It’s the snow. I love it. I can’t get enough of it. Whenever I can, I travel to cold climates. The best, of course, is Antarctica

Harry was all politeness. “Mr Bibby, my name is Henry Auchinleck. I’m a professor at Edinburgh University.” Bibby gaped, his cigar halfway to his mouth. “In Scotland,” said Harry, as though Bibby might not know where Edinburgh was. “My research into modern defence strategies has been funded for many years by your Foundation. I want to take this opportunity to thank you for making it possible. You see, our British funding councils are not predisposed to supporting my area of research, but your Foundation has had the foresight so to do.”

I could almost smell Harry’s obsequiousness. I didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled. Liz was gazing at him with a look of anguish.

Bibby nodded briefly. Then, drawing on his cigar, he turned away.

For a second Harry stood, unsure of what to do. He returned slowly to our table. “He might at least have said something,” he muttered, sitting down.

Liz stroked his arm.

“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. I should imagine he gets grateful people approaching him all the time. He must get rather fed up with it.” She shot Bibby a look. “But ignoring you like that was dreadfully rude.” She didn’t lower her voice. “What a b ****** .”

I glanced around. “Once again, Liz, but this time say it a bit louder. I don’t think everyone in the room quite caught that.”

Marcellus had returned. He placed the tray in front of his father, and arranged the coffee so it was within easy reach.

“I’ve got it,” said Liz suddenly. “It was Marcia. The woman who died of an overdose. Her name was Marcia Vandenberg. It was last year, wasn’t it, Harry?”

“Well remembered, my dear.”

“A bit of a b **** , apparently. She had affairs with half the men on Wall Street. She made enemies, mostly among their wives. Really silly of her to do that. Anyway, there was a feature about the overdose in Hello magazine, but Marcellus wasn’t mentioned – I would have remembered a name like his.”

“Then it looks as if Wilson did indeed hush things up,” I said.

Intrigued, I leant forward and studied Marcellus. He was lighting his father’s cigar, waiting patiently while Wilson puffed, taking his time. Snow story

We were boarding the flight to Kiruna. The plane was so small that the concept of first and second class didn’t apply; we weren’t given boarding cards, but told to fill the plane from the rear.

I found myself next to Wilson Bibby. I’d expected him to ignore me as he had Harry so I was surprised to hear him say in a soft southern accent, “What takes you to Kiruna, ma’am?” He was smiling, his eyes full of warmth.

“I’m on holiday,” I said warily. “We’re going to the Icehotel.”

My carry-on bag was still in my lap. He glanced at the label, then pointed to an identical label on his own. “Then we’re on the same tour. My name’s Wilson, by the way.” He indicated Marcellus across the aisle, two rows in front. “I’m here with my son.”

He held out his hand. The skin was smooth, the nails expertly manicured. I hesitated, then put my hand in his, feeling my knuckles crack as he squeezed.

“Maggie Stewart.” I massaged my fingers, wondering why he hadn’t given me his full name. Whatever the reason, I decided to play along. “What made you come on this tour, Wilson?”

He smiled broadly, showing perfect teeth polished to such a high shine he could have been in a toothpaste advert. “It’s the snow. I love it. I can’t get enough of it. Whenever I can, I travel to cold climates. The best, of course, is Antarctica.”

“Lapland should be just the place, then,” I said brightly. “And have you had a chance to look round Stockholm?”

“I’ve been here for a few days on business. I’d always wanted to visit the Icehotel so I’ve postponed some of my meetings to make the trip north.”

“If you love the snow so much, why do you live in the southern USA?”

He turned his gaze on me. “How do you know where I live, ma’am?” His voice had a steel edge.

I thought quickly. Appealing to a man’s vanity usually worked in sticky situations. “I can tell from your accent that you’re a southern gentleman.” It made me cringe, but I said it anyway. “You sound just like Rhett Butler.”

Scottish connection

I could tell he was delighted with my answer; his gravelly laughter echoed round the small plane. “So what do you do for a living, Wilson?”

“I have a variety of interests as a businessman,” he said smoothly. “You?”

“I work in finance. A pharmaceutical company in Edinburgh.”

He drew his brows together and, for a second, I thought he’d made the connection with Harry. “Scotland?” he said. “My family came from there, originally.”

He proceeded to give me an unabridged version of his family history, his narrative rolling along sluggishly like the Mississippi. I listened politely, noticing how careful he was not to mention the name Bibby. He fumbled in his bag, and produced what looked like a large diary. It was bound in heavy-duty canvas cloth in a red and blue tartan. “My organiser. You’ll recognise the tartan, of course.”

When I said nothing, he added, “It’s MacGregor. As I told you, I’m a MacGregor on my mother’s side. I have these made specially every year.”

He opened the book at the back. The pages were edged in gilt and imprinted with an elaborate watermark. The lettering was a fine black copperplate.

“It’s essentially a diary – see the month and date at the top? – but I can also use the pages for memorandum notes.” He flattened the book on his lap. “You can see the perforations if I open it out.”

There were two pages for each day. Each had space at the bottom for Wilson’s signature, and the signature of a witness. What added to the book’s thickness were the carbons attached to the pages. “I’ve never seen one like it,” I said, fascinated. He seemed pleased. “My own design. I’ve learnt the hard way that verbal instructions have their weaknesses. This enables me to keep track of my decisions on the move.”

I thought of the instructions I gave my own staff in texts, emails and scribbled Post-it Notes. Wilson’s modus operandi was that of a man not used to relinquishing control lightly. Pandemonium would ensue if he lost his diary. Perhaps he slept with it under his pillow.

“A pretty tartan, don’t you think?” he said. “I’m having a kilt made.” He returned the diary to his carry-on bag and delved about inside, producing a bottle of pills.

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.