Chapter 11 – Advice and Plans
They didn't talk much on their way back to the shack. Camille wasn't quite sure if it had been a good idea to tell him all these things, but done was done, and of course, she knew he'd keep it to himself. If nothing else, it had done her good to confide in someone. She hadn't even talked about it in depth with her mother, and for months she had carried the feeling of guilt with her, like a millstone around her neck, along with her grief.
It was getting darker now, but Richard was used to finding his way on the beach, and Camille didn't mind, either. When they reached the little bungalow, Richard brought out a bottle of wine and two glasses and lit a citronella candle, and Camille sat down, expecting him to join her at the other side of the table. But instead of taking a seat in the wicker chair, he pushed that to the side and pulled up some kind of trunk that he sat down on. It was a blanket box, she realised – it was made of that wicker-like plastic stuff that was so popular now, and it seemed quite sturdy.
Elvis came up to him, dragging the inevitable towel behind him, and Richard helped him up, spreading the towel on his thighs. With a grunt, the dog got comfortable on Richard's legs. "Oh, crumbs," Richard muttered, realising that he had forgotten something, and then addressed Camille "Could you do me a favour, Camille – there's a brush on the shelf inside… could you get that for me?"
Camille did as he asked her, and much to her surprise, Richard began brushing Elvis's coat with steady rhythmic movements. Elvis obviously loved it – he made little appreciative noises and clearly relaxed completely in this position. Richard looked up and saw the amazement in her eyes. A little embarrassed, he explained "I sometimes do that in the evenings. I think it helps to keep his coat clean – it's more hygienic, and bugs and bad odour won't have a chance that way. Also… also, he sheds, you know, and the shack is a breeding station for dustbunnies, anyway, so I reckon it's better if the loose hair doesn't make it inside at all…"
And he continued to brush Elvis's fur… Camille watched him as they sat in silence. His moving hands had something hypnotic, and she was feeling a little woozy from the combination of watching him and drinking wine. One glass wouldn't be a problem, she could still drive then… or she'd leave the Rover to him and walk home. She just shouldn't have more than one glass.
She was lost in thought, and when he suddenly spoke up again, she was almost startled.
"Mind you, Camille… I was wondering… can I ask what were you doing when you were 24?"
"Let me think," she answered lazily, not quite sure where he was heading with his question. She calculated silently and then went on to say "I was in Paris then. I had finished my training, but I didn't have my degree in psychology yet… I was getting ready for undercover work, I think… And you?"
"I had just finished my history degree," he said, "and I had decided to join the police then… not quite what I had had in mind originally, but it seemed to be a worthwhile career with a future, and I think now that I also did it to please my father. I wouldn't have joined if I had thought it was complete rubbish, but the decision seemed easier because I knew he'd approve."
He frowned for a moment.
"At least I suppose he approved… Not that he ever said so. But tell me, if anyone had told you that undercover work would be dangerous, would you have listened and changed your mind?" he asked.
"No, I don't think so," she answered after some reflecting. "Would you have changed your mind about joining the police if anybody had told you to consider doing something else?"
He shook his head.
After a pause, he continued "See, what I'm trying to say is… we all make our own decisions, and at the end of the day we are responsible for them. Aimee made her own decisions, too. You weren't responsible for her criminal energy or her concept of the truth."
Camille sat up in her chair and put the wine glass that she had been swirling around back on the table. "How do you mean?" she demanded.
"Well, I mean that she was a grown-up person, responsible for her life and her decisions. She chose not to wait for another chance to obtain a contract in Miami. She decided that now was the time to move on. She wanted it so badly that she sacrificed everything else for this idea and went down a path that she knew wasn't right. You can't tell me she wasn't aware of it…"
Camille nodded reluctantly, but then she tossed in "But I could have stopped her… I should have made an effort…"
Richard shook his head and said "You had no idea. You may have been gullible by not questioning the whole thing… but I'm sure Aimee made it all look perfectly fine, and obviously, she thought her plan would work out, so why tell you more than just the good stuff? She knew you wouldn't approve of her way to handle the situation. She knew you would have tried to talk her out of it, but she just wanted it too much. It was her decision, and she was responsible for it. I'm not saying it's her fault that she got killed – please don't get me wrong. She took a risk she couldn't quite fathom, she didn't realise that things could go so wrong. You could have pointed it out, but would she have listened? You will never know. But I want you to see that you are not responsible, and you are not guilty. Please don't beat yourself up over it. It's not only that you cannot change the past and have to accept what has happened… you have to free yourself from the concept of having had any chance to take influence at that point. You hadn't seen Aimee in quite a while, and she had grown into her own person while you had been away... She was exposed to all sorts of influences during your absence. I'm sure the nuns did their best, and you were her mentor when you were younger, but eventually, she had to lead her own life, and you weren't in charge of her."
His voice had become somewhat urgent. He was still brushing Elvis's coat, and he didn't look at her, but the way he had spoken wasn't aloof or 'en passant'. It was sympathetic and powerful in a strange way.
"Aimee was your friend," he said now, "and she loved you dearly. Do you think she would want you to make yourself sick over what happened? I doubt that… She was a grown up woman, and she lived her own life, and she'd want you to move on and live your own life, too."
Camille ran a hand through her hair. She hadn't looked at it from that angle. He had a point, though. Still, she wasn't quite convinced.
Richard felt that she was still in doubt, and he sighed. "There's nothing I can say or do to make you feel what I'm trying to say," he said now, "but please, Camille, give it some thought. We're all responsible for ourselves. No matter how close a friendship is – at the end of the day, we are our own persons, so-to-speak, and we must do what we think is right for us."
She nodded and sighed. "You may be right…"
He put the brush to the side now, but kept his hand on Elvis's flank, softly ruffling the fur with his fingers. "Mind you," he mused "I think that Aimee was very fortunate to have you as her friend and mentor. You… you are very loyal, and everyone who has won your respect and friendship can only be called an extremely lucky person…."
She turned her head to look at him in the semi-darkness, and a little smile curved her lips as she responded "Thank you. That's by far the nicest thing you have ever said to me. And in that context… I apologise for having been so rotten to you this afternoon. I shouldn't have been so… so stroppy. I over-reacted for whatever reason – I can't even say what bugged me so much that I had a go at you and then basically spent the rest of the afternoon ignoring you."
Richard raised his eyebrows. "Oh well," he said, clearly a little embarrassed, "you've made up for it, so don't worry. But… While we're at it, I… I'm sorry that I was so…"
He was looking for the right word, then he saw her smiling broadly, and suspiciously, he asked "What?"
She giggled now and said "I think the word you're looking for is 'annoying', huh?"
"Really, Camille – I wouldn't go that far…" he protested, suppressing a smile.
"Oh, whatever!" She put the wineglass back on the table and said "Apology accepted. I'd better go now, sir. I'm sorry I've kept you so long, but I'm glad we talked. You… you have helped me to see things under a different aspect, and that's good. And… I appreciate your efforts to make me feel better. I don't know why you're doing that when I've been quite awful to you on many occasions, but I really appreciate it…"
He gave her a brief nod and said "You're not always awful. And… and you've done things for me, too. But anyway, I'll see you tomorrow then, I suppose."
She had taken a few steps when she heard his voice again "You know, Camille, would you terribly mind if I'd ask you not to call me 'sir' around here? It makes me feel so… 'official', if you know what I mean…"
What he actually meant was 'old', but he couldn't possibly say that.
She turned around. In the twilight, she couldn't quite see his face, but his voice sounded thoughtful, yet a little embarrassed. She tilted her head to one side and asked "So, what would you prefer me to call you then? When I called you by your first name on one occasion, you said it's 'Detective Inspector Poole' for me, so…"
His lips twitched – he remembered that…
"Well, you can stick with that in public," he said now. Then he added "But around here, I'm not your boss, and I like to believe that my friends would call me 'Richard', don't you think so?"
She nodded and replied "Very well… good night then, Richard…"
He couldn't see the expression on her face, but the way she said his name made his skin tingle. He watched her going back to the Rover, and a minute later she was gone…
So, friends. That's what they were, weren't they? On the way home, Camille had to smile at the memory of their final exchange. He was getting more mellow, definitely.
Despite her initial doubts and worries about the visit, everything had gone well. The awkwardness of the night before and the irritation of today had been gone, and she had actually felt quite comfortable with him. It had done her good to talk about her feelings of guilt after Aimee's death. As unlikely as it had seemed, he had found the right words to make her feel better. Given his usual clumsiness and lack of people skills, it was really surprising that he had been able to convey so much sympathy and understanding…
And it had been endearing how he had brushed and caressed Elvis. His movements had been gentle, and he had literally stroked him to sleep – the pooch had been snoring faintly when Camille had left.
Once again, she wondered how Richard would cope with Prissy's return and Elvis's 'departure'. She was well aware of his attachment to the dog, and she couldn't help but ask herself if he didn't over-estimate his resilience and ability to 'let go'.
Selwyn Patterson let out a deep sigh as he put his spoon down and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He had spent a most agreeable afternoon at home – Suzanne had brought him cake, he had rested and taken a long nap on the couch, and he had made several phonecalls. And dinner had been delicious.
Still, he was a little restless because he hadn't found a solution for his problem.
His wife looked at him from under her lashes and finally asked "So, what is it, Selwyn? You said you have something going round in your head and can't quite find a solution for that issue – will you tell me about it, or do you think it's none of my business after all?"
He sighed again and then wrinkled his nose, saying "I'm not sure if you can help, but it might do me good to talk about it, nevertheless. Sometimes it helps to just formulate one's thoughts…"
Leaning back, he smiled at his wife and started to give her the background information of what was bothering him. As she had expected, it had to do with the Honoré Police Station, or more precisely, with Detective Inspector Poole and his attempts to get a transfer back to the UK. She knew that Poole had agreed to make his assignment 'permanent', but that didn't mean he'd stop applying for new positions if they were available. He had sent out a few applications a couple of months ago – not as many as before, but he obviously still checked the Met's website for job opportunities.
The Commissioner didn't want to lose him, and he explained to his wife how Catherine had pointed out that maybe he should look out for better accommodation so the Inspector would make himself more at home.
Suzanne nodded and interjected "I think this is a good idea, Selwyn. I haven't been to that shack for quite a while now – the last time I visited was when Inspector Hulme was still there, and the bungalow was a hovel then – which certainly has to do with Hulme's tendency to create a chaos wherever he went. I know that everyone who has to do with Inspector Poole says that he is tidy, accurate and obsessed with hygiene, so I'm sure the house looks totally different now, but still – the plumbing is atrocious, it gets awfully hot under that tin roof, and while the Inspector isn't known for hoarding lots and lots of things, I imagine that he's not very impressed with the lack of storage. He must feel like he's staying in a hostel of some kind, or like he's in transit. The house is nice enough for a holiday stay, but it's hardly good enough for a more permanent arrangement…"
"Hm," made her husband. Then he went on "Another thing is that he has taken 'custody' of a little dog… "
And he reiterated how Elvis had ended up in Richard's care and how the two of them obviously got on like a house on fire.
Mrs Patterson exclaimed "But that's good, isn't it! It's a commitment, I'd say, and I'm sure he'd never abandon the dog – from what you say, he's very attached to him!"
The Commissioner sighed and said "See, but this is the problem – it's obviously not his dog, and eventually, Prissy Maynard – who's the owner – will come back from Martinique. Catherine thinks she might not want to stay on Saint Marie, anyway, because she's got no job around here, and her entire family lives elsewhere… she has this sister on Martinique, another one on Jamaica, and her two brothers live in the US and on Dominica, respectively. So… if she leaves, she'll take Elvis with her, and even if she doesn't, she'll want to have Elvis around, and the Inspector inevitably will have to give up on him. I wouldn't say Poole is an overly emotional man, but he might find it difficult to cope with that, and if the job opportunity that my contact at the Met informed me about that is basically ideal for him comes up at the right time, he will apply and go away because nothing will keep him here. I don't think he tends to over-react, but you never know, and I don't want to take any chances. I know he doesn't trust me – and in all honesty, I can't even blame him… I know well enough that I've tricked him into staying here… so whatever I do, it has to be done secretly and without attracting attention. I have to keep a low profile, and whatever plan I come up with, it has to be fail-safe…"
"I see," said Suzanne. She rubbed her forehead and put her imaginary thinking cap on. Her husband's eyes rested on her, expectantly, yet trying not to be too hopeful.
"I have an idea," she finally said, leaning forward and smiling at him…
