ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  ‘The tears have gone,’ I said softly, staring at the clown.

  ‘What tears?’

  ‘When we first came here, the clown was crying.’

  He straightened. ‘Are you sure, my dear? I don’t recall the tears.’

  ‘Don’t you think these statues are different now?’

  ‘That’s not possible. Statues can’t change. That’s why they’re statues.’

  After a pause, I said, ‘So what trip did Mike go on?’

  ‘Reindeer racing. Oh, and the huskies.’

  I pulled a face. ‘He can keep them.’

  ‘Not keen?’

  ‘I can’t stand yapping dogs. You weren’t tempted yourself?’

  ‘The reindeer racing is down as a fairly strenuous activity, so not something I’d do straight after eating. Exercise is bad for the digestion, my dear. Anyway, I couldn’t look a reindeer in the eye, having just eaten one for lunch.’

  ‘What about the huskies?’ I had a sudden vision of Harry, arms full of wriggling puppies trying to lick his face.

  ‘Dogs? I don’t get on with them. They’re always trying to mate with my leg.’ He brushed snow from the clown’s drum. ‘You know the trouble with this climate? It’s impossible to play any proper sports.’ He made a motion with his arms, as though wielding a cricket bat. ‘The thwack of leather against willow is a sound they’ve never heard here.’

  ‘And you said Liz cried off the trip?’

  His voice grew serious. ‘She didn’t sleep, Maggie. The cross-country jolly this morning finished her off. She’s lying down. She seems in better humour today, though.’

  I hesitated. ‘Is it me, Harry, or are Liz and Mike joined at the hip?’

  ‘I wonder if he’s bedded her, yet?’ He squinted into the distance. ‘If he has, it’ll be the best thing for her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Do I see the green-eyed monster rearing his head? I can understand it. I feel envious, too, when I see a new-minted relationship.’

  ‘I’m not jealous, Harry,’ I said firmly. ‘Mike isn’t my type.’

  ‘My dear, Mike is everyone’s type. Including mine. But I rather think you’ve set your cap at the Detective Inspector.’ He held my eyes till I looked away. He’d always been able to see through me.

  ‘You couldn’t be more wrong,’ I said too quickly.

  I could tell he was trying not to laugh. ‘Well, if you do get your leg over, that would also be the best thing for you, my dear. A bit of uncomplicated sex would be just the ticket.’ He cocked his head. ‘Maybe not, though. You try to kid us on that you chew men up and spit them out, but I’ve known since the day I met you that you’re an incurable romantic. It’s one of your most admirable qualities.’

  ‘Yours too, Harry.’

  He smiled wistfully. ‘It’s taken me many years to discover that you only ever love, I mean really love, once in your lifetime.’ He stopped suddenly, as though he’d said too much. ‘Have you ever thought of having children, Maggie?’ There was a softness in his voice.

  ‘You know how it is,’ I said, running my fingers over the clown’s face. ‘My career’s going so well. There’s plenty of time.’

  ‘I used to think like that,’ he said sadly. ‘Now, I have no choice in the matter.’ He drew back his shoulders. ‘But I’ve no cause to feel envious. Annie and Lucy are all the children I need. And Liz is very good about letting me spend time with them.’

  My heart went out to him, the gay bachelor, with a generosity matched only by his intellect. What a fine father he would have made.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what was your first boyfriend like? Do you remember?’

  ‘Who doesn’t remember their first? He was impulsive, always writing poetry. He’d waylay me in the street, then, on one knee, he’d start spouting it in front of everyone.’ I smiled at the memory. ‘We slept outdoors once or twice, watching shooting stars.’

  ‘It would have to be a damned sight warmer than it is in Scotland before I’d do that. But, at a May Ball once, I did have sex in a meadow.’

  ‘I’ve done that too. It’s exhilarating.’ I slipped an arm through his. ‘I don’t know whether it’s the fresh air, or the feeling that you might be discovered. The only downside is picking grass seed out of your knickers afterwards.’

  ‘Ha! Indeed. Well, whatever your preference in bed, the Detective Inspector looks like your ideal man.’

  ‘You don’t know what my ideal man is, Harry.’

  He smiled impishly. ‘Do tell.’

  ‘A man who knows how to take his time,’ I said without hesitation.

  He howled with laughter. ‘That’s my definition too. But you never met my soul-mate, he was before your time. Mad as a box of frogs, but he was my greatest love, probably my only true love.’ He brought his head close to mine. ‘It was sex at first sight. He was absolutely brilliant in bed. He was from my Cambridge days. We still keep in touch.’ He pulled his bobble hat down over his forehead, and looked intently into my eyes. ‘Maggie, my dear, don’t take this as a criticism, but I have the impression you know more than you’re letting on.’

  ‘Everyone knows more than they’re letting on, Harry,’ I said, astonished by the sudden statement. ‘Are you talking about anything in particular?’

  ‘This business with Wilson’s diary. Why did the Detective Inspector tell you it had been stolen? Police aren’t usually so free with their intelligence.’ His eyes were cold. ‘Unless it was you who supplied the intelligence in the first place.’

  ‘Hallengren mentioned it because someone told him I’d seen it,’ I said helplessly. ‘Wilson showed me the diary on the plane.’

  ‘Showed you?’ He gazed into the distance. ‘And did you see anything of interest?’

  ‘Nothing about the Bibby Foundation. Anyway, I presume that won’t now go ahead.’

  ‘The decision to stop funding research? It can’t. Not unless Wilson had signed off on it.’ He ran his fingers over the rim of the clown’s bowler. ‘And with the diary gone now, we’ll never know, will we? Well, work calls, my dear. Time’s wingèd chariot, and all that.’

  ‘More writing?’

  ‘Dragon Control has been sending text messages, requesting sample chapters. She’s absolutely no idea what’s involved in writing. So what are your plans for the afternoon?’

  ‘A sauna and a deep muscle massage. Then I’m off to buy presents for Annie and Lucy.’

  ‘Kiruna?’ he said vaguely.

  ‘There’s a gift shop near here that sells wooden toys. On the road to the church.’

  ‘Yes, well, don’t spend it all at once, my dear. See you for cocktails.’ He strolled up the path, patting the penguins as he went inside.

  I lay on the table, half asleep. The Swedish masseur, a thickset dark-haired man with hands like hams, worked my back, smoothing away the knots in my muscles.

  So Harry thought the entire diary was missing. He couldn’t have been the one to have torn out the pages then. Unless, of course, he was bluffing. If he thought I was having little chats with Hallengren, he might want me to pass on this snippet of information. Was Harry that devious? How well did I know him? With all that was happening here, how well did I know anyone?

  I closed my eyes and abandoned myself to the masseur.

  The gift shop was the last of a small cluster of buildings before the bend in the road. It sold clocks, wooden toys and glassware.

  The assistant was wearing the same style of clothes as Marita, and a knitted wimple hat. ‘Are you staying in Kiruna?’ she said pleasantly, wrapping my gifts in coloured paper.

  ‘The Icehotel.’

  Her smile disappeared and fear shrouded her eyes, the same fear I’d seen on Karin’s and Marita’s faces. The news of Wilson’s death had spread. And the rumours about the hotel killer, no doubt fuelled by the recent murder in Stockholm. Was she afraid the Icehotel would close down and she’d be out of a job? Or was it something else . . .

  I gathered the pa
rcels and left.

  The sun was close to setting, but it was still light, and the air was sharp with the smell of woodsmoke. I heard a faint sound and, thinking it might be geese, peered into the sky. The sound grew louder before I recognised it as the barking of dogs. The husky sledges were out on the river. Mike would be with them.

  The dying sun was gilding the rooftops, and the landscape shimmered in soft apricot-rose light. I reached the Excelsior and took the path at the side of the Chapel towards the river. The ice-harvesting machines had finished for the day, but the skiers still out were calling to each other as they zigzagged to the bank. The sky, streaked blood-orange and crimson, threw its burning reflection onto the ice. I watched the colours deepen as the sun sank to the horizon, then retraced my steps.

  In front of the Chapel, I saw a slim red-suited figure. Liz was teetering in the snow, holding her arms out like a tightrope walker. Unable to keep her balance, she sank into a drift and fell heavily.

  ‘Mags,’ she said in surprise, her face white against the red hood. ‘I didn’t expect you back so early.’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘This snow’s absolutely marvellous, isn’t it? Just like powder. Do you remember those snowball fights we used to have?’

  I grinned. ‘I always came off badly. No hand-eye co-ordination.’

  ‘So how were the huskies?’

  ‘I went shopping instead. I’ve bought some fabulous things for the twins. But I’ll tell you inside. If I don’t get out of this cold, I’ll collapse.’

  She started to shiver uncontrollably, and wrapped her arms around herself.

  ‘Your hands are blue, Liz,’ I said, frowning.

  ‘It’s not my hands I’m worried about. My backside’s frozen solid.’

  I laughed. ‘Now, there’s an image.’

  She rubbed her hands down the sides of her suit.

  ‘Harry told me you were taking a nap,’ I said. ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Wonderful. You really can’t overestimate the restorative powers of sleep.’ She looked beyond me, at the sunset. ‘You know, this sky is absolutely glorious, isn’t it? I’ve never seen such colours. It’s the sort of thing Turner would paint.’

  ‘Never mind the sunset. Think hot chocolate and rum.’ I took her arm and steered her towards the Excelsior.

  She stopped at the Chapel door. ‘Oh, let’s just take a quick peek inside, Mags. The light will be streaming in through that big window. It’ll be absolutely amazing.’

  I had to smile; for all her sneering about auroras, Liz had her romantic streak. ‘Five minutes,’ I said, ‘and then we’re out of here.’

  She pulled the antlers. The door swung open smoothly.

  As I stepped in behind her, a movement to the right caught my eye and, for an instant, I thought I saw someone disappear behind a column. I was about to call out when a strangled noise made me turn. Liz had stopped dead. She was trembling, staring at the far end of the Chapel.

  I looked along the nave.

  Two figures were lying near the altar. One was curled in a grotesque foetal position, the other sprawled, arms outstretched as though crucified. They, and the ground beneath them, were soaked in blood.

  I backed towards the door, colliding with Liz. She was rooted, shaking convulsively, her breathing laboured. I gripped her arm, unable to tear my eyes from the figures. We had to get out of there.

  I was groping for the handle when I heard a sudden gurgling from the altar. I pushed past Liz and bolted down the nave.

  I’d been mistaken. There was only one body. The curled figure was a crumpled red snowsuit. I touched it gingerly with my boot, then pushed it over, exposing the bloody ski mask and gloves underneath.

  I took a deep breath and turned to the figure spreadeagled by the pulpit. From the build, it looked like a man. Bile surged into my mouth and I gagged uncontrollably. Someone had hacked at his head so brutally his features were unrecognisable.

  Deep gashes scored his face, the lips of the wounds already swelling. His nose had been sliced off, and his jaw so badly crushed that most of the lower teeth were missing. One eye was a pulpy mess, the other stared, unblinking. His chest had been slashed open, exposing part of the ribcage, the bone pink-white and smooth. Grey intestines, like giant sausages, coiled through a deep cleft in his abdomen. Between his legs was a yellow-brown stain.

  The altar and pulpit were smeared with great splashes of red, like some monstrous work of art. Blood trickled down into the snow, mingling with the spattered flesh and splinters of bone.

  A loud retching came from behind me. Liz was facing the wall, one hand on it for support. She was vomiting violently.

  Suddenly, the man began to twitch. It was as though an electric current were passing through his body. The spasms grew more frequent, becoming so severe that at one point he jerked clear of the ground. I moved in closer and forced myself to look, seeing what I’d missed earlier: the ice-axe, its tip clotted with flesh and hair. I fell to my knees, gasping for breath, my mind unravelling. It was then that I became aware of the sweet heavy stench, like the inside of a butcher’s shop. And overlaid with something else – the smell of fear.

  His strength was failing, and his groans had dwindled to a soft keening. A stream of bloody bubbles was oozing from the gash that had been his mouth. Steeling myself, I put my ear close to his face and strained to listen.

  The blue woollen hat was lying at an angle across his forehead. Strangely anguished by this indignity, I reached across to straighten it.

  Then I saw his hair.

  The shock was so great that I buckled as though I’d been punched in the stomach. The salt-and-pepper colour and cowlick were unmistakable. It was Harry. Harry had been hacked to pieces. Harry was dying in front of me. Darkness closed around me and I fell face downwards.

  Harry drummed his heels, furiously at first, then more slowly, until, finally, he lay still. I marshalled what was left of my strength and crawled behind his head. Kneeling in the melting snow, I cradled him, my keening joining his, and watched his lifeblood seep away.

  I rocked back and forth, gazing at the scattered parcels, my body growing cold along with Harry’s. A sudden breath of wind blew through the rose window and stirred the neatly-tied ribbons.

  I felt strong arms prise my own from Harry’s body, and I was lifted to my feet. I heard voices, first Swedish, then English. I was led away, supported on either side. There were faces, Mike’s, Hallengren’s, a crowd in the Excelsior gaping at me, a hot bath, Liz and another woman sponging me down, Liz spooning something hot into my mouth, then gagging, unable to swallow.

  I was dressed in a nightshirt and helped into bed. The woman rolled back my sleeve and inserted a needle into my arm. The last thing I saw before sinking into oblivion was her head close to mine, concern etched into the lines of her face.

  Chapter 18

  I drifted in and out of sleep. My dreams were lurid. I was with Harry and Liz. We were on the ice, skating. But something was wrong. We were skating too quickly. Whenever the blades cut into the ice they made a sharp clicking sound, rhythmical, and hypnotic. It grew louder.

  I woke with a strange sense of guilt. Daylight was pouring into the room. A woman sat in a chair next to the bed. She was knitting something colourful, working quickly. Whenever she knitted a stitch, her needles made a sharp clicking sound. It was rhythmical, and hypnotic.

  I watched listlessly. My eyes started to close, but I made myself stay awake because there was something I had to remember. I moved my head.

  The clicking stopped. ‘How are you feeling?’ the woman said in a thick accent.

  There was something familiar about her face. I’d seen it before, that look of concern.

  She smiled then, and memory returned with such force that I couldn’t breathe. I pawed at the bedclothes in a frenzy. A second later, there was a loud hissing, and something hard was pushed over my face. I took huge gulps, rasping as though I’d never take in enough air until, gradually, the constriction in my throa
t loosened.

  The woman removed the mask and put a hand to my forehead. She spoke soothingly, running her fingers down my cheek, but I couldn’t understand the words. Tears rolled down the sides of my face and into my ears. She spoke again, and her expression changed from sympathy to regret. I turned away and, lying on my side, cried as I hadn’t since I was a child. My breathing came in huge sobs, racking my body and giving me hiccups. From somewhere far away, I heard the door open and close.

  I turned to the woman. Hallengren was sitting in the chair. He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped loosely.

  ‘Shall I come back later?’ he said softly.

  I shook my head. I didn’t want him to leave. I wanted him to tell me it was a horrible mistake, and Harry was alive.

  He went to the bathroom, and I heard a tap being run. He re-appeared with a glass of water and handed it to me without a word. I struggled to a sitting position and, cupping the glass in both hands, drank greedily, spilling water down my nightshirt. I held out the glass.

  ‘More?’ he said.

  I nodded.

  Along with the water, he brought a wet towel. I rubbed it over my face, feeling the welcome coldness against my hot sore eyes.

  ‘Miss Stewart,’ he said, resuming his seat, ‘I would like to ask you some questions about yesterday. Do you feel up to it?’

  ‘Yesterday?’ I said vaguely.

  ‘Today is Saturday. You were given a sedative and slept through the night.’ He spoke with his usual slowness. ‘I need you to tell me what happened in the Chapel.’

  The Chapel. I remembered his face as I was being led away. Surely he’d know everything. What else could I tell him? ‘But hasn’t Liz – ’

  ‘Miss Hallam has given us a statement, but I need you to fill in the gaps,’ he said gently. ‘She told us she met you outside the Chapel. Where were you before that?’

  ‘In the morning – ’

  ‘I know where everyone was in the morning. Where were you after lunch?’

  ‘I went to the spa.’

  ‘And afterwards?’ He was writing.