Extract from Fallen Angels by Gunnar Staalesen

Today it's my stop on the blog tour for the latest book in the Varg Veum series, Fallen Angels by Norwegian author Gunnar Stallesen, which has been translated into English by Don Bartlett. 

Exploring his own dark memories may be the only way to find a killer

When Bergen PI Varg Veum finds himself at the funeral of a former classmate on a sleet-grey December afternoon, he's unexpectedly reunited with his old friend Jakob guitarist of the once-famous 1960s rock band The Harpers and his estranged wife, Rebecca, Veum's first love.

Their rekindled friendship is thrown into jeopardy by the discovery of a horrific murder, and Veum is forced to dig deep into his own adolescence and his darkest memories, to find a motive and a killer.

Tense, vivid and deeply unsettling, Fallen Angels is the spellbinding, award-winning thriller that secured Gunnar Staalesen's reputation as one of the world's foremost crime writers.

Although the latest to be published in English, it is actually one of the author's earlier books which is now available in English for fans of translated fiction to read and enjoy. As part of the blog tour I have an extract for you to read below.

The part of the room I was in now was full of contrasts. The majority of the furniture was old-fashioned, in a kind of imitation baroque style, with ornate legs and upholstered in a smooth, brown-and-green patterned material. Two modern, black leather armchairs, two others in a burlap fabric and a child’s spindle-back chair completed and reinforced the impression of a lack of system. 

In the traditional sixties style wall shelving were a radio, a record turntable, a CD and cassette player and in the middle of the floor a TV set with a VCR underneath. Beside the bowlegged baroque sofa was a rack crammed full with newspapers, and in all the free spaces, on the wall shelving, the table, floor and shelves were piles of newspapers, magazines, books and sheet music. Strewn across the floor were Lego blocks, dolls, Playmobil pieces, sketch pads and crayons in the most delightful chaos I had experienced since I was divorced. 

The mixture of style and content was apparent on the walls as well. Crucifixes and icons hung side by side with graphics by Elly Prestegård and Ingri Egeberg, a watercolour by Oddvar Torsheim and a Hardanger landscape. A pavement artist had sketched the three children at various points in their short lives. All three looked as children do in such sketches: like tourists to life before their visas run out. 

The eldest child was entering the sitting-room now, with her father. 

Maria wore grey jeans and a pink jumper. Her hair was fairer than Jakob’s, but she had the same round facial features he’d had. Her eyes were blue and ill at ease, her mouth was adolescent, and she wore a pink lipstick and blushed becomingly when her father said: ‘Say hello to Varg, Maria. He’s an old classmate of mine.

She passed me a limp hand and mumbled something incomprehensible. Then she beat a hasty retreat to her room. 

‘She‘s going out,’ Jakob said awkwardly, as though he still hadn’t got used to his daughter making arrangements he no longer authorised. ‘We’ll have to pick up Grete from the crèche and take her to Åse’s. I’ll ring her and ask if that’s alright. Petter can look after himself when he comes home. I’ll leave a note for him.’ 

He cast around, heaved a pile of newspapers to one side with his foot, gave up trying to create a better impression and went out to make a call. 

Åse? 

I tried to remember his sister, but I could barely recall that he even had one. 

While he was talking on the telephone, I picked up a magazine and leafed through. It was one of those literary journals where you need to be relentlessly academic in order to work out the layout and require a degree in semiotics to understand a word. I studied the pictures. 

Jakob reappeared in the doorway, carrying a plastic bag in one hand. ‘That was fine. Shall we go?’ He shouted down the corridor: ‘Bye, Maria.’ But the only response came from a-ha. He shrugged and guided me back out through the door. ‘Kids,’ he muttered. 

We picked up his youngest child from the crèche by St John’s church. She was wearing a dark-red raincoat, with long yellow cuffs to protect her hands from the rain, and blue-and-white rubber boots. Her cheeks were flushed and gooseberry jelly ran from both nostrils. She smiled as she met us, revealing two missing front teeth. 

Her shyness was different from her sister’s. She didn’t blush, she watched me from the corner of her eye all the way from the gate to the car. In one hand she was holding a blue plastic bucket with a handle that had come away on one side. In the other, she was holding the wettest teddy bear I had ever seen. ‘She won’t let it go for an instant,’ Jakob mumbled. ‘I have to wash it when she’s asleep, otherwise she’d insist she went into the washing machine with it.’ 

Jakob’s sister lived in a street off Nye Sandviksvei with a man who worked on oil rigs and a Saint Bernard that had to be at least a hundred years old. It barely batted an eyelid as we passed it on the stairs. ‘Åse hasn’t got any children,’ Jakob said, as if that explained everything. 

Åse opened the door and I still didn’t remember her. She was ten years younger than us and as such belonged to a different generation. Now she was a new experience: tall, wearing a colourful plaid smock, light-brown elephant cord trousers and grey felt slippers. She was the archetypal mamma and I had an inkling why her beaming smile never seemed to reach her eyes. 

We shook hands and of course she didn’t remember me. Neither of us gave the impression we had missed anything. 

She and Jakob agreed that Grete might as well stay the night. Then we drove up to Stølen and parked the car. That was the last thing we did while still in full control of ourselves. The next few days passed on autopilot, as they often do when you have lost all ability to make decisions.