by Hanna Allen
It seemed only minutes later when I woke again. The world was back in focus. My knee ached, but the pain in my head was gone.
An open suitcase sat on the table, its contents scattered. Clothes lay untidily over the armchair; others were crumpled on the carpet. The mess was all too familiar – I was in my room in the Excelsior.
Something near the door caught my eye: a chair with damp clothes hanging over the back, the carpet underneath stained dark. I lifted my head. Amongst the clothes was a white snowsuit. In an instant, I remembered everything – Denny and the Icehotel, running onto the river, falling through the ice. And the figure with the ice-axe. Fear closed round my throat, threatening to choke me, and I sank gasping against the pillow.
‘Miss Stewart.’ The voice again. ‘How are you feeling?’
He was sitting near the door, his long legs stretched out.
‘The back of my throat’s on fire,’ I said hoarsely.
‘I am sorry, we had to pump out the water quickly. The paramedic may have been a little rough.’
I swallowed experimentally, wincing at the wave of pain.
Hallengren poured from a flask. ‘Drink this.’ He handed me a mug.
I realised only then that I was naked under the bedclothes. I clamped the sheet across my chest and struggled to a sitting position. The towel around my head unwound, and damp hair fell in a tangled mass over my shoulders.
The drink was hot lingonberry juice, with honey added. I sipped carefully, ignoring the burning sensation in my throat. ‘Is it still night, Inspector?’
He poured a drink for himself. ‘It is nearly 1.00am.’
I’d been unconscious for an hour. It felt longer.
I studied him over the rim of the mug. He was unshaven, his eyes red. And without his uniform; he wore faded jeans and a purple crew-neck. He would have been asleep when they called him. Alone, I wondered?
‘How long have you been here?’ I said.
‘Since shortly after you were pulled out, just after midnight.’ He paused. ‘The hospital is on the other side of Kiruna. We thought it best to bring you here rather than risk a journey in a poorly-heated ambulance. The paramedics assured me that what you needed most was warmth and rest.’
‘And I’ve been asleep all this time?’ It was a ridiculous question, but I wanted to hear him tell me he’d been in the room with me.
‘You woke only once.’ He smiled, arching an eyebrow. ‘This is the second time in twenty-four hours that I find myself in your bedroom, Miss Stewart.’ When I said nothing, he added, ‘So, do you think you could answer a few questions? Or would you prefer it if I returned in the morning?’
‘No, please don’t go,’ I said, too quickly. ‘Now will be fine.’
He held my gaze briefly, then pulled a notebook from the black snowsuit at his feet. ‘Let us start with the reason you were in the Icehotel.’
‘How did you know I was in the Icehotel?’ I said faintly.
‘I did not. You told me just now.’
I ran a hand over my face. God, what an idiot I was.
His voice was hard. ‘You knew it was off limits, so what were you doing there?’
I hesitated. Denny’s photographs would be in this morning’s edition of the Express. What was the point of giving him up? Hallengren would find out soon enough. And I had a vague sense of guilt that I was the one who’d planted the idea in Denny’s head. But I had to tell Hallengren something. ‘I saw someone going into the Icehotel and decided to follow him.’ I tried to look innocent.
‘Do you know who it was?’
‘I couldn’t really see his face,’ I said truthfully.
‘Height? Build?’
‘Short. And slightly built.’ If that didn’t identify Denny, Hallengren should be back in Detective School.
‘Why did you follow him, Miss Stewart?’
It was a good question and one to which I had no good answer.
He sat back, shaking his head slightly. ‘There is always one.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘In every investigation. An amateur sleuth.’ He injected irony into his voice. ‘Someone who wants to be Hercule Poirot.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ I said, writhing inwardly.
‘No? Then how was it? Tell me, Miss Stewart.’
I looked away, unable to bear the disdain on his face.
‘I warned you against playing detective,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘And this is what happens when you ignore my warnings.’ He hesitated. ‘Were you not afraid to go into the Icehotel?’
‘Why should I be?’ I said, surprised.
‘A man died there, in a room close to yours. It would deter many people.’
‘I think ghosts appear only to those who believe in them, Inspector.’
The instant the words left my mouth, I understood with a rush of clarity what I’d been seeing these past few days. In the Chapel, when my fingers had brushed against the pulpit, I’d seen Harry’s corpse, his lifeblood draining away. And Wilson’s face, the flesh decaying, had appeared when I’d touched the Templar’s cheek. Wilson and Harry. Both murdered. It was as though the ice had knowledge of the future, guarding that knowledge patiently, yet releasing it at the merest touch of a human hand.
Hallengren was watching me. ‘So how did you and this mystery man get inside the Icehotel? The front door was sealed, and the seal has not been broken.’
This was not the time to be smug. ‘The side door from the washroom was untaped,’ I said quietly.
He muttered in Swedish. Someone’s head was going to roll. I wondered whether the culprit was Engqvist.
‘So you entered from the Locker Room,’ he said.
I nodded.
‘And then?’ He was writing.
‘I followed the person. He went into Wilson Bibby’s room.’
He frowned, but said nothing.
‘I saw flashes of light coming from under the curtain.’
‘Someone taking photographs?’
‘It seems the only explanation.’
He would realise it was one of the reporters, and make his own investigations. And he’d see the photographs in the day’s papers. There was no need to shop Denny.
‘Continue, Miss Stewart.’
‘He left by the back. At least, that’s what I assumed. He went into the corridor that leads there.’
He glanced up. ‘So why did you also leave by the back? And why were you running?’
‘Because someone was chasing me,’ I said, keeping my voice steady.
‘With so much traffic in the Icehotel, I do not suppose you managed to see his face either.’
‘I didn’t see his face, but he had an ice-axe.’
That got his attention. He stopped writing in mid-sentence. He looked up sharply, his eyes boring into mine.
‘I stayed in my room until I thought the mystery man had left the Icehotel. But someone came in. It was pitch black, but he was there. I heard him.’ I stopped as the memory returned. A knot formed in the pit of my stomach.
‘Go on,’ he said softly.
‘I ran out and hid in the next room, the one with the statue of Pan. I don’t know why, I just panicked. But he followed me in.’
‘That room has a ceiling window.’ He leant forward. ‘Did you see his face?’
‘He wore a ski mask. He was huge.’ I shuddered, remembering how he’d swung the ice-axe casually, his fingers under the blade.
‘Was there anything unusual about him? Anything that might identify him? Think hard, Miss Stewart.’
‘His snowsuit was black.’ I glanced at the suit at his feet. ‘Like yours. But that’s not going to help.’
‘Had you seen anyone follow you to the Icehotel?’
I shook my head.
‘And did this man see you?’
‘He saw me when I slipped out from behind the statue. I ran out and somehow found the back door. I heard him coming. He called out before I fell into the water.’ I closed my eyes, trying to control my
breathing. ‘He was right behind me – ’
Hallengren hesitated. ‘It may not have been him. One of the people watching the aurora shouted to you to stop. He saw you running past the blocks of ice and tried to warn you.’
My eyes flew open. ‘Then he must have seen this man.’
‘Everyone we questioned said they only saw you, running past the Ice Theatre. They saw no-one else.’
‘Then maybe he ran away when he saw the crowd,’ I said helplessly. ‘Or even joined them.’
‘It is possible.’ But he didn’t sound convinced.
I sat up, ignoring the bed sheet. ‘Look, why else would I be running out of the Icehotel like a person demented?’
He said nothing.
‘I’m not making this up, Inspector.’
‘No, I do not think you are.’ He sounded tired, and spoke more slowly than usual. ‘You have had a lucky escape, Miss Stewart. You were wearing a thick snowsuit. It saved your life. At these temperatures, without adequate insulation, immersion can be fatal. And your legs became entangled in weeds. If there had not been people nearby, you would have drowned.’
I searched his face. ‘Someone was in the Icehotel with me, Inspector. Do you believe me?’ If he told me he believed me, then everything would be all right.
‘I believe you.’ He opened the notebook again. ‘Now, shall we go through it once more, and in some detail?’
He listened, not interrupting. After I’d finished, he leant back and looked at me.
‘Is this your first visit to Sweden, Miss Stewart?’ he said, after a while.
I was surprised by the change of subject. ‘Yes, my first.’
‘Where do you normally take your vacation?’
‘I usually head south towards the sun. Coming here broke a long tradition. Why do you ask?’
‘Just curious.’ His eyes drifted to my hair. ‘What sort of things do you like to do on holiday?’
I turned the mug in my hands. ‘I’m a city girl. I love poking around old Europe. You know, cathedrals, tram rides, coffee and cake. Nothing too energetic, though. I’m unbelievably lazy.’
The corners of his mouth lifted.
‘I’m guessing you’re the opposite, Inspector. You mentioned cross-country skiing.’ I glanced at his body. ‘I’d say you’re into hard sports. I see you as an ice-climber.’
His smile widened. ‘Perceptive, Miss Stewart.’ His expression softened. ‘So I take it that this location was not your idea?’
‘It was Harry’s. He suggested skiing, then Liz found this place in the winter catalogue.’
He nodded, seeming in no hurry to leave.
‘Tell me something, Inspector. You’re surrounded by snow. Don’t you get sick of it?’
‘Never. It is in my blood.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘But I have been known to lie on a beach.’
‘That’s the kind of holiday Harry usually goes for. To think, if we’d done that, he’d be alive now.’
A look of sadness passed across his face. ‘You know the worst thing about losing someone?’
‘The grief,’ I said, without having to think.
‘Not grief.’ He refused to meet my eyes. ‘Guilt. You do not feel that?’
‘You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?’ I said softly.
‘My parents died when I was a boy. I feel guilty that I no longer remember them.’ After a pause, he said, ‘I am afraid, Miss Stewart, that your grief will eventually turn to guilt.’ He got to his feet. ‘But enough talk. You need to rest.’
He came to the bed, and pushed a strand of damp hair from my face, brushing my cheek with his finger. ‘Your hair is still wet, Miss Stewart.’ He turned away slowly.
‘Are you going?’ I said, watching him clamber into his snowsuit. It was a stupid question, but I asked it anyway.
‘Would you feel safer if I posted an officer outside?’
I nodded, disappointed he wasn’t going to stay himself.
‘Very well.’ He drew on his gloves. ‘Now try to get some sleep.’
He stared at me. Then he left.
I woke with a start. Someone had drawn back the curtains and light was flooding into the room, daubing a wash of brightness on the floor. Dust particles floated in the thin shafts, disappearing whenever a cloud hid the sun, only to reappear and drift aimlessly.
I peered at the television: it was 11.05am.
I showered quickly, running the water hot. I was towelling my hair, when my glance fell on the white snowsuit lying over the back of the chair . . .
I left my room, nearly falling over the young man sitting dozing behind the door. He jumped up in surprise. Another giant. I took in his blue uniform, and the array of coffee cups on the floor.
‘I’m going to the lounge,’ I said.
He nodded, rubbing his eyes.
I smiled. ‘Does this mean you can go?’
‘My orders were to stay till you left.’
‘You drew the short straw, then.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Just an expression. Thanks for looking after me.’
He smiled shyly. ‘It is my job.’
The lounge was empty. The barman was standing whistling behind the counter, polishing glasses. After two attempts to get his attention, I ordered coffee and a croissant and took them to the sofa by the window.
I thought through the events of the previous week, trying to make sense of them. Someone had killed Wilson Bibby. Someone had killed Harry. And someone had tried to kill me. Were Wilson’s and Harry’s deaths related? And was the person who’d killed Harry the same person who’d tried to kill me? There was the ice-axe connection, but anyone could take an ice-axe from the Activities Room. Two different people could have done it.
No-one had followed me to the Icehotel, so the black-suited figure must have already been there. I’d surprised him and he felt he had to kill me in case I could identify him. Yet what was he doing there? Was he Wilson’s murderer come back to the scene of the crime? But why? To wipe out clues? Then why would he be carrying an ice-axe? And he hadn’t run after Denny. He’d run after me, as though he knew who I was under my hood.
I swirled the croissant in the coffee, watching the flakes crumble off. If I hadn’t been lost in my thoughts, I’d have seen him come in. I jumped when I heard the voice.
‘Miss Stewart.’ Hallengren had shaved and was in his uniform. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’
‘Medium rare,’ I said, smiling.
He smiled back. ‘May I join you?’
I motioned to the chair opposite.
He turned his head and looked at the barman. A second later, the barman hurried over with a double espresso.
Hallengren studied my face. ‘Did you get any sleep after I left?’
‘A little.’
He nodded sympathetically.
‘Inspector, what’s happening here? Two people have been murdered, and last night someone tried to kill me. Do you think it’s the same person?’
He lifted the cup to his lips. ‘It is possible that there is more than one killer.’
‘Okay, but how do you make that out?’
He looked at me speculatively. ‘Have you wondered about the different ways in which Wilson Bibby and Professor Auchinleck were killed? Wilson’s murder was meticulously planned. Someone drugged him and waited till the middle of the night to push him out of his sleeping bag. Harry was killed with an ice-axe, during the day, in the Chapel where anyone could have walked in. It could not have been less planned.’ He set down the cup. ‘In your testimony you stated that Harry was alive when you found him. Given the nature of his wounds, it means that the killer would have been close by, so – ’ He looked hard at me, and his expression changed.
The killer would have been close by.
A shiver ran through my body. The killer had still been in the Chapel. He could have butchered me too. And Liz. I watched helplessly as my mug shook and coffee spilt onto the table.
Hallengren reached across and took
the mug from my hands. Then everything went black round the edges. I heard the table being pushed away and a chair overturn with a clatter. A second later, he was on the sofa, forcing my head between my knees. I swallowed repeatedly, willing myself not to faint, staring at a spot on the carpet until my head cleared.
He pulled me up gently, leaving his arm around my shoulders. His face was so close I could smell the coffee on his breath.
‘Are you all right?’ There was concern in his eyes.
‘I think so,’ I stammered.
The barman was fussing, pulling the chair upright, mopping the spilt liquid. Hallengren looked at him and he slunk off.
‘Breathe deeply,’ he said, squeezing my shoulders encouragingly.
The desire to lean against him was overwhelming.
‘You need more rest, Miss Stewart.’ He released me. ‘What are you doing today?’
‘We’ve no plans, except for tonight. It’s Macbeth, in the Ice Theatre. I saw the rehearsal but my mind wasn’t really on it, so I’d like to see it again.’
The barman had brought more coffee.
‘I had forgotten,’ Hallengren said, spooning sugar into my mug. ‘Shakespeare is always on a Sunday. Are you a fan of Shakespeare?’
I took the mug and sipped, wincing at the sweetness. ‘Isn’t everyone?’
‘So which is your favourite?’ he said lightly.
‘Probably Hamlet. Or Julius Caesar.’
‘Ah, political intrigue. Mine is Romeo and Juliet.’ His eyes rose to meet mine. ‘You may find it hard to believe, but I am a great romantic. So remind me, please, what time does the performance start?’
‘Nine. We’re leaving early to get seats.’
‘And this afternoon? What do you intend to do?’
‘I’m going to stay here.’
But I didn’t want to talk about Shakespeare, or this afternoon. ‘Inspector, you just said Harry’s killer was nearby. I think I saw him.’
He drew his brows together. ‘Where?’