ICEHOTEL (26 page)

‘But Denny Hinckley told me his neck was broken.’

He looked at me with interest. ‘The Stockholm police have
only just released that information. To have found that out so quickly, your
reporter friend must have contacts in high places.’

‘His contacts are all in low places, Inspector,’ I said,
trying a smile.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do not all reporters have such
contacts?’ He studied me, frowning, as though trying to make up his mind about
something. ‘A press statement is due to go out today, so I can tell you now,’
he said. ‘We believe Wilson Bibby was murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ I whispered, my heart thudding against my ribs.

‘The post-mortem was on Thursday. The report reached my desk
the same evening.’ He ran a hand over his head. ‘We were suspicious when we saw
Bibby’s body on one side of the bed, and his clothes on the other. If he had
wanted to use the rest room, why would he not get out of bed on the same side as
his clothes? But, yes, people do get out of bed on the wrong side. However, we
discounted that when the pathologist’s results arrived.’

I saw again Wilson’s corpse, stiff as a board, the
parchment-like skin, the frozen trickle of saliva. But there was no sign of
violence, and no murder weapon.

Hallengren leant forward. ‘The temperature of his body, and
the state of rigor
mortis,
put the time of death at or
close to 3.30am. For a man of his body weight to freeze to death, he must have
been out of his sleeping bag at approximately 2.00am. But even more interesting
was what we discovered in his blood and urine.’

‘Was he poisoned?’

‘He was drugged. Our forensic team found a powerful
sleep-inducing drug in his body. A barbiturate.’ He stumbled slightly over the
word. ‘Is that how you say it?’

I nodded.

‘The quantities of both the drug, Phenonal, and the
chemicals that the body’ – he paused, trying to remember the word –
‘metabolises from it, indicate that he was very heavily drugged.’ He was
watching me closely. ‘He had taken a dose of Phenonal so large that he would
have been unconscious at 2.00am.’

I stared at him, not understanding.

There was a note of exasperation in his voice. ‘He was too
deeply drugged to get up by himself. Someone pushed him out of his sleeping bag
at around 2.00am.’

‘So he didn’t have a heart attack?’ I said, stunned.

‘The autopsy showed that his heart was not as weak as
everyone thought. No, Miss Stewart, Wilson Bibby did not die of a heart attack.
He was drugged, pushed out of his sleeping bag, and left to die.’ After a brief
silence he said, ‘That is what Thursday evening was about. As soon as I knew
Bibby had been drugged, I had my men search the Excelsior for Phenonal. We
explored the kitchens thoroughly. I am still waiting for the results of tests
but I do not expect to find anything. Like most hotels, the Excelsior disposes
of unused food quickly.’

‘I thought you were looking for the pages from Wilson’s
diary. That is, until Harry saw your men examining his soap dish.’

‘We looked for the missing pages too and the locker key. The
search was originally organised for that purpose. The autopsy results came in
as we were leaving.’ He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘It would have been a miracle
if we had found anything. But we had to try.’

‘So, Wilson was pushed out of bed at 2.00am,’ I said half to
myself.

Hallengren got to his feet and zipped up his suit. ‘I
suggest you eat something, Miss Stewart, even though you may not feel like it.
You need to regain your strength.’ He was looking at me strangely.

It was only after the door had closed that it struck me: my
statement put me awake, and in the corridor outside Wilson Bibby’s room, at
2.00am – the time he’d been pushed out of his sleeping bag and left to die.

An hour later the woman returned
with a tray. She encouraged me in broken English to eat, then gave up and left.

I had no appetite. My mind was a tumult of unformed thoughts
and hypotheses, analysed, and rejected.

Wilson had been murdered.

The events since his death had been coloured by my
conviction that he’d died of natural causes. Now, I was seeing those events in
a new light. The removal of the diary pages took on greater significance.
Those, surely, must hold the key to his murder, and possibly to Harry’s.
Whoever had taken the pages had known that either Wilson was dead, or he was
unconscious and wouldn’t recover. The thief was therefore Wilson’s murderer.

But someone else could have pushed Wilson out of bed, and
the thief had arrived to find a frozen corpse. Yet, what if he’d found Wilson
still breathing? And hadn’t raised the alarm, because it would be in his best
interests to keep quiet? By leaving him to die, he’d become an accomplice to
murder.

Could Marcellus have killed his father? The thought was
chilling.
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.

What were these plans? Had Marcellus and Aaron been plotting
to kill Wilson in Stockholm, but his last-minute decision to take a holiday
necessitated a rethink? The Icehotel was a perfect choice. No doors to the
rooms. Yes, a murder here would give the police a headache of monumental
proportions. And why had Aaron been staying in Kiruna all week? To plan, with
Marcellus, the fine details of Wilson’s murder in the Icehotel?

I picked at the food. It was making sense now. Marcellus,
dismayed that Wilson was spending his inheritance on the schools’ programme,
decided to kill him while there was still silver left in the kist. Silver which
would then go to Marcellus as next of kin. And Aaron would take a share, as
payment for his participation.
Which leaves us with only one thing we
haven’t talked about, Marcellus – my remuneration.

Wilson had been drugged. Marcellus could have done that
easily, then pushed him out of bed.
I find myself
nodding off over dinner and then I’m wide awake at two in the morning.
Was
it jet lag that had kept him up in the small hours? Or the execution of his
plan?

But what was on the last page of the diary that was the
subject of so much interest? Nothing to do with the plot on Wilson’s life –
what man would plan his own murder and write a memo about it? – so something
else was going on.

There was a knock at the door. Liz appeared, her face paler
than usual.

‘Are you up for a visit?’ There was sympathy in her voice.
‘Mike’s here,’ she added, almost as an apology. She glanced at the tray. ‘The
receptionist told us the nurse was bringing you food. That meant you were awake.
Did you manage to eat anything?’

My last memory of Liz was of her holding a spoon, trying to
get me to eat. Tears pricked my eyes. ‘Liz – ’

In a second, she was on the bed. I flung my arms around her,
and she buried her face in my neck. When her sobbing had stopped, she
disentangled herself and fumbled
for a
handkerchief, releasing the scent of Paris, familiar and strangely comforting.

Mike was in Hallengren’s chair, watching us. He reached into
his jacket and produced a small bottle of schnapps. He handed it to Liz, who
drank greedily before passing it to me. The liquid burnt my throat, but settled
in my stomach, its warmth spreading through my body.

‘Did you know Hallengren was here?’ I said.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, why was he bothering you at a time
like this?’ Liz snapped. ‘I told him what we saw in the Chapel.’ She
ran a hand over her ponytail.
‘We were all
questioned last night.’

‘They have to take statements from everyone,’ Mike said. ‘I
had to give mine twice.’

She frowned. ‘But you were miles away when it happened,
weren’t you?’

‘I returned early with the Danish fellers and the husky
manager.’

She looked away. ‘You didn’t come and find me.’

‘Well, it was mid-afternoon.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry. I
went straight to the gym.’

I steered the subject back. ‘There’s something I need to
tell you both.’ I waited till I had their attention. ‘Hallengren told me that
Wilson Bibby was murdered.’

From the shock on their faces, it was clear they hadn’t yet
seen the press release. ‘They did a post-mortem,’ I added. ‘He was drugged.’

‘You mean someone gave him an overdose?’ said Mike.

‘The drug wasn’t intended to kill him, but to render him
unconscious. He was incapable of getting up. Whoever did it pushed him out of
bed. He froze to death, and the police are treating it as murder.’

‘Oh my God,’ Liz said slowly. Her eyes were wide. ‘Do they
have any idea who it is?’

‘They don’t know anything.’ I picked at the bed sheet. ‘But
now Harry’s been murdered.’

She looked scared. ‘What’s going on here? It’s this hotel killer,
isn’t it? He’s come to the Icehotel.’ She took a huge swallow from the bottle,
her hands trembling.

‘Listen to me, Liz, it’s not the hotel killer,
okay
?’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I just know, that’s all.’

‘What else did Hallengren tell you?’ said Mike.

‘Just that Wilson was given a massive dose of barbiturates.’
I sat up. ‘Look, do you remember he left the Ice Bar before everyone else? He
said something about wanting a scotch.’

Liz nodded. ‘He said he needed his nightcap.’

‘Well, Marcellus went with him.’

She handed Mike the schnapps. ‘Marcellus went everywhere
with him,’ she said.

‘He could have slipped something into Wilson’s
whisky.
You know about these things, Liz. How much would you put
into a drink to drug someone so they’re out? Is it easy to get hold of stuff
like that?’

She looked unsure. ‘You can buy barbiturates over the
counter now. And mixed with alcohol – ’

‘So Marcellus could have done it. And he had the motive.’

‘Money?’ said Mike. ‘But he stood to inherit when his daddy
died. Which was going to be soon. Didn’t Bibby have this heart condition?’

‘Hallengren said Wilson could have kept going for years. I
don’t understand that. I saw him take Coumarinose.’

Liz was staring at the wall. ‘He took it on the plane, Mags.
It could have been to prevent deep vein thrombosis.’ She went to the wardrobe
mirror and stood frowning at her reflection
,
smoothing the dark circles under her eyes.
‘Yes, Marcellus had the
motive. But he wouldn’t do it, would he? It’s simply far too obvious. He’d be
the prime suspect.’

‘Maybe he thought the police would assume his father’s heart
had given out.’

She looked at me in the mirror. ‘There’s always a post-mortem,
though, isn’t there?’ She flopped back onto the bed. ‘Did Hallengren say which
barbiturate it was?’

‘I think it was called Phenonal. Why do you ask?’

‘Well, just that some metabolise quickly. Maybe Marcellus
thought it would be out of the body by the time death occurred.’

‘Maybe he just didn’t think,’ Mike said. ‘Murderers don’t
always have a plan. They seize an opportunity.’

I was tempted to tell them about Marcellus’s conversation
with Aaron in the church, but I was mindful of Hallengren’s warning.
The fewer the people who knew, the better. I
f these
men were killers and came to learn I’d overheard their conversation
. . . Thank goodness they hadn’t seen me in the tower.

‘Marcellus would have had to know what he was doing,’ Mike
was saying. ‘If he got the dose wrong, and Wilson woke up while he was rolling
him onto the floor, he could kiss goodbye to his inheritance.’

‘There’s that history with him and Marcia Vandenberg,’ I
said. ‘Wasn’t there talk that he drugged her? If he did, then he got that
right.’

‘There are lots of ifs and buts, Mags,’ Liz said doubtfully.

‘What about Harry?’ Mike was weighing the bottle of schnapps
in his hand. ‘Marcellus might have killed his father for money, but why would
he kill Harry?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ I said. ‘For a while, I
wondered whether – ’

‘Whether what, Mags?’

I chewed my lip. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you. It’s
about the night in the Icehotel. I got up to watch the aurora. When I came
back, I saw Harry.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Harry?’

‘He was coming out of his room. The thing is, when I told
Hallengren, he said Harry’s story was different. He told the police he slept
through and didn’t get up. Don’t you think that’s strange?’

‘Why on earth didn’t you tell us all this before?’ She took
the bottle from Mike.

I looked away, afraid she’d read my thoughts.

‘There may be any number of reasons why Harry’s story doesn’t
tally with yours,’ she said. ‘He might simply have forgotten – he’d been
drinking after all – and he was probably half-asleep at the time.’ She looked
peeved. ‘What’s your point?’

‘It’s possible Harry didn’t remember, but it’s not likely.
He wasn’t as drunk as all that. And he wasn’t walking like a drunk. What I’m
saying is that maybe Marcellus didn’t murder his father.’ I chose my words
carefully, only now remembering Hallengren’s warning about having seen
Marcellus. ‘Maybe he was up and about, saw Harry prowling the Icehotel, came to
the conclusion Harry did it, and killed him.’

‘I’m not joining the dots,’ said Mike. ‘Are you suggesting
Marcellus killed Harry? Out of revenge?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Well, all right now, but there’s still the question of who
killed Wilson. If it wasn’t Marcellus, then who?’

I lowered my eyes. After a brief silence, I said, ‘Harry
might have done it.’

‘My God, Mags, you can’t be serious.’ Liz was glaring at me,
her mouth ugly. ‘Harry wasn’t capable of murder. He simply wasn’t.’

‘That’s a despicable thing to say about your friend,’ Mike
said slowly.