Harry drew me to one side. “Maggie, I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep with that thing grinning at me

As Marita passed room 15, Harry stopped and said, “Oh, wait, please. Can we go in here? It’s my room.” She hesitated. It was clear she wanted to avoid this room. But Harry pushed back the curtain, and we trooped in. “Aha,” he said triumphantly, “I’ve got a ceiling window.”

The room was plainer, if brighter, than the Chess Room. The double bed lay in the centre, but there was nothing else; I wasn’t surprised Marita didn’t want to waste time here.

“Holy Mother o’ God.” It was Mike.

I wheeled round. Behind us, set into a deep alcove, was a huge ice statue of the god, Pan.

His conical horns grew through shaggy hair, which curled thickly over his head and fell in ringlets below the lightly pointed ears.

Hair sprouting from the cheeks tangled into a beard, ending in two strands like a goat’s.

His eyebrows arched like pointed moustaches and, below the flared nostrils, his lips were drawn back into a demonic grin that I found disturbing.

He was holding a set of pipes to his mouth, the fingers so long they touched above the reeds. Matted hair covered his neck and chest.

I looked down his body, expecting a goat’s legs and hooves, and then saw what had shocked Mike. The sculptor had given Pan an erection.

Tension

“Good heavens!” Harry said, breaking the silence. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and openly scrutinised the figure in front of him.

“Now we know why he was called The Great God Pan.”

The tension was broken, and peals of laughter echoed through the room. We crowded round the statue, examining it, marvelling at the detail. I touched the cold figure.

As I turned away, I saw Mike watching me, his gaze steady.

Harry drew me to one side. “Maggie, I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep with that thing grinning at me. There’s a lamp behind it. Do you think I”ll be able to switch it off?”

I peered into the alcove. Light was filtering through the statue from a lamp high in the wall, but I could see no way of turning it off. “Marita, is that light on all night?” I said.

She seemed grateful for the change of subject. “In the early hours of the morning, all the Icehotel lamps are switched off from the master switch in the Excelsior.”

“There you are,” I said to Harry. “It’ll be too dark to see him. That means he won’t see you, either.”

We visited one more room. In the Scottish Room, we found Macbeth seated on a crude ice throne. Stretched across his lap was the dead king, Duncan, staring sightlessly at his murderer.

Macbeth’s left arm was under the corpse, cradling it as a mother would a child.

His right hand was removing the crown from Duncan’s head.

Scratched into the snow-covered wall, three witches danced in a frenzy round a bubbling cauldron, their arms flung back, beards billowing about their faces.

Behind them, Birnam Wood marched to Dunsinane.

“This brings our tour of the Icehotel to an end,” Marita said, in her sing-song voice. “I should mention two further buildings that may interest you.

“Adjacent to the Icehotel is the Ice Chapel, where we hold services, including christenings and weddings.

“And behind the Icehotel, on the river bank, there is an Ice Theatre, a replica of London’s Globe Theatre.

Familiar

“I should remind you that every Sunday there is a performance in the Sami language of one of Shakespeare’s plays.

“This Sunday, it will be Macbeth.”

“Are we going to get anything out of it?” said Mike, scratching his face. “I hear Sami’s a weird language, and no mistake.”

“That should not deter you from seeing the play. Few Swedes understand Sami, but we still go.” She looked directly at him.

“Anyway, you will be familiar with Macbeth. I can tell from your accent that you are Scottish.” She beamed, delighted with herself.

I glanced at Mike. The look on his face was priceless.

“And now, I must leave you,” she said. “I hope you have enjoyed the tour. It has been a great pleasure for me also.”

She inclined her head, acknowledging our applause. We watched her sashay down the corridor, her hips swaying as she walked.

I was still grappling with the implications of what Marcellus had said when Mike arrived.

Flushed after his workout, and breathing heavily, he looked ready for a drink.

“I wouldn’t sit in that chair,” I said lightly. “It’s liable to break.”

He stared at the array of glasses. “You been here long?”

“I’m a fast drinker.”

He set down his beer. “So Maggie, before she comes in, tell me about Liz. I’d like to get to know her better, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself right and left.”

“She’s not married.” I kept my gaze steady. “I’m guessing that’s what you want to know.”

He laughed. “Just like a woman. Straight for the jugular.”

“You should look her up when we’re back in Edinburgh. You can meet her children,” I added mischievously.

Wonderful

His didn’t rise to the bait. “What sort of a person is she?”

“Easy to talk to. Personality-wise, she’s just like me – warm and wonderful and she laughs a lot.”

“A merry widow?” A smile crept on to his lips. “Even better.”

“Actually, she’s divorced.”

“And is she with someone at the moment?”

It was my turn to laugh. “Now who’s going for the jugular?”

“It’s a straightforward question, so it is.” “Well, here’s a straightforward answer. It’s none of your business.”

He shook his head in mock exasperation. “And here I am thinking I might enlist your help.”

“I would think again, pal,” I said good-naturedly. “Oh, did I mention she’s into karate and judo? You wouldn’t think it to look at her, but she’s incredibly strong.

“She can floor a man twice her size,” I added, making a point of looking at Mike’s body.

He said nothing, but his smile widened.

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.