From Amazon
In his Silver Dagger-winning crime novels, author Giles Blunt creates the perfect blend of police-procedural, psychological thriller and atmospheric locale (think chilly Algonquin Bay). We asked Blunt if he would give us some insight about By the Time You Read This, the much anticipated fourth instalment of the Det. John Cardinal series. He kindly obliged with the following "Letter to Readers." --Lauren Nemroff
A Letter to Readers from Giles Blunt
A Letter to Readers from Giles Blunt
Dear Readers,
Through my past four books, I’ve been living with a character named John Cardinal, a police detective from northern Ontario who has had to track down some hideously evil people, but who has also endeared himself to me and to many readers through the deep attachment he has had to his troubled wife, Catherine. I believe the new Cardinal novel, By The Time You Read This, is the most emotionally involving yet. Catherine dies in chapter one, and Cardinal’s grief pervades the rest of the book as he tries to make sense of her death. This was painful to write at times, and I can only hope you will be moved by it.
Another reason I’m particularly excited is that, this time out, Cardinal encounters a murderer and a method of killing that neither he nor I have ever seen before. I’m pretty sure even hardcore crime-novel addicts will find it unique, believable, and completely horrifying. I want to tell you all about it but I can’t without spoiling the story. I know, I know, one can only be skeptical of an author who pronounces himself pleased with his book but when pressed as to why promptly takes a vow of silence.
But what can I do? I’ll just have to clam up and hope you enjoy the story.
Best wishes,
Giles Blunt
From Publishers Weekly
Set in remote Algonquin Bay, Ontario, Blunt's compelling fourth crime novel to feature John Cardinal (after Blackfly Season) finds the police detective mourning the death of his wife, an apparent suicide. Then Cardinal starts receiving cold, hate-filled notes gloating over his loss. Stirred and angered into believing that his wife may have been murdered, he sets about looking into who might be refusing to let the dead—or, more particularly, himself—rest easy. Meanwhile, his partner, Lise Delorme, is busy trying to track down the pedophile responsible for a cache of appalling photos featuring a small girl who may live in or near Algonquin Bay. An unexpected yet utterly realistic twist lifts this novel into extremely interesting (and entertaining) territory. Sharp dialogue, complex characters and a satisfying conclusion should help Blunt, who has won Britain's Silver Dagger and Canada's Arthur Ellis Award, win new readers in the U.S. Author tour. (Feb.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an alternate Hardcover edition.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an alternate Hardcover edition.
From Booklist
*Starred Review* The fourth crime novel featuring Detective John Cardinal may give acclaimed Canadian author Blunt the popular recognition he is due. In this installment, Cardinal, who lives and works in fictional Algonquin Bay, Ontario (a bucolic small town similar to Blunt's native North Bay), grieves the death of his manic-depressive wife. Local authorities label it a suicide, but Cardinal isn't so sure, a fear confirmed when he receives a series of "anti-sympathy" notes in the mail. Detective Cardinal relentlessly pursues the case, though he knows it's much too early to return to the beat. Meanwhile, fellow detective Lise Delorme investigates a child pornographer who posts his wares on the Web. Suspense and a relentless sense of doom pervade this latest offering from Blunt (Blackfly Season, 2005), winner of the British Crime Writers Silver Dagger and Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis awards. Here even the most minor characters are rendered in vivid detail. A fellow Algonquin Bay citizen is "a wisp of a woman, so dehydrated she looked as if she should be dropped in water to expand to her natural size." In Blunt's dark world, even the seemingly well-meaning are eyed with suspicion, for demons lurk in places civilized souls least expect. Allison Block
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an alternate Hardcover edition.
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an alternate Hardcover edition.
Review
“In By the Time You Read This, Blunt . . . once again proves he can set the scene better than almost anyone else in the crime genre, putting the reader right into Algonquin Bay with all its autumnal glory, its painful lives and sordid little secrets…. Blunt, unlike some series authors, never writes the same book twice.”
— The Globe and Mail.
“Blunt pulls off a remarkable feat: He makes a story drenched in sadness almost unbearably exciting. The result is the most beautifully written, deeply felt page-turner of the year.”
–Kirkus (starred review)
“In a series that has already taken home numerous awards, this volume, Blunt’s fourth, stands out for its grace, compassion and the elegance of his writing. … It is a poignant literary work that nonetheless offers all the gritty satisfaction of a standard police procedural. This is, quite simply, a great book from a writer at the top of his form.”
–Calgary Herald
Praise for Giles Blunt:
“Giles Blunt is one of the top crime writers around.”
–National Post
“Giles Blunt writes with uncommon grace, style and compassion and he plots like a demon.”
–Jonathan Kellerman
“Blunt writes a taut, gripping tale of suspense that is loaded with gritty realism . . . Few can match his wit, wry observations and emotionally charged background sketches.”
–Edmonton Journal
“Giles Blunt has a tremendous talent.”
–Tony Hillerman
“Blunt should be considered among the new practitioners of crime drama’s elite.”
–Publishers Weekly
“[Blunt] can join the select group of writers – such as Ian Rankin and Tony Hillerman – who can locate their readers in a fictional universe as physically real as the chair they inhabit.”
–The Observer
— The Globe and Mail.
“Blunt pulls off a remarkable feat: He makes a story drenched in sadness almost unbearably exciting. The result is the most beautifully written, deeply felt page-turner of the year.”
–Kirkus (starred review)
“In a series that has already taken home numerous awards, this volume, Blunt’s fourth, stands out for its grace, compassion and the elegance of his writing. … It is a poignant literary work that nonetheless offers all the gritty satisfaction of a standard police procedural. This is, quite simply, a great book from a writer at the top of his form.”
–Calgary Herald
Praise for Giles Blunt:
“Giles Blunt is one of the top crime writers around.”
–National Post
“Giles Blunt writes with uncommon grace, style and compassion and he plots like a demon.”
–Jonathan Kellerman
“Blunt writes a taut, gripping tale of suspense that is loaded with gritty realism . . . Few can match his wit, wry observations and emotionally charged background sketches.”
–Edmonton Journal
“Giles Blunt has a tremendous talent.”
–Tony Hillerman
“Blunt should be considered among the new practitioners of crime drama’s elite.”
–Publishers Weekly
“[Blunt] can join the select group of writers – such as Ian Rankin and Tony Hillerman – who can locate their readers in a fictional universe as physically real as the chair they inhabit.”
–The Observer
Book Description
The Planet Grief. An incalculable number of light years from the warmth of the sun. When the rain falls, it falls in droplets of grief, and when the light shines, it is in waves and particles of grief. From whatever direction the wind blows–south, east, north or west– it blows cinders of grief before it. Grief stings your eyes and sucks the breath from your lungs. No oxygen on this planet, no nitrogen; the atmosphere is composed entirely of grief. [By the Time You Read This, page 37]
Catherine Cardinal, wife of Sergeant John Cardinal, is dead. Ruled a suicide, it comes as no real surprise to those who knew her. Catherine had suffered from manic depression for over twenty years. Long stints of hospitalization were followed by healthy periods permeated by worry and anxiousness that everything would once again disintegrate. Her last hospital stay had been over a year ago. Catherine had been finding peace and fulfillment in her photography and taking her medication regularly. From years of experience, Cardinal had taken all of these signs to be positive and hopeful.
So along with coping with devastating grief, Cardinal is confused. Although a suicide note in Catherine’s handwriting was found at the scene, Cardinal isn’t convinced that his wife was responsible for her own death. She was distracted when she left to take pictures the night she died, but she was nowhere near the despondent state she attained when she was ill. It wasn’t adding up.
Everyone in the department, even his partner, Lise Delorme, believes Cardinal’s refusal to accept his wife’s suicide is only the denial that comes with the agony of his loss. Even his daughter, Kelly, has accepted her mother’s fate. But when Cardinal receives a card with a typewritten note inside taunting him about his wife’s death, he is resolute that someone has murdered Catherine.
In Cardinal’s line of work, a man can pile up a lot of enemies. The first likely suspect that comes to his mind is Kiki B., an “associate” of a drug dealer, Rick Bouchard, who he had sent to prison. Kiki B. knew where Cardinal lived and he had an axe to grind–Bouchard had been killed while serving his sentence.
With Delorme wrapped up in a nasty sex crimes case, Cardinal goes it alone. When Kiki B. turns out to have made a career change, Cardinal moves on to other members of the criminal element he’d had the pleasure to put away. As he moves through a long line of suspects, Cardinal finds himself settling on perhaps the most unlikely suspect of all.
Catherine Cardinal, wife of Sergeant John Cardinal, is dead. Ruled a suicide, it comes as no real surprise to those who knew her. Catherine had suffered from manic depression for over twenty years. Long stints of hospitalization were followed by healthy periods permeated by worry and anxiousness that everything would once again disintegrate. Her last hospital stay had been over a year ago. Catherine had been finding peace and fulfillment in her photography and taking her medication regularly. From years of experience, Cardinal had taken all of these signs to be positive and hopeful.
So along with coping with devastating grief, Cardinal is confused. Although a suicide note in Catherine’s handwriting was found at the scene, Cardinal isn’t convinced that his wife was responsible for her own death. She was distracted when she left to take pictures the night she died, but she was nowhere near the despondent state she attained when she was ill. It wasn’t adding up.
Everyone in the department, even his partner, Lise Delorme, believes Cardinal’s refusal to accept his wife’s suicide is only the denial that comes with the agony of his loss. Even his daughter, Kelly, has accepted her mother’s fate. But when Cardinal receives a card with a typewritten note inside taunting him about his wife’s death, he is resolute that someone has murdered Catherine.
In Cardinal’s line of work, a man can pile up a lot of enemies. The first likely suspect that comes to his mind is Kiki B., an “associate” of a drug dealer, Rick Bouchard, who he had sent to prison. Kiki B. knew where Cardinal lived and he had an axe to grind–Bouchard had been killed while serving his sentence.
With Delorme wrapped up in a nasty sex crimes case, Cardinal goes it alone. When Kiki B. turns out to have made a career change, Cardinal moves on to other members of the criminal element he’d had the pleasure to put away. As he moves through a long line of suspects, Cardinal finds himself settling on perhaps the most unlikely suspect of all.
From the Back Cover
Named Best Mystery of the Year by The Globe & Mail
In Algonquin Bay, Detective John Cardinal suffers a devastating loss. He arrives at a grisly crime scene only to discover that the victim is his own wife, who left a suicide note at the scene. But when Cardinal begins to receive a series of threatening letters, he suspects that his wife may not have taken her own life—and that there may be more to her suicide note than meets the eye.
BY THE TIME YOU READ THIS
While Cardinal takes time to grieve, his partner, Sargeant Lise Delorme, is investigating a high-profile sex crime involving a young girl whose abuse is being broadcast online—and who appears to be a resident of Algonquin Bay. Things are heating up in this quiet, costal town as both Delorme and Cardinal find themselves tracking predators so diabolical that the accepted bounds of criminal justice no longer apply….
“The most deeply felt page-turner of the year.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
About the Author
Giles Blunt grew up in North Bay, Ontario. After spending over twenty years in New York City, he now lives in Toronto. He has written scripts for Law & Order, Street Legal and Night Heat. He is the author of Forty Words for Sorrow, for which he won the British Crime Writers’ Macallan Silver Dagger; A Delicate Storm, winner of the Arthur Ellis Award for Best Novel; and Blackfly Season, one of Margaret Cannon’s Best Mysteries of the Year.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Nothing bad could ever happen on Madonna Road. It curls around the western shore of a small lake just outside Algonquin Bay, Ontario, providing a pine-scented refuge for affluent families with young children, yuppies fond of canoes and kayaks, and an artful population of chipmunks chased by galumphing dogs. It’s the kind of spot–tranquil, shady and secluded – that promises an exemption from tragedy and sorrow.
Detective John Cardinal’s and his wife, Catherine, lived in the smallest house on Madonna Road, but even that tiny place would have been beyond their means were it not for the fact that, being situated across the road from the water, they owned neither an inch of beach nor so much as a millimetre of lake frontage. On weekends Cardinal spent most of his time down in the basement breathing sawdust, paint and Minwax, carpentry affording him a sense of creativity and control that did not tend to flourish in the squad room.
But even when he was not woodworking, he loved to be in his tiny house enveloped in the serenity of the lakeshore. It was autumn now, early October, the quietest time of the year. The motorboats and Sea-Doos had been hauled away, and the snowmobiles were not yet blasting their way across ice and snow.
Autumn in Algonquin Bay was the season that redeemed the other three. Colours of scarlet and rust, ochre and gold swarmed across the hills, the sky turned an alarming blue, and you could almost forget the sweat-drenched summer, the bug festival that was spring, the pitiless razor of winter. Trout Lake was preternaturally still, black onyx amid fire. Even having grown up here (when he took it completely for granted), and now having lived in Algonquin Bay again for the past dozen years, Cardinal was never quite prepared for how beautiful it was in the fall. This time of year, he liked to spend every spare minute at home. On this particular evening he had made the fifteen-minute drive from work, even though he had only an hour, affording him exactly thirty minutes at the dinner table before he had to head back.
Catherine tossed a pill into her mouth, washed it down with a few swallows of water and snapped the cap back on the bottle.
“There’s more shepherd’s pie, if you want,” she said.
“No, I’m fine. That was great,” Cardinal said. He was trying to corner the last peas on his plate.
“There’s no dessert, unless you want cookies.”
“I always want cookies. The question is whether I want to be hoisted out of here by a forklift.”
Catherine took her plate and glass into the kitchen.
“What time are you heading out?” he called after her.
“Right now. It’s dark, the moon is up. Why not?”
Cardinal glanced outside. The full moon, an orange disc riding low above the lake, was quartered by the mullions of their window.
“You’re taking pictures of the moon? Don’t tell me you’re going into the calendar business.”
But Catherine wasn’t listening. She had disappeared down to the basement, and he could hear her pulling things off the shelves in her darkroom. Cardinal put the leftovers in the fridge and slotted his dishes into the dishwasher.
Catherine came back upstairs, zipped up her camera bag and dumped it beside the door while she put on her coat. It was a golden tan colour with brown leather trim on the cuffs and collar. She pulled a scarf from a hook and wrapped it once, twice, about her neck, then undid it again.
“No,” she said to herself. “It’ll be in the way.”
“How long is this expedition of yours?” Cardinal said, but his wife didn’t hear him. They’d been married nearly thirty years, but she still kept him guessing. Sometimes when she was going out to photograph, she would be chatty and excited, telling him every detail of her project until he was cross-eyed with the fine points of focal lengths and f-stops. Other times he wouldn’t know what she was planning until she emerged from her darkroom days or weeks later, clutching her prints like trophies from a personal safari. Tonight she was subdued.
“What time do you think you’ll get back?” Cardinal said.
Catherine tied a short plaid scarf around her neck and tucked it inside her jacket. “Does it matter? I thought you had to go back to work.”
“I do. Just curious.”
“Well, I’ll be home long before you.” She pulled her hair out from under her scarf and shook her head. Cardinal caught a whiff of her shampoo, a faint almondy smell. She sat down on the bench by the front door and opened her camera bag again. “Split-field filter. I knew I forgot something.”
She disappeared downstairs for a few moments and came back with the filter, which she dropped into the camera bag. Cardinal had no idea what a split-field filter might be.
“You going to the government dock again?” In the spring Catherine had done a series of photos on the shore of Lake Nipissing when the ice was breaking up. Great white slabs of ice stacking themselves up like geological strata.
“I’ve done the dock,” Catherine said, frowning a little. She strapped a collapsible tripod to the bottom of the camera bag. “Why all these questions?”
“Some people take pictures, other people ask questions.”
“I wish you wouldn’t. You know I don’t like to talk about stuff ahead of time.”
“Sometimes you do.”
“Not this time.” She stood up and slung the camera bag, bulky and heavy, over her shoulder.
“What a gorgeous night,” Cardinal said when they were outside. He stood for a moment looking up at the stars, but the glow of the moon washed most of them out. He took a deep breath, inhaling smells of pine and fallen leaves. It was Catherine’s favourite time of year too, but she wasn’t paying attention at the moment. She got straight into her car, a maroon PT Cruiser she’d bought used a couple of years earlier, started the engine and pulled out of the drive.
Detective John Cardinal’s and his wife, Catherine, lived in the smallest house on Madonna Road, but even that tiny place would have been beyond their means were it not for the fact that, being situated across the road from the water, they owned neither an inch of beach nor so much as a millimetre of lake frontage. On weekends Cardinal spent most of his time down in the basement breathing sawdust, paint and Minwax, carpentry affording him a sense of creativity and control that did not tend to flourish in the squad room.
But even when he was not woodworking, he loved to be in his tiny house enveloped in the serenity of the lakeshore. It was autumn now, early October, the quietest time of the year. The motorboats and Sea-Doos had been hauled away, and the snowmobiles were not yet blasting their way across ice and snow.
Autumn in Algonquin Bay was the season that redeemed the other three. Colours of scarlet and rust, ochre and gold swarmed across the hills, the sky turned an alarming blue, and you could almost forget the sweat-drenched summer, the bug festival that was spring, the pitiless razor of winter. Trout Lake was preternaturally still, black onyx amid fire. Even having grown up here (when he took it completely for granted), and now having lived in Algonquin Bay again for the past dozen years, Cardinal was never quite prepared for how beautiful it was in the fall. This time of year, he liked to spend every spare minute at home. On this particular evening he had made the fifteen-minute drive from work, even though he had only an hour, affording him exactly thirty minutes at the dinner table before he had to head back.
Catherine tossed a pill into her mouth, washed it down with a few swallows of water and snapped the cap back on the bottle.
“There’s more shepherd’s pie, if you want,” she said.
“No, I’m fine. That was great,” Cardinal said. He was trying to corner the last peas on his plate.
“There’s no dessert, unless you want cookies.”
“I always want cookies. The question is whether I want to be hoisted out of here by a forklift.”
Catherine took her plate and glass into the kitchen.
“What time are you heading out?” he called after her.
“Right now. It’s dark, the moon is up. Why not?”
Cardinal glanced outside. The full moon, an orange disc riding low above the lake, was quartered by the mullions of their window.
“You’re taking pictures of the moon? Don’t tell me you’re going into the calendar business.”
But Catherine wasn’t listening. She had disappeared down to the basement, and he could hear her pulling things off the shelves in her darkroom. Cardinal put the leftovers in the fridge and slotted his dishes into the dishwasher.
Catherine came back upstairs, zipped up her camera bag and dumped it beside the door while she put on her coat. It was a golden tan colour with brown leather trim on the cuffs and collar. She pulled a scarf from a hook and wrapped it once, twice, about her neck, then undid it again.
“No,” she said to herself. “It’ll be in the way.”
“How long is this expedition of yours?” Cardinal said, but his wife didn’t hear him. They’d been married nearly thirty years, but she still kept him guessing. Sometimes when she was going out to photograph, she would be chatty and excited, telling him every detail of her project until he was cross-eyed with the fine points of focal lengths and f-stops. Other times he wouldn’t know what she was planning until she emerged from her darkroom days or weeks later, clutching her prints like trophies from a personal safari. Tonight she was subdued.
“What time do you think you’ll get back?” Cardinal said.
Catherine tied a short plaid scarf around her neck and tucked it inside her jacket. “Does it matter? I thought you had to go back to work.”
“I do. Just curious.”
“Well, I’ll be home long before you.” She pulled her hair out from under her scarf and shook her head. Cardinal caught a whiff of her shampoo, a faint almondy smell. She sat down on the bench by the front door and opened her camera bag again. “Split-field filter. I knew I forgot something.”
She disappeared downstairs for a few moments and came back with the filter, which she dropped into the camera bag. Cardinal had no idea what a split-field filter might be.
“You going to the government dock again?” In the spring Catherine had done a series of photos on the shore of Lake Nipissing when the ice was breaking up. Great white slabs of ice stacking themselves up like geological strata.
“I’ve done the dock,” Catherine said, frowning a little. She strapped a collapsible tripod to the bottom of the camera bag. “Why all these questions?”
“Some people take pictures, other people ask questions.”
“I wish you wouldn’t. You know I don’t like to talk about stuff ahead of time.”
“Sometimes you do.”
“Not this time.” She stood up and slung the camera bag, bulky and heavy, over her shoulder.
“What a gorgeous night,” Cardinal said when they were outside. He stood for a moment looking up at the stars, but the glow of the moon washed most of them out. He took a deep breath, inhaling smells of pine and fallen leaves. It was Catherine’s favourite time of year too, but she wasn’t paying attention at the moment. She got straight into her car, a maroon PT Cruiser she’d bought used a couple of years earlier, started the engine and pulled out of the drive.
