Of course. He’d thought of everything. His intention was to exit by the back. He’d slip out and rejoin the aurora watchers

Islipped out of the rack on the other side and edged towards the exit, ready to make a dash for it. As quietly as I could, I pulled open the door and nearly fell into the corridor. I padded quickly towards the foyer. Halfway there, something made me look back. The door to the Activities Room was swinging. Had I done that? Or had he followed me out? But the corridor was deserted.

I stole past the reception, instinctively turning away from the man on the desk.

“Are you going to watch the northern lights, Miss Stewart?” he said, smiling happily. “The party has just left. You should see them from the door.”

I nodded, fastening the hood securely. I wondered whether I should ask for a torch. But I wouldn’t need one; there should be enough ambient light. I drew on my gloves, pushed open the front door, and stepped out.

The freezing air filled my lungs, settling like fog. It would be minus fifteen tonight. I was getting good at estimating the air temperature. I scanned the sky. It had snowed earlier, but there were no clouds now and, despite the light from the Excelsior, the aurora was faintly visible.

In my hurry to catch up with the group, I collided with the penguins. I lost my footing and slithered down the path, bringing myself to a stop by grabbing the ballerina’s outstretched arm.

Ghostly

I peered at the statues. The snow lay at bizarre angles on their heads and arms, sparkling in the reflected light and ready to fall at the merest touch. I had the strangest sensation that the figures were coming to life, and the whole ghostly company would follow me to the river.

I took the path through the trees, my steps creaking in the new snow. The ground was strewn with tiny crystals, winking in the feeble light, and the temptation to kick them into a glittering arc was almost irresistible.

Ahead of me was the crowd of watchers. In the still night air, their voices carried clearly.

They had just reached the path beside the chapel when a dark figure detached itself from the group. He hung back, waiting until the others had disappeared, then turned and moved stealthily towards the Icehotel.

He was in a crouch but it was impossible not to recognise the bandy legs and jockey’s build. I watched from behind a tree. He dropped under the police cordon and, on reaching the main doors, bent to examine the taped-up handles. So that was it: Denny Hinckley was going to get his photographs if it killed him.

He straightened suddenly, then wheeled round and stared in my direction. I felt a pricking on the backs of my hands.

He must have heard me or perhaps sensed my presence. A shutter closed with a bang in one of the upstairs windows. He turned away, apparently satisfied.

He moved silently past the Icehotel, then, all pretence at stealth gone, walked confidently to the locker room.

Something about his swagger made me suspect he wouldn’t be letting a little thing like taped handles stand in his way. The sensible thing would have been to leave quietly. Instead, I decided to follow him.

I stole through the trees and, with a final furtive glance around, crept into the locker room. A faint square of light from the window lay like an open mouth on the giant molehill of sleeping bags.

I hurried through the washroom, and crossed the passageway to the Icehotel. Strangely, the handles on the side door hadn’t been taped, surely an oversight on Hallengren’s part. So much for Swedish efficiency, I thought, smiling to myself. I pulled at the antlers and stepped inside.

The candles were unlit and the lights were off. I should have realised. Why burn electricity in an outof-bounds building?

Disappeared

I debated whether I should go back for a torch, but if I asked the receptionist his suspicions might be raised. He looked like the type who’d report it to Hallengren. And the last thing I wanted was to be reported to Hallengren.

As I stood, undecided, my eyes slowly adapted. Then I saw him at the far end of the corridor, his shape inked against the wall. He was on tiptoe, peering at the signs.

With a rapid movement, he unzipped his suit and produced a torch. After playing the beam over the wall, he disappeared abruptly through a curtain. It was the way to my corridor, I realised then. And to Wilson’s room.

I followed, keeping a safe distance, catching the last bobbing light from his torch as I rounded the corners. But I’d miscalculated. I turned into my corridor to find that he’d vanished. I squinted at the room numbers, counting off the curtains to Wilson’s room. Perhaps now was the time to blaze in and challenge Denny. Perhaps not.

I was tailing someone at night in a deserted building, which had been placed out of bounds after two people had been murdered. Perhaps it was time to go. Perhaps even time to call Hallengren.

I was sneaking away when light flashed from under the curtain. A second later, there was more. So Denny was prepared to trample over the crime scene to get his photographs. He’d scoop his law-abiding colleagues and make a big journalistic splash. I decided there and then that, even if it meant a night in the Swedish cells, I was going to report him.

More flashes, coming fast now. Denny must be nearing the end. I decided to hide in my room, wait until he left, then creep away.

My hand was on the curtain when something made me stiffen. I looked back down the tunnel-like corridor towards the entrance from the locker room, but there was nothing.

Darkness

Nothing but shadows. I was becoming jittery. I pulled aside the curtain and stepped into my room. Too late

I remembered there was no ceiling window. The curtain fell back and I was plunged into darkness.

I heard a soft singing. I moved the curtain an inch and peered out. Denny was standing smiling, his teeth glinting in the light from the torch.

He stuffed something inside his snowsuit, then zipped it up carefully. But instead of turning left towards the side door, he went right. A strange decision as that way would take him longer.

Of course. He’d thought of everything. His intention was to exit by the back. He’d slip out and rejoin the aurora watchers. And deny he was ever in the Icehotel.

I watched him go. At the end of the corridor, he paused before switching off his torch. I could still make out his form, a thickening of the darkness. Then he disappeared.

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.