Crime Fiction

something too insubstantial to hold. She would toss her bouquet high in the air, pink and purple flowers against a backdrop of blue sky, and it would fall into the arms of a pretty bridesmaid. Then the bridesmaid's head would disintegrate. Strings of blood would snake through the air like drops of ink in water.
But the way Terry Gilchrist saw it and he was there it was as swift as it was brutal. A crack, loud enough to be heard above the church bells, was followed

by a dull thud, then a patch of blood spread over the bride's chest. Her body arched, and she spun half around and crumpled in an untidy heap of bloodsoaked white chiffon and lace, her mouth open, the scream for ever stuck in her throat. Another crack, and her groom fell beside her. A frightened child clung tightly to his mother's legs. Continue reading

BROAD RIBBONS OF FOG LINGERED IN THE VALLEY BOTTOM as Detective Superintendent Alan Banks drove the unmarked police car slowly along Belderfell Pass, cursing the fact that his beloved Porsche was in the garage for its MOT. Fortunately, visibility was good on the winding road, about halfway up the steep fell side. Though it was only three o'clock in the afternoon, it was already starting to get dark as the sun sank below the hills to the west.

"Here they are," said DS Winsome Jackman as they came around a bend and saw a patrol car stopped by a metallic blue Megane, reducing the two lanes to one.
Banks brought the car to a halt by the tapes, and he and Winsome got out, flashing their warrant cards. One of the uniformed officers was talking to a woman beside the Megane, while his partner kept an eye on the road in order to warn any oncoming traffic to slow down.

As she walked down Stefan cel Mare Boulevard, she noticed that while many of the shops and their colourful facades were new, the wide pavements and road surface were still cracked and pitted with potholes, and the old ladies in peasant skirts and headscarves still sat under the trees gossiping and selling their belongings to make ends meet. Spread out at their feet lay everything from articles of clothing to children's toys and pink plastic hairbrushes.

The heat was oppressive, dry, and dusty. Zelda felt it burn in her chest as she walked. And the smell of the sewer was never far away. She looked behind, not because she seriously believed someone might be following her, but because such caution had become a habit. All in all, she knew that she was much safer here in Chisinau than she was back in Yorkshire, or London. Continue reading

The old policeman was sitting with his coffee, waiting, expecting the call.
"It arrived."
"What is it this year?" "I don't know what kind it is. I'll have to get someone to tell me what it is.
It's white."
"No letter, I suppose."
"Just the flower. The frame is the same kind as last year. One of those do-it-yourself ones."
"Postmark?"

"Stockholm."
"Handwriting?"
"Same as always, all in capitals. Upright, neat lettering."
With that, the subject was exhausted, and not another word was exchanged for almost a minute. The retired policeman leaned back in his kitchen chair and drew on his pipe. Continue reading

She was listening for the sound of footsteps, which would mean he was coming. She had no idea how late at night it was, but she sensed that it was getting too late for him to visit her. A sudden vibration in the bed made her open her eyes. It was as if a machine of some sort had started up somewhere in the building. After a few seconds she was no longer sure whether she was imagining it. She marked off another day in her head.

It was the forty-third day of her imprisonment.
Her nose itched and she turned her head so that she could rub it against the pillow. She was sweating. It was airless and hot in the room. She had on a simple nightdress that was bunching upbeneath her. If she moved her hips she could just hold the cloth with her first two fingers and pull the nightdress down on one side, an inch or so at a time. She did the same on the other side. Continue reading

(Even today, it can cause controversy having a woman on a typical Swedish moose hunt.)
But from antiquity to modern times, there are many stories of female warriors, of Amazons. The best known find their way into the history books as warrior queens, rulers as well as leaders.
They have been forced to act as any Churchil , Stalin, or Roosevelt: Semiramis from Nineveh, who shaped the Assyrian

Empire, and Boudicca, who led one of the bloodiest English revolts against the Roman forces of occupation, to cite just two.

Boudicca is honoured with a statue on the Thames at Westminster Bridge, opposite Big Ben. Be sure to say hello to her if you happen to pass by. Continue reading

Early November

Frans Balder always thought of himself as a lousy father.

He had hardly attempted to shoulder the role of father before and he did not feel comfortable with the task now that his son was eight. But it was his duty, that was how he saw it. The boy was having a rough time living with his ex-wife and her bloody partner, Lasse Westman.

So Balder had given up his job in Silicon Valley, got on aplane home and was now standing at Arlanda airport, almost in shock, waiting for a taxi. The weather was hellish.
Rain whipped into his face and for the hundredth time hewondered if he was doing theright thing. That he of all self-centred idiots should become a full-time father, how crazy an idea was that? He might as well have got a job at the zoo.

and perfume. Allthe worst abuses took place then, masked by the racket from therailway and in the general confusion just before the cell door swere shut. Salander always let her gaze wander back and forth over the unit at this time of day and it was probably no coincidence that she caught sight of Faria Kazi.
Faria was young and beautiful, from Bangladesh, and she was sitting in her cell. From where Salander and Olsen stood, all Salander could see was her face.

Someone was slapping Faria. Her head kept jerking from side to side, though the blows were not that hard - there was something almost routine about them. It was clear from Faria's humiliated expression that the abuse had been going on for a long time, and had broken all will to resist Continue reading

Most of the day he sat on a piece of cardboard right by the fountain and the statue of Thor in Maria torget, and there he commanded a measure of respect. With his head held high and his back always straight he looked likea chieftain who had fallen on hard times. That was all the social capital hehad left, and it was why some people still tossed him coins or banknotes, as though they could sense a lost greatness. And they were not mistaken.

There had indeed been a time when people bowed before him. But allrepute, all status, had long since been stripped from him. He was missing several fingers and the dark patches on his cheeks did not improve his appearance. They looked to be a shadow of death itself. Continue reading

Betty almost jumped out of her skin at the sharp order from her mother-inlaw. She'd been so engrossed in watching the terrifying sight of huge waves crashing on to the beach far below, licking up to where her own house stood, that she hadn't heard Agnes come into the room. Her mother-in-law's threatening tone was even more disturbing than the scene beyond the window.

'But it's almost dark,' Betty protested. 'It's far too dangerous to go there now.'

'So, you are happy to lose all your belongings, and my son's, and sponge off me once your house is gone?' Continue reading

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Consider Phlebas

Excession

Hydrogen Sonata

Inversions

Look To Windward

Matter

Player Of Games

Use Of weapons

Surface Details

The State Of The Art

The Player Of The Games

Dark Room

Devil's Feather

Disordered Minds

Echo

Fox Evil

Ice House

Scold's Bridal

Sculptress

Shape Of Snakes

The Tinder Box

Dead Tomorrow

Looking Good Dead

Love You Dead

Need You Dead

Not Dead Enough

Not Dead Yet

Want You Dead

You Are Dead