ICEHOTEL Read online

  At that point, Liz returned with a large leather-bound book. ‘March, you said? How about the first week?’

  ‘Has to be second week, my dear.’

  I glanced at him, surprised at the firmness in his voice. ‘I thought you had that conference in Rome then,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you the chairman, or something?’

  ‘I’ve decided to cancel.’ His tone discouraged further questions. ‘Now, children, I know we discussed a beach holiday, but I’ve rather set my mind on skiing.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ said Liz. ‘So, France or Switzerland?’

  He poured himself another Pimms. ‘Sweden.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was skiing in Sweden, Harry,’ I said. ‘Seems an odd choice.’

  ‘I was there briefly last year, and I’d really like to see the place properly.’

  ‘Okay, where are the brochures?’ I said, watching the twins.

  They’d stripped to their knickers and were running under the arcing jets from Liz’s garden-watering contraption. Thoroughly soaked, they charged at Harry and banged into the table, upsetting the jug of Pimms. They pressed against him, leaving wet marks on his trousers.

  Annie, the older of the twins by five minutes, spoke with the authority conveyed by her status. ‘Do the trick with the flower, Harry.’

  His round face broke into creases, happiness making him instantly younger. He removed the red carnation pinned to his cricket whites and, with an impressive sleight of hand, made it disappear. He held up both hands, palm outwards, for the girls to inspect, then reached over and pulled the carnation from behind Lucy’s ear. The girls squealed with delight.

  Lucy jumped up and down. ‘Do it again, Harry. Do it again.’

  Harry did it again. I’d seen this trick many times, as had the girls, but we never tired of it. Fortunately, neither did Harry.

  Liz was poring over a catalogue. ‘There’s skiing way up near the border with Norway.’ She shooed the twins away, and they skipped off happily.

  ‘Nothing further south?’ Harry said, disappointment in his voice.

  ‘That’s not where the mountains are, I’m afraid.’ She scanned the pages, frowning in concentration, then sat up so quickly she spilt her drink over her jeans. ‘Oh, wow, forget skiing. This is it. This is the one.’ She read from the brochure:

  ‘For a winter holiday with a difference, why not spend a week discovering the spectacular scenery of Lapland, the land of the Northern Lights? The highlight of this unforgettable experience is a stay in the unique Icehotel.’

  ‘Ice hotel?’ said Harry.

  ‘It’s spelt Icehotel, all one word.’ She read on:

  ‘Set near the town of Kiruna, the Icehotel is built entirely of ice and snow – a staggering 30,000 tons of snow and 10,000 tons of ice are used in its construction. Each spring the Icehotel melts and each winter it is rebuilt to a different design.’

  ‘A building made of ice?’ said Harry. ‘Not sure the old constitution will stand it.’

  ‘We’re not in the Icehotel the whole week, sweetheart. Four nights in a nearby hotel.’ She looked up, her expression anxious. ‘Please, Harry, let’s go. We can do skiing some other time.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘Of course, my dear, if that’s what you’ve set your heart on. But where exactly is Kiruna?’

  ‘North of the Arctic Circle. There’s an airport, so it’s not exactly in the sticks.’

  ‘The Arctic Circle.’ He spoke quietly, almost to himself. ‘A fair distance from Stockholm then, but if there’s an airport, I could fly there.’

  I tried to catch his eye. Was it my imagination, or was he deliberately not looking at me? First he’d cancelled attendance at the Rome conference, which he’d spent months organising, and now he was muttering about flying to Stockholm. Something wasn’t right . . .

  ‘You’re awfully quiet, Mags,’ Liz said. She placed the brochure in my hands. ‘Take a look.’

  I studied the photograph. I was mildly disappointed: I’d expected a tall tiered building, white, and heavily decorated like a wedding cake. But the Icehotel was an elongated igloo with low rectangular structures on either side. It squatted against the darkening sky like a monstrous pale toad. And it wasn’t white. It was blue – faintly, but distinctly, blue.

  There was one other photograph. The caption read: A guest in one of the Icehotel’s bedrooms. A girl wearing ski suit, gloves, and fur hat was sitting on a bed covered in animal skins. Frosted snakes curled behind her head like an anaemic Medusa, but she seemed oblivious, leaning back, smiling radiantly. With a shock of recognition, I realised that she was leaning against a headboard made of ice, and the snakes were the curved patterns.

  I ran a finger over the outline of the building. An uneven glow radiated from its depths, as though the bloated toad had swallowed fire. It was surreal, scary, and magnificent. I knew then that I had to see it.

  Liz took my silence for hesitation. ‘Come on, Mags, it’ll be a hoot and a half.’

  I looked up. ‘Oh yes,’ I said softly. ‘Let’s do it.’

  She laughed, a light ringing sound like a bell, and pushed Harry playfully. He made a joke of falling off the chair and scattering the brochures.

  He took the catalogue, nudging his reading glasses onto the bridge of his nose. ‘My God, but look at the cost. I can’t afford this. I’m on the edge of ruin, as it is.’

  ‘There’s a special offer, sweetheart. If we book within seven days, it’s half-price. We really need to do this tomorrow at the very latest, you know.’

  ‘Only seven days? How very awkward. Even with the discount it’s a bit steep. What sort of people can afford this sort of holiday? I’m a humble academic, remember.’

  ‘Ah, but it’ll be fantastic, Harry,’ she said, squeezing his arm. ‘The holiday of a lifetime. You can mortgage the Rubens.’

  ‘Nice if I had one to mortgage. There’s nothing for it. I’ll have to write another book.’

  ‘You do know you won’t be able to wear carnations in the Icehotel, don’t you? They’ll shrivel at those temperatures.’

  ‘Ha, that’s not the only thing that’ll shrivel, dear girl.’

  I listened as they made plans.

  ‘Look, there’s a Web site,’ Liz was saying. ‘We can book online. Shall we use my computer?’

  I lay back, warmed by the sun, trying to imagine a night in a building made of ice. I closed my eyes and pictured the gleaming igloo. But something had changed. The light was dwindling, fading slowly at first, then more quickly until, with a bright flicker like the sudden rekindling of dying embers, it vanished. The Icehotel darkened, growing menacing against the livid sky.

  I opened my eyes, touched by a strange fear.

  Liz was on her feet. Her eyes were shining. ‘Come on, if you’re coming, Mags.’

  The feeling passed. My excitement returned and I followed them indoors. In her office, Liz made the booking. With a few clicks, our fate was sealed.

  It was March of the following year, and the plane was approaching the runway at Stockholm airport. Harry was wedged between us, squeezing our hands tightly. He’d developed a fear of flying years before, after his plane had landed badly at Charles de Gaulle airport. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and his eyelids were fluttering. Although he’d taken enough temazepam to knock out a horse, it had done nothing to reduce his strength, and I winced as he crushed my fingers.

  I glanced across at Liz. ‘You okay? You look a bit preoccupied.’

  ‘I’ll be fine once we’ve landed and I can call the twins.’ She looked away. ‘I’m just awfully worried they’ll be suffering from separation anxiety.’

  ‘The twins, Liz? Or you?’

  She gave a lop-sided smile. It was clear she was finding it difficult away from her children. I disentangled myself from Harry and squeezed her fingers. Her hands were cold.

  I wondered whether Harry had caught the conversation. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. I thought he was asleep but I felt his body stiffen as the
wheels touched the tarmac.

  An hour later, in the main airport café, we were waiting for our flight to Kiruna to be called. Harry looked queasy, Liz was drinking espresso, and I was demolishing a second breakfast.

  Liz glanced at the smorgasbord. ‘Keep eating like that, Mags, and you can kiss goodbye to that hour-and-a-half-glass figure.’

  I pushed the plate away, smiling; my metabolism allowed me to eat as much as I liked. But my smile faded as I saw Harry’s complexion. How would he manage in a twenty-seater plane?

  As if reading my thoughts, he said, ‘Could one of you children please remind me to take my pills before we board? Otherwise you’ll have to scrape me off the ceiling.’

  ‘Shush a minute, listen to this,’ Liz was saying. Her eyes were glued to the banks of TV monitors. ‘It’s a news clip, I think, about a murder. There’s a picture of a hotel. Pity I can’t understand very much, it’s in Swedish.’

  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. He’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 sets 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.