ICEHOTEL (15 page)

In my room, I undressed and re-enacted the ritual of the
sleeping bag. I writhed around for what seemed like hours before I finally fell
asleep.

I slept fitfully. My dreams
were vivid: we were on snowmobiles and Marcellus was chasing me and, however
hard I pressed against the accelerator, I couldn’t rev up enough speed to get
away.

I woke early – my watch said 6.10am
– and wriggled around trying to get comfortable, but it was clear I wasn’t
going to get back to sleep. I dressed and tiptoed towards the washroom.
Standing under the hot jet, I worked shampoo into my hair. The others wouldn’t
be up for another hour but, rather than kill time in the lounge, I would take a
walk on the river.

The sun was rising as I left the Icehotel, bathing the
landscape in clear morning light. Ahead was the long stretch of river ice, pink
in the sunrise and fringed with snow-laden trees. A walk to the forest and back
should take no more than an hour.

The snow was deep and I had to lift my feet to clear the
drifts, an activity which soon tired me. I was nearing the bank, when I saw a
man on cross-county skis. Instead of a snowsuit, he wore a close-fitting red
woollen jacket, patterned knee breeches, and yellow socks. As he approached, he
raised his ski pole in greeting, then overtook me, gliding gracefully. At the edge
of the river, he removed his skis and lifted them over his head. For a second,
I thought he was going to scratch his back, but he pushed them neatly through a
strap on his rucksack, and disappeared into the forest.

I reached the trees, breathing hard, and collapsed onto a
rock.

The sun was now well above the horizon, the shadows of the
trees shrinking, creeping back to the river’s edge like a defeated army. There
was more activity on the river now: the harvesting of the day’s ice had begun;
a sledge pulled by eight yapping huskies sped across the river; and dozens of
people on cross-country skis moved soundlessly past each other. It was hard to
believe this was the same river of a few hours before, deserted, washed pale in
the cold light from the aurora.

My thoughts crept back to the scene outside the Locker Room.
Why had Marcellus deliberately concealed his face? Was he afraid that Wilson
would find out he was up late, and disapprove? Unlikely. My assumption that
he’d followed me onto the river seemed far-fetched now. Yes, he could have
peered through his curtain and seen me leave, but why had he reentered the
Icehotel via the Locker Room? Why not return to his room the same way, by the
back? No, he hadn’t been watching me. He’d been coming from the Excelsior. But
why would he worry about being recognised? It made no sense.

The wind was strengthening.
I
rose, buttoning my hood, and started back. The going was slower as I needed my
wits about me to avoid careering into traffic. The temperature had dropped and
huge clouds were forming. By the time I reached the back of the Icehotel, snow
was drifting down.

I slipped inside, and paused to listen. No-one was up. Yet,
as I stole along the corridors, following the signs to the foyer, I heard faint
scratchings behind the curtains.

It was as I was nearing my corridor that I heard it – a
scream that sent a jolt of fear through my body. It was a woman’s voice,
high-pitched and strong, tearing through the stiff fabric of silence. A second
later, it was joined by another.

The screaming stopped as suddenly as
it had started. And then chaos erupted.

People rushed out of rooms, and ran down the corridor
towards the sound. Others stood about, looking dazed. Instinctively, I joined
the runners.

We rounded the corner, bursting onto the crowd. Karin and
Marita were standing near the wall, sobbing, their shoulders shaking
uncontrollably. Tears were streaming down their faces, smearing their make-up.
A woman in a sleepsuit was trying to soothe them. She had an arm around Marita
who seemed in a worse state than Karin.

I elbowed my way through the crush. Someone was holding back
the curtain to one of the bedrooms, and people were peering in, babbling to one
another. I stood on my toes, craning my neck, and looked inside.

A tray and paper cups lay abandoned on the floor in a patch
of reddish-purple mush. A sleeping bag, folded open, was spread neatly on the
skins. And, on the floor at the side of the bed, a figure dressed only in a
sleepsuit was lying on his back.

I felt a tightening in the pit of my stomach. It was a
well-built man and, for one lurching moment, I thought it was Harry. Then I
heard his voice. He was standing next to me, gazing into the room.

‘It’s Wilson Bibby,’ he said.

I looked through the bobbing heads at the figure. The blood
had drained from his face, giving his skin the texture of parchment, and his
hands and feet had a yellowish cast, like fat round a raw steak.

‘He’s frozen stiff.’ There was an unnatural calmness in
Harry’s voice.

I stared at him, shocked that he seemed without emotion. He
turned to look at me, and smiled bleakly.

The people in front were pushing their way out, and we found
ourselves at the entrance. I saw the body clearly now.

It was a waxwork in a horror show. His head was turned to
the side. In this position, the hooked nose was unmistakable, and I wondered
how I could have mistaken him for Harry. His mouth was open and a dribble of
saliva had run down his chin and solidified. Mercifully, his eyes were shut.

Then my mouth went dry. This was the face I’d seen as I’d
touched the statue of the Templar. The flesh and blood face. I shivered
uncontrollably, grateful for Harry’s arm around my shoulders.

The crowd was growing, pressing us into the room. We fought
our way out, but not before I’d taken a final glance around. On the other side
of the bed, a snowsuit and boots lay abandoned on the floor.

We stumbled into the corridor. Liz came running toward us,
shock registering on her face.

She looked from Harry to me. ‘What’s happened?’ Her voice
was almost a whisper.

‘It’s Wilson Bibby,’ I said.

The colour left her face. She made to go into the room.

‘No, my dear,’ said Harry firmly, grabbing at her arm.

But he was too late. She was at the entrance, staring at the
corpse. ‘Oh my God, Mags,’ she whispered. ‘He’s dead. Wilson’s dead.’

‘He must have fallen out of bed and frozen to death,’ I
said, licking my lips nervously. ‘Although – ’

Harry interrupted me. ‘Let’s get out of here. I’ve never
been good in crowds.’

He began to lead us away but I pulled back. Karin and Marita
were huddled against the wall, shaking, their arms around each other. The woman
in the sleepsuit was gone. A feeling of dread stole over me. What I saw in
their faces was not shock, but fear. Karin’s sobbing was coming in small
hiccups. Marita was gazing into space, wide-eyed, her mouth slack.

I started to go over but Harry stopped me. ‘There’s nothing
we can do here, my dear,’ he said gently.

We joined the guests leaving
the Icehotel. Some were still in their nightwear, dragging their sleeping bags
over the snow, others were partially dressed in outdoor clothes. In a daze, I
let the multilingual babble wash over me as we climbed the path to the Excelsior.
I no longer felt tired.

The hotel manager was gibbering to
the receptionist with the round glasses. They turned anxious faces towards us
as we entered.

The manager rushed forward, ushering people towards the
stairs. His eyes were large and round, like an owl’s. ‘Please do go to the
restaurant,’ he shouted. ‘Breakfast is being served.’

A few guests drifted towards the stairs. A larger cluster
formed near the front door. Neither Liz, Harry, nor I could face food, so we
ordered coffee in the lounge.

Liz drained her espresso. ‘I needed that,’ she said,
massaging her temples. ‘I had too much of that damned drink last night.’ She
reached into her bag for aspirins. ‘Has anyone seen Mike?’

‘He’s probably upstairs having breakfast,’ I said
listlessly.

She swallowed two large tablets. ‘He may not know about
Wilson. I’d better go up.’

She returned five minutes later, looking puzzled. ‘He wasn’t
there. The manager checked his list. He’s not been in the restaurant all
morning.’

Harry smiled. ‘I should think he’s in the gym, building that
glorious body of his. He’ll be unaware of what’s happened.’

I wondered what his reaction would be when he found out . .
.

‘Do you think we’re allowed to smoke?’ Liz said. She gave an
embarrassed smile. ‘Oh, don’t look so surprised, Mags. I haven’t for a long
time. But I could really do with one now.’ She ran a hand over her eyes. ‘I’ve
never seen anything like that. It was simply dreadful. Poor Wilson.’

At the mention of Wilson, the memory of his corpse returned.
That skin, like wallpaper paste. My stomach churned loudly.

Leo Tullis came into the lounge. He called our group
together. ‘Can everyone hear me? Right. You’ll know by now that Mr Wilson Bibby
has had a tragic accident,’ he said, swallowing hard. ‘He was found dead this
morning, most likely from hypothermia. Clearly, this changes everything. The
Icehotel has been placed out of bounds, so you’ll be sleeping in the Excelsior
for the rest of the week.’

His expression changed to one of extreme discomfort. ‘I have
another message. The police are here, and they’re going to question everyone.’

‘Everyone?’ said Robyn Ellis, outrage in her voice.

‘It’s routine when there’s an unexpected death. There will
be two teams of police conducting the interrogations simultaneously. They
should get through them today, but we’ve been asked to keep tomorrow morning
free, just in case.’

‘Young man,’ Harry said stiffly, ‘I don’t like the word,
“interrogation”.’

‘I’m just quoting Inspector Hallengren, the officer leading
the investigation.’ Leo ran a hand through his mop of hair. ‘Look, I’m sure
there’s nothing to worry about.’ He failed to sound reassuring.

‘So what are we allowed to do?’ said Jane. ‘May we leave the
building?’

‘That’s the other message. Everyone is to stay in the
Excelsior. And the police are taking your passports.’

This produced an uproar. ‘It’s just routine,’ he said
miserably. ‘They’ll be returned.’

‘When are we going to be questioned?’ said Jim.

‘The interviews are starting straightaway. One of the hotel
staff will call your name. The problem is I haven’t been given a schedule, so
you could be called any time today. Or tomorrow.’

‘That’s utterly ridiculous,’ said Robyn. ‘Surely we can’t be
expected just to hang around.’

‘That’s precisely what you are expected to do. And it would
be best to stay in the lounge. The management are going to make refreshments
available all day.’

Her face was taking on the colour of a tomato. ‘I will have
to protest.’

Leo had had enough. ‘Then protest to Inspector Hallengren,’
he said harshly. ‘These are his rules. The sooner the police can get through
their questioning, the sooner things will return to normal. I’m sure you can
understand that.’

Mike breezed in, brushing past Leo who looked glad to leave.
His hair was wet and he had that healthy glow that accompanies strenuous
exercise. He flopped down and reached for the coffee pot.

‘I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve got the mother
of all hangovers,’ he said, pouring.

I kept my voice light. ‘Where have you been, Mike?’

‘Working out and trying to clear my head. I took a sauna,
then went up to the restaurant, but it’s closed. They sent me here without
saying why.’ He looked up. ‘Has something happened?’

Liz was the one to break the silence. ‘Wilson Bibby’s body
was found this morning. It seems he died from hypothermia. The police are here to
question us.’

Mike froze, his cup halfway to his mouth. He set it down
slowly, looking straight ahead, saying nothing.

There was a sudden shriek behind me. Jane Galloway was
gripping the edge of the table, rocking gently. The barman, a middle-aged man with
a pronounced paunch, was standing over her, holding a tray. He was whispering
conspiratorially.

Harry leant across. ‘What’s that you’re saying?’

The barman turned the tray in his hands. ‘It was last year,
at the Maximilian, and in other hotels in Stockholm also. Many guests were
murdered, one by one.’ He spoke the words slowly, and with relish.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Mike said under his breath. ‘So what’s
this, now?’

‘It’s old news,’ I said. ‘These murders took place last
year. We heard something at the airport. What did they call them, Harry?’

‘The Stockholm hotel murders.’

‘You must know about them, Mike,’ I said, looking directly
at him.

He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘I don’t.’

I stared at him in amazement. How could Mike not have heard
of these murders? From what he’d told us, he practically lived in Stockholm.
And he’d been in Stockholm when we saw the news flash.

He glanced at me, then turned quickly away.
I felt an inexplicable twinge of fear.

‘What happened?’ I asked the barman, anxious to hear him say
the police had caught the killer.

‘They never found him,’ he said dramatically. ‘We think he
has come to the Icehotel.’

The conversations in the lounge stopped.

‘Why do you think he’s come here? We’re miles from – ’

Liz interrupted me. ‘How were the guests murdered? Do you
happen to know?’

I caught sight of Jane’s complexion. ‘Liz, I don’t think we
want to hear that right at this moment.’

Jane was shaking visibly. ‘Why don’t you come and sit with
us?’ I said, taking her hand.

But, as she picked up her bag, one of the hotel staff came
in and called her name. She left quickly.

Harry raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you make of that? The
hotel killer, no less.’ He tried to force a smile but I could see he was
shaken.