Never Coming Back: A Novel
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A harrowing and unforgettable thriller that has taken Sweden and Britain by storm―a twisted plot of revenge and tragedy by a writer whose edgy and gritty style evokes Henning Mankell and Hakan Nesser
Mike Zetterberg lives with his wife Ylva and their daughter in a house just outside Helsingborg in Sweden. One evening, Ylva doesn't come home as expected. Mike passes it off as a drink with a work friend, but when she's still missing the next day, he starts to worry. As Mike battles suspicion from the police and his own despair, he is unaware that Ylva is still alive, just a stone's throw from his own home: Ylva has been drawn into a twisted plot of revenge that leads back into her and her abductors' shared past.
Given the sudden and mysterious circumstances of her disappearance, Mike becomes the chief suspect. But what no one knows is that she's being held hostage in the cellar of the house across the street. A secret camera has been set up in her own home so that Ylva can only watch her family on the screen. They cannot see her―and they most certainly cannot hear her scream.
This superbly-told tale of horrific tragedy and brutal revenge now makes its American debut in paperback.
the door on shaky legs, pushed down the door handle and pulled. It was locked. There was a peephole in the door. Ylva tried to look through it, but realised it was fitted the other way round. So that they could look in from outside. She kicked the door but just hurt her foot and so started to hit it with the flats of her hands in the hope that the sound might be audible on the other side. She stopped to listen for footsteps, but only heard her own sobs. She ended up banging on the door
hasn’t come home, so she obviously didn’t.’ ‘No.’ ‘No what?’ ‘No, she can’t have gone home,’ Nour said. ‘Do you know where she is?’ Mike asked. ‘You don’t need to say anything to me, all I’m asking you to do is to ring her and get her to contact me. She just needs to let me know she’s okay.’ ‘Look, she said she was going home.’ ‘Okay, okay.’ ‘I promise, I don’t know anything,’ Nour exclaimed. ‘What time is it?’ ‘Nearly ten.’ ‘It’s early yet. She’ll come home. Maybe she met some friends
motorbike. What next? An electric guitar? If you had any idea of what I’ve gone through, what Sanna and I have to face every day, you wouldn’t say that sort of thing, you miserable bastards.’ Virginia sat there without saying a thing and stared at the table. Lennart made another attempt to get the upper hand. ‘Mike, for Christ’s sake.’ ‘Just shut up. You haven’t got the balls.’ Mike slammed the door behind him. He ran up the steps to Ankerliden and carried on towards Bäckavägen. He walked
for her sexual services. She had done more than was expected of her and had really got into it. Gösta hadn’t complained about anything. Ylva looked at the screen. It was light outside and Mike’s car wasn’t in the driveway. She guessed it was a weekday. Two hard knocks on the door. Ylva stood up on shaky legs and put her hands on her head. She was dizzy and felt her body swaying. To pass the time on the dark days, she had lain under the covers and hummed children’s songs, over and over again up
defined themselves. But it was quite a leap from there to believing that you could play with life and death … Calle went to the front to speak to the bus driver. ‘Excuse me, a quick question. How do I get to Hittarp?’ ‘Well, you take the 219,’ the driver said with a thick Skåne dialect. ‘And where does that go from?’ ‘Well, you’re on it.’ ‘So this bus goes to Hittarp?’ ‘Well, either that or it’s not the 219.’ Calle didn’t understand. Was the bus driver taking the piss? ‘So you go to