The receptionist led us through the little yard and knocked on the ice-covered portacabin door. She opened it anyway when there was no reply.

I tumbled in over Ruben's heels, slightly woozy after a bottle of red wine with our roast duck dinner, and a strong tiramisu for desert.

I was surprised—and proud—how together I was after finding Sam's body.

I wasn't thinking about it at all. It was like it never happened.

The receptionist, Ruben and I pulled up inside the office and looked around.

The door to the living quarters beyond was open, and I could hear the manager guy—Luca—speaking from somewhere within.

It was a broken conversation, like he was on the phone.

"No... yes... Of course... Sure... Look, I can appreciate that, but you gotta get someone out here immediately, okay? This is serious... Immediately... I said, you gotta get someone out here immediately!" His voice was rising. "No...but..." there was pause, then a clattering, like he'd dropped—or thrown—his phone, and in a less controlled tone he spat, "Those fucking Russians!"

"Luca," the Receptionist called, sounding nervous. "Someone is here to see you."

Luca came through the door, his face like thunder.

"Hi man," Ruben said amicably, as if we hadn't just heard that heated exchange. "We just came to see how everything was going."

Luca frowned for a moment, like he wanted to send us away, then seemed to think better of it and sat at his desk, motioning us to be seated as well.

"You can go now, Joanna," he said to the receptionist.

He lifted a hand to rub his eyes. He both looked and sounded exhausted.

"You look like you need a drink," Ruben said, lifting a bottle of port from the voluminous pockets of his parka. "I know the feeling after today, man. Have a peck?"

Luca hesitated for a moment then turned around, fishing some mugs from a cupboard behind him.

"Thanks," he said. "I think I will."

"It's your liquor man, don't thank me," Ruben said.

This was all part of the plan. We'd cooked it up over dinner, then taken the port on our free bill.

We chose port—my idea—because it was both strong and easy to drink, which meant Luca was likely to get through more of it, and the alcohol would loosen his lips.

Ruben had been delighted with me over that, grinning at me devilishly. He was attractive in his own way, I'd decided. I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it before.

Back in the office, Ruben poured the thick vermilion liquid into our mugs, and pushed one towards each of us, taking a big swig of his own.

Luca and I followed. The liquid was as thick and sweet as jam, very drinkable.

"Any idea what happened, then?" Ruben asked Luca conversationally, toying with his mug.

You could tell he was a journalist. He sounded so natural, the conversation low-stakes.

Luca closed his eyes for a moment, and shook his head.

"Hypothermia," he said. "Almost undoubtedly. There was no sign of anyone else coming near him at any time. His—and yours—were the only footprints around."

"Oh yeah?" Ruben replied conversationally. "So he undressed himself? Hypothermia? That's why he was naked?"

Luca shook his head again. He drained his mug and poured another lick of port before he replied.

"No. We followed his footprints back to the sauna."

He pronounced it "saaoow-na" not "sor-na", like I did. I wondered if I'd been saying it wrong all my life.

"The prints came straight outta the sauna, spread apart like he was running. His clothes were all still in the changing room."

"So he just ran outta there naked, and left his clothes in the changing room?" Ruben said, a note of scepticism creeping into his voice. "Was something chasing him?"

"Nope," Luca said, refilling his port again. "No other prints except his." He picked up a pen and tapped it absentmindedly on the table. "We did find an empty whisky bottle in the bin there, so it looks like he'd been drinking. My guess is he had a skinful, decided to see if he could streak back to the staff quarters. Just a stupid drunken decision."

"Seriously?" Now I was the one who sounded sceptical.

Luca nodded. "It's not that unusual, not with the long-term contract workers. They have this thing called the 300 club, running out of a sauna into the snow. Macho nonsense. Stupid, but they do it."

Luca shrugged.

"Shiiit," Ruben said, drawing out the "I" like a SoCal surfer.

"Shit indeed. Idiots." Luca's lips were a thin line.

"So what did you do with... him?" Ruben asked, all super casual again.

"Moved him somewhere safe until he can be properly collected," Luca replied. "Some officials are on their way to deal with it. We'll have to send a 'copter to Georgia when they arrive, pick 'em up. They'll take it from there."

"Russians?" Ruben asked glibly, studying his InTrepid branded mug.

"Yes," Luca replied, looking from Ruben to me with narrowed eyes.

"So InTrepid is a Russian company, then?"

"No... yeah," Luca said. "InTrepid is my company, really. We've been going for near eighteen years now. We were the first tourism operator to offer a permanent base on Antarctica, did you know that? First a campsite, then luxury IglooPods. We're still the only static commercial operation with a permanent base in the continent," he said proudly. "It used to be only in summer though. The winter was off-limits then."

He sighed, rubbing at a dark-circled eye with the ball of his palm.

Luca was maybe forties or early fifties, close cropped salt-and-pepper hair, extremely healthy looking in a slightly gaunt, haggard way, like a long distance runner. I would bet my life he was into extreme sports.

"Oh yeah?" Ruben said. "Awesome."

"Yeah." Luca closed his eyes for a moment, as if staving off a bad memory. "Then the year before last, my business partner... passed away."

He pointed to one of the pictures behind him, of a super-tanned man ice climbing, the camera taking the photo reflected in his wraparound shades.

"An accident. His wife wasn't too happy—the accident happened out here—and she wanted a full payout, his portion of the company. 65%. I couldn't afford to buy her out, so we had to float."

He sighed. "I thought we'd get multiple shareholders, I'd retain the controlling stake, but we didn't. We were bought out by a Russian firm."

He poured himself another drink.

His tone and the structure of the story, the way it was all streaming out of him totally without inhibition, suggested he'd gone over it a lot.

Got blind with it.

Run through it obsessively, 3am, sleep deprived.

I knew the feeling well.

"It was a good thing in the end," he said reluctantly, like he really didn't believe that. "Because they brought the ottercopters, opened up a whole new aspect of the market to us, travel at winter. And we needed that. Tom—my partner's—accident gave us a PR hit that nearly broke us."

He rubbed his eyes again, bone-weary.

"When we started out, tourism to Antarctica was a niche thing, only a few operators. A new world. But now.... it's a crowded market, y'know? The number of annual visitors to Antarctica has risen 2000% since the 1980s, did you know that? Two thousand percent."

"I did not know that," Ruben said. "That blows, man."

Which was a weird thing to say, because he was here.

We all were.

"Yeah," Luca said. "But we're the only ones that can do winters... for now. That's why we need this to work. And then..." he raised his hands to heaven, as if God were cursing him. "These accidents. It almost feels like we're being sabotaged."

"Just bad luck," I said, even though I didn't think that at all.

Luca nodded, like he didn't either. "I blame the Russians," he said tightly.

"Oh yeah?" Ruben's ears practically pricked up.

Luca nodded. "Their staffing decisions. I don't know how thorough they were, employing those contractors. Me and Tom used to pick our people so well, y'know? You can't take risks out here. But I'm not in control anymore."

He frowned like a clown, pouring himself another drink.

"That whole crew turned out to be a liability," he said.

"So when do you think it happened then?" Ruben asked, scratching his beard with his thumb. "How long had he been there?"

"He fobbed in to use the sauna about 3am last night," Sam said. "So around then."

That was only shortly before I sent Paulo my psycho messages, I realised. Creepy to think I might have been awake while Sam was dying.

"He took a sauna at 3am?" Ruben asked.

Luca looked guarded. "Staff are only allowed to use hotel facilities when they won't disturb guests. So the sauna is 3—5am," he said. "It's not that unusual. With the days—and nights—like they are out here, you get a different attitude to time."

"I suppose," Ruben said. "So,"—he smacked his knees—"we better go. Thanks for giving us the lowdown man. I hope you don't have any more bad luck."

Luca nodded, like he wished that was the case. "I'm sorry you had to find that," he said, "and I hope it didn't ruin your stay. I'll be having words with the Russians about who we employ in future, I promise you. I hope... Can I ask you..." he looked from Ruben to me, fear in his eyes.

"Not a soul, man," Ruben said, leaning over to shake Luca's hand. "We won't tell no-one out here anything. Our lips are sealed."

Luca's grateful thanks rung in our ears as we exited to the snowy yard.

"No-one out here," Ruben whispered, looking sidelong at me. "Let's hope Luca don't listen to podcasts eh? We're his fuckin' worst nightmare."

I smiled, feeling conflictedly both sorry for Luca and journalistically—and romantically—excited.

"Looks like we got a lot to talk about, little Scotch," Ruben said, poking me playfully in the ribs with his elbow.

"Say...." He looked at me devilishly. "How do you fancy a saaaooowna?"