by Hanna Allen
After a long silence, I whispered, ‘I don’t need to tell you. You know who it is.’
‘The white tiles and the sunken bath. You saw those in his bathroom. They’re always in the dream. It’s Mike you’re expecting to see in the bath, Maggie,’ she added quietly.
I put my hands under my knees, not wanting her to see them shaking.
‘Your subconscious is telling you it’s Mike. But does the conscious you really think he’s the killer?’ When I said nothing, she continued, ‘From what you say, Mike hadn’t disguised his hatred of Wilson Bibby. But could he have done it? Did he have the opportunity?’
I gazed at her without blinking. ‘He could have spiked Wilson’s food or drink that evening. Then pushed him out of bed later.’
‘Would he have known about the room swap?’
‘Harry could have told him, or he could have overheard Harry’s conversation with the receptionist.’
‘And the snowmobiles?’ she said, placing her hands together.
‘He’d been standing next to them when they fell. He had the opportunity to loosen the brakes.’ I ticked off the facts on my fingers. ‘Mike had been back from the husky trip well in time to murder Harry. The suit in the Chapel was extra-large, Mike’s size. It was Mike who suspected that Harry had whispered his killer’s name to me. And it was Mike, not Jonas, who sat watching me at the rehearsal.’ I glared at her triumphantly.
‘Could he have followed you to the Icehotel that night?’
‘From the lounge he could have have seen me go into Activities Room. He could have grabbed a suit and followed me.’
‘And when you and Liz went into that town?’ She paused. ‘Kiruna?’
‘Mike hadn’t come, but he could have taken the next bus in. He might have been the figure I’d seen tailing us, waiting for an opportunity to kill me, or Liz, or both of us.’
‘Wasn’t that the policeman?’ she said vaguely.
‘A trained detective would know how to follow someone without being seen.’
‘Wouldn’t he have seen Mike following you, and apprehended him?’
I felt as though I’d been slapped in the face. ‘You don’t believe me,’ I said, my voice quivering.
‘Maggie, please understand that I’m just working this through. It’s not what I believe, but what you believe. I’m trying to understand your thought processes.’
I nodded. ‘All right, Engqvist may have seen Mike, but perhaps he was under orders not to detain him, just see what he was up to.’
She seemed satisfied. ‘Go on.’
‘Mike had been absent for much of the week. He said he’d been in the gym, and perhaps he was telling the truth, perhaps he’d been plotting his moves there.’ My head was spinning. It was obvious now. ‘To establish his alibi, he could have sent Marcellus to the church by persuading him I was his father’s killer.’
‘Marcellus’s climb up the tower was the most difficult thing for the Inspector to explain,’ she said slowly.
‘And I’m convinced Mike had a hand in it somehow.’
When she spoke, her voice was guarded. ‘You know, Maggie, Wilson’s death was painless, as painless as death can be, I suspect. If Mike had killed Harry so brutally, Harry whom he seemed genuinely to like, then why hadn’t he killed Wilson in a similar way? He had reason to hate the man, after all.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said helplessly. ‘Wilson was rarely alone. Marcellus was his bodyguard. Maybe Mike couldn’t find any other way.’
‘And the motive for killing Harry?’
‘There isn’t one. Psychopaths don’t need a motive,’ I added defiantly. ‘And do you know what clinched it? It was Mike’s revelation that he’d travelled to Stockholm several times last year, the year the killings at the Maximilian took place.’ I picked at my nails. ‘When we arrived at the Icehotel, he told us he’d just come from Stockholm. He said that, at the weekend, he’d hooked up with a group of Yanks.’ I lifted my head wearily. ‘At the weekend. A group of Yanks.’
Something passed across her face, a look of apprehension. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Don’t you see?’ I felt like screaming. ‘An American tourist died the Saturday before. Hallengren said the death wasn’t accidental.’
‘The Saturday that Mike had been there?’
‘And he’s still going back and forth to Stockholm.’
‘Are the hotel murders continuing?’ she said slowly.
‘I’ve made a point of following the Swedish news.’ My eyes held hers. ‘Each time Mike is away, there’s a death.’
She said nothing, but there was no mistaking the shock on her face.
I ran a hand over my eyes. ‘The first time my suspicions were raised was when Mike took Liz and me out to lunch. He mentioned he’d been in Stockholm for the May Day celebrations.’ The restaurant was a tiny fish place in Leith. There’d been nothing remarkable about the occasion, but when Mike had mentioned Stockholm, it had struck a chord. After I’d returned home, it was still vibrating. ‘I went online and scoured the newspapers,’ I went on. ‘There was an article, dated May 2nd, about a man bludgeoned to death in a Stockholm hotel.’
Anxiety edged her voice. ‘You don’t think this could be a co-incidence?’
I put even less stock in co-incidences, Miss Stewart.
I shook my head vehemently. ‘And whoever killed those people in Stockholm, could have killed Harry. You didn’t see his body.’ I swallowed rapidly. ‘Or the inside of that Chapel.’
When there was no response, I said in a tired voice, ‘You think I’m imagining this, don’t you?’
‘Your fears are real, Maggie, and they are based on a form of logic. Everything you say is plausible. You’re sane, if that’s what you want to know. The question is, where do you think you should go from here?’
‘Where do I think?’ I said, with a gesture of helplessness. ‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’
‘Your greatest fear is that the police got the wrong man, and Harry’s murderer walked free.’
‘Is that a question?’
She smiled encouragingly. ‘It’s a beginning. We progress from here.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, Maggie, we need to draw this to a close. But this session is not over.’ She buzzed her secretary. ‘Caroline, am I free tomorrow afternoon?’
‘You have a meeting with the minister,’ came Caroline’s voice.
‘So I do. The day after, then?’
‘I can make it free.’
She glanced up.
I nodded.
‘Please re-arrange whatever I have, Caroline, and make an appointment for Miss Stewart, for 2.00pm.’ She sat back, studying me. ‘You’ve done well today, Maggie. You’ve taken a great leap forward.’
‘That’s the sort of thing Stalin would say.’ I tried a laugh, but it came out as a cough.
She walked me to the door, smiling. ‘My husband says I’m a bit like Stalin.’
I gazed up at her. ‘I haven’t always been like this, Dr Langley,’ I said, after a pause. ‘I used to be a nice person.’
She looked surprised. ‘You still are.’
‘There’s something I need to know,’ I said hesitantly. ‘Why is there blood in the bath? Is it because of how Harry was killed?’
A veil shrouded her eyes. ‘It could be that.’
‘Or?’
‘Blood in dreams can act as a portent. So, it may be that you think the killer will strike again.’
I felt the air leave my lungs. Yes, the killer could strike again. And not necessarily in Stockholm.
Chapter 29
I left Dr Langley’s office and made for Princes Street. An early moon was rising, skimming the rooftops, pouring its creamy light down the tiles. The first stars were out as sharp points in the blue-black sky.
As I approached the Royal Academy, I collided with someone. I lost my balance and fell heavily. Raising my head, I gazed into the face of one of Edinburgh’s professional élite. He looked me over casually, indifferenc
e in his eyes, then turned away, pulling his cashmere coat more tightly round his throat. I struggled to my feet and peeled the sodden jeans from my legs. My scarf was half-buried in the snow. Lacking the energy to wrap it around my neck, I dragged it behind me in the slush, like a limp tail.
I needed a drink. More than one. If ever there was a time to get legless, this was it. I’d told Dr Langley everything, exhuming my deepest fears, and she’d confirmed that I was sane. That had to be grounds for celebration.
It was snowing. Large flakes, like communion hosts, fell gently, dissolving as they touched the pavement. I tilted my head back and stared into the brooding sky, savouring the sharp tingles on my face.
I trudged up the slope from Princes Street. A few more steps and I was there.
The Highlander had become my local. It was dark and deep, and no-one I knew drank here. It was cocktail hour and the pub was filling. I pushed my way in, fighting past people to get to the counter.
The barman watched me approach. He was built like a rhinoceros, with a head that hung slightly forward. His face was criss-crossed with scars, his eyes, the colour of water. In a suit, he could be mistaken for the sort of heavy a debt-collection agency would employ. But he wore a kilt.
‘You here again, Miss?’ He eyed me warily. ‘That’s twice in one day.’
I stared at the hairs in his nostrils. ‘I can’t keep away from you, Mac. It must be love.’
The barman and I always began by sparring, but we quickly came to an understanding; he hesitated for only a second before reaching for the bottle. I watched eagerly as he poured. Wine had become my friend, even the metallic white variety they served here.
‘Are you going to behave?’ he said.
I smirked. ‘It’s Christmas. Do you want me to be naughty or nice?’
He started to replace the cork, but I laid a hand on his arm. ‘Leave the bottle.’
‘That’s not a good idea.’
‘I’ll drink slowly. You can give me a packet of pork scratchings to soak it up.’
‘One drink at a time, Miss.’
I snatched up the glass. ‘You know, that sort of attitude is going to widen the cracks in our relationship.’
At a table in the corner, I rolled the glass between my palms, and thought back to my session with Dr Langley.
Mike. It was out in the open. Or rather, out in my open. There was now no question of sitting back and doing nothing. Could I enlist Dr Langley’s help? Remember that I’m less interested in catching a killer, and more interested in helping you. No, I’d have to return to Kiruna and see Hallengren. I felt a sudden tug of lust as I remembered the night in his apartment. I lifted the glass and drank deeply in the bleak and certain knowledge that he wouldn’t recognise me: my hair was a mess, and I was so scrawny that I looked like an adolescent in her mother’s clothes. I pictured the polite but puzzled way he’d greet me, the interest dying in his eyes as they ran down my body.
A half-empty glass lay abandoned on the table. I fished out the sliver of lemon, and shredded it, bursting the tiny juice sacs with my fingers. There was something pressing I had to do first – warn Liz. Was she likely to believe me? Without proof? For that matter, was Hallengren? The Stockholm police might, though, specially if they correlated Mike’s movements with the hotel deaths. I was seeing Liz for lunch the following day. If I could persuade her that Mike was the killer, she’d come to Stockholm with me. But what if she refused to accept it? Even told Mike? Where would that leave me? I couldn’t help but wonder why Mike had insinuated himself into our lives so carefully. Was it with a specific end in sight? The thought made my flesh crawl. I dropped the lemon in the glass and wiped my fingers on my jeans.
A crash from the bar made me jump. Someone had dropped a beer glass and the customers were backing away from the spreading foam. I turned away in irritation.
No, I would have to tell Liz everything because I had no-one else. And she was sensible, she’d know what to do. I’d hand the matter over to her and go with her decision. My spirits rose, as they always did when I formulated a plan.
A couple of drinks later, I decided I’d marinated my brain long enough. It was time for the one more I always had for the road. ‘Hey, Mac,’ I shouted to the barman with my customary politeness, ‘another wine, if you don’t mind.’
He was pulling a pint. ‘You’ll have to fetch it yourself, Miss. I haven’t the time to wait on you.’
I dragged myself to my feet, and waited for the room to stop swaying before making my way to the bar. Service was slow, and it was several minutes before the barman reached me.
He eyed me with distaste. ‘This has to be your last, Miss.’
‘Better make it a large one, in that case.’ I winked suggestively.
He watched me with his little piggy eyes, pouring the wine as though it were poison. I clutched the glass to my chest and picked my way back to the table.
The pub was teeming. People were pushing towards the bar, jostling me as they squeezed past, their loud conversation boring into my head like a hammer drill. Suddenly, I had to get out of there.
I got to my feet. The room heaved like a sea in swell. My stomach tightened, and I crashed face-downwards onto the table.
The noise stopped, and people turned to stare.
‘Right, that’s it, Miss,’ I heard the barman say. ‘Enough is enough.’
The customers watched in thinly veiled satisfaction as he marched over and hauled me to my feet. He thrust my arms into my duffel coat, and pulled it roughly around me, not bothering with the toggles. I watched in drunken detachment as he held me upright with one hand, and lifted my scarf off the floor with the other. He paused, glowering at me, and for a second I thought he was going to strangle me with it, but he just slung it around my neck. I reached for the bag hanging from the chair but missed it by several inches. He snatched it up and, ignoring the items that fell out, looped it over my head. The pantomime over, he gripped my arm and dragged me to the door. As he pulled it open, an icy blast sent me reeling backwards.
I tried to walk through the door, but collided with the frame.
‘You need help, Miss,’ he said, doing up the toggles of my coat. ‘Do you have far to go?’
I blinked at him.
‘You’ll find a cab on Princes Street.’ His expression softened. ‘It’s not far.’
Without ceremony, he put me outside and turned me so that I was facing the road. ‘Merry Christmas, Miss,’ he said sadly, closing the door.
I walked a few paces, then fell sprawling on the caked snow, somehow getting it down the neck of my sweater. After several attempts, I staggered to my feet and plunged headlong down Rose Street.
I was approaching the road leading to Princes Street, when I felt a spasm in my stomach. My throat contracted and my vision clouded. Afraid I would be cautioned again for being drunk and disorderly, I lurched into the nearest alley. I placed both hands on the wall and breathed deeply, willing the world to stop spinning, but my legs gave way and I sank to the ground.
It was as the wind was whipping icicles into my face that I realised that, somewhere between here and The Highlander, I’d lost my scarf.
The taxi dropped me off at the corner of Granville Street. Normally, I’d have taken my car, but I’d given up driving since the time I’d lurched awake at the wheel with Liz screaming into my ear.
It was 1.00pm and I was on time. I approached Liz’s house from the west, knowing I couldn’t be seen from that direction. There was no sign of Mike’s banana-yellow Porsche on the street, or in Liz’s drive. That meant nothing. He could have arrived by cab. The opportunity would be wasted if he were present, to say nothing of how I’d feel about seeing him now.
The pink-white gravel, wet from the recent snow, sank under my feet as I crunched up Liz’s drive. Weeds dotted the path, spoiling the lawn and flowerbeds.
I loved Liz’s house, a Victorian jewel in a Georgian city. The front door was framed with climbing roses, blooming despite the seas
on, the peach-coloured buds blackened with frost. The bushes grew untethered, and several branches had made a bid for freedom, entangling themselves in the profusion of dead honeysuckle wreathing the windows.
A large Peugeot stood backed up so close to the door that I had to squeeze past to reach the bell. Liz had been on one of her mammoth shopping trips.
The bell jangled deep inside the house. Liz opened the door before it had finished ringing. She was wearing jeans and an Arran sweater, too large for her, the cuffs hanging over her fingers. I glanced at the thick-soled boots and the green parka in her hand; she was on her way out. Disappointment, like the taste of old pennies, filled my mouth.
‘You’re here, Mags.’ She smiled warmly. ‘Excellent, we’ve just set the table.’
‘We?’ I said in alarm, trying to see over her shoulder. ‘Is Mike here?’
‘He’s away. It was the twins who helped me. They’ve already eaten.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you all right?’ She paused. ‘You haven’t been drinking?’
My breath smelt from the evening before. ‘I’ve not had a drop today, honest, Liz. I’ve even had breakfast.’ I glanced at the parka. ‘Did I get the time wrong?’
‘I’m out of cigarettes, that’s all. I was about to pop down to the corner shop and get you some.’
‘Well don’t bother on my account. You know I’ve given up.’
Liz and I had taken to playing this game, each of us pretending to the other that we didn’t smoke, and the other did.
‘So, where’s Mike?’ I said warily.
‘In Stockholm.’ She was looking at me curiously. ‘You know, he told me he’s been to see you but you’re never in, and you don’t return his calls. He’s even come into Bayne’s and asked after you. He said the girls at Accounts Payable won’t leave him alone.’ She took my coat and threw it onto the hall stand. ‘You’re not avoiding him are you, Mags?’
‘Of course not,’ I said, too quickly. ‘I’ve been meaning to get in touch, but I never get round to it.’
‘That’s easily solved. I’ll have to have you both over, then.’
I hesitated. ‘Look Liz, about Mike,’ I said, my voice faltering.
