ICEHOTEL (34 page)

I clutched at the rails, listening to the echoes banging off
the walls. Cursing my clumsiness, I ran a hand over the step – the wood was
split. I’d had a lucky
escape. But, God, it was dark.
I couldn’t climb in this. If I hadn’t gone far, the smart thing would be to
turn back. But how far had I climbed?

A faint current of air brushed my face. I tilted my head and
felt it again, colder and stronger, an indication that I was near the top. I
counted the steps until my head hit something hard. I lifted a hand slowly. My
fingers scraped against rough wood. I pushed gently, raising the trapdoor
several inches, and was instantly chilled by a blast of cold air. I pushed
harder. The trapdoor swung back with a clatter.

The thick mantle of snow cloaking the landscape reflected
what light there was, silhouetting the platform and its surrounding wall. Above
my head was a curved metal contraption which must have held the bells in place.
Above that, there was a dilapidated stone roof, high enough not to obscure the
view of the sky. I clambered out, leaving the trapdoor open, and stationed
myself in a corner to wait for Liz. I peered over the wall. The white forest
stretched to the horizon, crowned by the dome of ink-black sky.

There was no sign of the aurora. I moved briskly around the
platform, beating my arms. Any minute now, and it would start. An hour had
passed since I’d left the Excelsior. So what had happened to Liz? Perhaps there
was a real crisis with Lucy. I felt a sudden twinge of guilt at not having
stayed.

I was searching the sky for signs of life when I heard the
faint sound. I leant over the trapdoor, holding my breath. Silence. I must have
imagined it.

Then I heard it again, louder. The door into the tower was
opening. A second later came the unmistakable thud of someone climbing the
steps. Liz had finally arrived. I let my breath out in a rush. Whatever was
wrong with Lucy, it wasn’t serious, thank goodness.

I’d need to warn Liz about the broken step. I shouted down
the tower, ‘Liz, can you hear me?’

There was no response.

I yelled at the top of my voice. ‘Liz!’

But Liz didn’t reply. She continued to climb the tower,
heavily, and with purpose.

I stepped back, my heart thudding. This wasn’t Liz, Liz
would have shouted back. And Liz was much lighter on her feet. Someone else was
coming to watch the aurora. Yet everyone was at Macbeth – the light from the
theatre was visible as a distant glow. So, who was it? And why hadn’t he
shouted back?

With a sudden rush of fear, I knew why.

I ran to the edge of the platform and, clinging to the
parapet, peered down. The tower fell away in a sheer drop.

I sank
to my knees, my
mind racing. I r
an my hands over the floor,
searching for something I could use a weapon. Nothing. Perhaps the trapdoor
could be locked from the outside. I felt around the latch, but there was no
bolt or key. And even if there had been, a few blows from an ice-axe would
splinter the wood in seconds.

The footsteps were close. Another minute and his head would
appear through the opening. I struggled to my feet, but my legs gave way.
Leaning against the parapet, I sank to the floor. I was sick with fear. I was
going to die, smashed to a pulp like Harry.

But not without a fight. I had one chance: if I kicked his
head hard enough, I could knock him off the steps. I crawled to the trapdoor,
hauled myself to my feet, and positioned myself where a well-placed boot in the
face would send him backwards. As I steadied myself, I heard something that
made my heart lurch – a splintering, followed by a high-pitched shriek that
scorched the air like the blast from a furnace.
The
screaming
went on forever, merging with its echoes, filling the tower
until there was nothing else. There was a sickening boom. Then silence,
quivering in the air like the skin of a drum.

I stumbled back and collapsed onto the platform. As I lay,
weak with shock, staring into blackness, the aurora burst onto the sky and
flooded the night with incandescence.

The cold seeped through my suit, chilling my body, and
bringing me to my senses. I dragged myself to my knees. After several attempts,
I lowered myself over the edge of the trapdoor and
started th
e climb down. M
y legs were like
jelly, and I clutched the rails so tightly that my hands hurt.
Speed was
impossible as a section of railing was missing. After passing the broken step –
I gave silent thanks that I’d counted – I went as quickly as I dared.

As I neared the ground, I paused to look over my shoulder.
In the
feeble candlelight, a
black heap lay
crumpled in the corner, pieces of broken railing around it. A sudden draught
from the door caused the candles to flare. They threw moving shadows over the
shape, making it writhe as if in agony. But he was dead. He had to be. No-one
could survive that fall. Yet, something was wrong. The figure was stirring. He
began to rise. Dear God, he was still alive . . .

I jumped the last few steps and
bolted for the
door, feeling glass crunch beneath my feet. The risen
figure leapt forward. He slammed the door shut, and I crashed into it, unable
to stop in time. Dazed, I grappled with the handle, but he threw his arms
around my body and held me in an iron grip so powerful he lifted me off my
feet. I struggled furiously, finding a strength I didn’t know I possessed,
kicking viciously at his shins. He loosened his grip, but I couldn’t shake him
off. Panic overwhelmed me and, filling my lungs, I screamed in pure animal
terror.

He relaxed his grip and wheeled me round to face him. But he
towered over me, and my chances of fighting him off were slim. In desperation,
I raised my fists and pummelled him about the head, sobbing, lacking the breath
to scream.

He grabbed my wrists and pulled them away. ‘Miss Stewart,’
he shouted. ‘It is me, Thomas Hallengren.’

I stopped struggling and peered up at him, but it was
impossible to see his face in the dark. He released his hold on my wrists and
drew back his hood.

My voice caught in my throat. ‘So it was you climbing the
tower?’

He turned and looked behind him. And I saw what I’d missed
earlier – he’d been crouching over someone.

‘The receptionist told me you were here. I came as quickly
as I could. I arrived in time to see him fall.’ He brought his face close to
mine. ‘It is over, Miss Stewart.’

I stared at the body. ‘Who is it?’ I said in a whisper.

He cast the beam of his torch onto the slumped figure.

The fall had twisted his body into an unnatural position.
The legs were crossed as though, even in death, he had a need to relieve
himself. One arm was trapped behind his back, the other stretched out, palm
upwards, in an attitude of supplication. His shoulders were propped against the
wall, the head lolling sideways at an obscene angle. Around him were pieces of
wood, and the glass shards from my torch, glinting like jewels in the uncertain
light.

Hallengren moved the torch and caught the face in the beam.
I stooped and looked into the staring eyes. Death had smoothed his features,
but I recognised him instantly.

Blood was spreading across the uneven floor. I watched it
gather in the grooves of the flagstones, realising, too late, that it was staining
the soles of my boots.

I was shaking violently.

In a second, Hallengren had his arms around me. I clutched
at him, burying my face in his chest, feeling his warmth wash through my suit
and into my body.

‘You are in shock, Miss Stewart,’ he murmured, rubbing my
back. He lifted my chin gently. ‘Can I leave you for a moment? I need to call
my men.’

I sat in a pew while he used his radio. He spoke softly,
staring up at the altarpiece. The call finished, he sat beside me and slipped
an arm around my shoulders.

‘Marcellus,’ I said. ‘But why?’

‘There will be time for explanations later, Miss Stewart.
But now, I need to take you away from here. My men will arrive in a few
minutes.’

I leant against him, trying to dispel the image of
Marcellus’s staring eyes from my mind. A loud creaking made me start: the front
door was opening.

Engqvist entered with several uniformed men. They hurried up
the nave, flashing their torches, their boots thudding on the wooden floor.
They and Hallengren huddled at the altar like conspirators, and the sing-song
of their Swedish voices echoed through the church.

Hallengren returned to the pew. ‘Engqvist will take over, so
we can leav
e. It is a bit of a walk to my car. We
have to go back to the road.’ He took my hands in his. ‘We will go
to
Kiruna first, then I will take you back to the Excelsior.’

Kiruna. Of course, Hallengren would need a statement.

He helped me to my feet, but my legs buckled. He caught me,
and half-carried me outside where we hobbled down the path to his car. He
settled me into the passenger seat and fastened the seat belt as though I were
a child.

As he started the engine, I turned to him, thinking of the
questions I badly wanted to ask.

He caught the movement. ‘It is a good half hour to the
police station, Miss Stewart. Try to get some sleep.’

I lay back and closed my eyes.
But sleep was impossible.

‘How are you feeling, Miss Stewart?’

We were entering Kiruna.

I sat up, and moved my head carefully, massaging away the
stiffness in my neck. ‘Bloody awful, to be honest.’

Hallengren stopped the vehicle outside the police station. I
swung my legs out and stepped onto the frozen ground, grabbing at the car door
so as not to slip. The weather had changed: l
eaden
clouds were forming,
the wind from the north
ballooning
them
like wet sheets. As we entered the
building
, snow was already falling.

At the front desk, Hallengren spoke in Swedish to the
uniformed policeman, who leapt to attention. The clock on the wall behind him
told me it was midnight.

We took the corridor to Hallengren’s office. He swiped a
keycard through the door’s security system, and stepped back to let me enter.

The office was as I remembered it, except for the maps
pinned to the notice board. I recognised the one on the left as the floor plan
of the Icehotel. On the whiteboard on the adjacent wall were scrawled Swedish
words, interconnected with lines. And names: Wilson Bibby, Harry Auchinleck,
Marcellus Bibby. My own.

He motioned to the chairs. ‘Please sit down, Miss Stewart.
The duty policeman is bringing coffee.’

He strode to the whiteboard and scribbled with a black felt
tip. I watched, studying his profile. He wrote quickly and confidently, pausing
once or twice to rub his chin.

There was a knock at the door. He called out in Swedish, but
continued to write. The policeman from reception entered with mugs and a pot of
coffee. He arranged them on the table, then straightened and waited. Seeing no
response from Hallengren, he left, throwing me a look of curiosity as he closed
the door. I sat patiently, but the smell of coffee defeated me. I reached for
the pot.

The movement made Hallengren turn.

He came over quickly and took the pot from my hands. ‘I do
apologise, Miss Stewart.’ He studied me for a moment, then produced a bottle of
brandy and two glasses from the filing cabinet. Setting the glasses aside, he
poured a shot into the mugs. ‘I think you need fortification after what you
have been through tonight,’ he said with a tilt of the head.

I could wait no longer. ‘Inspector, why did Marcellus try to
kill me?’

He cradled his mug, a half-smile on his face. ‘This is your
only question, Miss Stewart?’

‘I’ve others, but it’ll do for a start.’

‘You are owed a full explanation, I think. And what I tell
you will be in tomorrow’s press release.’ He perched on the edge of the table,
leg dangling, as he’d done that first day. ‘The final piece of the puzzle came
to us this afternoon, shortly before we arrested Mr Vandenberg.’

‘And Marcellus. You arrested him too.’

‘We put out a warrant, but we could not find him.’

I ran a hand over my face. My God, if I’d known that, there
was no way I’d have gone up that tower, with or without Liz. Anger simmered
inside me. ‘The receptionist at the Excelsior told Leo that Marcellus was
already in custody.’

‘He was mistaken.’

I stared at him. ‘Inspector, please will you tell me what
this is all about.’

‘We need to go back to the beginning. To well before
Wilson’s murder. It all hinges on Wilson’s diary, as we thought.’ He sipped
from his mug. ‘As you might expect, Wilson Bibby made a will. There was
provision for his wife, but the bulk of his fortune was left to his only son,
Marcellus.’

‘Marcellus told you this?’

‘We asked him about his father’s plans for his inheritance,
but he referred us to his lawyer. Mr Vandenberg arranged for a copy of the will
to be faxed through. He also gave us an indication of the sum that Marcellus would
inherit.’

‘I can imagine,’ I said with feeling.

‘I doubt that you can, Miss Stewart. Even we were surprised.
It gave Marcellus the strongest possible motive for murder. And made him our
prime suspect, non plus ultra. Now, this is where it becomes interesting,’ he
said, as though murders of millionaires by their sons were an everyday
occurrence in Kiruna. ‘We interrogated Aaron and Marcellus separately about the
final diary page. We asked them what was on it. Their answers were identical,
and predictable. Neither could remember, nor did they have a copy. We knew they
were lying, thanks to your information.’

‘Did you tell them how you came by this information?’ I said
in alarm.