There was a sudden cry behind me. Jane was gripping the edge of the table, rocking gently

Leo Tullis’ expression changed to one of extreme discomfort. “I have another message. The police are here, and they’re going to question everyone.” “Everyone?” said Robyn Ellis, outrage in her voice. “It’s routine when there’s an unexpected death. There will be two teams of police conducting the interrogations simultaneously. They should get through them today, but we’ve been asked to keep tomorrow morning free, just in case.”

“Young man,” Harry said stiffly, “I don’t like the word ‘interrogation’.”

“I’m just quoting Inspector Hallengren, the officer leading the investigation.” Leo ran a hand through his mop of hair. “Look, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.” He failed to sound reassuring.

“So what are we allowed to do?” said Jane. “May we leave the building?”

“That’s the other message. Everyone is to stay in the Excelsior. And the police are taking your passports.”

This produced an uproar. “It’s just routine,” he said miserably. “They’ll be returned.”

“When are we going to be questioned?” said Jim. “The interviews are starting immediately. One of the hotel staff will call your name. The problem is I haven’t been given a schedule, so you could be called any time today. Or tomorrow.”

Protest

“That’s utterly ridiculous,” said Robyn. “Surely we can’t be expected just to hang around.”

“That’s precisely what you are expected to do. And it would be best to stay in the lounge. The management are going to make refreshments available all day.”

Her face was taking on the colour of a tomato. “I will have to protest.”

Leo had had enough. “Then protest to Inspector Hallengren,” he said harshly. “These are his rules. The sooner the police can get through their questioning, the sooner things will return to normal. I’m sure you can understand that.”

Mike breezed in, brushing past Leo, who looked glad to leave. His hair was wet and he had that healthy glow that accompanies strenuous exercise. He flopped down and reached for the coffee pot.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve got the mother of all hangovers,” he said, pouring.

I kept my voice light. “Where have you been, Mike?” “Working out and trying to clear my head. I took a sauna, then went up to the restaurant, but it’s closed. They sent me here without saying why.” He looked up. “Has something happened?”

Liz was the one to break the silence. “Wilson Bibby’s body was found this morning. It seems he died from hypothermia. The police are here to question us.”

Mike’s cup was halfway to his mouth. He set it down slowly, looking straight ahead.

There was a sudden cry behind me. Jane Galloway was gripping the edge of the table, rocking gently. The barman, a middle-aged man with a pronounced paunch, was standing over her, holding a tray. He was whispering conspiratorially.

Harry leant across. “What’s that you’re saying?” The barman turned the tray in his hands. “It was last year, at the Maximilian, and in other hotels in Stockholm also. Many guests were murdered, one by one.” He spoke the words slowly, and with relish.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Mike said under his breath. “So what’s this, now?”

“It’s old news,” I said. “These murders took place last year. We heard something at the airport. What did they call them, Harry?”

“The Stockholm hotel murders.”

“You must know about them, Mike,” I said, looking directly at him. He ran his tongue over his lips. “I don’t.”

Shaking

I stared at him in amazement. How could Mike not have heard of these murders? From what he’d told us, he practically lived in Stockholm. And he’d been in Stockholm when we saw the news flash. He glanced at me, then turned quickly away.

“What happened?” I asked the barman, anxious to hear him say the police had the killer behind bars.

“They never found him,” he said dramatically. “We think he has come to the Icehotel.”

The conversations in the lounge stopped. “Why do you think he’s come here? We’re miles from –”

Liz interrupted me. “How were the guests murdered?”

I caught sight of Jane’s complexion. “Liz, I don’t think we want to hear that right at this moment.”

Jane was shaking visibly. “Why don’t you come and sit with us?” I said, taking her hand.

But, as she picked up her bag, one of the hotel staff came in and called her name. She left with him.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “What do you make of that? The hotel killer, no less.” He tried to force a smile but I could see he was shaken.

“Wilson Bibby wasn’t murdered,” I said firmly. “You heard Leo tell us it was an accident.”

“Then what was he doing on the floor, my dear? Why was he out of his sleeping bag?”

“He had a weak heart. I saw him take medication for it. He must have got up in the middle of the night, and it gave out.”

Mike looked doubtful. “From the shock of the cold, was it? I suppose it’s possible.” I thought back to the scene in Wilson’s room. Something wasn’t right. Something that was staring me in the face, but I couldn’t see it.

“There’s probably a perfectly rational explanation.” Harry frowned, nodding at the barman, who was speaking in hushed tones to the Ellises. “But this talk about the hotel killer is unnerving me.”

Harry was anxious, Liz looked like a phantom, and I was feeling queasy. The only person unaffected by Wilson’s death was Mike. He ordered coffee and sandwiches and tucked into them greedily.

First the snowmobiles. And now Wilson. What the hell was happening? I stared out of the window. The wind had died, and the snow was falling steadily, dusting the ground like sieved icing sugar.

Listless

Mike was the next to be interviewed. He returned 15 minutes later, in good spirits. We threw questions at him, but he shrugged them off. “I told them the truth. I said I slept all night, and saw and heard nothing.”

Liz had been listless all morning, eating nothing. She lit cigarette after cigarette with such familiarity that it was impossible to believe she hadn’t smoked for years. She was called at midday. On her return, she continued to be subdued.

“How did it go?” I said.

“It was terrible. The Inspector’s awfully intimidating. I nearly burst into tears.”

“He’s a policeman, Liz.” I tried a smile. “Those people intimidate for a living.”

“He looked at me as though he knew I was wearing Marks & Spencer underwear.” After a brief silence, she said, “I do wish I’d paid more attention to that news flash. You don’t think there’s anything in this hotel killer story, do you?”

“I doubt it. I think Harry’s right and there’s a simple explanation for Wilson’s death. I expect Leo will tell us tomorrow.” I put a gentle hand on her arm. “Chin up. It’ll be all right.”

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.