I was at a conference in Uppsala when it happened. We got a daily blow-by-blow account

The Arctic Circle.” Harry 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 handed me the brochure. “Take a look.”

I studied the photograph. I was mildly disappointed: I’d expected a tall, tiered building, white and 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 with 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.

Surreal

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 pretended to fall off the chair, scattering the brochures. He nudged his sunglasses on to the bridge of his nose, and peered at the catalogue. “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.”

“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 website,” 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.

Flying

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 threw me a lopsided 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 20-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 large TV screen. “It’s a news clip about a murder. There’s a picture of a hotel. I can’t understand very much, it’s in Swedish.”

The hotel was a six-storey, stone-faced building. A blue and yellow flag fluttered wildly over the canopied entrance.

Gruesome

“I think I know what this is,” Harry said, nodding at the screen. “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. “How do you know so much about it, Harry?”

“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.”

More tomorrow.