ICEHOTEL (3 page)

The hotel was a six-storeyed, stone-faced building, towering
above its neighbours. Over the canopied entrance, a blue and yellow flag
fluttered wildly.

‘I think I know what this is,’ Harry said, nodding at the
monitor. ‘The Stockholm hotel murders. But I don’t understand, it was over and
done with some time ago. Why has it reared its ugly head now?’

An English translation appeared, ticker-tape-style, across
the screen.

He leant forward, squinting. ‘A year on, they still haven’t
caught the perpetrator, although the police say the net is closing. That’s
something at least.’

‘You know about this?’ I said, surprised.

He nodded slowly. ‘Last year, there was a series of gruesome
murders in a large Stockholm hotel. In more than one hotel, now that I
remember. All very Grand Guignol. The victims were dispatched in particularly
grisly ways.’ He lowered his voice. ‘One of the murders was so terrible that
the details were kept from the press.’

Liz was staring at him. ‘Gosh, Harry, how do you know so
much about it?’

‘I was at a conference in Uppsala when it happened. We got a
daily blow-by-blow account, so to speak. Uppsala is not far from Stockholm so,
as you can imagine, we were all rather alarmed. I think everyone was who stayed
in a Swedish hotel at the time. But then it all stopped suddenly.’ He
hesitated. ‘There can be only one reason why this has surfaced now. There must
have been another death.’ He turned to the monitor but the news had finished and,
in place of the hotel, there was a weather map.

Liz frowned. ‘Perhaps Sweden wasn’t such a good choice of
location, Mags.’

‘Oh come on, show me a country that doesn’t have murders.
Anyway, we won’t be anywhere near Stockholm.’

‘I told you we should have gone for a beach holiday, didn’t
I?’

‘You did not, you lying toad,’ I said, grinning.

I turned to Harry, hoping to engage him as my ally, but he
was staring at a point behind me. His eyes were wide with excitement. I turned
round.

Two men had entered.

Both were tall, six foot or more, and well built. The older
was dressed impeccably, the cut of his clothes hinting that they’d been
tailor-made. His green Harris Tweed jacket was buttoned over a cream roll-neck
which he was fingering at the neck, as though too tight. His trousers, which
lacked the usual faded look of brown corduroy, were sharply creased, the
creases saying more about him than anything else.

He held his head confidently, studying the room with an air
of boredom like a well-fed lion surveying his territory and his females. As he
moved his head, our eyes locked for a second, but he looked past me
immediately, not interested in what he’d seen. He had the pale, unlined skin of
someone who stays out of the sun, and a thin mouth set in a sneer as though
nothing were up to his usual standard. His sandy hair, styled to disguise a
receding hairline, was turning grey. There was an unmistakable aura about him:
he reeked of power, like an over-ripe cheese.

His companion, casually dressed in sports clothes, had the
same hooked nose and brown eyes, but darker hair. He seemed nervous and fumbled
in his carry-on bag, dropping his mobile phone with a clatter.

‘He’s here,’ said Harry, reverence in his voice. ‘He’s
actually here. I’m in the same room as Wilson Bibby.’

‘Wilson who?’ I said.

‘Wilson Bibby III.’ His eyes were riveted on the men. ‘Of
the Bibby Foundation.’

‘I’ve never heard of it,’ I said, my curiosity rising. ‘Is
it a charity?’

‘I prefer to call it a charitable foundation,’ he said
stiffly. He seemed unsure whether to continue. ‘Years ago, I applied to the
Foundation for a grant. They looked kindly on my application, and have been
funding my research ever since.’

‘I take it you’re talking about the older man,’ said Liz.
‘He looks terribly serious, Harry. Have you met him?’

‘Good heavens, one simply doesn’t meet a man like Wilson
Bibby. He’s far too important.’

‘If he’s that important, why is he in an airport café like
everyone else?’ I said.

‘I think, my dear, it’s because he’s travelling incognito.
He’s been the victim of several failed kidnap attempts. And there was a
well-publicised stalking case a couple of years ago.’

I studied Wilson Bibby with growing interest. He wasn’t
acting like a man afraid of being kidnapped. I wondered what he’d think if he
knew that a group of strangers were discussing him so candidly. ‘What else does
he do apart from giving money to deserving academics?’ I said.

‘He’s a benefactor in other ways. He’s used some of his
millions to establish a charity for poor children in South Carolina.’

‘Why South Carolina?’

‘His family hails from Charleston. They go back several
generations. I think one of them fought at Gettysburg. At least, that’s what
Bibby claims. But then, every American I’ve met from the south has an ancestor
who fought at Gettysburg.’

Wilson was speaking into a mobile phone. As he turned his
head, I was struck by how much he resembled Harry in height and build, and
particularly in his hair which was the same salt-and-pepper colour. His call
finished, he handed the phone to the younger man, who snapped it shut.

‘His manners are said to be impeccable.’ Harry smiled
knowingly. ‘
Forget truth and justice, my dear. Charm
is definitely The American Way. H
e’s a real southern gentleman. And he
keeps a stable of mistresses. But, then, you’d expect that of a real southern
gentleman.’

The men made for a nearby table, Wilson in the lead, his
companion shouldering both set
s of carry-on luggage.

‘Who’s the other one?’ Liz said.

‘His son, Marcellus.’ The admiration was gone from Harry’s
voice. ‘He used to be part of the New York set, an
enfant terrible
. It’s
widely known that his father threatened to disinherit him unless he mended his
ways and settled down to something meaningful. Now he helps run the Foundation
– he’s the one I correspond with when it’s time to renew my grant. He seems
well-disposed towards academics but, by all accounts, Wilson keeps him on a
tight leash.’

‘How do you know so much about them?’ I said.

‘My dear, when you depend on external funding for your
research, it’s politic to find out what you can about those who provide it. I
follow the fortunes of the Bibbys with great interest. Take
Marcellus, for example. I see the name doesn’t ring a bell.
You don’t remember that brouhaha in the media about him? It would have been a
year ago.’

I shook my head.

‘A New York socialite was found dead of an overdose in her
Manhattan apartment. The police claimed Marcellus had been with her on the
night she died, but there was nothing conclusive in the way of evidence. His
fingerprints were all over the place, of course, but that’s hardly surprising
as they were seeing each other at the time.’

‘I take it, as he’s here, that he wasn’t charged.’

‘Word was that his father pulled a few strings.’ Harry
smiled grimly. ‘Marcellus may have had something to do with it, but his father
has the clout to have things hushed up. It was after that incident that we
heard less about Marcellus’s wild ways, and more about his work with the
Foundation.’

The men were sitting not far from us. Wilson ignored the No
Smoking signs and lit a cigar, puffing vigorously. A cloud of smoke drifted to
our table, carrying with it the rich aroma of expensive tobacco. He murmured
something to his son, who rose quickly and made his way towards the
self-service counter. As he passed our table, he stared at me and continued to
stare until he collided with a woman holding a tray of food. I turned away, in
time to catch the smile on Liz’s face.

Harry was fidgeting, apparently trying to make up his mind
about something. With a decisive movement, he scraped his chair back. Wilson
turned at the sound, frowning as he saw Harry bearing down on him. His mouth
formed a moue of distaste, and he scanned the room rapidly.

Harry was all politeness. ‘Mr Bibby, my name is Henry
Auchinleck. I’m a professor at Edinburgh University.’

Bibby gaped, his cigar halfway to his mouth.

‘In Scotland,’ said Harry, as though Bibby might not know
where Edinburgh was. ‘My research into modern defence strategies has been
funded for many years by your Foundation. I want to take this opportunity to
thank you for making it possible. You see, our British funding councils are not
predisposed to supporting my area of research, but your Foundation has had the
foresight so to do.’

I could almost smell Harry’s obsequiousness. I didn’t know
whether to be amused or appalled. Liz was gazing at him with a look of anguish.

Bibby nodded briefly. Then, drawing on his cigar, he turned
away pointedly.

For a second Harry stood, unsure of what to do. He returned
slowly to our table. ‘He might at least have said something,’ he muttered,
sitting down.

Liz stroked his arm. ‘Don’t take it personally, sweetheart.
I should imagine he gets grateful people approaching him all the time. He must
get rather fed up with it.’ She shot Bibby a look. ‘But ignoring you like that
was dreadfully rude.’ She didn’t lower her voice. ‘What a bastard.’

I glanced around. ‘Once again, Liz, but this time say it a
bit louder. I don’t think everyone in the room quite caught that.’

Marcellus had returned. He placed the tray in front of his
father, and arranged the coffee so it was within easy reach.

‘I’ve got it,’ said Liz suddenly. ‘It was Marcia. The woman
who died of an overdose. Her name was Marcia Vandenberg. It was last year,
wasn’t it, Harry?’

‘Well remembered, my dear.’

‘A bit of a bitch, apparently. She had affairs with half the
men on Wall Street. She made enemies, mostly among their wives.’ A knowing look
appeared on her face. ‘Really silly of her to do that. Anyway, there was a
feature about the overdose in Hello magazine, but Marcellus wasn’t mentioned –
I would have remembered a name like his.’

‘Then it looks like Wilson did indeed hush things up,’ I
said.

Intrigued, I leant forward and
studied Marcellus. He was lighting his father’s cigar, waiting patiently while
Wilson puffed, taking his time.

We were
boarding the flight to Kiruna. The plane was so small that the concept of first
an
d second class didn’t apply; we weren’t given boarding cards, but told
to fill the plane from the rear.

I found myself next to Wilson Bibby. I’d expected him to
ignore me as he had Harry so I was surprised to hear him say, in a soft
southern accent, ‘What takes you to Kiruna, ma’am?’ He was smiling, his eyes
full of warmth.

‘I’m on holiday,’ I said warily. ‘We’re going to the
Icehotel.’

My carry-on bag was still in my lap. He glanced at the
label, then pointed to an identical label on his own. ‘Then we’re on the same
tour. My name’s Wilson, by the way.’ He indicated Marcellus across the aisle,
two rows in front. ‘I’m here with my son.’

He held out his hand. The skin was smooth, the nails
expertly manicured. I hesitated, then put my hand in his, feeling my knuckles
crack as he squeezed.

‘Maggie Stewart.’ I massaged my fingers, wondering why he
hadn’t given me his full name. Whatever the reason, I decided to play along.
‘What made you come on this tour, Wilson?’

He smiled broadly, showing perfect teeth, polished to such a
high shine he could have been in a toothpaste advert. ‘It’s the snow. I love
it. I can’t get enough of it. Whenever I can, I travel to cold climates. The
best, of course, is Antarctica.’

‘Lapland should be just the place, then,’ I said brightly.
‘And have you had a chance to look around Stockholm?’

‘I’ve been here for a few days, on business. I’d always wanted
to visit the Icehotel so I’ve postponed some of my meetings to make the trip
north.’

‘Aren’t there tours from the US direct to the Icehotel?’

‘They’re short, two or three days at most.’ He pointed again
to the label. ‘This company takes you there for a week. I’m surprised, given
that it’s just a British company.’

‘If you love the snow so much, why do you live in the
southern USA?’

He turned his eyes on me. ‘How do you know where I live,
ma’am?’ His voice had a steel edge.

I thought quickly. Appealing to a man’s vanity usually
worked in sticky situations. ‘I can tell from your accent that you’re a
southern gentleman.’ It made me cringe, but I said it anyway. ‘You sound just
like Rhett Butler.’

I could tell he was delighted with my answer; his gravelly
laughter rolled around the small plane like the aftermath of a thunderclap.

I felt like a fish that had been let off the hook. ‘So what
do you do for a living, Wilson?’

‘I have a variety of interests as a businessman,’ he said
smoothly. ‘You?’

‘I work in finance. A pharmaceutical company, in Edinburgh.’

He drew his brows together and, for a second, I thought he’d
made the connection with Harry. ‘Scotland?’ he said. ‘
M
y
family came
from there, originally.’

He proceeded to give me an unabridged version of his family
history, his narrative rolling along sluggishly like the Mississippi. I
listened politely, noticing how careful he was not to mention the name Bibby.

He fumbled in his bag, and produced what looked like a large
diary. It was bound in heavy-duty canvas cloth, in a red and blue tartan. ‘My
organiser. You’ll recognise the tartan, of course.’

When I said nothing, he added, ‘It’s MacGregor. As I told
you, I’m a MacGregor on my mother’s side. I have these made specially, every
year.’

He opened the book at the back. The pages were edged in gilt
and imprinted with an elaborate watermark. The lettering was a fine black
copperplate.

‘It’s essentially a diary – see the month and date at the
top? – but I can also use the pages for memorandum notes.’ He flattened the
book on his lap. ‘You can see the perforations if I open it out.’