by Mikaela Bley
Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
PROLOGUE
FRIDAY, 23 MAY
ELLEN
ELLEN
HELENA
ELLEN
CHLOÉ
SATURDAY, 24 MAY
ELLEN
HELENA
ELLEN
MONA
ELLEN
ELLEN
CHLOÉ
ELLEN
ELLEN
SUNDAY, 25 MAY
HELENA
ELLEN
MONA
ELLEN
HELENA
ELLEN
ELLEN
ELLEN
ELLEN
MONDAY, 26 MAY
ELLEN
MONA
CHLOÉ
ELLEN
ELLEN
ELLEN
ELLEN
TUESDAY, 27 MAY
ELLEN
HELENA
CHLOÉ
ELLEN
ELLEN
ELLEN
ELLEN
WEDNESDAY, 28 MAY
ELLEN
ELLEN
ELLEN
THURSDAY, 29 MAY
ELLEN
ELLEN
ELLEN
ELLEN
ELLEN
FRIDAY, 30 MAY
ELLEN
ELLEN
ELLEN
SATURDAY, 31 MAY
ELLEN
ELLEN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
LYCKE
Mikaela Bley was born in 1979. Before becoming a full-time writer, she worked for TV4, Sweden’s largest commercial TV channel. Lycke is her debut novel, and has been sold in 11 countries. She lives in Stockholm with her husband and two children.
Scribe Publications
18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia
2 John St, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom
Published by Scribe 2017
This edition published by arrangement with Lennart Sane Agency AB
Copyright © Mikaela Bley 2015
Translation copyright © Paul Norlen 2017
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted.
9781925322064 (Australian edition)
9781925548235 (e-book)
A CiP entry for this title is available from the National Library of Australia
scribepublications.com.au
scribepublications.co.uk
PROLOGUE
Again she turned over in bed. It was impossible to sleep. Her legs refused to stay still.
She stared at the wall. Closed her eyes, then opened them after only a few seconds. Pulling the pillow over her head, she tried to shut out the voices, but it didn’t help.
The voices just grew louder and louder.
‘Forgive me,’ she whispered.
She turned on the bedside lamp and slipped across to the desk. Pulled out the top drawer and took out some scented erasers. Hearts, stars, strawberries. She broke apart a rabbit-shaped eraser and stuffed the pieces in her ears.
Climbed back into bed. Turned off the lamp. Tears ran down her cheeks as she whispered:
God, who holds all children dear,
Watch o’er me, so little here.
No matter where on Earth I stand,
My fate is always in God’s hands.
Fortune comes and fortune goes,
Think of one that love never knows.
FRIDAY, 23 MAY
ELLEN
8.25 P.M.
Ellen looked at the time in the top right-hand corner of the computer screen. There were less than two hours left until the last news broadcast of the night.
‘The amusement park in Kristianstad is completely flooded now,’ a colleague called out across the open-plan newsroom. ‘According to the experts, it won’t take more than another inch or so before the whole city is under water.’
A reporter raced over to his desk. The evening news editor had alerted him to landslides in Vagnhärad, caused by the heavy rains that were sweeping over the whole of Sweden.
Bad weather and wind. Ellen was fed up with it.
In the kitchen, her colleagues were lined up for coffee — having worked far too many hours today — and in the control room, the production team was doing a run-through of the day’s events.
Beside her sat Leif, eating his dinner out of a clear plastic container while tapping on the keyboard with his index finger.
Four years earlier, when Ellen first started at TV4, she had pictured working in a cleanly designed, modern space, but it looked just like any other office. White cubicles squeezed together, ventilation pipes humming in the ceiling, and fluorescent light fixtures that revealed every little pore on your face. Night and day, it smelled of microwaved food. The only thing that distinguished TV4 from other offices was that there were as many prima donnas in the tiny cubicles as there were fruit flies in the air. Also, the sound level was probably a tad higher than in Stockholm’s national insurance offices, in the neighbouring building on Tegeluddsvägen.
Ellen cast a glance at the TV screen crowding the computer on her desk. She watched as a cheerful David Hellenius welcomed viewers to the Let’s Dance studio. For some reason, this reminded her to send her regrets about the upcoming TV4 ‘family day’ at Gröna Lund amusement park. She had no desire to play the token single person, surrounded by all the happy families, all the children wearing their colourful wristbands.
She opened her story about the murder of an eighteen-year-old in Tumba, which would be part of this evening’s broadcast.
It had been a long day. As a crime reporter, she had no fixed schedule, she worked whenever she was needed — and being relatively young and with no family waiting at home, there was a lot of work for her to do.
She felt cold, and buttoned up her black leather jacket. All day, she had been regretting her choice of clothes. A dress, with her legs bare, and a short jacket were not nearly enough, but who thought it would be only eight degrees Celsius at the end of May? She could almost understand when viewers called in and complained about the weather, even though TV4 weren’t weather gods — they simply delivered the forecasts.
She longed to go home and run a hot bath. Light a fruit-scented aromatic candle. Read the latest Vanity Fair, which was there waiting for her.
She rummaged through all the papers and magazines on the desk looking for her earphones so she could close out the noise. Someday, she would deal with this mess. On Monday perhaps. New week, new possibilities, as she told herself every week — a resolution that lasted until approximately Tuesday. Wednesday, at best.
The earphones weren’t there. So instead she turned up the volume on her computer and pressed ‘play’.
It was the same thing every time she saw herself on screen. She never felt prepared for it, even though she ought to be used to it by now.
She paused the video, took a couple of deep breaths, and then continued watching.
But after only a few seconds, there was a news flash on the screen.
One dead in shooting at Lilla Torg in Malmö.
‘The Malmö office is on top of the shootings,’ the boss called out before Ellen had even clicked on the link.
Death. She was con
stantly reminded of death. But that was the way she wanted it.
While her friends had sat glued in front of MTV, waiting for hours for their favourite music videos to come on, Ellen had ploughed through documentaries about killings and murderers. She’d cut out newspaper obituaries, articles about people who had died of unnatural causes. Horrible accidents. Things that moved her, that helped her to stop thinking about herself.
As a crime reporter, Ellen was forced to think about death on a daily basis. Her psychologist thought she should work in a different area, that she was obsessed by death. That she had to break the pattern. The psychologist maintained that she was ‘sleeping with the enemy’. She didn’t put it quite that way, but that was how Ellen interpreted it. In any event, it wasn’t healthy behaviour, she understood that much.
‘Ellen!’
The southern-Swedish dialect and deep voice cut through the air. A voice she knew far too well. Her heart started beating faster.
She looked up and reluctantly met his gaze.
‘Would you come here, please?’ he said, waving her over.
It was the first time he’d spoken to her since he became editor-in-chief. The first time he’d spoken to her since he dumped her without explanation a year ago.
Ellen got up from her desk and walked hesitantly through the newsroom, over to his desk. She cursed herself for being nervous, and tried to focus on where she was going by fastening her gaze on a fixed point among the flowers on the reception desk behind Jimmy.
The former editor was the only one on the news team who’d had his own office. Jimmy had chosen to move out onto the floor to be ‘one of the gang’. But that didn’t fool anyone. He was here to clean up. Everyone knew that. Better news stories would be created, money would be saved, and ratings would skyrocket. ‘The hatchet kid’ he was called now, having recently fired a large portion of the staff at a competing channel.
Ellen pulled the pencil from the knot of hair on top of her head and let her long, dark tresses fall down her back.
‘Hi. Good,’ he said, glancing quickly at her before directing his attention down at his MacBook again. ‘I just need to send this email.’
Jimmy’s desk was bare except for a half-empty cup of coffee. Black. And an industry magazine with a picture of himself on the cover. No photos. Not a single personal item.
Just like her own desk.
Her mouth felt dry.
She carefully studied his profile as he tapped away on the computer. She’d always had a weakness for men with big noses. He had high, pronounced cheekbones, and his dark hair was cut short.
‘There now. I’m sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, smiling.
His self-confident tone contrasted starkly with how uncertain she felt.
‘Listen, what’s your relationship with the police like?’ he asked, leaning back in his chair.
‘Good. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, you’re a crime reporter, right?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, confused.
Jimmy pulled his hand through his hair, cast a glance at the computer, and then looked back at her. ‘What do you know about the missing girl?’
‘What?’ Ellen recoiled as if the words had burned her.
Jimmy pointed at an email open on his computer.
Even though her whole body resisted, she leaned down to read: Eight-year-old girl missing without a trace …
The letters all seemed to flow together.
‘This is exactly what our viewers get turned on by. “Missing pretty-girl syndrome”, you know. It couldn’t have come at a better time.’ He slapped his hand down on the desk as if he’d just hit the jackpot.
Ellen blinked a few times, trying to focus.
Jimmy continued. ‘We need this type of material. Personal. Something that’s emotionally moving. We can’t just report on the overall picture. We have to make it specific. Do you understand? Make the viewers feel something.’
She was feeling something alright. It had hit her right in the gut. And her hands were tingling like they were being pricked with tiny needles.
‘She disappeared from the Royal Tennis Hall today. Just this afternoon. We have to get going. I want you to —’
Ellen shook her head. ‘This happened today?’
‘Yes, this afternoon.’
Ellen arched her shoulders back and attempted to take a deep breath, but the pressure in her chest pushed back. ‘Have you seen a picture of her?’ she asked, letting her anger take hold.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you called it “missing pretty-girl syndrome”. Is she cute, or what?’
Jimmy rolled his chair back. ‘I assume you understand what I mean,’ he said, standing up. ‘It’s an expression.’
‘Yes, I know. Believe me. Or perhaps it should be the “missing white-girl syndrome”. Because she is white, right? I assume you’ve already checked that.’ She tried to slow her breathing.
Instead of answering, he picked his laptop bag up from the floor.
‘Do you hope something really awful happened to her, too?’ Ellen couldn’t calm herself down. ‘That she’s been raped? Or maybe that she’s drowned? The very best would be if she were found all cut up. The more pieces, the juicier. Do you get that this is an eight-year-old girl we’re talking about?’
Jimmy looked around. When he realised that the whole floor was listening, he lowered his voice.
‘You’ll have to check on that. I want us to be on this from the beginning.’ He closed his computer.
‘From the beginning —’
‘Yes. From the beginning,’ he said, turning toward her. ‘And listen, I want you to check your police contacts — as a crime reporter, you should already be on top of this.’
She wiped the sweat from her forehead. ‘But this isn’t something for the TV4 news …’ He couldn’t come in here and tell her how she should do her job. ‘Maybe you think you’ve started working for the tabloids, but —’
‘No, you’re right about that,’ he interrupted her. ‘This isn’t news. Yet. But it may be, and then I want us to be first to the ball. We can’t afford to wait around and report on events after everyone else. Create the news.’ He put his computer into the laptop bag.
Now the needles were pricking all over her body. Ellen knew exactly what was happening.
‘So what do we do if she’s not pretty enough?’ she demanded.
‘Come on. If it doesn’t suit you, I’ll ask someone else to take it.’
Jimmy tucked his bag under his arm and then looked at her wearily. ‘I just thought that —’
‘I’ll do it,’ she interrupted.
‘Good.’ Jimmy was already on his way toward the lifts.
‘Death, death, death,’ she whispered to herself when he was out of earshot.
But it was already too late. The panic was growing inside her.
ELLEN
8.40 P.M.
The little girl was eight years old. Just like Elsa had been.
Ellen opened her eyes. Blinked several times. It was warm. She pulled off her jacket. The ventilation system roared in her ears. The ground under her rocked, and she had to grasp the edge of the sink to keep from falling.
‘Death. Death. Death,’ she whispered, like a chant. Her chest ached so badly she could barely breathe.
Someone rattled the door handle.
Ellen turned on the tap as far as it would go, then leaned over, cupped the water in her hands, and rinsed her face.
‘Are you okay in there?’
‘Absolutely,’ she called out, trying to make her voice sound normal. She looked at herself in the mirror, but quickly turned her eyes away.
Breathe, Ellen. Try to breathe.
‘Hello?’
‘Yes, just a second!’ She bit her lip and gripped the sink edge
with both hands. The water still gushed from the tap. She turned it off and reached for a paper towel to dry herself with.
Death, death, death. The latest in a series of psychologists had suggested chanting a specific phrase to ward off the anxiety before it could take over. At first, Ellen thought it sounded silly, but had decided to try it. She’d read somewhere that Astrid Lindgren always started conversations with her sisters with just those words, to overcome their anxiety. So, Ellen chose to repeat the word that frightened her most, summoning the memories she wanted to erase, but couldn’t. A sorrow and a loss that were just as definitive as death itself. And sometimes it actually worked.
She touched the door handle, but then stopped herself. She frantically snapped her fingers, in a final attempt to trick her brain.
She had to pull herself together; she couldn’t stay in here any longer. With shaky hands, she unlocked the door.
‘There are other toilets in this building,’ she said, striding past her colleague and over to her desk.
She felt as though everyone was staring at her. She wanted to go home, take off her clothes, and crawl into bed. Pull the covers over her head and shut down — but that was the last thing she could do.
Her hand was still shaking when she picked up her mobile and dialled Ove’s number.
‘Why haven’t I heard about the girl who disappeared from the tennis courts?’ She didn’t bother with the small talk.
Ove laughed down the phone.
‘Now, I don’t understand: since when did you become interested in runaway kids? Is there a news drought, even with all this rain, or what?’
She could hear how happy he was with his little joke.
Ellen went into the empty conference room so she could talk undisturbed.
‘I’m the one who decides whether it’s newsworthy or not.’
Ellen and Ove had an agreement. Ove was the media spokesman for the police, and had information about almost everything that took place within the ranks. All journalists had their informants. It was just the way it worked. It wasn’t something Ellen was proud of, just a necessary evil. And Ove’s part in the deal was to make sure she received all the relevant tips.
It actually wasn’t so strange that Ove hadn’t called her. It was more common for people to disappear than one might think, and when there was no crime involved, it would seldom come to the attention of the media. If a disappearance was reported to TV4, they usually waited until they knew that there was a crime behind it and that there would be general interest in reporting on it. But these were different times now, with Jimmy in charge.