Marcellus was seated, shoulders slumped, his posture suggesting defeat or despair

Liz didn’t seem convinced. I did my best to steer the conversation away, but she kept returning to the hotel killer story. I left her briefly to join the Ellises, who were marching round the foyer in mild protest at being confined to the lounge. They were as rattled as the rest of us and their jumpiness soon got on my nerves. I returned to find Liz talking earnestly to the barman. She broke away when she saw me, and brushed off my questions, saying she’d been ordering sandwiches.

“I’m going to call the twins,” she said. “I’ll be in my room if anyone needs me.” She squashed out her cigarette and left.

I flopped into the armchair and huddled into a ball. Liz was taking this harder than most. If only Harry had caught her before she’d seen Wilson’s corpse.

After lunch, it was Harry’s turn. He reappeared a short while later and announced he was going to his room to work on his book.

By mid-afternoon, tempers had become frayed. The barman switched on the television, but the only channels were in Swedish. Jonas and his friends crowded round the set, drinking beer.

Surprise

I was at the bar ordering coffee when a familiar image appeared on the screen. It was the hotel I’d seen at the airport; the stone façade and Swedish flag were unmistakable.

Jonas reached up to change the channel. “No, wait,” I blurted out. The men turned in surprise. I stared at the television. A reporter was standing in front of the hotel, microphone in hand.

“What’s he saying?” I said. Erik was looking at me with interest. “Someone was found dead there. Just a few days ago.”

“Did they say anything about the Stockholm hotel murders?” I chewed my thumb. “Is it the same killer?”

“They haven’t said he’s been murdered. Just that he’s been found dead.”

“So you know about the hotel killings?” Jonas said softly. I couldn’t tear my gaze from the screen. “The barman was talking about them.”

“It all happened last year,” Jonas said, with a dismissive shrug. He put the bottle to his lips. “There have been no murders since.”

“People are saying that the killer has come to the Icehotel.”

Jonas shook his head and turned away. But not before I’d caught the look that passed between him and Erik.

I returned to my seat and continued to gaze out of the window. I felt numb.

As people were called, the lounge slowly emptied. It was nearly 4pm before my name was called. The manager’s assistant accompanied me to the office at the end of the corridor and asked me to wait outside. I peered through the glass panel in the door. Marcellus was seated, shoulders slumped, his posture suggesting defeat or despair. Someone I couldn’t see was speaking to him, but I couldn’t make out the words.

Marcellus shook his head vehemently once or twice. More murmuring from the invisible man. He must have hit a nerve because Marcellus leapt out of the chair and lunged forward. A fair-haired man who’d been standing out of sight darted forward and immobilised him in seconds.

This man was huge, broader even than Marcellus and taller by a good six inches. Marcellus struggled, and the man said something into his ear. He nodded, relaxing visibly. The man released him.

Angry glance

Marcellus remained standing while the invisible man spoke again. Then he turned and stumbled towards the door. I sprang back and flattened myself against the wall, not wanting him to know I’d been watching.

After throwing a final angry glance towards the invisible man, he left the room, slamming the door so violently I thought the glass would break. He saw me then and paused, an expression of bewilderment on his face. I opened my mouth to speak, but he turned away and marched down the corridor.

I’d handled it badly; he must have realised I was spying. But it was too late, I couldn’t run after him. I wiped my hands down the sides of my jeans,and knocked gently.

The blond officer turned. He had typical Swedish looks: tanned skin, blue eyes and white-blond eyebrows. But a boxer’s face; one side was misshapen, and the nose had been broken more than once.

He opened the door. “Please come in,” he said, with a slight accent. His tone was warm, and I felt my nervousness evaporate.

I was curious to see the other man. He was half sitting on the desk, one leg on the floor, the other dangling. He watched unsmilingly as his colleague ushered me forward. He seemed as unwelcoming as the other man was pleasant. I guessed I was in for the good-cop-bad-cop routine.

He stood up. “My name is Thomas Hallengren.” He gestured to his colleague. “This is Lars-Erik Engqvist. We are from the National Criminal Investigation Department.” He spoke slowly, with more of an accent than Engqvist, but his English was faultless.

His dark hair was cropped close, accentuating the outline of his skull. He, too, was tanned but, unlike his colleague, not entirely clean-shaven.

They were both wearing the same blue uniform, but the markings must have indicated differences in rank because Engqvist deferred to him as superior. They towered over me; I doubted either could sleep with his feet in the bed.

Perhaps it was government policy to recruit giants into the Swedish police force.

Hallengren continued to stare, his blue eyes holding mine. Then his gaze travelled slowly down my body, then back to my face. In other circumstances I wouldn’t have let this go, but something about his manner told me to hold my tongue.

He motioned to the chair. “Please sit down.”

Restrain

Engqvist parked himself on the desk, evidently not expecting to have to restrain me. I drew my head back, wondering how long I could keep it in this position. Hallengren nodded to his colleague, who hurried to fetch chairs, which he placed in front of the desk. Hallengren sat opposite me.

He opened a notepad. “Your name is Margaret Stewart. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Stewart, I need to ask you some questions about the death of the American. You were in” – he ruffled through his papers – “room 16. Am I right?” He looked up.

“Yes, room 16.”

Engqvist was watching, a smirk on his face. Hallengren scribbled quickly. “Can you tell me what time you went to bed last night?”

“Some time between 11 o’clock and midnight. I can’t be more specific.”

“Alone?” He continued to write. Engqvist”s smirk broadened into a smile.

“Of course,” I said, the blood rushing to my face. Hallengren looked up in surprise. “Why do you say that? Many couples sleep in the Icehotel. There are even honeymoon suites.”

More on Monday.