His profile was back-lit by the glow of the sun, sturdy back hunched over the deck of the yacht as he fiddled with the boat's ropes.
As they drew closer, Camille noticed that his feet, planted firmly in the bleached sand, were wearing sandals. But not just any sandals. Sockified sandals, she thought to herself in horror. Sandals with socks. How much more English could you get?
"Oh for God's sake," muttered James Moore, standing up when he saw the impending detectives.
Richard raised his eyebrows expectantly.
James elaborated, impatiently. "How many more times to we have to do this bloody rendez-vous?"
"As many times as it takes for you to tell us the truth," hissed Camille. She hated insolence in suspects.
"We have a witness that overheard the argument between you and Humphrey at lunchtime," said Richard calmly, leaning against a palm tree.
"And?" The suspect in question bent back down to untangle the ropes.
"It wasn't about the tip," Camille stated.
"I-"
"Tell us about the relationship you had with Sasha at university," interrupted Richard, trying a different approach.
"You resented the time she spent with Humphrey," Camille added icily.
"How the hell would you know that?" said James curtly, standing up abruptly.
"Are you denying it?" Richard asked lightly.
"No, I-"
"Yes?"
James looked away, swallowing his anger. "He was like a fly. Always... buzzing around, you know? Wanted to swat him. Not that she ever paid much attention to him, of course," he muttered hurriedly. "But the fool was infatuated!"
Inspector and sergeant looked at each other, Camille casually reaching an arm upwards to rest on the bark of the tree Richard was leaning on.
"And it never went further?" enquired Richard, silently absorbing the sight of his sergeant's glossy toned skin.
"Like I said, she wasn't interested," James said frostily.
"So um," began Camille, shooting a glance at Richard. "Why were you still jealous after roughly 25 years?"
"I didn't take kindly to the way he was looking at my wife and I told him as much," came the sharp response. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"It's a start."
"Are you married, inspector?" asked James, suddenly looking at Richard intensely.
"Nope," Richard popped the p, coolly, demonstrating that although the topic of romance was one he'd usually find uncomfortable, he was perfectly capable of addressing it in an official capacity. Camille smiled inwardly.
"Then you wouldn't understand. I admit it, I get twitchy when men look at Sasha. When we met up I thought he was being overfamiliar with her - like we were back at uni. And I just.. I just snapped."
Noticing that the pair had exchanged yet another glance, James added aggressively, "Do you seriously think if murder a man because of the way he was looking at my wife?" He looked at them with contempt over the rims of his sunglasses before shoving the shady lenses up his nose.
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"I don't like him," Camille said decidedly, as soon as they were out of earshot.
"No, me neither," replied Richard, noting her static figure. "That doesn't make him our murderer, though."
"I don't trust him?" she offered hopefully.
He smirked sideways at her. "Don't be silly, Camille."
It was as though the sound of her name from his lips made her remember who he was. Sighing, she turned and walked ahead of him, eyes fixed on the ground, thoughts in a whirlwin-
"Camille!" Richard pulled her backwards, his palm on her bare shoulder. She turned to face him indignantly, uttering a light cry of rage when she saw the woman standing mere millimetres from her face. Camille stepped back, hurriedly apologising.
She heard a hissing whisper in her ear, "You almost walked straight into her."
"Oh I'm- sorry," said Sasha Moore, hastily stepping backwards.
"No, no," Richard forced a smile. "Did you want to talk to us?"
"Well, I..." the lady looked at Camille doubtfully.
The French woman swiftly uncrossed her arms from their imperious position across her chest and arranged her features into something less of a frown and more of a friendly expression.
"I saw you talking to my husband and I... Well, I suppose I just wanted to let you know that James is a good man," Sasha said.
Camille nodded encouragingly, whilst subtly flicking Richard's hand so that he realised it was still on her shoulder. Mortified, he removed it immediately and made himself busy straightening his jacket.
"He just gets angry sometimes," continued Sasha.
"And jealous?" queried Camille smoothly.
Sasha sighed. "Humphrey was... He was just funny, you know? Unusual and... entertaining. I never felt the way he did, but he was one of my best friends. It's only now that he's gone that I'm realising how much I've been missing him." She gazed wistfully at the sea. "Anyway! I just wanted to let you know about James." She smiled, and then strolled off towards her husband, linen dress flapping in the afternoon breeze.
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Richard trudged over to the station fridge and seized a bottle of icy cold water. From here, he proceeded to walk over to the (finally!) fixed fan, which blew welcome cool air into his face.
"I called the Dean at their college for you C'mille," said Fidel, approaching her desk.
"What did they say?" she asked, looking up with interest.
"That Roger wasn't in the photo because he got kicked out of university."
"Oh? He did?" asked Richard, taking an interest and switching off the fan so he could hear better. "What for?"
"Cheating on his exams," said Fidel briskly. "But it gets better."
"Carry on?"
"He was reported to the Dean for cheating by a fellow student."
"Humphrey," Dwayne chimed in.
"Steal my big moment much?" muttered Fidel moodily.
"We should go and talk to Roger Sadler," said Camille. She stood up and grabbed her shoulder bag from where it sat on her desk chair.
Richard made some frantic "Mm" noises and she glanced in his direction, confused. He'd raised a hand at her, his mouth clearly filled with cold water. Frustrated, she tapped her foot, watching as he slowly digested the liquid.
"Ready," he said breathlessly. "I'll drive."
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"Kicked out of university?" Richard phrased it as a question.
"What's that got to do with anything?" asked Roger Sadler, seemingly baffled.
"You didn't think to tell us?" Camille, this time.
"I hardly saw how it was relevant," the man replied, rubbing his wet hair dry with a fluffy towel.
"Well I'd say it's relevant considering it was Humphrey who reported you to the Dean," commented Richard idly.
Camille was watching Roger intently, so she saw the indecision that flashed fleetingly in his eyes before he replied.
"Oh it was?!" Roger chuckled. "Gosh, is that really true?"
Richard looked at Camille hesitantly. "You really expect us to believe that you didn't know?"
"Well it was twenty odd years ago, I had no idea!" the suspect laughed again.
"You're lying," said Camille sharply.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I've got Humphrey's diary. The one he kept at university. He's written in it that he found out you were cheating, he confronted you and you begged him not to tell," she responded emphatically. Emphatically enough that almost anyone would fall for her bluff. Not Richard.
At Roger's lack of response, his sergeant continued, "I can arrest you now and you can read it at the station for yourself, if you'd prefer?"
"No, no. I'm quite alright here," Sadler said quickly. "Okay. Humphrey did confront me. I- I pleaded with him, tried to convince him not to tell, but he went to the Dean anyway. And yes, when I got booted out of Cambridge, I felt my life was ruined. So maybe I would've killed him then."
"Oh?" Richard prodded.
Roger snorted. "That was practically a quarter of a century ago. I've moved on. But if you really think I'm your murderer, then arrest me, but do tell me how I'm meant to have done it. There are three witnesses who say I never went near him in his bloody chair."
He stalked off.
"None of that was really in the diary," said Richard in a matter-of-fact tone.
"None of it." She smiled to herself.