ICEHOTEL (45 page)

A female officer accompanied me to Liz’s house so I could
retrieve my handbag. It was lying in the hall where I’d dropped it, an
oversight on Liz’s part, but the only one. She’d had the presence of mind to
pull my arms through my duffel coat before dragging me to the door and bundling
me into the Peugeot’s boot. She’d cleaned up the vomit, and disposed of the
newspaper cutting and her syringes and drugs. I learnt that she’d left the
twins with Siobhan, even chatted happily for a few minutes, before returning to
the house.

The detectives finished with their questions and, with no
direct evidence to challenge my account, prepared a statement for me to sign.
What may have clinched it was the level of alcohol they found in Liz’s
bloodstream. My own blood, tested an hour after the arrival of the detectives,
was clear of alcohol and anything else that might have raised suspicion. There
was just a trace of Phenonal, a commonly used barbiturate. Nothing odd about
that, I told them, I’d been having trouble sleeping. At the hearing, I stuck to
my story. The verdict came in shortly afterwards: death by misadventure. The
case was closed.

If someone had asked me why I’d kept quiet about Liz and the
murders at the Icehotel, I would have said that it no longer mattered. I’d had
the truth. And Harry had had his justice. Also, a part of me didn’t want Annie
and Lucy growing up knowing their mother was a murderer. It was bad enough
that, in time, they’d learn about their father. As for what became of them, I
heard that a young married cousin of Liz’s offered to take them. Liz’s parents,
destroyed by their daughter’s death, were unable to look after their
grandchildren. Thanks to Harry’s generosity – the bulk of his not
inconsiderable estate was left to Liz’s children in trust – the twins would be
well provided for. They were taken to somewhere in Dorset and the house in
Granville Street put up for sale. I didn’t see them again.

There was one piece of unfinished business. Yet I knew that
it would expose Liz, her lies and plans, and ultimately ruin the lives of her
children. I thought long and hard before making the decision. Someday, I might
visit Kiruna and tell Hallengren everything. Until then, Denny Hinckley would
have no memorial. He would remain a statistic, one more person on the missing
list, his body slowly disintegrating in some northern sea.

I continued my visits to Dr Langley. We rarely spoke of Liz
and the accident. She knew I was keeping something from her – there was little
that could get past those watchful eyes – and she couldn’t fail to have noticed
that my mental health improved rapidly after Liz’s death. But she said nothing,
keeping her counsel. Our sessions became easier, and shorter, until one day she
pronounced me well enough to go it alone.

‘So, I’m cured?’ I said in surprise.

‘You’ll never be completely
cured, Maggie. Few people are who’ve had your experiences.’ She smiled her
Julia Roberts smile. ‘But you’re the next best thing.’

I’ve been back at work for nearly a
year, slowly picking up the threads and weaving them into a new life. It’s not
as neat and finely woven as before, but it’s a garment that functions well
enough. There is the odd flaw in the fabric – the dream visits me from time to
time – but the material becomes less likely to unravel the more I wear it.

The dream, when it does come, is strangely different. I walk
through the seemingly endless rooms of the dark house, no longer fearful of
reaching the bathroom. When I find it, and peer into the bath, the water is
clear and sweet-smelling. I tug at the chain and the plug pulls easily. The
water drains away
, leaving behind tendrils of blonde
hair.

Making new friends hasn’t been easy, but Harry’s colleagues
still invite me to their parties. Keeping old friends has been more difficult.
I found it hard to forget I once suspected Mike of killing Harry. I came to
dread those chance encounters, the making of small talk. We never took our
friendship to the next level and, more to his regret than mine, grew apart.
Although he accepted the official version of events surrounding Liz’s death, he
knew I was concealing something. But I’ve no intention of telling him the truth
about Liz. That’s my secret, the secret bequeathed to me by the Icehotel before
it melted back into the river.

A month after Liz’s funeral, I ran into him outside Jenners.

‘Well I’m glad I’ve seen you, Maggie,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve
been meaning to ring.’

I smiled. We both knew it was a lie.

‘How have you been, Mike?’

‘Never better.’ He looked discreetly at his watch. ‘I’d love
to stay and talk, but I need to crack on. There’s packing to be done.’

‘A holiday?’

‘I’m moving to Stockholm for good. Looks like Mane Drew’s
Swedish branch can’t get it together without me.’

I laughed. ‘You know you’ll be leaving behind several broken
hearts in Accounts Payable.
’

He smiled his impish smile, the one that made him look like
a boy.

Stockholm. Realisation moved slowly up through my brain.

I gripped his sleeve, searching his eyes as if I could read
the truth there. ‘It’s you, Mike, isn’t it?’ I brought my face closer to his.
‘You can tell me,’ I breathed. ‘I won’t do anything about it, I swear.’

‘And tell you what, now?’

‘The hotel killings. It’s you, isn’t it?’

‘Is that what you really believe, Maggie?’ he said sadly. He
held my eyes for what seemed like an eternity. But his facial muscles betrayed
him.

H
e walked away, leaving a silence,
my last link to the past. I watched him go without regret.

As for Liz, in an inexplicable way I miss her, although what
I miss is not the Liz lying in her winding sheet, but the old Liz that I knew
in another life.

And Harry? I miss him most of all, his sense of humour, his
integrity, and that funny way he had of peering over his glasses. (I still have
an old pair, held together with sticking plaster, which he absent-mindedly left
in my flat.)

I visited St Monans yesterday and tidied his grave, hunching
my back against the scouring sea wind. The cemetery is untidy at this time of
year, and the grass, which isn’t cut till spring, had grown so thick and coarse
over Harry’s grave that it was no longer possible to tell where the coffin had
been lowered into the ground. I replaced the dead flowers and rose to go,
turning quickly from the simple black headstone watching in silent accusation.
Someone had once asked me whether I had a responsibility towards the dead. If I
had, that responsibility was over. I could rest in peace.

I removed a carnation from the
vase and threaded it into my lapel. Without a backward glance, I left the
cemetery, my feet crunching against the dark gravel.

The first snow of winter fell
this morning, a light covering, veiling t
he garden in white
.

I sat in the living room, watching a solitary robin tug at a
holly berry, red as carnations. As it came away, the branch shook, jolting the
robin from his perch and sending a shower of snow into the air. The robin flew
around the garden, then settled back on the branch, fluffing out his feathers
in righteous indignation.

I watched for a while longer, then turned away.

Hallengren had been right. I’d been through bad times. But
I’d survived them. What I needed now was a change of scene. My gaze fell upon
the travel brochures scattered across the floor. I would take a holiday.

Somewhere warm.

The Icehotel and Kiruna are real
places in Swedish Lapland. Visitors to the Icehotel will recognise many
elements in the novel: ice statues, reindeer skins on the beds, antler handles,
the Ice Chapel and Ice Theatre, and the Icehotel’s Bar. Possibly even Purple
Kiss. This novel, however, is a work of fiction. Therefore much has been
invented, including the Excelsior, the Maximilian in Stockholm, and the
Italian-designed stone church. It should also be remembered that the Icehotel
and its surrounding ice buildings are rebuilt every year, and not always to the
same design.

Finally, please note that in this
fictional work any similarity to persons, living or dead, is purely
co-incidental.