Gwen Moffat lives in Cumbria. Her novels are set in remote communities ranging from the Hebrides to the American West. The crimes fit their environment, swelling that dreadful record of sin in the smiling countryside cited by Sherlock Holmes. The style echoes this: rustic charm masking horror.
In a small Swedish town a psychopath is at work, the murder weapon a blue dildo. Young girls die horribly: tortured, abused, scrubbed with bleach.
In a record heat wave, the surrounding forests on fire, it's a battle to find the killer before the final victim is taken. And because this is that kind of novel: the protagonist a lady cop, a single mother with an adored teen-age daughter, there is no doubt concerning the identity of that victim.
This book exudes sex, explicit, graphic: lesbian, incestuous, grotesque. Even the ghosts are obsessed by it, for the action is supplemented by the thoughts, the fears and desires of both the dead and the living. Characters meet the requirements of a bizarre plot, from the manic inspector lusting after her divorced husband to the elegant pathologist, the brutal cops, the pimps, druggies and, last but dominant, the terrifying Presence that haunts a town where horror is taken one notch lower into the pit.