Sneaky Devil!

I’m not sure how it happened, but the paperback version of Paint the Devil is live two weeks before the kindle version comes out.

Oops.

However, if you’re curious and want to find out more about this Scandinavian “bestseller” (Amazon Australia) – yes, I had to get that in – then you could have a two week headstart. The pre-order is still available for the kindle version, and it will stay at the pre-order price until the day of release.

Here are the links to the paperback. The kindle version can be found on the same page.

US, UK, Canada, Australia

Until then, I’ll leave you with another short excerpt from the book:

Paint the Devil excerpt

The breeze is stronger now, blowing from the sea, lifting the salt tang from the waves and brushing the roofs and windows with fine crystals. Denmark is suffering. Inland farms are drying out faster than those along the coast. Thyrup has some luck, Bo thinks. But Thyrup has the wolf, and the environmentalists, the academics, and the so-called elite, sitting high on their morals, looking down, looking from afar, looking from Copenhagen. Christiansborg is a long way from Thyrup. They are at opposite ends of the country, almost parallel, on a direct line, but poles apart. They might as well be north and south.

South.

Bo thinks of Belgium, and the headquarters of the European Union. Wonders how they can decide his fate in the jaws of the wolf.

“Experts,” Aage says, as he joins Bo beside the grave of Viktoria’s father.

“What?”

“They are sending experts from Christiansborg. One, at least. A man and his daughter. They will be staying at the nature commission house, the one down by the beach.”

“How do you know?”

“Tilde Sørensen,” Aage says, and smiles. “She called the ministry for a comment, and the minister, Felix Poulsen, said he was sending a wolf expert to Thyrup. Can you believe it?”

“What will he do?”

“Investigate, I suppose.” Aage gestures at the gate. “I need a smoke. Walk with me.”

 

The kindle version of Paint the Devil is scheduled for release on October 28th, 2018.

The Holidays are Murder!

Forget hygge, this Christmas is going to be murder!

The Scandinavians and Greenlanders love their Christmas Advent Calendars. In Denmark every December, the Danish television companies – at least two of them – usually produce a new Christmas Calendar with twenty-four episodes, up to and including the conclusion on Christmas Eve, the night Scandinavians and Greenlanders celebrate Christmas. The usual premise is that Christmas is under threat, it might even be cancelled, and the viewers won’t know for sure until the very last episode. Nisse – Christmas Elves – are usually involved.

One of the best and most loved Danish Christmas Calendars is Nissebanden i Grønland from 1989 (link to Danish Wikipedia site). This is a particular favourite of mine as it is set in Uummannaq, in Greenland, where I lived and worked for four years. Funnily enough, Uummannaq is where the majority of my Greenland Crime and Arctic Thrillers are set.

Funny that, eh?

Nissebanden is a kids Christmas story. It’s a lot of fun.

Greenland runs the Danish Christmas Calendars on TV, but Greenlandic production studios have also produced their own, including Ammartagaq from Deluxus Studios. I was fortunate to work with the actress, Maria, when I lived in Nuuk. Here’s a teaser from 2010.

Side note, Deluxus Studios also produced the video for one of the best bands ever, not just in Greenland: Nanook.

The idea of writing a Christmas Calendar has been bubbling away for a bit, but, given what I write, my own Christmas Calendar has to be a lot darker, a Dark Advent if you will.

So, even though Christmas is, thankfully, way off yet, I just thought you might be interested to know that The Calendar Man will be available from December 1st, the idea being that you can read it one chapter a day all the way up to and including Christmas Eve.

Of course, you can be daring and wait until the very last day and read it in one sitting if you like. It is a “regular” book after all.

Here’s the big picture before the obligatory links to the special pre-order kindle price. However, don’t miss the “extra” bit of news after that.

Here’s the “blurb” for The Calendar Man:

When a ritual murder is linked to a long-forgotten case, Greenland Police Commissioner Petra Jensen is forced out of retirement to catch a killer seeking revenge.

Following a period of compassionate leave, Petra Piitalaat Jensen has chosen early retirement to work through the grief surrounding the loss of her partner. But when the frozen body of a young man is discovered on the eve of a referendum that will decide the future of Greenland, Greenland’s First Minister urges Petra to forgo retirement and investigate the case.

As the people of Nuuk lock their doors, and the voting booths are empty, Petra stretches the limited resources of the department and orders more police onto the streets in a desperate hunt for a killer determined to make this Christmas one to remember.

Set in Greenland, “The Calendar Man” twists Greenlandic politics, traditions and myths into a dark tale set in the darkest month of the year, in a frighteningly imaginable future.

“The Calendar Man” is set many years after the events in the Greenland Crime series, but features several of the characters introduced in those books.

The Calendar Man is scheduled for release on December 1st.

Available at a special pre-order kindle price from Amazon

USAUKCanada and Australia

But wait, there’s more!

One of the scariest Christmas traditions in Greenland occurs on the twelfth night, January 6th, when people with masks and sticks run through the streets and chase people. So, it makes perfect sense, for me anyway, that The Calendar Man is followed by The Twelfth Night, scheduled for release on – you guessed it – January 6th. I’ll post more information about that book later.

So I’ll be rounding off 2018 with a couple of chilling Greenland Crime books – perfect for dark evenings with a candle, a blanket and something sharp – just in case.

Yep, this is dark hygge at its best!

P.S. if you like the original iceberg photos on the covers, be sure to check out Annie Spratt’s website for more incredible photography!

The Howling Sessions

Before Jacob, the bramble tunnel, and the den, Emma’s wolves were the ones in her father’s slides. They were a part of him, connected to him, even more than her mother. Their house was full of wolf books. Now their apartment is full of wolf books. Her father complains about having to buy for a second time the books her mother took to Spain. Her mother curses her father when she can’t find a book he has in Copenhagen. It is always the same books. They both buy books multiple times, each blaming the other for the empty space on the bookshelf, only to find the book they want beneath a newspaper, or in the car, usually after they have bought a new copy. Then there are the boxes of tapes, the howling sessions her father calls them. Emma used to listen to them as a child, curled up in the blankets between her parents. She listened to the wolves while her parents dissected, discussed and disagreed with the meaning. The howling sessions became heated, and Emma withdrew to her room, swapping wolf howls for pop music, wolf picture books for social media, parents for friends, and the wolf loped away from her, until now.

From Paint the Devil, scheduled for release on October 28th.

Available at a special pre-order kindle price from Amazon

USAUKCanada and Australia

The First Strokes of Paint: Chapter 1

The ground crumbles beneath stunted yellow grass, as Bo Falk shines the beam of his halogen lamp across the field. It’s over thirty degrees Celsius in the day, twenty at night, making the carcass of the dead ewe bloat in the heat. He clicks the lamp off and on again, seeing first one beast, then another, capturing what he knows to be the predatory gaze of the wolf. Bo’s ewe could have been killed in the night, the gasses encouraged by the heat. This is the pair he has heard about, the wolves rumoured to have made their den somewhere in the woods, between the Falk family farm and his neighbours’. Bo watches the wolves as they watch him, and then he shouts at them, the law says that’s all he can do.

“Bugger off, you evil brutes. The devil take you. This is my land. Mine.”

Bo kicks at the dusty surface of his field, cursing the land as he curses the wolves. There’s no fodder. He’s already exceeded the summer budget, piling on the debt until the money is nothing but numbers and the bank pumps more money into Bo Falk, money for feed, money for water. Falk men and women have farmed this land for six generations, and now there is only debt to pass to his son, and more debt that his son will pass on to his children. Last year it was unseasonably wet, this year a drought, and now the wolf.

Bo hurls the trigger lamp across the field, hears it crash on the dry earth beyond the carcass, pulls out his phone as the light disappears with the splinter of glass, and strides across the dead grass to his dead sheep. The wolves are gone.

“Bo?” his wife calls, peering into the darkness, her t-shirt clinging damp to her skin, her hair, slick with sweat, sticking to her cheeks, her forehead, her shoulders. “What is it?”

“Wolves,” he says. “I’m calling Viktoria.”

“Now? It’s three in the morning.”

“Yes, now. Get Jacob up.”

“He’s asleep, Bo.”

“He needs to see this.”

“Can’t he see it in the morning?”

He ignores her and she hears him bark something at the farm veterinarian. If she drives now, she’ll be at the Falk farm in just twenty minutes, long before first light. If she leaves now. Camilla Falk isn’t so sure, not about that, and not about the wolves. But if Bo says it is wolves, she believes him.

Camilla walks back to the farmhouse, her heels rubbing inside the leather boots, the soles slap slapping on the cobbles, dragging dust from the dry paddock. The crickets rub frantic legs together and she is distracted as she tries to remember the last time there were so many. Not last year, last year was too wet.

“And now too dry,” she says, her last thought on the crickets as she unlatches the door to the main house. Falk farm lies just four kilometres outside the village of Thyrup, West Jutland, just a spit and a strong gust of wind to the sea, the broad beaches, the tourist traps of the Danish west coast. Camilla kicks off the boots, pads through the stone-flagged kitchen and along the short corridor, past the painting of the church cross on the hillside to Jacob’s room. He’s sleeping, legs sprawled over the rumpled bed sheet, duvet on the floor, window open. She enters the room, presses a small hand on his bare shoulder, shakes him gently and whispers him awake.

“It’s not even dawn,” he mumbles, his mouth thick with warm air, eyes gritty with sleep.

“Your father wants you.”

“Now?”

“A sheep is dead. One of the ewes. You need to come.”

“Wolves?” Jacob asks, as he presses one hand flat on the bed to sit up.

“Yes.”

Jacob nods, find his jeans on the floor, tugs them over his large bare feet. His mother steadies him as he stumbles, his foot catching in the denim trouser leg.

“Still asleep,” he says, almost laughing.

Jacob zips and buttons his jeans, buckles the chafed leather belt. There’s a plastic knife sheath looped on one side of his belt, but he doesn’t remember where the knife is. He’ll buy another from the store. He scours the floor of his room for a t-shirt as his mother leaves. She fills the kettle as he plods from his room to the kitchen, pulling a shirt over his lean stomach.

These are lean times, Camilla thinks as she brushes his cheek with her hand, kisses him before she starts breakfast. Jacob slips his bare feet inside the same boots she had worn – his boots. He dips his head to peer out of the leaded window to the right of the door, grabs a torch from the windowsill, and goes outside.

There is a tree, an oak, in the centre of the Falk family farm. Jacob swung beneath it as a child, climbed it as a teenager, he might curse it as a man, as his father does each morning, cursing it to the roots; the roots that run deep, anchoring them to the land. They will never leave. Jacob walks beneath the bough, feathers his palm over the trunk. He loves it still, he hasn’t learned to hate it, not yet.

He finds his father by the ewe and turns on his torch with a click. He directs the beam at the ragged hind leg and plays it over the distended belly, encouraged by the heat of the seventh tropical night in a row in Viking lands. His father takes the torch, flicks his hand against Jacob’s chest, and points to the road.

“Here comes Viktoria,” his father says, as lights bump along the beech-lined gravel road running straight between the fields to the farm, three hundred metres from the Thyrup road.

“You called the vet?” Jacob points at the ewe. “It’s dead.”

“And so will we be if they don’t listen.”

“They?”

“Christiansborg. Parliament needs to listen, Jacob. We have to make them.”

“But calling the vet at…” Jacob looks up at the sky. “It’s not even four.”

“Go and meet her.”

Jacob turns, kicking at the dust as he walks across the dead grass to where Viktoria parks her car. She used to babysit when his parents went to the dance. He might have tried to kiss her once, before she married. Now he just stares when he can get away with it, shrugs when she catches him.

“A dead ewe, Jacob, what is he thinking?” she says, as she steps out of the car – a Volvo – so new the dust is streaked in apologetic lines, reluctant to cling, unlike the thick layers clogged beneath the flakes of rust on the Falk family tractor.

“He says it’s wolves.”

“Is that right?”

Viktoria grabs a torch from the boot of the Volvo. She clicks it on and, for just a second, the light catches her hair, teasing Jacob with a flash of lust, a memory of that almost kiss. Was she eight years older than him? He doesn’t remember, he just watches her close the boot and then follows her as she walks along the northern wing of the farm. He jogs once to catch up until he stands beside her and his father, the three of them beside the dead sheep.

“Bo,” Viktoria says, as she crouches by the sheep and examines the carcass in the light, flaring the nostrils with her fingers, lifting the hind leg with her hand. She shines the light over the ragged lacerations, nods when Bo tells Jacob to turn the sheep, and finds another wound in the belly, smears of blood caked in dust. Viktoria clicks off the torch as she stands up.

“Well?” Bo asks.

“It could be a wolf,” she says. “It could be a dog.”

“It’s not a dog.”

Viktoria sighs. “Then you don’t need me, Bo. You already know what it is.” She looks at him. “But what do I care? It’s your money.”

“Say it’s a wolf.”

“It might be. But we don’t know.”

“I saw them.”

“Wolves?”

“Over there,” Bo points. “Anton’s seen them too.”

“Anton Bjerg? He never said anything to me.”

“He doesn’t have sheep. The wolves are cowards, they won’t touch his cattle.”

“Bo,” Viktoria says. “It’s tourist season. You know what it’s like. The beaches are crowded, there’s a dog in every other family. They get loose. Every year.”

“This isn’t a dog, or dogs, Viktoria. These are wolf bites. They are making their den, on my land.”

Jacob watches his father, sees the lines crease his forehead, ticking and tugging at the skin around his eyes, as the first light fills the sky. The church spire is now visible on the low hill that presses out of the parched earth between the farm, the fields and the village. The poorer fields are yellow and dry, green only where the water is pumped and sprayed over the crops for five thousand Danish kroners a day.

A wet season, a dry season, and now wolves, denning in the woods.

“I’m calling Tilde after breakfast,” Bo says.

“Tilde Sørensen?”

“From Thyrup Dagbladet. She’ll want to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll tell her you said it was a wolf.”

“For God’s sake, Bo…”

Bo clenches his fists by his sides. He takes a long breath, as he waits for Viktoria to settle. Jacob lets the sheep roll back onto its side and stands up.

“Your dad had a farm, Viktoria,” Bo says.

Had,” she says. “He went bankrupt.”

“He was a friend of mine.”

“Until cancer put in him a hospice.” Viktoria gestures at the church. “And then Aage Dahl buried him. Right over there.”

“He can see us, you know.”

“It’s a little early for Aage, don’t you think.”

“I was talking about your dad.”

“I know,” Viktoria says.

“Then help me,” Bo says, as he reaches for Viktoria’s arm. “We’re struggling, this year more than most. It’s the drought, and now the wolves. One takes my crops, the other my sheep. Say it’s a wolf, Viktoria.”

“It might be,” she says, as Bo lets go of her arm.

“Say it is.”

Viktoria nods, ever so quickly, and Jacob sees it. He follows her to the car when Bo tells him to. The grass, dead straw, hollow vines and husks, scratch along the leather of their shoes until they both reach the cobbles, and the dust settles between the stones. The light is stronger now, and Jacob can see strands of Viktoria’s hair clinging to her cheeks, tiny beads of sweat between the top of her lip and her nose. There’s not a lick of wind, nothing to hide the sudden thud and thump of teenage lust in his chest, the tingle in his fingers.

Married, he thinks.

Viktoria opens the boot of the Volvo, tosses the torch into a plastic crate, and looks at him through the glass. She almost smiles at the look in his eyes, and he wonders if she remembers the half kiss when he was seventeen.

“You’ve grown up,” she says, as she closes the boot.

“What?” His throat is sticky, and he licks his top lip.

“Don’t be like your father. He’ll die on this farm, or it’ll kill him, like my father.”

“You said it was cancer.”

“Farming is a cancer, Jacob,” Viktoria says. She opens the car door and gets in. “I’ll tell Tilde it’s a wolf,” she says.

Jacob nods, turning as his father walks past the end of the north wing, calling out something about breakfast, with a nod towards the kitchen.

“Between the bank and the politicians, what’s one more predator, eh?” Viktoria says, as she starts the car.

Jacob takes a step back as she closes the door and reverses into the courtyard. He watches her go, waits until she has reached the road, and then turns to look over his shoulder at the church on the hill, and the woods below. There the wolf lurks beneath the trees, the vet will confirm it, the local paper will report it. The wolf summer begins.

 

About Paint the Devil

As the wolf debate heats up during Denmark’s hottest and driest summer on record, wildlife biologist Jon Østergård and his teenage daughter relocate to the West Jutland village of Thyrup, to study problem wolves in a community divided by fear, belief, opinions and violence.

Jon quickly discovers that his experience of wolves in Greenland means nothing in a farming community fighting to have their voice heard in an increasingly divisive national debate.

Pressed by politicians demanding an objective report on one side, and locals on the other, Jon risks losing his way as the debate turns ugly, and his daughter is drawn into a family convinced that extreme action is necessary to protect their livelihood. 

Sporadic wildfires flare up in the surrounding countryside, and the flames force a small pack of wolves closer and closer to the village.

Available from Amazon

USAUKCanada and Australia

Wolf Summer!

After 199 years, the wolf has returned to Denmark. Big wolves, similar in size to Timber Wolves, cross the border from Germany. The first was spotted back in 2012, which was interesting, as I was living way north – practically in white wolf country – in Qaanaaq, at the top of Greenland. I did live in polar bear country, and bought a shotgun at the supermarket – as you do – at the suggestion of a local hunter. The area around Qaanaaq is a denning area for bears. But, despite bears coming in the night, I didn’t see one, and no wolves in the two years I lived there. But, wolves were in Denmark, and it made the move back a little more palatable.

The Danish nature was/is rewilding.

But wolves have a habit of stirring up trouble, regardless of statistics, and that got me wondering. The idea of Paint the Devil was born, and as the debate really kicked off earlier this year, the book started to write itself.

There are always two sides to a story, but Paint the Devil has a third – the story of the wolves, something the main character: wildlife biologist Jon Østergård has to take into consideration as he navigates through the heated debates and opinions dividing the community of Thyrup, a small (fictive) village on Denmark’s west coast.

So, without further ado, here’s the blurb, the links, and the cover for Paint the Devil, available for pre-order and scheduled for release in October.

As the wolf debate heats up during Denmark’s hottest and driest summer on record, wildlife biologist Jon Østergård and his teenage daughter relocate to the West Jutland village of Thyrup, to study problem wolves in a community divided by fear, belief, opinions and violence.

Jon quickly discovers that his experience of wolves in Greenland means nothing in a farming community fighting to have their voice heard in an increasingly divisive national debate.

Pressed by politicians demanding an objective report on one side, and locals on the other, Jon risks losing his way as the debate turns ugly, and his daughter is drawn into a family convinced that extreme action is necessary to protect their livelihood. 

Sporadic wildfires flare up in the surrounding countryside, and the flames force a small pack of wolves closer and closer to the village.

Available from Amazon

USAUKCanada and Australia

This time it’s personal!

So Fell Runner is out soon, and this one means a lot to me. For sure, all my books are personal, but this one takes me back to another time and place that is pretty important in the grand scheme of things. If you’ve got a minute, and if you’re interested, I’ll explain – be warned, it has something to do with marshmallows.

Way back in 1997, after graduating from the University of Strathclyde, Glasgow, with a degree in Outdoor Education, I got my first real job – full time – as an outdoor instructor at an outdoor centre hidden in the forests of the Cairngorms National Park. It wasn’t my first time in the Highlands of Scotland, but it was the first time I was going to live there. The scenery is – like they say – breathtaking, and I fell in love, but not just with the place, I fell in love with Jane – a crazy Dane who I shared a log cabin with. Now, it took a long time before our friendship became a relationship and we eloped in Glasgow, and I’ll spare you the details, but I will add that Jane taught me to catch and throw.

Yeah, I know, you’re wondering about that, but imagine not yet being romantically involved, and no TV, Internet, and a spate of bad weather … we played tennis in the kitchen with marshmallows and wooden spoons. It takes some skill, let me tell you. But it was a diversion, as was the time I spent on the mountain as a reindeer herder…

Yes, I did that too, and it’s all getting very weird all of a sudden.

Isn’t it?

Let me get back on point and wrap this up.

Fell Runner is a short – 70 page(ish) – crime story set in the Cairngorms during a race from Braemar to Aviemore. Aviemore was where Jane and I recharged between courses, and to escape the midges in the forest. We also needed more marshmallows! The story introduces the character of Freja Hansen, a Scottish-born Danish police detective who lives in Sønderborg, Denmark. The action takes place in the Lairig Ghru, with the “middle bit” in the Corrour Bothy. It’s all fiction, of course, but there should be plenty to get the heart pounding when the weather turns nasty, and the killer moves in…

Fell Runner is the introduction to a crime series bridging the gap between Scandinoir and Scottish Crime Fiction. There’s a whole series in the works, and I’ll be drawing on local knowledge of both areas to spin a few tales of murder and mayhem in both countries.

If you’re curious, you can pick up Fell Runner at a low pre-order price on Amazon.

USAUKCanada and Australia

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to my marshmallows!

Serial Dancer

Recently, I challenged myself to write a story built around cars and car chases, and I’m really happy with the way Pulp Driver turned out. The next challenge is dancing – the ballet kind. Of course, I couldn’t leave it at that, so there is a serious jag of vengeance/vigilantism/murder involved. Here’s the opening, while the ebook and paperback are available on Amazon.

 

DANISH DESIGN

PART 1

“Moth, be a butterfly,” the dance instructor said, “spread your wings.”

Milla Moth stretched, fingers poised, her arm moving as she lifted her chin, dipped her wrist, extended her slender fingers as the instructor pinched Milla’s elbow, pressed her hip, slapped at her bottom, studied her knee.

“Almost,” the instructor said. “Practice.” And then she was gone, walking her stiff walk to the stereo, pressing the skip button, backwards. The music started again, and the young apprentices of the Royal Danish Ballet School sighed as they slipped their bodies into the start position to stretch, poise and dip once again, and again, until it was dark outside, and they could just see the reflection of the lamps in the street sparkling the window in the corridor, outside studio four.

It was still raining when Milla lowered her arms for the last time, plucking at her leotard, the material damp and grainy between her fingertips as she lifted it from her abdomen. She glanced at her roommate, Scarlett, then crossed the short distance of the dance floor to embrace her. They pressed their foreheads together, breathed on sweat-streaked cheeks, and Milla said, “Done for today, baby.”

“Yes,” Scarlett said. She broke off and tapped Milla on the hip. “You’re cooking.”

“Again?”

“It’s Wednesday, again.”

“Fine.” Milla padded over to her cloth bags and her exercise tube. She sat down, leaned her back against the mirror, and unlaced her ballet shoes. She took a moment to study the black nail on her left foot, wondering when it might fall off, if she should pull it. The other girls said not to. Milla left it alone. She slipped her down-filled booties over her feet, stood up, and gathered her outfits, carrying them by the clothes hangers as she lifted her bags and followed the wake of weary dancers out of the studio and into the corridor. She recognised Scarlett’s cry as the door swung shut behind her.

[…]

Available from Amazon

USAUKCanada and Australia

Arctic Noir: The Danes

I’m still processing what I learned, who I met, and what I experienced at the Horsens Crime Festival. However, of the many authors I met, there are two in particular that I must mention, as we write within the same genre that could be described as Arctic Noir.

I listened to Nina von Staffeldt talk on the stage on Sunday. It was clear that she has a lot of experience of and a lot of love for Greenland, the country, and, not least, its people. I can relate. Nina talked about the ordinary Greenlander, not the stereotype one hears about in the media. She has made a point of writing about strong Greenlandic characters, and I fully applaud her doing so, and look forward to reading her books Frozen Evidence and The Black Angel featuring the character of Sika Haslund. The books are currently only available in Danish – as is her website. But do have a look, and watch out for the English translation – I am sure it will be in the works.

After Nina’s talk, I had the chance to meet her, and took the opportunity to give her a copy of Seven Graves, One Winter. Now I am waiting on her books from the library. I’ll be sure to write more when I read them.

I’ll be back with another short post about Yrsa Sigurðardóttir, who I was also fortunate to chat to at the festival. When Yrsa sells books, I sell books, and I had the chance to thank her for that… and give her a copy of my book.

You see the pattern here, don’t you? Talk to someone, give them a book.

Gonna need some more books!

Sifting through Blood

Constable (ret.) David Maratse can be a bit of a problem, and I thought I would take a moment to explain.

While Maratse does feature in the Arctic thriller The Ice Star, he also has his own series – two, in fact.

The Greenland Crime series, of which Blood Floe is book 2, are full-length crime novels.

The Arctic Shorts, of which The Last Flight is the fourth story in the series, are short stories set prior to the events in the Greenland Crime series. They are typically 15,000 words or a little over 50 pages each. The Arctic Shorts are crime with a Jack London-like feel. You’ve been warned. 😉

Both Blood Floe and The Last Flight are available for pre-order on Amazon.

Blood Floe USA, UK, Canada, and Australia

The Last Flight USAUKCanada and Australia

I hope that helps.

Small Time Criminal

There’s a star-studded cast …  and me. I have booked a coffee table stand at the Crime Festival in Horsens on the 17th and 18th March. There’s a lot of big crime writers coming. Lots of Scandinavians. Lots of Americans. Lots of Brits. And … me. When I contacted the organisers a while ago, they were kind enough to present the whole palette of options available. “Great,” I said. “And do you have anything smaller?”

I believe strongly in the old adage of fake it til you make it, and this small time crime writer is faking it all the way to Horsens this year. We’ll see what happens. Until then, be sure to check out the programme – and, if you’re looking for me … just keep scrolling to the very end.

The Festival looks really exciting, with loads of presentations, talks, book signings – the works. There should also be plenty for English readers this year. So, if you happen to be in the area, or are travelling to Denmark for the festival itself, please say “hi”, I’d love to meet you.

Oh, and if that’s not enough, the venue is the old State Prison!