Cover Reveal + Excerpt: THE COLLECTOR by Anne Mette Hancock

COVER REVEAL + EXCERPT: THE COLLECTOR BY ANNE METTE HANCOCK

AVAILABLE NOVEMBER 8, 2022

Nordic Noir fans, listen up: your new Danish crime fiction obsession is here! Last year, Anne Mette Hancock’s debut crime novel THE CORPSE FLOWER was published in the US to tremendous acclaim, and this coming November, she returns with her newest dark, psychological crime story: THE COLLECTOR. I’m so honored to be able to reveal the cover of THE COLLECTOR today, and to give you the opportunity to read an early, exclusive excerpt from the book! If you’re a Nordic crime fiction fan like I am, you’re going to love Anne Mette Hancock’s gritty, intricate writing—and if you’ve never tried a Nordic crime book before, Anne Mette’s work would make a great entry point into the genre for you. Anne Mette’s crime fiction exemplifies the qualities I love so much about the Nordic Noir genre as a whole. Her debut novel THE CORPSE FLOWER relied on vivid, complex character development, taking readers into the darkest corners of her characters’ lives, and introduced an unlikely investigative duo—a journalist and a police officer—whose parallel investigations of a crime made for seriously engaging reading. I think it’s fair to say that Anne Mette Hancock’s intricate and seriously dark plotting can rival that of many of the genre’s greats, and fans of books from the likes of Jo Nesbø, Lars Kepler, and Stefan Ahnhem will find much to love in her work.

Today I’m so honored to reveal the cover for THE COLLECTOR, and to share an exclusive excerpt from the book! Read on for more information on what’s sure to be one of 2022’s standout Nordic crime reads, and, if you haven’t already read THE CORPSE FLOWER, consider this your reminder to pick that book up now so you’ll be ready when THE COLLECTOR publishes this fall. Huge thanks to Anne Mette Hancock’s US publisher for letting me reveal this cover today—I’m so honored to be able to share this with the CBTB community! Happy reading!

This blog post contains Amazon Affiliate links. CBTB may earn a small commission for items purchased through these links.

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COVER REVEAL: THE COLLECTOR BY ANNE METTE HANCOCK

U.S. PUBLICATION DATE: NOVEMBER 8, 2022

ABOUT THE COLLECTOR:

For fans of Katrine Engberg and Lars Kepler, the second chilling novel in Anne Mette Hancock’s #1 bestselling Danish crime series is a psychological whirlwind that explores the nature of truth and what it means when we can no longer trust what we know to be real.

When 10-year-old Lukas disappears from his Copenhagen school, police investigators discover that the boy had a peculiar obsession with pareidolia—a phenomenon that makes him see faces in random things. A photo on his phone posted just hours before his disappearance shows an old barn door that resembles a face. Journalist Heloise Kaldan thinks she recognizes the barn—but from where?

When Luke’s blood-flecked jacket is found in the moat at Copenhagen’s Citadel, DNA evidence points to Thomas Strand, an ex-soldier suffering from severe PTSD. But then Strand turns up dead in his apartment, shot in the head execution style.

What did the last person to see Lukas really witness that morning in the school yard? Was it really Lukas, or an optical illusion? Can you ever truly trust your eyes?

The Collector (A Kaldan and Scháfer Mystery Book 2)

By Hancock, Anne Mette

Buy on Amazon

Read an exclusive excerpt from THE COLLECTOR:

chapter 7

“Who have you talked to?” Schäfer asked, looking at Lisa Augustin when they were back in the schoolyard.

“Jens and Anne Sofie Bjerre,” she said, pointing to the parents.

They were arguing with a couple of uniformed officers and a woman who looked like a comic strip line drawing, so paper thin that she seemed two-dimensional.

“That woman they’re talking to runs the aftercare program. I also spoke with that woman over there.” Augustin pointed to a tall, dark-haired gazelle of a woman who was standing in the middle of the schoolyard with a cell phone in one hand and a child in the other.

“And with that teacher over there.”

She nodded toward a young, androgynous figure who looked like they might be Asian. The person had long black hair that had been gathered up into a fountain on top of their head, makeup around the eyes, and a distinctly masculine build. Schäfer was having a hard time deciding if it was a man or a woman. “A Kevin something-or-other,” Augustin said.

A man, then. I’ll be damned, Schäfer thought, scanning the rest of the schoolyard.

“What about Mr. Game of Thrones over there?” He nodded with his chin toward the role player, who was still standing by the jungle gym sobbing.

“His name is Patrick . . .” Augustin glanced down at her notes. “Jørgensen, teacher’s aide. He and Lukas were working on a project on the playground; something involving a sword fight. They were supposed to have a duel today.”

Schäfer raised one eyebrow. He was equally jealous and suspicious of adults who were that in touch with their inner child and their tear ducts. There was quite simply some- thing unnatural about grown men who ran around wearing dress-up clothes and playing make-believe. And crying.

He looked back over at the gazelle. She was talking to one of the other parents, whose back was turned to Schäfer. He could tell from her breath—which emerged visibly from her mouth in tense, steamy bursts in the cold air—that she was upset. There was something about her face that rang a bell somewhere inside him, a memory he couldn’t put an image or words to.

“Who’s the supermodel?” he asked as the wails of emergency response vehicles materialized in the distance.

“Her name’s Gerda,” Augustin answered without consulting her notes. “Gerda Bendix.”

Schäfer knew why the name had already stuck. The woman was almost provocatively beautiful, and if there was one thing Lisa Augustin was particularly fond of, it was beautiful women.

“She’s the mother of one of the girls at the school and, as far as we know, the last person to have seen the boy.”

“Bendix?” Schäfer repeated, scratching under his chin so the stubble made a surprising amount of noise. “Where do I know that name from?”

The woman Gerda Bendix was talking to turned toward Schäfer and a feeling of cheerful astonishment instantly spread through his chest. He had been wrong. It wasn’t another parent from the school. It was Heloise Kaldan, the journalist.

Kaldan spotted him just then, and her face lit up in a smile. She started walking over to him immediately.

“Hi, Schäfer,” she said once they stood face to face. “Welcome home.”

He smiled warmly. “Heloise.”

They hadn’t seen each other for a few months, and under normal circumstance he would have given her a hug, maybe even lifted her up and shaken her a little in excitement. But this wasn’t a normal circumstance.

“Well, you sure got here fast,” he commented instead, a bit warily.

It wasn’t unusual for the press to show up so early in an investigation, but usually only the tabloid rats—the blood- thirsty, obnoxious ones—came sniffing around at stage one. Demokratisk Dagblad and other serious media rarely covered personal stories until they had some sort of relevance to the public, and even then the coverage was mostly refreshingly concrete and respectful.

Schäfer had only been on-site at the school for a couple of minutes and Heloise Kaldan was already there, ready to ask questions. That was unusual. And not entirely unproblematic.

“I’m not actually here for work,” Heloise reassured him, as if she could smell his skepticism. “Well, I guess I should say I’m never not at work, but the newspaper didn’t send me.”

“Oh?” Schäfer raised an eyebrow.

“You remember my friend Gerda . . .” She nodded behind her.

Yes, of course. That’s where Schäfer knew the woman from. They had met each other one time at the National Hospital the previous year when Heloise had been a patient. But he had been too preoccupied with the case he was investigating to pay any real attention to her.

“Although since I’m here anyway, I’d really like to hear a little more about what’s going on,” Heloise said. “What can you tell me? Do you think he was abducted, or did he run off? What do you think?”

Schäfer regarded her hesitantly as he considered his options.

Here we go again, he thought.

There were a handful of people he had tried to coexist with when things were at rock bottom. People he had clawed for until his fingernails bled. Schäfer felt bound to them in a way that would last his whole life. He knew that. That’s how he felt about the men from his unit, the people he had been stationed with during the Gulf War, as well as medical examiner John Oppermann, with whom he had stood in mass graves in Kosovo. He felt the same gloomy shared understanding with his old police partner, Peter Rye, and now also with Kaldan.

There was a mutual understanding between them, a covenant that not even Connie could understand. He always shared his experiences with his wife, though, without leaving out any details or thoughts. He needed her care, needed her to listen to what he shared. But she would never be able to understand what the daily shadow of death did to him, for the simple reason that, thank God, she had never experienced it herself.

These days it was standard procedure at police head- quarters to cry your heart out to the police psychologists after you’d worked on a particularly gruesome murder case or horrific accident. The younger police officers were willing to allow academics with manicured fingernails and neatly pressed slacks to psychoanalyze them, but Schäfer refused. He couldn’t imagine anything hollower than showing the scars in your heart to someone who had never been the first one to walk through a doorway with a loaded Heckler & Koch in their hand, someone who hadn’t inhaled the stench of death and didn’t know how it made you want to gargle bleach and scrape your mucus mem- branes with a spoon.

Was he supposed to sit there and talk about the dark sides of his job with someone whose frame of reference consisted of PowerPoint slides about the self-reinforcing cycle of anxiety and cognitive self-help tools?

Schäfer didn’t give two shits about that kind of thing.

But Heloise Kaldan had tried staring into the depths herself, and it was there—at the edge of the abyss—where Schäfer had met her last year when a wanted murderer had started sending her letters, letters that had forced her to face her own reality and say a final goodbye to her father. Her father’s death had made it clear to Heloise that the world was fundamentally a crummy place, and that realization had settled over her like a cold, impenetrable membrane. She had become cynical, and Schäfer recognized something of himself in her. But there was one thing that would always remain a wedge between them: her job.

Could he trust Heloise in a life-or-death situation? Absolutely.

When it came to work? That was another matter. Schäfer cleared his throat.

“We need to get a better handle on the situation before we go public with anything.”

“Of course. I can certainly understand that.” Heloise nodded. “But I’m assuming that means that our dinner plans for tomorrow night are canceled?” She smiled fleetingly.

“Well, we’ll see about that,” he said. “Connie’s really looking forward to seeing you, so . . .”

Heloise looked back over at Gerda Bendix, who was now squatting in front of her daughter and soothingly tucking the girl’s dark hair behind her ears.

Heloise lowered her voice.

“I’m not asking about the case only for, uh, professional reasons. I’m a bit curious, because I was with the boy’s father when he got the message.”

Schäfer squinted, his head shooting back. “You were?”

Heloise nodded.

Schäfer raised both eyebrows in hesitant wonder. “But. . . what about Martin? Aren’t you two . . .”

They were interrupted by the sound of raised voices. Schäfer turned toward the ruckus and saw that Lukas Bjerre’s father had grabbed one of the young officers by the collar.

“Well, do something!” Jens Bjerre yelled. “You’re just standing here and . . . and . . . talking?!”

Lisa Augustin grabbed Jens Bjerre calmly around the neck.

“Calm down,” she said unflappably. “You’re going to need to calm down. Do you understand?”

“Well then, do something!” He turned to Augustin and pressed his palms together as if in prayer. His wife stood next to him, her mouth open and trembling, the expression on her face stiffened in infantile helplessness.

“Find him! ” Jens Bjerre’s voice rang out in the winter darkness. “Find my son! ”

chapter 8

“Watch your head.”

Schäfer raised one of the candy-striped police tapes blocking the main entrance to Nyholm School and made a sweeping gesture with his arm: After you!

Anne Sofie Bjerre ducked and entered.

She was a thin woman, Schäfer noted. Her dirty blonde hair hung loose and framed a face that was pretty without being over the top. Schäfer knew from Augustin that she was a teacher at a private school not far from where he and Connie lived and that she taught German and English. He also knew that she and Jens Bjerre had been together for fourteen years, married for twelve, and that Lukas was their only child.

“It’s this way,” he said, overtaking Anne Sofie in one single long stride.

“Where are we going?” she asked wanly. She had her arms around herself. “Where’s my husband?”

“He’s talking to my colleague. If you could please have a seat here, then she’ll come join you in a moment.” Schäfer pointed to a chair in the classroom. Anne Sofie reached out and grabbed his rough fist with both hands. Her skin felt cold against his.

“Promise me that you’ll find Lukas.”

Schäfer met her penetrating, slightly swimmy gaze. He could smell alcohol on her breath.

“We have our best people out there,” he said, and it was true. Over the course of the last hour, the Nyholm School and the surrounding streets had been flooded with a veritable tidal wave of police personnel. Detectives from the Vio- lent Crimes Unit, canine units, and crime scene investigators were examining the basement storage rooms, dumpsters and trash cans, and the many small apartments and yards of the navy’s old, uninsulated barrack rowhouses, many of which were vacant year-round. They had looked up all the registered sex offenders in the neighborhood and were already knocking on their doors. Lukas Bjerre’s description and photo had been sent out to the patrol cars and police precincts throughout the entire country, and they were working on obtaining video and still images from the surveillance cameras in the area. But so far they hadn’t found a single trace of the boy.

“Promise me you’ll find him,” Anne Sofie repeated.

Schäfer smiled noncommittally and put a hand on her shoulder.

“If you’ll have a seat here, my colleague will be in to see you in a moment. Okay? Wait here.”

She reluctantly walked into the room. Then she turned to face the door again.

“Schäfer? Is that your name?” He nodded.

“How many of these types of cases have you had, cases involving missing children?”

“A lot.”

“And how many of the children were found?”

Schäfer hesitated for a moment. “Most of them.”

He left Anne Sofie Bjerre and walked to a room three doors farther down the hall. The Nyholm School’s entire ground floor had been temporarily converted into impromptu interrogation rooms, where detectives were questioning wit- nesses and family members about the case.

“Okay, let’s go through this one more time,” Schäfer said and pushed a glass of water over to Jens Bjerre. “It’s important that we get as many details as possible, even things that might not seem important at the moment— people you encountered on the way, Lukas’s emotional state, that sort of thing.”

Jens nodded.

He still had his navy-blue trench coat on, with its wool collar flipped up, and he looked oddly large, sitting there in the small, matchbox-sized student chair. His knees were almost at the same height as his shoulders. He sat with his eyes closed and his face in his hands. What had seemed like abject panic out in the schoolyard had now given way to a pleading willingness to negotiate.

“We said goodbye by the Christmas tree,” he whispered.

His voice sounded frail like a child’s. Scared. “The Christmas tree?”

“Yes, that’s . . . that’s what Lukas calls it.” He opened his bloodshot eyes and pointed out at an enormous climbing structure with metal branches and garlands of twisted rope. “I stood there until Lukas got to the door, and then he went in without looking back.”

Jens stared blankly straight ahead, remembering the moment, and smiled a joyless smile, which immediately faded.

Schäfer leaned further forward in the chair. “Without looking back, you say?”

“Yes, he . . . he didn’t turn around when he got to the door. He usually does. Sometimes he runs all the way back for one more hug, but this morning he just went in . . . without looking . . . back.” Jens took short, shallow breaths between the words, fighting back tears.

“And you thought that something was wrong since he just went in, or what?”

“No.” He shook his head. “He was in a good mood on the way to school and his just going in felt almost like a little. . . victory. It stung a little—it always does, right, every time they move on to the next stage—but I was also proud of him. Proud that he had gotten to be so . . . so big.” Jens looked into Schäfer’s eyes. “Do you have kids?”

Schäfer shook his head, and Jens’s shoulders drooped.

Schäfer had had this experience before, relatives who needed someone who understood them, someone who grasped the severity of the situation. They were afraid that a childless detective would not try as hard, would be less dedicated in the search for their beloved children, that he wouldn’t be able to understand just how scared and frustrated they were.

Maybe they were right about that last part, Schäfer thought. But not about the first part.

“Sometimes you wish time would stand still,” Jens said. It almost seemed like he was talking to himself. “That they would stay little. But they do need to learn to manage on their own, so you try to let go. Just a little, so they can learn to . . .” He paused. He looked as if he was fixated on a thought, the idea of a horror scenario. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and emitted a brief, pained moan. “Oh God . . . Where is he?”

“What did you do after that?” Schäfer asked. “After dropping Lukas off?”

Jens took a deep breath and wiped his nose with the tis- sue he had been holding in his hand for the duration of the questioning. It was beginning to fall apart at the edges from the moisture.

“I went to work.”

“Did you walk, drive—what?”

“I walked. I work just around the corner from here.” “Did you run into anyone on the way? Anyone who can confirm your story?”

“Confirm my story?” he asked, his eyes opening wide.

Then he squeezed them shut again in disbelief.

Schäfer met his silent protest with open arms and a shrug to defuse the situation.

“Look,” Schäfer said, “my job is to find Lukas, and I do that best by determining as quickly as possible which streets and alleyways I can rule out. Do you understand?”

The balloon deflated again. Jens lowered his head and nodded.

“Good,” Schäfer said. “This isn’t a personal attack on you. We just need to know as many details as possible about your and Lukas’s movements this morning.”

Jens nodded again and wiped a tear away. “Just help us, please,” he said.

“That’s what we’re working on. So—did you talk to anyone after you dropped Lukas off this morning?”

“I . . .” He shook his head slightly, struggling to recall. “I talked briefly with Toke’s mom.”

“Toke? Who’s he?”

“One of the boys in Lukas’s class.” “You talked to his mom?”

He nodded. “Mona, I think that’s her name. Or Rosa or something like that.”

“You ran into her in the schoolyard?”

“No, out in front of the bike rack by the intersection. She was standing out there smoking with a couple of other people. She asked if Lukas was coming to Toke’s birthday party next week . . . I don’t remember what else she said. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“And who were the other people with her?”

“I don’t know. A couple of dads. They weren’t parents from Lukas’s class. One of them was pretty fashion forward—with a cravat and pointy-toed shoes. I often see him at school in the mornings, but I don’t know his name.” Schäfer looked up from his notebook. “And then what?”

Jens shrugged. “Then I went to work.” “I understand that you’re a doctor?” “Yes.”

“Do you work in a hospital or a private practice or what?”

“I share a practice with another doctor here in the city. His name’s Pelle Laursen.”

“And where is it located, your office?” “On Amaliegade, by the palace.”

“All right,” Schäfer said. “So you went straight to work?” Jens nodded again.

“Alone?”

“No, I was with an acquaintance, a guy I know whose name is Mads Florentz.”

Schäfer wrote the name down on the notepad in front of him. “Who’s he?”

“He’s a consultant. He works in the same building where my medical practice is located. He has a daughter in first grade here at the school, and we’ve played squash together a few times, so . . .” Jens pressed his fingers to his temples as he spoke. “We go to work together in the mornings when we run into each other out by the stoplight.”

“What time did you arrive at your office this morning?”

“About eight o’clock, quarter past eight, thereabouts.”

“Was there anyone there when you arrived?” He nodded. “My secretary. Marie.”

“Last name?” “Kammersgaard.”

Schäfer wrote down the name. “And what did your day look like today? Patients the whole day or what?”

Jens nodded. “I saw my first patient at eight thirty and then they kept coming until school got out.”

“When did you become aware that Lukas was missing?” Schäfer asked.

“When school got out.”

“Was anyone with you when they called?” “A patient.”

“Heloise Kaldan?”

Jens looked up, puzzled. “How do you . . . ? I can’t . . . you know, because of doctor–patient confidentiality, I can’t . . .”

“Okay, fine.” Schäfer changed gears. “Are you and your wife having any marital problems?”

“Wait . . . Why are you asking about my patient? Do you think she has something to do with Lukas’s disappearance?” Jens sat up straighter. “Her? The journalist?”

“No.”

“But how can you be sure? She . . . she showed up today wanting an abortion, but when I came back out after talking to the school, she was gone!”

Schäfer noted the words without writing them down. “Kaldan is not a suspect.” Schäfer smiled briefly. “But is there anyone that might have it in for you or your wife? Maybe someone you owe money to?”

Jens leaned back in the small chair again. He shook his head.

“Neighbors who have complained about you, that kind of thing?”

“There’s an elderly woman who lives in the apartment above us, who complains about every conceivable thing all the time. Eva. But she’s eighty-something. She’s harmless.”

“And you live in Nyhavn?”

He nodded. “On Heibergsgade. On the other side of the canal behind Charlottenborg Palace.”

“What about Lukas? Has he had any sort of problems at school, teachers he was afraid of or didn’t like?”

“No, no, there hasn’t been anything like that.” He shook his head adamantly. “Of course, he likes some of them more than others, but in general he likes the teachers there— especially Kevin.”

“And there hasn’t been anything strange going on there?”

“In what sense do you mean?”

Schäfer shrugged. “I’m old school, you know. From back when teachers wore form-fitting shoes and cardigan sweaters, and this Kevin, for example . . . Well, I noticed he was wearing makeup.”

Jens shrugged. “So?”

Schäfer held the eye contact for a few seconds but received no further response.

“Fair enough,” he said and crossed something out on his notepad. “So no problems with the teachers.” He glanced up again and caught something or other in the look in Jens’s eyes. “What?”

“Patrick,” Jens said.

“The role-playing guy?” Schäfer pointed with his thumb out toward the schoolyard. “What about him?”

Jens shook his head. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“But?” Schäfer made a rolling gesture with his hand to get him to elaborate.

“Well, they fight together, him and Lukas, fencing. Lukas sometimes comes home with little scratches from their fights, and . . .” Jens held his hands over his eyes and then immediately moved them away again. “No, I don’t know. I’m just trying to find something that . . . Lukas loves Patrick, but I don’t know him that well and now that you ask, well . . .”

“We’ll talk to him,” Schäfer nodded. “Has Lukas been involved in any fights of any kind? Conflicts with any of the other kids?”

“No, Lukas isn’t the sort to make trouble. It’s important that you understand that Lukas is an . . . an exceptional child.” Jens scooted forward in his seat, closer to Schäfer. “He’s highly gifted. I know everyone thinks that about their own children, but Lukas is special. Academically he is way ahead of the other kids in his class. He might be a little behind in terms of social things, but he’s not a trouble- maker. When the others make a fuss, he recedes. Toke is the troublemaker in that class.”

“Toke? In what way?”

“He’s completely out of control. He’s physically aggressive with the other kids and the teachers. Lukas doesn’t like him, so he makes a point of keeping his distance from him. He’s done that since kindergarten.”

“Is there anyone else that Lukas has seemed to have reservations about?”

Jens shook his head. “At least not that he’s mentioned. And I think we would have been able to tell if that were the case.”

“What about outside of school? Anyone he might have met on his own in the neighborhood?”

“He walks home from school by himself on Tuesdays and Thursdays because my wife works late those days, but he hasn’t said anything about—” Jens paused and blinked a couple of times. Then he looked up, his eyes wide as the sky.

“What?” Schäfer asked vigilantly.

“One time Fie mentioned something about a man Lukas had told her about—”

“Fie?”

“Anne Sofie, my wife.” “What man?”

“Something about someone who had given the boys some fruit. A man who had reached over the fence on the playground with some fruit . . . the Apple Man!” Jens sat up again. “Fie said Lukas called him the Apple Man.”

“The Apple Man,” Schäfer and wrote the words down on his notepad. “And where did you say Lukas has seen this. . . Apple Man?”

Excerpted from THE COLLECTOR by Anne Mette Hancock. No portion of this excerpt may be reproduced without permission of the publisher.

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SERIES DETAILS:

Book 1: THE CORPSE FLOWER

While we wait for the release of THE COLLECTOR this fall, dig into the first book in this dark, gritty series! THE CORPSE FLOWER follows journalist Heloise as she finds herself on the receiving end of mysterious letters from a suspected murderer.

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Crooked Lane Books (October 12, 2021)

Language ‏ : ‎ English

Hardcover ‏ : ‎ 336 pages

ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1643858289

ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1643858289

Book 2: THE COLLECTOR

Available for pre-order: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Crooked Lane Books (November 8, 2022)

Language ‏ : ‎ English

Hardcover ‏ : ‎ 352 pages

ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1639101179

ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1639101177
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