Good God it's hot in here, isn't it?
Richard swore.
What had he been thinking, reuniting with his frie- colleagues after all this time, to say that??!!
He was sat at the spare desk in the police station - his old one was an utter mess, thanks to the deceased Detective - with his hands clasping an icy cold water bottle to his forehead. Inwardly forcing himself not to groan at the heat of Saint-Marie (he'd completely forgotten how bloody hot the temperatures were in the Caribbean) he leant over his desk and clicked the 'on' button on the fan.
... The fan didn't respond.
And when he almost burst out laughing at that fact, Richard Poole was fully convinced he had heatstroke.
He really didn't want heatstroke.
Things had been bad, exceptionally so, since the sly devil of a commissioner had made a speedy exit from the station. That he'd only been on Saint-Marie for an hour had no effect on the incredible badness of the situation. Things had been so very bad, in fact, that Camille had left.
Quite literally - she'd walked pointedly out of the station with an expression of what looked like horror mingled with fear.
Richard had of course assumed that the other officers had been informed of his return; he'd assumed they'd had time to prepare for his demeanour and methods, time to anticipate his awkwardness, his absolute incompetence in all things social. Time to contemplate his return!
What he hadn't imagined in his wildest dreams was Selwyn Patterson springing it onto them as a complete surprise. Truly evil... The man was an absolute, total, big, malicious con, thought Richard furiously, acutely aware that the thought was one he'd had many, many times before.
Deja vu, a peculiar notion, with peculiar effects.
Fidel and Dwayne had also hurriedly escaped Honore's station, excusing themselves rapidly by claiming they had a lunchtime patrol to see to. Richard was jetlagged, sure, but he wasn't jetlagged to the extent that he thought it was midday when really it was 4.30pm. He didn't think that even the crazy French population of Saint-Marie could change their lunchtime to half past four in the afternoon.
They just wanted to run away from me, he thought dolefully. I suppose they need time. But honestly, this is all the Commissioner's fault!
Scowling moodily, Richard decided to tackle the desk situation, getting up out of his chair and stalking over to the desk he'd used on a daily basis just months ago: it was nothing like how he'd left it.
There was a huge stack of miscellaneous pieces of paper next to the computer and when he flicked through the pile he saw that it contained everything from newspaper clippings to leaflets comparing 6 different types of razors. A tie stained green with goodness knows what had been flopped over the computer's monitor.
Richard shuddered. He couldn't imagine even considering keeping such items in his place of work, let alone keeping them unwashed.
Bracing himself for the worst, he decided to venture deeper into the desk itself, and for old times' sake, he began with the top left hand drawer. Tugging at the handle revealed that the drawer was a little stiff, but after a few pulls it was open. Richard was pleasantly surprised to see that Humphrey had been similar to him in that he'd also decided to store jelly babies therein.
Ah, well. The man had some good taste, then, thought Poole happily, pinching a jelly baby between his fingers and squinting at it before popping it into his mouth and continuing his search.
His happiness was short lived, however, for after a few seconds he discovered that the sweet was rather unpleasant - it tasted of mold.
Hastily spitting it into a tissue, Richard pulled open another desk drawer and frowned in bewilderment at its contents. Pulling the slightly crumpled receipt from its position on top of a dictionary revealed that it did indeed say what Poole had suspected.
Humphrey had bought a book in French from a market stall in Honore? A little odd, since Richard was almost completely certain that Humphrey had been unable to speak French.
Blinking confusedly, but dismissing the fact as unimportant, Richard called out into the empty station, "Did Inspector Goodman speak French, Camille?"
Puzzled, after a little while, when he didn't get a response, Richard looked up.
The realisation that he was alone in the police station hit him, possibly too hard.
Sighing heavily, he sat down at his own desk and began to meticulously organise his paper trays.
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Instinctively, she'd gone straight to the beach.
Of course, she could've headed to Maman at the bar (though she wouldn't be much help - she hated Richard with an almighty passion) or to... Well, when Aimee was alive, Camille would have gone straight to her place. They would've sat on Aimee's bed and talked for hours, in the way that only best friends can, Camille complaining about the nerve of Selwyn Patterson, Aimee grumbling about living out of a suitcase. The talking would have gone on for a while and when it was over they'd have made themselves hot chocolate, despite the island's heat, smothering the hot liquid itself with whipped cream and marshmallows, before sitting on Aimee's couch and watching their favourite childhood programs together.
But Aimee wasn't alive and Camille couldn't help feeling like she had no one to turn to.
It might be quite nice to have a father for these situations, she thought wryly.
Gazing at the infinite expanse of glittering blue made her feel suddenly overwhelmed. Sitting down cross-legged in the sand and burying her fingers into the golden grains, she watched frothy waves lap gently against the sun-drenched shores of Saint-Marie. She pulled her sandals off her feet and looked at the sky: a few puffy white clouds were drifting across the stretch of flawless blue, lazy and free, not a care in the world.
So, he was back, she snorted dryly. She had just been beginning to get over him, too. Well... Sort of...
Gosh, she hated the Commissioner,
she laughed hastily at this in her head. It was lucky she found her hatred funny, else Camille was quite convinced she'd stab him. After all, she'd solved more than enough of that kind of brutal murder. She was sure she could pull one off rather effectively, she thought ponderously, but did she want the Commissioner dead? Realistically? He could've done her a favour! Richard and she could continue from where they'd left off!
She chided herself furiously. Had Richard Poole ever shown her, Camille Bordey, any signs of affection? Aside from the very rare attempts at comforting he? No, no, he had not. Where had they even left off? Had they had anything to leave off from, even?
The French sergeant knew it was pointless to wonder.
She put her shoes back on and looked at the watch on her wrist, pleased to see it was 5:15pm - at least work was over for the day. She had all night to consider how she felt.
Maybe she should resign.
Sighing heavily at the weight of such thoughts, Camille stretched her lean body out like a cat, stood up, and began to walk home.
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Thank you to Sweepeaspatch and to reviewers :))) xxx