Whoever did it pushed him out of bed. He froze to death and the police are treating it as murder

Could Marcellus have killed his own father? The thought was chilling. The minute your dad said he wanted a vacation, I knew it would monkeywrench our plans. But when he said he’d be coming here, I thought it might work for us. It’s so remote.

What were these plans? Had Marcellus and Aaron been plotting to kill Wilson in Stockholm, but his lastminute decision to take a holiday necessitated a rethink? The Icehotel was a perfect choice. No doors to the rooms.

Yes, a murder here would give the police a headache of monumental proportions. Why had Aaron been staying in Kiruna all week? To plan, with Marcellus, the fine details of Wilson’s murder in the Icehotel?

I picked at the food. It was making sense now. Marcellus, dismayed that Wilson was spending his inheritance on the schools’ programme, had decided to kill him while there was still silver left in the kist.

Silver which would then go to Marcellus as next of kin. And Aaron would take a share as payment for his participation. Which leaves us with only one thing we haven’t talked about, Marcellus – my remuneration.

Sympathy

Wilson had been drugged. Marcellus could easily have done that, then pushed him out of bed. I find myself nodding off over dinner and then I’m wide awake at two in the morning.

But was it jet lag that had kept him up in the small hours? Or the execution of his plan? And what was on the last page of the diary that was the subject of so much interest? There was a knock at the door.

Liz put her head round, her face paler than usual. “Are you up for a visit?” There was sympathy in her voice. “Mike’s here,” she added, almost as an apology. She glanced at the tray. “The receptionist told us the nurse was bringing you food. That meant you were awake. Did you manage to eat anything?”

My last memory of Liz was of her holding a spoon to my mouth. Tears pricked my eyes. “Liz –”

In a second, she was on the bed. I flung my arms round her and she buried her face in my neck. When her sobbing had stopped, she disentangled herself and fumbled for a handkerchief, releasing the scent of Paris, familiar and strangely comforting.

Mike was in Hallengren’s chair, watching us. He reached into his jacket and produced a small bottle of schnapps. He handed it to Liz, who drank greedily before passing it to me. The liquid burnt my throat, but settled in my stomach, its warmth spreading through my body. “Did you know Hallengren was here?” I said.

“For heaven’s sake, why is he bothering you at a time like this?” Liz snapped. “I told him what we saw in the chapel.” She ran a hand over her ponytail. “We were all questioned last night.”

“They have to take statements from everyone,” Mike said. “I had to give mine twice.” She frowned. “But you were miles away when it happened?”

“I returned early with the Danish fellers and the husky manager.”

“Oh? What time would this have been?” “Mid-afternoon.” He smiled ruefully. “I went straight to the gym.”

I steered the subject back. “There’s something I need to tell you both.” I waited until I had their attention. “Hallengren told me that Wilson Bibby was murdered.”

Unconscious

From the shock on their faces, I knew they hadn’t yet seen the press release. “They did a post mortem,” I added. “He was drugged.”

“You mean someone gave him an overdose?” said Mike.

“The drug wasn’t intended to kill him, but to render him unconscious. He was incapable of getting up. Whoever did it pushed him out of bed. He froze to death and the police are treating it as murder.”

“Oh my God,” Liz said slowly. Her eyes were wide. “Do they have any idea who it is?”

“They don’t know anything.” I picked at the bed sheet. “But now Harry’s been murdered.”

She looked scared. “What’s going on here? It’s this hotel killer, isn’t it? He’s come to the Icehotel.” She took a huge swallow from the bottle, her hands trembling.

“Listen to me, Liz, it’s not the hotel killer, okay?” “How can you be so sure?”

“I just know, that’s all.”

“What else did Hallengren tell you?” said Mike. “Just that Wilson was given a massive dose of barbiturates.” I sat up. “Look, do you remember he left the Ice Bar before everyone else? He said something about wanting a Scotch.”

Liz nodded. “He said he needed his nightcap.” “Well, Marcellus went with him.”

She handed Mike the schnapps. “Marcellus went everywhere with him,” she said.

“He could have slipped something into Wilson’s whisky. You know about these things, Liz. How much would you put into a drink to drug someone so they’re out? Is it easy to get hold of stuff like that?”

She looked unsure. “You can buy barbiturates over the counter now. And mixed with alcohol –”

“So Marcellus could have done it. And he had the motive.”

“Money?” said Mike. “But he stood to inherit when his daddy died. Which was going to be soon. Didn’t Bibby have this heart condition?”

“Hallengren said Wilson could have kept going for years. I don’t understand that. I saw him take Coumarinose.”

Liz was staring at the wall. “He took it on the plane, Mags. It could have been to prevent deep vein thrombosis.” She went to the wardrobe mirror and stood frowning at her reflection, smoothing the dark circles under her eyes.

“Yes, Marcellus had the motive. But he wouldn’t do it, would he? It’s simply far too obvious. He’d be the prime suspect.”

Tempted

“Maybe he thought the police would assume his father’s heart had given out.” She looked at me in the mirror. “There’s always a post mortem, though, isn’t there?” She flopped back on to the bed. “Did Hallengren say which barbiturate it was?”

“I think it was called Phenonal. Why do you ask?” “Some metabolise quickly. Maybe Marcellus thought it would be out of the body by the time death occurred.”

“Maybe he just didn’t think,” Mike said. “Murderers don’t always have a plan. They seize an opportunity.”

I was tempted to tell them about Marcellus’s conversation with Aaron in the church, but I was mindful of Hallengren’s warning. The fewer the people who knew, the better. If those men were killers and came to learn I’d overheard their conversation . . . Thank goodness they hadn’t seen me in the tower.

“Marcellus would have had to know what he was doing,” Mike was saying. “If he got the dose wrong, and Wilson woke up while he was rolling him on to the floor, he could kiss goodbye to his inheritance.”

“There’s that history with him and Marcia Vandenberg,” I said. “Wasn’t there talk that he drugged her? If he did, then he got that right.”

“There are lots of ifs and buts,” Liz said doubtfully.

More tomorrow.

Icehotel, available on Amazon Kindle, is Hania Allen’s debut novel. Her second book, The Polish Detective (Constable, £8.99), is the first in her new series featuring DS Dania Gorska and is set in Dundee.