ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  ‘I went for a long walk with Liz and Mike.’

  How quickly Mike had become a part of our group.

  ‘I didn’t see you on the river,’ I said.

  ‘We went in the opposite direction. There are several cross-country ski paths behind the Excelsior.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you went skiing.’

  ‘Surprised?’ he said in a playful tone. ‘It was great fun. And good exercise, specially for the waistline.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I must keep it up when we return to Edinburgh. Liz tells me there’s that kind of skiing somewhere in Perthshire.’

  ‘How is she today?’ I said, my anxiety for her returning.

  ‘Much better. But I do wish she’d lay off the cigarettes. Smoking will ruin her complexion. She and Mike are waiting for us in the restaurant.’ He dropped his voice. ‘We’re going for the early sitting in an attempt to avoid the jackals. I think they’re in Kiruna.’

  ‘By jackals, I take it you’re referring to the gentlemen of the press.’

  ‘If they’re gentlemen, I’m a Dutchman,’ he said, pulling open the dining room door.

  Liz and Mike were at the long central table, leaning into one another, talking quietly. Marcellus had abandoned his window seat and was sitting a little way from them. Aaron Vandenberg was absent. Perhaps it was his turn at the coroner’s office. That’s what lawyers were for, I thought with satisfaction, and Marcellus would be needing a break.

  It was the first time I’d seen Marcellus since the police interviews. He looked tired and ill at ease, shoulders sagging, head bent over his plate. His mouth was fixed in an expression of hopelessness. I went to speak to him, but he rose as if from a deep sleep and left the room.

  ‘I take it you’ve met the lawyer, Mags,’ Liz said, watching him go.

  I reached for the chicken salad. ‘When he told me his name, he seemed to expect me to recognise it.’

  ‘Well, I’d never heard the name Vandenberg till I read it in the papers last week,’ said Mike.

  ‘And what did the papers say about him?’

  ‘He’s the architect of this schools’ thing. He’s Wilson’s right hand man, been with him these last few weeks, doing the deal.’ He piled pasta onto his plate. ‘So what’s this about his sister overdosing?’

  ‘That was in the papers too?’ I said, not surprised.

  ‘And can someone tell me the rest?’

  Liz filled him in briefly.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said in a puzzled voice. ‘If he’s related to Marcia, who Marcellus may or may not have killed, doesn’t it strike you as odd he’s the Bibby lawyer?’

  I put my fork down firmly. ‘That’s the least of it. Everything about what’s happening here is odd.’

  I described my recent conversation with Leo Tullis, specifically Sven’s theory that the snowmobile brakes had been deliberately loosened. I left out that he’d concluded it was with the intention of killing someone.

  Harry was staring blankly.

  Liz’s face was ashen. She would have come to the same conclusion I had. She was one of the people beneath the overhang.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ said Mike under his breath. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘That there’s a nutter going around loosening brakes?’ I said. ‘And that’s not all. Hallengren told me that Wilson’s diary has been stolen. So what’s that all about?’

  Mike sneered. ‘It’s obvious what’s happened. Now he’s dead, some journalist wants to publish the grand man’s ramblings.’

  ‘It’s not just a diary. His business decisions are recorded in it. And signed and witnessed, which I suppose makes them legally binding.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘So someone wants to know what he’s been doing in Stockholm? But the whole world knows. Why steal his diary, then? I don’t get it.’

  But I got it. I got it in a flash. It was nothing to do with what Wilson had been doing last week. It was what he was intending to do. Someone had stolen his diary with the express purpose of uncovering his next business move. But who? A reporter wanting to expose his plans? The diary might well be of interest to someone like Denny Hinckley, who’d probably not be above a little judicious thievery. Yet the reporters hadn’t arrived till the afternoon, and the Locker Room was out of bounds by then. Whoever had stolen it had taken it on the night Wilson died, or early in the morning before the police were called. I kept coming back to it: why would the theft of Wilson’s diary be of such interest to Hallengren that he’d come to the Excelsior to interview me?

  Harry leant forward, his cowlick flopping over his eyes. ‘Maggie, getting back to the snowmobiles, if there’s a nutter on the loose as you so eloquently put it, then don’t you think Leo should tell the police?’

  ‘I think he’s been to see Hallengren.’

  ‘You don’t suppose the brakes were loosened with the intention of killing someone?’ said Mike.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said vehemently. ‘It was a prank.’

  I was only half listening. My mind was still on the diary. If Hallengren hadn’t found it by now, he was unlikely ever to. It was too recognisable for a thief to keep it long. My bet was that it was at the bottom of the river. But if Hallengren was so interested in the diary, why hadn’t he taken the Excelsior apart searching for it?

  ‘We’ve the trip to the Sami village this afternoon,’ Liz was saying, brushing at the tablecloth. ‘Are you coming, Mags?’

  ‘I think I’ll go to the church. I’d like to check out that tower.’ And I wanted somewhere quiet to sit and think.

  She didn’t even try to dissuade me. She turned to the others. ‘I’ll see you in the Activities Room.’ Without waiting for a reply, she left the room, avoiding our eyes.

  ‘I’d better catch her up,’ Harry said quickly, getting to his feet. ‘She seems quite shaken.’

  Mike was playing with his coffee cup. ‘Liz has been smoking non-stop. Is she always this jittery?’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ I said wearily. ‘I should have kept quiet about the brakes. And those stories about the hotel killer coming here can’t have helped. I wish that barman had kept his mouth shut.’

  His eyes came up to mine. ‘You don’t think there’s anything in that story, do you?’

  ‘It seems too far-fetched. I thought the Stockholm hotel killer did his work in Stockholm. What’s he doing here? Kiruna’s a long way from anywhere.’

  ‘Jonas Madsen told me he used to stay regularly at the Maximilian,’ he said, sifting the sugar in the bowl.

  ‘He told me that too. But lots of people stayed there. And they’re not all killers.’

  He gave me a strange look.

  After a brief silence, I said, ‘Mike, didn’t you say you’d spent much of last year in Stockholm?’

  ‘What of it?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I had the impression that the first time you’d heard about these murders was when the barman talked about them yesterday.’

  ‘Your impression’s correct, Maggie.’ His face was stony. ‘Where’s this going?’

  ‘I’m just amazed that you missed the story. It’s all anyone talked about, from what Harry said.’

  ‘It must have been a seven-day wonder.’ He was looking at me steadily. ‘And I don’t remember hearing anything.’

  I almost believed him. Yet why would he lie? Everyone in Sweden knew. His denial made no sense.

  He gulped his coffee, rose, and left the room.

  The church was a good twenty minutes from the Excelsior.

  I walked briskly, grateful for the exercise, anxious now to get to the church. Wands of smoke curled from the chimneys of the tightly-crowded buildings, disintegrating in the still air. After a while, the houses thinned out and gave way to clusters of pine trees. Snow fell soundlessly from their oversprung branches as the burdened trees released their load.

  I met no-one on the road; a flock of birds flapped low, but this served only to enhance the sense of solitude. The for
ecast was for good weather, although the colour of the sky suggested otherwise. A sudden gust of wind blew yesterday’s snow into puffs which eddied like tiny sandstorms around my ankles.

  I took the bend in the road.

  The church stood a couple of hundred feet away in a cul de sac, protected on three sides by forest. The rectangular tower, the tallest structure for miles, dwarfed the building.

  The ground was easier here, the gravel path showing through the snow in places. I walked around the side of the church to the tower. An iron ladder, riveted to the side, ended at a wooden door near the top. I brushed the snow off the lower rungs. They were free of rust, solid and deep, although a climber would still need great care. I hauled at the ladder, gripping the rungs with both hands, letting it take my weight, but it didn’t budge. I wondered why it was there. Surely there was a way of climbing the tower from the inside.

  I walked back to the front of the church and twisted the iron ring in the wooden door. It opened with a pained creak. A thick cloak of musty air enveloped me, bringing with it strong memories of childhood visits to Mass. I shut the door behind me.

  The pencil windows set into the pastel-coloured walls cast narrow bands of light onto the floor. Other than the altar, there was nothing in the church except the painted wooden pews. Their gaudy colours had faded unevenly and, in places, the paint had peeled off, exposing bleached pine ravaged by woodworm. But the pews were solid enough. This would be a good place to sit and think.

  The altar stood on a platform behind waist-high black railings, fastened with a padlock. On the cloth was a carved altarpiece. It was a tree in full leaf, painted in primary colours but, instead of tropical birds, saintly figures were perched in the branches. At the top was the crucified Christ, his flattened hands and feet nailed to the trunk, blood gushing into cups held by cheerful angels. In front of the tree, a row of candles stood like Papal guards, striped red, blue and yellow. The smell of hot wax filled my nostrils, making me want to curl up and sleep.

  There was a stone column half hidden in the shadows at the far left of the nave. On it was attached a yellowing notice, the typescript faded but readable. I found the section in English: a brief history of the church; specific mention of the Italian architect; and an account of the removal of the ancient bells to the museum in Kiruna. The outside ladder and side door in the tower were for the convenience of the bell-ringer, who could come and go without disturbing the congregation. I scanned the text. It was possible to climb the tower from the inside and, through the trapdoor at the top, a walled platform ‘afforded an unparalleled view of the aurora borealis’.

  The door to the tower was tucked away in the corner, behind the column. I pushed it gently.

  There was nothing inside, only darkness, and a chill like a mortuary. I opened the door wide, letting the warm air, like breath on my skin, drift in from the church. A rusty candelabrum was set into the wall, its ivory candles unlit. I stared into the windowless room until my eyes had adapted. But there was no other door, no ladder, no means of climbing the tower.

  Then I spied it at the back – a flight of wooden steps, wide and deep, with railings on either side. Easy to miss in the gloom.

  I gripped the railings and stared up into the tower. The steps spiralled into blackness. The trapdoor was closed.

  I was about to leave when I heard the creak from the church. The front door was opening. There were men’s voices. I tiptoed to the door and peered out cautiously.

  Marcellus and Aaron Vandenberg had entered. They were at the far end of the nave, Marcellus’s bulk partly hidden by the column.

  ‘You sure we can speak freely here?’ I heard Aaron say.

  I moved back, but not so far that I couldn’t hear. It was as Marcellus was replying that I remembered the only way out was through the nave. But it was too late to do anything about it now. I’d committed myself to eavesdropping.

  ‘For Chrissakes, Aaron, chill out. This place is deserted.’

  ‘And you know this how?’

  ‘There’s one tour a week, and I’ve been on it.’

  ‘Well, someone’s lit those candles.’ A pause. ‘C’mon, son. Let’s sit down.’ A creaking.

  Aaron again, gentleness in his voice. ‘So, how are you bearing up? They keeping you in town a lot?’

  ‘There’s a million forms to be filled out. Has to be done and, anyway, it keeps me from thinking too much.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry, Marcellus.’ A deep sigh. ‘You know, the minute your dad said he wanted a vacation, I knew it would monkey-wrench our plans. But when he said he’d be coming here, I thought it might work for us. It’s so remote.’ A pause. ‘This place really is something else.’

  ‘The church?’

  ‘Nah. The location. All this snow, masses of it, even in town.’ A snort. ‘I was glad to get my ass out of there. The Excelsior might not be the Hilton, but it’s better than that shitty little hotel in Kiruna. One night would have been enough, but I’ve been there since Monday.’ A long pause. ‘So, do you think the police suspect anything?’

  ‘If they do, they gave nothing away.’

  ‘What did they ask you?’

  ‘What do you think, Aaron? The questions you’d expect them to ask. Where were you? Were you up and about, etcetera, etcetera.’ Irritation in the voice. ‘Do I have to write a book about it? I’m sure you can guess what they wanted to know.’

  ‘And they said nothing about Stockholm?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They gave no hint they thought anything was going on?’

  ‘They already knew about my father’s schools’ initiative, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Are you being deliberately obtuse? No, that’s not what I mean.’

  ‘They only asked me about the schools’ programme. And what our movements had been last week.’

  ‘Given there was a daily account of where your father was every second of the day, I’m surprised they bothered. I suspect they just wanted you to corroborate it.’ A note of anxiety crept into the voice. ‘You told them only about the programme?’

  ‘Of course. As you say, they’d be checking all that anyways.’

  ‘Well, provided you keep your nerve, we’ll come out of this smelling of roses.’

  ‘Now who’s being obtuse?’

  ‘Lighten up, son. You’ll soon be in the big league, no question. So when can we get out of here and back across the Pond?’

  ‘You and I need to wind things up in Stockholm first.’

  ‘We can do that tonight.’

  ‘And, I guess, once I get the coroner’s go-ahead for release of my father’s body, we can go back to the States.’

  ‘You got a timescale for that, son?’

  ‘They’re doing an autopsy.’ A brief silence. ‘Our passports are still being held by the police. We’re allowed to go to Kiruna, and on the excursions, but nowhere else.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘The cop, Hallengren.’

  ‘Forget him.’

  ‘He’s not some peach-fuzzed rookie, Aaron. He’s sharp. Watch yourself when you speak to him.’

  A thick laugh. ‘There ain’t a cop alive who can outsmart me, son. I’ve not been the Bibby lawyer all these years for nothing. This guy had better not jerk me around if he knows what’s good for him.’ A pause. ‘So, is there anything else, or are we done here?’

  ‘There’s a problem with the diary.’

  ‘Well that came right out of left field. What sort of a problem?’

  ‘The cops found pages torn out.’

  A softness in the voice. ‘Did they, by God. Which particular pages?’

  ‘All the ones from last week. Aaron, they may ask you about them, as your signature is on most of the memos.’

  ‘The Swedish Education Minister has copies of those pages too. The cops’ll find them soon enough if they’re as smart as you say. And there’s nothing there that will remotely interest them.’

  ‘But it’s the entry on th
e final day that would interest them, Aaron.’

  ‘I’m assuming that page was torn out along with the others. My guess is it’s been destroyed too.’

  ‘Only a fool would keep it.’ A pause, heavy with meaning. ‘And the copy?’

  ‘It’s in a safe place, son.’

  A harsh laugh. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  ‘Which leaves us with only one thing we haven’t talked about, Marcellus.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like – how shall I put it? – my remuneration.’

  ‘You’ll get your remuneration. Once I know how much there is.’

  ‘You know I’ve never been one for playing the long game. But for you, Marcellus, I can wait.’ A pause. ‘Now, that’s a weird thing, and no mistake.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘On the altar.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘I thought you said you’d been on the tour. And what’s in there, through that door?’

  ‘A tower. There used to be bells or something.’

  A rustling, followed by more creaking. ‘So, can you get up the tower?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Fancy a climb? Now, don’t look at me like that. I’ve no designs on you. Right now, we need each other. You could say we’re a mutual assurance company.’ A louder rustling, then footsteps, coming in my direction.

  I sprang back, my heart lurching. They were coming into the tower. I hadn’t a clue what they’d been talking about, but I suspected they wouldn’t be best pleased to discover they’d been overheard. I glanced at the steps. If I climbed to the top, they might think I’d been there all the while. But they’d be through the door before I made it halfway. There was only one thing to do.

  I slipped behind the door and pressed myself against the wall, hoping they’d leave the door open to let the warmth in. A second later, I heard their voices.

  ‘There’s nothing here, son. Let’s go.’

  ‘Wait. There, at the back.’

  ‘Ah yes, steps. Shall we?’

  The footsteps moved further into the tower. To my horror, I felt the door moving. In a second, they’d see me.

  ‘Leave it open, son.’

  ‘Why?’