Forfeits: Or, The Dangers of Intra-Office Emailing
This was also written back in 2018, but it takes place just before series 1 episode 8.
...
It had been one of the longest chases the Honoré team had completed together, but at last they closed in on the remaining gang members, cornering them at the terminal just as the ferry was tying up to its berth. Dwayne had leapt off the motorbike and rushed his man, throwing him down and slapping the cuffs on before he could even squeal. Fidel scrambled from the sidecar and ran his man down to where the gangplank would be in a scant few seconds, then loomed over him and politely requested him to allow himself to be cuffed. The wrists were meekly handed over.
Camille doored one as the Defender roared up to the remaining gang members, flew out of the front seat and cuffed him as he lay breathless. The remaining two fled, darting down an alley between warehouses, only to come up to a blank wall. When they turned, the Defender was prowling up behind, filling almost the whole width of the alley and ambling gently forward, while they glared wildly this way and that for escape. When the front bumper was within a foot of them, pressed against the wall, the engine cut off, and DI Richard Poole squeezed out of the driver's door.
He put himself in the gap between the vehicle and the wall, as luck would have it on the side where Celia Havers was, with Chuck Crawley facing the passenger side. They glared at him; then Celia held his gaze while Chuck's eyes slid left to where the narrow crack to freedom lay. He inched that way, only to come face to face with the dark, half-wild beauty of Camille, who had followed the Defender as soon as Dwayne had muscled his man over to her and taken charge of the prisoners.
Poole reached around behind to the back of his belt, under his suit coat, produced his cuffs and tossed them across the Defender's bonnet to Camille, who caught them out of the air and snapped Chuck's wrists together, smiling at him sweetly.
By this time Celia was smiling too, at Richard Poole, which brought heat to Camille's eyes, and something very like weariness to Poole's level gaze. He leaned on the vehicle and spoke his piece.
"Celia Havers, Charles Crawley, I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Gregory Howard Scott. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?" It's over.
Then a pause, as both Poole and Camille realized there was a little problem; five collars, four pairs of cuffs, and no spares in the Defender's glove box, not since Dwayne had used them as a temporary fix for a developing separation in the motorbike.
Chuck slumped, wondering at the delay. Celia had been looking DI Poole over, and her smile widened. "I'll come quietly, Inspector. I'm sure there's no need for restraints, is there?"
Poole took in a breath and let it out. Then he reached up and unknotted his tie.
Camille would have said something, but bit her tongue and watched as her DI slipped the thing off and edged toward Celia with it draped in his hands. "If you would," he said quietly.
Celia's smile became quite bemused as she had her wrists double-bound with a genuine simulated silk monochrome special. Poole then edged his prisoner through the narrow gap to the back of the Defender and assisted her in, ignoring the very odd sustained look she was giving him. Camille dragged Chuck out of the crack and back to the cage, restraining herself from kicking him in after Celia.
With the doors locked, Poole fetched his handkerchief and ran it over his face, blowing out a little. They'd been hunting all morning and although the bag was full, that didn't mitigate the toll it took on him to keep up with the acclimatized members of his team. He scrubbed round the back of his neck and even let the top button on his shirt slip in a last-ditch effort to get cooler, then climbed into the driver's seat.
"Alert the prison, Camille. We're not going to be able to keep them all in our custody. It'd be appreciated if they could meet us at the station and take them from there." He ground the key and glanced over to where she should be dialing up her mobile, only to find her fixed on him with much the same look as Celia had been giving him a minute ago.
"What?"
Camille smiled, shrugged and touched a number, a moment later talking to an unbelieving prison official. Her mind was orbiting around two focal points: how lucky she was to be working with DI Richard Poole, and how she could use this incident to lever a little more of Richard out of Poole.
She forced her mind off the fact that the undone top button of his shirt was sending her fancy reeling in ways that became more and more necessary to keep private, and focused resolutely on the tie. Using it as he had was approaching gallant, almost chivalrous; silken bonds stuff, in fact. It was ineffably romantic, and the parfait knight who had done it was totally oblivious to its overtones. That made it all the more appealing.
When Fidel and Dwayne added their collars to the haul, they may have noticed the tie and they may have not; they didn't say. Meanwhile Camille smiled all the way back to the station, to Poole's annoyance. What had he done now?
"You probably won't get it back, you know," Camille ventured as they pulled up past the market where the prison van was waiting. Richard shrugged.
"Not really my color, any rate."
For the next hour a milling crowd of policemen, guards and suspects sorted themselves out in and around the station, the paper piling up above and the prisoners in the van below. Just a minute or two into the session, as she came around to the driver's side of the Defender to lock it after the morning's work, Camille found a streak of white on the seat and very nearly brushed it off as a stray scrap of paper, until it hit her what it was: Richard's handkerchief.
She whipped out an evidence bag and carefully eased it inside, wafting it under her nose just before sealing it. Mmmm . . . Richard's handkerchief indeed.
Now – how to put it to the best possible use?
...
Camille had been right; when the last of the prisoners had vanished, so had the monochrome special, and Poole had been forced to go without for the rest of the day. Despite having to explain to Dwayne and Fidel, and receiving their jocular welcomes to the blue-collar club, it didn't bother him that much. Not as much as the inexplicable loss of the handkerchief he'd had just this morning. The day wore on under the chronically slow ceiling fans, and all the cold water bottles in the fridge somehow didn't make up for not having a good wipe-down now and then.
Especially not near as much as the way Camille was behaving. After the hot work of the morning and all her reports were turned in, she remained fixed on her computer, googling this and that and smiling, then looking over at him speculatively.
A nameless apprehension began forming in the corners of Poole's mind, and for some reason his hand kept returning to his collar, pinching it closed. He had already tried and the button refused to stay fastened without the tie. Dratted off-the-rack shirts!
All Poole could do was make a mental note to keep a spare tie in his desk, and be pretty stern with Dwayne as he reminded him the motorbike had to be fixed this week so they could have their cuffs back. And go on ignoring whatever Camille was doing.
It was late in the day when the email came. Poole discouraged intra-office emails on the grounds that there should be nothing in them that could not be said out loud. It was titled, 'Team-Building' from Camille (surprise, surprise) and he hit it with the express intention of replying to it verbally.
I'm thinking of giving a party at my place for the team. I need games to play, any suggestions? Like Forfeits?
For a moment Poole was distracted. He hadn't played Forfeits in donkey's years, even as the 'bailiff' who collected the personal articles or as the 'judge' who handed out the stunts the players must do to redeem their things. Then he brushed away those memories and verbally reminded his sergeant that this could be done after work, and he was sure he could find her something to fill her idle hours. Camille meekly apologized, which should have made Poole suspicious, but did not.
Heat slackened just a little and shadows began to crouch in the corners of the station. Just at that point in the afternoon when office work becomes exceptionally appalling, Poole stacked the day's reports in the outbox ready to be taken for delivery to Government House in the morning. A good day's work. Desk clear, nothing in the inbox, nothing in email . . . wait, there was one thing. He tapped it open.
"I am sitting here, Camille? And I thought I made it clear about intra-office messages?"
"It's a link, sir. You really should look it over before you go home."
Poole spared her a stern glance, hrumphed and clicked the link. It took him to a page with a background resembling a doily, littered on the edges with rosebuds and little golden heart charms. The title was in ornate fuchsia and read, 'The Language of the Handkerchief.'
It wasn't immediately apparent to DI Poole what this was about, save it was mawkish. He glanced down the text to discover he was reading a list culled from some Victorian handbook, of signals to make with a handkerchief in polite company, in order to enable a lady to . . . flirt.
There must be some error in the link –
Then with a sudden, ghastly realization, Poole stared across the office to where his detective sergeant was sitting, his lost handkerchief spread open and dangling from her fingers, with her dark eyes glowing over it.
Heaven help us, the woman was mad! What was she doing, in a police station, in office hours, in front of witnesses –!
Poole had been about to leap up and demand the return of his property, until the realization that Dwayne and Fidel were still at their desks paralyzed him. The thought of his complete and utter humiliation if either of them realized what Camille was playing at blasted away any attempt at sound or movement, and all he could do was go scarlet – rapidly, stupidly and thoroughly.
Trapped.
Now . . . keep calm, Poole. Easy does it; easy it is. This was no different from any hostage situation, and he had attended his share of those. No one need be hurt if correct procedure was followed . . .
He held up both hands slowly, palms toward her, trying not to look as panicked as he felt. All right . . . understood. You've got it, I want it – what next?
Camille smiled, hoping she didn't look as wicked as she felt. Carefully, Camille, gently . . . you don't want to kill him – yet . . . How cute he was when he was scared silly! With just the slightest inward shiver, she drew the handkerchief into a soft blossom under her nose and made a great show of inhaling its fragrance, a look of rapture on her face.
Ughhh . . . Poole screwed up his expression in disgust. Did she know where that thing had been? He repeated the Understood, what next? gesture, and then turned his hands palms upward, willing his face into a question: What are your terms?
Camille smiled again, coyly, and flicked the handkerchief toward his monitor. Then she laid the cloth down on her desktop and began folding it neatly, watching him all the while.
Folding, folding . . . another shape? What –? Then Poole remembered the list on his screen and began running down the items. Blossom under the nose . . . flower shape? Nothing. But there was a meaning to folding the thing, rather far down – Folding it carefully: Let's talk.
He looked back at Camille and nodded, completely serious. One hand repeated Terms?
Camille held the coy smile, shook out the linen in her left hand and began gently twisting it with her right fingers, as though she were spinning. When it was wound she wrapped it around her right, all the while watching him.
Poole frowned, shooting rapid glances between this and the screen. Twisting, wrapping – no. Twisting in the right hand: I'm thinking about you. Well, for –! Was that it? He faced away from the screen to her, his hands signaling What are your terms? again, firmly.
Camille couldn't help making a little 'ooo' with her lips, narrowing her eyes at him. So commanding, sir! She went back to the demure smile as he glared in response. Then she daintily unfurled the handkerchief, spread it on her desk and swept it up by the center, to dabble it softly across her lower lip, watching him through her lashes.
Poole dove for his monitor. Crossing the mouth, the lips – Drawing it across the lips: Let's flirt.
This was enough. It was more than enough, for heaven's sake! He began to get up out of his chair, pointing down at his desk and mouthing, This is a police station –!
Camille quickly patted her forehead from right to left, looking serious. At the same moment Poole heard Dwayne shift his feet on his desk, and Fidel make a comment about the time in response. He paused, glaring furiously, and resumed his seat.
Patting forehead, wiping forehead – Drawing it across the forehead: Beware! We are being watched. So they were. Poole suppressed a growl, neutralized his expression and did the Terms? thing. He was beginning to dislike this foolery intensely.
The smile was gone from Camille's face, though. She was almost pouting, and the linen that had been touching her forehead was now dabbling at the corners of her eyes. Poole refrained from sneering – crocodile tears! – and consulted his screen. Wiping eyes, wiping tears, drying tears – Remaining on the eyes was the closest he could find: You are so cruel.
I'M cruel? He was on his feet this time, jabbing a forefinger at her. YOU'RE the one who's cruel! In all my years as an officer of the law –! He slowed and stopped, realizing he was miming every word. Camille was smothering what had to be a whole chorus of giggles in the handkerchief. Poole had no choice but to 'hem', lower himself back into his seat and try to look like he had never left it.
He folded his arms, rotated his chair and glared at his back wall for a while, until he felt he could take this torture again. Then he swiveled back toward Camille, who had evidently been waiting. She smiled sadly, flourished the cloth in her right hand, and with one discreet, dainty motion thrust it squarely down her cleavage.
Poole planted both elbows on the desk and his burning face in both hands. There was no God; there was no justice or mercy or law in the universe. He was entirely alone.
He didn't know how long it was before he could look up again, one hand shielding Camille from his eyes, to check his monitor for the interpretation of that last horrendous message. In the, er – on the – put in . . . um. Resting it on the heart, that must be it: You're breaking my heart.
Poole ran both hands through his hair, scrubbing it. In another few months or so he'd be bald. He finished by holding his face in one hand, eyes closed, for a slow count of ten, then sitting up in his chair again, as miserable as an Englishman could be. Camille was waiting, holding the handkerchief out to the front of her desk, with a trace of pity in her expression. When she saw him emerge, she smiled shyly and dropped the linen on the floor.
Poole exited the site and shut off the monitor. No one needed to have that one interpreted, not even him. Dropping it on the floor: Come and meet me.
"Well, Chief." That was Dwayne, looking unnaturally solemn, standing with Fidel in front of his desk. "Time to lock up. Unless you want . . .?"
Poole had to clear his throat once or twice before he could answer. "No, no, I . . . hum. I have an appointment, any rate. Uh . . . Fidel –?"
"Sir?" It sounded just a little frightened.
"Please tell me you weren't all in on this."
Dwayne looked at Fidel, who was staring over Poole's head at the map of Saint-Marie, chagrin written across his face. He squared his shoulders and spoke for the younger man as well as himself. "We was to make a little noise when the Sarge wiped her forehead, and leave to go home when she dropped it on the floor. That's all we know. Sorry, Chief."
"I – we are sorry, sir." That was Fidel, meaning it.
Poole spoke from behind his covering hand. "No more intra-office emails. Dismissed."
When they'd gone Poole looked across at Camille, not bothering to summon up even a trace of wounded pride or outrage. "In all my years as an officer of the law, I . . . don't know how to finish that sentence, Sergeant."
Oh, Richard . . . Camille felt the sting of tears, of shame or pity or longing, or all three together perhaps . . . she had never known the pain of being shy. "Can we still – meet, sir?"
Poole flapped a hand at the linen on the floor. "You won the game. Where and when?"
"That 'Language of the Handkerchief' . . . that wasn't the game, sir." He just looked at her, dazed. "Forfeits, remember? Your chance to redeem your personal article?"
"And that nightmare I just went through, what was that? Warm-up?"
"Just – talk to me, Richard. Not about work, not what's in Super Glue or how particles collide; just small talk. Maybe even banter, now and then?"
Poole let out a breath, got up, donned his jacker and hefted his briefcase. When he left the alcove he stooped and made to pick up the handkerchief, quailed, and finally took the least bit of edge he could manage between two fingertips, lifted it and placed it on her desk.
"Why don't you keep it, Camille?" he said, quietly. He'd gotten a whiff of the everyday scent she wore from it, and after the 'Language' session it was probably better . . . "I'd rather you did. Only wash it first. And you'll have to bear with me about this 'small talk'. I don't even know what it is if it's not shop or – quite interesting things."
Wash it? Never! "Lesson one of Beginner's Small Talk, tonight at La Kaz," Camille murmured, finding her handbag. "On the house, sir."
Poole shook his head, certain that was as near to an apology as he'd get, and flicked off the lights. Tomorrow had to be better.
"Richard." He turned back to see Camille stand, smiling, and pick up the linen from the desk. She flicked it out, then smoothed it slowly across her cheek, from her ear to her mouth.
"What's that, then?"
"What small talk is made of. Shall we? I'm buying."
...
The Language of the Handkerchief:
Drawing it across the forehead - Beware, we are watched
Dropping it on the floor - Come, meet me
Twisting it in the right hand - I'm thinking of you
Drawing it across the cheek - I love you
Drawing it across the lips - Let's flirt
Twisting in the left hand - Let's set a time to meet
Folding it carefully - Let's talk
Holding the opposite corners in both hands - Wait for me
Resting it on the heart - You're breaking my heart
Letting it remain on the eyes - ou are so cruel