ICEHOTEL (27 page)

I didn’t like the expression on his face. ‘I know,’ I said,
looking away. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t square the circle, that’s all.’

‘Just because Harry was awake doesn’t make him a murderer. I
only met him this week, but there’s no doubt in my mind. I’m with Liz on this.
He’s not a killer.’

And yet Harry had been stricken when he’d learnt Wilson was
about to withdraw his funding. And he’d shown no emotion when his body was
discovered. Harry could have killed Wilson, taken the locker key, found the
diary pages relating to the funding decision, and disposed of them, carbons and
all.

Mike broke into my thoughts. ‘If the motive was hatred, it
could as easily have been me. I had no love for Bibby.’

Liz shook her head. ‘That really isn’t getting us anywhere.
Look, Mags, let’s go back to the original premise, that Marcellus killed his
father for his inheritance. So why would he kill Harry?’

‘Because Harry ran into him on his way out,’ I said irritably.

She looked thoughtful. ‘But if he’d seen Marcellus, don’t
you think he would have told us?’

Yes, Harry would have made a great story of it, adding his
usual embroideries. ‘We’re back to square one,’ I said wearily.

I didn’t tell them what I was thinking, that, if Harry was
innocent, then his silence was a mystery, but if he’d killed Wilson, his
silence explained everything.

‘And the raid on the Excelsior?’ said Mike. ‘What was all
that paddywhack about?’

‘The police were looking for traces of the barbiturate.’

‘This missing diary has something to do with it. Too much of
a co-incidence. The man gets killed. The diary goes missing. It must have been
the same person.’

‘I’m not sure it isn’t more complicated.’

‘Things are never complicated, Maggie. When people are
murdered, look for the simplest motive. That’s what Hallengren’s doing, I’ll
bet.’

‘But murder investigations take an awfully long time, don’t
they?’ Liz said, rubbing her eyes. ‘I suppose any chance of getting our
passports back has flown out of the window.’

‘Grand,’ said Mike. ‘And I have to be back on Monday.’

‘There’s nothing at Bayne’s that my staff can’t deal with,’
I said, in my best accountant’s voice.

‘Well, I’m going to ask Hallengren if he’ll release me,’ Liz
said, her eyes filling. ‘I’m not a suspect. I need to see the twins.’ Her voice
broke on the word.

Mike put an arm around her. ‘That’s not how murder
investigations work, Liz,’ he said, squeezing. ‘We’re stuck here till it’s over.’

‘You know, there’s something not quite right about this,’ I
said half to myself.

‘Two murders, and something’s not quite right?’ He smiled
grimly. ‘If that isn’t the understatement of the year.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

His voice was cold. ‘What, then?’

‘I’m missing something. You know, something you can’t quite
remember. It’s there on the edge of consciousness but when you think hard, it
slips away. Like trying to remember a dream in the morning.’

‘Golly, that’s poetic,’ Liz said sadly. She put the bottle
to her lips. ‘Any idea what it might be?’

‘It’s something vital. When it comes to me, I’ll be able to
work it out.’

Mike’s lips curved into a smile. ‘I’m betting Hallengren
works it out first. He fancies you, so he does. He was waiting ages
downstairs.’

I smiled to myself. The thought of sex with Hallengren
hadn’t exactly been at the forefront of my mind, but then it hadn’t exactly
been absent, either.

The receptionist glanced at my
snowsuit. His look of enquiry turned to one of alarm.

He put down his book, a Swedish Mills and Boon. ‘How are you
feeling, Miss Stewart?’ he said in the tone of an undertaker.

‘I’m not too bad. I’m going out,’ I added unnecessarily.
‘For some air.’

He nodded. With a nervous movement, he peeled a leaflet from
a pile on the counter. It was an advert for Macbeth, playing in the Ice Theatre
the following evening. Liz had booked tickets, but we wouldn’t be going now.

‘The rehearsal is underway,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You are
allowed to watch. The actors don’t mind. They encourage it.’

He seemed so eager to please that I kept the leaflet. I
hadn’t planned on seeing the Ice Theatre, but I had nothing better to do. I
pulled on my gloves and drew up my hood.

The Icehotel and Chapel were cordoned off, so the quickest
route to the Theatre was behind the Locker Room. The river snaked into view as
I rounded the corner, the ice-harvesting machines moving over the frozen
surface like giant worker ants. I trudged through the snow, following the trail
of footprints, and thought about Harry.

The Theatre towered in front of me, a huge frosted cake,
sparkling in the sunshine.

Ice statues guarded the entrance. On the left was Bottom,
his freakish ass’s head held mockingly, arms spread in a gesture of welcome. On
the right, a frightful creature that I recognised as Caliban, hunched over,
closed in on himself. If the statues and building didn’t give enough of a clue
to the theatre’s purpose, set over the doors, profiled in snow, was an
unmistakable likeness of Shakespeare. Sconces bearing Olympic-style torches
flanked the entrance. According to the leaflet, they would be lit for the
performance.

I pulled back the doors and crept inside. Either the
rehearsal hadn’t started or I’d arrived during a scene change, because nothing
was happening. The actors, wearing padded fur-trimmed gowns in silk and
leather, were listening to someone in a red snowsuit. I couldn’t help noticing
their thick gloves, fur hats, and heavy-soled boots.

The stage was a low semi-circular platform made of blue ice.
Workmen were spreading snow onto the surface and patting it down with large
plastic shovels. Behind the stage was a snow-pressed wall carved with strange
shapes: snowflakes, concentric circles, and huge spiders’ webs. A rope of
miniature lights climbed like an exotic twining plant up the sides and along
the wall. The few props were minimalistic: crude throne-like ice chairs strewn
with reindeer skins, and columns at either end of the stage.

I climbed to the top of the auditorium and took a seat below
one of the glassless windows. As the building had no roof, the torches fixed to
the wall would illuminate the night sky.

The theatre was full. Strange for a rehearsal but, as the
temperature dropped to minus twenty at night, I supposed people were giving the
evening performance a miss. Even now, in the early afternoon, it was cold
enough that everyone wore thick suits and ski masks.

‘You haven’t missed anything,’ the woman next to me said.
She was not from our group, but one of the Icehotel’s many day-trippers.

The man in the red snowsuit climbed onto the stage and
announced in fluent English that the play was about to begin.

‘Who’s that?’ I murmured to the woman.

‘The director. Someone famous who comes every year.’ She
pointed to the leaflet. ‘It’s all in there.’

The actors moved to the wings and waited in full view of the
audience. The director signalled to a technician, the music started, and he
slipped back to his seat.

The strident music grew louder, filling the auditorium, then
stopped suddenly.

Three witches floated onto the stage. They danced in a
circle, swaying rhythmically, howling and gesticulating. After spinning round,
they huddled over an imaginary cauldron, and the play began. As they spoke,
they tried to convey the meaning of their words through the movement of their
bodies.

‘It works, doesn’t it?’ the woman said. ‘You don’t need to
know
Sami.
’

‘Just as well. It’s a cross between singing and gargling.’

I watched, fascinated, as the drama unfolded. As far as I
could tell, the players were word-perfect. The director intervened only twice
to reposition the actors.

Lady
Macbeth
floated onto the
platform, her head hidden under a fur-trimmed cowl. Her velvet gown was red,
light at the neck but deepening in colour from the waist to the end of the long
train, as if the blood she’d waded in had soaked through the hem and was
seeping upwards.

I stared at the gown. Oh God, the blood in the Chapel . . .

I looked away quickly, my mind in turmoil. And then I saw
him.

Harry was sitting two rows further down.

I leapt to my feet and was about to call out, when I saw my
mistake. It wasn’t Harry, but a large woman in a blue snowsuit, her hair the
same colour and style as his. I sank into my seat and leant against the wall,
breathing rapidly. My sanity was leaving me. The day-tripper put her face close
to mine and asked if felt unwell. I shook my head, not wanting to talk. With a
monumental effort of will, I kept my eyes fixed on the platform
.

Lady Macbeth
stopped abruptly
and, w
ith a dramatic gesture, threw back her hood. The
audience gasped. Eyes, heavily-defined with kohl, stared out from her white
face. Her blue-black hair was twisted into fat braids, coiling around her head
like snakes. She parted her blood-red lips, and spoke her opening lines. The
audience fell silent. Her voice was deep and resonant, a male actor playing a
woman.

I sat, dazed, still thinking of Harry. Eventually, I dragged
my attention back to the performance. As it ended, with Macduff brandishing
Macbeth’s severed head, the music reached a jarring climax which rang off the
walls, deafening the people near the loudspeakers. It faded slowly, and the
actors spilt onto the stage. They bowed, smiling, acknowledging the applause.

The woman next to me had slipped away unnoticed. People
drifted out. The Harry-lookalike heaved her bulk out of the auditorium. The
technician packed his equipment into plastic boxes, and hauled them outside.
The director in the front row, was conversing with a couple of spectators in
the row behind. I felt no desire to move. I wrapped the reindeer skins around
my shoulders, and leant back. Drained of energy, I closed my eyes and fell
asleep.

A sudden noise woke me: an ice-harvesting machine was
shutting down. I glanced around, conscious of a growing feeling of
apprehension. The theatre was empty, except for the director and the spectators,
all in the front row now, talking earnestly. I pulled
myself to my feet and made to leave.

A movement caught my eye. Someone else was in the
auditorium.

A hooded black-suited figure at the end of the front row was
staring up at me from behind his ski mask. From the build and the way he held
himself, I recognised Jonas Madsen. What on earth was he doing just sitting
there? I looked around for another exit, but there was only the one door, and
I’d have to pass him to get out. I pretended to be asleep, watching from under
half-closed eyes, hoping he’d lose interest. He continued to gaze at me,
glancing occasionally at the director and spectators, but they were engrossed
in their conversation and showed no signs of leaving.

After several minutes, he rose heavily and lumbered out. I
waited until I thought he’d be back at the Excelsior, then I threw off the
skins and ran down to the front.

It was snowing. The wind had
lessened, and the fat flakes drifted lazily, carpeting the ground in soft
white. I drew up my hood and fastened the straps. A feeling of unease stole
over me. Why had Jonas been watching me?

I reached the Excelsior as Liz was leaving.

I clutched her arm. ‘Liz, stop a minute.’ I peered past her
into the foyer. ‘Have you seen Jonas?’

‘Well, yes I have, about a minute ago. He’s in the lounge.’

‘Did you see him come in? Could you tell which direction he
was coming from?’

She was looking at me strangely. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea,
Mags.’

‘What is he wearing, Liz? Is he in a black snowsuit?’ Even to
my own ears, my voice sounded desperate.

‘For heaven’s sake, why are you asking me these questions,
in that tone?’

‘I saw him in the Ice Theatre.’ I swallowed hard. ‘He was
watching me, at the end, after everyone had gone.’

‘You’re sure it was Jonas?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘Did you see his face?’ she said slowly.

‘Yes. No. Look, I didn’t need to. He was sitting hunched
over, the way he does. You know, like he’s about to pounce. It was him, Liz, I
swear.’

‘And what if it was?’ she said, with a small shrug. ‘Maybe
he likes Shakespeare.’

I stared at her in amazement. She was behaving as if it
didn’t matter. ‘You don’t think it’s odd?’ I breathed. ‘Everyone goes. He stays
behind and watches me.’

Her mouth formed into a smile. ‘I can think of any number of
reasons why a man would stay behind and watch you. Half the men here are on
heat.’

‘This is no time for jokes. Don’t you realise what this
means?’

‘Oh, yes, let me guess. It means you’re about to do
something I’m probably going to regret.’

‘But he could be the killer.’

‘Please, Mags, this is stretching credibility. He can’t be
the killer. He’s bladdered most of the time.’

‘
Okay
, so he drinks sometimes,’ I said,
bristling. ‘But not every minute of every day.’

‘I suppose that’s true. In fact, when he’s sober he can be
quite jolly. I’ve had a few chats with him.’

The conversation wasn’t going the way I wanted. ‘Liz, it’s
possible he killed Harry.’

‘I do believe you’re serious,’ she said softly.

‘And not only Harry. Maybe Wilson, too.’

‘And now you think he’s after you? How on earth did you jump
to that conclusion?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said,
rubbing my face. ‘
All I know is that there’s a
killer on the loose and Jonas’s behaviour at the theatre was strange. I thought
it was, anyway.’

‘So this is you working it out? Just like you told us you
would?’ Her voice hardened. ‘Let me get this straight, Mags. You’re saying
you’ve got the motive for Wilson’s and Harry’s murders. And the proof it was
Jonas. Well, congratulations. Shall we go and see Hallengren?’