by Hanna Allen
I was surprised at this admission of weakness. ‘We all have our phobias, Mike,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m no good underwater, but you already know that.’
He seemed grateful for my flippant remark.
‘Macbeth’s about to start,’ I said. ‘I mean, the Scottish play.’
I took a shower, running the water as hot as I could bear until my skin glowed red. It was now nearly 9.30pm. If we hurried, we’d be at the church by ten.
The receptionist with the glasses was deep in another Mills and Boon. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps. ‘Are you wanting to see the play? It began half an hour ago, I’m afraid.’
‘We’re going to the church.’
‘The church?’ He looked puzzled.
‘To watch the aurora from the tower.’
His eyes grew wide behind the lenses. ‘I can’t remember the last time anyone climbed up there,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s a long walk. Are you sure you want to go?’
‘It’ll be our last chance. We’re flying home tomorrow. Could you lend me a torch?’ I added, remembering the darkness in the tower.
He opened a cupboard and removed a heavy rubber torch. After checking it was working, he handed it to me without a word. I nodded my thanks.
‘Ah, here is your friend, Miss Stewart.’
Liz was marching down the corridor, drawing on her gloves. ‘Ready?’ she smiled.
As we were leaving, the manager appeared, waving a hand in the direction of his office. ‘Miss Hallam, there is a phone call for you,’ he said.
She stopped at the door. ‘It must be Lucy.’
‘I’ll wait here, Liz. Or should I come with you?’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ She hesitated. ‘Look, Mags, do go on and I’ll catch you up. I really don’t think it’s serious. Children are always being sick. Awful, but there you are.’ She saw the look of doubt on my face. ‘Go on, go on, or you’ll miss it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ll be along as soon as I can. Or I’ll meet you up there.’ She disappeared with the manager.
I hesitated for only a second, then turned away, conscious of the receptionist’s accusing stare.
The damp air was filled with the scent of woodsmoke. I studied the sky. It was cloudless, and there was no moon. The night gods were smiling on me.
I slithered down the path between the statues and took the road to the church. Ice was forming and I had to watch where I trod. Despite taking care, I lost my footing several times and slipped, crashing painfully onto my side.
Eventually, the streetlights thinned out and, at the edge of the cluster of houses, I switched on the torch. The yellow cone of light pushed back the darkness, illuminating the road ahead. I swung round, moving the torch in a wide arc, catching the snow-covered trees in the beam. I thought I saw an answering flash from the forest, but it must have been a reflection. I trudged on, the only sound, my feet crackling on the ice.
I took the bend in the road. In the distance, the church with its tower looked eerie in the light of the torch. The ground here was almost free of ice, as the surrounding forest gave a measure of shelter.
I was nearing the church door when something made me stop. It wasn’t a sound, more a feeling that someone, or something, was close by. It couldn’t be Liz, I’d have heard her behind me. And she’d have seen the torch and called out. I ran the beam over the entrance, even moving it up the walls, but there was nothing.
I pulled the wrought-iron ring, bracing myself for the loud creak, but the door swung open silently.
The familiar cloying smell of wax filled the church. I played the beam over the floor, listening to the muffled sound of my footsteps as I walked up the nave. Would Liz think to bring a torch? Probably not.
The door to the tower stood half open. Yet I was sure I had seen it closed when I entered the church. I pushed against it, tensing as the rush of cold air chilled my face. There was no point leaving it open: I’d soon be out on the platform.
The candles in the wall were lit. Their tiny flames flared in the draught, throwing faint shadows onto the floor. From the bottom of the steps, I shone the torch into the tower. The trapdoor was just visible, the size of a postage stamp.
I began the climb up, one hand on the rail, the other gripping the torch. As I shifted my weight, the wood creaked alarmingly. I can’t remember the last time anyone climbed up there. After misjudging the first few steps, I found my rhythm. The ascent seemed never ending; I trudged up spiral after spiral but, each time I peered, the trapdoor looked no larger.
I was transferring the torch from one hand to the other when I lost my footing. I dropped the torch and seized both rails, slithering about on the step, trying frantically to regain my balance. From far below came a dull thump, followed by the sound of breaking glass. The tower was plunged into darkness.
I clutched at the rails, listening to the echoes banging off the walls. Cursing my clumsiness, I ran a hand over the step – the wood was split. I’d had a lucky escape. But, God, it was dark. I couldn’t climb in this. If I hadn’t gone far, the smart thing would be to turn back. But how far had I climbed?
A faint current of air brushed my face. I tilted my head and felt it again, colder and stronger, an indication that I was near the top. I counted the steps until my head hit something hard. I lifted a hand slowly. My fingers scraped against rough wood. I pushed gently, raising the trapdoor several inches, and was instantly chilled by a blast of cold air. I pushed harder. The trapdoor swung back with a clatter.
The thick mantle of snow cloaking the landscape reflected what light there was, silhouetting the platform and its surrounding wall. Above my head was a curved metal contraption which must have held the bells in place. Above that, there was a dilapidated stone roof, high enough not to obscure the view of the sky. I clambered out, leaving the trapdoor open, and stationed myself in a corner to wait for Liz. I peered over the wall. The white forest stretched to the horizon, crowned by the dome of ink-black sky.
There was no sign of the aurora. I moved briskly around the platform, beating my arms. Any minute now, and it would start. An hour had passed since I’d left the Excelsior. So what had happened to Liz? Perhaps there was a real crisis with Lucy. I felt a sudden twinge of guilt at not having stayed.
I was searching the sky for signs of life when I heard the faint sound. I leant over the trapdoor, holding my breath. Silence. I must have imagined it.
Then I heard it again, louder. The door into the tower was opening. A second later came the unmistakable thud of someone climbing the steps. Liz had finally arrived. I let my breath out in a rush. Whatever was wrong with Lucy, it wasn’t serious, thank goodness.
I’d need to warn Liz about the broken step. I shouted down the tower, ‘Liz, can you hear me?’
There was no response.
I yelled at the top of my voice. ‘Liz!’
But Liz didn’t reply. She continued to climb the tower, heavily, and with purpose.
I stepped back, my heart thudding. This wasn’t Liz, Liz would have shouted back. And Liz was much lighter on her feet. Someone else was coming to watch the aurora. Yet everyone was at Macbeth – the light from the theatre was visible as a distant glow. So, who was it? And why hadn’t he shouted back?
With a sudden rush of fear, I knew why.
I ran to the edge of the platform and, clinging to the parapet, peered down. The tower fell away in a sheer drop.
I sank to my knees, my mind racing. I ran my hands over the floor, searching for something I could use a weapon. Nothing. Perhaps the trapdoor could be locked from the outside. I felt around the latch, but there was no bolt or key. And even if there had been, a few blows from an ice-axe would splinter the wood in seconds.
The footsteps were close. Another minute and his head would appear through the opening. I struggled to my feet, but my legs gave way. Leaning against the parapet, I sank to the floor. I was sick with fear. I was going to die, smashed to a pulp like Harry.
But not without a fight. I had one chance: if I kicked his head hard enough, I could knock him off the steps. I crawled to the trapdoor, hauled myself to my feet, and positioned myself where a well-placed boot in the face would send him backwards. As I steadied myself, I heard something that made my heart lurch – a splintering, followed by a high-pitched shriek that scorched the air like the blast from a furnace. The screaming went on forever, merging with its echoes, filling the tower until there was nothing else. There was a sickening boom. Then silence, quivering in the air like the skin of a drum.
I stumbled back and collapsed onto the platform. As I lay, weak with shock, staring into blackness, the aurora burst onto the sky and flooded the night with incandescence.
The cold seeped through my suit, chilling my body, and bringing me to my senses. I dragged myself to my knees. After several attempts, I lowered myself over the edge of the trapdoor and started the climb down. My legs were like jelly, and I clutched the rails so tightly that my hands hurt. Speed was impossible as a section of railing was missing. After passing the broken step – I gave silent thanks that I’d counted – I went as quickly as I dared.
As I neared the ground, I paused to look over my shoulder. In the feeble candlelight, a black heap lay crumpled in the corner, pieces of broken railing around it. A sudden draught from the door caused the candles to flare. They threw moving shadows over the shape, making it writhe as if in agony. But he was dead. He had to be. No-one could survive that fall. Yet, something was wrong. The figure was stirring. He began to rise. Dear God, he was still alive . . .
I jumped the last few steps and bolted for the door, feeling glass crunch beneath my feet. The risen figure leapt forward. He slammed the door shut, and I crashed into it, unable to stop in time. Dazed, I grappled with the handle, but he threw his arms around my body and held me in an iron grip so powerful he lifted me off my feet. I struggled furiously, finding a strength I didn’t know I possessed, kicking viciously at his shins. He loosened his grip, but I couldn’t shake him off. Panic overwhelmed me and, filling my lungs, I screamed in pure animal terror.
He relaxed his grip and wheeled me round to face him. But he towered over me, and my chances of fighting him off were slim. In desperation, I raised my fists and pummelled him about the head, sobbing, lacking the breath to scream.
He grabbed my wrists and pulled them away. ‘Miss Stewart,’ he shouted. ‘It is me, Thomas Hallengren.’
I stopped struggling and peered up at him, but it was impossible to see his face in the dark. He released his hold on my wrists and drew back his hood.
My voice caught in my throat. ‘So it was you climbing the tower?’
He turned and looked behind him. And I saw what I’d missed earlier – he’d been crouching over someone.
‘The receptionist told me you were here. I came as quickly as I could. I arrived in time to see him fall.’ He brought his face close to mine. ‘It is over, Miss Stewart.’
I stared at the body. ‘Who is it?’ I said in a whisper.
He cast the beam of his torch onto the slumped figure.
The fall had twisted his body into an unnatural position. The legs were crossed as though, even in death, he had a need to relieve himself. One arm was trapped behind his back, the other stretched out, palm upwards, in an attitude of supplication. His shoulders were propped against the wall, the head lolling sideways at an obscene angle. Around him were pieces of wood, and the glass shards from my torch, glinting like jewels in the uncertain light.
Hallengren moved the torch and caught the face in the beam. I stooped and looked into the staring eyes. Death had smoothed his features, but I recognised him instantly.
Blood was spreading across the uneven floor. I watched it gather in the grooves of the flagstones, realising, too late, that it was staining the soles of my boots.
Chapter 25
I was shaking violently.
In a second, Hallengren had his arms around me. I clutched at him, burying my face in his chest, feeling his warmth wash through my suit and into my body.
‘You are in shock, Miss Stewart,’ he murmured, rubbing my back. He lifted my chin gently. ‘Can I leave you for a moment? I need to call my men.’
I sat in a pew while he used his radio. He spoke softly, staring up at the altarpiece. The call finished, he sat beside me and slipped an arm around my shoulders.
‘Marcellus,’ I said. ‘But why?’
‘There will be time for explanations later, Miss Stewart. But now, I need to take you away from here. My men will arrive in a few minutes.’
I leant against him, trying to dispel the image of Marcellus’s staring eyes from my mind. A loud creaking made me start: the front door was opening.
Engqvist entered with several uniformed men. They hurried up the nave, flashing their torches, their boots thudding on the wooden floor. They and Hallengren huddled at the altar like conspirators, and the sing-song of their Swedish voices echoed through the church.
Hallengren returned to the pew. ‘Engqvist will take over, so we can leave. It is a bit of a walk to my car. We have to go back to the road.’ He took my hands in his. ‘We will go to Kiruna first, then I will take you back to the Excelsior.’
Kiruna. Of course, Hallengren would need a statement.
He helped me to my feet, but my legs buckled. He caught me, and half-carried me outside where we hobbled down the path to his car. He settled me into the passenger seat and fastened the seat belt as though I were a child.
As he started the engine, I turned to him, thinking of the questions I badly wanted to ask.
He caught the movement. ‘It is a good half hour to the police station, Miss Stewart. Try to get some sleep.’
I lay back and closed my eyes. But sleep was impossible.
‘How are you feeling, Miss Stewart?’
We were entering Kiruna.
I sat up, and moved my head carefully, massaging away the stiffness in my neck. ‘Bloody awful, to be honest.’
Hallengren stopped the vehicle outside the police station. I swung my legs out and stepped onto the frozen ground, grabbing at the car door so as not to slip. The weather had changed: leaden clouds were forming, the wind from the north ballooning them like wet sheets. As we entered the building, snow was already falling.
At the front desk, Hallengren spoke in Swedish to the uniformed policeman, who leapt to attention. The clock on the wall behind him told me it was midnight.
We took the corridor to Hallengren’s office. He swiped a keycard through the door’s security system, and stepped back to let me enter.
The office was as I remembered it, except for the maps pinned to the notice board. I recognised the one on the left as the floor plan of the Icehotel. On the whiteboard on the adjacent wall were scrawled Swedish words, interconnected with lines. And names: Wilson Bibby, Harry Auchinleck, Marcellus Bibby. My own.
He motioned to the chairs. ‘Please sit down, Miss Stewart. The duty policeman is bringing coffee.’
He strode to the whiteboard and scribbled with a black felt tip. I watched, studying his profile. He wrote quickly and confidently, pausing once or twice to rub his chin.
There was a knock at the door. He called out in Swedish, but continued to write. The policeman from reception entered with mugs and a pot of coffee. He arranged them on the table, then straightened and waited. Seeing no response from Hallengren, he left, throwing me a look of curiosity as he closed the door. I sat patiently, but the smell of coffee defeated me. I reached for the pot.
The movement made Hallengren turn.
He came over quickly and took the pot from my hands. ‘I do apologise, Miss Stewart.’ He studied me for a moment, then produced a bottle of brandy and two glasses from the filing cabinet. Setting the glasses aside, he poured a shot into the mugs. ‘I think you need fortification after what you have been through tonight,’ he said with a tilt of the head.
I could wait no longer. ‘Inspector, why did Marcellus try to kill me?’
; He cradled his mug, a half-smile on his face. ‘This is your only question, Miss Stewart?’
‘I’ve others, but it’ll do for a start.’
‘You are owed a full explanation, I think. And what I tell you will be in tomorrow’s press release.’ He perched on the edge of the table, leg dangling, as he’d done that first day. ‘The final piece of the puzzle came to us this afternoon, shortly before we arrested Mr Vandenberg.’
‘And Marcellus. You arrested him too.’
‘We put out a warrant, but we could not find him.’
I ran a hand over my face. My God, if I’d known that, there was no way I’d have gone up that tower, with or without Liz. Anger simmered inside me. ‘The receptionist at the Excelsior told Leo that Marcellus was already in custody.’
‘He was mistaken.’
I stared at him. ‘Inspector, please will you tell me what this is all about.’
‘We need to go back to the beginning. To well before Wilson’s murder. It all hinges on Wilson’s diary, as we thought.’ He sipped from his mug. ‘As you might expect, Wilson Bibby made a will. There was provision for his wife, but the bulk of his fortune was left to his only son, Marcellus.’
‘Marcellus told you this?’
‘We asked him about his father’s plans for his inheritance, but he referred us to his lawyer. Mr Vandenberg arranged for a copy of the will to be faxed through. He also gave us an indication of the sum that Marcellus would inherit.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said with feeling.
‘I doubt that you can, Miss Stewart. Even we were surprised. It gave Marcellus the strongest possible motive for murder. And made him our prime suspect, non plus ultra. Now, this is where it becomes interesting,’ he said, as though murders of millionaires by their sons were an everyday occurrence in Kiruna. ‘We interrogated Aaron and Marcellus separately about the final diary page. We asked them what was on it. Their answers were identical, and predictable. Neither could remember, nor did they have a copy. We knew they were lying, thanks to your information.’