Woman with a Birthmark (The Van Veeteren Series Book 4)

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Order of Hakan Nesser Standalone Novels

Enabling JavaScript in your browser will allow you to experience all the features of our site. Learn how to enable JavaScript on your browser. Van Veeteren and his associates are left bewildered by the curious murder of a man shot twice in the heart and twice below the belt. An utterly dull man, the only suspicious activity his surviving wife can report is a series of peculiar phone calls. Repeatedly the telephone would ring, offering no answer but an obscure pop song from the s. This siren song would be linked to an identical murder, but the true connection remains unknown.

His novels have been published to wide acclaim in nearly thirty countries. Read an Excerpt 1. She felt cold. The day had started with a promising light snowfall, but as lunchtime approached, the strong wind blowing off the sea had turned the precipitation into diagonal, driving rain of the very worst kind. To make matters worse, the cemetery was facing southwest, on a gently sloping, treeless hillside, totally exposed to every kind of weather and wind. When the little group finally reached the newly dug, muddy grave, a thought struck her.

At least it was sheltered down there. Every cloud has its silver lining.

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The clergyman snuffled, and his accomplice—or whatever you should call him—struggled with the umbrella. Tried to make it cover both the man in black and himself, but the gusts were capricious and the correct angle shifted from second to second. The bearers dug their heels into the soaking wet soil and started to lower the coffin. Her bouquet on the lid already looked a mess. Like a dollop of vegetables that had boiled for too long. One of the bearers slipped but managed to regain his balance.

The clergyman blew his nose and started to read the liturgy. His accomplice fumbled with the spade.

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The rain grew even worse. It was typical.

Woman with Birthmark: An Inspector Van Veeteren Mystery (4)

Absolutely goddamned typical. The day before Christmas Eve. A patch of blue sky, or the light snowfall lasting into the afternoon—would that have been too much to ask? Would that have been too much trouble? Of course it would. A totally consistent and logical conclusion, then. In the same key all the way through. And no crying. Not yet, in any case. For some inscrutable reason her mother had urged just that. Tears have never been any use in any circumstances, believe you me. No, do something, my girl! Take action! Do something magnificent that I can applaud up there in heaven!

Fixed her with her dying eyes, and it had been clear that for once, this was serious. For once, her mother was begging her to do something; it was a bit late and the wording was hardly crystal clear, but there could be no doubt about what she meant. Or could there? Half an hour later she was dead. Do something, my girl. The clergyman fell silent. Looked at her from under the dripping umbrella, and she realized that he was expecting her to do something as well. She took several cautious steps forward. Stopped a safe distance short of the grave to avoid the farce of slipping and joining her mother down below.

Bowed her head and closed her eyes. Clasped her hands in front of her. Goodbye, Mom! You can rely on me. I know what I have to do. And so it was all over. The clergyman and his accomplice each held out a cold, damp hand to shake hers, and ten minutes later she was standing under the leaking roof of a bus shelter, longing for a hot bath and a glass of red wine.

Or a brandy. Or both. One mourner, she thought. So that was that. But I sincerely hope that several more will be mourning soon. That was quite nicely put, and as she stood there fighting against the cold and the damp and her desire to cry, it was as if those words had lit a small flame inside her. Set fire to something combustible at last, something that slowly began to heat up all the old frozen and stiff lumber lying around in her soul.

A conflagration, no less, that soon enough would spread, consuming others in its flames. She smiled at that thought as well. Something she had read, presumably; or perhaps it really was true what one of her very first lovers had maintained. That she had a gift.

Hakan Nesser Books In Publication & Chronological Order - Book Series

A sort of aptitude for poetry and putting things into words. For the truth, and passion. Or suffering, perhaps.

apimelisatest.sociocaster.com/sony-xperia-t-manual-sk.php Yes, that was more like it. She had suffered all right. Not as much as her mother, of course, but she had endured her due share. And more. Come on, you fucking bus! But there was no sign of the bus. No sign of anything, and it dawned on her as she stood stamping her feet in the gathering dusk in the leaky shelter that this was exactly what her whole life had been like. This was the ideal image for what it was all about. Standing waiting for something that never came.

A bus. A good man. A proper job. A chance.

Birthmarks - Birth Marks Caused By Past Lives

Just one damned chance to make something sensible of her life. Standing waiting in the darkness and wind and rain.