An ordinary morning

It was just another ordinary Tuesday morning in London… Richard Poole stood in his kitchen, still in his night attire (a comfy striped pyjama that he had bought at 'Marks & Sparks', as his mother liked to call the store), brewing himself a nice pot of tea. He frowned and looked at the kitchen clock – it was 6 a.m. Only one more hour, and the plane would arrive in Heathrow… He hoped that everything would go according to his plans. He had tried to arrange everything yesterday, and as far as he could see, there were no pitfalls to fear – but of course, you never knew. He had learnt the hard way that you couldn't plan everything, and your life could change in an instant.

He looked out of the window. By now, he had adjusted to the view… He hadn't been living here for very long yet… not even a year. His house in Croydon had been sold some time ago – and he hadn't looked back. He had never wanted to return there, anyway… the Met had offered him a position in North London, and he had happily accepted it. Anything was better than Croydon – living there hadn't been so bad, but working there – no, he was glad that this was over.

For a short while he had stayed in a guesthouse that the Met maintained in the area – it was mostly for foreign visitors and guests, but also for officers who took courses in the capital and couldn't find affordable accommodation. The guesthouse was very popular, despite its obvious lack of usual amenities that hotels might offer – it was very basic, but functional… and not too pricey. Richard wasn't too picky any more – after two years in a tin-roofed beach shack, he didn't care whether or not a room had elegant furniture or exquisite curtains. He appreciated amenities, of course, and his current house certainly wasn't a run-down hovel – it actually had been in pretty good shape when he had bought it, and he had good taste when it came to colours and furniture – but he didn't expect perfection of a temporary dwelling, so the guesthouse had been okay for him...

He had stayed there for a few weeks until the purchase of this house had been settled, necessary renovations had been done, and he could move in. In the meantime – however far from perfect - it had really become his home – more than the house in Croydon ever had been… although he had lived there for several years. Maybe it had to do with the fact that this house stood for a fresh start. A clean slate, so to speak… And he obviously knew better now what he wanted in his life.

The weather outside didn't indicate that it was actually summer – it was grey and dismal, and the wet ground was proof for another drizzle having come down a few minutes ago. Well, hopefully, it would get better during the day!

What a contrast to Saint Marie… He put some bread in the toaster, and while he waited for his tea to be ready, his mind wandered back to his time on the tropical island in the Caribbean… he had spent over two years there, and it had been the hottest, most humid, most uncomfortable and most inconvenient place he had ever had the misfortune to live at… And yet, being there had also taught him quite a few important life lessons and brought him some wonderful experiences… It had taken him so long to appreciate life on the island with all its amazing aspects, and when he had finally been more willing to settle in, he had brutally been taken away from there.

His adult life was clearly divided into three different segments for him – before Saint Marie, on Saint Marie, and after Saint Marie. The island had been his 'crucial point', for lack of a better word. He didn't believe in fate or destiny or anything cosmic – life was a series of coincidences and decisions, one thing led to another, but there wasn't any higher power who'd arrange these coincidences to please or punish the individual person… But if he believed in fate or destiny… Saint Marie would have played an important part in his book.

Life before Saint Marie had been predictable – in most ways. That didn't mean it had always been happy. It meant that he had known what he was doing, he had known when he would be doing it, and he had had a fairly accurate idea of what would come next. Most days had followed the same pattern. He still found comfort in routines – Saint Marie hadn't changed this.

And he had been philosophical about 'happiness'… the more you hunted it, the more it escaped you. So, he had never tried too hard – he had just carried on. He still wasn't good with changes, although he had learnt how to deal with them. He liked to play it safe – most of the time.

Then he had been sent to Saint Marie, and nothing had been predictable or safe any more. He had been thrown into a mess of heat, sand, humidity, creepy-crawly creatures and jolly people. For a long time, he hadn't wanted to feel at home – he had missed his routines, the weather and the anonymity of London. Reluctantly, he had started to make compromises after a while. Then he had finally started to feel more comfortable – Camille Bordey had been an important factor there… It had taken him a while to admit that. He had just about been ready to make a move towards her and ask her out – well, he had been thinking about it, at least… Interesting enough, a one week stay in London around the end of his second year away from home had made him realise how much she really meant to him. He had missed her…

Before he had been able to figure out how to approach the subject, though, he had found himself in a hospital bed in the UK… and Saint Marie and Camille had been far away. He had faint memories of a hospital bed on Guadeloupe, a couple of visits from Camille and his mother, and the flight back to the UK – but most of that all disappeared in a big blur. They had drugged him for the flight, and he had no idea how he had survived – but he had made it.

Little by little, pieces of memories had returned – not all of them were clear, and some of them might always remain hazy, but he knew the main details. His mother had filled him in on what he didn't remember – as far as she could – and he had read the report about how Helen Reid – who had claimed to be her sister Sasha - had tried to stab him with an icepick. His life had been hanging on a thread, and apparently, the paramedics hadn't believed they could bring him back to life – everyone had thought he was dead. It was a miracle that he wasn't, really…

He had had a weird feeling about that whole reunion from the start – he had felt uncomfortable when Angela had contacted him in the first place, and he hadn't been sure if he really wanted to see Sasha – or anybody else who had been part of the old clique from university! - again, but then he had figured it might be a good way to find closure, so he had accepted the invitation… although he really hadn't been that keen.

It had been ironic that the women who had played a somewhat prominent part in his life to a certain extent had all gathered on Saint Marie – well, of course, Camille had every right to be there, it was her home island, after all. And it hadn't really been Sasha who had been on Saint Marie… But Angela had been real. She hadn't changed much – she had finished her legal studies, and she had become a successful lawyer, but she still was the same somewhat inept, ungraceful person. He knew that from this point of view, they were perhaps a good match – but he couldn't help it, he just wasn't attracted to her in 'that' way…

He didn't fall for people easily, but one thing to drive him away for sure was the attempt of generating constant harmony. He wasn't drawn out of his shell quickly, but once he was out there, he enjoyed lively discussions and flying sparks – and Angela just wasn't cut out that way. It had taken him long to understand that he actually enjoyed provocation and challenges, intellectual discussions and philosophical discourses. They could be disturbing and upsetting, but they were stimulating. There were few people out there who understood this side in him… and she hadn't been one of them.

Angela had always followed him around during their years in university and made him advances – more or less openly. He had felt awkward about that – he just couldn't feel more for her than friendship. And she still had a soft spot for him – much to his discomfort. He hadn't had the heart to reject her and tell her straight out that he still wasn't interested – his feelings hadn't changed, either…

And there had been Sasha… well, he had felt more for her than she had felt for him, and when she had got married to James, he had been devastated. He had buried his disappointment and pain deep in his heart and never talked about it… and hadn't thought of her in years. Then Angela's e-mail had arrived, and it all had come up again.

Considering that he had just accepted that his feelings for Camille had become decidedly unprofessional, it had seemed somewhat sensible to see both Angela and Sasha, draw a mental line and leave it all behind… then he'd be free for whatever might come his way, without having to wonder what had become of the women he had met in the past.

Sasha had been… well, obviously it hadn't been Sasha after all. He had felt odd about her rightaway. There had been something he couldn't quite grasp, already Angela's e-mails had given him a hint that something wasn't quite right. Angela hadn't had any idea about the identity theft that Sasha's sister Helen had committed – that much was clear now.

Apparently, his diaries had helped Camille and the new Inspector – a certain Humphrey Goodman – to solve the attempted murder. After he had exchanged a few e-mails with Angela and done some research on the net about Sasha and James, he had had a 'gut feeling' that something was really odd here, and he had felt that he could find the solution for his state of alarm somewhere in the past, so he had asked his mother to dig out the diaries and photo albums from his university times and send them to Saint Marie. They had arrived… but too late for him.

Well, fortunately, Goodman wasn't a complete moron, and Camille was the best Detective Sergeant that anybody could wish for… and of course, Fidel and Dwayne had done their respective parts very well, too. He had always known that his team was amazing. So, Helen and James had been sent to jail, and they had to pay damages to him – Richard – for attempted murder and severe personal injury.

It wasn't the world, but it had made a difference – and it had certainly helped with his savings. Quite a bit of those had been used for his rehab treatment – his parents had paid for whatever wasn't covered by his insurance so he'd get the best possible treatment, but of course, he had given it all back to them, so thanks to the compensation he had received from the Moores, he wasn't broke now, but had been able to buy this house (North London was expensive, after all… and although his house wasn't in the high society part of the area, he still had paid a shocking amount of money for it!) – and he still had a nice little financial 'cushion' in the background.

So, he mused, the whole affair had turned out well in the end. But it had been a long and hard way from the ambulance car on Saint Marie to the house in North London, and more than once he had been discouraged, worried and downhearted.

That was in the past, though. In the meantime, his life had turned around once again, and he was a happier man than ever before…

He took out a plate and a knife, prepared his morning toast and poured himself a mug of tea. Time to get ready for the day…