ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  Leo was the last to say goodbye. ‘Keep in touch, Maggie.’ He ruffled his hair. ‘Let me know how you’re doing.’

  ‘You too. Another group coming today?’

  ‘The last of the season. Life goes on.’ He grinned. ‘And so do tours to the Icehotel.’

  And now we were flying south, on a great circle to Stockholm. Mike was in the window seat, snoring like a warthog, sleeping off the after-effects of a post-theatre drinking bout with the Danes.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Liz was saying across the aisle. ‘This isn’t the time to daydream. Tell me about Hallengren.’

  I kept my voice low, trying to sound matter-of-fact. ‘We spent the night at his apartment. He drove me back to the hotel this morning.’

  ‘Well? Oh, don’t keep me in suspense, Mags. What was he like? I’ve been fantasising about him all week.’

  ‘What can I say? It was the best sex I’ve ever had.’

  It was true. Thomas Hallengren had been spectacular in bed . . .

  He’d driven me to an apartment block on the other side of Kiruna. Neither of us spoke as we took the lift to the top floor.

  The front door to his apartment opened directly onto a spacious open-plan room. The light was still on. Cream-coloured leather armchairs were arranged in front of a low glass-topped table which was covered in newspapers and skiing magazines. At the far end of the room, half a dozen chairs stood untidily round a dining table, the remains of a meal abandoned on the striped tablecloth.

  I was on edge, conscious I’d drunk too much brandy. Hallengren watched me in silence. He took my hand and led me into the bedroom, switching on the light and immediately pressing a button which dimmed it. At first, I could distinguish only the double bed against the wall, then dark shapes resolved themselves into a wardrobe, chest of drawers, and a blanket box.

  I felt a gentle touch on my arm. Hallengren unzipped my snowsuit and sat me on the bed. He slipped off my boots, while I shook my arms out of the suit, struggling awkwardly to free myself. He sat back on his heels and smiled up at me, raising an eyebrow questioningly. In that instant, my nervousness evaporated. I leant forward and, clutching at his snowsuit, pulled him towards me. We kissed insistently, hungry for the taste and smell of each other.

  He disentangled himself and stripped off quickly. We removed the rest of my clothes, doing it in the wrong order and getting in each other’s way. He ran his hands lightly down my arms, and lifted my fingers to his mouth. Then, somehow, we were in bed, entangled in the sheets, grabbing at one another. His mouth slid from my neck to my breasts and slowly down my belly. I tensed, arching my back as I felt his tongue between my legs. He brought me to near-climax and away again so many times that I thought I was going to faint. Finally, he positioned his body over mine and entered me, waiting until he’d brought me to a shuddering orgasm before reaching his own. As the throbbing lessened, I lay back, panting and sweating like a marathon runner.

  We made love more times that night than I would have thought possible. Towards the end, he was rougher, pinning my wrists, thrusting quickly, watching my reactions, timing his movements so that when we climaxed it was nearly simultaneously. He cried out and collapsed onto me, rolling away with a groan. Smiling sleepily, he reached over to trace the outline of my mouth. Then he dragged the damp sheets over our bodies and we slept, exhausted, his face buried in my hair.

  In the early morning, he drove me to the hotel. The wind had dropped. A feeble sun was rising, its rays filtering through the trees, stippling yesterday’s snow.

  He stopped the car in front of the Excelsior. ‘Will we see you here again, Miss Stewart?’ he murmured. He drew back my hood and pushed his fingers through my hair.

  I turned away, unable to meet his eyes. We both knew the answer.

  Liz’s words dragged me back to the present.

  ‘You can call me old-fashioned, Mags, but I thought it wasn’t the done thing for police to sleep with their suspects,’ she said, resentment in her voice.

  ‘I didn’t sleep with him till afterwards,’ I said petulantly. ‘And I wasn’t a suspect.’

  ‘Oh, don’t give me that. He could lose his job, you know, plying you with drink like that.’

  ‘He didn’t ply me.’ I shifted in the seat. ‘You can be so holier-than-though sometimes, Liz.’

  ‘And, after he got you drunk, he seduced you. But then, I suppose, you did say you only wanted one-night stands from now on.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ I said, remembering the touch of his hand on my cheek.

  ‘You know, I still can’t get over what you just told me about Marcellus and Aaron. It really is all rather amazing.’ She grew thoughtful. ‘You were right about Marcellus being the killer, though.’

  ‘You think that gives me any satisfaction?’ I said bitterly.

  ‘I suspected something had happened when Leo returned our passports. There wasn’t a lot he could tell us. I expect it’ll be in today’s papers.’

  The stewardess had brought coffee.

  ‘And that hell you went through in the tower, Mags. After everything else. If I hadn’t been called away, it would never have happened. You’ve no idea how that makes me feel.’

  ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you we might both be dead?’

  She looked into the cup. ‘You really can’t make me feel any worse than I do now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it wasn’t meant to come out that way.’ I hesitated. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. How is Lucy?’

  She sipped slowly, grimacing, and moved the cup away. ‘It was a false alarm. Too much ice cream. That’s Lucy.’

  Mike shifted in his sleep and the snoring stopped.

  But Liz couldn’t leave it. ‘What I still can’t get over, Mags, is that you returned to the Icehotel that night. We thought you’d gone to see the aurora.’ She cradled her cup, deep in thought. ‘You’ve been keeping a lot from us, you know.’

  I said nothing. She was right. I hadn’t taken her into my confidence. Or Mike.

  ‘You do realise you could have died,’ she went on.

  I leant back. None of it mattered now. ‘It’s over, Liz.’

  ‘Yes, you can give that brain of yours a rest,’ she said gently. ‘It’s time to move on.’

  I remembered Hallengren’s words about grief turning to guilt. ‘Harry’s dead, Liz, that’s not something I can forget.’

  ‘Nor I.’ She looked straight ahead. ‘But he would want us to get on with our lives, wouldn’t he?’

  We hit turbulence. My cup flew off the table and onto Mike’s lap.

  He sat up. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’

  ‘Good sleep, Mike?’ I said into his ear.

  His fingers flew to his temples. ‘For the love o’ God, will you turn down the volume?’ He stared in dismay at the wetness spreading across his crotch. ‘What in the name of – ?’

  ‘You missed the show,’ said Liz. She raised her voice so the whole plane could hear. ‘While you were snoring, Mags was telling us about her night of passion with that sexy Swedish detective.’

  The Ellises, sitting in front of Liz, turned in my direction. Robyn glared. Jim, sitting so Robyn couldn’t see his face, smirked and gave a slow wink.

  The captain’s voice crackled through, announcing our descent into Stockholm. I fastened my seatbelt, thinking of the last time we’d been there. Had it really only been a week?

  Liz was right: it was time to move on, Harry would want us to get on with our lives. So why, then, did I have a feeling in my waters that there was unfinished business?

  Chapter 28

  ‘And that’s the whole story,’ I said, chewing my thumbnail. ‘We came back.’

  It was a long time before Dr Langley spoke. ‘What happened on your return?’

  ‘We buried Harry.’

  ‘How did that feel?’

  ‘We laid him to rest in St Monans, next to his ancestors. The cemetery was packed.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  What could I te
ll her? It had felt less like a funeral than a comedy.

  We’d stood at the graveside listening to the minister, the rain gusting and lashing at us as it’s supposed to do at funerals. The wind snatched up Liz’s hat and nearly took it away. As she grabbed it, her umbrella turned inside out. Mike caught my eye, trying not to laugh. Then I saw the young man, one of Harry’s boyfriends, standing so close to the grave I thought he’d fall in. He was crying openly, not caring who saw him, lips parted, nose running into his mouth. The minister spoke quietly to him, a hand on his arm, but the young man gazed at him, uncomprehending. People were moving away when something happened which only I witnessed: the minister, believing no-one was watching, turned away surreptitiously and pulled a half bottle from his cassock. He took a good long swallow, then belched softly and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Despite my grief, I had to smile. Harry would have approved.

  ‘Was it a comfort having Liz and Mike there?’ Dr Langley said.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You know, Maggie, I no longer attend funerals, I can’t cope with the finality.’ She made an arch with her fingers. ‘Harry’s was nine months ago. What is your last memory of it?’

  I was back at the Boatman’s Inn, its dark spaces too cramped for the crowd of people paying their respects. The Dean of Harry’s faculty, a waspish woman with permed grey hair, was speaking warmly of Harry’s contribution to teaching and to his chosen field of research.

  ‘My last memory?’ I said. ‘Seeing his students, thinking how gratified Harry would have been to know they were there.’

  But that was a lie. My last memory was the drive from the inn, past the Auld Kirk. I’d glanced out of the window and caught a last glimpse of the gravediggers. They were finishing their cigarettes, throwing their shovels into the back of a van. Behind them was a neat mound of wet black earth, gleaming like coal on the grass.

  ‘I had no idea how terrible it was,’ Dr Langley was saying.

  ‘The funeral?’

  ‘What happened at the Icehotel.’ Her voice softened. ‘You’ve told me little about what life was like on your return.’

  ‘There’s not a lot to tell. We went back to work, Liz and I to Bayne’s, and Mike to his IT company. We see less of him now because he’s always in Stockholm, Mane Drew’s computers keep falling over. It’s really Liz who’s kept up with him.’ I took a long breath. ‘She’s been my rock. It was awful going back to work. I couldn’t have done it without her.’

  ‘How did your colleagues react?’

  I shrugged. ‘There’d been all this media coverage about Wilson, and then Harry. Liz’s and my names weren’t in the papers, but everyone knew where we’d been, and they put two and two together. We told them nothing, but it was weeks before they stopped pestering us.’ I looked at my hands. ‘That was the problem, the Icehotel was constantly being pushed into my face. I couldn’t go to a meeting without hearing the whispers as I came into the room. Or as I left it.’

  ‘And your line manager?’

  ‘To begin with, Andrew was very understanding.’ I picked at my nails. ‘A month after the funeral, he called me in. He was holding a report I’d prepared. He said the figures weren’t correct and I’d have to redo them. It was the second time since I came back that he’d pulled me up over my work.’ I lifted my eyes. ‘I’d never made mistakes before.’

  ‘But he knew what had happened to you?’ she said, frowning.

  ‘I had to tell him. He was pretty stunned. He asked me whether I was seeing anyone, and I said, no, I’m between boyfriends. He said, I meant a doctor or a counsellor. I became angry. I told him I could deal with it myself, it was grief, nothing more, I just needed time.’ I gave a lop-sided smile. ‘I think he was embarrassed by the whole thing.’

  ‘And how have Liz and Mike coped?’

  ‘Liz gets tearful whenever we talk about Harry. She’s lucky, though, she has a life with her children. She told me recently it keeps her from brooding.’ I smiled thinly. ‘I suspect it’s bravado. She’s changed, although she won’t admit it. She smokes openly, now, more than I do, even though she’s always singing me an aria about the evils of tobacco.’

  ‘And Mike?’ Dr Langley said softly.

  ‘He’s managed the best,’ I said with resentment. ‘Do you think it’s a man thing?’

  ‘Do you?’

  I threw her a baleful look. ‘I think it’s a Mike thing.’

  ‘Why do you say it that way? He seemed to care about Harry.’

  I ran my hands through my hair. ‘I don’t know what it is about Mike. I can’t understand the way he behaves towards me.’

  ‘Give me an example.’

  ‘A few weeks ago I went to his flat for lunch. Liz and the twins were at her parents, so it was just me. Mike was cooking Thai chicken and coconut rice, one of Harry’s favourites. The kitchen smelt of lemon grass. I’d had the dream the night before. I’d never told anyone about it except Liz, but I described it to him. He just gazed at me, as though I were reading the telephone directory.’ I picked at my lip. ‘He took my hands and leant in close, and I thought, hello, where’s this leading. Then he suddenly sat back and demanded to know how much I’d had to drink.’

  ‘Had you been drinking?’ she said quietly.

  ‘I had a couple of glasses before lunch. Anyway, he dragged me to the bathroom. He stood me in front of the mirror and asked me what I saw.’ I paused. ‘His Irish accent’s always more pronounced when he’s angry.’

  ‘And what did you see, Maggie?’

  ‘I saw what you’re seeing now,’ I said brutally.

  After a silence, she said, ‘What’s his bathroom like? I’m assuming this wasn’t the first time you’d seen it.’

  ‘I’d been to his flat before.’ I picked at my cuticles. ‘Large mirror, white tiles. Incredibly clean.’

  ‘And the bath?’

  I lifted my eyes to hers. ‘Sunken, like a swimming pool.’

  ‘And are Liz and Mike an item now?’

  ‘It’s an on-off thing. I thought Mike just wanted to get into her knickers, but I was wrong. He seemed to want a meaningful relationship – God, how I hate that phrase. But now, he’s blowing hot and cold, and it’s Liz who’s hoping it’ll become serious.’

  Dr Langley placed her hands together, choosing her words carefully. ‘This session is about getting behind the truth, Maggie. We both know you’ve been bottling something up, something you either can’t admit to yourself, or won’t admit to me.’

  I shifted in my seat. I’d gone this far, there was no point not going the rest of the way. ‘Marcellus didn’t kill Harry,’ I said emphatically.

  I’d expected a look of surprise, but what I saw was understanding. For the first time, I dared hope that salvation might be possible.

  ‘And you want to find out who did,’ she said.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I owe it to Harry.’

  ‘Let me get this straight. It’s because you want to see justice done for Harry?’

  ‘For the others too.’

  ‘You think you have a responsibility towards all the dead?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘So tell me why you’re sure Marcellus wasn’t the killer,’ she said. ‘It seems a cut-and-dried case.’

  I looked at her helplessly. ‘I just don’t see him as a killer. Yes, I know he was planning to kidnap his father, but I saw the two of them together.’

  ‘Very well then, what about Marcellus killing Harry?’

  ‘If Marcellus didn’t kill Wilson, then it follows he didn’t kill Harry.’ I frowned. ‘And I keep thinking of the way Harry was murdered. Marcellus was built like a Sherman tank. He would have slipped up behind him and snapped his neck like a twig.’

  She fingered her letter opener. ‘Can you remember when you came to this conclusion?’

  ‘Don’t laugh, but it was when I was watching television. I saw a film about a group of commandos. One of them had the height and build of Marcellus, he looked just like him from the
back. He crept up behind an enemy soldier and broke his neck. He was fast, and he was silent. He slipped back into the shadows before the soldier even hit the ground. The others had their backs turned and didn’t know anything had happened till they heard him fall.’ I stared at the ceiling. ‘It was the strangest thing. The minute I saw it, I realised I’d known all along it couldn’t have been Marcellus. It was as if I’d woken from a deep sleep.’

  ‘And you began to have the dream at about that time.’ It was a statement.

  I looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Remember what I said earlier, Maggie? The thing that’s lurking under the water, yet never revealing itself, is something you want to discover.’ She spoke slowly, emphasising her words. ‘I now know what your dream signifies. What you want to discover is the identity of the killer.’

  ‘So why don’t I see a body in the bath?’

  She smiled gently. ‘You don’t yet know who the killer is.’

  ‘And the smell of river water?’ I said, looking at the floor.

  ‘You fell into the river and nearly drowned. Your sleeping mind is associating a personally traumatic experience with the deaths at the Icehotel.’

  My eyes came up to meet hers. ‘So where do we go from here?’

  She rose and opened the window, letting in the faint early evening sounds: the traffic, someone shouting, selling the paper. She settled herself behind the desk. ‘I’d like you to tell me what you think happened, Maggie. It doesn’t matter how far-fetched or illogical it sounds.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can,’ I said in a small voice.

  ‘You’ve been thinking about it these past few months, all I’m asking you to do is to think out loud. Remember that I’m less interested in catching a killer, and more interested in helping you. What you say will stay within these four walls.’ She paused. ‘Tell me who you think killed Wilson and Harry.’