I didn't want to post this until I was sure I could finish it, so I am adopting the Netflix approach and posting the whole story in one go. Please note that the later chapters refer to serious childhood illness. I have absolutely no real medical knowledge, so I apologise for any inaccuracies.


Ten weeks earlier

Richard Poole was normally an early riser. He liked to take advantage of the early morning when it was just slightly less hot. But this morning it was past nine o'clock and daylight was streaming through the windows when he first prised open his eyelids. He winced and snapped them shut again almost immediately, bombarded by the relentless sunshine. It was strange because the shutters normally kept the shack pretty dark but here they were standing wide open. Why had he not shut them before he went to bed? He pondered the issue for a few seconds before memory came flooding shockingly back. Quickly he whipped his head around, but the other side of the bed was cold and empty. There was just the faintest whiff of perfume lingering on the indented pillow.

Thank God she has gone, was all he could think. In a few hours he would have left the island for good, and this way there was no need for awkward goodbyes. What on earth would he say to her, anyway? After two years of rigid conformity and rule-following, what had possessed him to lose it at the very last minute? Yes, even at the height of his francophobia he had acknowledged that she was very pretty and, despite all her manifold faults he had at times found himself strongly attracted to her, but he thought he had himself well under control. Obviously not.

He stood up, feeling decidedly groggy. He knew he had drunk too much the night before, but what could he do, when everyone insisted on buying him farewell drinks? Unsteadily he put on his pajamas and made for the little bathroom. As he passed, something caught his eye on the table – a note propped up against the fruit bowl.

Safe journey, Richard. Have a good life.

Yes, she had done the kindest thing possible in the circumstances – she had left him alone and avoided any kind of painful and embarrassing scene. For once in his life, Richard felt a surge of real gratitude. He glanced at his watch – the taxi would be along in less than an hour, so he needed to get ready and finish his packing. He was finally going home.


The night before

Camille Bordey sat and quietly watched the man who had been her boss for the past two years. Despite her best endeavours, he was still largely an enigma. She had found him a fascinating challenge and had really enjoyed trying to work out what made him tick, what made him what he was, and she thought she just about had him sussed.

Of course he had improved in some respects since the early days but he still drove her mad sometimes with his pompous, childish and stubborn behaviour – not to mention his habitual grumpiness and his ridiculous refusal to compromise over matters of food and dress. He was so determined to be English at all costs, that he completely missed the sheer pleasures of life in the Caribbean. He had never really allowed himself to give it a chance, and now he had finally got what he had always wanted: a posting back to the UK. Well, he was welcome to his grey skies and his drizzle.

How did she feel about it all? Would she miss him? Well, she wasn't quite sure. In some ways she would miss him a lot; he was an excellent detective and they had certainly become closer recently. She would definitely call him a friend these days. They still argued, but less than before, and she could see that beneath all the bluster there were some fine qualities that surfaced from time to time. But that was just it: it was only from time to time, and just when she thought she was getting somewhere with him he would most likely shut the conversation down. It was frustrating, because she would have liked to get to know him better, but there just hadn't been time. Clearly, it was not meant to be.

The Commissioner approached the table round which the team had gathered, bearing a bottle and beaming benignly.

"Saint-Marie's very finest rum" he announced portentously. "I took it from my personal store that I keep for special occasions. You must try some before you leave, Inspector." It was an order rather than an invitation.

"Oh … er … that's very kind of you, Sir, but I've already had several beers and one of Catherine's lethal cocktails, so I don't think I should …" Richard quailed before the look on Selwyn Patterson's face, and his voice trailed away. He swallowed convulsively. "That is to say, I'd be delighted to try it."

"Goooood, I knew you would find yourself unable to resist, Inspector" and the big man poured a substantial measure into Richard's glass. He was right, it was excellent rum but very strong and Richard soon felt his head starting to spin. He sipped very slowly, hoping to escape further notice, but the Commissioner was watching him like a hawk and repeatedly topped up his glass. After that, the evening started to become something of a blur.

Camille watched in amazement as Richard took off his jacket and tie, stood up and proposed a toast to 'the best team I have ever worked with'. Then he embraced Catherine and thanked her for making his life more or less bearable with her tea. Fortunately, nothing was said about chicken soup. The Commissioner followed that by thanking Richard for his splendid work on the island, proposed another toast to wish him well in his future career, and finally took his leave, rising impressively from the table and genially shaking Richard by the hand before strolling off to his waiting car.

"Phew," said Dwayne with considerable relief, "quite honestly I find him even more intimidating when he is being jovial. But at least he brought us some decent rum. Have another glass, Chief!"

At this point Camille decided it was time to intervene.

"Your taxi is booked for 10 tomorrow morning, Sir, so perhaps I should take you home now so you can finish packing?"

"Yes, thank you, Camille." Richard got to his feet a little unsteadily. Part of him was still expecting the Commissioner to suddenly re-appear with news of yet another conspiracy to keep him on the island. "No big good-byes", he said, and offered his hand to Dwayne and Fidel, both of whom ignored it and hugged him instead.

"Yes … right …" he said a little breathlessly. "Well, I'll be off then". A brief wave then he sank into the passenger seat of the Defender and Camille pulled away.

Richard sat with his eyes closed, gently swaying as the vehicle lurched around the potholes. Camille watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was not habitually a big drinker – just the odd beer or two – and she had certainly never seen him consume as much alcohol as he had that evening. Nor had she ever seen him that mellow. She felt a serious pang; if only he could be like this more of the time – more human, as she had once said to him. When he let his guard down a little she really found him very attractive, and his shy smile was lovely – it was just a shame it was so rarely seen.

They arrived at the shack and she got down in case he needed help making it to the door. He managed by himself, however, unlocked the door then turned to face her.

"Well … er … so goodbye, then, Camille … and … and … thanks for … you know … everything." He held out his hand. She shook it, but didn't release it.

"Do you know, there's something I've been wanting to do for a while and if I don't do it now that you're no longer my boss, I never will."

He was instantly nervous. "There is?"

"Yes." She reached up, took his face between her hands, and kissed him.


Camille woke as soon as the sun was up. The shutters were still wide open and the sunlight was dazzling. She turned her head and contemplated Richard, who was still deeply asleep. It would be some time before he stirred, she guessed, and he would have a pretty sore head. She lay back on the pillow thoughtfully. What had she done? She had not intended to do anything more than kiss him; and she had honestly not expected him to respond. The only other time she had pecked him on the cheek and hugged him he had stood like a ramrod, and she had not really thought it would be any different this time. But she had been wrong.

Obviously it had been the alcohol talking, and she was pretty sure that when he woke he would be overcome with embarrassment and mortification. For herself, well, she had been carried away and it had gone much further than she had intended, but she wasn't sorry – it had been a surprisingly satisfying interlude that she would remember with some pleasure. She guessed that he was pretty inexperienced, and certainly rusty, but it hadn't seemed to matter. Had he been staying on the island, the relationship might have had a future, she thought, but things were as they were. Better not to make an issue of it, better just to slip away quietly and avoid any awkwardness.

Taking care not to disturb Richard, Camille slid out of bed and tiptoed around in search of her clothes. She pulled a piece of paper from her bag, wrote a quick note, and crept silently out of the door. It was a shame, but it couldn't be helped.


At six-thirty on a cold, wet and windy Friday evening in mid-January Richard unlocked his front door and stepped gratefully inside. His umbrella had blown inside out on the 10-minute walk from the tube station and he had had to deposit it in a rubbish bin. Although he was wearing his overcoat, it was not waterproof and he was pretty much soaked to the skin. This wasn't the sort of crisp, cold winter's day he had dreamed of during his years in the Caribbean.

He quickly changed out of his wet clothes and hung them up to dry, then made himself a hot cup of tea and settled himself in his favourite armchair. He was feeling undeniably low; apart from the drenching on the way home and the loss of yet another umbrella to the unpredictable British weather, he had been working on a murder case that had got under his skin. Not one of the knife-in-the-heart-with-a-neat-group-of-suspects murders that he so enjoyed, but a young child who had also been the victim of abuse. He had given evidence in the case and today the murderer had been found guilty and would probably receive a whole-life sentence. He and his team had been congratulated by the judge on a fine piece of police work, but it had been a particularly unpleasant case and it had left a nasty taste in his mouth. He really needed that cup of tea.

After a few sips he was disturbed by a ring at the doorbell. Puzzled, he got up and went into the hall. He hadn't ordered anything online recently so wasn't expecting a delivery, and it certainly wouldn't be one of his neighbours, since he barely knew them. Perhaps it was one of the mad evangelists who sometimes worked the street or someone collecting for charity. He opened the door to find a woman huddled in a soaking raincoat with a large hood obscuring her face. She looked up.

"Hello, Richard", said Camille.

He stared at her, open-mouthed and speechless. It couldn't possibly be Camille. Camille belonged to the Caribbean, to a land of impossible heat, man-eating bugs and infernal sand. She didn't belong in cold and rainy London.

"Good God! Wha … what are you doing here?" he eventually stuttered.

"I came to see you" she replied brightly. "Can I come inside? It's a little damp out here on the doorstep."

He held open the door for her, and she dripped all over his hallway. Mechanically he took her coat and hung it next to his and motioned her into the sitting-room. He hadn't seen or heard from her since the evening before he left Saint-Marie, and since then he had steadfastly refused to think about what had occurred that night, on the basis that as he was never going to see her again there was no need. But here she was, forcing him by her very presence to confront what had happened between them, and he really did not want to do that at all.

She sat on the sofa, facing him. Automatically he picked up his cup of tea, then put it back down, embarrassed.

"Would you like some?" he offered. She declined, with a smile.

He fidgeted in his seat, not knowing what to do with his hands.

"Er … so how are Fidel and Dwayne?"

"They're fine, though Fidel is thinking of applying for a transfer to another island, where there's more scope for him to progress."

"I'm sure he will do well wherever he is. And … and your mother?"

"She's fine too."

"Good." There was a long pause. "And the new DI?"

"Oh he's settling in well. Loves being on the island. Not like you …"

"No." Another pause. Richard stared intently at his feet. Why was she here?

"Erm … so … well, it's obviously lovely to see you, Camille, but I can't help but wonder … um … you know … er … what you're doing here?"

She looked him straight in the eye and took a deep breath. This was it. "I came, as I said, to see you. I came to see you to tell you that I'm pregnant."

Richard spluttered and put his cup down with a crash. "What?"

"I'm sorry, I know it must be a shock, but there is no easy way to say it. I'm pregnant, you're the father and I thought that you had a right to know. Actually, I nearly didn't come. I wasn't at all sure whether you would want to know or not. I'm still not sure whether I've done the right thing."

It was true. She had known about her pregnancy for several weeks before she finally made the decision to fly to London. She knew what a reserved person Richard was and how difficult he found normal relationships with people, and she really wasn't at all certain whether he would want to be told about the coming baby. Part of her believed he would in fact be happier not knowing, but the other part felt he had a right to know and that perhaps a child might even help to bring him out of his shell. She had debated with herself endlessly, before deciding to leave it to fate: she would fly to London without alerting him and knock on his door. If he was out or didn't answer, she would take it as a sign and would go away and not come back. But he was in and he had answered, so fate had clearly wanted this to happen. She stared at him expectantly. He looked totally shell-shocked.

"I … I don't know what to say, Camille. I'm so sorry … I was quite drunk that night or it wouldn't have happened."

"It was no more your fault than mine, Richard. I didn't intend it to happen, but it did, and I started it really."

"You weren't … um …?"

"On the pill? No, I hadn't been in a relationship for some time. I intended to get the morning after pill but the pharmacy was closed for the weekend and then on the Monday all hell broke loose at the station and so I never got round to it."

"And you're definitely … um … you know … going ahead?"

"Yes. Are you suggesting I shouldn't?"

"No, not at all – but … well … you know … a baby is a big responsibility and I just wanted to be sure you had …er … thought it through."

"Yes, I've thought about it very seriously. My mother will help, of course, and I can apply to work part-time until he or she is old enough." She took a deep breath. "I didn't plan this baby but I'm happy about it - I always intended to have children at some stage. The question is: what about you? Do you want to be involved or not? It's entirely your choice."

Richard rubbed his temples hard and paced up and down. "I'm sorry, Camille, but I just can't take this in. I need some time to think."

"Yes of course. It must be a real shock. Well, I'm flying back to Saint-Marie tomorrow evening, but I could come round in the morning, if you like?"

"Yes. Yes, that would be better."

She stood up. "I'll see you tomorrow, then." She collected her coat from the hallway, opened the front door and stepped back out into the rainy darkness, leaving Richard to stare wordlessly after her rapidly disappearing figure.

He shut the door, returned to the sitting-room, poured himself a large whisky and collapsed into his armchair to think.

Several hours later, when he finally rolled into bed, Richard was no closer to resolving his dilemma. He was, quite literally, stunned by the news Camille had imparted. Nothing in life had prepared him for this and he found it impossible to make his brain think clearly and difficult to force himself to move from his refuge in the armchair. How could this possibly have happened to him? Well, technically he knew perfectly well how it had happened, but who would have thought one kiss could be so intoxicating? He had always been timid and cautious in his personal life; he knew what he liked and he stuck to it. Not for him a world of adventure – he followed the same routine every day, ate the same lunch, wore the same clothes, took not the slightest of risks. So how had he allowed himself to succumb to a siren's song which he had resisted without any – well, not much – trouble for all the time he had been on the island?

It had been the drink, of course – or more to the point, the Commissioner's insistence on plying him with rum when he had already had more than enough. And look what it had led to! The wily old goat, not content with twice manipulating him into staying on the island, was continuing his machinations and pulling his strings even though he was thousands of miles away.

Richard angrily banged his pillow into shape, turned on his side and drew his knees up to his chest. The foetal position he thought hollowly. He had to think, he had to have an answer for Camille in the morning. A moment of frustration with her for not having taken precautions passed quickly, as he ruefully acknowledged that he had been just as much to blame in that respect and that neither had intended the encounter to go as far as it had. She was obviously keen to have the baby and of course he totally respected her wishes, but did he want to be a father? Was he ready for that kind of commitment and responsibility? He was pretty sure that he would be hopeless at it, having absolutely no experience with children apart from babysitting Rosie for Fidel on a couple of occasions, which hardly counted as she never stirred.

His life was calm, tidy, ordered, predictable. A baby was none of those things. A baby would change everything and he was not sure that was what he wanted. And anyway he and Camille were half a world apart (and not just geographically), so how would that work? And what would everyone say? He could just imagine the gossip circulating round the market at Honoré: the mango seller would whisper to the bookseller, who would pass it on to the lady on the craft stall, who in turn was married to the local butcher … Richard squirmed, picturing the scene. He was a very private man and the thought of such extremely personal matters being the subject of public gossip and, no doubt, much sniggering made his blood run cold.

On the other hand, he could hardly leave Camille in the lurch. That would not be the correct thing to do at all. He may have sprung from very middle-class stock but not for nothing had Richard been privately educated; he knew how a gentleman should behave, even if he wasn't always capable of achieving it himself. And if he was honest with himself, his life did sometimes feel empty of meaning when he was not at work. Although he had never had any success with women and claimed not to understand them (perhaps because he didn't try very hard), there was a tiny part of him that still hoped that one day, somewhere, he would meet someone he could share his life with. Perhaps a baby might help fill the void?

He tossed and turned, his brain trying to tussle with every aspect of this new and terrifying situation, but he was no nearer coming to a decision. He glanced at the clock: 3 am. With a groan he got up, padded to the kitchen in his bare feet (the floor was of course spotless) and made himself a cup of tea, which he took back to bed. Hours later he was woken by the piercing shriek of the doorbell. The cold cup of tea was sitting undrunk on his bedside table, and he could hear someone calling to him. To his horror he realised it was Camille, come for her answer. He grabbed his dressing-gown and rushed to the door to let her in, gabbling apologies like a maniac. Abandoning her temporarily in the sitting-room he rushed to shower and throw on some clothes. A few minutes later he found her in the kitchen, smiling and offering him some tea which she had made.

"I see you still have the pajamas, Richard. I always thought they were curiously sexy."

He blushed scarlet and muttered something incoherent, indicating that they should move to the lounge and sit down.

"So," she began, "I can see that you have had a disturbed night. I'm sorry about that but did it bring you any counsel?"

This was it. He had to say something, even though he was still deeply conflicted. He opened his mouth, unsure of what he was going to say, and was really rather surprised when it came out as:

"Do you want to get married, Camille?"

She was genuinely taken aback. She had envisaged a number of things he might say, but not that. On reflection, of course, she should have expected it – Richard playing the gentleman and 'doing the right thing'.

"But we hardly know each other!"

He demurred. "I wouldn't say hardly – after all, we worked together for more than two years."

"Oh, I know Inspector Poole very well – and a fine detective he is too. But I hardly know Richard at all, although I would like to, from the little glimpses I have had. Think, Richard, over all those months, how many conversations of a personal nature have we ever had? I could probably count them on my fingers. What do you know about me? What's my favourite colour? What sort of music do I like? You don't know, do you? Yes, in a moment of madness we made a baby together but that's not enough for marriage."

He was baffled. "So what is it you want from me? I can support you financially, of course."

"Thank you, but I didn't come here for money. I am perfectly well able to provide for my child. I want to know whether you will become a presence in his or her life – albeit one on the other side of the world. If you don't want to, that's fine, I understand. You didn't ask for this and it must be hard to have it suddenly thrust on you. I just want to give you the opportunity if you wish to take it."

"So if I do …?"

"We can keep in touch by Skype, and I'll bring the baby here for visits, and you can come to Saint-Marie when you have leave. It's not ideal, but we can make it work if we try."

"And if I decide against?"

"You won't see either of us again. No-one will ever know the child is yours, though I reserve the right to tell him or her when they come of age."

"I see." He rubbed his head hard. "Well … er … the thing is that … this has all been so overwhelming … but … um … I think I would like to be involved, only … only …"

"Only?"

"It's just that … I can't bear it, all the gossip. You know … down at the market and at your mother's bar."

"My mother will be thrilled."

"Not when she finds out who the father is!"

"You're exaggerating. You may not be her favourite person, but she'll overlook that for the sake of having a grandchild. But I understand what you're saying. Yes, there will be gossip – a lot of gossip – and I don't much care for it either. But I guess I'm more used to it than you are – it's my home, after all."

She thought for a few minutes.

"What if I don't tell anyone who the father is, at least to start with? There's no real need, since you're thousands of miles away. And we can meet on another island – Antigua, say - instead of on Saint-Marie."

"What about your mother?"

"I'll tell her what I tell everyone else – that the father isn't on the island. Of course all her friends will pump her for information, but if she genuinely doesn't know she won't have to lie. I'll tell her one day, when the interest has died down a bit – I'm sure she'll forgive me!"

"People will speculate …"

"Let them! Everyone knows I went to France for a while after you left, so they will assume I met someone there."

She looked at him quizzically. "So, are we agreed?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes, I think we are. I don't really know what I'm getting into but I promise I'll do my best to be supportive – although I wasn't very good at it the last time I tried."

She smiled. "No, but at least you tried. And the flowers were lovely." She raised her teacup.

"To co-parenting?"

"To co-parenting."

She glanced at her watch. "I'd better get back to the hotel and pack – you have to arrive at the airport hours before your flight these days." She got up and he rose to let her out. Laying her hands lightly on his shoulders she kissed him quickly on the cheek.

"Bon courage, Richard. It may not be as bad as you think. I'll be in touch." And with that she walked quickly out of the door and up the street. Richard watched until she rounded the corner, then returned to the sitting-room and sank back into his armchair once more. Well, the die was cast. It was certainly turning into an eventful weekend.