by Mikaela Bley
When she comes back, her daughter is gone. The only trace to be found of her is a mitten.
Exactly as Ellen remembered it. The mitten.
She continued skimming through the book.
There was a lot that had been suspect about that story. Why did the mother leave the girl and not take her with her, back to the apartment? There was no logic to it. Ellen thought about Lycke and tennis practice. Her parents surely would have considered the rain, since Lycke was going to be playing on the outdoor courts? But what did Ellen know about how stressful it was for parents of a young child? Still, she thought, it was strange.
Furthermore, the mother in the South Carolina case had called the police saying that her daughter had been kidnapped. The police had reacted to her choice of words. Why had that been her first thought?
After several days, a package was sent to the mother containing the other mitten, with no return address.
Ellen eagerly read on, and soon came to what she had been looking for.
If Lycke’s disappearance did involve a kidnapping, the perpetrators ought to have been more careful. If kidnappers had been after the child, they normally would have taken pains to leave as few clues as possible behind them. If they’d wanted money, they should have sent a ransom note immediately. It was all just logical. But then why leave the backpack behind?
She kept reading.
‘When someone intentionally leaves a clue behind, it is usually a sign of death.’
Death.
Either by accident or design. In South Carolina, the kidnapping had been a way to mask the death. After a while, the mother had confessed. She had killed her own child.
Ellen took a few deep breaths. She had tried to get hold of Lycke’s parents all day, but with no success. Either they weren’t answering or they didn’t have their phones turned on. She didn’t want to knock on their door. This was partly because she wasn’t that kind of journalist —she could have easily worked for one of the tabloids, if she were — but also partly because she knew how terrible things must be for the parents right now.
Could it be that someone had randomly picked up Lycke and unintentionally killed her?
Could it have been an accident?
She scanned through the newspapers until she found the articles about Lycke and then dug around for pins and a pair of scissors in the junk drawer in the kitchen. She cut out the picture of Lycke and put it up on the wall behind the couch.
Then she went into the bedroom. Getting down on all fours, she pulled the books out of the bookcase on the left-hand side of the bed.
The box was far in at the back, and she had to dig deep with her hand to reach it. She hadn’t touched it since she moved in here, at Skeppsbron.
She brushed the dust off the top, hesitating a moment before opening it.
First she saw the necklace, and then a photo.
Her hands were shaking as she put the necklace on, making it hard to work the clasp. The photo she took with her out to the living room and placed it right underneath the picture of Lycke.
She stood for a long time, looking at the wall. Her eyes filled with tears and she had to look away.
What the hell am I doing? she thought. Death, death, death.
It didn’t help.
In pure desperation, she took out her mobile and called Ove; it didn’t matter what time it was. She had to get hold of Lycke’s mother. She didn’t like it, but this seemed like the only way.
SUNDAY, 25 MAY
HELENA
9.00 A.M.
It was like in a movie. Or just like on TV.
Helena slowly drew her arm across the bright-red leather couch, her gaze wandering between the various TV screens that surrounded her in the green room. It felt completely unreal to her that she would soon be sitting there in the studio, talking with Tilde de Paula.
The topic for Sunday’s Morning News was Mother’s Day, and in the studio Leila was baking pastel-coloured tarts for all the wonderful mums out there all over the country, each and every one deserving a fresh-baked tart as thanks for all they’d done for their children during the year. A creamy tart for all the perfect mothers who had never lost their patience, were always there for their kids no matter how bad they might be feeling. The ones who always put the children first, above themselves. The ones who never skipped teeth brushing or forgot to administer vitamin D, the ones who sat and helped with the homework every night. The ones who never screamed. Or lost their children.
Helena breathed slowly and shifted her gaze to the breakfast buffet that was laid out in the room. Even though she’d hardly eaten since last Friday, nothing looked enticing, despite there being everything from strawberries to croissants, and all the other things she usually liked.
The walls were painted black. It wasn’t at all as glamorous as she’d imagined a TV station would be. Just like having children, she thought, although that wasn’t something you talked about. Having children was synonymous with happiness, love, and euphoria. For everyone. For everyone but Helena. Expectations don’t match reality, she tried to console herself.
A man wearing a headset rushed past, stopping abruptly in front of one of the screens at the far end of the room.
‘Come on, Leila, give the spatula a little lick now. Smile that gorgeous smile as only you can,’ he said, punching his fist into his hand.
Helena glanced toward the screen closest to her, and the TV chef’s puppy-dog eyes looked back at her.
She looked away. On the table in front of her were today’s newspapers. Bold headlines called out Lycke’s name, and on the front page of one of the papers was a big photo of her. Helena turned the paper over.
She’d already read what the newspapers had to say. She didn’t really want to read what was in them, but had felt compelled. If she didn’t, she would’ve been left completely in the dark; the police had been terrible at keeping her informed.
She started to feel itchy. She tried to resist scratching.
That Ove fellow at the police department had informed her of a blog that had been written, saying she had acted coldly at the press conference yesterday. Ove had told her he thought it would be a good idea for her to appear on Morning News today to convey a different image to the public.
Who has the right to judge me? she thought, her cheeks burning with anger.
It was unfair. The worry and sorrow — they did exactly what they wanted to her; it was completely out of her control. She couldn’t show her feelings on command, yet they were impossible to hold back. Above all, she had no desire to share her feelings. Not with anyone. What did the author of that blog know about her, really? Nothing. Was it because she was a mother that everyone expected her to break down? That she wouldn’t be capable of maintaining control?
Harald on the other hand. He had been lauded after yesterday’s press conference. He was the dad, after all, and they clearly had quite different expectations for him.
Should I really be doing this? she thought. Is it wise?
She had to pee again, even though she’d already been to the bathroom twice in the past half hour. She resisted the urge, and popped a stick of nicotine gum in her mouth.
On the couch across from her, an older gentleman sat with a large parrot on his shoulder. He greeted her briefly before he began talking with his bird.
It felt like she’d ended up in some sort of parallel universe.
Peppe Eng swept past them and took a croissant from the breakfast buffet. He didn’t seem to notice there was a bird in the room. That was probably everyday fare for him.
Perhaps more remarkable was her presence here.
Helena looked at the clock. She couldn’t hold it any longer, and got up to go to the restroom.
‘Hang on. Where are you off to? It’s time for the news in just a few minutes, and then you’re going in.’
It was the man with the headset who’d stopped her.
‘I have to put a body-mike on you.’ He approached her, taking out a small microphone and a box, which he then attached to the back of her trousers.
‘But —’
‘Don’t worry, this will be fine. Is it okay if I adjust it a little when I attach the microphone?’
He didn’t wait for an answer, but instead rolled up her blouse.
She didn’t dare protest. His breath testified to far too many cups of coffee having been consumed. She tried to breathe through her mouth, to keep the nausea at bay. What if she threw up?
In the background she could hear that the news was starting. She saw a picture of Lycke come up on the screen. She closed her eyes.
‘There you go. Now follow me.’
They went up a staircase and then down another. She had a hard time figuring out where she was.
He stopped at a large opening that looked like a garage door. Over it, a red light was on. ‘On air’.
‘Okay, quiet now,’ he ordered her, carefully opening the door.
They went into a room resembling a dark hangar. Black pieces of fabric were hanging along the walls, and the floor was strewn with tangled cables. Helena did her best to step over them. Further on, the studio was lit up like a mirage.
The man put out a hand to stop her. She heard Tilde’s voice.
‘Next we’ll talk about Lycke, the girl who disappeared from her tennis lesson last Friday. She has been missing, without a trace, for almost forty-eight hours and —’
Helena wished she’d had time to visit the bathroom.
‘Lycke’s mother, Helena, will be here to talk about these frightful days. A pregnant Carolina Gynning will also be on the show to tell us about her experience with breastfeeding, and much more. We’ll be back soon.’
‘Commercial,’ the studio man said, waving her ahead.
Breathe, she told herself, pushing her hair back.
‘Okay, you can go in and sit down at the table across from Tilde,’ he said, pointing to the empty chair.
Tilde stood up and greeted her. Helena’s hands were shaking, and she fought to control it, hoping it wouldn’t be noticeable.
Tilde gave her a friendly smile. Someone counted the numbers down. Helena could not see who, as the bright lights were blinding her.
‘Three, two, one.’
Tilde spoke into the camera. ‘It has now been two days since the unthinkable happened. Lycke disappeared without a trace from her tennis lesson here in central Stockholm. Her mother, Helena Engström, is here today to tell us about these awful days and about the search for her daughter. It’s awful. You feel for the family and all their relatives, of course. And as a mother myself, I get worried about what’s happening out there. We’ve asked our reporter Ellen Tamm to ask a few questions of parents in the city.’
Helena looked at a little screen next to them. She recognised the reporter. They were talking about her daughter. Around town, people were talking about her daughter. Strangers.
She took a gulp of water from the glass in front of her and saw on the screen how the camera zoomed in on her face. She stiffened.
‘Welcome to the program, Helena. Lycke’s mother.’
Where should she look? At Tilde, or into the camera?
‘How are you feeling?’ Tilde asked.
‘Yes, well. What can I say? These last few days have been horrifying. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy to have to go through anything like it.’
Tilde nodded, as if she understood. But how could she? No one could understand.
Helena continued. ‘There is nothing we can do except search. But where? Every minute feels like an hour, and you just wonder when this nightmare will end, and at the same time you’re afraid that it will end, and that things could become even worse if it does.’
She pulled on her shirt sleeves and her body simultaneously started to itch all over.
‘Somewhere out there is someone who knows where my Lycke is, and I beg you, give her back to us. Please.’
She looked into the camera as she said it. It felt the most natural. But the rest — did it sound rehearsed?
Her pulse quickened, and her arms were itching something terrible now.
‘Heartfelt words,’ Tilde said. ‘Feel free to go to Twitter — hashtag ‘theLyckecase’ — and comment, leave tips, and so on …’ She turned back to Helena. ‘You ask for someone to give her back. What makes you think someone has taken her? Has anyone been stalking you? Or have you felt threatened?’
Helena couldn’t take any more. Why had she agreed to go along with this? She just wanted to run out of there. Go home. Lock the door. But instead she continued on, like a machine.
‘It’s the police who think this is an abduction. Have we felt threatened? It feels strange to think of it. The police have asked that question, too. The very thought makes me shiver, but I can’t think of anything that suggests that. If we knew there was a risk, we never would have left her at tennis. But in your wildest imagination, you can’t imagine that something like this will happen.’
‘Lycke was staying with her dad during the week, because you’re divorced and have joint custody,’ said Tilde.
‘Yes, exactly.’
‘Has he seen or experienced anything out of the ordinary?’
‘No, not as far as I know. I think this could happen to anyone. Lycke was just unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘Do you think she’s still alive?’
That was a hard question to handle. Helena took a deep breath.
‘I really don’t know. I can’t bear to speculate. But I realise that we don’t have time on our side.’
Tilde looked evasively down at her script, before she went on.
‘But hope is the last thing we must give up, isn’t that so?’
‘The only thing I dare hope for is that whoever has her is taking care of her …’ Helena wiped her eyes. ‘All those things —’ she stumbled over the words ‘— that a mother worries about.’
‘Yes, I know exactly what you mean. I think there are many mothers, especially on a day like this, who truly feel for you and who can empathise with these emotions. Lycke disappeared on Friday — what have these past few days been like?’
No one can understand, thought Helena, taking another gulp of water before answering.
‘Terrible. I can’t even describe how awful it’s been. And still is. I can’t let go of the thought that maybe it’s going to get even worse. How will I be able to deal with that? How much should you be able to cope with? It’s like a nightmare that you can’t wake up from.’ She wiped tears from her cheeks with her hand.
A photo of Lycke was shown on the screen. Helena sat back and took the opportunity to wipe under her eyes and adjust her blouse.
‘Can you tell us a little about Lycke?’ Tilde asked.
‘She was, she is, an amazing little girl. She’s sweet — the sweetest in the world, as you can see from the picture. The day Lycke was born was the happiest day of my whole life. It was something I’d dreamt of for so many years, my whole life actually. That’s what the meaning of life should be. Becoming a mother.’
‘It’s an incredibly emotional experience listening to your story. I’m having a hard time holding back the tears. And yet you’ve been criticised for being cold.’
Helena sighed. ‘I read that, too. But how are you supposed to act? What does someone look like when they’re worried, when they haven’t slept? What image do you have of such a person? I don’t know how to comment on such criticism. Who decides how I should react? It’s my daughter we’re talking about, and I love her more than anything else.’
Tilde nodded.
‘What happens now?’
‘We’ll keep searching. We hope everyone keeps their eyes
open.’
‘Yes,’ said Tilde, looking into the camera. ‘If you’ve seen or heard anything, please call our tip hotline. Thanks for coming here and being able to share with us, Helena.’
Tilde smiled, and then looked into the camera again.
‘We’ll quickly change subject now. The superwoman, author, artist, movie star, model — yes, the list goes on and on, I get really envious …’
It was over. That was it. Helena felt completely empty.
ELLEN
9.30 A.M.
In front of the TV screens, in the dark of the control room, everyone was clapping their hands.
Everyone except Ellen. Unlike them, she had a hard time being happy about the channel’s success with the Lycke coverage.
When she saw the mother sitting there on Morning News, talking with Tilde, she’d felt ashamed that she’d convinced Ove to bring her here.
But she’d had no choice. She could only hope that Philip had done his part in make-up, so it would all have been worth it. She had to keep reminding herself that Ove had said that the mother had actually wanted to appear on Morning News, to undo the media and general public’s perception of her as cold and unmoved after yesterday’s press conference. Here, at least, she’d managed to show some emotion.
But there was something strange about it. Ellen thought over what she’d read yesterday about the mother who killed her daughter, and the mitten that had been left behind. Helena had talked about Lycke as if she no longer existed.
Ellen shuddered.
Jimmy was standing a short distance away. Their eyes met briefly, before she made herself look away.
There was something special about him. As soon as he entered a room, it was like there was an aura around him and everything else grew blurry. Almost like an image filter that automatically focused her gaze on him. How would she cope with having him nearby all the time?
One of the cameras was still covering Lycke’s mother.
The studio assistant was taking the body-mike off her, and she looked uncomfortable when he pulled the cords from under her blouse.