ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  ‘Any children?’

  His eyes filmed over with sadness. ‘I thought we were trying for kids, till I discovered she’d been taking the pill. Secretly like, behind my back. So, no. No kids.’

  I had a sudden desire to help him. ‘Listen, Denny, if you’re after a story, forget Wilson Bibby and the Icehotel. There’s another you could pursue.’

  ‘Another?’ He’d put his notebook away and was holding his mobile above his head, turning in a tight circle.

  ‘Have you heard of the Stockholm hotel murders?’

  He stopped dead. ‘Hotel murders?’ His eyes glittered. ‘Tell me more, lovely girl.’

  ‘I don’t know the details, but the barman does. And so do the staff. There was nothing in the British papers, as far as I can remember, so maybe you can scoop it.’

  ‘Stockholm, eh? But what’s this got to do with Wilson Bibby?’ A slow grin spread across his face. ‘You think he was murdered, then?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s got nothing to do with him, he died of a heart attack. All I’m saying is, if you’re looking for a story, you might get more mileage from the Stockholm hotel murders. There was a death in Stockholm last week. May be coincidence. May be not.’ I was about to add that Harry could tell him things, when I remembered that Denny was likely to get short shrift in that department.

  He seemed undecided. He was gazing at the Icehotel. I could see he couldn’t let it go. It had taken hold of him the way it took hold of everyone, reaching with its icy hands, caressing softly.

  ‘Breathtaking, isn’t it?’ I said, watching him.

  He didn’t reply. His eyes were glazed, the expression, vacant.

  I left him standing by the brazier.

  ‘Maggie! Wait for me!’

  It was Jane. She was wearing a red snowsuit and fur hat, Russian-style, with flaps over the ears. Corkscrews of hair were stuck to her forehead. She was stomping over the ice, breathing hard.

  I looked at her feet. ‘Why are you wearing plastic tennis rackets?’

  ‘These were all that was left. The wooden snowshoes have gone.’ She stooped, supporting herself by gripping my shoulder, and eased them off.

  I tapped the hard mesh. ‘It looks painful.’

  ‘At least I can say I’ve given them a go.’ She glanced at the forest. ‘You going for a walk?’

  I hesitated, seeing my chance for solitude spinning out of sight. I could have put her off, but the last time I’d seen her, she was rocking in terror listening to the barman tell his tales of murder. I took her arm. ‘Let’s find the trail,’ I said.

  We walked into the forest. The path was narrow but well-trodden, and lined with pine trees. They were heavy with snow, their branches bending inwards and meeting those of the trees opposite. The slanting light filtering through the leaves threw splashes of brilliance onto the ground. Amongst such whiteness, the tree trunks looked black, the ribbed bark with its dusting of snow, like filigree lace.

  ‘Have you seen who’s here?’ Jane said, after we’d walked a little way. When I didn’t reply, she added in a voice beating with excitement, ‘Aaron Vandenberg.’

  ‘Yes, I met him earlier. I suppose it’s hardly surprising, the family lawyer descending.’

  ‘He’s not just the family lawyer. Doesn’t the name Vandenberg ring a bell?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Have you heard of Marcia Vandenberg?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, remembering suddenly, ‘the heiress who died from the overdose. Was she his wife?’

  ‘Aaron and Marcia were brother and sister.’

  ‘And she was Marcellus Bibby’s girlfriend?’ I said, astonished.

  ‘Not only that.’ She lowered her voice, hardly necessary considering where we were. ‘The police suspected him of involvement in her death.’

  I threw her a sidelong glance. ‘So what do you think? Was Marcellus involved?’

  ‘I know next to nothing about their relationship.’ She tugged her ear flaps down. ‘Only what was in the tabloids.’

  Yes, the Bibbys seemed always to be in the papers. And there was going to be a damn sight more about them after this week was out.

  I stole a look at her. ‘How are you coping with what’s going on here, Jane? Wilson Bibby’s accident, I mean.’

  She didn’t reply immediately. I watched the passage of emotions on her face. ‘Well enough,’ she said.

  ‘You’re not just being brave?’ I said gently. ‘You don’t think Wilson was the victim of the Stockholm hotel killer?’

  ‘Leo said it was a heart attack. And, anyway, all that murder business took place over a year ago.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself, Jane,’ I said, wanting to change the subject. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a dentist’s receptionist.’ She flashed her one-thousand-watt smile. ‘It’s not as grand as it sounds. You know what it’s like. You start out with these dreams and you end up doing something totally different.’

  I smiled. ‘Real life gets in the way. So, what were your dreams?’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to be a journalist.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I thought that coming here would give me inspiration for a travel article. How many people come to the Icehotel?’

  A whole lot more would be coming now, I thought cynically. ‘And have you started writing it yet?’

  ‘I don’t know where to begin.’

  ‘Maybe you need an angle. What about Wilson? He’s attracting as much attention now he’s dead as he did when he was alive, if those reporters are anything to go by.’

  ‘That’s the problem. They’re the ones making the splash. They’ll be describing this place, as well as what happened here. By the time we go home, it’ll be too late.’

  ‘But you’ve an advantage they don’t have. You’ve been holidaying with Wilson. You’ve had insight into the person, not the millionaire businessman. People will be more interested in that than anything Denny Hinckley writes.’ I smiled. ‘His articles will be tomorrow’s chip paper.’

  There was bitterness in her voice. ‘Denny has a good reputation.’

  ‘He wasn’t the one on that snowmobile trip. It was you and Wilson. Now, that would make a great article. You could write about – ’

  I stopped, remembering my conversation with Leo. The revelation about the loosened brakes wasn’t something I intended to share with Jane; I’d been stupid even to mention it. I wondered whether Leo had seen Hallengren yet, and what Hallengren intended to do with the information.

  She was watching me. ‘Is something worrying you, Maggie?’

  ‘It’s just that I find this place a bit, well, spooky is the wrong word. But you know what I mean.’

  ‘The forest?’

  I hesitated. ‘The Icehotel.’

  She swallowed rapidly. ‘It’s as if it’s watching you. When I can see the Icehotel, I can’t bring myself to talk about it.’

  ‘It’s as though it’s listening.’ I glanced around. ‘This forest is the only place where you can’t see it.’

  ‘There’s one other. You know that road leading to the church? It bends into a small clearing enclosed by trees. The church is in that clearing. You can’t see the Icehotel from there.’ The muscles of her face tightened. ‘You can see it from the top of the tower, though.’

  ‘Wow, you’ve been up?’ I said, making a show of being impressed. ‘I’ve still to go.’

  ‘If you do, then don’t take the road. There’s a path inside the forest. You can just see it from the road if you peer through the trees. It’s easier walking, and won’t take nearly as long.’

  ‘So when did you climb the tower?’

  ‘After the tour of the church.’ Her expression brightened. ‘The church is lovely. I felt a great sense of peace. Apart from the tours, no-one seems to go there. The pews are all dusty. Strange that the candles were lit, though.’

  ‘And the view from the top?’

  ‘Magnificent.’ The light faded from her eyes. ‘But you can see the ice buildi
ngs in the distance. Including the Icehotel. And the Chapel.’

  ‘Have you been inside the Chapel?’ I said slowly, my mind immediately back with the image of the snow-covered corpse.

  ‘I wanted to, but something prevented me.’ Her voice sounded strange. ‘I couldn’t get through the door. I pulled at the handles, but it was as if something was pulling from the other side. I pushed hard, and it pushed back. I let go, and the door swung back and forth. When I pulled again, the same thing happened.’

  ‘Someone must have been inside, larking around,’ I said nervously.

  ‘There was no-one inside, Maggie.’

  I wondered how she could know that. But I said nothing. The most likely explanation was Mike, or Jonas, having a laugh.

  She gripped my sleeve, her eyes wide. ‘Don’t go in there, Maggie. The place is evil.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said, with a bravado I didn’t feel. ‘It’s a consecrated Chapel. There’s no evil there.’

  ‘Then what about those statues?’ she said in measured tones.

  ‘The circus statues?’ I said faintly.

  ‘Have you noticed they’re different every time you look?’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Look closely, Maggie.’

  ‘Okay, I will, but I doubt I can remember what they were like before.’ I suddenly found myself shivering. ‘Let’s go back, Jane. I’m getting cold.’

  We walked in silence through the forest and onto the ice. Aaron Vandenberg had gone, but Denny Hinckley was loitering at the river’s edge, kicking his feet into the snow. He waved as we passed, but made no attempt to detain us.

  Jane stopped at the roadside. ‘I’m taking the bus into Kiruna. Jim and Robyn are meeting me for shopping and then lunch.’ Her face brightened. ‘Would you like to join us?’

  ‘Thanks, but I won’t.’ I looked past her. ‘Good timing. Here’s your bus.’

  She hesitated, her eyes drifting to the path to the Excelsior. ‘Remember, Maggie. Look at the statues.’

  I watched the bus till it disappeared behind a bank of snow, then turned and walked slowly up to the hotel.

  I examined the statues. The clown was still crying, his bowler pushed back off his face, his arms lowered, the sticks touching the skin of the drum. The ballerina stood en pointe, one arm above her head, the other lowered. The juggler was staring balefully at the clown. Was this how I’d seen them that first day? I could no longer remember. I continued up the path. Jane was mistaken. Ice statues couldn’t change. Not unless the staff slipped out in the morning, partially melted the ice and rearranged the figures for the amusement of the guests.

  I stopped at the front door. Fear clawed its way up my spine. The lion was one figure I did remember. But he was no longer crouched beneath his master’s whip, ready to leap. He was standing proud, on all fours, his head turned in my direction.

  Chapter 14

  ‘Miss Stewart.’ The manager was hurrying towards me.

  I was in the foyer, pulling off my boots, watching the lion through the window.

  ‘Inspector Hallengren wishes to speak to you,’ he said.

  I unzipped my snowsuit. ‘Inspector Hallengren? But he’s already interviewed me. What’s this about?’

  ‘The Inspector didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Is he here?’ I said quietly, hoping this didn’t mean a trip into Kiruna.

  ‘He’s in my office. I’ll take you now.’

  I glanced at my snowsuit.

  ‘I’ll take that, Miss Stewart.’

  I struggled quickly out of the suit. The manager sped along the corridor to his office. I padded after him in my stockinged feet.

  The door was ajar. The manager knocked hesitantly before pushing it open.

  Hallengren was at the window. He turned as I entered. I wondered how long he’d been there. Had he watched me scrutinising the statues?

  I felt the door being closed behind me.

  ‘I believe you wish to speak to me, Inspector.’

  He motioned through the window. ‘I have always loved the view from this office.’

  ‘I can understand why.’ I went to stand beside him. ‘You see all the way to the forest.’

  He looked at me with interest. ‘Have you been out to the forest, Miss Stewart?’

  ‘There’s something about snow-covered trees I simply can’t resist.’

  He smiled easily. ‘Then you should try cross-country skiing. There are tracks through the forest, and they are well signposted.’

  I thought of the loudly-dressed man I’d seen the previous day. ‘I’m sure it’s harder than it looks.’

  ‘That is true of most sports. But skiing cross-country does not take long to master.’

  I looked into his eyes. ‘I still think I’d need a master to show me.’

  After a silence, he said, ‘Miss Stewart, I asked to see you because I have some further questions concerning Wilson Bibby.’

  ‘But I’ve told you everything I know.’

  He nodded towards the desk. ‘Please sit down.’

  I ignored the hard-backed chairs and sat in one of the maroon-coloured armchairs: if Hallengren wanted to question me further, I intended to be comfortable. He hesitated for a second, then sat on the sofa.

  ‘My questions are not about what happened in the Icehotel,’ he said, turning the pages of his notebook. ‘They are about your conversations with Wilson Bibby.’ He looked up. ‘You sat next to Mr Bibby on the plane to Kiruna.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said slowly, wondering how he would know. We hadn’t been allocated seats so he wouldn’t know from the plane’s manifest.

  He must have guessed what I was thinking. ‘One of the passengers told me you and Mr Bibby sat together.’

  ‘What do you want to know, Inspector? What we talked about?’

  ‘Can you remember?’

  ‘Why is it so important?’ I said in exasperation.

  ‘It may not be important.’ He hesitated. ‘Shall we just say it is part of a line of enquiry?’

  ‘What sort of a line?’

  ‘When there is an unexpected death, we establish the circumstances leading up to it. So, can you remember what you talked about?’ he said patiently.

  ‘Oh, the usual stuff you talk about to strangers on a plane.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Specifically?’

  ‘Wilson gave me his family history. That more or less took up the entire flight.’

  The corners of his mouth twitched. So, he did have a sense of humour . . .

  ‘He opened up to you remarkably quickly, Miss Stewart. Do you not find that strange?’

  ‘Americans are always quick to talk about their Scottish roots, Inspector,’ I said, with a tilt of the head.

  ‘What else did he tell you about himself?’

  ‘It was just social chat.’ I paused. ‘He told me that Marcellus acts as his bodyguard.’

  He looked surprised. ‘He told you that straight out?’

  ‘I can’t remember what led to it. He mentioned being stalked.’ I looked at my nails. ‘I was rather rude to him. He’d snubbed Harry in Stockholm, and I told him so in words of one syllable. Once I get started, I find it difficult to stop.’

  He nodded, a half smile on his face.

  ‘Inspector, what exactly is this about? If you gave me some hint of what you’re after, I might be able to help you.’

  ‘Did Wilson Bibby tell you anything about his business affairs?’

  ‘To a complete stranger? Why on earth would he?’ I said in amazement. ‘Hold on, are you talking about this schools’ exchange thing?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘He told me nothing. I learnt about it from Marcellus after we arrived here.’

  ‘So Wilson said nothing about what he was doing in Stockholm last week?’

  ‘Only that he’d be returning to continue whatever it was. Come to think of it, he told me that later.’

  ‘I understand Wilson showed you his diary.’

 
‘Your spies are well-informed, Inspector. Whoever this passenger is, he’s observant.’

  He waited in silence.

  ‘He showed me his diary,’ I said, my voice level. ‘What of it?’

  ‘What exactly did he show you, Miss Stewart? Think carefully.’

  ‘The cover, in his family’s tartan, which he was very proud of. And he showed me the pages.’

  He leant forward. ‘Did you see pages with writing? Or carbons?’

  ‘He showed me the pages at the back, for December they must have been. They were blank.’

  ‘You definitely did not see the date on the last page which had writing on it?’

  ‘I’ve just said I haven’t.’ I studied his face, but he was giving nothing away. ‘Look, Inspector, I don’t understand this line of questioning. If you’re so interested in Wilson’s diary why don’t you look through it yourself? It’ll still be in his locker.’

  His eyes were without expression. He rose suddenly. ‘Thank you, Miss Stewart, that will be all for the time being. If you do remember anything about the diary, anything that you have not told me, please get in touch immediately.’

  He held the door open.

  I stepped into the corridor. And then I had it.

  ‘You’re asking me these questions because you haven’t got the diary, have you, Inspector?’

  His eyes were steady. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Stewart.’ He closed the door softly.

  I leant against the wall, my mind buzzing. Wilson’s diary was missing. What did that mean? He’d mislaid it? Hardly. Given what he’d said on the plane, he never let it out of his sight. He may even have kept it with him in the Icehotel. The only explanation was that it had been stolen. So what could have been in his diary that had made someone want to steal it?

  But, more to the point, why would a detective be so interested in the diary of a man who’d died of a heart attack?

  I ran into Harry on the stairs.

  ‘Lunchtime, dear girl. Man cannot live by champers alone.’

  ‘You haven’t been hitting the Bolinger already?’ I said in mock disapproval.

  ‘Far too early.’ He winked. ‘But I must confess to having had a small hock and seltzer by way of aperitif.’

  I took his arm. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to this morning, Harry.’