Óskar Gudmundsson was born in Reykjavík in 1965. He has written stories since he was a teenager, but it was not until 2011 he decided to write his first novel. Oskar is trained as an optician; and is now running a sales consultant company in addition to writing. Iceland’s award known as the Blóðdropinn (“Blood Drop”) was given 2016 to author Óskar, for his debut novel Hilma. The prize is Iceland’s annual award for crime fiction. The jury chose their winner among 10 authors. When selecting Hilma, they praised it especially for its characters, suspense and crafty plot: “The reader is drawn into the story in a very clear way,” the jury decided. “The plot and the suspense build up gradually and it culminates in a dramatic showdown that comes as a blow.” Blóðengill (Blood Angel) was published by Bjartur in May 2018 and went straight on best selling list.
Winner of the Blood Drop, Icelandic crime award. - English sample available - Swedish translation available Set in Iceland (and partly in Norway), this fast paced thriller grabs hold of you from the very first page and doesn’t let go until the end. Female investigator Hilma wakes up in hospital brutally beaten and left with a deep cut across her face. She has been working undercover infiltrating a dangerous international criminal organisation lead by Vladas, and as members are arrested across Europe, she is beaten within an inch of her life. Released from hospital Hilma looks into a recent suicide in Reykjavik. Something does not seem right about the case. As she starts to investigate she discovers a connection to three other suicide cases in the past year and discover they are all linked to something that happened over twenty years ago. In a race against time she tries to find out the truth and stop a vengeful killer. At the same time Vladas manages to escape and has his heart set on destroying her …
“A genuine author at first attempt. The book is written with wit and vitality, the persons become immediately close to one --- or provoke horror. Hilma is the coolest character I have seen for a long time in Icelandic thrillers. Congratulations Óskar. This is a four star novel.” Hrafn Jökulsson - Writer and journalist 4 out of 4 stars “A real page-turner” Morgnbladid Newspaper 4 out of 4 stars “Hilma is one of the most memoarable characters created by Icelandic crime authors” Pressan.is 4 out of 4 stars “Hilma is very well written, the style is picturesque and lively, it’s fast paced and exciting … a great crime novel” DV magazine
HILMA Chapter 1
November 13th, 1989 Monday It stopped snowing in Reykjavík. At least over on the West side. There was something in the air, almost as if the sky was holding its breath. After about 30 minutes, the heavy snowfall started again. Lucky for those whom need to get their tracks covered. Unlucky for the mutilated boys that’ll soon be covered by snow. And nothing to do about that.
Chapter 2 The moon perched comfortably on top of the Esja, the modest-looking mountain that still had managed to claim a few lives over the years. Now the mountain just enjoyed the calm evening, wearing its patchy white nightcap and looking wearily at the city in the ice-cold afternoon darkness. The annoyed working class of Iceland slogged homewards in their cars in single file along the ice-laden Hringbraut street. The whine from the studded tires buzzed in the ears of people walking by, but at the same time it was like the adjacent Melar district was exempt from the troubles of traffic. The noise couldn’t penetrate past the apartment blocks that lined the Hringbraut street. They sheltered the districts behind them, where throngs of tree branches caught whatever sounds reached them, but even they could not silence the noises from the Fokker plane that was coming in for a landing. The branches were also useless against the scream. From somewhere in the peaceful district came this penetrating scream. It wasn’t very loud, but it slipped past everything that would get in its way. The boy heard this yell as he lay motionless in the backyard. He had thrown himself down on the ground because he just couldn’t go any further. His heart was about to break free of his body, and it was as if some beast was occupying his throat, squeezing the dry larynx with untold might. The boy made a feeble attempt to spit out the taste of blood that he felt was filling his mouth. What had become of them? Had they given up? The four of them had been chasing him, and he knew what would happen if they caught him. They would finish him, no question about it. Kill him. And now he heard that yell again, from the darkness. He realized that it wasn’t a yell, but a scream. And he heard thumping noises, as if someone was beating a sandbag. The boy rose up and listened. Stood up and cautiously walked towards the direction of the sounds, coming from a nearby garden. He clambered over the fence and slid down as silently as he could through the leafless bushes. The boy peered into the darkness. He thought back on recent events. They were so close, he felt. To catching him just then. He had heard the sounds of the frozen grass breaking under their rapid footsteps. He had fallen. He lay on his stomach as new sounds joined in. The swishing sound of snow jackets brushing against branches, their breaths - panting. If not for the darkness, they would only have needed to follow his tracks in the snow. They would be standing over him and he could have read their expressions: Now you die, shorty. But instead the swishing sounds faded away. So did the panting. When he was convinced that they were gone he rolled over on his back and looked up at the sky.
He wondered what it was like to be beaten to death. He knew that had been their plan, if they had caught him. He had seen it in their eyes as they cornered him in the schoolyard. He had been cornered before, lots of times. They had good reason to. He knew that much – how hideously ugly and boring he was, and he deserved everything that had been done to him. Isn’t that right, he thought. Yes. He was always in the way. Not just in everyone’s way, but in the way of life itself. And there they had cornered him in the schoolyard. But he had never seen their eyes like this before. Faces don’t need to twist and contort because of rage and anger, the eyes tell everything: Now you’ll die, shorty. That was when he had ran away.
And now he heard that the screams came from more than one person, and it was ominous how they cut through the frost, and the short silences after every thump. He snuck closer. A faint brightness from a light above a basement door that faced out into the yard allowed him to see better. He saw as someone stood atop a snow mound that had formed in the middle of the garden, holding both hands around a blunt instrument and let it fall again and again on screaming and wailing bodies of boys that were yelling in pain. From the mound he saw outstrecthed hands trying their best to deflect the blows. The blunt instrument thumped into the boys again and again until the screams stopped. No one was screaming anymore. No hands in the air. He saw the silhouette of the person who now looked down upon the bodies. It examined them briefly before raising the blunt instrument again. Thump after thump after thump. Sandbag thumps. It was over and a deathly calm settled on the garden. Like someone had turned down the volume. The boy couldn’t hear his frantic breath. He could only see the white gusts of air that shot up into the dark as he exhaled. He stood unmoving and felt how the insides of his thighs became warmer as he pissed his pants. He took one sidestep and the snow marred underneath his foot. He looked up and saw the silhouette with the blunt instrument stand motionless, staring in his direction. He couldn’t see the face as a shadow fell upon it. He could see the bloody instrument however, and how the person threw it on the ground and disappeared into the darkness. The boy crept closer and suddenly now it was like someone had turned up the volume around him all the way up. His fear amplified every sound. No matter how light he tried to imagine himself being, the snow made almost deafening noises with every step. He stood over four bloody and badly mutilated bodies. They lay motionless with their eyes closed. Except for one who stared wide-eyed at him, like an injured animal waiting for the hunter to pull out his knife and slit its throat. The boy knew him. He knew all of them, better than he had ever wanted to. How often had he dreamt of killing these boys? They had beaten him time and time again. Cut up his clothes. Pissed on him. Shat in his lunchbox. Humiliated him over and over again, day in, day out. As he watched them laying in their blood he didn’t feel anything. No pity. Nothing resembling sympathy. He felt more of a euphoric feeling, the kind that washes over someone whose greatest wish has finally come true. Ge had trouble making sense of these feelings, but at least something brand new was happening within him. Maybe he felt some kind of freedom. That was it, yes. He felt free and relieved as he stood over the motionless boys. Despite being wet from his own piss. The basement door opened and an old woman staggered up the steps holding a flashlight, shining it in all directions. “Is someone there?” she called out in a weak voice. “What’s all that ruckus?” The boy started running, and felt how the cone of light tried to hunt him down. As he reached the fence he turned around. He peered into the darkness and saw as someone reached for the bloody murder weapon that had landed under a large tree, and was looking towards him. Standing there motionlessly like a shadowy, bodyless figure. If he wasn’t mistaken, this shadowy figure was smaller than the one he had seen before. The cone of light from the old woman’s flashlight moved about the yard like air raid searchlights in a war, and for one moment the light passed over the mound with the boys. It also caught something else: The face of the shadowy figure by the tree. The old woman didn’t notice anything, muttered something to herself before going back in and closing the door behind her Shortly afterwards the light went off above her door. Darkness. Sounds. The boy couldn’t see anything but he heard footsteps in the snow. He would have pissed himself again if he could. The feeling was the same, except the bladder was empty. Then it started again. The thumping sandbag noise. Thump after thump after thump.
The boy made his way back the way he came – squeezing through the leafless bushes, over the fence and ran across the street, just as a taxi came driving down the icy street. The studded tires hissed like angry cats
as they cut through the ice beneath them. If the driver hadn’t been working the whole weekend his reflexes would probably have been better and he wouldn’t have hit the lamppost as he swerved past the boy, whom had already disappeared into the garden across the street. Later that night, as the boy lay in his bed, he could see it so vividly. He saw the face for that fleeting moment as the light shone upon it. And that was enough. The boy could not know the consequences that would have. He couldn’t know either what would happen twenty-two years later.
The sky could no longer hold it in, and the snow started falling again.
Book two about Hilma English sample available On a cold winter morning, a six year old girl calls the 112 Emergency Line from an unknown number and says that her mother is dead. The girl doesn’t know where she is, who owns the house, the address – but there is a trampoline in the garden. Unfortunately, the winter storm has blown a lot of trampolines out of their gardens that night. The Police can see that the phone is located in the outskirts of Reykjavik and when they finally manage to find the house – it’s empty, but full of blood. Hilma and her team are desperate in finding the mother and the daughter – a search that brings them into the darkest corners of human nature.
“A thriller that hooks you right from the beginning. Oskar Gudmundsson’s narrative style is extremely captivating- no wonder his first book, Hilma, won the Blood Drop, the Best Icelandic Crime Novel in 2016. Blood Angel is an independent sequel to the author’s first novel but it’s not necessary to start with the first one to enjoy the sequel. Actually, it’s referred to events in the previous book in such a way that it’s not unlikely that the reader will decide to read Hilma right after Blood Angel to get a better insight into the clever police woman’s thoughts and life. To follow the investigation of the disappeared mother and daughter which the police can’t find any trace of, apart from a lot of blood and one finger, is hypnotizing. As a matter of fact, the author never looses the reader’s attention, not when he is describing Hilma’s favourite café nor how the horrifying events took place. And in the end, the investigation leads us into a reality which is more uncanny and more discusting than the reader could ever have imagined. Thus, the book is not recommended for the very sensitive. Eventhough it’s a classic thriller which we know quite well, Blood Angel is not one of those you can put down after reading and not giving it a thought because the debauchery follows the reader for quite some time after the case is closed and the book ends. I really do hope that we get more books with Hilma.” Þorgerður Anna Gunnarsdóttir, journalist Morgunbladid Iceland
BLOOD ANGEL Chapter 1
December 11, 2011 Early Sunday morning The girl had no idea that her mother would die after she herself went to bed. How could she have known that? Some people get hunches— unexplainable feelings that something is going to happen. But this six-year-old girl’s imagination hadn’t developed to the point where it would assume the unthinkable, the morbid. She could only look forward to events that she’d been told were in the offing. Her birthday, Christmas, going to the movies, or baking a cake with Mommy— when she got to lick the beaters. In the case of such activities or events, she could barely think of anything else all day, so consumed she was with eager anticipation. She never got a knot in her stomach, as she’d heard people say when something uncomfortable was going to take place. She simply felt frightened when something bad could happen. For example, if she were somewhere up high and suddenly felt panicked— or when she was certain that someone was under her bed— or when Daddy hit Mommy. When, under such circumstances, she felt threatened, she naturally began to cry. She could never have imagined someone sneaking into her bedroom and watching her as she lay there on her side, with Pippi Longstocking in her arms. Nor that that person would take the blanket lying on the floor beside her bed and spread it very gently over her body. Reach out to stroke her cheek— but then stop. Momentarily consider strangling her— before deciding not to. Leave the room quietly, shut the door carefully and walk just as silently toward the master bedroom— where her mommy now slept alone. And not without reason, she knew. Now it will just be the two of us, her mommy had said. She didn’t want to be with her daddy because he was a bad man. Wasn’t he? He often bought me toys. He hugged me a lot and said that he loved me to the moon and back. This could be a bit confusing for her little brain, as it couldn’t determine which message was stronger: To love him. Or to hate him. Was there something in between? The latter came out on top most often, despite love sometimes bursting forth unexpectedly, without her being able to do anything about it. But the affection was short-lived, because that big hand always barged its way into her mind. Shot before her eyes, clenched into a fist, and smashed into Mommy’s face. She also saw the fist open into splayed fingers that clamped around her neck. Like the giant jaws of a viper. Saw her dad’s gaping mouth as it shouted words that she’d never heard in her life. And then she saw her mommy’s face— and her eyes, pleading with her to run away. To hide. In the closet. It had all happened so spontaneously. Like the hiccups. Just like that: her brain had never gotten any message that something was about to happen. If only she’d woken earlier, when the man came in. And if only she’d woken when her mother screamed. Had she really screamed? Three times? Maybe the screams had melted like butter into her dream. If only she’d woken to that bad dream. Then maybe this wouldn’t have happened. He would have seen her standing there in the living room, with her long, blonde hair slightly tousled, a curl or two hanging down over her face. Two of them hooked on her long eyelashes. There she would have stood, in the darkness opposite him, in a new nightgown from Grandma Klara and holding Pippi Longstocking, and he wouldn’t have done anything. He would only have laid his index finger to his lips and quietly said “shhh” before leaving. Hissed and disappeared. Like a snake. And she would never have said anything. But she hadn’t woken— until too late. Actually, just slightly too late, because when she woke and opened the door a crack she saw him hurrying past in the darkness. He was so close that he nearly brushed against her— and she caught a whiff of lemon. Then she heard him open and close the front door softly behind him. Did he really close the door behind him?... yes, I’m pretty sure he did. The door to Mommy’s room was closed. Mommy never closed it. She always left it open at bedtime, because otherwise her little girl felt scared. And now she looked at her mommy’s door and filled with fear. She opened the door very slowly and peeked in. Took a long look. “Mommy, Mommy,” she said gently. “Mommy, wake up.” No answer. No movement. She wasn’t sure whether she could go in. Maybe something was telling her that it wasn’t a good idea— to go in and give Mommy a shake. She closed the door again gently and reached for her mommy’s cell phone, which was lying on the dresser next to the bedroom door, where Mommy always put her phone and keys. Her mommy had taught her the three-digit phone number that she was supposed to call if something happened. She had an uncomfortable feeling as she stood there looking at the bedroom door. Didn’t the front door close? A cold shiver ran from the back of her neck down her delicate spinal column. Someone was standing behind her.
Óskar is currently working on his next thriller about Hilma; BOÐORÐIN (COMMANDMENTS) which will be published 2019.
Óskar Guðmundsson oskar.g@simnet.is Tel.: +354 7802323 www.oskargudmundsson.is
Publisher
pmo@bjartur.is