Blaze me a sun A novel about a crime

Review by Booklist Review

The unsolved assassination of Swedish prime minister Olof Palme in 1986 lurks in the background of much Scandinavian noir, heralding a new era of crime that would shake the country to its core. So it is in this audacious mix of procedural and psychological thriller. On the night of Palme's death, another murder takes place in the village of Halland, a crime that comes to haunt the life of police detective Sven Jörgensson, who won't let go of the case and the two related murders that follow, even after his retirement. Carlsson's narrative jumps between 1986 and 2019, after Jörgensson's death, when a novelist called Moth returns to Halland and meets Jörgensson's former partner, Evy. Soon Moth has his own obsession with the decades-old murders and how much Evy and Jörgensson's son, Vidar, knows about them. Carlsson teases readers with the slow unraveling of what happened when, but in the process he deftly portrays the cauldron of repressed emotions roiling within all the principal characters, especially Vidar, who followed his father into the police. Crime fiction imbued with the inner bleakness of a Bergman film.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In 2019, Moth, the protagonist of this intriguing if flawed crime novel from Carlsson (The Invisible Man from Salem), returns to his hometown of Tofta, Sweden, to write a novel about Sven Jörgensson, a police officer plagued until his death in 1991 with frustration about his failure to catch a serial murderer. Flashbacks to Sven's point of view at the time of the first two murders in 1986, and to the perspective of his son, Vidar, both as a child and a young officer following in Sven's footsteps without knowing his secrets, add real-time drama and psychological authenticity, both in Sven's palpable anguish and Vidar's struggles to understand Sven after his death. But in the present-day part of the story, in which Moth seeks to engage both Vidar and Evy Carlén, Sven's partner on the force, Moth never feels like a convincing character, despite his local connections being a resolution-driving source of previously unrevealed information. Nonetheless, Scandi noir fans will want to check this out. Agent: Christine Edhäll, Ahlander Agency (Sweden). (Jan.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

In Amidon's Locust Lane, a young woman is found dead in the more fashionable section of a New England suburb, and the three teenagers who were with her that night are now suspects in her murder (100,000-copy first printing). From Carlsson, youngest winner of the Best Swedish Crime Novel of the Year, the internationally best-selling Blaze Me a Sun features a serial killer in a small Swedish town who commits his first murder the same night in 1986 when Prime Minister Olof Palme is assassinated. In a continuation of Cosimano's USA Today best-selling and Edgar--nominated series starring author and single mom Finlay Donovan, readers will find that Finlay Donovan Jumps the Gun; unexpectedly owing Russian mobsters a favor, she must help them identify a contract killer before the cops do, especially crucial because the killer might actually be a cop. In The Motion Picture Teller, a stand-alone from CWA Dagger winner Cotterill set in 1996 Bangkok, postman Supot and his best friend, video store owner Ali, discover a mysterious film titled Bangkok 2010 that no one seems to know anything about--and that might be cursed. In Jane Harper's Exiles, Australian federal investigator Aaron Falk--whom readers know from the New York Times best-selling Dry--senses fault lines among the close group of attendees at a party in South Australian wine country, owing to the disappearance of a friend whose baby was found abandoned at a busy festival. From the Edgar Award--winning Jordan Harper, Everybody Knows features publicist Mae Pruett, who makes sure that everybody doesn't know about the shady dealings of the lawyers and private security firms for which she works, now trying to discover the secret her boss took to his death. In You Must Remember This, from Edgar-nominated YA author Rosenfield, Miriam Gardiner's fall through thin ice one Christmas Eve in the spot where decades ago she used to meet a lover might be an accident or suicide, but motives for murder emerge when daughter Delphine starts looking into the entire family. In the New York Times best-selling Tracy's The Devil You Know, LAPD Detective Margaret Nolan faces a tough case with the suspicious death of popular actor Evan Hobbes in a Malibu rockslide just 24 hours after a fake video smashes up his career; the subsequent murder of his agent's brother-in-law suggests evil intent.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A serial killer in the Swedish town of Tiarp eludes the cop trying to track him down, then the cop's policeman son--and, 30 years after the unsolved murders, a successful novelist investigating them. It's 1986. The first victim, 20-year-old Stina Franzén, is found beaten and barely breathing in the back seat of an abandoned car by policeman Sven Jörgensson, who must live not only with his failure to find her killer, but also the accusation that he hastened her demise by improperly handling her body. Taunted on the phone by the so-called Tiarp Man--"I'm going to do it again"--Sven is further shaken by his inability to find the body of a second young murdered woman. Even as the killings are overshadowed by the shocking assassination of Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme on the same night as Stina's demise, Sven becomes obsessed with the local cases--an obsession that will lead him down the darkest paths. His neglected son, Vidar, having failed to heed his father's warning that becoming a cop will make him cold and distant like his old man, discovers troublesome details about Sven's pursuit of the killer. The novelist, who narrates Carlsson's book, uncovers more disturbing secrets after meeting up with Vidar, a one-time schoolmate of his, and Evy Carlén, Sven's one-time partner on the force and would-be lover. The plot unfolds slowly but masterfully, with serial surprises. But what makes Carlsson's American debut so impressive is its close examination of "truth," the way trauma is passed from one generation to the next, the distractions we create to avoid our contributions to the "rot" of our violent age. Pain can be so deep, Carlsson writes, "maybe it's not even pain anymore. It's a way of being." A brainy page-turner from a rising star in Scandinavian crime fiction. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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1 It was the summer Evy Carlén got very sick, realized she didn't have long to live, and confided in me that she knew what had happened to Sven Jörgensson and his son, Vidar, up in Tiarp. We hadn't known each other very long. I knew Evy had been a police officer and had moved to the house near Tofta a few years after retiring. Her husband, Ronnie, had died, and in her widowhood she devoted her days to the beautiful garden surrounding their house. It was situated a few kilometers up in the woods. That was how we met. Ever since my return, I've lived a relatively quiet life. That's how I like it. I'm over forty now, and my days don't include any children, women, or other distractions. I spend my time writing or reading. Once or twice a week I take the car and go grocery shopping, drop by the bookstore, or visit my parents. They're in their seventies now. On occasion I drive down to Lund, where my brother works and where my editor spends half his time. I don't do much else. If I like I can walk down to the bus stop on Växjövägen and ride into town to see an old friend over a cup of coffee or a beer. Those trips are increasingly scarce now. The only truly regular facet of my existence, beyond writing and reading, is taking walks. I hardly ever took walks during my years in Stockholm, unless I had some destination in mind, but down here I walk a few kilometers almost every day. I don't know quite why I need it, but I do. Alongside the treat of a glass of whiskey a few times a week, after an especially productive workday, my walks are one of the few rewards I allow myself. The first time I met her was in late June. The old woman was in her garden next to an open bag of potting soil. The quiet nature of her surroundings meant that she noticed me right away as I came walking by. She looked up, spotted me, nodded, and smiled. "Aren't you the one who moved in down by the road? Into the yellow house?" "Yes, that's me, I moved here recently," I said. "Where did you live before?" "Stockholm. But I'm from here originally." "I've seen you on walks in the neighborhood." "It's become a habit. This is a beautiful stretch." "Oh. Maybe it is. It's like I don't see it myself anymore." She strode over to the fence and put out her hand. "I'm Evy." Once I'd introduced myself, she said, "That's right. You're the one who writes books. Aren't you?" "Yes," I said, even though I hadn't been able to write a word since I came back. "I suppose I am." "I haven't read any of them, I have to confess." "There's no need to. Have you lived here long?" "For almost fifteen years. My husband and I bought the house. Now it's just me. I've thought about selling it, of course," she went on, as if anticipating a question she heard often, "but I don't know, where would I go? I'm eighty years old. I guess I'll just keep living." The next time we met, a week or so later, she invited me in for a cup of coffee and we exchanged phone numbers. We sat in her kitchen. Evy had a new cellphone, which she'd received from one of her grandchildren, and I showed her how the alarm clock worked. She visited me sometimes. We drank wine, chatted, played cards, and kept each other company. She told me stories from her life as a police officer, hilarious and tragic stories of criminals and addicts, victims and next of kin. How it had been different, being a woman on the force at the time, and yet not. She showed me pictures from a photo album and spoke about her late husband, Ronnie, about her children and grandchildren, about her brother, Einar. I told her I'd moved back to my childhood home, that I was trying to get it in order but didn't know how, that I hadn't been able to write, and hadn't even had anything to write about, in ages. "That sounds lonely. You, I mean. You sound lonely." "So do you," I said. She chuckled. "It's not the same." Her eyes were alert and disarming in a way I wasn't used to, as if her gaze were an art she had perfected and used to great advantage during years' worth of encounters with those who found themselves in the clutches of law enforcement. It would take time for me to realize that, despite her austere background, there were years when she'd relied on cigarettes and gin to calm her nerves and make it through. Then one day in early August, something went wrong. Evy had gotten up early that morning and felt strange. Her equilibrium was off; she felt dizzy as she brewed her morning coffee, and when she walked into her front hall she had to grab the wall for support because everything was tilting weirdly. Her stomach began to churn. Standing before the mirror, she straightened up and tried to smile, even though she didn't feel like smiling. One side of her mouth didn't move. She looked off-kilter. She raised her arms and began to count to ten, but stopped when she saw her left arm fall back down. She made her way to an easy chair and called the emergency number. "My name is Evy Carlén. It's a lovely morning. Can you hear what I'm saying?" "I'm sorry," said the operator on the other end. "Can you repeat that? I didn't hear you. What's your name?" "My name is Evy Carlén, and I said: It's a lovely morning. Can you hear what I'm saying?" "I see you're calling from Norteforsen near Tofta. Is it Norteforsen 195? What's your name? I'm having trouble hearing you." "Okay," Evy said with a sigh. "I understand. Well, I suppose you'd better come over here, then." She struggled to walk to the front door, phone in hand, and turned the lock so they could get in. She collapsed on the floor, because the living room was too far away. By the time the ambulance arrived, she was unconscious. I heard that she'd had a stroke. And when she woke up in the hospital bed she seemed to have lost her speech. All she did was burst into tears. Days went by before she could say much of anything, and when she did, what she said was a name. But it wasn't the name of her late husband or the friend she sometimes met at Kupan; it wasn't her brother, Einar, or her children or grandchildren. She said: "Sven Jörgensson." And burst into tears again. By that point, she'd probably realized that I hadn't been completely honest with her, that in fact I had basically deceived her. But what was I supposed to do? In the time leading up to Evy's stroke, my life had slowly begun to revolve around what happened up in Tiarp, in that early spring long ago. Moral suffering is strange. It can strike the strong as easily as the weak, and no surgery, painkillers, or artificial respirations can help. Moral pain is a different beast. The only solution is to let yourself be slowly consumed, or to resort to drastic measures to free yourself. That was what she would come to teach me. Excerpted from Blaze Me a Sun: A Novel about a Crime by Christoffer Carlsson 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.

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