We’re still reeling from the apparent death of Hildur, but perhaps the saddest part of the tragedy is that no-one has yet realised that she’s gone – having argued with Eric, she had effectively cut herself off from the community, and now if Fortitude can survive, it will have to do so without her.
There was another English-language panel here at Krimfestivalen, but the subject was Icelandic crime fiction – that ever-growing outpost of Nordic Noir that has really begun to come into its own recently, thanks to an increase of translated fiction that has made it to our shores (and I’m talking about the UK here), and TV crime dramas like Trapped, The Lava Field and Case. Having visited the island for the first time late last year and fallen in love with the place, it was time for two of Iceland’s best authors to chew the fat in Oslo.
Your correspondent in Oslo woke up to bright, blue and sunny skies, ever-so-slightly hungover after and evening of good fine and wine, but eager to get back to the city’s fourth annual Krimfestivalen. There’s another full day of programming here at the Cappellen Damm publishing house, again mostly featuring Norwegian and Danish-speaking panels, but there are some English-language sessions sprinkled throughout.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. Oh no, my mistake – I’ve just dropped off in front of Prime Suspect 1973 again. 1973 – a year so dull that anodyne James Blunt wrote a song about it.