Enger / Gustawsson SON

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-916788-53-4
Verlag: Orenda Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 300 Seiten

Reihe: The Kari Voss Mysteries

Psychologist and expert on body language and memory, Kari Voss investigates the murder of two teenaged girls in the small Norwegian town of Son, as suspicion is cast on multiple suspects. A mesmerisingly dark, twisty start to a nerve-shattering new series by two of the world's finest crime writers... `A breathtaking thriller with a complex plot and twist to die for. Simply brilliant´ Express `Gustawsson and Enger deliver a one-two punch that's a stone-cold knockout´ Alexandra Sokoloff & Craig Robertson `A pacy, gripping read that marks the start of an exciting new series. The best Nordic noir I've read in ages. Spectacular!´ Tariq Ashkanani `The disturbing consequences of this are fully explored in a haunting tale that concludes with a sickening double twist. Son is everything a crime novel should be - and more´ Sunday Times _______________________ Everyone here is lying... Expert on body language and memory, and consultant to the Oslo Police, psychologist Kari Voss sleepwalks through her days, and, by night, continues the devastating search for her young son, who disappeared on his birthday, seven years earlier. Still grieving for her dead husband, and trying to pull together the pieces of her life, she is thrust into a shocking local investigation, when two teenage girls are violently murdered in a family summer home in the nearby village of Son. When a friend of the victims is charged with the barbaric killings, it seems the case is closed, but Kari is not convinced. Using her skills and working on instinct, she conducts her own enquiries, leading her to multiple suspects, including people who knew the dead girls well... With the help of Chief Constable Ramona Norum, she discovers that no one - including the victims - are what they seem. And that there is a dark secret at the heart of Son village that could have implications not just for her own son's disappearance, but Kari's own life, too... For fans of Harlan Coben, Lars Kepler, Jo Nesbo and Jorn Lier Horst ... and The Mentalist _______________________ `Written by one of France's leading crime writers and one of Norway's best-selling authors, the story introduces a truly original character that we will hear much more of´ Daily Mail `Two prime exponents of international crime fiction ... this is Franco-Nordic Noir delivered with total authority´ Financial Times `Twisty and moving, with abundant psychological insight, this investigation of blood ties, in all meanings of the word, is superb crime-writing´ Antti Tuomainen `Blown away by this cracking thriller and I was already loving it before they hit me with THAT ending. Bravo!´ Trevor Wood `Utterly gripping and brilliantly layered ... kept me hooked from start to the twisty finish - Nordic Noir as it should be´ Lilja Sigurðardóttir `This is the perfect thriller´ Michael Wood `A potent reminder of just how powerful crime fiction can be. An absorbing, original and deeply affecting novel that grips with a fierceness and masterfully drags the reader into the darkest places. Brilliant in all senses of the word´ Rob Parker `A body-language expert with a grief of her own, a devastated community full of secrets, and a final sentence that leaves you reeling´ Sam Holland

Known as the Queen of French Noir, Johana Gustawsson is one of France's most highly regarded, award-winning authors, recipient of the prestigious Cultura Ligue de l`Imaginaire Award for her historical thriller Yule Island. Number-one bestselling books include Block 46, Keeper, Blood Song and The Bleeding. Johana lives in Sweden with her family. A former journalist, Thomas Enger is the number-one bestselling author of the Henning Juul series and, with co-author Jørn Lier Horst, the international bestselling Blix & Ramm series. One of the biggest proponents of the Nordic Noir genre, his books have been translated into twenty-eight languages. He lives in Oslo.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Enger, Thomas

Gustawsson, Johana

Leseproben

1

My son is missing.

My boy, my roots, my sky.

I’m standing on my terrace, looking at the clouds – draped in pink in the east, orange in the west, as if they are having a hard time agreeing on which outfit to wear. The sun is slow to set this evening, but the air is already carrying the freshness of night.

A shiver runs through me. I fold my cardigan across my chest. It’s not the cold that makes me tremble, but fear – a fear that knots my throat and twists my stomach.

This morning, when I opened my eyes, I wondered whether today’s summery forecast would turn into one of those treacherous Norwegian June days, when the rays of sunshine only warm the heart. I thought about all the children who would be arriving later for the pool party in honour of my son’s birthday. I thought about all the fruit that needed to be cut for dipping in the chocolate fountain; the candy-floss machine that had to be tested; the tiered cake that sat, finished but wobbly, in the wine cellar. I had closed my eyes for a moment, revisiting the faded memory of my late husband’s smile, imagining how we would have spent this morning celebrating our son’s ninth birthday.

The bay-window door onto the terrace rattles.

I turn around. My father is standing in the doorway, anxiety stiffening his body, freezing his features. It’s clear there’s still no news.

‘Ramona’s here,’ he says.

I get up and go inside, closing the bay window behind me, the stale kitchen air suffocating me in an instant. Dirty glasses and piles of plates, stained with streaks of chocolate and pink sugar, jostle on the kitchen counter like remnants of a past life.

Vetle’s pool party had been a great success. My father and I had been running around like headless chickens, probably just as happy as the children who seemed to be communicating solely through shouts of joy and bursts of laughter, playing one game after the other, gigantic doughnut-shaped buoys and water pistols always at the centre of their adventures. As usual, Vetle had teamed up with Eva, Hedda and Jesper, our ‘Fantastic Four’ – as we parents had nicknamed them – our children having been inseparable since their first year of preschool.

Towards the end of the afternoon, the children gathered in the living room, Vetle asking my father – ‘Grandpa Police Chief’ – to show them his service badge and recount his most thrilling stories. Wide-eyed, the young ones had hung on every word, my dad telling them about nerve-wrecking car chases and dramatic arrests.

‘But you mean … you were the one putting cuffs on them?’ Hedda asked, one arm around Vetle’s neck, the other around Eva’s, Jesper sitting on the sofa next to me – as he often was.

‘Yes, sometimes I did.’

‘Wow,’ Eva said, smiling, Jesper laughing with excitement, padding Vetle’s back as if he’d been the one making the arrests. I wondered who was the proudest – my father or my son.

When William Bülow had arrived at 7:00 p.m. to pick up Hedda and Eva to go to some star-studded movie premiere in the city centre, the Fantastic Four were still very much glued together, playing football.

‘You’re alive,’ William teased me. ‘Twenty-odd sugar-infused terrors screaming in your garden. I’m officially in awe.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied with a smile.

‘You must be exhausted.’

‘No, no, I’m okay.’

He laughed. ‘You’d think the world’s leading expert in lie detection would be better at lying.’

‘You’re not the first one to say that.’

We had both laughed.

‘Kari?’

My father’s voice.

I blink.

I’m still standing in front of the dirty dishes, snatches of the day coming back to me, video clips running through my mind. But with each replay, they become more distorted, so that soon, the only memories I’ll have of today will be these deconstructed and arbitrarily reorganised images, recoloured and twisted out of shape.

‘Come.’

As I follow him down the corridor, my father turns around, glances at me briefly, before striding on authoritatively. The fact that I’m well into my forties hasn’t changed a thing – I’m still his only daughter and he is still my rock. After Vetle’s father died, my dad became my lifeline and the safety net that ensured I didn’t have to choose between my son and my career. History had repeated itself: I grew up without a mother, and my son was making his way through life without a father. But for Vetle, the absence of his father was just some abstract fact, and ‘dad’ was just a concept to him. His ‘Grandpa Police Chief’ had fixed everything.

Police Superintendent Ramona Norum is busy talking to a uniformed police officer when she spots me. The officer responds to her instructions with quick, attentive nods, then Ramona walks over to us.

I first met her eight years ago. I had contacted her after watching a TV interview in which a defence attorney, when asked about his client’s innocence, clearly lied through his teeth. The fact that I turned out to be right was the beginning of a fruitful collaboration, which later developed into a warm friendship that also extended to Ramona’s family – Linnea and their two sets of twins.

Ramona wraps her arms around me in a maternal hug. I don’t have to imagine her pain – the pain of a mother contemplating this nightmare, and surely preferring it to be mine than hers, as any parent would – I can feel it in her body.

I break away from her, knowing full well that I will collapse completely if I let myself get caught up in the warmth of her embrace.

After Hedda and Eva had left with William, Vetle asked me if he could go over to Jesper’s place.

‘Now?’ I looked at my watch. It was almost 7:30.

‘Pleeease?’ He jumped up and down in front of me, tugging at my cardigan, anticipation glistening in his eyes.

I knew what was going on: Jesper had invited my son to play Fortnite or God knows what video game I would never allow in my house. Jesper’s parents were different. I looked at my son and ran a finger across his sweaty forehead, removing the debris of grass stuck to his harmonious features.

‘One hour,’ I said, instantly regretting it.

‘Hour and a half,’ Vetle replied. ‘It takes a bit of time to get there and back, Mama, even if I take my bike. I’ll be home by nine. Promise.’

I smiled and leaned down to kiss him, my son smelling of chlorine and the summer scent of sunscreen.

‘Okay. Not a second later.’

‘Yay!’

And with that, Vetle and Jesper had set off, as they’d done so many times before. After Vetle had called from Jesper’s house, telling me they’d arrived safely, I sent my father home and worked for a bit, putting off tidying the kitchen and garden.

I was looking forward to Vetle’s return.

Even though it would be late, I wanted to indulge him with another episode of the latest series we were watching together. After all, it would still be his birthday for another couple of hours.

It wasn’t unusual for my son to be a few minutes late, but when he hadn’t return by 9:15, I called Anita Bach-Hansen, Jesper’s mother. She told me that Jesper had taken Vetle half the way back, as he normally did, but that he had been home for a good twenty minutes. A ball of anxiety formed in my chest, paralysing me in an instant.  

I had then called my dad, who insisted that there was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation why Vetle hadn’t arrived back home yet. Sometimes children just lost track of time or lost their bearings. It happened all the time. The police would wait a while before sending out a search party, he said, even if we called them now. This was different, I told Dad. I could feel it. Vetle knew how important it was to be on time, and he knew the roads and tracks in the Bygdøy woods like the back of his hand. Still, my dad told me to stay put, in case Vetle returned, and to keep my phone with me at all times. I hadn’t argued: my father had been in the police force for more than half his life. But my whole body had been screaming to go out and search for my son.

Strangely, at that instant, Vetle’s birth had come back to me. The midwife telling me to stop pushing. The umbilical cord had wrapped itself around Vetle’s neck, strangling him, and his heart rate had slowed to a dangerous level, so I was waiting to be taken to the operating theatre for an emergency C-section. My whole body was imploring me to push to deliver my son, but...