Where the Shadows Lie

by Ridpath, Michael

• ISBN13: 9780312675035
• ISBN10: 0312675038
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2011-08-02
• Publisher: Minotaur Books

Summary

"A clever blend of murder mystery, myth and up-tothe- minute mayhem.. . Whether you're a fan of orcs, Gimli and Legolas or Elmore Leonard and "The Sopranos", there's something in this. . . thriller for you." The London Times Amid Iceland's wild, volcanic landscape, rumours swirl of an ancient manuscript containing a long-lost saga about a powerful ring. The saga alone would be worth a fortune, but something about this one could be much more valuable. Something worth killing for.Untangling murder from myth in the first installment of a thrilling new series is Boston detective Magnus Jonson. Seconded to the Icelandic Police Force for his own protection after a drug cartel puts a bounty on his head, Magnus is dubious about returning to his native countrythe place where his father was murdered. And as Magnus is about to discover, the past casts a long shadow in Iceland.Binding Iceland's landscape and history, secrets and superstitions in a strikingly original plot perfect for fans of Arnaldur Indridason and Kjell Eriksson, Where the Shadows Lieis a heart-pounding new series from an established master.

Author Biography

MICHAEL RIDPATH spent eight years as a bond trader in London before giving up his job to write full-time.  He is the bestselling author of eight financial thrillers and has been published in 38 languages.  Where the Shadows Lie is the first in a new series featuring detective Magnus Jonson.  He lives in north London with his wife and three children. Visit him online at www.michaelridpath.com.

Table of Contents

Where the Shadows Lie

CHAPTER ONE

PROFESSOR AGNAR HARALDSSON folded the letter and slipped it back into its small yellowing envelope.

He glanced again at the address inscribed in an upright, ornamental hand: Högni Ísildarson, Laugavegur 64, Reykjavík, Iceland. The stamp bore the profile of a beardless British king, an Edward or a George, Agnar wasn't certain which.

His heart thumped, the envelope performing a tiny dance in his shaking hand. The letter had arrived that morning enclosed within a larger envelope bearing a modern Icelandic stamp and a Reykjavík postmark.

It was all that Agnar could have hoped for. It was more than that; it was perfect.

As a professor of Icelandic at the University of Iceland, Agnar had been privileged to handle some of the oldest manuscripts of his country's sagas, copied out by monks with infinite care on to sheaves of calf skins using black bearberry juice for ink, and feathers from the left wings of swans for pens. Those magnificent documents were Iceland's heritage, Iceland's soul. But none of them would cause as great a stir in the outside world as this single sheet of paper.

And none of them was his discovery.

He looked up from his desk over the serene lake in front of him. It glittered a rare deep blue in the April sunshine. Ten minutes before it had glinted steel grey, and in a few more minutes it would do so again as dark clouds from the west chased after thosedisappearing over the snow-topped mountains across the lake to the east.

A perfect location for a summer house. The cabin had been built by Agnar's father, a former politician who was now in an old-people's home. Although summer was still some time away, Agnar had escaped there for the weekend to work with no distractions. His wife had just given birth to their second child, and Agnar had a tight deadline to get through a pile of translation.

'Aggi, come back to bed.'

He turned to see the breathtakingly beautiful figure of Andrea, ballet dancer and third-year literature student, naked as she glided across the bare wooden floor towards him, her blonde hair a tangled mess.

'I'm sorry, darling, I can't,' he said nodding towards the mess of papers in front of him.

'Are you sure?' She bent down to kiss him, and ran her fingers under his shirt and through the hair on his chest, her mane tickling his nose. She broke away. 'Are you really sure?'

He smiled and removed his spectacles.

Well, perhaps he would allow himself one distraction.

WHERE THE SHADOWS LIE. Copyright © 2010 by Michael Ridpath. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

Excerpts

Where the Shadows Lie

CHAPTER ONE

PROFESSOR AGNAR HARALDSSON folded the letter and slipped it back into its small yellowing envelope.

He glanced again at the address inscribed in an upright, ornamental hand: Högni Ísildarson, Laugavegur 64, Reykjavík, Iceland. The stamp bore the profile of a beardless British king, an Edward or a George, Agnar wasn't certain which.

His heart thumped, the envelope performing a tiny dance in his shaking hand. The letter had arrived that morning enclosed within a larger envelope bearing a modern Icelandic stamp and a Reykjavík postmark.

It was all that Agnar could have hoped for. It was more than that; it was perfect.

As a professor of Icelandic at the University of Iceland, Agnar had been privileged to handle some of the oldest manuscripts of his country's sagas, copied out by monks with infinite care on to sheaves of calf skins using black bearberry juice for ink, and feathers from the left wings of swans for pens. Those magnificent documents were Iceland's heritage, Iceland's soul. But none of them would cause as great a stir in the outside world as this single sheet of paper.

And none of them was his discovery.

He looked up from his desk over the serene lake in front of him. It glittered a rare deep blue in the April sunshine. Ten minutes before it had glinted steel grey, and in a few more minutes it would do so again as dark clouds from the west chased after thosedisappearing over the snow-topped mountains across the lake to the east.

A perfect location for a summer house. The cabin had been built by Agnar's father, a former politician who was now in an old-people's home. Although summer was still some time away, Agnar had escaped there for the weekend to work with no distractions. His wife had just given birth to their second child, and Agnar had a tight deadline to get through a pile of translation.

'Aggi, come back to bed.'

He turned to see the breathtakingly beautiful figure of Andrea, ballet dancer and third-year literature student, naked as she glided across the bare wooden floor towards him, her blonde hair a tangled mess.

'I'm sorry, darling, I can't,' he said nodding towards the mess of papers in front of him.

'Are you sure?' She bent down to kiss him, and ran her fingers under his shirt and through the hair on his chest, her mane tickling his nose. She broke away. 'Are you really sure?'

He smiled and removed his spectacles.

Well, perhaps he would allow himself one distraction.

WHERE THE SHADOWS LIE. Copyright © 2010 by Michael Ridpath. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.