ICEHOTEL (39 page)

‘From the lounge he could have have seen me go into
Activities Room. He could have grabbed a suit and followed me.’

‘And when you and Liz went into that town?’ She paused.
‘Kiruna?’

‘Mike hadn’t come, but he could have taken the next bus in.
He might have been the figure I’d seen tailing us, waiting for an opportunity
to kill me, or Liz, or both of us.’

‘Wasn’t that the policeman?’ she said vaguely.

‘A trained detective would know how to follow someone
without being seen.’

‘Wouldn’t he have seen Mike following you, and apprehended
him?’

I felt as though I’d been slapped in the face. ‘You don’t
believe me,’ I said, my voice quivering.

‘Maggie, please understand that I’m just working this
through. It’s not what I believe, but what you believe. I’m trying to
understand your thought processes.’

I nodded. ‘All right, Engqvist may have seen Mike, but
perhaps he was under orders not to detain him, just see what he was up to.’

She seemed satisfied. ‘Go on.’

‘Mike had been absent for much of the week. He said he’d
been in the gym, and perhaps he was telling the truth, perhaps he’d been
plotting his moves there.’ My head was spinning. It was obvious now. ‘To
establish his alibi, he could have sent Marcellus to the church by persuading him
I was his father’s killer.’

‘Marcellus’s climb up the tower was the most difficult thing
for the Inspector to explain,’ she said slowly.

‘And I’m convinced Mike had a hand in it somehow.’

When she spoke, her voice was guarded. ‘You know, Maggie,
Wilson’s death was painless, as painless as death can be, I suspect. If Mike
had killed Harry so brutally, Harry whom he seemed genuinely to like, then why
hadn’t he killed Wilson in a similar way? He had reason to hate the man, after
all.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said helplessly. ‘Wilson was rarely alone.
Marcellus was his bodyguard. Maybe Mike couldn’t find any other way.’

‘And the motive for killing Harry?’

‘There isn’t one. Psychopaths don’t need a motive,’ I added
defiantly. ‘And do you know what clinched it? It was Mike’s revelation that
he’d travelled to Stockholm several times last year, the year the killings at
the Maximilian took place.’ I picked at my nails. ‘When we arrived at the
Icehotel, he told us he’d just come from Stockholm. He said that, at the
weekend, he’d hooked up with a group of Yanks.’ I lifted my head wearily. ‘At
the weekend. A group of Yanks.’

Something passed across her face, a look of apprehension.
‘What are you saying?’

‘Don’t you see?’ I felt like screaming. ‘An American tourist
died the Saturday before. Hallengren said the death wasn’t accidental.’

‘The Saturday that Mike had been there?’

‘And he’s still going back and forth to Stockholm.’

‘Are the hotel murders continuing?’ she said slowly.

‘I’ve made a point of following the Swedish news.’ My eyes
held hers. ‘Each time Mike is away, there’s a death.’

She said nothing, but there was no mistaking the shock on
her face.

I ran a hand over my eyes. ‘The first time my suspicions
were raised was when Mike took Liz and me out to lunch. He mentioned he’d been
in Stockholm for the May Day celebrations.’ The restaurant was a tiny fish
place in Leith. There’d been nothing remarkable about the occasion, but when
Mike had mentioned Stockholm, it had struck a chord. After I’d returned home,
it was still vibrating. ‘I went online and scoured the newspapers,’ I went on.
‘There was an article, dated May 2nd, about a man bludgeoned to death in a Stockholm
hotel.’

Anxiety edged her voice. ‘You don’t think this could be a
co-incidence?’

I put even less stock in co-incidences, Miss Stewart.

I shook my head vehemently. ‘And whoever killed those people
in Stockholm, could have killed Harry. You didn’t see his body.’ I swallowed
rapidly. ‘Or the inside of that Chapel.’

When there was no response, I said in a tired voice, ‘You
think I’m imagining this, don’t you?’

‘Your fears are real, Maggie, and they are based on a form
of logic. Everything you say is plausible. You’re sane, if that’s what you want
to know. The question is, where do you think you should go from here?’

‘Where do
I
think?’ I said, with a gesture of
helplessness. ‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’

‘Your greatest fear is that the police got the wrong man,
and Harry’s murderer walked free.’

‘Is that a question?’

She smiled encouragingly. ‘It’s a beginning. We progress
from here.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, Maggie, we need to draw this
to a close. But this session is not over.’ She buzzed her secretary. ‘Caroline,
am I free tomorrow afternoon?’

‘You have a meeting with the minister,’ came Caroline’s
voice.

‘So I do. The day after, then?’

‘I can make it free.’

She glanced up.

I nodded.

‘Please re-arrange whatever I have, Caroline, and make an
appointment for Miss Stewart, for 2.00pm.’ She sat back, studying me. ‘You’ve
done well today, Maggie. You’ve taken a great leap forward.’

‘That’s the sort of thing Stalin would say.’ I tried a
laugh, but it came out as a cough.

She walked me to the door, smiling. ‘My husband says I’m a
bit like Stalin.’

I gazed up at her. ‘I haven’t always been like this, Dr
Langley,’ I said, after a pause. ‘I used to be a nice person.’

She looked surprised. ‘You still are.’

‘There’s something I need to know,’ I said hesitantly. ‘Why
is there blood in the bath? Is it because of how Harry was killed?’

A veil shrouded her eyes. ‘It could be that.’

‘Or?’

‘Blood in dreams can act as a portent. So, it may be that
you think the killer will strike again.’

I felt the air leave my lungs. Yes, the killer could strike
again. And not necessarily in Stockholm.

I left Dr Langley’s office and made
for Princes Street. An early moon was rising, skimming the rooftops, pouring
its creamy light down the tiles. The first stars were out as sharp points in
the blue-black sky.

As I approached the Royal Academy, I collided with someone.
I lost my balance and fell heavily. Raising my head, I gazed into the face of
one of Edinburgh’s professional élite. He looked me over casually, indifference
in his eyes, then turned away, pulling his cashmere coat more tightly round his
throat. I struggled to my feet and peeled the sodden jeans from my legs. My
scarf was half-buried in the snow. Lacking the energy to wrap it around my
neck, I dragged it behind me in the slush, like a limp tail.

I needed a drink. More than one. If ever there was a time to
get legless, this was it. I’d told Dr Langley everything, exhuming my deepest
fears, and she’d confirmed that I was sane. That had to be grounds for
celebration.

It was snowing. Large flakes, like communion hosts, fell
gently, dissolving as they touched the pavement. I tilted my head back and
stared into the brooding sky, savouring the sharp tingles on my face.

I trudged up the slope from Princes Street. A few more steps
and I was there.

The Highlander had become my local. It was dark and deep,
and no-one I knew drank here. It was cocktail hour and the pub was filling. I
pushed my way in, fighting past people to get to the counter.

The barman watched me approach. He was built like a
rhinoceros, with a head that hung slightly forward. His face was criss-crossed
with scars, his eyes, the colour of water. In a suit, he could be mistaken for
the sort of heavy a debt-collection agency would employ. But he wore a kilt.

‘You here again, Miss?’ He eyed me warily. ‘That’s twice in
one day.’

I stared at the hairs in his nostrils. ‘I can’t keep away
from you, Mac. It must be love.’

The barman
and I
always
began by sparring, but we
quickly came to an
understanding; he
hesitated for only a second before reaching for the
bottle. I watched eagerly as he poured. Wine had become my friend, even the
metallic white variety they served here.

‘Are you going to behave?’ he said.

I smirked. ‘It’s Christmas. Do you want me to be naughty or
nice?’

He started to replace the cork, but I laid a hand on his
arm. ‘Leave the bottle.’

‘That’s not a good idea.’

‘I’ll drink slowly. You can give me a packet of pork
scratchings to soak it up.’

‘One drink at a time, Miss.’

I snatched up the glass. ‘You know, that sort of attitude is
going to widen the cracks in our relationship.’

At a table in the corner, I rolled the glass between my
palms, and thought back to my session with Dr Langley.

Mike. It was out in the open. Or rather, out in my open.
There was now no question of sitting back and doing nothing. Could I enlist Dr
Langley’s help?
Remember that I’m less interested in catching a killer, and
more interested in helping you.
No, I’d have to return to Kiruna and see
Hallengren. I felt a sudden tug of lust as I remembered the night in his
apartment. I lifted the glass and drank deeply in the bleak and certain
knowledge that he wouldn’t recognise me: my hair was a mess, and I was so
scrawny that I looked like an adolescent in her mother’s clothes. I pictured
the polite but puzzled way he’d greet me, the interest dying in his eyes as
they ran down my body.

A half-empty glass lay abandoned on the table. I fished out
the sliver of lemon, and shredded it, bursting the tiny juice sacs with my
fingers. There was something pressing I had to do first – warn Liz. Was she
likely to believe me? Without proof? For that matter, was Hallengren? The
Stockholm police might, though, specially if they correlated Mike’s movements
with the hotel deaths. I was seeing Liz for lunch the following day. If I could
persuade her that Mike was the killer, she’d come to Stockholm with me. But
what if she refused to accept it? Even told Mike? Where would that leave me? I
couldn’t help but wonder why Mike had insinuated himself into our lives so
carefully. Was it with a specific end in sight? The thought made my flesh
crawl. I dropped the lemon in the glass and wiped my fingers on my jeans.

A crash from the bar made me jump. Someone had dropped a
beer glass and the customers were backing away from the spreading foam. I
turned away in irritation.

No, I would have to tell Liz everything because I had no-one
else. And she was sensible, she’d know what to do. I’d hand the matter over to
her and go with her decision. My spirits rose, as they always did when I
formulated a plan.

A couple of drinks later, I decided I’d marinated my brain
long enough. It was time for the one more I always had for the road. ‘Hey,
Mac,’ I shouted to the barman with my customary politeness, ‘another wine, if
you don’t mind.’

He was pulling a pint. ‘You’ll have to fetch it yourself,
Miss. I haven’t the time to wait on you.’

I dragged myself to my feet, and waited for the room to stop
swaying before making my way to the bar. Service was slow, and it was several
minutes before the barman reached me.

He eyed me with distaste. ‘This has to be your last, Miss.’

‘Better make it a large one, in that case.’ I winked
suggestively.

He watched me with his little piggy eyes, pouring the wine
as though it were poison. I clutched the glass to my chest and picked my way
back to the table.

The pub was teeming. People were pushing towards the bar,
jostling me as they squeezed past, their loud conversation boring into my head
like a hammer drill. Suddenly, I had to get out of there.

I got to my feet. The room heaved like a sea in swell. My
stomach tightened, and I crashed face-downwards onto the table.

The noise stopped, and people turned to stare.

‘Right, that’s it, Miss,’ I heard the barman say. ‘Enough is
enough.’

The customers watched in thinly veiled satisfaction as he
marched over and hauled me to my feet. He thrust my arms into my duffel coat,
and pulled it roughly around me, not bothering with the toggles. I watched in
drunken detachment as he held me upright with one hand, and lifted my scarf off
the floor with the other. He paused, glowering at me, and for a second I
thought he was
going to strangle me with it, but he
just slung it around my neck. I reached for the bag hanging from the chair but
missed it by several inches. He snatched it up and, ignoring the items that
fell out,
looped it over my head. The pantomime over, he gripped my arm
and dragged me to the door. As he pulled it open, an icy blast sent me reeling
backwards.

I tried to walk through the door, but collided with the
frame.

‘You need help, Miss,’ he said, doing up the toggles of my
coat. ‘Do you have far to go?’

I blinked at him.

‘You’ll find a cab on Princes Street.’ His expression
softened. ‘It’s not far.’

Without ceremony, he put me outside and turned me so that I
was facing the road. ‘Merry Christmas, Miss,’ he said sadly, closing the door.

I walked a few paces, then fell sprawling on the caked snow,
somehow getting it down the neck of my sweater. After several attempts, I
staggered to my feet and plunged headlong down Rose Street.

I was approaching the road leading to Princes Street, when I
felt a spasm in my stomach. My throat contracted and my vision clouded. Afraid
I would be cautioned again for being drunk and disorderly, I lurched into the
nearest alley. I placed both hands on the wall and breathed deeply, willing the
world to stop spinning, but my legs gave way and I sank to the ground.

It was as the wind was whipping
icicles into my face that I realised that, somewhere between here and The
Highlander, I’d lost my scarf.

The taxi dropped me off at the
corner of Granville Street. Normally, I’d have taken my car, but I’d given up
driving since the time I’d lurched awake at the wheel with Liz screaming into
my ear.