A big thank you for all the reviews!! And for Sweepeaspatch for being my beta :))) Apologies for the later update - I've been away! (Plot twist during these times!)
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"Sorry to interrupt," began the man embracing a woman, "but when can we move back into this place?"
Richard shot a glance at Camille, who in turn raised her eyebrows. Self-righteous was the term that immediately came to mind.
"And who might you be?" Poole quizzed expectantly, shrewd expression concealed in one of feigned polite interest.
"James, James Moore," the suspect replied briskly, disentangling himself from the lady next to him and shaking Richard's hand. "This is my wife, Sasha. But it's just that you do realise this holiday was expensive, don't you? I mean, we're not exactly getting value for money-"
"I'm sorry, but we can't allow you to reside in the villa at the moment. It's a crime scene," Richard cut James off cleanly and precisely.
"I don't want to go back there," whispered the woman with blonde hair.
"And you are?" asked Camille curtly.
"Angela Birkett," said Angela earnestly, drying her moist eyes with a tissue and hurriedly tucking strands of golden hair behind her ear.
Nervous tell, Camille thought instantly.
"We've given you our statements," said the man in the corner. "I'm not sure what else we can say. After all, it's not as if any of us are involved." By process of elimination, Camille figured this had to be Roger.
"Yes. It must have been an.. An intruder. Somehow they got in and... And stabbed poor Humphrey," said Sasha vehemently.
The two detectives looked at each other. Each knew that the other was having the same thoughts.
"Are there any other ways onto the verandah where the body was found other than through the double doors over there?" asked Richard evenly.
James spoke for the group after they'd all exchanged a glance. "No."
"This villa is on a cliff," Camille reminded the group. A quick checking of her superior's expression confirmed that she was right in her suspicions.
"It has to have been an intruder!" repeated Sasha, increasingly agitated.
Her husband draped an arm around her shoulders. "I hope you're not suggesting that we are responsible in any way," he addressed the detectives in icy tones.
"We're not ruling out anything," said Camille sharply.
Roger snorted. "Oh come on. We haven't seen him in 25 bloody years. Why would any of us want to kill him?"
"He's right," stated Sasha primly. "This trip was just a reunion to celebrate our university days. We didn't even know he was on the island."
"You came here to celebrate your university days?" repeated Richard.
There were murmurs and nods among the group.
Richard nodded at Camille and she continued. "So... Why wasn't Humphrey invited?"
All the suspects seemed to hesitate.
"None of us had really kept in touch with him since uni," volunteered Angela. "That is, until two days ago, when we-"
"We met him in your marketplace! Humphrey goddamn Goodman! Here, on Saint-Marie!" interrupted Roger.
"And once we'd seen him, we knew it wouldn't be right to have the celebration without Humph," Sasha added, with a small laugh.
"What a spectacular coincidence," said Camille wryly.
"Yes, really!" James iterated jovially.
Richard advanced further into the room, noticing that Angela flinched a little under his gaze.
"Who organised the trip?" he asked, watching Roger Sadler warily, who had clenched his fists.
"I did," it was Angela who replied. "Though I'm sure I heard about it from someone. Perhaps it was James - he's been on ever so many golf trips."
"Me?" the man in question let out a snort of derision. "I frequent the popular islands for my golf trips. I'm practically a professional," he told the detectives conspiratorially.
Angela looked briefly puzzled. "Was it you then Sasha? You got your cosmetic surgery abroad, didn't you?"
Sasha widened her eyes and crossed her arms defensively over her chest. "That was St Lucia, Ange. And do think before revealing a lady's secrets."
"Maybe I just read about it in some travel brochure, then," said Angela.
"It doesn't matter," Camille supplied quickly. "What I'd like to know is how exactly Humphrey ended up on the verandah."
Richard nodded in agreement. He'd seen the pictures of the crime scene: a body slumped in a chair, on the villa's verandah, ice pick wedged sharply into the chest.
"It's hardly classified information," huffed Roger. "Never had much of a stomach for cocktails. He barely managed his first before he wanted some air."
"He said he had a headache," Sasha chimed in helpfully.
"We were all playing charades at that point," added James.
"Did any of you go out to see him?" inquired Camille, turning to observe the place they'd found Humphrey's body through the glass doors.
"I did," Angela said quietly.
"Did you say anything to him?" asked Richard softly, picking up on the necessary sensitivity required to approach the blonde suspect.
His Sergeant frowned internally. When had he bought himself some people skills?!
"Yes," Angela mumbled. "I.. I asked if he was okay. And if he needed anything. He asked for some sustenance so I joined the others again. I think Sasha took him something?"
"Yes, that's right. I took him out a bowl of crisps. Ready salted potato chips, you know the kind," said Sasha, linking her arm through James'.
"Have to say you don't do them very well on this island," remarked her husband idly. "Not nearly as good as the classic Walkers you buy in England."
Sensing that Camille was about to violently contend this view, Richard speedily interfered.
"Did anyone else go out to see him?"
"Yes, I did. I took him a cup of tea."
"Ooh, what kind of tea did you take him?"
James squinted at Richard's intense questioning.
"Earl Grey. I took a packet of the stuff in my suitcase from England."
"Mm, good choice," Richard responded, busily jotting down something on his pad of paper.
"I was probably the last one out there," Roger declared suddenly. "I was the designated barbecue tender. I checked the coals were hot."
"Did you talk to him at all?" asked Camille.
"No. Didn't say a word. He asked for air, didn't he? I wasn't going to go and disturb his peace and quiet, was I? Is that all? I've got an appointment booked at a local restaurant in 15 minutes and I'd rather no-"
"That's all," said Richard conclusively. "For now."
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"It all tallies with what we already knew," Camille muttered briskly.
The pair of detectives were walking down the holiday villa's driveway. Or rather, Camille was marching at a dramatically speedy pace, and Richard was jogging some way behind in a valiant attempt to catch up to her.
"Mmm?" was his ragged response, as they approached the jeep, him gulping oxygen in gasps, her not the slightest bit ruffled.
She shot him a look. He didn't notice. He was absorbed in the arduous task of straightening his tie.
"The evidence. What we found at the crime scene? The empty bowl with remnants of potato crisps, the mug of tea - all on the table next to Humphr- the victim."
"Ah yes," replied Richard absently. "Is it true they don't do Walkers on the island?"
Camille didn't deign to respond to this. She slammed the car door and revved up the engine.
He hastened to get in next to her: she looked like she might just drive off without him.
When they began to move, he had the vague inclination that he should start a conversation. But what to say? That was the question. Much of his life, regrettably, had been fabricated from awkward moments.
My life, thought Richard, despondently, is a giant patchwork quilt of awkward moments. It was the kind of realisation that led to him suddenly wondering whether he was entering his mid-life crisis.
A mid-life crisis might explain the inexplicable heat Camille seemed to be radiating. Mid-life crises usually amounted to mildly-crazy-and-slightly-unstable, which also would account for the emotions he was feeling about Camille.
Before he could think too deeply about this, however, she shocked him by asking a question.
It was as they were driving over a particularly bumpy pothole that she said "Why?" Had their circumstances been different, perhaps Richard would have heard the catch in her voice.
"Why what?" he said indelicately.
"Why did you come back?" She was parking the rover now.
He faltered, unsure of the best response. Nobody likes honesty, he decided. "The Commissioner asked me to."
Camille studied his face intensely for a few seconds. Then, she jumped out of the jeep and stalked up the steps to the police station.
Richard frowned. What had he done wrong this time?