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THE GILDED CAGE
Translated from the Swedish by Neil Smith
Camilla Lackberg
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Camilla Lackberg 2019
Published by agreement with Nordin Agency, Sweden
Translation copyright © Neil Smith 2019
Excerpt from Silver Tears © Camilla Lackberg 2020, English translation © Ian Giles 2020
Originally published in 2019 by Bokförlaget Forum, Sweden, as En bur av guld
Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover photographs © Miguel Sobreira/PlainPicture
Camilla Lackberg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008283728
Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008283742
Version: 2021-01-14
For Christina
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
PART 1
PART 2
PART 3
Keep Reading …
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Camilla Lackberg
About the Publisher
‘Couldn’t she just be injured?’ Faye said.
She looked down at the table, unable to meet their gaze.
A brief moment of hesitation. Then a sympathetic voice.
‘There’s an awful lot of blood. From such a small body. But I don’t want to speculate until a medical officer has made an evaluation.’
Faye nodded. Someone gave her a transparent plastic mug of water, she was shaking so much as she raised it to her lips that a few drops ran down her chin and dripped onto her blouse. The blonde policewoman with the kind blue eyes leaned forward and gave her a tissue to dry herself with.
She wiped herself slowly. The water was going to leave nasty blotches on the silk blouse. Not that it mattered any more.
‘There’s no doubt, then? None at all?’
The female police officer glanced at her colleague, then shook her head. She chose her words carefully:
‘Like I said, a doctor needs to reach a verdict based on the evidence at the crime scene. But as things stand, everything points towards the same explanation: that your ex-husband Jack has killed your daughter.’
Faye closed her eyes and stifled a sob.
Julienne was asleep at last. Her hair was spread out across the pink pillow. Her breathing was calm. Faye stroked her cheek, gently, so she wouldn’t wake her.
Jack was coming home from his business trip to London that evening. Or was it Hamburg? Faye couldn’t remember. He’d be tired and stressed when he got home, but she’d make sure he managed to relax properly.
She carefully closed the bedroom door, crept into the hall and checked that the front door was locked. Back in the kitchen she ran her hand along the worktop. Three metres of marble. Carrera, naturally. Unfortunately it was ridiculously impractical, the porous marble absorbed everything like a sponge and already had some ugly stains. But Jack had never even considered choosing something more practical. The kitchen in the apartment on Narvavägen had cost just shy of a million kronor, and absolutely no expense had been spared.
Faye reached for a bottle of Amarone and put a wineglass on the counter. The glass touching the marble, the glug as the wine poured – these sounds were the essence of her evenings at home when Jack was away. She poured the wine carefully so there wouldn’t be another red-wine spatter on the white marble, and closed her eyes as she raised the glass to her lips.
She dimmed the lighting, then went out into the hall where the black-and-white portraits of her, Julienne and Jack hung. They had been taken by Kate Gabor, the Crown Princess’s unofficial court photographer, who every year took a fresh set of enchanting photographs of the royal children playing in the autumn leaves in crisp white outfits. She and Jack had chosen to have their pictures taken in summer. They were standing by the shore in a relaxed, playful pose. Julienne between them, her fair hair lifted by the breeze. White clothes, obviously. She was wearing a simple cotton Armani dress, Jack a shirt
