"Eriksson adds a new twist to the Swedish crime story, one especially likely to appeal to Henning Mankell fans." -- Booklist Winner of the Swedish Crime Academy Award for Best Novel, international sensation Kjell Eriksson has dazzled American audiences with his stunning thrillers. In this gripping tale, a man walks out of a meeting in Sweden and disappears without a trace. Years later, a neighbor spots someone who looks like the missing man in Bangalore. Could it be the same man? And what connection, if any, does he have to the baffling case that Inspector Ann Lindell is handling back home? Fabulous writing and nail-biting suspense combine in The Hand that Trembles to produce a story only a superstar like Eriksson could achieve. “Stunning, haunting…can chill you to the bone.” ―Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review on The Princess of Burundi “Riveting in tone and spirit. . . resembles the books of Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo, not to mention those of the modern master Henning Mankell.” ― The Wall Street Journal on The Princess of Burundi “A brilliant, haunting work of psychological obsession.” ― The Globe and Mail on The Cruel Stars of the Night “Reminiscent of Ruth Rendell. As insightful and intelligent as it is engrossing.” ― Library Journal on The Cruel Stars of the Night “Ingenious…Very satisfying.” ― Los Angeles Times on The Princess of Burundi KJELL ERIKSSON is the award-winning and internationally bestselling Swedish author of The Ann Lindell Mystery series. His debut won the Swedish Crime Academy award for Best First Novel and The Princess of Burundi later won for Best Crime Novel. Eriksson is also a gardener, and now living in Brazil. Ebba Segerberg is a translator of Swedish literature with a focus on Swedish crime fiction. Her translations include several installments of the Wallander series by Henning Mankell and Let Me In by John Ajvide Lindqvist. She has worked in a variety of other genres and formats including biography, short stories, and screenplays. She holds a PhD in Swedish literature and film studies from the University of California at Berkeley, and currently lives in Saint Louis, Missouri. The Hand That Trembles A Mystery By Kjell Eriksson Minotaur Books Copyright © 2012 Kjell Eriksson All right reserved. ISBN: 9781250006905 One   It was at the corner of Brigade and Mahatma Ghandi Road that he had the first intuition. Not that he was superstitious, quite the opposite. Over the course of his career, rationality had been his trademark. It rendered him ill-suited to this country, and yet sympathetic to the Indian fatalism that he had grown to appreciate over the years. But he should have heeded the signs. First this so unexpected thought of “home”: Whenever he thought of this word it was usually in conjunction with the apartment in Bangalore or, more rarely, the town house in Uppsala. But this time a vision of his Vaksala Square neighborhood rose before him. Of course he thought of his childhood street from time to time, but this time the recollection gripped him with unexpected force. He paused, was pushed aside, and came to a halt outside the entrance of a store that sold Kashmir silk. There was nothing about MG Road that was reminiscent of Uppsala. Absolutely nothing. The intense, almost insane traffic, the eternal honking, and the cloud of exhaust fumes hovering over the street, all this was unthinkable around Vaksala Square. Almost everything he saw was unimaginable on Salagatan; the holes in the sidewalk, some so deep they seemed like portals to another world—a darkness into which to descend. The stream of people, who adeptly veered to avoid the stopped man; the vendors of “genuine” Rolex watches and “police glasses” who avoided him with equal adeptness; the security guard from Guardwell posted outside the shop that promised excellent deals on shawls and saris but that in reality milked Westerners’ credit cards for a couple of thousand rupees extra. No eye-catching sums but enough to ensure that the Mafia from the north made handsome profits. At least that was what Lester said. He saw the apartment building in which he grew up, the courtyard with the newly raked gravel of Fridays, the neatly edged lawns and plantings of roses and lilacs, the obligatory mock-orange bush and the unpleasant-smelling viburnum by the park down toward the railway tracks. An almost rigid order reigned over the landscaping around the buildings. An impression of immutability that he, at a brief visit many years later, could testify had lingered a surprising number of years. A utility building had been added, poorly placed and completely different in style; the gravel was no longer quite as attractively ridged; the flag post had been removed, perhaps temporarily; but the fundamentals remained, and the substantial lilac trees leaned thoughtfully, heavy with age and with twisted trunks as if they writhed in regret at the passing of time. All this came before him