I was born in Hamburg. In January 1952 under an ice-blue sky. I grew up among farms in an agricultural region in the borderlands of Schleswig Holstein. The smell of freshly ploughed soil. The clomping of horses' hooves in front of our garden gate. The slow merging with the metropolis of Hamburg. The troubled and exciting times of the ’68 student revolts. Spending time abroad. Nothing has shaped me as much as those early years of my childhood. The vast stretches of fields and meadows and the almost limitless spaces for freedom and youthful imagination.
For the past thirty years, I have been living in the idyllic solitude of a small village in the north west of Lower Saxony, together with my husband, my two cats and my two Icelandic horses. Right here, in this pastoral bliss, it emerged. The delight in my own written words. Right here is where it came to light. The literary criminal energy. And here, too, is where it started. My late love for Agatha Christie and Hercule Poirot.
You could call it coincidence that I will publish my mystery novel "Eine Leiche für Perrot" (english Titel: "The Bride) on the 15th of September 2017 and that I’m sending the second literary love of my life on a murder hunt: Achille Perrot, grandson of the great Hercule Poirot. But nothing has been left to chance, as the 15th of September itself is a tribute and a birthday present. For whom? Well, Achille Perrot and I would say: “Mesdames et Messieurs, we invite you to follow us. Let us use our little grey cells and let us get to know each other… You, Achille Perrot and me.
Yours, Crysta Winter
alias Christa Winter