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For some, Barcelona is a European enchantress of nouveau architecture, fusion tapas, and fine cava. To others, it’s a Gothic labyrinth of tiny streets to lose oneself in; hashish-clouded after-hours bars to forget the time; dimly lit plazas with global bohemians squatting, prostitutes tempting. But come morning, its cold cobblestones and misty beachfronts have even darker stories to tell.

Seventeen-year-old Tyler lives in one of Edinburgh’s most deprived areas. Coerced into robbing rich people’s homes by his bullying older siblings, he’s also trying to care for his little sister and his drug-addict mum. On a job, his brother Barry stabs a homeowner and leaves her for dead, but that’s just the beginning of their nightmare, because the woman is the wife of Edinburgh’s biggest crime lord, Deke Holt.

Casi siempre, Puerto Rico se nos presenta como una isla rodeada de playas de arena clara, casinos, hoteles de lujo; un lugar para el descanso y el placer. Es la isla que satisface todos los sentidos y todos los apetitos.

Berlin does not make it easy to write noir fiction - or perhaps Berlin makes it too easy. Noir tradition casts a long, influential, and even daunting shadow. Neither Döblin nor Benn, Brecht nor Lang, catered to any crime fiction traditions. They merely steeped their literary projects in a great deal of noir. And so it is with most of the stories in our anthology: they do not necessarily follow the usual patterns of crime fiction, but regard noir as a license to write as they wish, a certain way of approaching the city, and a prism through which its nature is viewed....

One dark January night a car drives at high speed towards PI Varg Veum, and comes very close to killing him. Veum is certain this is no accident, following so soon after the deaths of two jailed men who were convicted for their participation in a case of child pornography and sexual assault...crimes that Veum himself once stood wrongly accused of committing.

Vous ne rentrez pas dans le moule ? Ils sauront vous broyer. Inexorables, les conséquences des mauvais choix d'un père. Inexorable, le combat d'une mère pour protéger son fils. Inexorable, le soupçon qui vous désigne comme l'éternel coupable. Inexorable, la volonté de briser enfin l'engrenage... Ils graissent les rouages de la société avec les larmes de nos enfants.

In 1942, Jewish courier Ester is betrayed, narrowly avoiding arrest by the Gestapo. In a great haste, she escapes to Sweden, saving herself. Her family in Oslo, however, is deported to Auschwitz. In Stockholm, Ester meets the resistance hero Gerhard Falkum, who has left his little daughter and fled both the Germans and allegations that he murdered his wife, Åse, who helped Ester get to Sweden. Their burgeoning relationship ends abruptly when Falkum dies in a fire. And yet, 25 years later, Falkum shows up in Oslo. He wants to reconnect with his daughter.

On a warm September morning, an unconscious man is found in a cage at the entrance to the offices of one of the biggest German newspapers. Closer inspection shows he is a manager of the company, and he’s been tortured. Three days later, another manager appears in similar circumstances. Chastity Riley and her new colleague Ivo Stepanovic are tasked with uncovering the truth behind the attacks, an investigation that goes far beyond the revenge they first suspect...to the dubious past shared by both victims.

Single-mother bounty hunter Lori Anderson has finally got her family back together, but her newfound happiness is shattered when she’s snatched by the Miami Mob – and they want her dead. Rather than a bullet, they offer her a job: find the Mob’s ‘numbers man’ - Carlton North - who’s in protective custody after being forced to turn federal witness against them. If Lori succeeds, they’ll wipe the slate clean and the price on her head - and those of her family - will be removed. If she fails, they die.

Pregnant Victoria Valbon was brutally murdered in an alley three weeks ago - and her killer hasn’t been caught. Tonight is Stella McKeever’s final radio show. The theme is secrets. You tell her yours, and she’ll share some of hers. Stella might tell you about Tom, a boyfriend who likes to play games, about the mother who abandoned her, now back after 14 years. She might tell you about the perfume bottle with the star-shaped stopper, or about her father....

When two teenagers - Johannes and Mari - are found murdered inside their school, in the small Norwegian village of Fredheim, the finger is soon is pointed at 18-year-old Even, whose relationship with Mari ended just before she died. Mari was writing a story for the school newspaper about Even and his dad, who died in a car accident 10 years earlier. But was it really an accident? And had Mari uncovered information that someone was willing to commit murder to protect?

Hoch Racheengel is a former star pilot who has made mistakes and is now paying for them. He gets a chance to repay an act of kindness by finding the people responsible for the rape and murder of the young woman who helped him when he needed help the most. But was her murder just a random act of piracy, or is it the tip of the iceberg of something far more sinister? He finds that he has a talent for balancing the scales of justice with his own hands, but his thirst for vengeance sometimes makes him straddle the line between right and wrong.

What brought on the bad dream was, of all things, an old-time Buick. Sam Fogel wasn’t into vehicles, certainly not collectibles. The forty-two-year-old college professor leaned more toward chamber music and theater and poetry as diversions, not expensive, environment-wrecking technology. But over breakfast one spring Saturday, Janie looked up from the Meadow Hills Observer and pointed to an article, suggesting that he take the children to the fairgrounds to see the auto show.

There are sharps and flats. Majors and minors. And then there’s the sound of a Top 10 hit. That sound. It shouldn’t be so, of course. A song is, after all, a simple thing. At its heart, it’s just a collection of verses and choruses, maybe a bridge to stir things up and tie it all together. A few chords with a solo thrown into the middle. That’s all there is to it. And yet, for an art form that’s ruled by and relies upon mathematical patterns, there is still an unquantifiable quality that defies reason.

A woman called to me from the end of the grocery aisle. “Yoo-hoo, Baxley! Did you hear about last night’s burglary?” Charlotte Armstrong was my best friend and a reporter for our weekly paper. Excitement radiated from her plus-sized body, fluorescent lighting glinted off her purple glasses. I put down the generic peanut butter I’d been considering. “Are you kidding? The whodunit question buzzed around the hardware store and the bank like a drunken hornet.”

A middle-aged, African-American gentleman with a kindly face and mellow voice sat behind the wheel of his trolley and collected tickets from that evening’s passengers. A family of four—father, mother, and two teenage daughters—came aboard. The father, who’d been cajoled by his daughters to take the Savannah, Georgia, ghost tour, handed the driver their tickets and asked, “So what’s this Skippy Walker thing all about?”

I ain’t been the same since that brawl. The paramedic said my palpitations would go away, but they got worse. It felt like my heart was fixin’ to jump right outta my throat. I knew this dude was gonna kill again. It made me sick worryin’ about it. I went to the clinic at the college and they sent me to a shrink. Not a real one, but one of them psych majors who’s gettin’ class credit workin’ in the office. I’m only janitorial services.

An old man crawled down the Ozarks from Elsinore to Gideon. He was dying and wanted to find his son. Six-year-old Sybil sat braiding the hair of a doll while the old man yelled his sad story through her window. Spit shot through the gaps of his missing teeth and splattered against the glass. But in rural Missouri, that was no excuse for a lack of hospitality.

Jenny McAllister might not have been the most beautiful woman in the great hall, but she was certainly the most memorable. Even in the London high society of Wallis Simpson’s circle, the passion in her face drew attention, as if there were a flame inside her that no pain or fear could quench. The Great War had been over for eighteen years, but the horror of it still permeated everything. The remnants of a lost generation danced too wildly and laughed with too much ease.

Allan Pinkerton sat in the reception area of the Executive Mansion, wondering if he had made a mistake by coming. Many men would have been intimidated by the prospect of meeting with the President of the United States of America, but that wasn’t what was bothering Pinkerton. In fact, he had sat in the same chair in that outer office many times before, waiting to see the current president’s predecessor.