ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

‘We won’t see a goddamn thing otherwise.’

  There was a sudden groaning of wood, followed by heavy thuds. They were climbing. After a minute that felt like an hour, I crept out and padded softly down the nave. Halfway to the door, I remembered the loud creak. If they heard it, they’d be down like a shot. Even if I succeeded in making it to the road, they’d still see me.

  I tiptoed back and climbed over the rail. I crouched behind the altar. A few seconds later, I heard footsteps.

  ‘Not without a torch, son. It ain’t safe. Anyway, I’m not sure those steps will take your weight. The wood looks a bit flaky. C’mon, I need a drink.’

  Their footsteps faded down the nave. The front door creaked open. I counted to a hundred, then stole out from behind the altar.

  I left the church, intending to walk slowly, out of sight of the men, but then remembered my conversation with Jane. I swerved right, towards the forest. Near the trees were the path’s red markers, unmistakable despite the recent fall. If what Jane had told me was correct, I should get to the Excelsior before Marcellus and Aaron.

  The going was surprisingly easy. I ducked under low-hanging branches, hearing tiny rustlings in the undergrowth and the dull thump of snow hitting ground.

  The forest grew lighter and I soon found myself at the back of the Excelsior; the fire door in the Activities Room was feet away.

  I slipped around to the front where the courtesy bus was waiting. I boarded and settled myself in the back. As we started to move, I turned to look through the rear window. Marcellus and Aaron had reached the circus statues.

  Chapter 15

  As the bus bumped along the road to Kiruna, I rehearsed in my mind what I would say, going over Marcellus’s conversation with Aaron so as not to forget it.

  The police station was a modest single-storied building on the outskirts of town, its walls a regulation steel grey. The impression it gave was that the only thing that engaged the occupants was a small number of petty crimes.

  The interior was painted in pastel shades of blue and yellow, and smelt of floor polish. One wall was covered in posters. The more recent obscured those beneath, rendering them unreadable, as if the sole intention was to leave no inch of paintwork showing. A row of moulded plastic chairs stood against the opposite wall, blue alternating with yellow in a way that I found almost frivolous.

  A young fair-haired man, dressed in the familiar blue uniform, was typing rapidly at a computer keyboard. He stopped and watched me approach.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ I said.

  ‘Of course. How may I help you?’

  ‘Is Inspector Hallengren in?’

  He sat back. ‘He is certainly in.’

  I forced a smile, hoping this wasn’t going to be hard work. ‘And is he available?’

  He tapped a couple of keys. ‘He is free now.’

  ‘May I speak with him?’

  ‘I will check. What is your name, please?’

  ‘Margaret Stewart.’

  He spoke into the phone in rapid Swedish. He listened intently, his shoulders straightening. For a second, I thought he was going to jump to his feet and click his heels.

  He replaced the receiver. ‘Inspector Hallengren will see you now. Please follow me.’

  The room was at the end of the corridor. The door was open, but he still knocked loudly.

  Hallengren’s voice came from within. The young man stepped back, motioning to me to enter, then left quickly.

  If I’d expected clues to Hallengren’s private life, I was disappointed. There were no family photographs or children’s drawings. Only office furniture: filing cabinets, a cluttered desk, and a table and chairs. A single bed, too short for Hallengren, was made up in the corner.

  Hallengren was sitting at the desk. He got to his feet. ‘Miss Stewart, this is an unexpected pleasure.’ He motioned to a chair. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ I sat down.

  He lowered himself into his chair. ‘I am hoping this is a social visit,’ he said, a smile playing on his lips.

  ‘It isn’t, Inspector.’ I hesitated. ‘I’ve come about the diary.’

  ‘I see.’

  I’d expected more of a reaction. ‘You told me it was missing,’ I said.

  ‘I do not believe that I did. I asked whether you had seen the contents. I did not say it was missing.’ He clasped his hands behind his neck. ‘What precisely have you come to see me about, Miss Stewart?’

  ‘I overheard a conversation between Marcellus and Wilson Bibby’s lawyer.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘His lawyer?’

  ‘Aaron Vandenberg. I think you may not have met him.’

  ‘I had no idea Wilson had brought his lawyer with him.’ He reached for a file. ‘He has not been staying at the Excelsior. I would have remembered the name.’

  ‘He’s been in Kiruna since Monday. He’s at the Excelsior now.’

  He studied me, frowning. ‘So you heard him speaking to Marcellus Bibby about the diary?’

  I nodded.

  ‘When was this, Miss Stewart?’

  ‘An hour ago. I was in the church tower when they came in. They sat in the pews and talked.’ I chewed my lip. ‘I listened behind the door.’

  If Hallengren had a view as to my behaviour, he kept it to himself.

  ‘Inspector, I can only just remember what I overheard,’ I said impatiently.

  He opened a drawer and produced a portable recorder. ‘Do you mind speaking into a machine, Miss Stewart?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then tell me what you remember. I will not interrupt.’

  He listened intently, making notes while I recounted the conversation between Marcellus and Aaron as well as I could remember it. When I finished, he rose and paced the room, deep in thought.

  ‘Miss Stewart,’ he said, sitting down, ‘you must promise to keep this information to yourself.’

  ‘Again?’ I said with mild irony. ‘Will you tell me why this time?’

  He drew his brows together, saying nothing.

  ‘Look, Inspector, we’re crammed into the Excelsior like sardines, Aaron and Marcellus included. If what I’ve told you is of interest, and I think it is or you wouldn’t be wanting me to keep quiet about it, then I might be able to help you further. I may overhear things, but I won’t know if they’re useful unless you tell me what’s so important about this diary.’

  He must have seen the force of my argument. ‘The diary is not missing,’ he said reluctantly. ‘It never was. But there are pages that have been removed.’

  ‘I’d worked that out for myself,’ I said wryly. ‘So what’s so unusual about pages removed? They doubled as memo slips. Memo slips are meant to be removed.’

  ‘But not the carbons. All the pages from last week, the week Wilson Bibby stayed in Stockholm, have been removed, carbons included. They were torn out by someone in a hurry.’

  ‘From what Aaron Vandenberg said, you can get them from the Swedish Minister.’

  He paused. ‘Maybe not the final page.’

  ‘Aaron has a copy,’ I said, wondering if he’d missed this point.

  He nodded, saying nothing.

  ‘Inspector, do you think Aaron and Marcellus are involved in something illegal? And it’s on that last page?’

  ‘If it is, Miss Stewart, then Wilson Bibby would have been involved too. It is his diary.’

  ‘I suppose.’ I sat back. ‘There’s something else I should tell you. I spoke with Aaron Vandenberg earlier, before I went to the church. He told me he’d flown down that morning from Stockholm.’

  ‘What time did you speak to him?’

  ‘A little before eight o’clock.’

  ‘Then he cannot have. The first plane from Stockholm to Kiruna is not till ten-thirty. He could have chartered a plane – I can easily check – but, even so, it contradicts what he said to Marcellus about staying in Kiruna since Monday.’

  ‘What do you think’s going on with the two of them?’ />
  ‘I have no idea, Miss Stewart.’

  ‘But you know that this diary is important. Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked me to keep quiet about it.’

  ‘I asked you to keep quiet, because it may be important.’ After a silence, he said, ‘Miss Stewart, did you look into Wilson Bibby’s room in the morning that his body was discovered?’ He was watching me, his eyes steady. ‘You seem surprised by the question. I cannot think why – I understand half the guests in the Icehotel took a good look at the corpse.’

  I shifted in the chair.

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual?’ he said.

  ‘About the room?’

  ‘About the corpse. Apart from the fact that Wilson Bibby was not wearing his snowsuit.’

  I cast my mind back to the scene. At the time, something had seemed wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it then, and I couldn’t now.

  ‘There was something else he was not wearing, Miss Stewart. There was no locker key around his wrist.’ He waited for the information to sink in. ‘We checked every inch of his room – we even sifted the snow – but we could not find it. And we know that he used the locker because there are witnesses who not only saw him leave his clothes there, but saw him use his key.’

  ‘I take it he hadn’t left it in the lock.’

  ‘In the end, we forced the locker. All his effects were there, according to Marcellus, the money, the credit cards.’ He paused. ‘It was Marcellus who drew our attention to the diary. He was looking through it, and discovered that some pages had been torn out.’

  ‘He volunteered this information?’

  ‘He was very helpful.’

  I felt like saying, ‘Then why were you giving him such a hard time when you interviewed him?’ But I said nothing; from what I’d overheard in the church, Marcellus wasn’t exactly squeaky clean.

  ‘How would you account for the missing locker key, Miss Stewart?’

  ‘Wilson dropped it on the way to his room?’

  ‘We combed the entire Icehotel.’

  I recalled the anxiety in Marcellus’s voice when he told Aaron the pages were missing. ‘Did Marcellus tell you he needs those pages found?’

  ‘You understand, Miss Stewart, that I cannot divulge the nature of my conversations with other people.’ He smiled. ‘However, thanks to your information, we can now trace those pages.’

  Then Marcellus couldn’t have told Hallengren he could get them from the Minister. So he hadn’t been entirely helpful. But it was the last page that seemed important. Yet something told me that Hallengren would never find it. I pictured the scene: Aaron coolly blowing cigarette smoke into Hallengren’s face, denying all knowledge of the pages, laughing to himself because the last one was in an offshore bank vault.

  ‘Tell me what you’re thinking, Inspector.’

  ‘You know I cannot do that.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said softly.

  ‘Wilson Bibby never let that diary out of his sight, so he would have taken care with the locker key. You’ve turned the Icehotel upside down, but you haven’t found it. Ergo, someone must have stolen it. Someone who wanted those pages removed.’

  He leant back, and folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘Someone removed the key from Wilson’s wrist,’ I went on, ‘opened the locker, and tore out the pages. They replaced the diary and secured the locker. But, they didn’t re-attach the key to Wilson’s wrist.’

  ‘And why would that be, Miss Stewart?’

  It was difficult to think under Hallengren’s gaze. ‘He’d be taking a great risk removing it in the first place – Wilson could have woken, after all – so he might not think it worth the risk to return it.’

  Hallengren said nothing, but a smile had formed on his lips.

  ‘He wouldn’t dare keep it. He’d walk onto the ice and throw it into the water, or bury it in a drift.’

  He seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘Why did he not just leave it in the lock?’

  ‘Because, in the morning, Wilson would see it in the lock and remember he hadn’t left it there. He’d raise merry hell and call the police.’ I shrugged. ‘Actually, whether the thief left the key in the lock, or disposed of it, either way Wilson would notice it was no longer on his wrist. He’d check the locker and find the diary pages missing. Unless – ’

  The smile had vanished.

  ‘Unless whoever removed the pages knew he was already dead,’ I said slowly.

  Hallengren raised an eyebrow. ‘So, why did he not replace the key around Wilson’s wrist? He was dead, after all. By not doing so, the thief forced us to scrutinise the locker. If he had replaced the key, Marcellus may not have discovered the missing pages for some time, possibly not till he returned to the States. That delay may have given the thief an advantage.’

  I thought rapidly. ‘It can only be because he couldn’t return it. He was prevented from getting back to Wilson’s room. Someone may have talked to him in the Locker Room. Or – ’ My breath came out in a rush. ‘There was a crowd that morning. The thief might have opened the locker shortly before Karin and Marita arrived. He’d seen Wilson was dead, and taken the key. But his timing was out. With the crowd there, it was too late to return it.’

  From his demeanor, I suspected he agreed with me. ‘If someone had wanted to remove pages from Wilson’s diary, Miss Stewart, the Icehotel afforded an ideal opportunity. The rooms have no doors. Anyone can creep in under cover of darkness and steal.’

  ‘But why not take the whole diary? Why just tear out pages?’

  ‘I can think of a number of reasons. Disposing of a complete diary, especially one as thick as Wilson’s, would be time-consuming. A few pages, on the other hand, can be flushed down a lavatory. My guess is that those pages were destroyed well before Wilson’s body was discovered.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Whoever stole the key must be familiar with the contents of the diary.’

  Yet who would know what was in it? Some of Wilson’s business associates, definitely. But who else?

  ‘Inspector, who do you think did it? And why?’

  He lifted his arms and let them drop. ‘Who knew that Wilson would be coming to the Icehotel?’

  ‘Oh everyone. Half the guests, anyway.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Everyone? Everyone was remarkably quick to tell me they had never heard of him.’

  Brilliant. More interviews. That was going to make me Miss Popularity.

  His expression hardened. ‘Can you tell me who these people are?’

  I hesitated.

  He picked up a pen. ‘I am waiting, Miss Stewart.’

  ‘Mike Molloy knew.’ After a pause, I said quietly, ‘And Harry.’

  ‘And Miss Hallam?’

  ‘She didn’t even know who Wilson was, let alone that he’d be coming here.’ I cleared my throat. ‘And, of course, the reporters will have known.’

  ‘Will they?’ he said softly. ‘I doubt that.’ His eyes held mine. ‘Miss Stewart, apart from the missing locker key, did anything else in the room strike you as odd?’

  ‘Something did, but I can’t think what.’

  A look crossed his face, a look that said he’d seen it too and knew what it signified. But he wasn’t going to tell me.

  ‘Well, Miss Stewart,’ he said finally, ‘I do not need to remind you that what has passed between us must stay within these four walls.’ He frowned. ‘You have not told your friends about overhearing the conversation?’

  ‘I’ve come straight from the church. I’ve told no-one.’

  ‘Please keep it that way.’ He smiled. ‘If you stumble across anything that might be useful, by all means come to see me. But do not go seeking it out. However tempting, please do not play detective. We are well paid to do that.’

  I glared at him, my resentment rising at his patronising manner. And after all the information I’d given him . . .

  He took me to the reception, and exchanged words in Swedish with the young man. ‘I have arra
nged for a car to take you to the Excelsior, Miss Stewart,’ he said.

  Our eyes met briefly. Then he walked away.

  The first stars were appearing in the sky as we sped out of Kiruna. I sat back in the car and thought through my conversation with Hallengren.

  He’d not said it in so many words, but he was thinking the same as I – Wilson’s key had been removed after his death. But why, and by whom? What was so important about those pages, specially the last one, that would make someone remove a key from the wrist of a dead man in order to steal them?

  Who knew that Wilson would be coming to the Icehotel?

  Obviously Aaron and Marcellus. Both had the opportunity to take the key. Aaron had been in Kiruna the night Wilson died, but he could have hired a car. Yet whatever the two of them were involved in in Stockholm, it didn’t seem to have anything to do with the diary: Marcellus had raised the subject almost as an afterthought.

  Mike had known Wilson would be at the Icehotel: One of the Yanks I was drinking with is working with Bibby. He told me. Could that Yank have told Mike something about Bibby’s dealings that would make him want to steal pages from his diary? Unlikely. What could possibly interest Mike?

  I leant back, weary from the day’s events. Who cared about Wilson’s diary anyway? How important was it in the grand scheme of things? If Hallengren had nothing better to do than chase missing diary pages, he was welcome to it. What intrigued me more was what Marcellus and Aaron were up to in Stockholm. Perhaps it involved the Bibby Foundation, and would be to Harry’s benefit. His research funding might come through after all. I pictured his happiness at discovering he could continue with his work.

  I sat up slowly. Harry had also known, from the Foundation’s newsletter, about Wilson’s movements. He’d known Wilson would be in Stockholm, if not the Icehotel.

  Yes, Harry had known. Harry, whom I’d spied in the corridor the night Wilson had died, who’d denied being up, saying he’d slept through without waking. Had he been on his way to the lockers, having crept into Wilson’s room and taken his key? If so, he must have known what was in that diary. Something to do with the Foundation? Marcellus had said that the decision to stop funding pure research wasn’t definite. Perhaps Harry had wanted to remove all trace of that decision, carbons and all, hoping that Marcellus, who was better disposed towards academics, would continue that funding.