ICEHOTEL (16 page)

‘Wilson Bibby wasn’t murdered,’ I said firmly. ‘You heard
Leo tell us it was an accident.’

‘Then what was he doing on the floor, my dear? Why was he
out of his sleeping bag?’

‘He had a weak heart. I saw him take medication for it. He
must have got up in the middle of the night, and it gave out.’

Mike looked doubtful. ‘From the shock of the cold, was it? I
suppose it’s possible.’

I thought back to the scene in Wilson’s room. Something
wasn’t right. Something that was staring me in the face, but I couldn’t see it.

‘There’s probably a perfectly rational explanation.’ Harry
frowned, nodding at the barman, who was speaking in hushed tones to the
Ellises. ‘But this talk about the hotel killer is unnerving me.’

Harry was anxious, Liz looked like
a phantom, and I was feeling queasy. The only person
unaffected by
Wilson’s death was Mike. He ordered coffee and sandwiches, and tucked into them
greedily.

First the snowmobiles. And now
Wilson. What the hell was happening? I stared out of the window. The wind had
died, and the snow was falling steadily, dusting the ground like sieved icing
sugar.

Mike was the next to be interviewed.
He returned fifteen minutes later, in good spirits. We threw questions at him,
but he shrugged them off. ‘I told them the truth. I said I slept all night, and
saw and heard nothing.’

Liz had been listless all morning, eating nothing. She lit
cigarette after cigarette with such familiarity that it was impossible to
believe she hadn’t been smoking for years. She was called at midday. On her
return, she continued to be subdued
.

‘How did it go?’ I said.

‘It was terrible. The Inspector’s awfully intimidating. I
nearly burst into tears.’

‘He’s a policeman, Liz.’ I tried a smile. ‘Those people
intimidate for a living.’

‘He looked at me as though he knew I was wearing Marks and
Spencer underwear.’ After a brief silence, she said, ‘I do wish I’d paid more
attention to that news flash, Mags. You don’t think there’s anything in this
hotel killer story, do you?’

‘I doubt it. I think Harry’s right, and there’s a simple
explanation for Wilson’s death. I expect Leo will tell us tomorrow.’ I put a
gentle hand on her arm. ‘Chin up, Liz. It’ll be all right.’

She didn’t seem convinced. I did my best to steer the
conversation away, but she kept returning to the hotel killer story. I left her
briefly to join the Ellises, who were marching around the foyer in mild protest
at being confined to the lounge. They were as rattled as the rest of us and
their jumpiness soon got on my nerves. I returned to find Liz talking earnestly
to the barman. She broke away when she saw me, and brushed off my questions,
saying she’d been ordering more sandwiches.

‘I’m going to call the twins,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in my room
if anyone needs me.’ She squashed out her cigarette and left.

I flopped into the armchair and huddled into a ball. Liz was
taking this harder than most. If only Harry had caught her before she’d seen
Wilson’s corpse.

After lunch, it was Harry’s turn. He reappeared a short
while later, and announced he was going to his room to work on his book.

By mid-afternoon, tempers had become frayed. The barman
switched on the television, but the only channels were in Swedish. Jonas and
his friends crowded around the set, drinking beer.

I was at the bar, ordering coffee, when a familiar image
appeared on the screen. It was the hotel I’d seen at the airport; the stone
facade and Swedish flag were unmistakable.

Jonas reached up to change the channel.

‘No, wait,’ I blurted.

The men turned in surprise.

I stared at the television. A reporter was standing in front
of the hotel, microphone in hand.

‘What’s he saying?’ I said.

Erik was looking at me with interest. ‘Someone has been
found dead there. Just a few days ago.’

‘Did they say anything about the Stockholm hotel murders?’ I
chewed my thumb. ‘Is it the same killer?’

‘They haven’t said he’s been murdered. Just that he’s been
found dead.’

‘So you know about the hotel killings?’ Jonas said softly.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from the screen. ‘The barman was
talking about them.’

‘It all happened last year,’ he said, with a dismissive
shrug. He put the bottle to his lips. ‘There have been no murders since.’

‘People are saying that the killer has come to the
Icehotel.’

Jonas shook his head and turned away. But not before I’d
caught the look that passed between him and Erik.

I returned to my seat and continued to gaze out of the
window. I felt numb.

As people were called, the
lounge slowly emptied.

It was nearly 4.00pm before my name
was called.

The manager’s assistant accompanied me to the office at the
end of the corridor, and asked me to wait.

I peered through the glass panel in the door.

Marcellus was seated, shoulders slumped, his posture
suggesting defeat or despair. Someone I couldn’t see was speaking to him, but I
couldn’t make out the words. Marcellus shook his head vehemently once or twice.
More murmuring from the invisible man. He must have hit a nerve because
Marcellus leapt out of the chair and lunged forward. A fair-haired man who’d
been standing out of sight darted forward and immobilised him in seconds. This
man was huge, broader even than Marcellus and taller by a good six inches.
Marcellus struggled, and the man
said something into
his ear. He nodded, relaxing visibly. The man waited, then released him.

Marcellus remained standing while the invisible man spoke
again. Then he turned and stumbled towards the door. I sprang back and
flattened myself against the wall, not wanting him to know I’d been watching.
After throwing a final angry glance towards the invisible man, he left the
room, slamming the door so violently I thought the glass would break. He saw me
then and paused, an expression of bewilderment on his face. I opened my mouth
to speak, but he turned away and marched down the corridor.

I knew I’d handled it badly; he must have realised I was
spying. But it was too late: I couldn’t run after him. I wiped my hands down
the sides of my jeans, and knocked gently.

The blond officer turned. He had typical Swedish looks:
tanned skin, blue eyes, and white-blond eyebrows. But a boxer’s face; one side
was misshapen, and the nose had been broken more than once.

He opened the door. ‘Please come in,’ he said, with a slight
accent. His tone was warm, and I felt my nervousness evaporate.

I was curious to see the other man. He was half-sitting on
the desk, one leg on the floor, the other dangling. He watched unsmilingly as
his colleague ushered me forward. He seemed as unwelcoming as the other man was
pleasant. I guessed I was in for the good-cop-bad-cop routine.

He stood up. ‘My name is Thomas Hallengren.’ He gestured to
his colleague. ‘This is Lars-Erik Engqvist. We are from the National Criminal
Investigation Department.’ He spoke slowly, with more of an accent than
Engqvist, but his English was faultless.

His dark hair was cropped close, accentuating the outline of
his skull. He, too, was tanned but, unlike his colleague, not entirely
clean-shaven. They
were both wearing the same blue
uniform, but the markings must have indicated differences in rank because Engqvist
deferred to him as superior. They towered over me; I doubted
either
could sleep with his feet in the bed. Perhaps it was government policy to
recruit giants into the Swedish police force.

Hallengren
continued to
stare, his blue eyes holding mine. Then his eyes travelled from my face, slowly
down my body, and back to my face. In other circumstances I wouldn’t have let
this go, but something about his manner told me to hold my tongue.

He motioned to the chair. ‘Please sit down.’

Engqvist parked himself on the desk, evidently not expecting
to have to restrain me. I drew my head back, wondering how long I could keep it
in this position. Hallengren nodded to his colleague, and he hurried to fetch
chairs which he placed in front of the desk. Hallengren sat opposite me.

He opened a notepad. ‘Your name is Margaret Stewart. Is that
correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Miss Stewart, I need to ask you some questions about the
death of the American. You were in’ – he ruffled through his papers – ‘room 16.
Am I right?’ He looked up.

‘Yes, room 16.’

Engqvist was watching, a smirk on his face.

Hallengren scribbled quickly. ‘Can you tell me what time you
went to bed last night?’

‘Some time between eleven and midnight. I can’t be more
specific.’

‘Alone?’ He continued to write.

Engqvist’s smirk broadened into a smile.

‘Of course,’ I said faintly, the blood rushing to my face.

Hallengren looked up in surprise. ‘Why do you say that? Many
couples sleep in the Icehotel. There are even honeymoon suites.’

I wondered when Engqvist would stop grinning. ‘I went to bed
alone,’ I said.

‘Did you stay in your room till morning?’

I ran my hands down the front of my jeans. ‘I left the
Icehotel later in the night.’

He studied me. ‘Can you remember what time that was?’

‘It was one o’clock.’ I smiled nervously. ‘I looked at my
watch.’

‘Why did you leave the Icehotel?’ he said softly.

‘To watch the aurora. The notice said there would be a
display. I was disappointed there was nothing earlier, so I decided to try
again. I didn’t sleep well, so I – ’

He interrupted me. ‘You did not sleep well? Are you a light
sleeper?’

‘Not particularly.’

He and Engqvist exchanged glances. Engqvist muttered
something I couldn’t catch, and Hallengren replied in Swedish.

‘Miss Stewart,’ Hallengren said, ‘you are the last person we
are interviewing. Everyone said they slept exceptionally well. Some even said
they could hardly stand on their feet after the snowmobile excursion. Were you
on that excursion?’

The directness of the question threw me off guard. I
hesitated. ‘Yes, I was.’ I looked at Engqvist. When I turned my head back, I
caught Hallengren staring at my hair.

‘What time did you return to the Icehotel?’ He was writing
again.

I tried to sound flippant. ‘No idea.’

He waited in silence.

‘I can’t have been watching long. How long can you stay out
before freezing to death?’ I regretted my words the instant I’d spoken them.
‘Probably about three quarters of an hour,’ I said, running a hand over my
face.

‘Did you see anyone while you were out?’ His expression was
unchanged; there was no indication of what he was thinking. They must teach
that at Detective School.

‘No-one. No, wait, I did see someone. It was as I was coming
in through the main door. I saw Marcellus Bibby going into the Locker Room.’

I had their attention now. They sat up straight, gabbling to
one another in Swedish.

Hallengren leant forward, searching my face. ‘The son? Are
you sure?’

‘The light in the Locker Room was on. His hood was down and
I saw his face. And his dark ponytail.’

He sat back, studying me. ‘Did he see you?’

‘He turned and looked at me – that’s how I saw his face –
but I was standing in the dark with my hood up. He may not have recognised me.
But – ’ The breath caught in my throat as I remembered how he’d tried to
conceal himself.

‘Yes?’

I hesitated. ‘He was acting strangely. He turned in my
direction and then pulled his hood up over his head.’

‘So that you could not see his face?’

‘I assumed that was the intention.’ I smiled wanly. ‘It was
too late by then, of course.’

‘He may not have known that.’

‘But why would he do it?’

‘Some people are naturally suspicious, and do not want
anyone knowing their movements, specially after dark.’ He paused. ‘Even if they
are doing nothing wrong.’

‘I suppose.’

‘And then, Miss Stewart, did you go straight to bed?’

‘Yes,’ I said flatly. ‘Alone.’

A faint smile touched his lips. ‘You saw no-one else?’

‘Only Harry.’

His eyes bored into mine. He consulted his notepad, leafing
back several pages. ‘Professor Harry Auchinleck?’ He pronounced it, Ow-hin-lek.

‘He was leaving his room as I reached my corridor.’

‘Did you speak to him?’

‘I called goodnight. Not too loudly as I didn’t want to wake
the place. But loudly enough so he’d hear.’

‘Did he reply?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure he heard?’

That stiffening of the shoulders. Yes, Harry had heard. But
something made me say, ‘I might have been mistaken.’

Engqvist was running a hand through his hair from the back
of the neck upwards. He was no longer smiling.

Hallengren studied his notes. ‘Miss Stewart, Professor
Auchinleck tells a different story. According to his statement, he’ – he read
from his notes – ‘went out like a light and didn’t surface till morning. The
screaming woke me.’

‘But that can’t be true,’ I said quickly. ‘I saw him leave
his room.’

‘You are sure it was Professor Auchinleck?’ Hallengren said,
watching me.

‘I’ve just said so. He was wearing the same blue snowsuit
and the bobble hat, pulled down over the ears the way Harry does it. And he was
walking exactly like Harry.’

‘Where do you think he was going?’ he said, after a pause.

‘Given the amount he’d had to drink, probably the loo. The
lavatory,’ I added, seeing their faces. I could tell they didn’t believe me.
‘Look, it’s just possible he’s forgotten.’

But Harry had the memory of an elephant. And he wasn’t hung
over this morning, so he couldn’t have been so drunk he’d forgotten getting up
in the night. Why had he simply not told the police the truth?