Hehe, next installment! 2 thank yous this time! One to Sweepeaspatch, and the other to all of you who left reviews!! Thank you :)))) xxxxx
"You think he's doing alright?" asked Fidel anxiously, ever the worrier.
Camille smiled absently to herself. Fidel was so caring. And his devoted adoration of Juliette - now, that was beautiful.
The trio were seated at their respective desks in the police station, each busy with something or other. Dwayne was currently banging his monitor in order to resurrect the annual volleyball tournament on his screen; Fidel was busy writing up a report on the latest bootlegger; Camille was deeply engrossed in snipping up A4 paper in fascinating shapes to form repeat patterns - her latest creation was a row of Russian doll-like figures.
"Oui, bien sur," she replied, in response to the younger officer's question. "They're probably discussing the good old days, when they were young and free and beautiful."
"And when they got drunk every night on cheap wine at parties," Dwayne chimed in, pausing the aggressive beating of his computer to wink at his friends coyly.
Fidel shook his head, laughing, "They went to Cambridge, you know."
"So?" The older officer shrugged and began to rummage through his desk drawer for a hammer. "You can get drunk on cheap wine at a party at Cambridge."
Camille snorted and shot Dwayne a humorous glance, "Like you'd know."
The room lapsed back into silence - the comforting kind, for there are only certain people one can sit in an unawkward silence with. The three were close; they always had been. Camille felt their proximity had only increased over the last few months. Their friendship was close and dependant upon one another.
The room remained in such a silence, right up until 5.40pm.
At which point the phone rang.
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"And can you tell me what happened then?" probed Camille gently, offering a tissue to the sobbing witness.
Shakily, the woman regained her composure and began to speak, "I went out to offer him a cocktail (we were playing charades, and he didn't want to join in) an- and-" here her voice wavered and she wiped her eyes vigorously, "-he was just... lying there. So... so still... So...cold... So dead!! So handsome..." The last bit was especially breathy and tearful, the sergeant couldn't help noticing.
The woman began to cry again, and Camille took a deep breath. It had been like this for all of the 15 minutes they'd been at the crime scene, and while she completely understood the grief that accompanied losing a friend, she couldn't help but feel a little tired of attending to Angela Birkett's sorrows. She motioned frantically at Dwayne, and when he'd come and relieved her of the crying suspect, she headed over towards the crime scene.
It really was quite shocking.
The Inspector, formerly, it now appeared, of the Saint-Marie police force was slumped in a chair, an ice pick protruding harshly from his chest.
Camille grimaced. Nobody deserved that fate.
Snapping his notebook shut, Fidel walked over to join her by the dead Inspector's body.
"Bad, isn't it?" he said mournfully. His French superior nodded grimly.
She hadn't much liked the Inspector, but that didn't mean she'd ever considered him being murdered. The concept of murder was odd, really, taking away someone's life for one's own personal gain. Camille looked back down at the dead inspector's body. Poor man...
She was startled out of her thoughts by a frantic nudge in her ribs from Fidel.
"Sir!" Fidel straightened and saluted Selwyn Patterson.
Camille hurriedly uprighted her body, "Sir."
The Commissioner of Honore's police force ambled onto the crime scene.
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Sometime earlier, in Croyden...
The waking man winced, the blaring tone of his mobile telephone assaulting his ears. Muttering a colourful profanity under his breath, he sat up in bed and groped for the offending object on his bedside table. Wiping the sleep from his eyes and cursing vehemently when he bashed his wrist on the corner of his bed, he swiped up to accept the call.
And proceeded to very nearly fall out of bed upon hearing a very familiar voice.
"Greetings, Inspector."
Richard Poole scowled petulantly at the wall opposite him. "I hope you realise it's 2am in the morning and you... Sleep... Interrupted... my sleeping..." He winced again, processing the atrocity of his speaking abilities at 2.04am, and prayed the voice wouldn't comment on it.
"I have a proposal for you."
Richard glared harder at the totally inoffensive wall. The figure at the other end of the line had always been one for theatre: it was always suspense and drama with them but it was 2am and Richard Poole was irritable at the best of times and so he didn't bother replying. Idly, he wondered if he would receive any elaboration or explanation... He did, but it didn't come for quite some time. In fact, Richard was just beginning to drift off again, eyes slowly closing, when the voice gave in and reluctantly continued.
"Come back to us. One last case."
Green eyes shot open. One last case. One last case? One last chance to try and trick him again, more like. And this was being presented to him as a "proposal"? Bullshit. Bullshibullshe- Richard forced himself to stay awake. He was prepared to bet that Selwyn Patterson had no backup plan, for the Commissioner knew as well as Richard did that there was only one response the pedantic Englishman ever could give.
"Yes. I'll do it," came the sleep-fuzzled response at Commissioner Patterson's end of the line followed promptly by soft snores. Smiling maliciously to himself and shaking his head slightly, Selwyn hung up the phone.
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Sun streamed into the station, optimistic golden light and warmth with it. In contrast to the weather, Camille Bordey, dressed in a vibrant red vest and fitted tan shorts, was slumped wearily against her desk.
"And Sasha? She and James were married?" she asked, somewhat half-heartedly.
"Yes," replied Fidel eagerly. "They were uni sweethearts and they've stayed together ever since."
Camille nodded at Dwayne, who was positioned by Honore's renowned whiteboard, pen in hand. At his sergeant's nod, he drew a thick line linking James and Sasha Moore's names together, and scrawled 'SCREWING' in crude capitals beneath it.
"Just 'married' will do, Dwayne," said Camille tiredly.
The officer in question ignored her, "How about Roger?" he prodded Fidel, eager to have something written under the fearsome mugshot of Humphrey's supposed friend.
"Well..." the younger officer paused, scanning his detailed notes for information on the final guest in attendance at Humphrey's fatal tea. "He seems quite normal. A few convictions for drunken behaviour, all in his youth. The usual, really. Nothing serious."
Dwayne nodded efficiently and wrote 'MINOR CRIMES' underneath the name, before frowning crossly at the whiteboard pen - it had run out on the 'E'. Impatiently, he tossed it into the bin. Camille's features twisted into a small smile, as she remembered that time when she'd done the same to Richard's special pen...
"Good morning, team."
She wiped the smile from her face and stood bolt upright.
"Sir."
"Sir."
"Chief."
There followed a pause, in which the Commissioner circled his officers - not unlike a predator rounding up his prey before pouncing upon them and devouring them, Camille couldn't help thinking wistfully.
"How is the case progressing?"
"Good, Sir," she replied dutifully. "We've been collating all the information we know about our 4 suspects and we are storing it on our database." She gestured politely at the whiteboard, and cringed when she saw SCREWING written on it.
Fortunately, her boss didn't follow her gaze and instead stared at Camille herself, a humoured look in his eye.
Fidel and Dwayne exchanged a glance; they knew this expression to be the Commissioner's game-playing face. And, judging by the way he was smirking at Camille, he was enjoying himself rather a lot.
"But you think you're handling the whole affair fine?"
Camille paused, unsure of what to say. Dwayne sensed her uncertainty.
"We're doing very well, Chief," he said cheerily.
Selwyn nodded slowly. "Good," he said shortly.
The three officers looked at one another nervously.
"So," the Commissioner concluded, "You wouldn't be wanting any help from a DI, then."
He turned and made as if to exit the station, but was quickly stopped by Camille, "Well, Sir, we wouldn't mind extra help, of course," she said, cheeks pinkening slightly.
Patterson spun on his heel. "Good," he repeated. "Then," he beckoned through the open doors to the station, "Come, come."
Camille squinted, confused. Who was he talking to??
Fidel saw him before she did (Dwayne had zoned out by this point). His gasp told her all she needed to know.
Rounding the corner and entering the station was an all too familiar figure, a figure wearing an all too familiar suit with pale hands gripping an all too familiar briefcase.
Unconsciously, Camille's own knuckles gripped the desk she was leaning against. The close observer would notice that the knuckles turned white, would notice that she'd stiffened and - also unconsciously - brushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear.
Deja vu. A peculiar notion, with peculiar effects.
The Commissioner merely beamed at his team. Ah, yes. This was perfect, he thought to himself, incredibly satisfied with his carefully constructed plan. This had gone ever so well - it was artwork. There was no other word for the great, meticulous organisation that this operation had required, and he, Selwyn Patterson, had managed it all. God, he was good! Better than good. Fantastic.
"Team," stated the Commissioner idly, feigning ignorance to the team's reaction, "I'd like to introduce," he paused, chuckling. "Well, reintroduce, Detective Inspector Richard Poole. Of the MET, in London," he added as an afterthought and in perfect imitation of his very same words two years ago on that very same spot.
Richard, eyes desperately wide, nodded frantically. "Good God. Hot in here, isn't it?"