This is a collection of episodes and scenes which I have had in my mind for some time, loosely woven into a story – so apologies for the distinct lack of overall coherence!

On what had been the worst day of her life, Camille Bordey stumbled blindly into her apartment, automatically dropping the keys into the little container that stood in the hall, and – unable to walk any further – leaned her back against the door. Exhausted, dazed and numb, she finally had to face the truth: he was dead. For the past hours, ever since the phone call had come, she had kept busy, never resting, never giving herself time to think about what had actually happened, but now the darkness closed in on her remorselessly and she could no longer push away the terrible images that she knew would haunt her for as long as she lived. She slid slowly down the back of the door. Her body shuddering violently, she buried her face in her knees and sobbed.

Ten hours earlier

There had been nothing, really, to mark the day as anything out of the ordinary, except that Richard had not come in to work. Some old university friends had turned up on the island and he was going to spend the day with them. They joked about it in the station – he was not after all the sort of man who enjoyed social occasions, and they knew he was not looking forward to it. Dwayne even suggested they should pretend there was an emergency and go and rescue him. If only they had, she thought bitterly.

She was busy writing up a report of an interview she had just conducted when the call came. She was vaguely conscious of Fidel picking up the phone but looked up sharply at the violence of the young sergeant's "No! Are you sure?" then "We'll be right there!" Dwayne also swung round, the two of them staring intently at Fidel, who looked as if he been struck by a thunderbolt.

"What is it, Fidel?"

The young man made a visible effort to pull himself together. "That was Angela, one of the reunion party. She was hysterical. She said … she said the Chief has been murdered!"

Camille was seized by an irresistible urge to laugh. Of course Richard couldn't be murdered – he was the one who solved murders. She had been with him only last night and he would be back in the station later on in the day. But staring at Fidel's shocked face she was suddenly gripped by a terrible, icy fear. She snap-pointed.

"Keys! I'll drive. Come on!"

She drove like a maniac. People scattered in front of them. It was a miracle the roads were empty or they would surely have come to grief. As they climbed the hill that led to the rented villa, no-one spoke. "It must be a mistake, right?" Dwayne had said and they had all rushed to agree. But how could anyone make that sort of mistake? Silence, fear and dread enveloped them all.

It was a pretty villa, set high up on the hillside with spectacular views of the bay, but none of them appreciated it, as they rushed through the lounge and out onto the patio. They barely noticed the four members of the reunion party sitting in a row on the sofa, one crying noisily into her handkerchief. They barely saw the flashing light of the ambulance which had already arrived. They were totally transfixed by the sight that greeted them.

It wasn't a mistake. DI Richard Poole lay in a low chair covered in blood and with what looked like the handle of a knife protruding very obviously from his chest. There could be little doubt that he was dead – no-one could have survived an injury like that.

Camille gave a terrible cry and ran forward, only to be caught and restrained by Dwayne. Her legs buckled and she sank to the ground. The older man put his arm round her and did his best to comfort her, but the tears flowed unchecked. Fidel edged forward, staring in frozen horror at the man who had been his mentor, the man who he respected more than almost anyone. Then, as the paramedics moved in, he remembered his training, pulled out his camera and started to record the scene before the body was removed and transferred to the waiting ambulance.

The three detectives stood silently in total shock and disbelief for several minutes as the wailing siren of the ambulance disappeared into the distance. The two younger members of the team seemed almost in a trance, so Dwayne thought he had better take charge.

"Right, Sarge. If you want to interview the witnesses, I'll start a fingertip search of the patio. We've got to get the bastard who did this."

Camille snapped back into action. "Yes, thank you, Dwayne. Fidel and I will interview the reunion party."

"Angela said it must have been an intruder" offered Fidel.

"Yes, well, looking at the steep drop from the patio I think that's unlikely" said Camille, "it's much more likely to have been one of those four."

They spent the next two hours interviewing each member of the party separately. It seemed that the murder weapon was an ice-pick, which they had all been using in the lounge. Well, that definitely ruled out the intruder theory, thought Camille. They all maintained that Richard had been alive and well throughout the game of charades they had been playing and they were all acting as each other's alibi.

The search of the patio had yielded nothing interesting, apart from a copy of Le rouge et le noir which had been found at Richard's feet. Sasha claimed Richard had just bought it and had asked her if she knew it. But the team knew full well that Richard didn't speak French, so it was puzzling to say the least that he should have bought a copy of a classic French novel.

When there was nothing more to be achieved at the villa they resolved to treat the beach shack as a secondary murder scene and to carry out a search of that property as well.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Camille?" Dwayne asked gently, as they drew up in the Defender. "Fidel and I can manage on our own."

"I'll be fine", she replied shortly and pushed open the door.

She had been there dozens of times before of course but never in circumstances like these. She had never before had to examine the contents of his wardrobe: the suits hanging neatly on the rails, the shoes shining with polish, the pile of shirts laundered, pressed and folded, the carefully arranged underwear drawer. There were few really personal items – just Lucy the telescope (she could hear his voice reminding her reproachfully that it was a precision optical instrument) and a large collection of books. But no sign of any sudden interest in French literature – and, she reflected – even if he had taken an unexpected liking to Stendhal he would have bought a translation. There was no diary, no letters, nothing. He had been a very private man and whatever secrets Richard Poole had had, he had taken them to the grave with him.

Everything was spotless, of course, and completely, obsessively, tidy. Not a grain of sand on the floor. Everything here just shouted Richard– this was how he was. She thought with a grimace of the organised chaos of her own apartment and reflected bitterly that as people they could not really have been more different.

And yet she had loved him. She knew it now, now that it was too late. How could she not have realised? When he had returned briefly to England a couple of months earlier, she had been afraid that he would not come back. She had never thought to ask herself why that mattered so much to her – she just knew that she missed him when he wasn't there. It had taken today's shattering events to force her to acknowledge the strength of the feelings that had been slowing growing within her. And now, she thought sadly, her eyes brimming over once more, she would never have the opportunity to tell him how much he had meant to her.

"You OK, Sarge?" asked a concerned Dwayne. "I don't think there's anything here to worry us, better get back to the station?"

She nodded mutely and they climbed back into the Defender and made their way soberly back to the centre of Honoré. Word was spreading about the Inspector's grisly end and as they made their way to the station they were besieged by crowds of the anxious, the angry or the plain curious. Dwayne dealt deftly with them all, batting away the enquiries on the grounds that it was early days yet. It was surprising, given Richard's reputation for unsociability and grumpiness, that so many people seemed genuinely shocked and sad to hear of his passing. Camille supposed that they did at least appreciate what a brilliant detective he had been. Of course, he had been so much more, but only she really knew that.

Wearily they climbed the stairs and slumped into their chairs. Everyone tried to avoid looking at Richard's empty chair and desk. It was as neat and tidy as if he had known when he left last night that he would not be coming back. Camille strode resolutely to the whiteboard and with a sigh pinned up a photograph of the late Inspector, looking his typical serious self, and Fidel hastily printed off photographs of the four suspects.

"We must try to go about this investigation as he would have done. He taught us a lot, and we must now put it into practice. Dwayne – background checks on the reunion party, please. You'll need to contact the UK police for their help."

"I'm on it, Sarge."

"Fidel, go through Richard's phone records – see if he spoke to anyone unusual in the last few days. And check his bank account for any odd transactions. And then chase up forensics and the autopsy report – not that I expect that will reveal anything that wasn't already obvious."

"Will do."

"And I'll go through his computer, check his email, see if there are any clues."

"Very good, Detective Sergeant" rumbled a voice from the doorway. "I see you have it all covered." The Commissioner nodded to Dwayne and Fidel, went up to Camille and squeezed her arm sympathetically. "It is a very difficult and tragic time, but I am sure the late Inspector would want you to continue with your duties. He was very proud of his team."

Fidel stared hard at the ground and Camille thought he was on the brink of tears. "He was a good man, Sir, a very good man."

"Yes, indeed, and a great loss to us all. I have just had the distressing task of informing his parents of what has occurred. They have requested that his body be flown back to England once all the formalities have been completed."

So I don't even have the chance to go to his funeral.

"Thank you, Sir. We believe that one of the reunion party is the murderer but of course we will need some time to complete our investigations."

"Well, let me know if there is anything you need." And with that the Commissioner took his leave.

By then it was late afternoon. Dwayne and Fidel hit the phones, Camille began to examine Richard's computer. The hours passed. It grew dark but still they continued. Late in the evening Camille called for a catch up session. Dwayne reported on what he had managed to glean so far about the four suspects. There would be much more information in the morning but so far he had found nothing suspicious. Fidel had been promised a preliminary forensics report in the morning.

"And I've examined the Chief's phone records for the past couple of weeks. There's nothing out of the ordinary. A call to his parents, several to the Commissioner, the rest to us. What about his computer?"

Camille shook her head. "As far as I can see there are no hidden files – nothing that you wouldn't expect to be there. I've checked all his emails for the last couple of months and apart from one from Angela about the reunion they all relate to aspects of police work. And as you know, we haven't been working on any serious cases recently, so it's not likely to be work-related. And anyway, I don't see how anyone apart from those four could have got hold of the ice pick." She sighed from utter exhaustion.

"I think we should call it a day, Sarge, it's getting late, we're all tired and upset and perhaps we'll be able to think more clearly in the morning."

She agreed reluctantly. Dwayne was right of course, but she really didn't want to go home. She didn't want to face the demons that she knew were waiting for her once she stopped working. Dwayne walked her home. He seemed to understand when she didn't invite him in, and gave her a big wordless hug. What, after all, was there to say?

So here she now was, sitting on the floor with winter in her heart and her body racked with the choking, uncontrollable sobs that she had been holding back for so long. How long she was there she didn't know but eventually, when she found she could cry no more, she heaved herself upright and staggered into the kitchen. She had eaten nothing since breakfast but the very thought of food made her retch. Drink, however, was another matter. She uncorked a bottle of red wine and shakily poured herself a large glass. She gulped it straight down and quickly poured another. It didn't make her feel any better but at least it numbed the pain a little. Before she realised it, the bottle was empty and she was feeling distinctly light-headed. She stumbled into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed fully dressed. The other side of the bed, pristine and white, seemed to mock her – and the realisation that she would never now share it with the man of her choice brought back the tears. She buried her face in the pillow, convinced that she would not sleep that night, but sheer bodily exhaustion got the better of her overwrought mind and before long she sank into heavy slumber.

She woke to sunlight pouring heartlessly through the windows that she had forgotten to shutter. Camille opened her eyes gingerly and groaned. Her mouth was parched and her head throbbed. The memory of the previous day flooded over her and she stuffed her fists into her eyes, unwilling to believe that it had not all been a terrible nightmare. Her phone beeped to indicate a text message. Groggily she picked it up. There were eight messages, all from her mother, worried that she had not been answering her phone. She sighed. She loved her mother dearly but they had not seen eye to eye over Richard and she really couldn't face talking to her at the moment. I'm OK, speak later she texted.

She checked her watch and was horrified to see how late it was. She knew she should get up and go to work but part of her thought simply what for? Part of her wanted to bury her head under the pillow and never get up again – ever. But the detective in her took over. More than anything, she wanted to catch the person who had killed the man she loved. With a concerted effort she heaved herself off the bed, steadying herself against the dressing table, and made her way cautiously to the bathroom. She really was quite hung over. She caught sight of herself in the mirror: huge rings around bleary red eyes, cheeks streaked with make-up which had run, hair a tangled mess. Well so what. Once she would have been horrified at her appearance but today it just didn't matter. She stood for a long time under the shower, letting the hot water run over and over her body, until she felt sufficiently refreshed to dress. She quickly pulled on some shorts and a top, stuffed her feet into her shoes, gulped down a cup of black coffee and threw her bag over her head. She was as ready as she could be in the circumstances to face the world.

Taking a deep breath Camille opened the front door and made to stride out. She nearly fell in her attempt to avoid tripping over the flowers that lay on the top step. From maman, she thought. She picked them up. They were white orchids, obviously picked wild and tied with an odd bit of ribbon. There was a touristy postcard underneath. She turned it over and stared and stared at the message. Things are not always as they seem, but mum's the word. No signature, but then she didn't need one. There was absolutely no mistaking that handwriting. She stood transfixed, her mind a tumult of seething and conflicting emotions. It couldn't be. He was dead. But it was.