This follows on from One Small Step and is how I would like the story to end, though I'm sure it won't, alas.
Richard Poole was having a bad dream. He was desperately searching for a really good cup of tea when he was set upon by someone who was shaking him and pummelling his chest. He woke with a start, to find Camille kneeling on his bed, her hands on his shoulders shouting something at him which he could not hear.
"Richard! Richard!" He struggled to sit up and removed the ear plugs. "What is it? What time is it? What are you doing here? More to the point, what are you doing on my bed?"
"Oh Richard, we've been calling you for ever. Why do you sleep with those things in your ears?"
"I don't normally, but it may have escaped your notice, Detective Sergeant, that there has been a very loud party going on all night just along the beach. I thought I just might be more effective in the morning if I actually got some sleep." He looked at the alarm clock and groaned. "It's 5 am, Camille. May I know to what I owe the honour of this nocturnal visit, delightful though it is?"
"Of course, you must be the only one in Honoré who didn't hear the explosion." Richard raised his eyebrows enquiringly. " It's Martin Peverel, his yacht just blew up in the harbour. And he was on it. Blown to pieces. Dwayne and Fidel are down at the harbour with the rescue services - and half the population of the town by all accounts."
"Good God, Martin Peverel!" He got quickly out of bed. She noticed that his pajama jacket had come undone and had a brief but interesting view of his chest before he disappeared into the bathroom and began throwing on his clothes. "Do we have any preliminary indications of what caused the explosion?"
"Well, Fidel says the debris is all over the place but they have found a gas canister which has been ripped apart, so they think it may have been a gas leak. But we'll obviously have to wait for the reports to come in."
"Yes, no point in speculating at this stage. Right, I'm ready, let's go." Richard grabbed his brief case and the two officers made their way down to the quayside in the Defender. A rather sick-looking Fidel was waiting for them. "Sir", he said urgently "Mrs Peverel is waiting in the ambulance. It's awful, all that's left of him is body parts. I've never seen anything like it. She really shouldn't be here, I can't imagine what she must be going through."
Richard and Camille made their way towards the ambulance, which was parked to one side, away from the crowd of onlookers. "Ghouls" muttered Richard tersely, eyeing the jostling mass of Honorians crammed behind the emergency barriers. "Oh you really can't blame them" protested Camille "you must admit, it's pretty sensational when one of the richest men on the island gets himself blown up. It's only natural to be curious."
"Natural or not, it's still ghoulish and it doesn't make our job any easier. Just like those idiots on the opposite carriageway of a motorway who slow down to get a good view of an accident and end up causing a major traffic tailback. Oh I forgot: of course Saint Marie doesn't have motorways, does it?"
"You're ranting again. Why are you so grumpy this morning? Is it because I sat on your bed? You know I just had to get a closer look at those pyjamas!"
Richard ground his teeth in exasperation. He knew he would not get the better of this argument. Ever since they had been out to dinner together on that momentous evening he had been unsure how to treat Camille. She said she had enjoyed the evening and he had believed her at the time – not forgetting (as if he could) the kiss she had given him. But since then the old doubts had returned. He very much wanted to ask her out again but didn't want to look too eager or push his luck, so he was biding his time. In front of the others they behaved exactly as before, but when they were on their own there was no denying that the ground between them had shifted, and it made him very uneasy and even more irritable than normal. "I am not grumpy", he enunciated through gritted teeth, "now can we get on please?" Camille shrugged and led the way to the ambulance. In the front seat was sitting a middle aged woman, still quite attractive although clearly in some considerable distress.
"Mrs Peverel? I'm DI Richard Poole and this is Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey. I'm very sorry for your loss. We will need to come and talk to you at some point but this is not the time or the place. May I suggest that you return home – there's really nothing you can do here and it must be very distressing for you."
Laura Peverel lifted her head and nodded. "I don't know why I came, really. I just felt I should be here."
"Is there anyone who can be with you, take you home?" asked Camille gently.
"Yes, my husband's driver is over there – he was at the party last night, so he actually saw the yacht go up. I just can't believe it. Martin was with us yesterday evening for dinner, and now he's gone."
Camille went in search of the driver and returned with a middle aged American, rather stocky and with close-cropped hair. He looked white and shocked. "Let me drive you home, Mrs Peverel" he said. "Yes, thank you, Matt", as he led her away.
"We'll come and see you later on today" promised Richard. "I'm afraid there are a few questions that we will have to ask."
"Yes of course."
"He seemed on very good terms with Mrs Peverel," remarked Camille as they walked back to the recovery operation, "did you see the way he put his arm round her? Quite familiar, for an employee."
"But perhaps quite natural, in the circumstances?"
"Mm, I suppose so". Camille didn't sound particularly convinced. She wondered what Richard knew about behaving naturally.
Dwayne hurried up to them, dressed in shorts and a particularly garish shirt. Richard looked visibly pained. "Dear God." "Sorry, Chief, but I haven't had a chance to get home and change. I was at the party last night. I saw it happen."
"What did you see?"
"Well, the party had been going for some time. It was a great party! Everyone singing and dancing – and drinking of course. Then Martin Peverel drove up – that's his car over there, the blue one – and went to get into his dinghy which was pulled up on the sand. But some of his employees were at the party. They saw him and called him over. I could see he didn't really want to join the party but he did just for a short while, then he got into the dinghy and made for the yacht. It must have been about 11, 11.30. That's it really, until the explosion at about 4.30. Then I rang you, Chief, and when I couldn't get an answer I rang Camille and Fidel."
"And as far as you know no-one was with him when he went out to the yacht and no-one went out there subsequently?"
"Not that I saw, Chief. Oh but that beautiful yacht, all smashed to smithereens. And Martin Peverel, of course. It's so sad."
"Yes indeed. Well, I'm not sure there's a lot more we can do here. It's going to take some time for the divers to recover all the wreckage. Keep the harbour cordoned off for the rest of the day and, Fidel, make sure you photograph all the debris before it's taken off to Guadeloupe. In the meantime I think we have all earned a drink." Richard turned to Camille. "Do you think your mother will be open yet?"
"At this time of the morning, normally no, but on a day like this I'm sure she will be."
Twenty minutes later the four officers were seated round a table at La Kaz. "It's such a tragedy" said Catherine Bordey, carefully carrying four steaming mugs of coffee to the table. "What could have caused an accident like that?"
Richard's "We don't know yet" clashed with Camille's "Probably a gas leak". "We have to wait for the forensics report from Guadeloupe" explained Richard patiently. "And as it's now Saturday morning I doubt we'll have it before Monday at the earliest."
"Poor Martin" lamented Catherine.
"Did you know him, maman?"
"Well I knew him a long time ago, when he was just starting out. In fact, I worked for him for a while, picking bananas. You were only a little girl so you probably don't remember. It was when I had just opened the bar and was struggling to pay the bills. He offered me the opportunity to make a little extra on the side and I was grateful. But then he became successful and rich and our paths didn't cross for years. But I'm sad that he's dead. He did a lot for the island, you know."
"Yes" commented Richard drily, "you can't go far on the island without coming across the Martin Peverel Foundation in one form or another – the school, the new hospital wing, the library …"
"Well at least he did some good with his money. And he was very popular – everyone liked him."
"Well at the risk of being accused of speaking ill of the dead, I have to say that I for one didn't greatly care for him."
"I didn't realise you knew him" said Camille.
"I didn't, but I'm inherently suspicious of ostentatious philanthropy."
"Oh Richard, how cynical!"
"Don't take any notice of him, maman, he's been grumpy all morning!"
"I am NOT grumpy! Just stating my opinion, if that is allowed?"
"Good morning, team. I thought I might find you here". The Commissioner drew up a chair. "A bad business", he sighed. "And a great loss to Saint Marie. I was playing golf with him only the other day."
"Yes indeed, Sir, very sad." Richard tried to sound convincing.
"Martin Peverel was a very important man on this island, Inspector, and his death will have major implications. I take it there is no doubt it was a tragic accident?"
"Well we can't be sure, Sir, until we have the post mortem and forensic reports, but it certainly looks that way. We'll be talking to the family later on today."
"Good. I'm sure I can rely on you to treat the matter with the greatest sensitivity."
Catherine sat down in the seat recently vacated by the Commissioner. "Did you enjoy your coffee?" she asked. "I put a little brandy in it, you all looked as if you needed it."
"Thank you" replied Fidel, "it was horrible down at the harbour when they were bringing in the body parts. I mean I've seen plenty of dead bodies but never one that's been blown up." Catherine put her arm round the young officer and gave him a quick hug. "Well, don't have nightmares, Fidel."
"Right," said Richard, "let's head up to the station and make a start on the paperwork. When you've written your statement, Dwayne, you can go home – you're not supposed to be on duty today anyway. Camille and I will pay Mrs Peverel a visit after lunch."
"Thanks, Chief", said Dwayne, yawning loudly. "It has been a long night!"
Several hours later Richard and Camille drew up in front of the large villa Martin Peverel had had built overlooking the Bay of Honoré. Camille looked around, taking in the extensive and well tended gardens which fell down the hill in terraces, the tennis courts and swimming pool and lastly the sprawling Colonial-style house itself. Everything smacked of money, and plenty of it. "Well, he may have been a major benefactor to the island", she commented "but he certainly didn't stint himself, did he?"
They rang the bell and a uniformed maid showed them into a tastefully and expensively furnished lounge. Laura Peverel rose to greet them. "You have a beautiful house, Mrs Peverel" said Camille admiringly. "Thank you, yes. It has been my hobby, my main occupation I suppose you could say. I've never had anything to do with the business, you see."
"I'm sorry to trouble you at such a difficult time" said Richard "but could you please tell me when you last saw your husband, what his movements were yesterday?"
"Well, he was at work all day." "On the plantation?" "On the plantation, yes, he has an office there. Then he came home at about 6 and we had a family dinner in the evening. He left at about 9.30."
"And who was present at the dinner?"
"It was just us and the children: my son Jason and my daughter Emily."
"And where did he go when he left here?"
"He said he was going straight to the boat. He was leaving very early in the morning with Philippe so he was staying on board. They were going to dive a wreck off the coast of Guadeloupe."
"Philippe?"
"Philippe Delacroix. The man who runs the Island Hoppa boats. He and Martin are – were – both keen divers."
"I see. Well, thank you very much Mrs Peverel. We'll be in touch again when there is any news." Richard stood up to leave. "Oh, just one more thing" interjected Camille. "Your husband's driver. Has he been with you long?" Richard shot her a quizzical look.
"Matt McAllister? He's been with us for a couple of years. Ex US Army. He's not really a driver – well, he is, but he's also a mechanic – looks after the cars and the boat, anything with an engine, really."
"Why are you so interested in Mr McAllister?" Richard asked, as they walked back to the Defender. "I don't know, there's something about him, the whole situation, which just doesn't seem quite right." "And you know this how?" "I just know – instinct!" she replied teasingly, as she knew it would exasperate the just-give-me-the-proven-facts Inspector. Richard sighed, pulled an oh-please face and swung himself into the driver's seat.
Arriving back at the station, they found Fidel who had finished photographing all the evidence from the explosion. "The salvage operation has been completed, Sir" he reported. "The body – or what was left of it – has been taken to Guadeloupe for the autopsy. They promised to ring the preliminary findings through as soon as they have them. The forensics report is going to take a while, though – there was so much debris."
"Well done, Fidel. There's nothing more we can do for the moment, so I think I'm off home now."
"Yes, Sir. Well, you and Camille aren't supposed to be on duty this weekend, are you – it's me today and Dwayne tomorrow. Enjoy the rest of the weekend, Sir!"
Camille moved closer. "Do you want some company tomorrow?" she asked softly.
"Well, er, that would be, um, nice" he stammered, caught off guard as he always was whenever she broached anything personal. "If you're not doing anything special, that is", he added quickly.
"OK, I'll pick you up at about 10." And with an airy wave she ran down the steps and into the square.
Just before 10 the following morning Camille drew up outside Richard's shack. She could see him on the veranda, talking into his mobile.
"Yes, dad, well, I have to go now. I'll talk to you again when you're back. Have a good time and drive carefully! Bye"
He pulled a face. "They're off to Royal Ascot for the week. They go every year. Dad enjoys the racing and mum always enjoys a new hat. Well, each to his own."
"Did you see them when you were back in England?"
"Yes, I managed to get down there one day. They've moved, you know, sold the London house and made a fortune. Then they bought this great barn of a place down in the Cotswolds."
"Cotswolds?"
"It's a range of hills about a hundred miles west of London. It's what many people think of as quintessentially English – you know, honey-coloured stone, pretty villages, sheep grazing in the fields."
"You should fit in well, then!"
"Not really my scene. I mean, it's very pretty but I prefer the hustle and bustle of London. Look, here's a photo. It's an old manor house – dates back to the 18th century. God only knows why they had to buy something that size." Richard held out his mobile phone.
"Very impressive! And is that your parents?" She enlarged the image. "You have your mother's eyes but I think you look more like your father!"
"God forbid!"He sighed. Talking about his parents always made him vaguely depressed.
"And what else did you do when you were in England? You never really said. Was it nice and cold?"
No, it was grey, windy and pretty damn miserable.
"Yes it was wonderful. I felt cold again for the first time since I left."
"And did you go back to your favourite pub – what is it The White Hart? I bet you enjoyed having a drink there again."
Actually there's a new landlord, he's turned the place into a gastro pub, the snug has gone and even the beer is different.
"Yes, yes I did. It was really great to be back there."
"I'm glad you had such a good time" she said, a little wistfully. "Well, it's a lovely day so I thought we could take the boat out to the cove round the other side of the point and have a picnic." Camille pointed triumphantly to the picnic basket she had brought.
"Isn't that a bit far to row?" asked Richard nervously. He was never very at ease on or in the water.
"No, we'll take an oar each, it won't take very long."
"But I've never done any rowing!" he protested feebly, knowing it was useless to argue.
"Didn't they teach you to row at that posh school of yours?"
"Certainly not! It wasn't Eton, you know!"
"Well it doesn't matter. It's easy. I'll show you. Come on, let's get the boat in the water."
The Roast Beef was drawn up on the sand. They dragged it to the water's edge. Richard looked doubtfully at the water lapping at the bow and hovered at the edge. "Oh just get in and I'll push the boat off" said Camille in exasperation. It really wouldn't hurt him to roll up his trousers and take his shoes and socks off, she thought, but she knew he wouldn't. She waded in and pulled the boat, with Richard perched nervously on one of the benches, as hard as she could into the water, then jumped in herself and sat down next to him.
"See, you hold the oar like this, lean forward and pull back. It's really quite easy." Richard tentatively grasped the oar and tried a stroke but ended up splattering them both with water. She leant across and guided him with her hands. He shut his eyes and tried to concentrate. "There, that's better. Now try and do it at the same time as me." Gradually he began to get the hang of it and they made their way slowly out round the point and into the next bay, which was a little cove bordered by some palm trees, completely isolated. As they neared the shore the Roast Beef began to ground in the shallow water. Camille leapt out and dragged the boat far enough out of the water for Richard to emerge without getting his feet wet.
They found a spot in the shade of the palm trees and sat down on the sand. Normally Richard would have sat on his jacket, but he had left both jacket and tie at home – this time without being asked. He hoped she had noticed. His handkerchief seemed hardly up to the task but it was all he had so he spread it out neatly and carefully lowered himself onto it. Camille watched him in a mixture of amusement and despair, and emptied the picnic hamper. She had gone to some trouble to pack the sort of food that she knew he liked and was pleased to see his eyes light up at the sight of the cold beef sandwiches.
"Just like England?" she queried, tilting her head to one side.
"Absolutely", he replied, munching a sandwich and waving a bottle of beer. "Except that it's about 30 degrees hotter and there's not a lot of sand in Croydon."
"Well, I'm going to have a swim", announced Camille when they had finished their lunch.
"You really shouldn't swim immediately after a meal", warned Richard "it's very bad for your digestion. You should wait at least an hour …." He tailed off, quelled by the look on her face. "Sorry", he muttered, "just trying to, you know, be helpful."
"Hm"
Suddenly the stillness of the day was disturbed by a shrill ringing sound. Richard reached for his mobile. It was Dwayne.
"Afternoon, Chief. I'm sorry to disturb you but the preliminary autopsy report is in on Martin Peverel. Yes I know, I wasn't expecting it until tomorrow either. Someone must have leant on them to do it quickly – the Commissioner, I expect. Anyway, Chief, the thing is: Martin Peverel didn't die in the explosion. He was already dead, or at least unconscious – his lungs were full of carbon monoxide. "
"Were they, indeed! Yes, thanks, Dwayne. I'll be straight in. Ring Fidel and get him to come in too."
"And shall I ring Camille as well?"
"No, no, I'll do that" said Richard hastily, ringing off. It was fortunate that he could not see the broad grin on Dwayne's face. He turned to Camille. "Get the boat in the water – we have to go back straight away. There's no doubt this was no accident – Martin Peverel was murdered! Row!"
