Blessed Are Those Who Thirst (Hanne Wilhelmsen Series)

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Overview

THE SECOND BOOK IN EDGAR-NOMINATED ANNE HOLT?S INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING MYSTERY SERIES FEATURING DETECTIVE HANNE WILHELMSEN, LAST SEEN IN BLIND GODDESS

IT is only the beginning of May but in Oslo a brutal heat wave has coincided with an alarming increase in violent crime. In the latest instance, police investigator Hanne Wilhelmsen is sent to a macabre crime scene on the outskirts of town. An abandoned shed is covered in blood. On one wall an eight-digit number is written in ...

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Blessed Are Those Who Thirst: A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel

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Overview

THE SECOND BOOK IN EDGAR-NOMINATED ANNE HOLT’S INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING MYSTERY SERIES FEATURING DETECTIVE HANNE WILHELMSEN, LAST SEEN IN BLIND GODDESS

IT is only the beginning of May but in Oslo a brutal heat wave has coincided with an alarming increase in violent crime. In the latest instance, police investigator Hanne Wilhelmsen is sent to a macabre crime scene on the outskirts of town. An abandoned shed is covered in blood. On one wall an eight-digit number is written in blood. There is no body—nor any sign of a victim. Is it a kid’s prank or foul play? Is it even human blood?

As more bloody numbers are found in isolated locations throughout Oslo, Hanne’s colleague Håkon Sand makes a startling discovery: the digits correspond to the filing numbers of foreign immigrants. All are female, all are missing. Is there a serial killer on the loose in Oslo? How does the killer have access to immigrant data?

Meanwhile, as the trail heats up, the victim of a horrific unsolved rape case and her father have each decided to take justice into their own hands. Hanne and Håkon soon discover that they aren’t the only ones on the hunt for the killer.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Anne Holt is the godmother of modern Norwegian crime fiction.”—Jo Nesbø

“Holt proves a masterful plotter. Unexpected twists hold up to scrutiny, loose ends are tied up and the finale leaves readers wanting more.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer

“A good old-fashioned mystery.”—Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

Fort Worth Star-Telegram
"Move over, Jo Nesbo."
Booklist
"A perfect entry point into Scandinavian crime.... A sure pleasure for police-procedural fans who read everything from Slaughter to Nesbo.”
Wall Street Journal - Tom Nolan
"Fast-paced and involving.... Holt knows psychology as well as she knows the ins and outs of police-work. She quickly draws the reader into the minds and lives of half a dozen disparate characters—none more interesting than Inspector Wilhelmsen herself... Holt's visions of societal and ethical decay are balanced by glimpses of great poignancy, human consolation and love."
Bookreporter
“Expertly translated forAmerican readers by the highly capable Anne Bruce… A wonderful combination ofold-school police procedure and amateur detective work…. Holt is a master ofbalancing criminal procedure with suspense…. This is a series that demands tobe read, and the more quickly the better.”
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781482910728
  • Publisher: Blackstone Audio, Inc.
  • Publication date: 5/28/2013
  • Series: Hanne Wilhelmsen Series
  • Format: CD
  • Edition description: Unabridged
  • Product dimensions: 6.50 (w) x 6.10 (h) x 1.30 (d)

Meet the Author

Anne Holt has worked as a journalist and news anchor and spent two years working for the Oslo Police Department before founding her own law firm and serving as Norway’s Minister for Justice in 1996-97. Her first book was published in 1993 and her works have been translated into over twenty-five languages. Her novel 1222 was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best Novel. She lives in Oslo with her family.

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Read an Excerpt

MONDAY, MAY 10

What on earth were you working on over the weekend? Don’t you think we have enough of a slog every day of the week?”

Police Attorney Håkon Sand was standing in the doorway. His jeans were new, and for once he was wearing a jacket and tie. His jacket was slightly too large and his tie was a touch too broad, but nevertheless he looked reasonably put together. Apart from the hemline on his jeans. Hanne Wilhelmsen couldn’t resist leaning in front of him, speedily tucking the superfluous centimeters inside so they couldn’t be seen.

“You shouldn’t walk about with the turn-up on the outside.” She gave a friendly smile and stood up. She smoothed her hand down his arm with a light, almost tender, movement.

“There. Now you’re fantastic. Are you going to court?”

“No,” replied the prosecution attorney, who, despite the well-meaning gesture, felt embarrassed. Why did the detective inspector have to draw attention to his lack of fashion sense? She could have saved herself the trouble of doing that, he thought, though he said something different.

“I’ve a dinner date right after work. But what about you, why were you here?”

A pale green folder hung poised in the air before landing precisely on Hanne Wilhelmsen’s blotter.

“I just received this,” he went on. “Strange case. There have been no reports of either dismembered people or animals in our area.”

“I did an extra shift in the crime section,” she explained, leaving the folder untouched. “They’re struggling with illness down there right now.”

The police prosecution attorney, a dark-haired and reasonably good-looking man whose temples were grayer than his thirty-five years would suggest, flopped onto the visitor’s chair. He removed his glasses and sat polishing them with the end of his tie. The spectacles did not become particularly clean, but the tie became decidedly more crumpled.

“The case has been assigned to the two of us. If there is a case, that is. There’s no victim, no one has heard anything, no one has seen anything. Odd. There are some pictures in there.”

He pointed toward the folder.

“I don’t need those, thanks.” She waved dismissively. “I was there. It really didn’t look very pretty.

“But you know,” she continued, leaning toward him, “if all of that turns out to be human blood, then there must have been two or three people killed in there. I’m inclined to think there are some young hooligans having some fun with us.”

The theory didn’t seem improbable. The Oslo police were in the middle of their worst spring ever. In the course of six weeks, three murders had been visited upon the city, and at least one of these seemed unsolvable. There had been no fewer than sixteen cases of rape reported in the same period, with seven of these becoming the object of enormous media attention. The fact that one of the victims was a member of Parliament for the Christian Democrats, on her way home from an evening committee meeting when she was brutally assaulted in the Palace Park, inflamed public disappointment in the lack of progress made by the police. Well aided by the tabloid press, the frustrated citizens of Oslo had started to protest against the Oslo police’s apparent inability to act. The elongated, curved building sat there at Grønlandsleiret 44, gray and unshakable, seemingly unmoved by all the merciless criticism. Its inhabitants arrived at work in the mornings with shoulders drawn up and eyes downcast. They went home again far too late each day, their backs bent and nothing more to show for their daily toil than still more confirmed dead ends. The weather gods played around tauntingly with intense summer temperatures. The awnings were pulled right down, in vain, over all the windows on the south façade of the enormous building, making it appear both blind and deaf. The interior remained just as stifling. Nothing helped, and nothing seemed to show the way out of a professional blind alley that simply increased with every new case entered into the huge data systems. They should be of assistance but instead appeared hostile, almost mocking, each morning when they spewed out their lists of unsolved cases.

“What a springtime,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said, sighing theatrically. With a look of resignation, she raised her eyebrows and contemplated her superior officer. Her eyes were not especially large, but they were amazingly blue, with a distinctive black edge around the iris making them appear darker than they were. Her hair was dark brown and quite short. From time to time she tugged at it absentmindedly, as though she actually wished it were long and thought it would hasten its growth if she helped it along a little. Her mouth was generous, with a cupid’s bow that didn’t simply dip down from the top but also met its twin from below, like a hesitant cleft lip that had changed its mind, thus forming a sensuous curve instead of a defect. Above her left eye she bore a scar parallel to her eyebrow. It was pale pink and not particularly old.

“I’ve never seen it like this. Though I’ve only been here for eleven years. Kaldbakken has been here for thirty. He hasn’t experienced anything like it, either.”

She pulled at her T-shirt and gave it a shake.

“And this heat doesn’t make it any better. The whole city is on the move every single night. A spell of rain right now would be just the thing. That would at least keep people indoors.”

They sat there for too long, talking about everything and nothing. They were friendly colleagues who always had something to talk about but who didn’t know very much about each other all the same. Other than that they both enjoyed their work, that they took it seriously, and that one of them was more competent than the other. That didn’t do much for the relationship between them. She was a highly skilled officer with a reputation that had always been good but following a dramatic case the previous autumn had now reached legendary heights. He had loafed around in the police station as a second-rate lawyer for more than six years, never outstanding, never brilliant. Still, he had built up a reputation for himself as both conscientious and hardworking. He too had played a decisive role in the same sensational case. His reputation was edging more in the direction of solid and dependable than what it had been before: rather uninteresting.

Perhaps they complemented each other. Perhaps it was more the fact they were never in competition that enabled them to work so well together. However, it was a curious friendship, restricted by the walls of the police station. Police Attorney Håkon Sand was genuinely sorry about that and several times had endeavored to alter the situation. Some time ago he had suggested in passing that they meet up for dinner. The rejection had been so blunt it would be a long time before he made the effort again.

“Oh, well, we’ll let the blood-soaked woodshed lie. I’ve got other things to do.”

The police officer slapped a heap of files sitting in a tray beside the window.

“So have we all,” the attorney retorted, before walking the twenty meters along the corridor to return to his own office.

*
• *

“Why have you never brought me here before?”

The woman sitting on the opposite side of the narrow table smiled reproachfully as she squeezed her companion’s hand.

“I didn’t really know whether you liked this type of food,” the man responded, clearly pleased at how successful the meal had been.

The Pakistani waiters, immaculately dressed and with diction indicating they had been born at Aker Hospital rather than a delivery room in Karachi, had amiably steered them through the menu.

“Slightly inconvenient location,” he added. “But otherwise it’s one of my favorite restaurants. Good food, top-notch service, and prices to suit a public servant.”

“So you’ve been here often.” She paused. “Who with, then?”

He didn’t answer but instead raised his glass to hide how mortified he was by the question. All his women had been here. The very short-lived, far fewer than he liked to consider, and the two or three he had endured for a few months. Every time he had been thinking of her. What it would be like to sit here with Karen Borg. And now they were sitting here.

“Don’t think about the ones who were first. Concentrate on being last,” he said with a grin after a moment’s thought.

“Elegantly put,” she replied, but her voice had adopted a trace of . . . not coldness, but a kind of coolness that always terrified him out of his wits. That he could never learn.

Karen Borg didn’t want to talk about the future. For almost four months she had been meeting him regularly, up to several times a week. They ate together and went to the theater. They went for walks in the forest, and they made love as soon as they had the opportunity. Which was not too often. She was married, so her apartment was out of the question. Her husband knew they were having an affair, she said, but they had decided not to burn their bridges until they were certain that was what they wanted. Of course they could go to his place, something he suggested every time they were together. But she turned him down flat.

“If I come home with you, then I’ve made a choice,” she declared illogically.

Håkon Sand believed the choice of making love with him was a far more dramatic decision than the choice of venue, but it was no use. The waiter appeared with the check twenty seconds after Håkon had dropped a hint. It was presented according to old-fashioned etiquette, neatly folded on a plate placed in front of him. Karen Borg grabbed it, and he couldn’t muster the energy to protest. It was one thing that she earned five times as much as he did and quite another to be continually reminded of that. When the AmEx gold card was returned, he got up and held her chair for her. The strikingly handsome waiter had ordered a taxicab, and she snuggled up to her lover in the backseat.

“I suppose you’re going straight home,” he said, a precaution against his own disappointment.

“Yes, it’s a working day tomorrow,” she confirmed. “We’ll meet up again soon. I’ll phone you.”

Once she was out the taxi door, she leaned back in again to give him a gentle kiss.

“Thanks for a lovely evening,” she said softly, smiling briefly as she withdrew from the cab once again.

Sighing, he gave the taxi driver a new address. It was situated in a completely different part of the city, allowing plenty of time to feel the sharp little stab of pain he always experienced after his evenings with Karen Borg.

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