at me.

‘But you can save him.’

‘How so?’

‘By finding the man before it’s too late.’

The crap this fake medium dares to come out with!

‘And how am I supposed to track down this damp dreamboat of yours?’

‘Don’t you make a habit of solving cases that everyone else gives up on?’

‘Yes, sure. But you haven’t told me anything concrete. Such as the name of this man you ought to recognise.’

‘I don’t have a name, unfortunately.’

‘And you don’t know whereabouts in the country he is?’

‘No. But I know if nobody does anything, he’s going to die.’

‘And I know that I have to spend my time in the real world. Your crazy dreams are no business of mine.’

‘There’s nothing crazy about this.’

‘If you’re so certain about this vision or whatever you’ve imagined, then go back to the police. Nonsense like this is their department.’

‘They threw me out.’

‘I’m going to do the same.’

Dýrleif looks at me for a moment without speaking, her eyes mournful.

‘Why won’t anyone believe me?’ she asks at last.

‘Go home and put in a request for a new, clearer vision,’ I tell her coldly. ‘A name and a phone number would help. Then you can call your dreamboat guy.’

She sighs, gets to her feet and slowly leaves the meeting room.

I accompany her out into the corridor. I open the door of the red town house that’s both my office and my home.

‘If you won’t take any notice of me, then he’s condemned to die,’ she says, looking beseechingly at me.

I shrug.

‘I was sure you’d listen to me,’ Dýrleif adds. ‘It was your mother who gave me your name.’

Yeah, right!

‘Did she email you?’

‘Our connection is on another, much higher plane,’ she replies.

‘Yes, a plane of sick imagination.’

I shut the door with a bang. Straight back to the office, slamming the door behind me.

That fucking freak!

I don’t have it in me to sit in front of the computer again. Instead, I slip on my russet-brown leather jacket. I look in on Lísa Björk.

‘Taking a walk to clear my head,’ I tell her.

There’s a gloom over Reykjavík. I don’t let it affect me. I follow my nose along the damp pavement down to Laugavegur.

There’s a fresh breeze that plays around my face. It cools my mood.

I suppose I shouldn’t have let my temper get the better of me over this two-bit medium who makes a living deceiving those who are already in enough pain.

 

Murder Tide by Stella Blómkvist (Corylus Books) Out Now

The ruthless businessman left to drown by the risking tide at the dock by Reykjavik's Grotta lighthouse had never been short of enemies. The police have their suspect, and he calls in Stella Blómkvist to fight his corner as he furiously protests his innocence. Yet this angry fisherman had more reason than many to bear the dead man a grudge. It's a busy summer for razor-tongued, no-nonsense lawyer Stella. A young woman looking for a long-lost parent finds more than she bargained for. An old adversary calls from prison, looking for Stella to broker a dangerous deal with the police to put one of the city's untouchable crime lords behind bars at long last. Is the mysterious medium right, warning that deep waters are waiting for Stella as well?

Stella Blómkvist can be found on X @StellaBlomkv

Nachtigall, ick hör dir trapsen …

Nightingale, I hear you singing (Saying from Berlin, meaning: I can hear which way the wind is blowing)

Most of the time I can't say exactly how I come up with ideas for my novels, because it's often a lengthy process. But the idea for this series came to me in a rather unusual way, which I’d like to share with you.

Did you know that Berlin is considered the capital city of nightingales, with around 1300-1500 specimen recorded? This queen of the night is an inconspicuous gray-brown bird by day that is difficult to spot in the hedges, but it blossoms by night. A nightingale can sing an average of 180 musical phrases. By way of comparison – the average tit chirps just 6 phrases. In addition, the nightingale learns something new every year, inspired by its surroundings. 

It is often regarded as a symbol of spring, its song is a poetic embodiment of the soul in love, but it is also the harbinger of death. In Oscar Wilde's fairy tale 'The Nightingale and the Rose', the nightingale sacrifices its lifeblood - in the truest sense of the word - for a student in love, showing itself willing to help even in the death. Yet in that story, her death is in vain, and the gift is not appreciated. 

A few years ago, I was in Berlin in the spring, researching my Radio Free Europe novel 'Fräulein Kiss träumt von der Freiheit'. I also visited the Allied Museum in Clayallee, where there was an exhibition on the Berlin Airlift. There were lots of photos of hungry and injured-looking children and portraits of the famous Raisin Bomber pilot Gail Halvorsen. The next day, I had the opportunity to walk through the escape tunnels that were dug shortly after the Wall was built and during the Cold War.

This tour made me realise that what you think you know in theory about this period can become a nightmarish reality. You suddenly realize how powerless people must have felt waking up behind a barbed wire fence that wasn't there the previous evening. How families were amputated and life plans destroyed by an arbitrary division into East and West, across streets, houses and even cemeteries.

All these impressions were simmering away when I took a cab back to my apartment late at night after visiting my son. The driver, a true Berlin eccentric, suddenly stopped on a somewhat dilapidated corner in Wilmersdorf and lowered the windows. I was a little nervous, but then he asked, 'Hear that? The little wonder?' 

Unfortunately, all I could hear was my slightly accelerated pulse. 

He shook his head and explained that he was an amateur ornithologist and that the nightingales of Berlin were his hobby. Then he suggested that I get out of the car and listen more closely. But as a crime writer, you tend to be overcautious, so I politely declined. Grinning broadly, he shrugged his shoulders. “Well then, no,” he said, and drove me to my destination in silence, then sped off. 

I was just taking the key out of my backpack when I heard something. It was rather delicate at first, a chirping, which then gathered incredible momentum and became a beguiling song. Somewhere very close to me, in one of the hedges at the edge of Preussenpark. Fascinated, I paused and listened. 

All the quotes, poems and stories that I’d heard or read about nightingales rushed to mind. And while I stood still, enchanted, the germ of an idea crystallized. I saw a child in front of me, one of those waiting for the Raisin Bomber, a girl who does her utmost to bring her mother a gift. A gift that would lead to a catastrophe that would henceforth cast a shadow over her life. 

Carla was born in that instant, and with the next even louder warbles, her sister, Wallie, the queen of the night, popped up. From the very beginning, they were as real to as the song of that nightingale, they ignited my imagination ... and the result of that is what you’re holding in your hands now.

Nightingale & Co by Charlotte Printz (Corylus Books) Translator (Marina Sofia) out now.

Nightingale & Co is the first in a cosy historical crime series featuring the sisters of the Nightingale & Co detective agency in 1960s Berlin. Since the death of her beloved father, Carla has been running the Nightingale & Co detective agency by herself. It’s a far from easy job for a female investigator. When the chaotic, fun-loving Wallie shows up at the door, claiming to be her half-sister, Carla’s world is turned upside down. Wallie needs Carla – the Berlin Wall has been built overnight, leaving her unable to return to her flat in East Berlin. Carla certainly doesn’t need Wallie, with her secret double life and unorthodox methods for getting results. Yet the mismatched pair must find a way to work together when one of their clients is accused of murdering her husband.