I looked away quickly, my mind in a turmoil. And then I saw him. Harry was sitting two rows down

The theatre towered in front of me, a huge frosted cake, sparkling in the sunshine. Ice statues guarded the entrance. On the left was Bottom, his freakish ass’s head tilted mockingly, arms spread in a gesture of welcome. On the right, a frightful creature that I recognised as Caliban was hunched over, closed in on himself.

If the statues and building didn’t give enough of a clue to the theatre’s purpose, set over the doors, profiled in snow, was an unmistakable likeness of Shakespeare. Sconces bearing Olympic-style torches flanked the entrance. According to the leaflet, they would be lit for the performance.

I pulled back the doors and crept inside. Either the rehearsal hadn’t started or I’d arrived during a scene change, because nothing was happening. The actors, wearing padded fur-trimmed gowns in silk and leather, were listening to someone in a red snowsuit. I noticed their thick gloves, fur hats and boots.

The stage was a low semi-circular platform made of blue ice. Workmen were spreading snow on to the surface and patting it down with large plastic shovels. Behind the stage was a snow-pressed wall carved with strange shapes: snowflakes, concentric circles and huge spider’s webs. Strange

A rope of miniature lights climbed like an exotic twining plant up the sides and along the wall. The few props were minimalistic: crude, throne-like ice chairs covered with reindeer skins and columns at either end of the stage.

I trudged up to the top of the auditorium and took a seat below one of the glassless windows. As the building had no roof, the torches fixed to the wall would illuminate the night sky.

The theatre was full. Strange for a rehearsal but, as the temperature dropped to minus 20 at night, I supposed people were giving the evening performance a miss. Even now, in the early afternoon, it was cold enough that everyone wore thick suits and ski masks.

“You haven’t missed anything,” the woman next to me said. She was not from our group, but one of the Icehotel’s many day trippers.

The man in the red snowsuit climbed on to the stage and announced in fluent English that the play was about to begin.

“Who’s that?” I murmured to the woman. “The director. Someone famous who comes every year.” She pointed to the leaflet. “It’s all in there.” The actors moved to the wings and waited in full view of the audience. The director signalled to a technician, the music started and he slipped back to his seat.

The strident music grew louder, filling the auditorium, then stopped suddenly.

Three witches ran on to the stage. They danced in a circle, swaying rhythmically, howling and gesticulating. After spinning round, they huddled over an imaginary cauldron, and the play began. As they spoke, they tried to convey the meaning of their words through the movement of their bodies.

“It works, doesn’t it?” the woman said. “You don’t need to know Sami.”

“Just as well. It sounds like a cross between singing and gargling.”

I watched, fascinated, as the drama unfolded. As far as I could tell, the players were word-perfect. The director intervened only twice to reposition the actors. Mistake

Lady Macbeth floated on to the platform, her head hidden under a fur-trimmed cowl. Her velvet gown was red, light at the neck but deepening in colour from the waist to the end of the long train, as if the blood she’d waded in had soaked through the hem and was seeping upwards.

I stared at the gown. Oh God, the blood in the chapel...

I looked away quickly, my mind in a turmoil. And then I saw him. Harry was sitting two rows further down.

I leapt to my feet and was about to call out when I saw my mistake. It wasn’t Harry, but a large woman in a blue snowsuit, her hair the same colour as his. I sank into my seat and leant against the wall, breathing rapidly. My sanity was leaving me.

The day tripper put her face close to mine and asked if felt unwell. I shook my head, not wanting to talk. With a monumental effort of will, I kept my gaze fixed on the platform.

Lady Macbeth stopped abruptly and, with a dramatic gesture, threw back her hood. The audience gasped. Eyes, heavily defined with kohl, stared out from her white face. Her blue-black hair was twisted into fat braids, coiling round her head like snakes. She parted her blood-red lips and spoke her opening lines. The audience fell silent. Her voice was deep and resonant, a male actor playing a woman.

I sat, dazed, still thinking about Harry. With an effort, I dragged my attention back to the performance. As it ended, with Macduff brandishing Macbeth’s severed head, the music reached a jarring climax which rang off the walls, deafening the people near the loudspeakers.

It faded slowly and the actors spilt on to the stage. They bowed, smiling, acknowledging the applause.

The woman next to me had slipped away unnoticed. People drifted out. The Harry-lookalike heaved her bulk out of the auditorium. The technician packed his equipment into plastic boxes, and hauled them outside. The director in the front row, was conversing with a couple of spectators in the row behind.

I felt no desire to move. I wrapped the reindeer skins round my shoulders, and leant back. Drained of energy, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

A sudden noise woke me: an ice-harvesting machine was shutting down. I glanced around, conscious of a growing feeling of apprehension. The theatre was empty, except for the director and the spectators, all in the front row now, talking earnestly. I dragged myself to my feet and made to leave. Conversation

A movement caught my eye. Someone else was in the auditorium. A hooded, black-suited figure at the end of the front row was staring up at me from behind his ski mask. From the build and the way he held himself, I recognised Jonas Madsen.

What on earth was he doing just sitting there? I looked around for another exit, but there was only the one door and I’d have to pass him to get out. I pretended to be asleep, watching from under halfclosed eyes, hoping he’d lose interest.

He continued to gaze at me, glancing now and again at the director and spectators, but they were engrossed in their conversation and showed no signs of leaving.

After several minutes, he rose heavily and lumbered out. I waited until I thought he’d be back at the Excelsior, then I threw off the skins and ran down to the front.

It was snowing. The wind had lessened, and the fat flakes drifted lazily, carpeting the ground in soft white. I drew up my hood and fastened the straps. A feeling of unease stole over me. Why had Jonas been watching me? More on Monday. 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.