Who Watcheth

by Helene Tursten Narrated by Suzanne Toren

Overview

He watches the women from the shadows. He has an understanding with them; as long as they follow his rules, they are safe. But when they sin, he sentences them to death. A woman is found dead in a cemetery, strangled and covered in plastic. Just a few days before her death, the victim had received a flower, an unintelligible note, and a photograph of herself. Detective Inspector Irene Huss and her colleagues on the Violent Crimes Unit in Goteborg, Sweden, have neither clue nor motive to pursue, and when similar murders follow, their search for the killer becomes increasingly desperate. Meanwhile, strange things have been going on at home for Irene: first the rose bush in her garden is mangled, then she receives a threatening package with no return address. Is Irene being paranoid, or is she next on the killer's list?

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

09/12/2016
Fans of serial killer novels will welcome Tursten’s solid ninth mystery featuring Det. Insp. Irene Huss (after 2015’s The Treacherous Net). A journal entry at the start—“I am the one who watcheth in the darkness. I am the Guardian”—clues the reader that a serial killer is about to strike. In a powerful, deftly rendered scene, a dog walker discovers the body of the first victim, Ingela Svensson, who was divorced and lived alone. Huss and her Gothenburg police team learn that Svensson was stalked by someone in the days before her murder. A similar story unfolds with the second victim, Elisabeth Lindberg, likewise divorced and living alone. Punctuating the classic procedural plot are the writings of the Guardian and humanizing details of the personal lives of Huss, her family, and her colleagues. The stakes rise after the killer starts to target women on the force, including Huss’s boss, Supt. Efva Thylqvist, and Huss herself, who decides she is “going to become the hunter.” The action builds to a genuinely shocking denouement. (Dec.)

From the Publisher

Praise for Who Watcheth

December 2016 Indie Next Pick

"The ninth Inspector Irene Huss investigation by this popular Swedish writer is a solid 'people procedural': we get perception and empathy towards victims, suspects, witnesses and police colleagues as Huss investigates an elusive and particularly nasty serial killer in Göteborg."
—The Sunday Times (UK), a December Pick

"When the author ratchets up the fear factor in her ninth Huss novel, she does so to almost stealthy effect.That may not be what some fans expect, but there are more sides to Nordic noir than Dragon Tattoo."
—Chicago Tribune

"Who Watcheth is a prime example of a particular style of crime fiction that leads back through Sjöwall and Wahlöö to Ed McBain, a style that insists upon the alternating mundane and extraordinary qualities of everyday life."
—Los Angeles Review of Books

"Who Watcheth is an engaging mystery with a very likable heroine. With a writing style reminiscent of Camilla Läckberg or Henning Mankell, Helene Tursten offers a detective with a nuanced and compelling personal life, as well as a dark and intriguing mystery. Who Watcheth offers lots of suspense."
—Shelf Awareness

"Tursten takes readers on a creepy, suspenseful journey in Who Watcheth. The intriguing storyline is enhanced by hair-raising details about the killer’s mindset...Who Watcheth will keep readers enthralled from start to finish with its convincing characters and chilling plot."
—RT Book Reviews

"Tursten’s main character has much in common with the detectives imagined by Denise Mina, Tana French, and Karin Slaughter."
—Booklist

"Powerful . . . The action builds to a genuinely shocking denouement." 
—Publishers Weekly  

"Helene Tursten's latest Irene Huss mystery is even leaner and meaner than previous novels. Tursten does an excellent job of ratcheting up the suspense in this very enjoyable police procedural . . . an exciting tale that can make your skin crawl."
—Kittling Books
 
"Thorough and detailed . . . Tursten’s novels are definitely on a par with the late Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct series."
—New York Journal of Books

Praise for the Irene Huss series

“These days Scandinavian crime writers are thick on the ground. It’s nice to see that the women can be just as bloodthirsty as the men.”
—The New York Times Book Review

“Excellent . . . Incisive . . . The most affecting aspect of this police procedural? Watching the detectives—several of whom have daughters of their own—confront the realities behind what made the victims so vulnerable, realities that cross class and socioeconomic lines.”
—The Boston Globe

“An absorbing, intelligent mystery that holds its own alongside the best feminine hardboiled novels currently being written.”
—Maureen Corrigan, The Washington Post Book World

“Truly satisfying.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer

“Celebrate whenever more of Göteborg Inspector Irene Huss’s police adventures get translated from Swedish . . . They’re rip-snorting reads with a highly likable hero.”
—Winnipeg Free Press

Library Journal

11/01/2016
In her ninth mystery (after The Treacherous Net), Insp. Irene Huss of the Violent Crimes Unit in Göteborg, Sweden, is hunting a serial killer who seems to be picking his victims at random and hiding in plain sight. A string of murders of single middle-aged women has the cops running in circles. Their instincts tell them that they have the killer, but they can't find any links between him and either the victims or the methods by which the bodies have been disposed as tidy packages. Meanwhile, Irene is distracted by a series of malicious pranks targeting her and her family. Could the seemingly random incidents be linked? The haunting finale leaves readers pondering, "Who watches the watchers?" VERDICT This type of stalker case has been done many times, but this take, with its Swedish setting and sympathetic protagonist, draws readers in and keeps them glued to their seats. Recommended for enthusiasts of Scandinavian noir and/or European police procedurals. [See Prepub Alert, 6/19/16.]—Marlene Harris, Reading Reality, LLC, Duluth, GA

Kirkus Reviews

2016-09-19
Gteborgs Violent Crimes Unit sets its sights on a killer who takes an unusually retributive view toward sins of the flesh.Divorced florist Ingela Svenssons corpse, strangled and carefully wrapped, turns up in a churchyard. So does divorced nurse Elisabeth Lindbergs. Theres obviously a single pair of hands behind the two murders, but the killer has been so careful to avoid leaving any trace evidence that its hard to tell whose. As they repeatedly interrogate minimally responsive park groundskeeper Daniel Brjesson and wait for the crucial break that will come only with the discovery of an earlier victim who escaped a similar fate by the skin of her teeth, DI Irene Huss (The Treacherous Net, 2015, etc.) and her colleagues focus instead on speculating about the not-so-private lives of their superiorsmost notably, about Superintendent Efva Thylqvists apparent affair with Irenes old friend DI Tommy Persson, whos cooled considerably toward Irene since his divorceand their own domestic problems. For Irene at least, these last carry serious potential to rival the work of the Package Killer. Someone steals her husband Kristers wallet while hes working in his restaurant, uses a bank card inside to buy him a carton full of sex toys, finds ways to harass their daughters far from Gteborg, and then bears down hard to exact vengance on Irene. Is it her old enemy Angelika Malmborg-Eriksson, whose blogs against Irene are pure poison, or does the Package Killer have her in his sights? Proficient, unexceptionable work for readers who havent had enough of self-righteous serial killers targeting helpless women beneath Nordic skies.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940171228576
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	04/28/2017
Series:	Inspector Irene Huss Series , #9
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Thin veils of mist lingered in the glow of the street lamps, but soon they would disperse completely. The gusts of wind were getting stronger all the time, carrying the first drops of rain. Dampness clung to her face as she leaned forward, fighting her way across the parking lot. Nobody was out and about without good reason; even the dog owners in the area seemed to have abandoned the idea of a last walk. The neighborhood was dark and silent; most people had already gone to bed. Only Bosse Gunnarsson’s kitchen window showed a warm, inviting light. He was sitting at the table with a sudoku puzzle as usual, his reading glasses slipping down his nose.
     Her own house lay in darkness, but she would soon change that. Switch on the lamps, make a cup of tea, fix herself an egg and caviar sandwich. Light some candles on the coffee table. Wrap herself in a thick, soft blanket and watch the late news. Then off to bed, she promised herself. She reached into the mailbox: nothing but bills and flyers.
     She continued toward the door, searching in her purse for the key. As she was about to insert it in the lock, she noticed a rapid movement in the darkness by the shed. Suddenly someone was right behind her. An iron grip around her chest pressed her close to her attacker’s torso, forcing the breath out of her body. She was paralyzed by the man’s strength and by the acrid stench emanating from him. Only when she realized what he was doing did she manage to offer some resistance. The man was using his free hand to try to loop something around her neck but was having difficulty getting it over her head—not because he was so much shorter than her, but because she was struggling, twisting from side to side as she tried to free herself from his grip. He growled and hissed something unintelligible but managed to hang on to her. After a brief battle he had the noose where he wanted it. Instinctively she reached up and slid one hand under the twine. The attack itself had been so sudden that she hadn’t had time to scream. She tried to call for help, but the only sound that came out was a faint whimper; the noose had already been drawn too tight. She felt him loosen his hold on her body so he could put more force into the act of strangulation. Even if she could manage to keep her hand between her throat and the twine, she was getting hardly any air. The darkness flickered before her eyes, and she realized that she would soon lose consciousness.
     She managed to slip her other hand into her pocket and rummaged around feverishly. Paper tissues, a box of painkillers, her cigarette lighter . . . Wasn’t it there? It must be there! She panicked even more, her movements growing clumsy. Was it in the wrong pocket? The pain in her throat was unbearable. She couldn’t breathe.
     All at once she felt the car key against her fingertips. She managed to find the little cylinder attached to the key ring and grasped it with trembling fingers. Her thumb slipped on her first attempt, but she could feel the button. Summoning up the last reserves of her strength, she pressed it again.
     The screech of the attack alarm sliced through the silent neighborhood. She felt her attacker stiffen, and for a few vital seconds he lost concentration. She lifted one foot and kicked backward as hard as she could. The heel of her leather boot caught him just below the knee. He doubled over and groaned, loosening his grip for a fraction of a second. At the same time, she heard Bosse Gunnarsson open his door and yell:
     “What the hell is going on out there? I’m calling the cops!”
     Then the presence behind her was gone. She heard the crack of the gate as he f lung it open and disappeared in the direction of the parking lot.
     “Hey, stop right there! What are you doing?”
     Bosse’s voice again. Thank God for Bosse. She sank to the ground, trying to call for help, but all that emerged was a pathetic croak.
     She had survived. She was alive!
     Panic had locked her hand around the slim cylinder in a vise-like grip. She couldn’t bring herself to let go of the object that had saved her life.
     The screech of the alarm stopped abruptly as the darkness closed around her.


 

Under normal circumstances Irene Huss was not a morning person, but there were days when she seriously considered trying to become one. Mornings like this, for example. The air was crystal clear, with a hint of crispness left over from the chill of the night. Above the horizon an amazing sunrise filled the sky with intense shades of gold. Could there be a more perfect start to the day?
     She drew her robe more tightly around her body as she paused on the top step and inhaled deeply. The moisture from last night’s rain intensified the smells. The garden looked as if it had just woken up feeling refreshed. The luxuriant asters glowed deep red in the cast-iron urns on either side of the steps, a final defiant protest against the inexorable approach of the fall.
     She padded down to the low gate in her slippers, leaned over and took the newspaper out of the mailbox on the fence. As she turned to go back indoors, she stopped dead. It took a few seconds before she realized that the small garden seat that normally stood between the two kitchen windows had been moved and was now in the middle of the f lower bed beneath one window. The newly planted rose bushes were badly damaged: several branches were broken. Annoyed, Irene picked up the seat and put it back against the wall. Strange—it had been there yesterday evening, hadn’t it?


“I think so,” Krister said when she asked him a little later.
     He was standing at the stove cooking eggs, with crisply fried bacon and halved tomatoes piled on a plate beside him. As far as Irene was concerned, preparing such a hearty breakfast was a total waste of time. Three cups of black coffee and a couple of cheese sandwiches had been her standard start to the day for decades, but now her husband had decided that this was unacceptable. Perhaps it was, but it suited her. When she wondered how fried eggs and bacon could be regarded as healthy in view of the bad cholesterol involved, he had waved away the argument: “GI foods! A whole world of dieters can’t be wrong!” To tell the truth, Krister was the one who needed to lose weight, not Irene.
     He put a plate of GI breakfast in front of her. As usual she could only manage to push the food around. At times like these she was seriously tempted to turn vegan, like Jenny. Their daughter had stuck to her principles for almost ten years and was now in Amsterdam, training to be a chef specializing in vegan dishes. Jenny was following in her father’s footsteps, but perhaps not exactly the way Krister had expected.
     “But you have to admit it’s weird, the seat being moved,” Irene persisted.
     “Oh, it’s probably just Viktor and his pals fooling around.”
     “Why would Viktor . . . You could be right.”
     The boy next door was ten years old, and he and his friends were always running around the neighborhood. As far as Irene could tell, they all seemed to get along with everyone, and she hadn’t heard of them getting into any serious trouble. She found it difficult to imagine why they would have picked up a seat and thrown it into the rose bed; it seemed completely pointless. The kitchen window was so low that Viktor could easily look through it if he wanted to; he wouldn’t even need to stand on tiptoe.
     She shook her head and poured her third cup of coffee.


The following morning Irene woke at seven, despite the fact that it was Saturday, and she didn’t have to go to work. Krister had worked late at the restaurant the previous night, and the soft, regular breathing from the bed beside her suggested that he would remain deeply asleep for quite some time. She crept out of the warmth of the covers. When she had finished in the bathroom she put on her running gear, automatically reaching for her knee brace. Her knee was too painful if she didn’t use it these days. I’m starting to fall apart, she thought gloomily.
     She opened the door and jogged down the steps, then stopped and stared straight ahead. Slowly she turned around.
     The glorious asters had been torn out of their urns and lay strewn all over the lawn.


“Viktor would never do such a thing!”
     Malin, who was Irene’s neighbor and Viktor’s mother, folded her arms and looked deeply insulted. Irene tried to adopt a conciliatory tone.
     “To be honest I don’t think he would either, but . . .” she began.
     “So why have you come here accusing him, then?” Malin snapped.
     This was not good for neighborly relations, Irene realized. Nor did it constitute a successful interrogation, her professional side noted.
     “I’m not accusing him, I just wanted to eliminate the possibility and ask him if he knew anything,” Irene tried to explain.
     “Fucking police abuse!” Malin yelled as she slammed the door.
     Police abuse? Presumably she meant abuse of power. To a certain extent Irene could understand why Malin was upset, but if she was so sure of her son’s innocence, why was she reacting so strongly?
     As if in response to Irene’s train of thought, Viktor came ambling along the street. He opened the gate and grinned at her.
     “Hi!”
     “Hi, Viktor. Listen, I just came to ask your mom something, but she got real mad at me.”
     Viktor’s grin disappeared and he looked anxiously at her. Irene gave him an encouraging smile. “The thing is, someone’s being doing weird stuff in our garden. They’ve moved a seat and pulled up some f lowers. I just wanted to ask if you know anything about it.”
     The boy shook his head; he looked genuinely surprised.
     Irene looked him in the eye and smiled again. His expression was still a little uncertain, but he returned the smile. A guilty ten-year-old wouldn’t look that way.
     Viktor wasn’t behind the vandalism.
     So who was?

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