ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  I started to go over but Harry stopped me. ‘There’s nothing we can do here, my dear,’ he said gently.

  We joined the guests leaving the Icehotel. Some were still in their nightwear, dragging their sleeping bags over the snow, others were partially dressed in outdoor clothes. In a daze, I let the multilingual babble wash over me as we climbed the path to the Excelsior. I no longer felt tired.

  The hotel manager was gibbering to the receptionist with the round glasses. They turned anxious faces towards us as we entered.

  The manager rushed forward, ushering people towards the stairs. His eyes were large and round, like an owl’s. ‘Please do go to the restaurant,’ he shouted. ‘Breakfast is being served.’

  A few guests drifted towards the stairs. A larger cluster formed near the front door. Neither Liz, Harry, nor I could face food, so we ordered coffee in the lounge.

  Liz drained her espresso. ‘I needed that,’ she said, massaging her temples. ‘I had too much of that damned drink last night.’ She reached into her bag for aspirins. ‘Has anyone seen Mike?’

  ‘He’s probably upstairs having breakfast,’ I said listlessly.

  She swallowed two large tablets. ‘He may not know about Wilson. I’d better go up.’

  She returned five minutes later, looking puzzled. ‘He wasn’t there. The manager checked his list. He’s not been in the restaurant all morning.’

  Harry smiled. ‘I should think he’s in the gym, building that glorious body of his. He’ll be unaware of what’s happened.’

  I wondered what his reaction would be when he found out . . .

  ‘Do you think we’re allowed to smoke?’ Liz said. She gave an embarrassed smile. ‘Oh, don’t look so surprised, Mags. I haven’t for a long time. But I could really do with one now.’ She ran a hand over her eyes. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that. It was simply dreadful. Poor Wilson.’

  At the mention of Wilson, the memory of his corpse returned. That skin, like wallpaper paste. My stomach churned loudly.

  Leo Tullis came into the lounge. He called our group together. ‘Can everyone hear me? Right. You’ll know by now that Mr Wilson Bibby has had a tragic accident,’ he said, swallowing hard. ‘He was found dead this morning, most likely from hypothermia. Clearly, this changes everything. The Icehotel has been placed out of bounds, so you’ll be sleeping in the Excelsior for the rest of the week.’

  His expression changed to one of extreme discomfort. ‘I have another message. The police are here, and they’re going to question everyone.’

  ‘Everyone?’ said Robyn Ellis, outrage in her voice.

  ‘It’s routine when there’s an unexpected death. There will be two teams of police conducting the interrogations simultaneously. They should get through them today, but we’ve been asked to keep tomorrow morning free, just in case.’

  ‘Young man,’ Harry said stiffly, ‘I don’t like the word, “interrogation”.’

  ‘I’m just quoting Inspector Hallengren, the officer leading the investigation.’ Leo ran a hand through his mop of hair. ‘Look, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’ He failed to sound reassuring.

  ‘So what are we allowed to do?’ said Jane. ‘May we leave the building?’

  ‘That’s the other message. Everyone is to stay in the Excelsior. And the police are taking your passports.’

  This produced an uproar. ‘It’s just routine,’ he said miserably. ‘They’ll be returned.’

  ‘When are we going to be questioned?’ said Jim.

  ‘The interviews are starting straightaway. One of the hotel staff will call your name. The problem is I haven’t been given a schedule, so you could be called any time today. Or tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s utterly ridiculous,’ said Robyn. ‘Surely we can’t be expected just to hang around.’

  ‘That’s precisely what you are expected to do. And it would be best to stay in the lounge. The management are going to make refreshments available all day.’

  Her face was taking on the colour of a tomato. ‘I will have to protest.’

  Leo had had enough. ‘Then protest to Inspector Hallengren,’ he said harshly. ‘These are his rules. The sooner the police can get through their questioning, the sooner things will return to normal. I’m sure you can understand that.’

  Mike breezed in, brushing past Leo who looked glad to leave. His hair was wet and he had that healthy glow that accompanies strenuous exercise. He flopped down and reached for the coffee pot.

  ‘I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve got the mother of all hangovers,’ he said, pouring.

  I kept my voice light. ‘Where have you been, Mike?’

  ‘Working out and trying to clear my head. I took a sauna, then went up to the restaurant, but it’s closed. They sent me here without saying why.’ He looked up. ‘Has something happened?’

  Liz was the one to break the silence. ‘Wilson Bibby’s body was found this morning. It seems he died from hypothermia. The police are here to question us.’

  Mike froze, his cup halfway to his mouth. He set it down slowly, looking straight ahead, saying nothing.

  There was a sudden shriek behind me. Jane Galloway was gripping the edge of the table, rocking gently. The barman, a middle-aged man with a pronounced paunch, was standing over her, holding a tray. He was whispering conspiratorially.

  Harry leant across. ‘What’s that you’re saying?’

  The barman turned the tray in his hands. ‘It was last year, at the Maximilian, and in other hotels in Stockholm also. Many guests were murdered, one by one.’ He spoke the words slowly, and with relish.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Mike said under his breath. ‘So what’s this, now?’

  ‘It’s old news,’ I said. ‘These murders took place last year. We heard something at the airport. What did they call them, Harry?’

  ‘The Stockholm hotel murders.’

  ‘You must know about them, Mike,’ I said, looking directly at him.

  He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘I don’t.’

  I stared at him in amazement. How could Mike not have heard of these murders? From what he’d told us, he practically lived in Stockholm. And he’d been in Stockholm when we saw the news flash.

  He glanced at me, then turned quickly away. I felt an inexplicable twinge of fear.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked the barman, anxious to hear him say the police had caught the killer.

  ‘They never found him,’ he said dramatically. ‘We think he has come to the Icehotel.’

  The conversations in the lounge stopped.

  ‘Why do you think he’s come here? We’re miles from – ’

  Liz interrupted me. ‘How were the guests murdered? Do you happen to know?’

  I caught sight of Jane’s complexion. ‘Liz, I don’t think we want to hear that right at this moment.’

  Jane was shaking visibly. ‘Why don’t you come and sit with us?’ I said, taking her hand.

  But, as she picked up her bag, one of the hotel staff came in and called her name. She left quickly.

  Harry raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you make of that? The hotel killer, no less.’ He tried to force a smile but I could see he was shaken.

  ‘Wilson Bibby wasn’t murdered,’ I said firmly. ‘You heard Leo tell us it was an accident.’

  ‘Then what was he doing on the floor, my dear? Why was he out of his sleeping bag?’

  ‘He had a weak heart. I saw him take medication for it. He must have got up in the middle of the night, and it gave out.’

  Mike looked doubtful. ‘From the shock of the cold, was it? I suppose it’s possible.’

  I thought back to the scene in Wilson’s room. Something wasn’t right. Something that was staring me in the face, but I couldn’t see it.

  ‘There’s probably a perfectly rational explanation.’ Harry frowned, nodding at the barman, who was speaking in hushed tones to the Ellises. ‘But this talk about the hotel killer is unnerving me.’

  Harry was
anxious, Liz looked like a phantom, and I was feeling queasy. The only person unaffected by Wilson’s death was Mike. He ordered coffee and sandwiches, and tucked into them greedily.

  First the snowmobiles. And now Wilson. What the hell was happening? I stared out of the window. The wind had died, and the snow was falling steadily, dusting the ground like sieved icing sugar.

  Mike was the next to be interviewed. He returned fifteen minutes later, in good spirits. We threw questions at him, but he shrugged them off. ‘I told them the truth. I said I slept all night, and saw and heard nothing.’

  Liz had been listless all morning, eating nothing. She lit cigarette after cigarette with such familiarity that it was impossible to believe she hadn’t been smoking for years. She was called at midday. On her return, she continued to be subdued.

  ‘How did it go?’ I said.

  ‘It was terrible. The Inspector’s awfully intimidating. I nearly burst into tears.’

  ‘He’s a policeman, Liz.’ I tried a smile. ‘Those people intimidate for a living.’

  ‘He looked at me as though he knew I was wearing Marks and Spencer underwear.’ After a brief silence, she said, ‘I do wish I’d paid more attention to that news flash, Mags. You don’t think there’s anything in this hotel killer story, do you?’

  ‘I doubt it. I think Harry’s right, and there’s a simple explanation for Wilson’s death. I expect Leo will tell us tomorrow.’ I put a gentle hand on her arm. ‘Chin up, Liz. It’ll be all right.’

  She didn’t seem convinced. I did my best to steer the conversation away, but she kept returning to the hotel killer story. I left her briefly to join the Ellises, who were marching around the foyer in mild protest at being confined to the lounge. They were as rattled as the rest of us and their jumpiness soon got on my nerves. I returned to find Liz talking earnestly to the barman. She broke away when she saw me, and brushed off my questions, saying she’d been ordering more sandwiches.

  ‘I’m going to call the twins,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in my room if anyone needs me.’ She squashed out her cigarette and left.

  I flopped into the armchair and huddled into a ball. Liz was taking this harder than most. If only Harry had caught her before she’d seen Wilson’s corpse.

  After lunch, it was Harry’s turn. He reappeared a short while later, and announced he was going to his room to work on his book.

  By mid-afternoon, tempers had become frayed. The barman switched on the television, but the only channels were in Swedish. Jonas and his friends crowded around the set, drinking beer.

  I was at the bar, ordering coffee, when a familiar image appeared on the screen. It was the hotel I’d seen at the airport; the stone facade and Swedish flag were unmistakable.

  Jonas reached up to change the channel.

  ‘No, wait,’ I blurted.

  The men turned in surprise.

  I stared at the television. A reporter was standing in front of the hotel, microphone in hand.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ I said.

  Erik was looking at me with interest. ‘Someone has been found dead there. Just a few days ago.’

  ‘Did they say anything about the Stockholm hotel murders?’ I chewed my thumb. ‘Is it the same killer?’

  ‘They haven’t said he’s been murdered. Just that he’s been found dead.’

  ‘So you know about the hotel killings?’ Jonas said softly.

  I couldn’t tear my eyes from the screen. ‘The barman was talking about them.’

  ‘It all happened last year,’ he said, with a dismissive shrug. He put the bottle to his lips. ‘There have been no murders since.’

  ‘People are saying that the killer has come to the Icehotel.’

  Jonas shook his head and turned away. But not before I’d caught the look that passed between him and Erik.

  I returned to my seat and continued to gaze out of the window. I felt numb.

  As people were called, the lounge slowly emptied.

  It was nearly 4.00pm before my name was called.

  The manager’s assistant accompanied me to the office at the end of the corridor, and asked me to wait.

  I peered through the glass panel in the door.

  Marcellus was seated, shoulders slumped, his posture suggesting defeat or despair. Someone I couldn’t see was speaking to him, but I couldn’t make out the words. Marcellus shook his head vehemently once or twice. More murmuring from the invisible man. He must have hit a nerve because Marcellus leapt out of the chair and lunged forward. A fair-haired man who’d been standing out of sight darted forward and immobilised him in seconds. This man was huge, broader even than Marcellus and taller by a good six inches. Marcellus struggled, and the man said something into his ear. He nodded, relaxing visibly. The man waited, then released him.

  Marcellus remained standing while the invisible man spoke again. Then he turned and stumbled towards the door. I sprang back and flattened myself against the wall, not wanting him to know I’d been watching. After throwing a final angry glance towards the invisible man, he left the room, slamming the door so violently I thought the glass would break. He saw me then and paused, an expression of bewilderment on his face. I opened my mouth to speak, but he turned away and marched down the corridor.

  I knew I’d handled it badly; he must have realised I was spying. But it was too late: I couldn’t run after him. I wiped my hands down the sides of my jeans, and knocked gently.

  The blond officer turned. He had typical Swedish looks: tanned skin, blue eyes, and white-blond eyebrows. But a boxer’s face; one side was misshapen, and the nose had been broken more than once.

  He opened the door. ‘Please come in,’ he said, with a slight accent. His tone was warm, and I felt my nervousness evaporate.

  I was curious to see the other man. He was half-sitting on the desk, one leg on the floor, the other dangling. He watched unsmilingly as his colleague ushered me forward. He seemed as unwelcoming as the other man was pleasant. I guessed I was in for the good-cop-bad-cop routine.

  He stood up. ‘My name is Thomas Hallengren.’ He gestured to his colleague. ‘This is Lars-Erik Engqvist. We are from the National Criminal Investigation Department.’ He spoke slowly, with more of an accent than Engqvist, but his English was faultless.

  His dark hair was cropped close, accentuating the outline of his skull. He, too, was tanned but, unlike his colleague, not entirely clean-shaven. They were both wearing the same blue uniform, but the markings must have indicated differences in rank because Engqvist deferred to him as superior. They towered over me; I doubted either could sleep with his feet in the bed. Perhaps it was government policy to recruit giants into the Swedish police force.

  Hallengren continued to stare, his blue eyes holding mine. Then his eyes travelled from my face, slowly down my body, and back to my face. In other circumstances I wouldn’t have let this go, but something about his manner told me to hold my tongue.

  He motioned to the chair. ‘Please sit down.’

  Engqvist parked himself on the desk, evidently not expecting to have to restrain me. I drew my head back, wondering how long I could keep it in this position. Hallengren nodded to his colleague, and he hurried to fetch chairs which he placed in front of the desk. Hallengren sat opposite me.

  He opened a notepad. ‘Your name is Margaret Stewart. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Miss Stewart, I need to ask you some questions about the death of the American. You were in’ – he ruffled through his papers – ‘room 16. Am I right?’ He looked up.

  ‘Yes, room 16.’

  Engqvist was watching, a smirk on his face.

  Hallengren scribbled quickly. ‘Can you tell me what time you went to bed last night?’

  ‘Some time between eleven and midnight. I can’t be more specific.’

  ‘Alone?’ He continued to write.

  Engqvist’s smirk broadened into a smile.

  ‘Of course,’ I said faintly, the blood rushing to my face.
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br />   Hallengren looked up in surprise. ‘Why do you say that? Many couples sleep in the Icehotel. There are even honeymoon suites.’

  I wondered when Engqvist would stop grinning. ‘I went to bed alone,’ I said.

  ‘Did you stay in your room till morning?’

  I ran my hands down the front of my jeans. ‘I left the Icehotel later in the night.’

  He studied me. ‘Can you remember what time that was?’

  ‘It was one o’clock.’ I smiled nervously. ‘I looked at my watch.’

  ‘Why did you leave the Icehotel?’ he said softly.

  ‘To watch the aurora. The notice said there would be a display. I was disappointed there was nothing earlier, so I decided to try again. I didn’t sleep well, so I – ’

  He interrupted me. ‘You did not sleep well? Are you a light sleeper?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  He and Engqvist exchanged glances. Engqvist muttered something I couldn’t catch, and Hallengren replied in Swedish.

  ‘Miss Stewart,’ Hallengren said, ‘you are the last person we are interviewing. Everyone said they slept exceptionally well. Some even said they could hardly stand on their feet after the snowmobile excursion. Were you on that excursion?’

  The directness of the question threw me off guard. I hesitated. ‘Yes, I was.’ I looked at Engqvist. When I turned my head back, I caught Hallengren staring at my hair.

  ‘What time did you return to the Icehotel?’ He was writing again.

  I tried to sound flippant. ‘No idea.’

  He waited in silence.

  ‘I can’t have been watching long. How long can you stay out before freezing to death?’ I regretted my words the instant I’d spoken them. ‘Probably about three quarters of an hour,’ I said, running a hand over my face.

  ‘Did you see anyone while you were out?’ His expression was unchanged; there was no indication of what he was thinking. They must teach that at Detective School.

  ‘No-one. No, wait, I did see someone. It was as I was coming in through the main door. I saw Marcellus Bibby going into the Locker Room.’