ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  ‘I went to that shop.’ I ran a hand across my eyes. ‘The one on the way to the church.’ I saw again the parcels and ribbons, reddening in the dying light, and drew in my breath sharply.

  He glanced up. ‘Please go on,’ he said, after a pause.

  ‘Then I went back to the Excelsior. Liz was there on the path.’

  ‘What time would this have been?’

  ‘I don’t know, the sun was setting. Liz might know what time it was.’ I felt a great heaviness press against my eyes. ‘She can tell you the rest.’ I turned away, letting my eyelids droop.

  ‘Miss Stewart, I will have to insist that you answer my questions.’ The soothing tone had gone. ‘Your friend was killed with an ice-axe. You were the last person to see him alive.’

  I stared at him with deepening dislike.

  ‘Miss Hallam told us that she remained at the back of the Chapel and it was you who went up to the altar. Is that correct?’

  I nodded.

  He spoke more softly. ‘Was Professor Auchinleck alive when you reached him? Miss Hallam could not confirm it. If we could establish that, it would help us greatly.’

  ‘He was alive when we came in.’

  ‘And did he say anything to you? I know it is painful to think about it, but can you remember?’

  I could remember. That keening would stay with me till I died. ‘Harry said nothing. I don’t think’ – I closed my eyes – ‘that he was capable of speaking.’

  After a long silence, Hallengren said, ‘You and Professor Auchinleck were close, I think. Were you lovers?’

  ‘What damn business is it of yours?’

  He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  ‘Harry was gay,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Did he have any enemies, Miss Stewart? Anyone who might have wanted to kill him? Anyone homophobic, perhaps?’

  ‘No-one I can think of.’

  ‘What about Mr Molloy?’

  ‘We met him for the first time a few days ago. But he and Harry got on fantastically well.’

  ‘And Miss Hallam?’ His expression was unchanged.

  I felt myself losing control. ‘My God, what are you suggesting? Do you think Liz did this?’

  He was watching me closely.

  ‘Look, Harry was a wonderful man. Everyone liked him.’ I felt the tears welling, but I was determined not to cry in front of Hallengren again.

  He put the notebook away, and walked to the window. The light from the snow-covered landscape whitened his skin, making him look ill.

  ‘Inspector.’

  He turned his head.

  ‘Do you have any idea who did this?’

  He gazed out of the window again. ‘No, Miss Stewart.’

  ‘There’s been talk about a hotel killer. We saw a news flash at the airport.’

  He returned to the chair. ‘It does not surprise me. It has been widely reported.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Every time there is a death in a Swedish hotel, even from natural causes, someone resurrects the Stockholm hotel killer. It does not help that a tourist was found dead last Saturday. That is what the news flash would have been about.’

  ‘Yes, the American.’

  ‘So you have read about it. Initially, we did not suspect – how do you say it? – foul play.’

  ‘But Denny Hinckley told me his neck was broken.’

  He looked at me with interest. ‘The Stockholm police have only just released that information. To have found that out so quickly, your reporter friend must have contacts in high places.’

  ‘His contacts are all in low places, Inspector,’ I said, trying a smile.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do not all reporters have such contacts?’ He studied me, frowning, as though trying to make up his mind about something. ‘A press statement is due to go out today, so I can tell you now,’ he said. ‘We believe Wilson Bibby was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’ I whispered, my heart thudding against my ribs.

  ‘The post-mortem was on Thursday. The report reached my desk the same evening.’ He ran a hand over his head. ‘We were suspicious when we saw Bibby’s body on one side of the bed, and his clothes on the other. If he had wanted to use the rest room, why would he not get out of bed on the same side as his clothes? But, yes, people do get out of bed on the wrong side. However, we discounted that when the pathologist’s results arrived.’

  I saw again Wilson’s corpse, stiff as a board, the parchment-like skin, the frozen trickle of saliva. But there was no sign of violence, and no murder weapon.

  Hallengren leant forward. ‘The temperature of his body, and the state of rigor mortis, put the time of death at or close to 3.30am. For a man of his body weight to freeze to death, he must have been out of his sleeping bag at approximately 2.00am. But even more interesting was what we discovered in his blood and urine.’

  ‘Was he poisoned?’

  ‘He was drugged. Our forensic team found a powerful sleep-inducing drug in his body. A barbiturate.’ He stumbled slightly over the word. ‘Is that how you say it?’

  I nodded.

  ‘The quantities of both the drug, Phenonal, and the chemicals that the body’ – he paused, trying to remember the word – ‘metabolises from it, indicate that he was very heavily drugged.’ He was watching me closely. ‘He had taken a dose of Phenonal so large that he would have been unconscious at 2.00am.’

  I stared at him, not understanding.

  There was a note of exasperation in his voice. ‘He was too deeply drugged to get up by himself. Someone pushed him out of his sleeping bag at around 2.00am.’

  ‘So he didn’t have a heart attack?’ I said, stunned.

  ‘The autopsy showed that his heart was not as weak as everyone thought. No, Miss Stewart, Wilson Bibby did not die of a heart attack. He was drugged, pushed out of his sleeping bag, and left to die.’ After a brief silence he said, ‘That is what Thursday evening was about. As soon as I knew Bibby had been drugged, I had my men search the Excelsior for Phenonal. We explored the kitchens thoroughly. I am still waiting for the results of tests but I do not expect to find anything. Like most hotels, the Excelsior disposes of unused food quickly.’

  ‘I thought you were looking for the pages from Wilson’s diary. That is, until Harry saw your men examining his soap dish.’

  ‘We looked for the missing pages too and the locker key. The search was originally organised for that purpose. The autopsy results came in as we were leaving.’ He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘It would have been a miracle if we had found anything. But we had to try.’

  ‘So, Wilson was pushed out of bed at 2.00am,’ I said half to myself.

  Hallengren got to his feet and zipped up his suit. ‘I suggest you eat something, Miss Stewart, even though you may not feel like it. You need to regain your strength.’ He was looking at me strangely.

  It was only after the door had closed that it struck me: my statement put me awake, and in the corridor outside Wilson Bibby’s room, at 2.00am – the time he’d been pushed out of his sleeping bag and left to die.

  Chapter 19

  An hour later the woman returned with a tray. She encouraged me in broken English to eat, then gave up and left.

  I had no appetite. My mind was a tumult of unformed thoughts and hypotheses, analysed, and rejected.

  Wilson had been murdered.

  The events since his death had been coloured by my conviction that he’d died of natural causes. Now, I was seeing those events in a new light. The removal of the diary pages took on greater significance. Those, surely, must hold the key to his murder, and possibly to Harry’s. Whoever had taken the pages had known that either Wilson was dead, or he was unconscious and wouldn’t recover. The thief was therefore Wilson’s murderer.

  But someone else could have pushed Wilson out of bed, and the thief had arrived to find a frozen corpse. Yet, what if he’d found Wilson still breathing? And hadn’t raised the alarm, because it would be in his best interests to keep quiet? By leaving him to die, he’d become a
n accomplice to murder.

  Could Marcellus have killed his father? The thought was chilling. 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.

  What were these plans? Had Marcellus and Aaron been plotting to kill Wilson in Stockholm, but his last-minute decision to take a holiday necessitated a rethink? The Icehotel was a perfect choice. No doors to the rooms. Yes, a murder here would give the police a headache of monumental proportions. And why had Aaron been staying in Kiruna all week? To plan, with Marcellus, the fine details of Wilson’s murder in the Icehotel?

  I picked at the food. It was making sense now. Marcellus, dismayed that Wilson was spending his inheritance on the schools’ programme, decided to kill him while there was still silver left in the kist. Silver which would then go to Marcellus as next of kin. And Aaron would take a share, as payment for his participation. Which leaves us with only one thing we haven’t talked about, Marcellus – my remuneration.

  Wilson had been drugged. Marcellus could have done that easily, then pushed him out of bed. I find myself nodding off over dinner and then I’m wide awake at two in the morning. Was it jet lag that had kept him up in the small hours? Or the execution of his plan?

  But what was on the last page of the diary that was the subject of so much interest? Nothing to do with the plot on Wilson’s life – what man would plan his own murder and write a memo about it? – so something else was going on.

  There was a knock at the door. Liz appeared, her face paler than usual.

  ‘Are you up for a visit?’ There was sympathy in her voice. ‘Mike’s here,’ she added, almost as an apology. She glanced at the tray. ‘The receptionist told us the nurse was bringing you food. That meant you were awake. Did you manage to eat anything?’

  My last memory of Liz was of her holding a spoon, trying to get me to eat. Tears pricked my eyes. ‘Liz – ’

  In a second, she was on the bed. I flung my arms around her, and she buried her face in my neck. When her sobbing had stopped, she disentangled herself and fumbled for a handkerchief, releasing the scent of Paris, familiar and strangely comforting.

  Mike was in Hallengren’s chair, watching us. He reached into his jacket and produced a small bottle of schnapps. He handed it to Liz, who drank greedily before passing it to me. The liquid burnt my throat, but settled in my stomach, its warmth spreading through my body.

  ‘Did you know Hallengren was here?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, why was he bothering you at a time like this?’ Liz snapped. ‘I told him what we saw in the Chapel.’ She ran a hand over her ponytail. ‘We were all questioned last night.’

  ‘They have to take statements from everyone,’ Mike said. ‘I had to give mine twice.’

  She frowned. ‘But you were miles away when it happened, weren’t you?’

  ‘I returned early with the Danish fellers and the husky manager.’

  She looked away. ‘You didn’t come and find me.’

  ‘Well, it was mid-afternoon.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry. I went straight to the gym.’

  I steered the subject back. ‘There’s something I need to tell you both.’ I waited till I had their attention. ‘Hallengren told me that Wilson Bibby was murdered.’

  From the shock on their faces, it was clear they hadn’t yet seen the press release. ‘They did a post-mortem,’ I added. ‘He was drugged.’

  ‘You mean someone gave him an overdose?’ said Mike.

  ‘The drug wasn’t intended to kill him, but to render him unconscious. He was incapable of getting up. Whoever did it pushed him out of bed. He froze to death, and the police are treating it as murder.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Liz said slowly. Her eyes were wide. ‘Do they have any idea who it is?’

  ‘They don’t know anything.’ I picked at the bed sheet. ‘But now Harry’s been murdered.’

  She looked scared. ‘What’s going on here? It’s this hotel killer, isn’t it? He’s come to the Icehotel.’ She took a huge swallow from the bottle, her hands trembling.

  ‘Listen to me, Liz, it’s not the hotel killer, okay?’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I just know, that’s all.’

  ‘What else did Hallengren tell you?’ said Mike.

  ‘Just that Wilson was given a massive dose of barbiturates.’ I sat up. ‘Look, do you remember he left the Ice Bar before everyone else? He said something about wanting a scotch.’

  Liz nodded. ‘He said he needed his nightcap.’

  ‘Well, Marcellus went with him.’

  She handed Mike the schnapps. ‘Marcellus went everywhere with him,’ she said.

  ‘He could have slipped something into Wilson’s whisky. You know about these things, Liz. How much would you put into a drink to drug someone so they’re out? Is it easy to get hold of stuff like that?’

  She looked unsure. ‘You can buy barbiturates over the counter now. And mixed with alcohol – ’

  ‘So Marcellus could have done it. And he had the motive.’

  ‘Money?’ said Mike. ‘But he stood to inherit when his daddy died. Which was going to be soon. Didn’t Bibby have this heart condition?’

  ‘Hallengren said Wilson could have kept going for years. I don’t understand that. I saw him take Coumarinose.’

  Liz was staring at the wall. ‘He took it on the plane, Mags. It could have been to prevent deep vein thrombosis.’ She went to the wardrobe mirror and stood frowning at her reflection, smoothing the dark circles under her eyes. ‘Yes, Marcellus had the motive. But he wouldn’t do it, would he? It’s simply far too obvious. He’d be the prime suspect.’

  ‘Maybe he thought the police would assume his father’s heart had given out.’

  She looked at me in the mirror. ‘There’s always a post-mortem, though, isn’t there?’ She flopped back onto the bed. ‘Did Hallengren say which barbiturate it was?’

  ‘I think it was called Phenonal. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, just that some metabolise quickly. Maybe Marcellus thought it would be out of the body by the time death occurred.’

  ‘Maybe he just didn’t think,’ Mike said. ‘Murderers don’t always have a plan. They seize an opportunity.’

  I was tempted to tell them about Marcellus’s conversation with Aaron in the church, but I was mindful of Hallengren’s warning. The fewer the people who knew, the better. If these men were killers and came to learn I’d overheard their conversation . . . Thank goodness they hadn’t seen me in the tower.

  ‘Marcellus would have had to know what he was doing,’ Mike was saying. ‘If he got the dose wrong, and Wilson woke up while he was rolling him onto the floor, he could kiss goodbye to his inheritance.’

  ‘There’s that history with him and Marcia Vandenberg,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t there talk that he drugged her? If he did, then he got that right.’

  ‘There are lots of ifs and buts, Mags,’ Liz said doubtfully.

  ‘What about Harry?’ Mike was weighing the bottle of schnapps in his hand. ‘Marcellus might have killed his father for money, but why would he kill Harry?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ I said. ‘For a while, I wondered whether – ’

  ‘Whether what, Mags?’

  I chewed my lip. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you. It’s about the night in the Icehotel. I got up to watch the aurora. When I came back, I saw Harry.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Harry?’

  ‘He was coming out of his room. The thing is, when I told Hallengren, he said Harry’s story was different. He told the police he slept through and didn’t get up. Don’t you think that’s strange?’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell us all this before?’ She took the bottle from Mike.

  I looked away, afraid she’d read my thoughts.

  ‘There may be any number of reasons why Harry’s story doesn’t tally with yours,’ she said. ‘He might s
imply have forgotten – he’d been drinking after all – and he was probably half-asleep at the time.’ She looked peeved. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘It’s possible Harry didn’t remember, but it’s not likely. He wasn’t as drunk as all that. And he wasn’t walking like a drunk. What I’m saying is that maybe Marcellus didn’t murder his father.’ I chose my words carefully, only now remembering Hallengren’s warning about having seen Marcellus. ‘Maybe he was up and about, saw Harry prowling the Icehotel, came to the conclusion Harry did it, and killed him.’

  ‘I’m not joining the dots,’ said Mike. ‘Are you suggesting Marcellus killed Harry? Out of revenge?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Well, all right now, but there’s still the question of who killed Wilson. If it wasn’t Marcellus, then who?’

  I lowered my eyes. After a brief silence, I said, ‘Harry might have done it.’

  ‘My God, Mags, you can’t be serious.’ Liz was glaring at me, her mouth ugly. ‘Harry wasn’t capable of murder. He simply wasn’t.’

  ‘That’s a despicable thing to say about your friend,’ Mike said slowly.

  I didn’t like the expression on his face. ‘I know,’ I said, looking away. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t square the circle, that’s all.’

  ‘Just because Harry was awake doesn’t make him a murderer. I only met him this week, but there’s no doubt in my mind. I’m with Liz on this. He’s not a killer.’

  And yet Harry had been stricken when he’d learnt Wilson was about to withdraw his funding. And he’d shown no emotion when his body was discovered. Harry could have killed Wilson, taken the locker key, found the diary pages relating to the funding decision, and disposed of them, carbons and all.

  Mike broke into my thoughts. ‘If the motive was hatred, it could as easily have been me. I had no love for Bibby.’

  Liz shook her head. ‘That really isn’t getting us anywhere. Look, Mags, let’s go back to the original premise, that Marcellus killed his father for his inheritance. So why would he kill Harry?’

  ‘Because Harry ran into him on his way out,’ I said irritably.

  She looked thoughtful. ‘But if he’d seen Marcellus, don’t you think he would have told us?’