I’m thrilled to be able to share this excerpt from Winterkill by Icelandic author Ragnar Jonasson. Jonasson’s work has been called “Icelandic noir of the highest order, with Jónasson’s atmospheric sense of place, and his heroine’s unerring humanity shining from every page” (Daily Mail); “Chilling, creepy, perceptive, almost unbearably tense” (Ian Rankin); “stark and minimal, the mood dank and frost-tipped.” (Metro). Winterkill is the final installment of Jonasson’s million-copy bestselling Dark Iceland series. Thanks to Orenda Books, Anne Cater of RandomThings tours, and the author for a chance to share this excerpt with you. After reading this opening, I’m hooked!
Winterkill by Ragnar Jonasson
translated by David Warriner
Easter weekend is approaching, and snow is gently falling in Siglufjörður, the northernmost town in Iceland, as crowds of tourists arrive to visit the majestic ski slopes. Ari Thór Arason is now a police inspector, but he’s separated from his girlfriend, who lives in Sweden with their three-year-old son. A family reunion is planned for the holiday, but a violent blizzard is threatening and there is an unsettling chill in the air.
Three days before Easter, a nineteen-year-old local girl falls to her death from the balcony of a house on the main street. A perplexing entry in her diary suggests that this may not be an accident, and when an old man in a local nursing home writes ‘She was murdered’ again and again on the wall of his room, there is every suggestion that something more sinister lies at the heart of her death…
As the extreme weather closes in, cutting the power and access to Siglufjörður, Ari Thór must piece together the puzzle to reveal a horrible truth … one that will leave no one unscathed.
Chilling, claustrophobic and disturbing, Winterkill marks the startling conclusion to the million-copy bestselling Dark Iceland series and cements Ragnar Jónasson as one of the most exciting authors in crime fiction.
From Winterkill
‘Oh, dear me, Ari Thór, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to hearing news like this, will I?’
The Reverend Eggert hadn’t changed a bit in the seven years Ari Thór had spent in Siglufjörður. He was a man of indeterminate age, with soft words and even temper who was likely to carry his pastoral vocation well into retirement. He filled his free time with writing and seemed to lead a quiet, happy life in the small town. Ari Thór had always been impressed by the genuine interest this man of the Church took in his fellow citizens, and this was one of the reasons why he had asked him for help in identifying the young woman who had died. Even if it meant rousing him in the middle of the night.
‘Her name is … was Unnur,’ Reverend Eggert said. ‘She was confirmed right here in my church, the poor child. What a terrible thing to happen to her. Such a charming girl, she was. Cheerful, well-mannered and committed to her studies. You know, Ari Thór, I really am surprised that this has happened to her, of all people. There are youngsters in town who are struggling, who have found themselves mixed up in drugs and whatnot, and I could quite easily see them meeting a tragic end like this, but not Unnur. I … I…’
‘You can’t believe it?’
‘No. I don’t think she could ever have brought herself to do such a thing.’
❆❆❆❆
Now, the two of them were standing outside the house where Unnur’s mother lived. Ari Thór was dreading the moment that would come when the door opened. This wasn’t the first time he had been the bearer of unbearable news. And he needed no reminding of the day when the police had knocked at the door to announce that his mother had died in a tragic accident. He had been just thirteen years old, but the memory was all too fresh in his mind. He remembered every detail of that fateful moment: the sound of the rain streaming down outside, the smell in the air, even the words the police officers had said.
These things would likely continue to haunt Unnur’s mother too. In years to come, she would think back to this moment and see the cloudless sky of the breaking dawn. She would smell the salty tang of the still, cold air. And sense the impending threat of the snow looming just beyond the horizon.
Unnur’s mother lived in a big old house on Grundargata, just around the corner from where her daughter’s body had been found. All of the windows were dark. There was an air of serenity about the place, a calm that would soon be shattered.
Ari Thór pressed the doorbell and waited, casting a glance at the man by his side. Reverend Eggert placed a cautious hand on Ari Thór’s shoulder.
‘Why don’t you let me do the talking, my friend?’
It was a while before a light snapped on inside and someone came downstairs. The woman who opened the door looked to be somewhere north of forty. Her pyjamas, tousled hair and bleary eyes suggested she had been fast asleep until a moment ago.
An expression of surprise and concern cracked her face as she recognised the reverend and saw Ari Thór’s uniform.
‘Salvör?’ Ari Thór asked.
‘Yes. What … what’s wrong?’ she stammered. ‘Has something happened?’
‘We need to talk to you. It’s about your daughter,’ Reverend Eggert said. ‘Can we come in?’
Salvör stepped aside to let them into the house and closed the door behind them. She turned the light on in the living room and seemed to freeze. She didn’t think to invite the visitors to sit down, and they didn’t ask.
‘Unnur is here.’ Salvör spoke the words with confidence. ‘She’s in her room, sleeping.’
For a second, Ari Thór doubted his certainty. Maybe the reverend had been mistaken. Maybe the young woman whose body they had found in the street was someone else’s daughter. He found himself secretly crossing his fingers, hoping to delay the inevitable.
Beside him, the Reverend Eggert paused in stillness for a moment. As if the shadow of a doubt had crossed his mind, too.
‘Perhaps I should come with you and check,’ he wisely suggested.
Salvör led the way and the reverend followed her down the hall. Ari Thór waited in the living room, still holding on to a glimmer of hope, though he knew it would be in vain.
When they returned, the look on the mother’s face left no doubt. They had been gone for a long while, so Reverend Eggert must have tactfully chosen to break the news to her in private. Ari Thór appreciated the gesture. Salvör was crying. The tears were streaming down her cheeks.
‘My dear Ari Thór, I think I’m going to stay for a while,’ the reverend said gravely. ‘Do you have any pressing questions for Salvör? Anything that can’t wait?’
Ari Thór hesitated. All his questions could obviously wait, but he was conscious of his responsibilities and had to make sure he didn’t let his emotions cloud his judgement.
‘Please accept my sincerest condolences, Salvör,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk another time, if necessary. For now, I just have one question for you. Was there anything about your daughter’s behaviour recently that might suggest she … had been thinking about…’
‘…Taking her life?’ the reverend ventured.
Salvör shook her head vehemently. ‘No, no, no! Absolutely not. Not an inkling,’ she sobbed. ‘She was a bubbly teenage girl with her whole life ahead of her…’
Ari Thór knew appearances could be deceptive. Depression often lurked unseen beneath the surface. Still, it wasn’t the answer he had expected to hear. Everything seemed to suggest that Unnur had thrown herself off the balcony. Everything pointed to a simple conclusion: that she had set out to end her own life. But judging by her mother’s insistence to the contrary, this unfortunate matter would call for further investigation.
Ari Thór said his goodbyes and disappeared into the remaining shadows of the night.
Follow the tour!
About Ragnar Jonasson
Icelandic crime writer Ragnar Jónasson was born in Reykjavík, and currently works as a lawyer, while teaching copyright law at the Reykjavík University Law School. In the past, he’s worked in TV and radio, including as a news reporter for the Icelandic National Broadcasting Service. Before embarking on a writing career, Ragnar translated fourteen Agatha Christie novels into Icelandic, and has had several short stories published in German, English and Icelandic literary magazines. Ragnar set up the first overseas chapter of the CWA (Crime Writers’ Association) in Reykjavík, and is co-founder of the International crime-writing festival Iceland Noir. Ragnar’s debut thriller, Snowblind became an almost instant bestseller when it was published in June 2015n with Nightblind (winner of the Dead Good Reads Most Captivating Crime in Translation Award) and then Blackout, Rupture and Whiteout following soon after. To date, Ragnar Jónasson has written five novels in the Dark Iceland series, which has been optioned for TV by On the Corner. He lives in Reykjavík with his wife and two daughters.
Thanks so much for the blog tour support x