ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  Yes, Harry would have made a great story of it, adding his usual embroideries. ‘We’re back to square one,’ I said wearily.

  I didn’t tell them what I was thinking, that, if Harry was innocent, then his silence was a mystery, but if he’d killed Wilson, his silence explained everything.

  ‘And the raid on the Excelsior?’ said Mike. ‘What was all that paddywhack about?’

  ‘The police were looking for traces of the barbiturate.’

  ‘This missing diary has something to do with it. Too much of a co-incidence. The man gets killed. The diary goes missing. It must have been the same person.’

  ‘I’m not sure it isn’t more complicated.’

  ‘Things are never complicated, Maggie. When people are murdered, look for the simplest motive. That’s what Hallengren’s doing, I’ll bet.’

  ‘But murder investigations take an awfully long time, don’t they?’ Liz said, rubbing her eyes. ‘I suppose any chance of getting our passports back has flown out of the window.’

  ‘Grand,’ said Mike. ‘And I have to be back on Monday.’

  ‘There’s nothing at Bayne’s that my staff can’t deal with,’ I said, in my best accountant’s voice.

  ‘Well, I’m going to ask Hallengren if he’ll release me,’ Liz said, her eyes filling. ‘I’m not a suspect. I need to see the twins.’ Her voice broke on the word.

  Mike put an arm around her. ‘That’s not how murder investigations work, Liz,’ he said, squeezing. ‘We’re stuck here till it’s over.’

  ‘You know, there’s something not quite right about this,’ I said half to myself.

  ‘Two murders, and something’s not quite right?’ He smiled grimly. ‘If that isn’t the understatement of the year.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean.’

  His voice was cold. ‘What, then?’

  ‘I’m missing something. You know, something you can’t quite remember. It’s there on the edge of consciousness but when you think hard, it slips away. Like trying to remember a dream in the morning.’

  ‘Golly, that’s poetic,’ Liz said sadly. She put the bottle to her lips. ‘Any idea what it might be?’

  ‘It’s something vital. When it comes to me, I’ll be able to work it out.’

  Mike’s lips curved into a smile. ‘I’m betting Hallengren works it out first. He fancies you, so he does. He was waiting ages downstairs.’

  I smiled to myself. The thought of sex with Hallengren hadn’t exactly been at the forefront of my mind, but then it hadn’t exactly been absent, either.

  Chapter 20

  The receptionist glanced at my snowsuit. His look of enquiry turned to one of alarm.

  He put down his book, a Swedish Mills and Boon. ‘How are you feeling, Miss Stewart?’ he said in the tone of an undertaker.

  ‘I’m not too bad. I’m going out,’ I added unnecessarily. ‘For some air.’

  He nodded. With a nervous movement, he peeled a leaflet from a pile on the counter. It was an advert for Macbeth, playing in the Ice Theatre the following evening. Liz had booked tickets, but we wouldn’t be going now.

  ‘The rehearsal is underway,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You are allowed to watch. The actors don’t mind. They encourage it.’

  He seemed so eager to please that I kept the leaflet. I hadn’t planned on seeing the Ice Theatre, but I had nothing better to do. I pulled on my gloves and drew up my hood.

  The Icehotel and Chapel were cordoned off, so the quickest route to the Theatre was behind the Locker Room. The river snaked into view as I rounded the corner, the ice-harvesting machines moving over the frozen surface like giant worker ants. I trudged through the snow, following the trail of footprints, and thought about Harry.

  The Theatre towered in front of me, a huge frosted cake, sparkling in the sunshine.

  Ice statues guarded the entrance. On the left was Bottom, his freakish ass’s head held mockingly, arms spread in a gesture of welcome. On the right, a frightful creature that I recognised as Caliban, hunched over, closed in on himself. If the statues and building didn’t give enough of a clue to the theatre’s purpose, set over the doors, profiled in snow, was an unmistakable likeness of Shakespeare. Sconces bearing Olympic-style torches flanked the entrance. According to the leaflet, they would be lit for the performance.

  I pulled back the doors and crept inside. Either the rehearsal hadn’t started or I’d arrived during a scene change, because nothing was happening. The actors, wearing padded fur-trimmed gowns in silk and leather, were listening to someone in a red snowsuit. I couldn’t help noticing their thick gloves, fur hats, and heavy-soled boots.

  The stage was a low semi-circular platform made of blue ice. Workmen were spreading snow onto the surface and patting it down with large plastic shovels. Behind the stage was a snow-pressed wall carved with strange shapes: snowflakes, concentric circles, and huge spiders’ webs. A rope of miniature lights climbed like an exotic twining plant up the sides and along the wall. The few props were minimalistic: crude throne-like ice chairs strewn with reindeer skins, and columns at either end of the stage.

  I climbed to the top of the auditorium and took a seat below one of the glassless windows. As the building had no roof, the torches fixed to the wall would illuminate the night sky.

  The theatre was full. Strange for a rehearsal but, as the temperature dropped to minus twenty at night, I supposed people were giving the evening performance a miss. Even now, in the early afternoon, it was cold enough that everyone wore thick suits and ski masks.

  ‘You haven’t missed anything,’ the woman next to me said. She was not from our group, but one of the Icehotel’s many day-trippers.

  The man in the red snowsuit climbed onto the stage and announced in fluent English that the play was about to begin.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I murmured to the woman.

  ‘The director. Someone famous who comes every year.’ She pointed to the leaflet. ‘It’s all in there.’

  The actors moved to the wings and waited in full view of the audience. The director signalled to a technician, the music started, and he slipped back to his seat.

  The strident music grew louder, filling the auditorium, then stopped suddenly.

  Three witches floated onto the stage. They danced in a circle, swaying rhythmically, howling and gesticulating. After spinning round, they huddled over an imaginary cauldron, and the play began. As they spoke, they tried to convey the meaning of their words through the movement of their bodies.

  ‘It works, doesn’t it?’ the woman said. ‘You don’t need to know Sami.’

  ‘Just as well. It’s a cross between singing and gargling.’

  I watched, fascinated, as the drama unfolded. As far as I could tell, the players were word-perfect. The director intervened only twice to reposition the actors.

  Lady Macbeth floated onto the platform, her head hidden under a fur-trimmed cowl. Her velvet gown was red, light at the neck but deepening in colour from the waist to the end of the long train, as if the blood she’d waded in had soaked through the hem and was seeping upwards.

  I stared at the gown. Oh God, the blood in the Chapel . . .

  I looked away quickly, my mind in turmoil. And then I saw him.

  Harry was sitting two rows further down.

  I leapt to my feet and was about to call out, when I saw my mistake. It wasn’t Harry, but a large woman in a blue snowsuit, her hair the same colour and style as his. I sank into my seat and leant against the wall, breathing rapidly. My sanity was leaving me. The day-tripper put her face close to mine and asked if felt unwell. I shook my head, not wanting to talk. With a monumental effort of will, I kept my eyes fixed on the platform.

  Lady Macbeth stopped abruptly and, with a dramatic gesture, threw back her hood. The audience gasped. Eyes, heavily-defined with kohl, stared out from her white face. Her blue-black hair was twisted into fat braids, coiling around her head like snakes. She parted her blood-red lips, and spoke her opening lines. The audience fell si
lent. Her voice was deep and resonant, a male actor playing a woman.

  I sat, dazed, still thinking of Harry. Eventually, I dragged my attention back to the performance. As it ended, with Macduff brandishing Macbeth’s severed head, the music reached a jarring climax which rang off the walls, deafening the people near the loudspeakers. It faded slowly, and the actors spilt onto the stage. They bowed, smiling, acknowledging the applause.

  The woman next to me had slipped away unnoticed. People drifted out. The Harry-lookalike heaved her bulk out of the auditorium. The technician packed his equipment into plastic boxes, and hauled them outside. The director in the front row, was conversing with a couple of spectators in the row behind. I felt no desire to move. I wrapped the reindeer skins around my shoulders, and leant back. Drained of energy, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

  A sudden noise woke me: an ice-harvesting machine was shutting down. I glanced around, conscious of a growing feeling of apprehension. The theatre was empty, except for the director and the spectators, all in the front row now, talking earnestly. I pulled myself to my feet and made to leave.

  A movement caught my eye. Someone else was in the auditorium.

  A hooded black-suited figure at the end of the front row was staring up at me from behind his ski mask. From the build and the way he held himself, I recognised Jonas Madsen. What on earth was he doing just sitting there? I looked around for another exit, but there was only the one door, and I’d have to pass him to get out. I pretended to be asleep, watching from under half-closed eyes, hoping he’d lose interest. He continued to gaze at me, glancing occasionally at the director and spectators, but they were engrossed in their conversation and showed no signs of leaving.

  After several minutes, he rose heavily and lumbered out. I waited until I thought he’d be back at the Excelsior, then I threw off the skins and ran down to the front.

  It was snowing. The wind had lessened, and the fat flakes drifted lazily, carpeting the ground in soft white. I drew up my hood and fastened the straps. A feeling of unease stole over me. Why had Jonas been watching me?

  I reached the Excelsior as Liz was leaving.

  I clutched her arm. ‘Liz, stop a minute.’ I peered past her into the foyer. ‘Have you seen Jonas?’

  ‘Well, yes I have, about a minute ago. He’s in the lounge.’

  ‘Did you see him come in? Could you tell which direction he was coming from?’

  She was looking at me strangely. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea, Mags.’

  ‘What is he wearing, Liz? Is he in a black snowsuit?’ Even to my own ears, my voice sounded desperate.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, why are you asking me these questions, in that tone?’

  ‘I saw him in the Ice Theatre.’ I swallowed hard. ‘He was watching me, at the end, after everyone had gone.’

  ‘You’re sure it was Jonas?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’ she said slowly.

  ‘Yes. No. Look, I didn’t need to. He was sitting hunched over, the way he does. You know, like he’s about to pounce. It was him, Liz, I swear.’

  ‘And what if it was?’ she said, with a small shrug. ‘Maybe he likes Shakespeare.’

  I stared at her in amazement. She was behaving as if it didn’t matter. ‘You don’t think it’s odd?’ I breathed. ‘Everyone goes. He stays behind and watches me.’

  Her mouth formed into a smile. ‘I can think of any number of reasons why a man would stay behind and watch you. Half the men here are on heat.’

  ‘This is no time for jokes. Don’t you realise what this means?’

  ‘Oh, yes, let me guess. It means you’re about to do something I’m probably going to regret.’

  ‘But he could be the killer.’

  ‘Please, Mags, this is stretching credibility. He can’t be the killer. He’s bladdered most of the time.’

  ‘Okay, so he drinks sometimes,’ I said, bristling. ‘But not every minute of every day.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true. In fact, when he’s sober he can be quite jolly. I’ve had a few chats with him.’

  The conversation wasn’t going the way I wanted. ‘Liz, it’s possible he killed Harry.’

  ‘I do believe you’re serious,’ she said softly.

  ‘And not only Harry. Maybe Wilson, too.’

  ‘And now you think he’s after you? How on earth did you jump to that conclusion?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said, rubbing my face. ‘All I know is that there’s a killer on the loose and Jonas’s behaviour at the theatre was strange. I thought it was, anyway.’

  ‘So this is you working it out? Just like you told us you would?’ Her voice hardened. ‘Let me get this straight, Mags. You’re saying you’ve got the motive for Wilson’s and Harry’s murders. And the proof it was Jonas. Well, congratulations. Shall we go and see Hallengren?’

  ‘Would it kill you to listen to me for one moment?’ I said angrily. ‘Of course I don’t have the proof. Or the motive.’ I hesitated. ‘I’m not even sure it was Jonas.’

  ‘Then, under the circs, I’d keep quiet, if I were you. Hallengren isn’t going to take kindly to wild, unsubstantiated accusations. And neither is Jonas,’ she added meaningfully.

  I paused, struck by the force of her argument.

  ‘Look, Mags, I’m sorry if I sounded harsh.’

  ‘Are you?’ I said, turning away.

  ‘You’re not yourself. It’s understandable after what you’ve been through. You’re tired. We’re all tired.’

  ‘You think I’m imagining it, don’t you?’ I blurted.

  She sighed theatrically. ‘All right then, if it’ll make you feel better, go and tell Hallengren. I’ll come with you, if you like. But I would just give him the facts. Don’t jump to conclusions in front of him. Men, specially detectives, hate it when you try to outsmart them.’

  ‘So what’s the quickest way?’

  ‘Gosh, right now?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I think it’ll be the courtesy bus. It’s a pity you didn’t tell me this earlier. We could have shared with Mike. He’s just gone in by cab.’

  ‘Mike’s gone to Kiruna?’ I said in dismay. Despite my misgivings about him, I thought Mike at least would have had more faith in me.

  ‘He said he’s maxed out on these winter sports, and wants a change of scene. He heard there’s a small casino in Kiruna.’ She looked at me anxiously. ‘Mags, when we get there, do you think you could persuade Hallengren to return my passport? He’d listen to you if you told him, that, well, you know . . .’

  She was desperate to get back to the twins. I felt suddenly exhausted. Why raise her hopes? It would be futile to speak to Hallengren. He wouldn’t let her or anyone else leave until he’d solved his case. And he’d be furious if I wasted his time with some nonsense about Jonas.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind, Liz,’ I said without preamble.

  She smiled faintly. ‘Well, that was quick.’

  ‘I think you may be right about Jonas.’

  ‘Fine, Mags, whatever. It’s really up to you.’ She sounded deeply disappointed.

  ‘I need to warm up. Tell you what, come to the lounge and we can play scrabble or something.’

  ‘Later maybe.’ The sadness returned to her face. ‘I might go to the computer room. Perhaps I’ll catch the twins.’

  I watched her go, hoping for her sake that, whatever Hallengren was doing to solve the case, he’d do it quickly.

  The lounge was empty except for the Danes. Jonas was at the bar, waving a full beer glass around, and spattering his companions with flecks of foam.

  All conversation stopped as I entered.

  I took my hot chocolate to the seat nearest the door, avoiding their eyes.

  A minute later, a shadow fell across the table. ‘May we join you?’

  I glanced up. Erik was pulling out a chair. He sat down without waiting for an answer. Jonas took the chair on my other side. He was looking at me with a serious expression. The doo
r seemed suddenly far away.

  ‘We are sorry about your friend,’ Erik said. ‘Finding him like that must have been terrible for you.’

  They unbuttoned their black snowsuits and opened them out, revealing jeans and fishermen’s sweaters.

  ‘If there is anything we can do, then please just say,’ said Jonas. ‘Perhaps you would like a trip into Kiruna. We don’t have to wait for the bus. We could go by taxi.’

  Erik said something in Danish. Jonas nodded and pulled a mobile from his jeans.

  ‘I don’t want to go to Kiruna,’ I said, unable to tear my eyes from Jonas’s snowsuit.

  He put the phone down slowly. His face brightened. ‘Have you been on a husky-ride yet? I have a friend who runs a kennel. He can take us.’ He hesitated. ‘Would you like that?’

  The Danes at the bar were watching silently.

  I was shaking so badly, I was spilling the hot chocolate. I couldn’t stay here. I glanced at the door, wondering what would happen if I made a run for it.

  ‘Are you cold?’ Jonas said, concern in his voice. ‘You’re trembling.’

  He placed a gentle paw over my hand, hunching his shoulders the way he’d done in the Ice Theatre.

  Fear hit me like bolts of lightning. I jerked my arm away and jumped to my feet. ‘Don’t touch me,’ I breathed.

  His face wore a startled expression. ‘But I was just . . .’ He made to rise but Erik put a restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘Keep away from me,’ I said, stumbling over the words.

  I turned and ran from the room.

  I grabbed a snowsuit and boots and rushed out of the Excelsior, skating past the ice penguins who stared up in surprise. When I reached the clown, I stopped for breath, and leant against him, shivering with cold. Shaking out the snowsuit, I clambered awkwardly into it.

  Dusk had softened the edges of the buildings. I sat at the clown’s feet and watched the shadows deepen. The falling snow made the distance to the Icehotel seem greater than it was.

  ‘Who’s the killer, Charlie?’ I glanced up. ‘You know who it is, don’t you?’

  The clown watched the ballerina, his arms high above the drum, ice tears glistening on his cheeks. I dragged myself to my feet and wrapped my arms around him. ‘Tell me,’ I whispered. ‘Tell me who it is.’