ICEHOTEL (30 page)

I hesitated. Denny’s photographs would be in this morning’s
edition of the Express. What was the point of giving him up? Hallengren would
find out soon enough. And I had a vague sense of guilt that I was the one who’d
planted the idea in Denny’s head. But I had to tell Hallengren something. ‘I
saw someone going into the Icehotel and decided to follow him.’ I tried to look
innocent.

‘Do you know who it was?’

‘I couldn’t really see his face,’ I said truthfully.

‘Height? Build?’

‘Short. And slightly built.’ If that didn’t identify Denny,
Hallengren should be back in Detective School.

‘Why did you follow him, Miss Stewart?’

It was a good question and one to which I had no good
answer.

He sat back, shaking his head slightly. ‘There is always
one.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘In every investigation. An amateur sleuth.’ He injected
irony into his voice. ‘Someone who wants to be Hercule Poirot.’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ I said, writhing inwardly.

‘No? Then how was it? Tell me, Miss Stewart.’

I looked away, unable to bear the disdain on his face.

‘I warned you against playing detective,’ he said, his voice
harsh. ‘And this is what happens when you ignore my warnings.’ He hesitated.
‘Were you not afraid to go into the Icehotel?’

‘Why should I be?’ I said, surprised.

‘A man died there, in a room close to yours. It would deter
many people.’

‘I think ghosts appear only to those who believe in them,
Inspector.’

The instant the words left my mouth, I understood with a
rush of clarity what I’d been seeing these past few days. In the Chapel, when
my fingers had brushed against the pulpit, I’d seen Harry’s corpse, his
lifeblood draining away. And Wilson’s face, the flesh decaying, had appeared
when I’d touched the Templar’s cheek. Wilson and Harry. Both murdered. It was
as though the ice had knowledge of the future, guarding that knowledge
patiently, yet releasing it at the merest touch of a human hand.

Hallengren
was watching me.
‘So how did you and this mystery man get inside the Icehotel? The front door
was sealed, and the seal has not been broken.’

This was not the time to be smug. ‘The side door from the
washroom was untaped,’ I said quietly.

He muttered in Swedish. Someone’s head was going to roll. I
wondered whether the culprit was Engqvist.

‘So you entered from the Locker Room,’ he said.

I nodded.

‘And then?’ He was writing.

‘I followed the person. He went into Wilson Bibby’s room.’

He frowned, but said nothing.

‘I saw flashes of light coming from under the curtain.’

‘Someone taking photographs?’

‘It seems the only explanation.’

He would realise it was one of the reporters, and make his
own investigations. And he’d see the photographs in the day’s papers. There was
no need to shop Denny.

‘Continue, Miss Stewart.’

‘He left by the back. At least, that’s what I assumed. He
went into the corridor that leads there.’

He glanced up. ‘So why did you also leave by the back? And
why were you running?’

‘Because someone was chasing me,’ I said, keeping my voice
steady.

‘With so much traffic in the Icehotel, I do not suppose you
managed to see his face either.’

‘I didn’t see his face, but he had an ice-axe.’

That got his attention. He stopped writing in mid-sentence.
He looked up sharply, his eyes boring into mine.

‘I stayed in my room until I thought the mystery man had
left the Icehotel. But someone came in. It was pitch black, but he was there. I
heard him.’ I stopped as the memory returned. A knot formed in the pit of my
stomach.

‘Go on,’ he said softly.

‘I ran out and hid in the next room, the one with the statue
of Pan. I don’t know why, I just panicked. But he followed me in.’

‘That room has a ceiling window.’ He leant forward. ‘Did you
see his face?’

‘He wore a ski mask. He was huge.’ I shuddered, remembering
how he’d swung the ice-axe casually, his fingers under the blade.

‘Was there anything unusual about him? Anything that might
identify him? Think hard, Miss Stewart.’

‘His snowsuit was black.’ I glanced at the suit at his feet.
‘Like yours. But that’s not going to help.’

‘Had you seen anyone follow you to the Icehotel?’

I shook my head.

‘And did this man see you?’

‘He saw me when I slipped out from behind the statue. I ran
out and somehow found the back door. I heard him coming. He called out before I
fell into the water.’ I closed my eyes, trying to control my breathing. ‘He was
right behind me – ’

Hallengren hesitated. ‘It may not have been him. One of the
people watching the aurora shouted to you to stop. He saw you running past the
blocks of ice and tried to warn you.’

My eyes flew open. ‘Then he must have seen this man.’

‘Everyone we questioned said they only saw you, running past
the Ice Theatre. They saw no-one else.’

‘Then maybe he ran away when he saw the crowd,’ I said
helplessly. ‘Or even joined them.’

‘It is possible.’ But he didn’t sound convinced.

I sat up, ignoring the bed sheet. ‘Look, why else would I be
running out of the Icehotel like a person demented?’

He said nothing.

‘I’m not making this up, Inspector.’

‘No, I do not think you are.’ He sounded tired, and spoke
more slowly than usual. ‘You have had a lucky escape, Miss Stewart. You were
wearing a thick snowsuit. It saved your life. At these temperatures, without
adequate insulation, immersion can be fatal. And your legs became entangled in
weeds. If there had not been people nearby, you would have drowned.’

I searched his face. ‘Someone was in the Icehotel with me,
Inspector. Do you believe me?’ If he told me he believed me, then everything
would be all right.

‘I believe you.’ He opened the notebook again. ‘Now, shall
we go through it once more, and in some detail?’

He listened, not interrupting. After I’d finished, he leant
back and looked at me.

‘Is this your first visit to Sweden, Miss Stewart?’ he said,
after a while.

I was surprised by the change of subject. ‘Yes, my first.’

‘Where do you normally take your vacation?’

‘I usually head south towards the sun. Coming here broke a
long tradition. Why do you ask?’

‘Just curious.’ His eyes drifted to my hair. ‘What sort of
things do you like to do on holiday?’

I turned the mug in my hands. ‘I’m a city girl. I love
poking around old Europe. You know, cathedrals, tram rides, coffee and cake.
Nothing too energetic, though. I’m unbelievably lazy.’

The corners of his mouth lifted.

‘I’m guessing you’re the opposite, Inspector. You mentioned
cross-country skiing.’ I glanced at his body. ‘I’d say you’re into hard sports.
I see you as an ice-climber.’

His smile widened. ‘Perceptive, Miss Stewart.’ His
expression softened. ‘So I take it that this location was not your idea?’

‘It was Harry’s. He suggested skiing, then Liz found this
place in the winter catalogue.’

He nodded, seeming in no hurry to leave.

‘Tell me something, Inspector. You’re surrounded by snow.
Don’t you get sick of it?’

‘Never. It is in my blood.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘But I
have been known to lie on a beach.’

‘That’s the kind of holiday Harry usually goes for. To
think, if we’d done that, he’d be alive now.’

A look of sadness passed across his face. ‘You know the
worst thing about losing someone?’

‘The grief,’ I said, without having to think.

‘Not grief.’ He refused to meet my eyes. ‘Guilt. You do not
feel that?’

‘You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?’ I said softly.

‘My parents died when I was a boy. I feel guilty that I no
longer remember them.’ After a pause, he said, ‘I am afraid, Miss Stewart, that
your grief will eventually turn to guilt.’ He got to his feet. ‘But enough
talk. You need to rest.’

He came to the bed, and pushed a strand of damp hair from my
face, brushing my cheek with his finger.
‘Your hair
is still wet, Miss Stewart.’ He turned away slowly.

‘Are you going?’ I said, watching him clamber into his
snowsuit. It was a stupid question, but I asked it anyway.

‘Would you feel safer if I posted an officer outside?’

I nodded, disappointed he wasn’t going to stay himself.

‘Very well.’ He drew on his gloves. ‘Now try to get some
sleep.’

He stared at me. Then he left.

I woke with a start. Someone had
drawn back the curtains and light was flooding into the room, daubing a wash of
brightness on the floor. Dust particles floated in the thin shafts,
disappearing whenever a cloud hid the sun, only to reappear and drift
aimlessly.

I peered
at the television:
it was 11.05am.

I showered quickly, running the water hot. I was towelling
my hair, when my glance fell on the white snowsuit lying over the back of the
chair . . .

I left my room, nearly falling over the young man sitting
dozing behind the door. He jumped up in surprise. Another giant. I took in his
blue uniform, and the array of coffee cups on the floor.

‘I’m going to the lounge,’ I said.

He nodded, rubbing his eyes.

I smiled. ‘Does this mean you can go?’

‘My orders were to stay till you left.’

‘You drew the short straw, then.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Just an expression. Thanks for looking after me.’

He smiled shyly. ‘It is my job.’

The lounge was empty. The barman was
standing whistling behind the counter, polishing glasses. After two attempts to
get his attention, I ordered coffee and a croissant and took them to the sofa
by the window.

I thought through the events of the previous week, trying to
make sense of them. Someone had killed Wilson Bibby. Someone had killed Harry.
And someone had tried to kill me. Were Wilson’s and Harry’s deaths related? And
was the person who’d killed Harry the same person who’d tried to kill me? There
was the ice-axe connection, but anyone could take an ice-axe from the
Activities Room. Two different people could have done it.

No-one had followed me to the Icehotel, so the black-suited
figure must have already been there. I’d surprised him and he felt he had to
kill me in case I could identify him. Yet what was he doing there? Was he
Wilson’s murderer come back to the scene of the crime? But why? To wipe out
clues? Then why would he be carrying an ice-axe? And he hadn’t run after Denny.
He’d run after me, as though he knew who I was under my hood.

I swirled the croissant in the coffee, watching the flakes
crumble off. If I hadn’t been lost in my thoughts, I’d have seen him come in. I
jumped when I heard the voice.

‘Miss Stewart.’ Hallengren had shaved and was in his
uniform. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’

‘Medium rare,’ I said, smiling.

He smiled back. ‘May I join you?’

I motioned to the chair opposite.

He turned his head and looked at the barman. A second later,
the barman hurried over with a double espresso.

Hallengren studied my face. ‘Did you get any sleep after I
left?’

‘A little.’

He nodded sympathetically.

‘Inspector, what’s happening here? Two people have been
murdered, and last night someone tried to kill me. Do you think it’s the same person?’

He lifted the cup to his lips. ‘It is possible that there is
more than one killer.’

‘
Okay
, but how do you make that out?’

He looked at me speculatively. ‘Have you wondered about the
different ways in which Wilson Bibby and Professor Auchinleck were killed?
Wilson’s murder was meticulously planned. Someone drugged him and waited till
the middle of the night to push him out of his sleeping bag. Harry was killed
with an ice-axe, during the day, in the Chapel where anyone could have walked
in. It could not have been less planned.’ He set down the cup. ‘In your
testimony you stated that Harry was alive when you found him. Given the nature
of his wounds, it means that the killer would have been close by, so – ’ He
looked hard at me, and his expression changed.

The killer would have been close by.

A shiver ran through my body. The killer had still been in
the Chapel. He could have butchered me too. And Liz. I watched helplessly as my
mug shook and coffee spilt onto the table.

Hallengren reached across and took the mug from my hands.
Then everything went black round the edges. I heard the table being pushed away
and a chair overturn with a clatter. A second later, he was on the sofa,
forcing my head between my knees. I swallowed repeatedly, willing myself not to
faint, staring at a spot on the carpet until my head cleared.

He pulled me up gently, leaving his arm around my shoulders.
His face was so close I could smell the coffee on his breath.

‘Are you all right?’ There was concern in his eyes.

‘I think so,’ I stammered.

The barman was fussing, pulling the chair upright, mopping
the spilt liquid. Hallengren looked at him and he slunk off.

‘Breathe deeply,’ he said, squeezing my shoulders
encouragingly.

The desire to lean against him was overwhelming.

‘You need more rest, Miss Stewart.’ He released me. ‘What
are you doing today?’

‘We’ve no plans, except for tonight. It’s Macbeth, in the
Ice Theatre. I saw the rehearsal but my mind wasn’t really on it, so I’d like
to see it again.’

The barman had brought more coffee.

‘I had forgotten,’ Hallengren said, spooning sugar into my
mug. ‘Shakespeare is always on a Sunday. Are you a fan of Shakespeare?’

I took the mug and sipped, wincing at the sweetness. ‘Isn’t
everyone?’

‘So which is your favourite?’ he said lightly.

‘Probably Hamlet. Or Julius Caesar.’