In Swedish author Eriksson's fine second ensemble procedural (after 2006's The Princess of Burundi), members of the Uppsala Violent Crime Division try to connect the dots linking the separate murders of two old men and the disappearance of a third. Eriksson eschews crackling dialogue and facile descriptions in favor of longer, slower developing profiles of the principal men and women of the police unit: Ann Lindell, Ola Haver, Sammy Nilsson, Allan Fredricksson and others. Their investigation proceeds in parallel with the story of Laura Hindersten, daughter of the missing man. Eriksson balances these stories nicely as the detectives reach for clues. Lindell, the single mother of a young boy, emerges as the most compelling investigator, but the others are also distinct individuals. The author's squad of detectives displays the kind of interdependency and fractious loyalty that endeared Ed McBain's 87th Precinct squad (Cop Hater, etc.) to fans for so many decades. (May)Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
The Cruel Stars of the Night (Ann Lindell Series #2)by Kjell Eriksson
When The Princess of Burundi was published last year by Thomas Dunne Books, American critics hailed Kjell Eriksson as Sweden's Ed McBain, and they compared him to Henning Mankell. Now The Cruel Stars of the Night, the next in this internationally acclaimed crime series, unveils a spellbinding new tale again featuring police inspector Ann/i>/i>… See more details below
When The Princess of Burundi was published last year by Thomas Dunne Books, American critics hailed Kjell Eriksson as Sweden's Ed McBain, and they compared him to Henning Mankell. Now The Cruel Stars of the Night, the next in this internationally acclaimed crime series, unveils a spellbinding new tale again featuring police inspector Ann Lindell.
The Cruel Stars of the Night opens one snowy day when thirty-five-year-old Laura Hindersten goes to the police to report that her father, a local professor, is missing. Inspector Ann Lindell and her colleagues can find no motive for the man's disappearance. And when the corpses of two elderly men do turn up, neither of the dead men is the missing academic.
Unexpectedly, the police get help from one of the professor's colleagues, who believes there is an astonishing link between the murders and the disappearance of Professor Hindersten. But as the pressure on Lindell increases dramatically, she is shocked to discover that the killer has many more diabolical schemes in store.
Combining heart-pounding suspense with brilliant psychological insight, The Cruel Stars of the Night moves like a comet as it approaches the cliff-hanging climax. It is sure to win Kjell Eriksson a whole new galaxy of American fans.
As the Uppsala Police Violent Crimes Division investigates the serial murders of elderly farmers, Laura Hindersten—whose father, an unlikable retired professor, has just disappeared—shows increasing signs of instability as she works to make a new life for herself. The two alternating plot themes of police procedural and psychological thriller eventually intertwine, but not until after the third murder, when frustrated police entertain a theory based on a chess game pointing to Sweden's Queen Silvia as the final target. Unpersuaded, intuitive investigator Ann Lindell persists in seeking ties among the victims but is careless about keeping her colleagues informed, putting herself in mortal danger. There are echoes of Ed McBain in Eriksson's depiction of the camaraderie between police colleagues and hints of their private lives, but Eriksson's second mystery to be translated into English after The Princess of Burundiis even more reminiscent of Ruth Rendell. As insightful and intelligent as it is engrossing. [See Prepub Mystery, LJ1/07.]
Read an Excerpt
The Cruel Stars of the Night
By Kjell Eriksson, Ebba Segerberg
St. Martin's PressCopyright © 2007 Kjell Eriksson
All rights reserved.
"Good morning, my name is Ann Lindell, I'm with the Violent Crimes Division at the Uppsala Police. I'm sorry for disturbing you so early."
She put the phone in her right hand and slipped the cold left hand in her pocket.
"I see, and what is this about?"
Manfred Olsson's voice was guarded.
"Routine inquiries," she started, in an unusually passive way.
"Is it about the car?"
"No, why, have you ..."
"My car was stolen fourteen days ago. Have you found it?"
"It's not about the car."
Ann Lindell leaned against the wall. The rising sun warmed her frozen body. She had felt groggy when she woke up and it had not helped to be called out to a blustery front yard on a cold morning at the end of October.
The maple leaves glowed in shades of yellow-red, marred by tiny, black fungal spores, which, woven together, presented an impression both of the unending richness of the plant kingdom, but also of sadness and transience. Scoops of snow were evidence of winter having arrived early this year.
Ola Haver came out of the house, spotted her leaning against the wall, and nodded. He looked tired. He had mentioned something about both kids and his wife, Rebecka, having colds.
Or else it was because he had a hard time enduring the sight of a dead body. Lindell sensed it had to do with the fact that as a teenager Haver had seen his own father collapse at the dinner table — stung in the throat by a bee — and he had died within a few minutes.
"Do you know a Petrus Blomgren?" Lindell continued.
"No, I don't think so," Manfred Olsson said. "Should I?"
She heard voices in the background. It sounded as if a TV was on.
"What kind of work do you do?"
"Burglar alarms," Olsson said curtly. "Why?"
"We found a note with your number on it at the residence of Petrus Blomgren. He must have gotten it somehow."
Manfred Olsson did not reply.
"You have no explanation?"
"No, as I've already said."
"Are you acquainted with the Jumkil area?"
"No, I wouldn't say that. I know roughly where it is. What is this all about? I have to get going soon."
"Where do you work?"
"I work for myself. I'm going to ... I guess it doesn't matter."
No, Lindell thought and smiled in the midst of the misery, it doesn't matter. Not now and maybe not later.
"Have you been to Jumkil recently?"
"I was there for a wedding once. That was maybe ten years ago."
"You install alarms, isn't that right? Have you had any requests for alarms in Jumkil in the last while?"
"No, not that I can remember."
"Thank you," Lindell said. "We may be in touch later and have you look at a photograph."
"He's dead, isn't he? That Blomgren man."
The conversation came to an end. A sudden gust of wind made the leaves dance at her feet.
"Nothing," Lindell said to Haver, who had come up to her. "He didn't know a thing, not about Jumkil and not about Blomgren."
"We've found a letter," Haver said. "A farewell letter."
"What? That Blomgren wrote?"
"It appears so."
Lindell sighed heavily.
"Do you mean he was planning to kill himself and someone beat him to it?" Haver suddenly started to laugh. Lindell looked at him. One of their colleagues from Patrol looked up. Haver stopped just as quickly.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but sometimes it's just too much. You've got red on your back. You shouldn't lean up against walls."
He started to brush off her light-colored jacket.
"It's new, isn't it?"
Lindell nodded. She felt his forceful strokes across her shoulders and back. It was not unpleasant. It warmed her. She had an impulse to punch him playfully but restrained herself.
"There we go," he said, "that's a little better."
Lindell looked out at the surroundings. Here they were out in the field again. Yards, stairwells, basements, apartments, houses. Police tape, spotlights, screens, measuring tape, camera flashes, chalk marks on wooden floors, parquet floors, concrete floors, and asphalt. Voices from colleagues and crackling radio receivers. Footsteps in the darkness, in sunlight, in fall gloom and spring warmth. Objects that had been brought out, hung up, for decoration and joy, memories. Letters, diaries, calendars, notes, and grocery lists. Voices from the past, on videotape and answering machines.
Haver was talking about the letter but he stopped when he noticed her expression.
"Are you listening?"
"I'm sorry," Lindell said, "my thoughts were elsewhere."
"Yes, among other things, the view."
That was the first thing that had struck her. The view.
"He lived in a beautiful place," she said. "But tell me about the letter."
"It's short. A few lines. Somewhat oddly phrased."
"And Blomgren is the one who wrote it?"
"That remains to be seen," Haver said, "but I think so."
"If the murder was supposed to look like suicide it was an extremely sloppy job."
"Not with blunt trauma to the back of the head," Haver said and looked in the direction of the shed where Petrus Blomgren had been struck down.
"Fury," he said. "He is in very bad shape."
"Maybe it's Ottosson? Doesn't he have a summer cabin in this area?"
"Should we take a look?" Haver said and walked toward the hall.
They glanced at the building where the forensic team was working. One of Petrus Blomgren's legs could be seen through the door opening.
Lindell had already been in the house but had gone outside again to call the number they had found on a piece of paper. Petrus Blomgren had been a man of order, that much was clear. Maybe it's the number of Eldercare Assistance, Lindell thought, as she and Haver again went into the kitchen. Everything was in its place. No dirty dishes. A coffee cup and saucer, a serrated knife, a bowl, and several serving dishes neatly placed in the drying rack.
There was a saltcellar and a newspaper on the table. The waxed tablecloth was wiped down. A couple of potted plants in the window and a vase with the last flowers of the season, several twigs of goldenrod and orpine.
"Was he signed up to receive Eldercare?" Lindell asked.
"Maybe. It's nice and tidy, you mean."
"Yes, for an old man on his own. It normally looks a little different than this."
"Here's the letter," Haver said and pointed to an area of the counter next to the stove.
Lindell was surprised that she hadn't spotted the white envelope earlier. It was placed next to the coffeemaker, but partly blocked by the bread box.
She leaned forward and read: "It's fall again. The first snow. The decision is mine. That's how it's always been. I have had to make all of my decisions alone.
You arrive at a certain point. I am sorry that perhaps I haven't always handled things as I should have. A final request: I beg you not to chop down the old maple tree. Not yet. Let it stand there until it falls. My grandfather was the one who planted it. It's not a pretty sight to hang oneself but I don't see any other choice. It's over."
The letter was signed "Petrus Blomgren."
"Why did he put the letter here and not on the table?" Haver wondered.
"Have you seen the leaf caught in the window?" Lindell asked and pointed.
"It's like a greeting from the maple."
A yellow leaf had wedged itself into the woodwork of the window. The dark nerves were shaped like an outstretched hand. It wiggled a little in the wind, silently dashed a couple of times against the glass only to peel off and join the thousands of fall tokens whirling around the yard.
Haver looked at her.
"He wanted to die, but for the tree to live," she said. "That's strange."
"Could he have sensed that the killer was waiting for him?"
Lindell shook her head.
"But then he wouldn't have written like this."
"The neighbor who called said that Blomgren lived alone, had always done so."
"Where is she now?"
"At home," Haver said and indicated a house that could be seen some hundred meters up the road. "Bea is talking to her again."
"Did she see anything?"
"No, she reacted to the fact that the gate to the road was open. He was apparently very careful to keep it closed. She realized at once that something wasn't right."
"A creature of habit."
"A man of order," Haver said.
"Who couldn't get his life in order," Lindell said and walked over to the window. "How old is the tree?"
"At least a hundred years," Haver said, a bit impatient with Lindell's reflective mood, but well aware of the fact that there was no sense in hurrying her. It wouldn't make any difference to Blomgren anyway.
"Do you think it's a robbery-homicide?" Lindell asked suddenly. "Was he one of those old men with his dresser drawer full of cash?"
"In that case the thief knew where to look," Haver said. "The technicians say that nothing appears to be disturbed."
"Did he know that Blomgren was on his way to the barn? That's a barn, isn't it?"
"Or was he hiding in there and taken by surprise when the old man walked in with a rope in his hand?"
"We'll have to check with the neighbor," Haver said. "She seems to be the kind who keeps tabs."
They both knew that Beatrice Andersson was the most suited to handle the questioning of the neighbor. If there was anything Bea excelled at, it was talking to older women.
"Who stands to inherit?"
Sammy Nilsson's question broke the silence that had settled in the kitchen. He had come creeping in without either Haver or Lindell noticing.
Haver didn't say anything but gave him a look that was difficult to interpret.
"Am I interrupting?" Sammy asked.
"Not at all," Lindell said.
"Let's hope for a dead broke, desperate nephew," Sammy continued. Lindell tried to smile.
"Look over by the bread box," she said.
Sammy walked over to the kitchen counter and read the good-bye letter in a low mumble.
"I'll be damned," he said.
A gust of wind underscored his words. Their gazes turned to the window. Outside a rain of leaves whirled from the tree to the ground. Lindell had the impression that the maple tree had decided to shake off all its leaves on this day.
"Makes you think, doesn't it?" Sammy Nilsson said.
"I wonder how his thought process went last night," Haver said.
"We'll never know," Sammy said and read the letter one more time.
Lindell slipped away, entering the small room off the kitchen. If she had been forced to guess what it would look like she would have scored a nine out of ten. There was an old sleeper couch with dingy red upholstery, most likely from the thirties, and an armchair of the same color, a TV on a table with a marble top, a couple of chairs surrounding a small pillar table, and a bookcase. On the small sofa in front of the TV there was nothing except the remote control.
It was a very personal room in spite of its predictability. It gave Lindell the feeling of intimacy, perhaps because she sensed that Petrus Blomgren spent his evenings here alone. He must have favored the armchair; it was extremely worn and had threads coming out of the armrests.
She walked over to the bookcase, which was filled mainly with older books. She recognized a few of the titles from her parents' house. They had a coating of dust. No one had touched these books in a long time.
The left part of the bookshelf had a small cabinet. The key was in the keyhole. She pulled the door open with a pen and on the two shelves inside she saw what she thought was a photo album and a book entitled The Uppland Horse Breeder's Association.
Everything looked untouched. If this was a burglary-assault the perpetrator had been exceedingly careful.
"Allan will have to take a look at this," she said, and turned in the direction of the kitchen. She got up and looked around but could not spot anything out of the ordinary.
"He'll be here soon," Sammy Nilsson said.
Haver had left the kitchen. Nilsson was staring out of the window. Lin-dell looked at him from her position diagonally behind him and discovered that he was starting to go bald on the back of the head. He looked unusually thoughtful. Half of his face was illuminated by the soft morning light and Lindell wished she had had a camera. She was gripped by a sudden feeling of tenderness for her colleague.
"What do you think about the new guy, Morgansson?"
"He seems all right," Lindell said.
Charles Morgansson had been working in Forensics for a couple of weeks. He had joined them from Umeå, where he had been for the past few years. Eskil Ryde, the head of the Forensics Department, had installed Morgansson in the empty cubicle in their division and the northener had made a comment about it being like a row of boxes in the stables and had said little else since then. His reticence had irritated some, aroused the curiosity of others, but all in all the new recruit had acclimated well. This was his first homicide case in Uppsala.
"Have you heard anything of Ryde's plans?"
"No," Lindell said, who as recently as the other day had talked to Ryde about his plans of quitting the force and taking early retirement, but this was nothing she wanted to discuss with Sammy Nilsson.
"Anita thought his buns were cute," Nilsson said.
"Forget about his buns a while," Lindell said flatly, "we have an investigation under way."
"I was just trying to ..."
"Forget it. Can you take the upstairs? I want to take a look around out there. Tell Allan to go over the TV room."
* * *
The technicians Jönsson and Mårtensson had spent almost two hours going through the home. Now it was the detectives' turn but Lin-dell was finding it hard to remain in Petrus Blomgren's house. She couldn't exactly put her finger on it but it was something more than the usual oppressiveness she felt in the homes of those who had fallen victim to deadly violence. Perhaps a little fresh air will help, she thought and walked out into the yard again.
The mercury strip had indicated negative five degrees Celsius this morning but now there was milder weather approaching. The period of unusual cold would be followed by a warm front and the end of October would be marked by more normal temperatures.
She turned the corner and came out of the wind. A couple of black currant bushes, with withered leaves and the occasional, dangling dried berry, reminded her of a time gone by. It was always this way when she came out to the countryside. All the little cabins, woodsheds, and woodpiles with bunched-up twigs and grass took her thoughts back to Gräsö Island. This was her punishment, or so she felt. She had to live with it; she knew that. Everyone carried some painful memories. This was hers.
She sighed heavily, plucked a berry that she popped in her mouth, and looked around. There was nothing of note to see: a handful of old apple trees, a bed of wilted flowers, and a rusty ladder hanging on the wall. She took a closer look at it and the mounting hardware. The ladder did not look as if it had been moved in years.
Behind the house there was a pile of rocks that stirred the imagination. Large stone blocks pushed up against each other as if engaged in a wrestling match. From having been enemies once upon a time they had now made their peace and — weighed down with age, covered with moss and lichen — had stiffened, exhausted in their struggle, leaning heavily against each other.
Petrus Blomgren had planted a tree near this rock pile. Lindell rubbed its smooth, striated trunk. A single chair had been left out under its thin crown. Lindell pictured him sitting there in the coolness of the rocks, pondering the decisions he had to make on his own. Wasn't that what he had written, that he had to make all his decisions alone?
Where was the motive for killing an old man? Lindell stopped, took a deep breath, and drew out her newly acquired notebook. She was a little embarrassed about it. She had read a mystery novel over the summer, the first she had read in a number of years, and in it the protagonist had a notebook where he wrote down everything of interest. At first Lindell had thought it seemed silly, but after she finished reading she kept thinking about that notebook and so when it happened that she passed by a bookstore she had slunk in and bought a pad for thirty-two kronor. She always carried it with her now and she thought it had sharpened her thought processes, ennobled her as a police officer. Perhaps she was simply going with her gut here, but then, wasn't that a part of police work? At any rate, the notebook had not made things go any worse.
Excerpted from The Cruel Stars of the Night by Kjell Eriksson, Ebba Segerberg. Copyright © 2007 Kjell Eriksson. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Kjell Eriksson is a Swedish crime-writer and the author of the novels such as The Princess of Burundi and The Cruel Stars of the Night, the former of which was awarded the Swedish Crime Writers’ Academy Best Swedish Crime Novel Award in 2002. The Cruel Stars of the Night, the second book in the internationally acclaimed crime series which started with The Princess of Burundi, unveils a spellbinding new tale again featuring police inspector Ann Lindell.The book opens one snowy day when thirty-five-year-old Laura Hindersten goes to the police to report that her father, a local professor, is missing. The members of the Uppsala Violent Crime Division, however, are less concerned about this case and feel the professor – an expert on the Renaissance poet Petrarch – will eventually turn up. Their attention is much more absorbed by the murders of several elderly men in the region and how that may affect the upcoming visit by Queen Silvia, scheduled to arrive in a few days to open a new hospital. Inspector Ann Lindell and her colleagues can find no motive for the man’s disappearance. And when the corpses of two elderly men do turn up, neither of the dead men is the missing academic. Unexpectedly, the police get help from one of the professor’s colleagues, who believes there is an astonishing link between the murders and the disappearance of Professor Hindersten. But as the pressure on Lindell increases dramatically, she is shocked to discover that the killer has many more diabolical schemes in store. The plots behind the story of this book are hardly original: Police procedurals are standard mystery fare, yet Eriksson takes the well-worn idea of missing person plus a serial killer and crafts something extraordinary. This is partially due to his great job in character development and elaboration on the personality and motivation of all the main characters including each member of the Uppsala Violent Crime Division. It is important to note that this is not an action-filled thriller. Eriksson lets the tension build slowly, playing out the psychological clues as the plots develop and has done a good job in building a satisfactory conclusion as well. If you are looking for a fast-paced thriller this book may not be for you. However, if you enjoy Scandinavian crime fictions and feel comfortable with a slow and methodical police procedural, this would be an excellent read.
Kjell Eriksson books are excellent. Check them out.
In Sweden, the Uppsala Violent Crime Division police department struggles with cases that does not make sense as they cannot find a connection though the crimes are similar. Two elderly men are murdered with a third missing. The local police hope to rescue the missing man, retired professor Hindersten although they expect foul play has already occurred. While officers Ann Lindell, Ola Haver, Sammy Nilsson, and Allan Fredricksson struggle with making progress, the daughter of the missing man, Laura Hindersten begins to crack under this new crisis. Desperate, the cops lean towards a real life chess game with the taking out of Sweden's Queen Silvia being checkmate. However lone wolf Lindell disagrees and tries a different path that could lead to the death of the cop. --- The exciting story line rotates between two strong subplots that of an ensemble police procedural and a psychological thriller. They share in common frustration as the police struggle with a serial killer in which the dots fail to connect while Laura is losing control. As with THE PRINCESS OF BURUNDI, Ann sticks out amongst the police as she goes down a different path than her peers. Kjell Eriksson provides a one sitting clever whodunit. --- Harriet Klausner
To get to her go to blocked first result.
The evil clan posted saying there coming for you.
Sinks fangs into swanfall sucks blood and leavs at the speed of light
At ? 1 result for the Gathering tomorrow at stars and stripes 1 result at 8:30 eastern.
Jumps on lizardpelt.he smiled.the black she cat pushed her muzzle to his.she kissed him.he hugged her with his tail.he was caught in the moment.she slid out her claws and put them to his throat.she slashed open his throat and ripped him down all the way to the tail.she licks the blood iff her claws and put the tiger tooth back on her trophey coller.scourges loyal mate walked away with lizardpelts teeth and claws newly put on her collar.night was the cats name.she vanished in the light of the moon.