ICEHOTEL (21 page)

‘I’d better catch her up,’ Harry said quickly, getting to
his feet. ‘She seems quite shaken.’

Mike was playing with his coffee cup. ‘Liz has been smoking
non-stop. Is she always this jittery?’

‘It’s my fault,’ I said wearily. ‘I should have kept quiet
about the brakes. And those stories about the hotel killer coming here can’t
have helped. I wish that barman had kept his mouth shut.’

His eyes came up to mine. ‘You don’t think there’s anything
in that story, do you?’

‘It seems too far-fetched. I thought the Stockholm hotel
killer did his work in Stockholm. What’s he doing
here?
Kiruna’s a long way from anywhere.’

‘Jonas Madsen told me he used to stay regularly at the
Maximilian,’ he said, sifting the sugar in the bowl.

‘He told me that too. But lots of people stayed there. And
they’re not all killers.’

He gave me a strange look.

After a brief silence, I said, ‘Mike, didn’t you say you’d
spent much of last year in Stockholm?’

‘What of it?’ he said quietly.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I had the impression
that the first time you’d heard about these murders was when the barman talked
about them yesterday.’

‘Your impression’s correct, Maggie.’ His face was stony.
‘Where’s this going?’

‘I’m just amazed that you missed the story. It’s all anyone
talked about, from what Harry said.’

‘It must have been a seven-day wonder.’ He was looking at me
steadily. ‘And I don’t remember hearing anything.’

I almost believed him. Yet why would he lie? Everyone in
Sweden knew. His denial made no sense.

He gulped his coffee, rose, and
left the room.

The church was a good twenty minutes
from the Excelsior.

I walked briskly, grateful for the exercise, anxious now to
get to the church. Wands of smoke curled from the chimneys of the
tightly-crowded buildings, disintegrating in the still air. After a while, the
houses thinned out and gave way to clusters of pine trees. Snow fell
soundlessly from their oversprung branches as the burdened trees released their
load.

I met no-one on the road; a flock of birds flapped low, but
this served only to enhance the sense of solitude. The forecast was for good
weather, although the colour of the sky suggested otherwise. A sudden gust of
wind blew yesterday’s snow into puffs which eddied like tiny sandstorms around
my ankles.

I took the bend in the road.

The church stood a couple of hundred feet away in a cul de
sac, protected on three sides by forest. The rectangular tower, the tallest
structure for miles, dwarfed the building.

The ground was easier here, the gravel path showing through
the snow in places. I walked around the side of the church to the tower. An
iron ladder, riveted to the side, ended at a wooden door near the top. I brushed
the snow off the lower rungs. They were free of rust, solid and deep, although
a climber would still need great care. I hauled at the ladder, gripping the
rungs with both hands, letting it take my weight, but it didn’t budge. I
wondered why it was there. Surely there was a way of climbing the tower from
the inside.

I walked back to the front of the
church and
twisted the iron ring in the wooden door. It opened with a
pained creak. A thick cloak of musty air enveloped me, bringing with it strong
memories of childhood visits to Mass. I shut the door behind me.

The pencil windows set into the pastel-coloured walls cast
narrow bands of light onto the floor. Other than the altar, there was nothing
in the church except the painted wooden pews. Their gaudy colours had faded
unevenly and, in places, the paint had peeled off, exposing bleached pine
ravaged by woodworm. But the pews were solid enough. This would be a good place
to sit and think.

The altar stood on a platform behind waist-high black
railings, fastened with a padlock. On the cloth was a carved altarpiece. It was
a tree in full leaf, painted in primary colours but, instead of tropical birds,
saintly figures were perched in the branches. At the top was the crucified
Christ, his flattened hands and feet nailed to the trunk, blood gushing into
cups held by cheerful angels. In front of the tree, a row of candles stood like
Papal guards, striped red, blue and yellow. The smell of hot wax filled my
nostrils, making me want to curl up and sleep.

There was a stone column half hidden in the shadows at the
far left of the nave. On it was attached a yellowing notice, the typescript
faded but readable. I found the section in English: a brief history of the
church; specific mention of the Italian architect; and an account of the
removal of the ancient bells to the museum in Kiruna. The outside ladder and
side door in the tower were for the convenience of the bell-ringer, who could
come and go without disturbing the congregation. I scanned the text. It was
possible to climb the tower from the inside and, through the trapdoor at the
top, a walled platform ‘afforded an unparalleled view of the aurora borealis’.

The door to the tower was tucked away in the corner, behind
the column. I pushed it gently.

There was nothing inside, only darkness, and a chill like a
mortuary. I opened the door wide, letting the warm air, like breath on my skin,
drift in from the church. A rusty candelabrum was set into the wall, its ivory
candles unlit. I stared into the windowless room until my eyes had adapted. But
there was no other door, no ladder, no means of climbing the tower.

Then I spied it at the back – a flight of wooden steps, wide
and deep, with railings on either side. Easy to miss in the gloom.

I gripped the railings and stared up into the tower. The
steps spiralled into blackness. The trapdoor was closed.

I was about to leave when I heard the creak from the church.
The front door was opening. There were men’s voices. I tiptoed to the door and
peered out cautiously.

Marcellus and Aaron Vandenberg had entered. They were at the
far end of the nave, Marcellus’s bulk partly hidden by the column.

‘You sure we can speak freely here?’ I heard Aaron say.

I moved back, but not so far that I couldn’t hear. It was as
Marcellus was replying that I remembered the only way out was through the nave.
But it was too late to do anything about it now. I’d committed myself to
eavesdropping.

‘For Chrissakes, Aaron, chill out. This place is deserted.’

‘And you know this how?’

‘There’s one tour a week, and I’ve been on it.’

‘Well, someone’s lit those candles.’ A pause. ‘C’mon, son.
Let’s sit down.’ A creaking.

Aaron again, gentleness in his voice. ‘So, how are you
bearing up? They keeping you in town a lot?’

‘There’s a million forms to be filled out. Has to be done
and, anyway, it keeps me from thinking too much.’

‘I’m truly sorry, Marcellus.’ A deep sigh. ‘You know, 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.’ A pause. ‘This place really is something else.’

‘The church?’

‘Nah. The location. All this snow, masses of it, even in
town.’ A snort. ‘I was glad to get my ass out of there. The Excelsior might not
be the Hilton, but it’s better than that shitty little hotel in Kiruna. One
night would have been enough, but I’ve been there since Monday.’ A long pause.
‘So, do you think the police suspect anything?’

‘If they do, they gave nothing away.’

‘What did they ask you?’

‘What do you think, Aaron? The questions you’d expect them
to ask. Where were you? Were you up and about, etcetera, etcetera.’ Irritation
in the voice. ‘Do I have to write a book about it? I’m sure you can guess what
they wanted to know.’

‘And they said nothing about Stockholm?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They gave no hint they thought anything was going on?’

‘They already knew about my father’s schools’ initiative, if
that’s what you mean.’

‘Are you being deliberately obtuse? No, that’s not what I
mean.’

‘They only asked me about the schools’ programme. And what
our movements had been last week.’

‘Given there was a daily account of where your father was
every second of the day, I’m surprised they bothered. I suspect they just
wanted you to corroborate it.’ A note of anxiety crept into the voice. ‘You
told them only about the programme?’

‘Of course. As you say, they’d be checking all that
anyways.’

‘Well, provided you keep your nerve, we’ll come out of this
smelling of roses.’

‘Now who’s being obtuse?’

‘Lighten up, son. You’ll soon be in the big league, no
question. So when can we get out of here and back across the Pond?’

‘You and I need to wind things up in Stockholm first.’

‘We can do that tonight.’

‘And, I guess, once I get the coroner’s go-ahead for release
of my father’s body, we can go back to the States.’

‘You got a timescale for that, son?’

‘They’re doing an autopsy.’ A brief silence. ‘Our passports
are still being held by the police. We’re allowed to go to Kiruna, and on the
excursions, but nowhere else.’

‘Says who?’

‘The cop, Hallengren.’

‘Forget him.’

‘He’s not some peach-fuzzed rookie, Aaron. He’s sharp. Watch
yourself when you speak to him.’

A thick laugh. ‘There ain’t a cop alive who can outsmart me,
son. I’ve not been the Bibby lawyer all these years for nothing. This guy had
better not jerk me around if he knows what’s good for him.’ A pause. ‘So, is
there anything else, or are we done here?’

‘There’s a problem with the diary.’

‘Well that came right out of left field. What sort of a
problem?’

‘The cops found pages torn out.’

A softness in the voice. ‘Did they, by God. Which particular
pages?’

‘All the ones from last week. Aaron, they may ask you about
them, as your signature is on most of the memos.’

‘The Swedish Education Minister has copies of those pages
too. The cops’ll find them soon enough if they’re as smart as you say. And
there’s nothing there that will remotely interest them.’

‘But it’s the entry on the final day that would interest
them, Aaron.’

‘I’m assuming that page was torn out along with the others.
My guess is it’s been destroyed too.’

‘Only a fool would keep it.’ A pause, heavy with meaning.
‘And the copy?’

‘It’s in a safe place, son.’

A harsh laugh. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘Which leaves us with only one thing we haven’t talked
about, Marcellus.’

‘Like?’

‘Like – how shall I put it? – my remuneration.’

‘You’ll get your remuneration. Once I know how much there
is.’

‘You know I’ve never been one for playing the long game. But
for you, Marcellus, I can wait.’ A pause. ‘Now, that’s a weird thing, and no
mistake.’

‘What?’

‘On the altar.’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’

‘I thought you said you’d been on the tour. And what’s in
there, through that door?’

‘A tower. There used to be bells or something.’

A rustling, followed by more creaking. ‘So, can you get up
the tower?’

‘Sure.’

‘Fancy a climb? Now, don’t look at me like that. I’ve no
designs on you. Right now, we need each other. You could say we’re a mutual
assurance company.’ A louder rustling, then footsteps, coming in my direction.

I sprang back, my heart lurching. They were coming into the
tower. I hadn’t a clue what they’d been talking about, but I suspected they
wouldn’t be best pleased to discover they’d been overheard. I glanced at the
steps. If I climbed to the top, they might think I’d been there all the while.
But they’d be through the door before I made it halfway. There was only one
thing to do.

I slipped behind the door and pressed myself against the
wall, hoping they’d leave the door open to let the warmth in. A second later, I
heard their voices.

‘There’s nothing here, son. Let’s go.’

‘Wait. There, at the back.’

‘Ah yes, steps. Shall we?’

The footsteps moved further into the tower. To my horror, I
felt the door moving. In a second, they’d see me.

‘Leave it open, son.’

‘Why?’

‘We won’t see a goddamn thing otherwise.’

There was a sudden groaning of wood, followed by heavy
thuds. They were climbing. After a minute that felt like an hour, I crept out
and padded softly down the nave. Halfway to the door, I remembered the loud
creak. If they heard it, they’d be down like a shot. Even if I succeeded in
making it to the road, they’d still see me.

I tiptoed back and climbed over the rail. I crouched behind
the altar. A few seconds later, I heard footsteps.

‘Not without a torch, son. It ain’t safe. Anyway, I’m not
sure those steps will take your weight. The wood looks a bit flaky. C’mon, I
need a drink.’

Their footsteps faded down the nave. The front door creaked
open. I counted to a hundred, then stole out from behind the altar.

I left the church, intending to walk slowly, out of sight of
the men, but then remembered my conversation with Jane. I swerved right,
towards the forest. Near the trees were the path’s red markers, unmistakable
despite the recent fall. If what Jane had told me was correct, I should get to
the Excelsior before Marcellus and Aaron.

The going was surprisingly easy. I ducked under low-hanging
branches, hearing tiny rustlings in the undergrowth and the dull thump of snow
hitting ground.

The forest grew lighter and I soon found myself at the back
of the Excelsior; the fire door in the Activities Room was feet away.

I slipped around to the front where the courtesy bus was
waiting. I boarded and settled myself in the back. As we started to move, I
turned to look through the rear window. Marcellus and Aaron had reached the
circus statues.