Available:*
Library | Call Number | Status |
|---|---|---|
Searching... Hardwood Creek Library (Forest Lake) | MYSTERY FOS | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... Park Grove Library (Cottage Grove) | MYSTERY FOS | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... R.H. Stafford Library (Woodbury) | MYSTERY FOS | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... Stillwater Public Library | MYSTERY FOS | Searching... Unknown |
Bound With These Titles
On Order
Summary
Summary
Available for the first time in English, the seventh entry in the beloved Inspector Sejer series from Norway's Queen of Crime, Karin Fossum
On a wet, gray night in early November, Charlo Torp, a former gambler who's only recently kicked the habit, makes his way through the slush to Harriet Krohn's apartment, flowers in hand. Certain that paying off his debt is the only path to starting a new life and winning his daughter's forgiveness, Charlo plans to rob the wealthy old woman's antique silver collection. What he doesn't expect is for her to put up a fight.
The following morning Harriet is found dead, her antique silver missing, and the only clue Inspector Sejer and his team find in the apartment is an abandoned bouquet. Charlo should feel relieved, but he's heard of Sejer's amazing record -- the detective has solved every case he's ever been assigned to.
Told through the eyes of a killer, The Murder of Harriet Krohn poses the question: how far would you go to turn your life around, and could you live with yourself afterward?
Author Notes
KARIN FOSSUM is the author of the internationally successful Inspector Konrad Sejer crime series. Her recent honors include a Gumshoe Award and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for mystery/thriller. She lives in Norway.
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Fossum's superior seventh Insp. Konrad Sejer novel, the 10th book in the series to be released in the U.S. (after 2013's Eva's Eye), puts a modern spin on Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment. Widower Charlo Olav Torp's robbery and murder of elderly Harriet Krohn allows him to pay off his debts and reconnect with his estranged 16-year-old daughter, Julie. He even buys Julie the horse she has always wanted. But this fresh start comes with a price. His every moment is clouded by guilt over his actions and the fear that he'll be caught, but he's also proud that he's committed the perfect murder. Months go by until Sejer, who has never had an unsolved case, targets Charlo by building on the one small piece of forgotten evidence at the crime scene. Series fans and newcomers alike will savor this insightful character study of a man on the edge with little regard to how his actions affect others. (Nov.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
In the seventh Konrad Sejer story, Fossum's pitch-perfect dialogue (internal and otherwise) sets the tense, desperate tone of this introverted, psychological cat-and-mouse tale. Gambling addict Charlo Torp is proudly shoving his past behind him. He's paid off the enormous gambling debt he owed a dangerous friend, found a part-time job, and even bought a horse to win back his equestrian daughter's affection. There is just the small matter of Harriet Krohn, whom Charlo murdered during the robbery that netted the cash for his new life. Within days of the attack, media coverage of the brutal crime is unavoidable, and Charlo learns that formidable Inspector Konrad Sejer is hunting him. Convinced that he can burrow into his new life and escape notice, Charlo denies the fallout of his crime even as fear and paranoia begin to creep in behind his facade. Fossum's modern take on The Tell-Tale Heart will please the large, ever-expanding base of Sejer fans, who will be enthralled with following the investigation from the prey's angle.--Tran, Christine Copyright 2014 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
"THE NEXT STIEG LARSSON" just came through the door, right on the heels of Sweden's Queen of Crime, followed by Denmark's Most Popular Crime Novelist and two Queens of Nordic Noir. Trust me, in the months to come there will be more titles added to the stacks of novels set in cold climates, many featuring dour detectives with unkempt blond beards and chilly blue eyes. This seemingly insatiable craze for Scandinavian mysteries was triggered by the phenomenal success of "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" and its two sequels in Larsson's Millennium Trilogy. But it's been almost a decade since that international blockbuster was first published, and there's no sign that the Nordic invasion is tapering off. If anything, publishers appear even more desperate to find and pluck another golden goose. There may very well be a novelist who writes in the same vein as Larsson, someone who shares his political paranoia and sadomasochistic sensibility. But in their zeal to find him (or her), American publishers have been indiscriminately ransacking Scandinavian fiction lists, snatching up any genre novel they can get their hands on, from routine police procedural to bloodless suspense. So who are they, anyway, these contenders? Short answer: best-selling authors in their native countries, cherry-picked for translation and distribution in the English-speaking world. But if you're asking whether they share some distinctly Nordic style, the answer is - not as much as you'd think. What they really have in common is their dour sensibility and their belief that substantive political issues (as opposed to, say, lurid serial murders) are the bedrock of modern crime fiction. Larsson's foreign readers were too smitten with Lisbeth Salander, the sadistic female avenger in his books, to notice that he wrote from a Scandinavian sensibility of profound political disaffection. More than the cold north winds and the long dark nights or even those moody detectives in their baggy clothes, it's those stern authorial voices, raised in anger and despair, that create the "noir" chill. Channeling political protest through detective fiction is hardly a new concept. It was the fundamental principle of the husband-and-wife writing team of Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo, whose widely translated police procedurals about a dedicated cop named Martin Beck introduced an international readership to the progressive socialism of Swedish society in the 1960s and 70s. As skilled practitioners of a popular genre, they knew how to entertain us. But their brief, as avowed Marxists, was to reform society by exposing systemic corruption in the welfare state. Henning Mankell, who inherited some of their ideology, set the new gold standard in 1990 with the first of his 10 stately, deeply philosophical police procedurals featuring Kurt Wallander, a homicide detective in the coastal town of Ystad who is given to brooding on the decline of Western civilization. The subjects of Mankell's sweeping novels range from homicidal teenagers ("Firewall") to the exploitation of immigrants ("The Dogs of Riga"). But the state of existential despair in which the depression-prone Wallander finds himself is a reflection of the author's own fears that the Swedish model may no longer be viable in a world of wholesale criminal injustice and disintegrating values. KURT WALLANDER IS surely the most romantic Hamlet among his peers (especially as played by Kenneth Branagh in the BBC TV series that ran here on public television), but he's not the only fictional detective troubled by the notion that something is rotten in the body politic of the Nordic nations. Over in neighboring Norway, Karin Fossum writes grim suspense novels on abnormalpsychology themes, but in a perversely delicate style that brings Ruth Rendell to mind. Her stories, many of which feature the introspective Inspector Sejer, are set in insular villages where the locals do their best to ignore appalling crimes committed by homegrown pedophiles, juvenile delinquents and mental cases, while working themselves into a state about a perceived invasion of immigrants. Fossum isn't afraid to kill off a child (sometimes at the hands of another child) when she has to, and in her disquieting recent novel, I CAN SEE IN THE DARK (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, $25), which is set in a nursing home that takes in "helpless" cases, she tackles the sensitive subject of elder abuse. Both that novel and another, coming next month, have been translated by James Anderson. Fossum's new novel, THE MURDER OF HARRIET KROHN (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, $24), is told from the tormented perspective of a killer, brooding about the horrific murder he has committed in a quiet neighborhood in a quiet town. ("No God, no other people, only the empty street outside and her terrified breathing.") Scandinavian police detectives are a morose lot to begin with, and asking them to deal with such cruel crimes in the punishing cold and isolation of northern climates is an invitation to depression. The Icelandic author Yrsa Sigurdardottir bluntly acknowledges that sense of alienation in Philip Roughton's translation of "The Day Is Dark." "If you get lost, no one will search for you. If you fall into the sea, no one will fish you out." But the prince of gloom has to be Arnaldur Indridason, an Icelandic author who is positively obsessive on themes of loss and abandonment. His despondent Reykjavik detective, Erlendur Sveinsson, who has been haunted since childhood by a sense of guilt over the disappearance of his younger brother in a snowstorm, suffers from demonic depressions that grip him during the region's seemingly endless nights and everlasting winters. As Iceland's foreign minister once observed about the outer regions of his beautiful island nation, "You can almost hear ghosts dancing in the snow." When Inspector Erlendur (as he's always called) isn't toying with thoughts of suicide or hiking alone on the moors of the East Fjords, where he periodically goes to look for the bones of his brother, he's usually working on old missing persons cases. "I'm interested in stories about ordeals in the wilderness," he tells us in Victoria Cribb's translation of Indridason's latest book, STRANGE SHORES (Minotaur/Thomas Dunne, $25.99). Here, the detective's imagination is captured by the story of a fisherman's wife named Matthildur who set out in a storm that also engulfed a group of British servicemen, part of the occupying forces during World War II, who had lost their way as they crossed over the treacherous Hraevarskord Pass. But even when he's on a cold case like this, Erlendur broods on current matters, particularly the environmental havoc wrought by heavy industrial projects like the massive aluminum smelter on the Reydarfjordur Fjord and a fiercely contested hydroelectric dam in the highlands. The Nordic nations not only turn out plenty of first-rate genre writers, they also produce lots of readers who love a good mystery. The scenery in Norway is so spectacular, it's a wonder anyone ever wants to come indoors, but one quirky tradition known as "Paskekrim" ("Easter Crime") brings everyone home over the holiday to cut a cord of good Norwegian wood and hunker down by the fire, reading mystery stories and enjoying crime shows on radio and television. and YET, FOR all the genre novels the Scandinavians avidly consume, none of the authors whose books I've read in English translation write like Stieg Larsson. They don't even write like one another - or even their own countrymen. Take Sweden, where the underrated Kjell Eriksson writes with great love for nature and unusual depth of feeling for the pathetic victims and sorrowing survivors of homicides. In his most recent novel, "Black Lies, Red Blood," published last spring and translated by Paul Norlen, a detective on the Uppsala police force is so moved by the death of an anonymous tramp that he hopes this "woeful" soul had one last look at the sky before he died. In Ebba Seberberg's translation of "The Cruel Stars of the Night," another of Eriksson's sensitive cops is so distressed by a murder he has to sit on a rock to let "the paralysis of hopelessness" pass. Another Swedish author, Hakan Nesser, is greatly respected in his home country for his rather ponderous novels set in a made-up country (with a vaguely Swedish coastline) and featuring Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, a cerebral chap given to brooding on abstract concepts of good and evil while dealing with such un-Swedish crimes as the serial killings committed by an ax murderer ("Borkmann's Point"). You can appreciate how his mind works in "The Inspector and Silence" when a friendly chess game with his good friend Mahler inevitably becomes the occasion for a spirited discussion of the nature of God. Among other Swedish authors who made the cut for English translation, Ake Edwardson writes a popular series about a Gothenburg detective, Chief Inspector Erik Winter, who is deadly dull, but in a novel like "The Shadow Woman" has a bead on modern problems like drug wars between rampaging motorcycle gangs. Asa Larsson's heroine, a public prosecutor named Rebecka Martinsson, keeps getting involved in crimes involving religious mania. (A female priest is killed in "The Blood Spilt," and a charismatic preacher is butchered and his remains displayed on the altar of his own church in "Sun Storm.") Jens Lapidus's Stockholm Noir Trilogy concluded last month with LIFE DELUXE (Pantheon, $27.95), a good old-fashioned gangster story about the godfathers of Sweden's criminal underworld. And although Camilla Lackberg's most recent book, "The Hidden Child," deals with the national amnesia about Sweden's World War II heritage, her overstuffed novels are essentially romantic potboilers. These six Swedish authors of crime fiction - not one of them anything like the other - pretty much make my point. And what about that maverick Jo Nesbo? It took seven years before an English translation of his breakthrough novel, "The Redbreast," was published here. But once this Norwegian author surfaced, he immediately commanded attention with his bold and brutal novels about Harry Hole, a macho homicide cop in perennial pursuit of foaming-at-the-mouth psychopaths. This may sound like heresy, but I find him more Yankee than Scandi, with his aggressive style and off-the-charts serial murders. (By my count, he's used up Norway's homicide allotment for the next decade.) But once he broke from the pack, Nesbo was predictably declared "the next Stieg Larsson." And now that he's become a bona fide superstar, publishers are pushing their own unknown authors as "the next Jo Nesbo." For all the melodramatic American influences in his novels, Nesbo has always been in touch with his nationalist roots. Deep in the heart of "The Redbreast" is a chilling look at Norwegian society during World War II, when the country was under German occupation. Currently, he seems to be fixated on the breakdown of civilization in Sweden, which he sees reflected in the deterioration of Oslo. There are the usual sensationally gruesome deaths in his novel "Phantom," his best book after "The Snowman," but three years in Hong Kong have taken the edge off Harry Hole's sharp perspective on his native land, and he's stunned to see the wide-open, free-trade marketing in drugs, the swelling ranks of street prostitutes, the asylum seekers from all over the globe changing the face of the old neighborhoods. As far as I'm concerned, the Nordic invasion can continue until the ice melts. But I sometimes worry about certain impressions I've picked up from my reading. I doubt that real-life Norwegian police officers are as undisciplined and self-destructive as Harry Hole, or as crude, rude, vulgar and sex-obsessed as the Oslo detectives Gunnarstranda and Frolich, the slob heroes of K.O. Dahl's crime novels. My notions of Iceland probably wouldn't hold up to reality either. Do vast numbers of Icelanders really commit suicide by walking blindly into white-out snowstorms, the way they do in Arnaldur Indridason's novels? I'm inclined to take the word of Yrsa Sigurdardottir that psychics and clairvoyants make a good living among Iceland's superstitious citizens. But what about those ghosts, trolls, ogres and elves in her mysteries? I'd hate to think she's making it all up. The other thing that bothers me is that I'm missing the subtext of novels imported from countries that might share the same sector of the globe, but are distinctive in ways I just don't get. Some of the scars from individual national traumas are obvious: Anders Breivick's murderous spree in Norway; the financial meltdown in Iceland; the fallout in Denmark from the publication of those controversial cartoons; and, of course, the assassination of Sweden's prime minister Olof Palme in 1986, a crime that is still unsolved. But certain recurring themes in genre fiction, mainly the rise of neo-Nazism and the impact of mass migration, seem to transcend the borders of insular nations and speak to a shared identity crisis. According to James Thompson, an American writer who lived in Helsinki until his death last summer and wrote bleak crime stories about a cynical cop named Kari Vaara, Finland's politically pure reputation is "a great myth" intended for foreign consumption. "Like the rest of the Nordic countries," he observed in his 2012 novel "Helsinki White," "Finland is going through an ugly extreme right-wing phase with strong anti-foreigner sentiments." To my mind, some of the most politically acute Scandinavian crime novels are being written by women who are grappling with these generalized woes in more specific ways. In Sara Blaedel's novels, her truculent Danish homicide detective, Louise Rick (a housebroken Lisbeth Salander), responds to the influx of immigrants by taking up the cause of marginalized women, including Muslim girls menaced by the tradition of honor killings and Eastern European girls recruited for the sex trade. In THE FORGOTTEN GIRLS, coming out here in February (Grand Central, $26), she expands her net to include girls and young women abused in mental institutions. Lene Kaaberbol and Agnete Friis are even more persuasive on the subject. "The Boy in the Suitcase" and its sequel, "Invisible Murder," feature a Danish Red Cross nurse named Nina Borg who performs dedicated work on behalf of children from Eastern bloc nations sold into slavery by criminal traffickers. With all the novels flying in from Scandinavia, I'm beginning to feel overwhelmed. But I can't forget the disturbing fiction of Jussi Adler-Olsen, the son of a Danish clinical psychiatrist who herded Jussi and the rest of his family from one residency to another in the various mental asylums where he worked. The villains in Adler-Olsen's books like to throw their helpless victims into underground cells. And in a novel being published this February, THE ALPHABET HOUSE (Dutton, $27.95), two British soldiers behind enemy lines in World War II are locked up in a German mental hospital. I'm sure more Nordic crime novels will arrive in the next mail. But for now I'll just sit here on the floor with a blanket over my head and relax with a little Kafka. MARILYN STASIO writes the Crime column for the Book Review.
Library Journal Review
Charlo Torp doesn't mean to kill anyone. A widower desperate to pay off gambling debts, he intends to enter Harriet Krohn's house under the pretense of a flower delivery and steal the elderly woman's valuables. But Harriet resists, Charlo panics, and she ends up bludgeoned to death in her kitchen. With the whodunit thus settled two dozen pages in, Fossum trains her focus on the "why" of the crime, examining Charlo's guilt and how he justifies his actions to himself, especially after the stolen money helps him repair his relationship with an estranged daughter. Still, he constantly looks over his shoulder, and with good reason-the policeman investigating Harriet's death, Insp. Konrad Sejer, has never failed to solve a murder. VERDICT Writing from the killer's perspective, Fossum sketches a credible if unsuspenseful portrait of how normal people commit violent acts. This is the seventh book in the "Sejer" series (The Water's Edge; Bad Intentions; The Caller) but one of the last to be translated into English, quite possibly because the detective doesn't appear until well past the halfway mark. That's too bad, because his scenes crackle with energy that's lacking in the rest of the book. For readers who enjoy psychological suspense and who don't mind crime novels minus the mystery.-Annabelle Mortensen, Skokie P.L., IL (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Dearest Julie, Do you read my letters? I hope so, but I don't make any demands. I stay in the background. I've nothing to offer you and I know why you feel bitter. But I'm writing anyway -- I am your father, after all. Writing has become a consolation. I find it soothing. You know how things stand, how I'm placed. Everyone's after me because I'm in debt, and I feel like a hunted deer. I've no real friends anymore, only lukewarm acquaintances. Do you remember Bjørnar Lind? He was my best friend. We'd known each other since we were boys, and now he won't have anything to do with me. I owe him two hundred thousand kroner, and I don't know where I'm going to find that sort of money. I'm worried he'll put people on to me, worried about what they'll do if I can't pay. There are rumors that he's hiring someone to come after me. And you know what they do to people? They cut off their fingers with pruning shears. I feel ill just thinking about it. Daily life is difficult. The dole isn't enough for necessities -- it's impossible to keep up with bills and repayments. If only there was light at the end of the tunnel! It's my fault all this has happened, and you mustn't worry about it. Just look after yourself and be happy. Be young and fit and hopeful! But I am trying to deal with things in my own pathetic way. I have some initiative left even though I'm down on my knees. I've got plans. Dreams. I'm racking my brain frantically to find a solution. It spins and sifts and searches in all directions. When did we last see each another? It was on May 27, do you remember? We argued. I was simply trying to describe how compulsive gambling is. The thrill of it, the addiction. You slammed the car door behind you, and I thought, I'll never see her again. No more chances for me. I drove home to Blomsgate with the feeling that I'd failed at everything. There must be a way out! Is it just that I can't find it? I stare into the future until I can't see anything anymore. I pace to and fro in the house. I chew my lips until they bleed. I often think of your mother with sadness and regret. All the things she had to put up with as a result of my obsession. It was so much easier then, as she took care of us and organized everything. She was a kind of corrective influence. I can't grasp that she's gone. Once a week I visit her grave. It's so sad. Often I just want to fall to the ground, dig right down, lift off the lid, and take her back. Yesterday I bought a plant and placed it in front of her gravestone -- an erica, the one with the mass of reddish-mauve flowers that can deal with almost any conditions, a bit like heather. I tend her grave, you know. I trim and weed and water. Sometimes I look for signs, to see if, perhaps, you've been hanging around there. Have you? Do you stand there crying all alone? I like the idea of acknowledging that death comes to everyone. Perhaps some just fade, sitting there withering away, like my mother. In my worst moments, I've viewed death as a way out. I've still got my father's old revolver. Forgive this candor. You are not responsible for me. I won't live to be very old. I'm so tired already. Just think, your grandmother is seventy-nine. But she just sits there immobile in her chair, only half alive. In a kind of slumber where nothing happens. But her features are still strong, like that prominent chin that you've inherited. As for me, I can't disappear in a doze. Every cell within me vibrates. Blood courses around my body, my fingers quiver. At night I lie in the darkness listening. There are so many creaks and sighs in this old house that I don't get much sleep. Is it them? I think. Has my final hour come? Today, I was at the Job Center, but nobody wants a middle-aged man. And I've no decent references, either. Nothing to show or boast about. Julie! I won't give up, even if I'm driven to drastic measures. I've spent every minute of every day searching for a solution. It all hinges on money I haven't got. Things I can't afford, plans I can't bring to fruition, debts I can't pay. Fear and shame are everywhere -- in the terror of each ring at the doorbell, and in the long hours until sleep arrives, bringing the only solace the day affords. Unless, that is, I dream of ruin. Life can't go on like this. It's sapping my strength too much. This constant fear, this thudding heart. My own miserable face in the mirror and the knowledge that I destroyed everything. Just because of a flaw. A penchant for gambling, chance, and luck. I'm not asking you for forgiveness, only an iota of understanding. I'm on a different course now. Gambling is no longer a pleasure to me. I think I could walk past a fruit machine with my money safe in my pocket. But there's something about those flashing lights, it's a kind of intoxication. Time stands still in front of the machine, and I'm fully alive. I take possession of it, control it, challenge it. The machine greets me with its lights and music, draws me in, tempts me. And I surrender myself to it, float away, begin to dream. This may seem like weakness to you, but it's only half the truth. If you only knew how desperate I am, how far I'm prepared to go for us to be in contact again. I've no one else but you. I feel I've been driven back to my last bastion and I don't know how things will end. I'm friendless, jobless, and childless. No, not childless. I still cling to you, even though you don't need me, don't want me. Maybe you've seen me occasionally, sitting in the Honda outside your school, hidden among the vehicles in the parking lot. I watch you emerge from the building with a crowd of friends, and see you healthy and laughing and fooling around. I see your magnificent red hair, like a cloud around your face. Do I have any place at all in your life? I don't know if I could bear it if you cut me adrift forever. To grow old alone with no ties to anyone. Of all the misfortunes that can befall us, loneliness is the worst. Not even having someone to weep with in this wretched world. You are the only thing I'm proud of in my life. But you look thin, Julie. Are you eating enough? You must wrap up better. It's winter now. Mom would have said the same if she'd seen you with your neck bare. You always used to listen to her. Do you remember those happy days? When I still had my job at the car showroom. I was a good salesman, capable and reliable, and I remember the satisfaction of concluding each sale. The feeling of success, of being in the swing of things. Returning to you and Mom in the evenings, to the warmth and light. There's no light anymore, so my life is disappearing. While I write, you feel so close. It's as if I'm holding your hand, and I can't bear to let go. Listen to me! Think of me, let me feel that I'm part of your life! Are things all right with your apartment and at school? I dream of making some difference to you, of giving what you want most of all. I don't believe in miracles, but I believe one can change one's own destiny. It's just a matter of willpower and imagination. Of endurance and courage. I also believe it comes at a price. As things stand now, I'd give anything. I've nothing to lose. Dark, fearful days are all that lie before me. Excerpted from The Murder of Harriet Krohn by Karin Fossum All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
