Richard Poole, RICS, stood amid the swirl of the market, having begged off buying a coconut, a block of what may have been cake, a very loud print shirt and a small decorative plaque, in that order, and gazed up at what had been described to him as the police station of the town of Honoré on the Caribbean island of Saint-Marie, of which he had never heard before two months ago.
He was here on a vacation – a reunion, actually – of fellow Cambridge graduates he had half-hoped he'd never see again, and he was finding it all a bit much. The hotel was all right, with decent rooms and all the amenities, even if they did seem to think being so close to the beach was one of them. And the staff were not too unwilling to give him proper food – that is, eggs, bacon, toast and tea for breakfast instead of baguette, saltfish and something unreasonable in the coffee.
Not that the tea was at all reasonable, even without the gosh-awful UHT.
It was them (or should that be 'It was they') who were the problem, his so-called school chums: Angela Birkett, Roger Sadler, and James and Sasha Moore. As soon as he'd met them, he'd remembered why he hadn't kept in touch all those years. Roger was just as falsely jovial as ever – toward Poole, that is, never with the others. Angie was just as giggly and awkward – again only with him, and Poole knew why and was sorry, but he could do nothing about it. James was just as defensive and angry, and for the life of him Poole couldn't understand how he could be, after twenty-five years, unless . . . and Sasha was just – wrong.
This was his third day in this so-called paradise, where the only place he really felt comfortable was his hotel room, thanks to the unremitting heat, the unending sand, the unbending belief of everyone that he must be dying to be outside in it all and doing something, when all he really wanted was to sit in a good chair and read. But that wasn't possible, not after that lunch.
The police station was more like a rather shop-soiled home, blending in with many of the other residences he'd seen in Honoré, even to sharing a breezeway with the "office complex" next door. Both occupied a prominent position on a low hill over the market in the town center, their shuttered doors wide open to whatever weather would come, like eyes peering through the veranda over the bay. Nothing like a police station in England. Poole ought to know, seeing as his own father had worked in one for years.
He blew out an overheated breath, waggled the book, although it was useless as a fan, and began trudging up the steps, knowing he looked grievously out of place in his white shirt and casual suit, not to mention the polished oxfords. This had to be done.
He'd spent all yesterday afternoon and evening working out his theory, quite liking the hunting down of facts and the feeling of fitting together a puzzle, as if he was still back at his desk, building a cost sheet for some fantastic construction he could drive past some day and feel he'd had a part in. He knew where each of "his" buildings were in the UK. They were his tie to the world outside his office; his legacy, so to speak. He had no children, and since he'd never even, strictly speaking, had a girlfriend, it was increasingly unlikely he ever would.
His parents lived in Leicestershire, amusing themselves in retirement with charity dos, little day trips and the odd social engagement, while he rusticated in Camden Town, commuting each day to his office near Regent's Park and telling himself he was quite satisfied with what his life had turned out to be, even on the days when the flat felt a little too empty for his liking. He was certainly not, and never had been, the sort who went looking for adventures.
Only this was – quite different.
Poole reached the veranda and paused on the end, just beside what he guessed was the public entrance; a smaller opening than the other two and unlit – not that it needed lighting with the sunlight pouring down everywhere . . . this was it. Once inside he wouldn't be able to stop whatever would come of what he was about to do. He may end up looking like a fool again, but, supposing what he thought was true . . . it would be, well, the most important thing he'd ever done in his life, one way or another.
He stepped in.
It was hot, of course, because it was small, and the ceiling fans did nothing to dispel the heat. At least it was out of the sun. The public area was little more than a short counter space framed with shutters, and terminated by a beadboard half-wall with a scant bead curtain above. To his right, the counter looked over two desks immediately before the open veranda doors. There was a bell, but Poole was saved from having to ring it when a young man, a tall and slender sergeant in what looked like the full pristine uniform of the island police, glanced up from the nearest desk.
"May I help you, sir?" He was cool-looking and boyishly handsome, with short-cropped black hair, soulful dark eyes and the beginnings of a circle beard. As he rose and stepped to the counter, a grizzled veteran in the same uniform glanced up from the second desk, quirked eyebrows at the newcomer and went back to his photo journal.
"I hope so. That is, I don't actually know." Poole twitched the book nervously back and forth on the counter a moment, stopped it, then just blurted it out. "The thing is, I'm expecting to be murdered tomorrow."
...
Notes:
A quantity surveyor is a construction industry professional with expert knowledge on construction costs and contracts. If they are certified they become Chartered Surveyors, members of the Royal Institution of Chartered Surveyors (RICS) in Britain.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with UHT or ultra-high temperature treated milk; it's just another way to pasteurize it. Except if you are a persnickety Englishman who prefers "fresh" for his tea.
