Something was niggling. Something about the snowmobile trip

Ithought for a minute. But there was only one thing Leo Tullis could do. “Go to the police,” I said firmly. “Sven’s already done it,” replied Leo. “He reported it yesterday.” “Did he speak to Inspector Hallengren?” “He didn’t say who.” The furrows in Leo’s forehead deepened. “Why would someone do that, Maggie? If it was a prank, then I might understand it.”

His voice broke. “But I don’t think it was meant as a prank.”

I felt my heart pumping. “Why do you think someone did it?”

He said nothing. He didn’t need to. I knew with a terrible certainty what was going through his mind. “There were people on the path,” I said. “Below that overhang.”

He nodded dumbly, tears at the corners of his eyes. He glanced towards the Ellises.

“Jim and Robyn went down there to look at the view. And Jane.”

And not just Jane. Liz and Harry had been on the path.

“Oh my God, Leo, whoever loosened those brakes intended to kill someone.”

“That’s the conclusion Sven came to. It’s the conclusion I’ve come to.”

Distressing

I could almost smell his fear. “Sven did the right thing in going to the police.” I squeezed his hand. “They’ll know how to handle this.”

“What about the excursions? Should I cancel them?” The appeal in his eyes was distressing. “Go and speak to the Inspector. He’ll advise you.” Leo’s face cleared. “That’s a good idea,” he said, half to himself. He pushed his plate aside, the eggs uneaten.

“Thanks, Maggie,” he added, with feeling. After he’d gone, I sat for a long time, watching my coffee grow cold.

Something was niggling. Something about the snowmobile trip.

I tried to remember who else had been below that overhang. In a flash, it came to me – Marcellus Bibby. And Wilson. Wilson, who was now dead. My conversation with Leo had shaken me. I needed space to think. I grabbed a snowsuit from the activities room and tugged it over my clothes.

The sun had risen into an ice-blue sky. I stepped on to the path and was instantly dazzled by the light bouncing off the snow. It wasn’t until my eyes had adapted that I found I was standing next to a figure in a black snowsuit.

He was leaning against the lion-tamer as though waiting for a bus. A pall of cigarette smoke hung in the still air.

“Is it always as cold as this?” he said, gazing into the distance. His voice was deep, with a pronounced American accent.

“You think this is cold?” I said, remembering Leo’s words. “The temperature starts dropping about now.” He stared at me, the cigarette partway to his lips. It was an interesting face, with mild eyes and bushy brows that almost met in the middle. The plaster of black hair was combed in a way that emphasised the slightly domed head.

It was impossible to tell if he was tanned, because the black snowsuit leached the colour from his skin.

“The temperature’s about to drop? That’s swell. How’s a Manhattan boy expected to survive in a goddamn freezer?”

I studied his snowsuit, which was unfastened at the wrists and ankles. “You could put your hood up for starters,” I said lightly.

“And I’d get rid of that cigarette and find some gloves. Sneakers aren’t such a good idea, either. You need fur-lined boots.”

Expert

He continued to smoke, his gaze sliding down my snowsuit. As he brought his hand to his lips, the light reflected off his signet ring. “You sound like an expert. Been here all week?”

“By ‘here’ I take it you mean the Icehotel.” “You slept in there?” he said slowly, eyes focused on the tip of his cigarette.

“Yes.”

“What was it like?”

“Cold.”

He half closed his eyes. “How cold?”

“Cold cold. Minus five cold.”

A look of alarm crossed his face. “Fahrenheit?” “Celsius.”

His cigarette was burning down. “A man could freeze to death at minus five,” he said, looking at his feet.

“If he’s not properly dressed.”

“Or if he’s out of his sleeping bag.”

After a brief silence, I said, “What newspaper are you with?”

The thin smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not a reporter.” He drew on his cigarette, letting the smoke drift from his mouth. “I’m a lawyer.” When I said nothing, he added, “Aaron Vandenberg.” He turned and gazed at the Icehotel.

A lawyer. Of course. Bibby’s lawyers would have arrived on the next plane.

“I thought you were one of the press, Mr Vandenberg. You didn’t strike me as someone who’s come here on holiday.”

He swivelled his head. “A holiday? Here? Are you nuts? I’m out of this place the minute I’ve wound things up.”

“Things to do with Wilson Bibby?”

“You guessed right. I’m Wilson”s lawyer.” He corrected himself. “I was Wilson’s lawyer.” A strange look came into his eyes. “I was also his friend.” There was little I could say. “I’m sorry.”

He stubbed the cigarette out against the liontamer’s chest. “Did you ever meet him?”

“We spoke a few times. And we had a game of chess.”

“I bet he won. He always does.”

Bad form

I was surprised; it hadn’t taken me long to uncover Wilson’s strategy. “Always?”

“Every time. You could make book on it.”

I was inclined to throw back a caustic remark, but it would be bad form to criticise a dead man’s chess playing skills.

And Wilson had been his friend.

“How is Marcellus coping?” I said. “We’ve hardly seen him since Wilson’s accident. I have to confess I’m a bit worried about him.”

“He’s in that hick town, at the coroner’s office.” It wasn’t an answer, but I let it go. A lawyer wasn’t going to discuss his client’s feelings with a stranger.

“I take it you were with Wilson in Stockholm,” I said.

The man seemed preoccupied. “Stockholm? Yes, Stockholm,” he said slowly, turning his restless eyes on me.

“I flew up this morning.”

“Well, I’m off for a walk. If you’re staying here” – I motioned to the Excelsior – “then perhaps I’ll see you later.”

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.