![The Inspector Erlendur Series, Books 1-3 The Inspector Erlendur Series, Books 1-3](http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1403174993l/1111495.jpg)
The Inspector Erlendur Series, Books 1- 3: Jar City, Silence of the Grave, Voices by Arnaldur Indridason . He is the only author to win the Glass Key Award for Best Nordic Crime Novel two years in a row—for Jar City in 2. Silence of the Grave in 2. Here together for the first time in a fabulous e. Book bundle are the first three books in the popular Inspector Erlendur series: Jar City.
The Inspector Erlendur Series, Books 1-3. Here together for the first time in a fabulous eBook bundle are the first three books in the popular Inspector Erlendur. The Inspector Erlendur Series, Books 1-3 de Arnaldur Indridason Librairie ePagine.
When a lonely old man is found dead in his Reykjav. As Erlendur reopens this very cold case, he follows a trail of unusual forensic evidence, uncovering secrets that are much larger than the murder of one old man. Silence of the Grave. When a skeleton is discovered half- buried in a construction site outside of Reykjav. As Erlendur tries to crack this cold case, he must also save his drug- addicted daughter from self destruction and somehow glue his hopelessly fractured family back together.
The Inspector Erlendur Series. The Inspector Erlendur Series, Books 1-3: Jar City, Silence of the Grave, Voices (An Inspector Erlendur Series) Mar 17, 2015. An Inspector Erlendur Novel Paperback 1 / 3. Inspector Erlendur series.
Voices. The Christmas rush is at its peak in a grand Reykjav. Martin's Press Copyright . Three words, incomprehensible to Erlendur. It was the body of a man of about 7.
The inspector erlendur series books 1-3 jar city silence of the grave voices an inspector erlendur series.
He was lying on the floor on his right side, against the sofa in a small sitting room, wearing a blue shirt and fawn corduroy trousers. He wore slippers on his feet. His hair was starting to thin, almost completely grey.
It was stained with blood from a large wound on his head. On the floor not far from the body was a big glass ashtray with sharp corners. It too was covered in blood. The coffee table had been overturned. This was a basement flat in a two- storey house in Nordurm. It stood in a small garden enclosed on three sides by a stone wall.
The trees had shed their leaves, which carpeted the garden and covered the ground, and the knotty branches stretched up towards the darkness of the sky. Along a gravel drive which led to the garage, Reykjav. The District Medical Officer was expected, he would sign the death certificate.
The body had been reported found about 1. Erlendur, Detective Inspector with the Reykjav. He expected his colleague Sigurdur . Someone had switched on a lamp which stood on a table in the sitting room and cast a gloomy light on the surroundings. In other respects nothing on the scene had been touched.
The forensics team were setting up powerful fluorescent lights on a tripod to illuminate the flat. Erlendur noticed a bookcase and a worn suite of furniture, the overturned coffee table, an old desk in one corner, a carpet on the floor, blood on the carpet. The sitting room opened into the kitchen and another door led from it to the den and on to a small corridor where there were two rooms and a toilet. The police had been notified by the upstairs neighbour. He had come home that afternoon after collecting his two boys from school and it struck him as strange to see the basement door wide open. He could see inside his neighbour's flat and called out to discover whether he was in. He peered inside the flat and called his name again, but there was no response.
They'd been living on the upper floor for several years but did not know the old man in the basement well. The elder son, 9 years old, was not as cautious as his father and quick as a flash he was in the neighbour's sitting room. A moment later the child came back and said there was a dead man in the flat, and he really didn't seem too perturbed by it. It was on the doorbell. But to avoid the risk of making an idiot of himself he put on some thin rubber gloves and fished the man's wallet out of a jacket hanging on a peg by the front doorway and found a payment card with a photograph on it.
The man's name was Holberg, 6. Presumed murdered. Erlendur walked around the flat and pondered the simplest questions.
That was his job: investigating the obvious. Forensics handled the mysterious. He could see no signs of a break- in, neither on the windows nor the doors. On first impression the man seemed to have let his assailant into the flat himself. The upstairs neighbours had left footprints all over the front hallway and sitting- room carpet when they came in out of the rain and the attacker must have done the same. Unless he took off his shoes by the front door. It looked to Erlendur as if he had been in too much of a rush to have had the chance to take off his shoes.
The forensic team had brought along a vacuum cleaner to collect the tiniest particles and granules from which to produce clues. They searched for fingerprints and mud that did not belong in the house. They looked for something extraneous. Something that had left destruction in its wake.
For all Erlendur could see, the man had shown his visitor no particular hospitality. He hadn't made coffee. The percolator in the kitchen had apparently not been used in the past few hours. There were no signs of tea having been drunk, no cups taken out of the cupboards.
Glasses stood untouched where they belonged. The murdered man had been the orderly type. Everything neat and tidy. Perhaps he did not know his assailant well. Perhaps the visitor had attacked him without any preamble, the moment the door opened.
Without taking off his shoes. Can you murder someone in your socks? Erlendur looked all around and told himself that he really must organise his thoughts better. In any case, the visitor had been in a hurry. He hadn't bothered to close the door behind him.
The attack itself showed signs of haste, as if it had come out of the blue and without warning. There were no signs of a scuffle in the flat. The man had apparently fallen straight to the floor, struck the coffee table and overturned it. On first impression everything else seemed untouched. Erlendur could see no sign that the flat had been robbed.
All the cupboards were firmly closed, the drawers too, a fairly new computer and an old stereo where they belonged, the man's jacket on a peg by the front doorway still contained his wallet, in it one 2. It was as if the attacker had grabbed the first thing at hand and hit the man on the head. The ashtray was made of thick, green glass and weighed at least a kilo and a half, Erlendur thought. A murder weapon there for the taking. The assailant would hardly have brought it with him and left it behind on the sitting- room floor, covered in blood. These were the obvious clues: The man had opened the door and invited his visitor in or at least walked with him into the sitting room.
Probably he knew his visitor, but not necessarily. He was attacked with an ashtray, one hard blow and the assailant quickly made his getaway, leaving the front door open. As simple as that. Apart from the message. It was written on a sheet of ruled A4 paper that looked as if it had been torn from a spiral- bound exercise book and was the only clue that a premeditated murder had been committed here; it suggested that the visitor had entered the house with the express purpose of killing. The visitor hadn't been seized suddenly by a mad urge to murder as he stood there on the sitting- room floor. He had entered the flat with the intention of committing a murder.
He had written a message. Three words Erlendur could make neither head nor tail of. Had he written the message before going to the house? Another obvious question that needed answering. Erlendur went over to the desk in the corner of the sitting room. It was a sprawl of documents, bills, envelopes and papers. On top of them all lay a spiral- bound exercise book, the corner ripped from one page.
He looked for a pencil that could have been used to write the message but couldn't see one. Looking around the desk, he found one underneath.
He did not touch anything. Erlendur had tried to limit the movements of the police, forensics team and paramedics while he strode around the house, his head bowed beneath his hat. The emphasis on the last word is intriguing. Capital letters for HIM. The last word's in block capitals but the first two are cursive.
The visitor wasn't hurried when he was writing this. But he didn't close the door behind him. Attacks the man and runs out, but writes a cryptic note on a piece of paper and takes pains to emphasise the final word. It can't refer to anyone else. What's he trying to say by doing that? Is he telling us something? Is the murderer talking to himself?
Is he talking to the victim? Erlendur stopped her.
He thought he had hit on an interesting point. Doesn't that take nerves of steel? Isn't it a total bastard who does that sort of thing?
He stood and watched the meal revolving behind the glass. Better than television, he thought. Outside, the autumn winds howled, nothing but rain and darkness.
He thought about people who left messages and vanished. In such a situation, what would he possibly write? Who would he leave a message for? His daughter, Eva Lind, entered his mind. She had a drug addiction and would probably want to know if he had any money. She had become increasingly pushy in that respect. His son, Sindri Snaer, had recently completed a third period in rehab.
The message to him would be simple: No more Hiroshima. Erlendur smiled to himself as the microwave made three beeps. Not that he had ever thought of vanishing at all.
Erlendur and Sigurdur . His wife was home by then and talked about taking the boys away from the house and to her mother's. The neighbour, whose name was . It was his job to fetch the boys from school. They hadn't noticed anything unusual when they had left home that morning. The door to the man's flat had been closed.
They'd slept soundly the previous night. They didn't have much to do with their neighbour. To all intents and purposes he was a stranger, even though they had lived on the floor above him for several years. The pathologist had yet to ascertain a precise time of death, but Erlendur imagined the murder had been committed around noon.
In the busiest time of day as it was called. How could anyone even have the time for that these days? A statement had been issued to the media that a man named Holberg aged about 7. Nordurm. Anyone who had noticed suspicious movements over the previous 2.
Holberg lived was requested to contact the Reykjav.