ICEHOTEL (25 page)

‘The Icehotel.’

Her smile disappeared and fear shrouded her eyes, the same
fear I’d seen on Karin’s and Marita’s faces. The news of Wilson’s death had
spread. And the rumours about the hotel killer, no doubt fuelled by the recent
murder in Stockholm. Was she afraid the Icehotel would close down and she’d be
out of a job? Or was it something else . . .

I gathered the parcels and left.

The sun was close to setting, but it was still light, and
the air was sharp with the smell of woodsmoke. I heard a faint sound and,
thinking it might be geese, peered into the sky. The sound grew louder before I
recognised it as the barking of dogs. The husky sledges were out on the river.
Mike would be with them.

The dying sun was gilding the rooftops, and the landscape
shimmered in soft apricot-rose light. I reached the Excelsior and took the path
at the side of the Chapel towards the river.
The
ice-harvesting machines had finished for the day, but the skiers still out were
calling to each other as they zigzagged to the bank. The sky, streaked
blood-orange and crimson, threw its burning reflection onto the ice. I watched
the colours deepen as the sun sank to the horizon, then retraced my steps.

In front of the Chapel, I saw a slim red-suited figure. Liz
was teetering in the snow, holding her arms out like a tightrope walker. Unable
to keep her balance, she sank into a drift and fell heavily.

‘Mags,’ she said in surprise, her face white against the red
hood. ‘I didn’t expect you back so early.’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘This
snow’s absolutely marvellous, isn’t it? Just like powder. Do you remember those
snowball fights we used to have?’

I grinned. ‘I always came off badly. No hand-eye
co-ordination.’

‘So how were the huskies?’

‘I went shopping instead. I’ve bought some fabulous things
for the twins. But I’ll tell you inside. If I don’t get out of this cold, I’ll
collapse.’

She started to shiver uncontrollably, and wrapped her arms
around herself.

‘Your hands are blue, Liz,’ I said, frowning.

‘It’s not my hands I’m worried about. My backside’s frozen
solid.’

I laughed. ‘Now, there’s an image.’

She rubbed her hands down the sides of her suit.

‘Harry told me you were taking a nap,’ I said. ‘How are you
feeling now?’

‘Wonderful. You really can’t overestimate the restorative
powers of sleep.’ She looked beyond me, at the sunset. ‘You know, this sky is
absolutely glorious, isn’t it? I’ve never seen such colours. It’s the sort of
thing Turner would paint.’

‘Never mind the sunset. Think hot chocolate and rum.’ I took
her arm and steered her towards the Excelsior.

She stopped at the Chapel door. ‘Oh, let’s just take a quick
peek inside, Mags. The light will be streaming in through that big window.
It’ll be absolutely amazing.’

I had to smile; for all her sneering about auroras, Liz had
her romantic streak. ‘Five minutes,’ I said, ‘and then we’re out of here.’

She pulled the antlers. The door swung open smoothly.

As I stepped in behind her, a movement to the right caught
my eye and, for an instant, I thought I saw someone disappear behind a column.
I was about to call out when a strangled noise made me turn. Liz had stopped
dead. She was trembling, staring at the far end of the Chapel.

I looked along the nave.

Two figures were lying near the altar. One was curled in a
grotesque foetal position, the other sprawled, arms outstretched as though
crucified. They, and the ground beneath them, were soaked in blood.

I backed towards the door, colliding with Liz. She was
rooted, shaking convulsively, her breathing laboured. I gripped her arm, unable
to tear my eyes from the figures. We had to get out of there.

I was groping for the handle when I heard a sudden gurgling
from the altar. I pushed past Liz and bolted down the nave.

I’d been
mistaken. There
was only one body. The curled figure was a crumpled red snowsuit. I touched it
gingerly with my boot, then pushed it over, exposing the bloody ski mask and
gloves underneath.

I took a deep breath and turned to the figure spreadeagled
by the pulpit. F
rom the build, it looked like a
man. Bile surged into my mouth and I gagged
uncontrollably. Someone had hacked at
his head so brutally his features
were unrecognisable.

Deep gashes scored his face, the lips of the wounds already
swelling. His nose had been sliced off, and his jaw so badly crushed that most
of the lower teeth were missing. One eye was a pulpy mess, the other stared,
unblinking. H
is chest had been slashed open, exposing
part of the ribcage, the bone pink-white and smooth. Grey intestines, like
giant sausages, coiled through a deep cleft in his abdomen. Between his legs
was a yellow-brown stain.

The altar and pulpit were smeared with great splashes of
red, like some monstrous work of art. Blood trickled down into the snow,
mingling with the spattered flesh and splinters of bone.

A loud retching came from behind me. Liz was facing the
wall, one hand on it for support. She was vomiting violently.

Suddenly, the man began to twitch. It was as though an
electric current were passing through his body. The spasms grew more frequent,
becoming so severe that at one point he jerked clear of the ground. I moved in
closer and forced myself to look, seeing what I’d missed earlier: the ice-axe, its
tip clotted with flesh and hair. I fell to my knees, gasping for breath, my
mind unravelling. It was then that I became aware of the sweet heavy stench,
like the inside of a butcher’s shop. And overlaid with something else – the
smell of fear.

His strength was failing, and his groans had dwindled to a
soft keening. A stream of bloody bubbles was oozing from the gash that had been
his mouth. Steeling myself, I put my ear close to his face and strained to
listen.

The blue woollen hat was lying at an angle across his
forehead. Strangely anguished by this indignity, I reached across to straighten
it.

Then
I saw his hair.

The shock was so great that I buckled as though I’d been
punched in the stomach. The salt-and-pepper colour and cowlick were
unmistakable. It was Harry. Harry had been hacked to pieces. Harry was dying in
front of me. Darkness closed around me and I fell face downwards.

Harry drummed his heels, furiously at first, then more
slowly, until, finally, he lay still. I marshalled what was left of my strength
and crawled behind his head. Kneeling in the melting snow, I cradled him, my
keening joining his, and watched his lifeblood seep away.

I rocked back and forth, gazing at the scattered parcels, my
body growing cold along with Harry’s. A
sudden breath
of wind blew through the rose window and stirred the neatly-tied ribbons.

I felt strong arms prise my own from Harry’s body, and I was
lifted to my feet. I heard voices, first Swedish, then English. I was led away,
supported on either side. There were faces, Mike’s, Hallengren’s, a crowd in
the Excelsior gaping at me, a hot bath, Liz and another woman sponging me down,
Liz spooning something hot into my mouth, then gagging, unable to swallow.

I was dressed in a nightshirt and helped into bed. The woman
rolled back my sleeve and inserted a needle into my arm. The last thing I saw
before sinking into oblivion was her head close to mine, concern etched into
the lines of her face.

I drifted in and out of sleep. My
dreams were lurid. I was with Harry and Liz. We were on the ice, skating. But
something was wrong. We were skating too quickly. Whenever the blades cut into
the ice they made a sharp clicking sound, rhythmical, and hypnotic. It grew
louder.

I woke with a strange sense of guilt. Daylight was pouring
into the room. A woman sat in a chair next to the bed. She was knitting
something colourful, working quickly. Whenever she knitted a stitch, her
needles made a sharp clicking sound. It was rhythmical, and hypnotic.

I watched listlessly. My eyes started to close, but I made
myself stay awake because there was something I had to remember. I moved my
head.

The clicking stopped. ‘How are you feeling?’ the woman said
in a thick accent.

There was something familiar about her face. I’d seen it before,
that look of concern.

She smiled then, and memory returned with such force that I
couldn’t breathe. I pawed at the bedclothes in a frenzy. A second later, there
was a loud hissing, and something hard w
as pushed
over my
face. I took huge gulps, rasping as though I’d never take in
enough air until, gradually, the constriction in my throat loosened.

The woman removed the mask and put a hand to my forehead.
She spoke soothingly, running her fingers down my cheek, but I couldn’t
understand the words. Tears rolled down the sides of my face and into my ears.
She spoke again, and her expression changed from sympathy to regret. I turned
away and, lying on my side, cried as I hadn’t since I was a
child. My breathing came in huge sobs, racking my body and
giving me hiccups. From somewhere far away, I heard the
door open and
close.

I turned to the woman. Hallengren was sitting in the chair.
He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped loosely.

‘Shall I come back later?’ he said softly.

I shook my head. I didn’t want him to leave. I wanted him to
tell me it was a horrible mistake, and Harry was alive.

He went to the bathroom, and I heard a tap being run. He
re-appeared with a glass of water and handed it to me without a word. I
struggled to a sitting position and, cupping the glass in both hands, drank
greedily, spilling water down my nightshirt. I held out the glass.

‘More?’ he said.

I nodded.

Along with the water, he brought a wet towel. I rubbed it
over my face, feeling the welcome coldness against my hot sore eyes.

‘Miss Stewart,’ he said, resuming his seat, ‘I would like to
ask you some questions about yesterday. Do you feel up to it?’

‘Yesterday?’ I said vaguely.

‘Today is Saturday. You were given a sedative and slept
through the night.’ He spoke with his usual slowness. ‘I need you to tell me
what happened in the Chapel.’

The Chapel. I remembered his face as I was being led away.
Surely he’d know everything. What else could I tell him? ‘But hasn’t Liz – ’

‘Miss Hallam has given us a statement, but I need you to
fill in the gaps,’ he said gently. ‘She told us she met you outside the Chapel.
Where were you before that?’

‘In the morning – ’

‘I know where everyone was in the morning. Where were you
after lunch?’

‘I went to the spa.’

‘And afterwards?’ He was writing.

‘I went to that shop.’ I ran a hand across my eyes. ‘The one
on the way to the church.’ I saw again the parcels and ribbons, reddening in
the dying light, and drew in my breath sharply.

He glanced up. ‘Please go on,’ he said, after a pause.

‘Then I went back to the Excelsior. Liz was there on the
path.’

‘What time would this have been?’

‘I don’t know, the sun was setting. Liz might know what time
it was.’ I felt a great heaviness press against my eyes. ‘She can tell you the
rest.’ I turned away, letting my eyelids droop.

‘Miss Stewart, I will have to insist that you answer my
questions.’ The soothing tone had gone. ‘Your friend was killed with an
ice-axe. You were the last person to see him alive.’

I stared at him with deepening dislike.

‘Miss Hallam told us that she remained at the back of the
Chapel and it was you who went up to the altar. Is that correct?’

I nodded.

He spoke more softly. ‘Was Professor Auchinleck alive when
you reached him? Miss Hallam could not confirm it. If we could establish that,
it would help us greatly.’

‘He was alive when we came in.’

‘And did he say anything to you? I know it is painful to
think about it, but can you remember?’

I could remember. That keening would stay with me till I
died. ‘Harry said nothing. I don’t think’ – I closed my eyes – ‘that he was
capable of speaking.’

After a long silence, Hallengren said, ‘You and Professor
Auchinleck were close, I think. Were you lovers?’

‘What damn business is it of yours?’

He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

‘Harry was gay,’ I said quietly.

‘Did he have any enemies, Miss Stewart? Anyone who might
have wanted to kill him? Anyone homophobic, perhaps?’

‘No-one I can think of.’

‘What about Mr Molloy?’

‘We met him for the first time a few days ago. But he and
Harry got on fantastically well.’

‘And Miss Hallam?’ His expression was unchanged.

I felt myself losing control. ‘My God, what are you
suggesting? Do you think Liz did this?’

He was watching me closely.

‘Look, Harry was a wonderful man. Everyone liked him.’ I
felt the tears welling, but I was determined not to cry in front of Hallengren
again.

He put the notebook away, and walked to the window. The
light from the snow-covered landscape whitened his skin, making him look ill.

‘Inspector.’

He turned his head.

‘Do you have any idea who did this?’

He gazed out of the window again. ‘No, Miss Stewart.’

‘There’s been talk about a hotel killer. We saw a news flash
at the airport.’

He returned to the chair. ‘It does not surprise me. It has
been widely reported.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Every time there is a death in a
Swedish hotel, even from natural causes, someone resurrects the Stockholm hotel
killer. It does not help that a tourist was found dead last Saturday. That is
what the news flash would have been about.’

‘Yes, the American.’

‘So you have read about it. Initially, we did not suspect –
how do you say it? – foul play.’