The Invisible Man from Salem - Christoffer Carlsson - Extract - Blog Tour

I'm taking part in the blog tour for The Invisible Man from Salem by Christoffer Carlsson today!

This is the first book in the Leo Junker series. 

It's published in the UK by Scribe Books and is translated by Michael Gallagher.

I'm featuring an extract from the book. Do visit the other stops on the tour too - see the picture above!

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Extract from The Invisible Man from Salem...

I’m outside, standing under the overcast sky. I take several deep breaths. My head’s spinning, and I feel sick; it’s hard to breathe. It’s been so long since I thought about her. She’s been there sometimes, like a ghost. Some nights.

Julia Grimberg’s necklace was in Rebecca Salomonsson’s hand. They couldn’t have known each other. It must have been put there by whoever killed her.

And, as if I’m being watched, my phone buzzes.

not going to have a guess? writes the anonymous sender.

guess what? I write, looking over my shoulder, looking around for anyone who might be sticking out from the crowd. 

guess who i am, comes the reply.

are you the one who killed her?

no it wasn’t me

do you know who did it? 

maybe

who was it?

I can see you, Leo

~~~~~

About the novel...

When a woman in his building is killed, Leo cannot stay away. Despite being on suspension from the force, he bluffs his way onto the crime scene and examines the body. When he notices that the woman is clasping a cheap necklace in her hand – a necklace he instantly recognises – he knows he must investigate, even though he has been warned to stay away. As a series of frightening connections emerge linking the murder to his own troubled youth in Salem, Leo is forced to finally confront a long-ago incident that changed his life forever. 

Selling over 70,000 in its first year in print in Carlsson's native Sweden and netting the coveted Swedish Crime Academy's Award for Best Crime Novel, The Invisible Man from Salem has earned comparisons to Stieg Larsson and Jo Nesbo from critics. Still in his 20s, Carlsson – who has a PhD in criminology – has become one of the country's most in-demand authors, acclaimed for his ability to combine page-turning prose and razor-sharp social realism.

About the author...

Christoffer Carlsson was born in 1986. The author of two previous novels, he has a PhD in criminology, and is a university lecturer in the subject. The Invisible Man from Salem has been a bestseller in Sweden, and won the Swedish Crime Academy’s 2013 Best Crime Novel of the Year award. 

It is the first in a series starring a young police officer called Leo Junker, and will shortly be developed into a three-season TV

drama by StellaNova Film. 

Winter Siege by Ariana Franklin & Samantha Norman - Blog Tour

Today it's great to be hosting the blog tour for Winter Siege by Ariana Franklin and Samantha Norman. My stop features an extract from the novel for you to sample below. 

Published by Bantam Press on 12th February 2014 in Paperback, priced £7.99

Synopsis

Run, run, girl. In the name of God, run.

1141. A mercenary watches from the icy reeds as a little girl with red hair is attacked by his own men. He is powerless to stop them.

But a strange twist of fate brings them together again. Sheltering in a church, he finds the girl freezing cold, close to death, clutching a sliver of parchment. And now he is certain of what he must do.

He will bring her back to life. He will train her to fight. And he will protect her from the man who calls himself a monk, who lost a piece of parchment he will do anything to get back . . .

An epic account of the brutal winter when Stephen and Matilda tore England apart in their battle for its crown – when atrocities were inflicted on the innocent, but bravery found a home in an old solider and a young girl.

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About the authors

Ariana Franklin was born in Devon and, like her father, became a journalist.

Having invaded Wales dressed in combat uniform with the Royal Marines for one of

their military exercises, accompanied the Queen on a royal visit, missed her own twenty first birthday party because she had to cover a murder, she married, almost inevitably,

another journalist. She then abandoned her career in national newspapers and settled

down in the country to bring up two daughters, study medieval history and write.

Ariana was the author of the acclaimed, award-winning Mistress of the Art of Death

series. She passed away in 2011, before she was able to deliver the manuscript for Winter Siege. Her daughter, Samantha, decided to complete the novel on her mother’s behalf.

Samantha Norman is a journalist and broadcaster who is mad about horses. She lives in west London with her two sons Harry and Charlie, and their dogs Becks and Spider.

~~~~~

Extract

Winter Siege

Chapter One

The Cambridgeshire Fens, February 1141

At first, news of the war going on outside passed into the fenland without impact. It oozed into that secret world as if filtered through the green miasma of willow and alder that the fenlanders called ‘carr’, which lined its interminable rivers and reed beds.

At Scutney, they learned about it from Old Sala when he came back from his usual boat trip to Cambridge market where he sold rushes for thatching. He told the tale in the village church after the celebration of Candlemas.

‘Now yere’s King Stephen—’ he began.
‘Who?’ somebody asked.
Sala sighed with the exasperation of a much-travelled

man for the village idiot. ‘I told you an’ told you, bor. Ain’t Henry on the throne now, it’s Stephen. Old Henry’s dead and gone these many a year.’

‘He never told me.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he? Him bein’ a king and dead.’
As always, the little wooden church smelled of cooking from the rush tapers that had been dipped in fat. Scutney couldn’t afford beeswax candles; anyway, rushes gave out a prettier light.
‘Get on with it, will ’ee?’ Brother Arth struggled out of the rough woollen cope he wore to take the services and into the sheepskin cloak that was his working wear in winter. ‘I got ditchin’ and molin’ to see to.’
They all had, but the villagers stayed where they were – it was as well to be informed about what was going on in them uplands.
Sala stretched back his shoulders and addressed his audience again. ‘So this King Stephen’s started a-warring with his cousin, the Empress Matilda. Remember as I told you old King Henry, on his deathbed, wanted his daughter, this Matilda, to rule England? But the nobles, they don’t want no blasted female queenin’ it over un, so they’ve said no and gives the crown to Stephen, old Henry’s nephew.’
He looked sternly into the standing congregation. ‘Got that now, Bert, have you? Good. Well now, Matilda, she ain’t best pleased with bein’ passed over and seems she’s brought a army as is a-fighting Stephen’s army out there some’eres.’
‘That it?’ Nyles wanted to know.
‘Enough, innit?’ Sala was miffed that Nyles, the big man of the village because he owned more sheep than anybody else, hadn’t been more receptive to the news. ‘I been tellin’ you as there’s a war goin’ on out there.’

Nyles shrugged. ‘Allus is.’
‘Excitin’, though, Pa, ain’t it?’ asked eleven-year-old Em, looking up at him.
Nyles cuffed his daughter lightly about her red head for her forwardness in speaking in church. She was his favourite, but it didn’t do to let females get out of hand, especially not this one. ‘Well, good luck to ’em, I say. And now let’s get on with that ditchin’ and bloody molin’.’
But Old Sala, irritated by the interruption, raised his hand. ‘I’ll tell you summat else, Nyles. And you’ll want to listen this time. Want to be keeping a close eye on that one, you will,’ he said, pointing at Em. ‘Folk say as there’s a band o’ mercenaries riding round ’ere like the wild hunt and with ’em there’s a monk; likes red-heads, he does. Does terrible things when ’e finds ’em too.’
Nyles shook his head indulgently and turned towards the door. He knew Old Sala with his scaremongering and preposterous tales of abroad and yet he suddenly felt in- explicably chilly and, without realizing it, had reached out and drawn the child closer to him. Daft old bugger.
‘That it then, Sala?’ he asked. The old man looked deflated but nodded and with that the men, women and children of Scutney trooped out of its church to continue their own, unceasing war – against water.
The North Sea, that great enemy, was always threaten- ing to drown East Anglia in one of its rages, submerging fields and cattle, even lapping the just-above-sea-level islands that dotted the flattest land in England. In winter, the sluggish rivers and great drains had to be cleared of weed or they clogged and overflowed.

Oh, and the mole, as big an enemy as the sea, had to be killed to stop the little bugger from weakening the dykes with his bloody tunnels.
No, the people of Scutney didn’t have time from their watery business to bother about wars between the danged nobles. Anyway, they were safe because just over there – over there, bor, see them towers in the distance? – was Ely, greatest cathedral in England.
Every year, the villagers had to deliver four thousand glistening, squirming eels to Ely in return for being protected by St Etheldreda, whose bones lay in a jewelled tomb within the cathedral walls.
Powerful saint, Etheldreda, an Anglo-Saxon like themselves, and although Scutney people resented the number of eels they had to catch in order to feed her monks, they were grateful to her for keeping them safe from the outside world with its battles and carryings-on.
Oh yes, any bugger who came a-trampling and a-killing in this part of the fens ’d soon have his arse kicked out of it by good old St Ethel.
That’s if the bugger could find Scutney in the first place and didn’t drown in the meres or get led astray by spirits of the dead who took the shape of flickering Jack-o’- Lantern flames in the marshes by night.

Folk allus said that for an enemy force to attack Ely it’d take a traitor to show the secret causeways leading to it. And who’d be so dang-blasted stupid as to betray St Etheldreda? Get sent straight to Hell, he would.
Such was the attitude.
But a traitor was even now preparing his treachery, and the war was about to penetrate Scutney’s fenland for all that St Etheldreda in her 500-year-old grave could do about it.

The first the village knew of its fate was when soldiers sent by Hugh Bigod turned up to take its men away to build him a new castle.
‘Bigod?’ roared Nyles, struggling between two captors while his red-headed elder daughter batted at their legs with a frying pan. ‘We don’t owe him nothing. We’re Ely’s men.’
Hugh Bigod, newly Earl of Norfolk, owned a large pro- portion of East Anglia. The Scutney villagers had seen him in his fine clothes swanking it at Ely with their bishop during Christmas feasts and suchlike. Didn’t like him much. But then, they didn’t like anybody from Norfolk. Didn’t like the next village across the marshes, come to that.
Nor was he their overlord, as was being energetically pointed out to his soldiers. ‘Tha’s not law, bor. We ain’t none of his. What’s he want another castle for? He’ve got plenty.’
‘And now he do want another one,’ the soldiers’ sergeant  said, ‘in case Empress Matilda do attack un. There’s a war on, bor.’

‘Ain’t my war,’ Nyles told him, still struggling.
‘Is now,’ the sergeant said, ‘and if them nippers of yourn don’t cease bashing my legs, they’ll be its next bloody casualties.’
For Em had now been joined by her younger sister, Gyltha, wielding an iron spit.
‘Leave it,’ Nyles told his girls. But they wouldn’t, and their mother had to drag them off.
Holding them tightly, Aenfled watched her husband and every other able-bodied man being marched off along the roddon that led eventually to Cambridge.
‘Us’ll be back, girl,’ Nyles shouted at her over his shoulder, ‘but get they sheep folded, an’ don’t ’ee sell our hay for a penny under thruppence a stook, an’ look to that danged roof afore winter’s out, and . . .’ He had suddenly remembered Old Sala’s warning in the church. ‘Keep Em close...’ And then he was too far away to be heard.
The women of Scutney stood where they were, their men’s instructions becoming fainter and fainter until only an echo came sighing back to them and even that faded so that the air held merely the frightened bawling of their babies and the call of geese flying overhead.
They didn’t cry; fenwomen never wept.

The men still hadn’t come back by the beginning of Lent. It was a hard winter, that one. Birds dropped out of the air, killed by the cold. The rivers froze and dead fish could be seen enclosed in their ice. The old died in their huts; the sheep in their pens.

In the turbaries, spades dulled themselves on peat that had become as hard as iron, so that fuel became scarce and it was necessary for tired, overworked women and their families to venture further and further away from the village in order to retrieve the peat bricks that had been stacked a year before to provide fire for shepherds during the lambing season.
On St Valentine’s Day, it was the turn of Aenfled and her children to trundle a barrow into the marsh to fetch fuel. They’d left nothing behind in the woolly line and the thickness of their wrappings made them look like disparately sized grey statues perambulating through a grey landscape. Their breath soaked into the scarves round their mouths and turned to ice, but a veil of mist in the air promised that the weather might, just might, be on the turn. The children all carried bows and arrows in case a duck or goose flew within range.
Tucked into Em’s belt was a little carved wooden key that Durwyn, Brother Arth’s son, had shyly and secretly shoved into her hand that morning.
Gyltha wouldn’t leave the subject alone. ‘Wants to unlock your heart, he do. You got to wed un now.’
‘Sod that,’ Em said. ‘I ain’t never getting married and certainly not to a saphead like Durwyn. Anyways, I ain’t old enough an’ he ain’t rich enough.’
‘You kept his old key, though.’

‘Tha’ll be on the fire tonight,’ Em promised her. ‘Keep us warm.’

They stopped; they’d felt the drumming of hoofbeats through their boots. Horsemen were cantering along the causeway behind them.
‘Get into they bloody reeds,’ hissed Aenfled. She pushed her barrow over the causeway’s edge and tumbled her children after it.
Horses were rare in the fenland, and those travelling at speed suggested their riders were up to no good. Maybe these were friendly, maybe not, but lately there’d been nasty rumours of villages sacked by demons, women raped – sometimes even murdered – and grain stores burned. Aenfled was taking no chances.
There was just time to squirm through the reeds to where the thick, bare fronds of a willow gave them some cover.
Her hand clasped firmly over the mouth of her younger daughter, not yet old enough to be silenced with a look, Aenfled prayed: Sweet Mary, let un go past, go past.
Go past, go past, urged Em, make un go past. Through the lattice of reeds above her head, she saw flicks of earth being thrown up as the leading horses went by. She bowed her head in gratitude. Thank ’ee, St Ethel, thank ’ee, I’ll never be wicked no more.
But one of the middle riders pulled up. ‘Swear as I saw something dive into that bloody ditch.’
‘Deer?’ One of the leaders stopped abruptly and turned his horse back. As he approached the wind picked up, lifting his robes and revealing the animal’s flanks, which were lathered white with sweat and dripping blood from a set of vicious-looking spurs.

Keeping still as still, Em smelled the stink of the men above her: sweat, dirt, horses, blood and a strange, pungent odour that was foreign to her.
‘Could ’a’ been.’
‘Flush the bastard out then. What are you waiting for?’ Spears began thudding into the ditch. One of the men
dismounted and started scrambling down, hallooing as he went.
Em knew they were done for. Then her mouth set itself into the thin, determined line that her sorely tried mother would have recognized and dreaded. No we ain’t. Not if I lead ’em away. She pushed her sister’s head more firmly into the ground and leaped for the bank. A willow twig twitched the cap from her head as she went, releasing the flame-red curls it hid beneath but, although she paused briefly, she didn’t stop for it. Now she was running.
Aenfled kept Gyltha clutched to her, her moans and prayers covered by the whoops of the men. She heard the one who’d come into the ditch climb back out of it and join the hunt. She heard hoofbeats start up again. She heard male laughter growing fainter as the riders chased their prey further and further into the marsh. She heard the far-away screams as they caught Em, and knew her daughter was fighting. She heard the horses ride off with her.
Birds of the marsh that had flown up in alarm settled back into their reed beds and resumed their silence. In the ditch Aenfled stopped praying.

Except for her daughter’s soul, she never prayed again.

~~~~~

The Kraals of Ulundi - David Ebsworth - Author Interview

Today I am very pleased to welcome author David Ebsworth to the blog, with an interview as part of his blog tour. David's new novel is The Kraals of Ulundi: A Novel of the Zulu War.

Welcome to the blog David!

Hello Lindsay, and thanks for hosting this stop on the tour. It’s great to be here.

Please could you tell us a bit about your new book The Kraals of Ulundi: A Novel of the Zulu War?

Yes, of course. It’s set in 1879 and tells the story of the unprovoked invasion of Zululand in a South African land-grab that British history likes to call the Anglo-Zulu War. Kraals picks up the story from the perspective of three main characters – the Zulu warrior, Shaba; the English Lieutenant, Jahleel Brenton Carey; and the renegade trader, William McTeague.

How do you decide what you want to write about next - do you look to periods in history or places that particularly interest you and build a story from there?

Well, basically, I like to write stories that, really, I wish somebody else had written for me to read but which, for one reason or another, don’t yet exist. So yes, they’re usually “little known” periods that intrigue me.

What was the inspiration for this new novel?

In the middle of the Zulu War, the British forces were joined by an unusual observer, the French Prince Imperial, Louis Napoleon. He fell into an ambush and tragically died there. It was a story that I’d known for a long time but hadn’t been covered, so far as I could tell, in any work of fiction. So I decided to use this incident as the catalyst around which my three main characters are linked. In addition, I knew that the 50^th anniversary of the iconic movie, Zulu, was coming up and I realized, in addition, that there are no novels covering the six months of the conflict that took place after the incidents depicted in the film – the defence of Rorke’s Drift. So I like to say that Kraals picks up the story of the Zulu War where Michael Caine left off.

Do you plan extensively in advance when you write, in terms of plot and character, or do you have just an outline/main idea and then see where the words take you?

No, I don’t plan the plot itself very extensively at all. I normally lay out the bones of the actual historical events, then work a fair bit on outlines for my main characters, with lots of personal detail and background behaviour drivers. Then I really just let them loose and see where their personalities (rather than the words) take them.

How long do you spend writing a novel from start to finish, and does it vary depending on the subject matter?

Last week I finished the first full draft of my fourth novel (about the Battle of waterloo, but from the perspective of two French women) which I started last October. That’s pretty standard for me. 8-9 months for the working draft. Then it will stand for a month before I begin re-writing. During that month, I normally visit the locations to check them out and get the feeling or colour of the settings, and allow my “ideal reader” (my wife, Ann) to have a sneak preview and give me her always critically constructive opinion of the plot. Then I edit, rewrite and polish, until I’m happy with the finished version. The whole process, start to finish, takes me a year.

Do you find the novel-writing process addictive - is it hard to stop once you get going, and how do you find editing and revising your work?

Very addictive indeed! After I retired, I was looking for something that would challenge me and retain my work ethic, producing something useful but without all the stresses and strains. Novel-writing has given me exactly that, though I still write almost every day of the year. I think you have to write every day just to keep the plot flowing and get to the end – even if you’ve got limited daily free time to play with. The same applies to editing and revising. I always follow Stephen King’s advice and cut at least 10% of my first draft. That way, you keep your work tight.

Can you recommend some of your own favourite authors and/or novels please?

That’s a tough one. Without thinking about it too much, one of my earliest historical fiction influences (fifty years ago) was Rosemary Sutcliff, and particularly her brilliant Sword at Sunset. Then Dickens, I think, and Great Expectations. But my two all-time favourites must have been, first, Patrick O’Brian (with his Master and Commander, Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin series), and then Patricia Highsmith (The Talented Mister Ripley, Ripley’s Game, etc). I’m somewhat ashamed to say that I identify closely with Tom Ripley and I simply adore anti-heroes.

Would you recommend the self-published route having done this yourself?

I’d recommend self-publishing with a few health warnings, I think.  My first novel, The Jacobites’ Apprentice, was critically acclaimed by lots of lovely folk, including the Historical Novel Society, but was never going to be commercially viable enough for a traditional publisher to pick it up. So self-publishing was the obvious option. The intelligent thing would have been to simply self-publish as an eBook but, sadly, vanity kicked in and I decided to go for a print version also. There’s nothing quite like holding a ‘real’ copy of your book for the first time – but that costs money. Especially if you want it to look good. And you’re not likely to make enough sales to get your money back from the publication of one book alone. That’s true. Just look at the statistics for how many copies are sold by most first-time authors. A few hundred, if you’re lucky. So I wrote a second (The Assassin’s Mark, a Spanish Civil War thriller). More investment but better returns. Because guess what? The people who liked Assassins went off and bought Jacobites too. So then I found myself running a small business. As an authorpreneur. Spending almost as much time marketing as writing. The third book (The Kraals of Ulundi) has almost helped me to break even. And the fourth one, due to publish later this year as The Last Campaign of Marianne Tambour, will see me making a small profit. Successful friends in the business tell me that, after book number five, it’s all plain sailing. Well, we’ll see! But at least I’m in control of the whole process rather than being at the whim of an agent/publisher. Because your excellent question has another side to it. What happens if you’re phenomenally lucky to be offered a traditional deal? The vast majority of first-timers get paid pathetically small advances by publishers. Most first-timers make buttons in royalties. And most publishers will do little or nothing by way of marketing to help you get your work on bookstore shelves. So self-publishing? Yes, go for it! And if you want to test the water, be sensible and produce an eBook first. You can always go for the print version once you’ve tested the market.

But hey, thanks for the interview, Lindsay. And if any of your readers want to know more, I’m happy to pick up any questions or comments.

Author Links ~ find David on twitter @EbsworthDavid

About the novel ~

1879 – the British army has suffered one of the worst defeats in its history at the hands of the Zulu King Cetshwayo. Now the British seek revenge and a second invasion of Zululand is about to take place.

Within the Zulu regiments charged with repelling the assault is Shaba kaNdabuko − driven by ambition to share the glory of battle, to bring honour and cattle to his family.

Meanwhile, new British soldiers are shipped out to replace those lost in the military disasters, and among them is Lieutenant Jahleel Carey, likewise also hoping that adventure will bring him a change of fortune.

But there are also always those on the sidelines of conflict, profiteers like renegade trader William McTeague.

Three men, three women, will be brought together by one of the Zulu War’s strangest episodes, and their destinies will be changed forever.