I leaned back on the heat-pulsing pine wall of the sauna, feeling blissfully hot; but also just on the wrong side of drunk, dizzy and light headed.

I'd thought Ruben was kidding, at first, saying we take a sauna. Why the hell would he suggest that, after what we'd just heard?

After what had just happened?

"A sauna? Is that a joke?"

"Au contraire, Scotch." Ruben replied, in a terrible French accent. "That story had more fuckin' plot holes than Lost. Don't you wanna go take a look-see ourselves, see what we can turn up?"

"I suppose," I said, doubtfully. "But I don't actually want to, y'know, take a sauna."

Ruben shrugged. "I don't know how else we could get away with poking round in there. Plus it's contained and private. Good place to talk, away from the Social Media fuckin' demigorgon and her insane demands."

He pursed his lips. "And it's warm. I promise not to let you run out naked into the night, if you'll do the same for me."

I nodded slowly. He kind of had a point about the sauna being the best place for talking.

The ice bedrooms were way too cold to spend much time in, unless you were wrapped up completely in the specially provided sleeping bags and reindeer skins. And a full body—including face—cocooning didn't make for particularly good conversation. Plus they only had curtains for doors, which didn't offer much privacy.

Other than that, there was the crowded ice bar and restaurant, the lobby, or the snow-packed (and heated) portacabin where we all had lockers to keep our stuff.

All these were full of influencers, talking loudly and whooshing round busily.

So crazy as it sounded, the Sauna was a good option. Ruben had a point.

"What if someone's in there?" I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "I have my ways."

We trudged over to the locker room, Ruben managing to walk without tripping despite having his face buried in his iPhone the whole time.

That was another good thing about the sauna. You couldn't take electronics in there. Which meant I wouldn't feel like the third wheel, despite there being only two of us.

"Fuckin' hell," he groaned, eyes still on his screen. "It's the Insta-bitch. She's on my back wanting to know why I haven't posted any shots from the Pole yet. Can I do this first, before she comes looking for us?"

"Sure," I said.

We stepped into the pine-clad warmth of the locker room. It was crowded with steaming influencers warming up, changing coats or charging their phones and iPads.

I settled at the bench that ran down the centre and watched as Ruben fished in his pockets for his locker key.

My own phone was dead, and I was glad. I wasn't looking forward to explaining to Suzie that I had missed the ottercopter to the penguin expedition, and produced zilch aspirational photos as a result.

But I found a dead body, Suzie. We were drinking hot chocolate with him just yesterday.

It still didn't seem real.

I shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench, lockers clattering open and closed around me as beautiful, tanned influencers went about their aspirational adventure business. I couldn't believe some of Sam's last moments had been here, such a short time ago.

I couldn't believe how well I was handling it.

I'd assumed it would take only seconds for Ruben to put a Pole photo on Instagram. I mean, I have an Insta account, so I know how it works—for me, anyway. I take a snap on my phone, open it in the app, whack on Amaro or Slumber (Gingham if I'm feeling fruity), write a caption and post.

Seconds.

Not Ruben.

First, he pulled a sticker-covered MacBook Pro from his locker. Then, sitting down on the bench beside me, he took his camera from the bag always slung across his body, and retrieved the SD card, slipping it into the side of the Mac.

He then copied across what seemed like hundreds of photos and went through them, moving odd ones to a folder on his desktop.

He opened the ones he'd moved in Photoshop and started tinkering with them, increasing light levels, sharpening the images.

It took ages.

I got up and plugged my own phone into the charger in my locker, just for something to do. I gathered my towel and swimming costume, and went to the girls' changing rooms to dress.

There were a few pairs of snow boots lined up in there, so it looked like there were people in the sauna. I bit my lip and resolved to tell Ruben. Then I awkwardly shaved my goose-pimply calves and bikini-line with a foot up on the sink.

I'd usually be freaking out about being near-naked with a guy, but I was surprisingly calm. Ever since the Sam incident, it was like my anxiety had been switched off. I felt invincible.

When I came out, Ruben was still photo editing. I sat beside him, wrapped in a towel, and waited.

"Okay!" He said at last, snapping the MacBook closed. "Now I just gotta upload it."

He retrieved his phone and went through another long process doing God knows what.

Then finally it was over, and he went to change.

I wondered if it took that long for all influencers to set up a simple Instagram post.

Glancing around the room, I saw loads of people were hunched over laptops.

So yeah, it probably did.

No wonder their photos were so much better than mine.

Ruben reappeared in blue board shorts, his towel wrapped around him like a cloak.

"I think there are people in there," I warned, as we crossed the locker room in the direction of the spa.

"Not for long," he smirked.

Ruben's method of clearing the sauna was ingenious, I have to give him that.

Within seconds of us getting in there and sitting down, he started hacking out the most disgusting, phlegmy cough, interspersed with groaning.

"Man, I feel like shit," he said loudly, coughing again, hocking it right up from his throat.

He didn't cover his mouth.

The three other people in the sauna looked over distastefully. One was a glamazonian woman, with heavy eyeliner under a dark fringe, in a flesh coloured bikini. The hollow-faced man with her was risking his DSLR in the moist heat to take pictures of her lounging seductively on the wood. They had to stop after every click to furiously repair her melting makeup, her barking at him angrily.

A few more judicious hacking coughs from Ruben, and our companions scowlingly departed, heading for the hot tub or Turkish steam rooms next door.

"Great," Ruben said and sniffed—real this time. He immediately stood up and started running his hands over the walls of the sauna, bending down to peer under the benches and inspecting the stove.

"Anything?" I asked, feebly doing the same.

"Nope." He sat down with a sigh. "Clean as a bean."

I sat down too, on the bench above him, so my (newly shaved, thank God) calves were by his torso. He pursed his lips and frowned at the door. His towel was crumpled in the corner now. I still had mine on.

"So what do you think?" I said. "Any theories?"

"Well the Russians are clearly involved," he said, "but why the fuck would they sabotage their own company?"

"True," I replied.

"It makes no fuckin' sense, man."

He was right, it didn't. The Russians were clearly involved in InTrepid like we'd thought, but it was hard to see how that related to the murders. It made sense that they'd be using the company to strengthen their hold in Antarctica, and potentially access oil, but where did these killings—if that's what they were—fit in?

And how did we even know they were killings at all?

"I can't work out how it's happening," I said, closing my eyes as Ruben spooned water onto the coals. "There's definitely something fishy. Sam has been down here for years, he told us. He knows what he's doing. Why would he just run into the snow like that?"

"Yeah, I call bullshit, man," Ruben replied. "Which is just what Sam said about the others."

I shrugged, totally lost. "But no footprints, no sign of a chase... it makes  no sense."

"Nope," Ruben agreed. "Say, what do you think about this Tom dude's accident? The old partner? You think that's connected too?"

It had to be, right?

Just too much of a coincidence otherwise.

But what it all meant? I was clueless.

"Do you think we're in danger?" I asked. "Like, all of us?"

Ruben shrugged. "Nah, man. It seems to be some internal thing, with the staff. Maybe that's what we're missing—some internal dealings, mob type stuff. Russian mafia. Gangsters."

I thought of Paulo and his gold earring.

Suddenly, I had a terrifying flash of inspiration.

Paulo.

My hand shot out and grabbed Ruben's shoulder, squeezing his tendons hard.

"What if it's not the Russians?" I asked. "What if it's someone else? Someone with a conflicting claim to the area, and the Russians are stepping on their toes?"

Like the Argentinians, is what I didn't say.

Ruben swivelled in his seat so he was looking up at me, beads of perspiration glistening on his face.

"So, like, we're not the only people to have worked out what the Russians are up to, and the CIA or whatever is doing this, to try and shaft their plans?"

I nodded.

"Like a fuckin' Carrie Mathison scenario?"

I shrugged. I wasn't sure what Sex and the City had to do with this.

Ruben twisted further round to face me, clearly excited. He was now on his knees on the bench, between my own.

"That's fuckin' brilliant, Scotch," he said. "Brilliant."

I tried to reply, but my breath caught in my throat.

All I was aware of was that his wet, near-nude body had suddenly got very close to mine. The dark, glistening hair on his chest was only inches away; his bare arms just centimetres from my thighs.

Plus there was only a sheet of thin blue nylon between me and his actual penis.

Before I knew it, my mind ran away from me, totally without my permission. I started imagining the slide of hot wet flesh against hot wet flesh, wondered if his sweating body would carry more or less heat than the humid air.

I looked up, into his eyes, and it was clear his mind had done the same.

He reached up, placing a moist palm on my sweating neck, and kissed me.