You didn't become a sergeant without extensive training in how the human mind worked and Camille had done her fair share of reading up on human phobias. She knew they could often seem irrational, but that didn't mean she understood them completely. It was still beyond her how anyone who was frightened of seeing someone else in pain could be a murder suspect. She was an expert at detecting when someone was lying or not, and the man behind the counter had been all truth earlier when he'd bolted from the room in a panic after DI Richard Poole had stubbed his own toe. It just made no sense at all.
And yet his alibi had been a complete lie and Richard seemed to think it was probably him, and Richard was, annoyingly, always right.
She leaned forward, her hands pressed forcefully flat against the chest-height counter between her and the suspect, Mr. Frederick Ashton. Fidel and Dwayne were back at the police department getting contact information of a few other witnesses and, as usual, Richard was by her side pacing. "What time was that, again?" Camille asked, looking Mr. Ashton directly in the eyes.
"I already told you! I don't remember!" The man protested, in direct contradiction to his statement from earlier where he'd quite clearly given a time that didn't match up at all with his alibi.
"Argh!" Richard screamed, frustrated as usual. He spun around to face the counter, his expression angry, as he threw his hands up into the air and then brought his fists smashing down, his left hitting the counter and his right accidentally crushing the back of Camille's left.
It was many, many, years of police training that stopped Camille from screaming out in pain and having the suspect bolt again. She gave herself a proud pat on the back that she'd not so much as even flinched as she continued to stare into the eyes of Mr. Ashton. "You're lying," she said, her voice steely.
"No, I'm, I'm really not," he protested weakly, fortunately failing to notice her pain.
"Should we have you arrested until you speak?" Richard asked, his hand not moving from Camille's. She thought for a moment that he hadn't even noticed, but then he softly curled his fingers over hers and began to massage the sore spot. His way of silently apologizing without interrupting the interrogation, she understood, and hey, if he was going to turn all tender and gentlemanly on her for once, she certainly wasn't going to protest. The massage actually was helping.
"You can't do that!" Mr. Ashton said quickly. "I'm at work, I'm the only one here who can man the front desk."
"Ten minutes, Ashton," Camille said. "You've got ten minutes to either talk, or call someone in to cover for you while we haul your behind off to jail for the night. If you've done neither, well, I guess you'll just be leaving this place unlocked, won't you?"
The man swore under his breath and picked up the phone. Camille exchanged a glance with Richard. "Guess we're arresting him then."
Richard nodded and moved away to call Fidel and Dwayne in for back up.
Fifteen minutes later Dwayne and Fidel had Mr. Ashton locked up in the back of the police vehicle and were on their way, leaving Camille and Richard to search the lobby for any evidence that Mr. Ashton might have left behind. So far no one had showed up to take over the front desk, but he'd sworn on his way out that a lady named Sheila was on her way and they should let her in. Fine by them, they'd like to question anyone that worked with him anyways and it'd be the perfect opportunity.
In the meantime, they were left on their own. Richard turned to Camille suddenly and reached for her hand, studying it. "Sorry about that, by the way. Nice recovery, would almost think you were a trained police officer or something."
"Is that an attempt at a joke?"
"Well you know, Keep it Casual, that's my motto."
"Ha! Casual? You? I'm still waiting for the day that I see you without a tie."
"Well technically…" he began and then stopped.
"Technically what?"
"I don't sleep in it, you know."
That was true, she had seen him in his pyjamas on multiple occasions, but it wasn't exactly what she'd meant. She rolled her eyes at him. "During the day, I mean. Why don't you take it off for once?"
"I like it. You don't need to be so argumentative all the time, you know? Why should you care if I want to wear a tie?"
"So this is my fault again? You're the one that pretty near broke my palm!"
"And I said I was sorry!"
"Sorry's not gonna cut it this time. It still hurts you know."
Richard hesitated a second, looking a bit self-conscious as he shuffled from one foot to the other before asking tentatively. "Would you like me to kiss it better?"
Camille's eyebrows shot up and she nodded, eager to see this one.
"You would?" He looked surprised and even more uncomfortable than usual, much to Camille's delight and amusement.
"Yes, I would."
He stared at their hands for a moment, and then jerkily lowered his head as he raised it to his mouth, giving it a quick peck before dropping her hand as if it had burned him.
"Thank-you," she grinned at him. "Wasn't so bad now, was it?"
He shook his head, "No, suppose not. Did it work? The kiss thing? Trick my mother taught me, always worked when she did it. Told me if I hurt someone, I should always kiss it better."
"So that's why you offered? To make you mother proud? I thought it was rather unlike you." She wouldn't even pretend she wasn't slightly hurt he hadn't wanted to kiss her just for the sake of kissing her.
"Oh like you don't play up to your mum like a…"
Camille raised an eyebrow. "Like a what."
"Like a very French mother-player-upper," he finished, rather lamely, wondering how it was that he always seemed to falter for words where Camille concerned. Usually he prided himself on his quick wit.
"Right," Camille muttered under her breath, wishing he would really relax a bit. "And I do not."
"Ha! Why don't you stop getting all dolled up for those blind dates she keeps setting you up on? Tell her you refuse."
"I can't do that. She's my mum."
He gave her a pointed look. "Ands, you can't tell me your mother never kissed your owies better, Camille. I know your mother, unfortunately, she tried to kiss one of mine better."
"Of course she did. Maman was very good at it. She'd kiss me better and say my skin tasted like mangos. Is it still true?" She was trying to embarrass him now and she knew it was working.
He flushed, "How would I know? I didn't exactly…"
"Non? You'd better try again," she said coyly, offering him her hand.
"If you want kisses, Camille, stop talking in bloody French."
"So you refuse?"
"Yes, of course I refuse."
"Maman always said it only works if you give a good enough kiss to taste it."
"Funnily enough, Camille, the reason I'm refusing is because it's your mother's idea."
"So now you're literally adding insult to injury."
"I didn't insult you."
"You insulted maman."
"Would you stop with the French!?" Richard responded, glaring at her. "It's too…"
"Too French?"
"Precisely."
Camille reached forward and poked him in the chest. "You, have a problem."
"Dang straight I do, it's you, and even more so your very French mother."
"You know what she'd say?"
"Can't imagine I care."
"She'd say you're nothing but a bloody Englishman. And she'd say it en Francais."
Richard turned his back to her and began going through some papers, gleefully watching as Camille's temper flared up as he ignored her. This was fun, he thought to himself. The worked side-by-side in irriated silence for the next few minutes until the locked glass doors began to shake. Richard glanced at Camille. "Guess that's Sheila then. You want to take her to the back and interview her, or should I?"
"I'll do it. I'm better at judging if someone's lying. You keep sorting papers. You're better at spotting the details."
"Right," he agreed. Camille moved to pass him so she could let Sheila in, but he caught her hand and stopped her, placing a longer kiss on it this time. "Hmm…" he said, pausing and priding himself in the fact that she was clearly taken off guard. "Seems your mother's wrong again. More like coconut than mango."
Camille pulled her hand free and stormed off, but just before she reached the door she turned back to him. "You wanna come to Maman's for dinner and drinks tonight?"
He shrugged. "Guess I gotta eat somewhere."
She smiled and nodded. "Bon."