Last time: He had walked in here with this monstrous story; he had to be the one to support any and all investigations the police might make.
Richard Poole took a moment to gear up, readying himself to go through with this. Yes, he was afraid; not so much of what might happen, but because he didn't know what might happen. His life had been safely planned out and comfortably routine (if a bit lonely) for years now, ever since uni. Last night he'd allowed himself, unwisely, to wonder, as he lay in the quiet calm of his hotel room and its clean, starched bedlinen, contemplating the meeting at that villa.
What was he setting himself up to face? What kind of people did it take to live a lie for five years? Did James call her 'Sasha' in private? Did she pretend to be Sasha for him? The more he thought about it, the creepier it became. And he was going to have to walk into that.
He was actually making to scoop up the book and rise when the Sergeant stopped him, leaning casually forward and drooping one slim hand to place a fingertip on the volume. He didn't exactly recoil, or at least he hoped it didn't look like he had, but the movement forced him to pause and look at her, with her chin braced on her other hand, gazing at him.
"So you brought the book as evidence, to force a confession? Is that what's supposed to happen tomorrow?" she asked, and Poole saw what he took to be challenge in her eyes. With the Inspector watching, still leaning back in his chair, one arm over the back, seeming to admire his second's attitude (or maybe just her), Poole steadied himself. It wasn't that stupid a plan.
"I was lucky," he told her. "The library here in town was selling off some paperbacks, and there it was. Gave me an idea." He put all five fingertips on the book and slid it from under her hand toward him, holding her gaze. "I called home yesterday; asked my mum to find a box I've still got in my old room, of odds and ends I've kept since uni. There are some pictures there with Sasha and the rest, and probably Helen. I thought, if it came in time, I'd have some proof that I'm not imagining things."
He set the book back comfortably under his palm. "And it might not be tomorrow. Angie decided it would be more 'fun' for us all if she could rent a villa – I understand that's the thing to do on Saint-Marie. But Angie being Angie, she muddled the dates, and the place she chose is still occupied until tomorrow. Then the lot up there now will clear out and the cleaners and so on move in, and they've said we ought to be up there by evening."
He stopped. The corner of the book was ruffling again as the thought of confrontation took over, eroding a bit of the confidence he'd suddenly felt. Deliberately, he put both hands to the table's edge again and eased the chair back. There must be better ways to prepare for what was coming than abusing an old paperback. He just had to discover what they were.
"Where are your friends now?" the Inspector asked, still stretched back in his chair. Poole paused, allowing himself a grimace.
"Climbing the volcano. That's another of those things you do on Saint-Marie, apparently." He levered himself up, tugging absently at the ends of his shirt collar, avoiding the Sergeant's eyes. He was a tad embarrassed, and at the same time perversely proud, that he'd managed to avoid that to come here and do this. "I begged off; told them F-and-G sent me spreadsheets to revise because something unexpected had come up on a site at the Docks. It – happens quite a lot, in the industry. You'd be surprised . . ."
But not interested, Poole. He'd never yet met a woman (or man, he added quickly) outside his own field who had been anxious to know just why that was so.
Rather than take up any more of their time he reached for the book, only to find Sergeant Bordey's hand bent over the cover, fingertips idly stroking the corners of the pages. He ahemmed, slid the book from under her palm and stood ready to assist the police in whatever way he could, with the volume tucked against his shoulder. "Tomorrow, or day after, at the latest, I have to go up to that villa, evidence or no. It's all on me, isn't it? If Roger and Angie haven't seen it by now, then I'm the only witness. And Sasha was my friend."
The Inspector and his Sergeant looked back at him, both suitably serious. Officers Myers and Best were idling at their keyboards, watching without seeming to. Nobody agreed with him, but then, nobody was warning him off, either. Poole cuddled the book a bit more firmly and asked "What do you need me to do?"
...
"Well, what do you think?"
Camille eased back in her chair at the evidence table, taking a moment to sort out what she needed to say from everything she could have said. Their witness had moved off and was currently hanging over Fidel's shoulder, pointing out something online, as she could hear from their muted conversation. Fidel was acknowledging the man had spotted something he'd missed, while from the sound of Dwayne's creaking chair, he was impatiently waiting for his turn. And Humphrey was watching her, as he always was, from the side, waiting.
"He's telling the truth, all of it," she told him. "There's none of the satisfaction he would be showing if he was just setting a trap for these people out of spite." Camille was staring at the remaining evidence on the table, focusing mainly on the neat, white handkerchief. She drew out the lock of hair she was smoothing between her fingers to its tip, letting it fall back into its natural curl before turning to face her inspector. "What worries him is that he may be betraying friends. I think he knows that's not true, inside. But Mr Poole's distress is genuine."
He was genuine, was what she meant. In her fifteen years of police work she had rarely met anyone quite so grounded. Camille hadn't survived over a decade in various undercover investigations without using her degree in psychology and her ability to read body language every day, so that now both were honed to a brilliant edge of understanding when and why a lie was being told, and who or what she could trust.
Perhaps it was sad, but her training and experience had shown her everyone had some self-delusional belief, even her most trusted friends: Dwayne that there would never come a time when he couldn't stay out partying all night and not have it effect his work, and Fidel that, having achieved Sergeant, he'd be able to advance still further here, on Saint-Marie. That was a fallacy, Camille knew. She herself had been 'outed' by Humphrey Goodman in the Lavender affair nearly three years ago and as a result, she had had to surface from the underground business. If she wanted to go back to her proper work, as she did, she would have to leave her home, again. So would Fidel.
As for Camille's mother, Catherine – well, blind dates were not going to be the answer, if her daughter had any say in it!
And Humphrey – his delusion was a bit more personal. But Mr Richard Poole, RICS, of Faithful and Gould . . . he was genuine.
"I'm sure he'd say you could call him Richard," her boss put in.
Camille grinned. "I'm sure." She swept up the papers from the table. "Shall we, sir?" She waved the handful of evidence toward the whiteboard, currently tucked away on its easel.
"Well." Goodman seemed to hesitate, his prominent brows lowered in thought, but Camille knew, from near three years' experience in working with him, what the outcome would be. "Since we do have some evidence of a crime . . . right! If you'd do the honours, Camille?"
"My pleasure, sir."
As soon as she stood up to bring out the board, Humphrey leaped out of his chair, one big apology, explaining that of course he would handle the set-up; he'd only meant for her to arrange the evidence. She allowed it, as it was easier to let him bumble through the gallant bit than slow him down by insisting that she was capable. As he concentrated on that, she allowed her attention to slip over to Dwayne's desk, where Richard Poole was bending, hands on his knees, to see whatever Dwayne was pulling up for his inspection.
So he was only a sort of accountant, if she understood what a quantity surveyor was. But he must be a successful one, as the suit, an undistinguished khaki in color, was still a good fit and expensive, unlike Humphrey's constantly rumpled casual jackets and trousers. And if he wasn't as tall as her boss, he wasn't overweight, or not so you'd notice. Still active, then, and not much over forty years of age, single, not exactly distinguished, and not exactly handsome – or was he? It was a sort of imitation aristocratic profile: clean cut, short aquiline nose, strong jawline, nicely formed mouth, interesting – no, arresting green eyes.
Camille began arranging the blogs and the article on the board, keeping the timeline as Humphrey hunted up the markers and the cloth. Richard Poole would do things correctly, she imagined; keeping his suits and his office and his life just so, as precise as his speech was, as his mannerisms were. Precise, private, and just a little bit pompous – that was why she had thrown every flirting cue she could come up with at him, to see if she could make a crack in that professional finish. She discarded the fact that the cues had come to her mind so easily . . . and there had been no cracking, anyway. None.
Well, it would just need a little more effort, then.
"Sir, I've got something!" That was Fidel, and from the excitement in his voice it was big. "London Met Police report, dated 27 February, 1999: one Helen Reed, arrested for shoplifting."
Goodman put down the cloth and Camille turned; Richard Poole was already stepping to Fidel's desk, absently thumbing the book's pages. He glanced once over the younger man's shoulder, paused, and nodded. "That's her. Helen. Poor kid."
"What did she take?" Humphrey asked, hurrying over to lean on the other shoulder.
"A watch, just under the £200 mark where she'd be sent to jail. It says she actually did spend a night in the cells, and in the morning her sister bailed her out and paid the fine. She was never prosecuted."
"And that was her only offence?"
"I'm not finding anything else . . . let me check outside London." Fidel hit the print key, then bent to searching again as Humphrey exchanged a look with their guest.
"That was Helen Reed?" he asked.
Richard Poole nodded, still rumpling the paperback. "Not on her best day, but yes. Same punk hairstyle and the piercing . . . she never tried to be pretty, you see. Not like Sasha."
Camille almost missed it; the dart of a glance the green eyes sent her way before catching themselves and going firmly back to the screen, as if he was afraid to look at her – or as if he was afraid to be caught at it. "Looks like she was still just acting up," he added.
"Not really evidence of a violent nature, is it?" Humphrey went on, trying to sound casual. This was for Camille's benefit, she knew, giving her more opportunity for observation.
"No. It's not," was the reply. The nicely formed mouth thinned as Richard Poole said it, in a glower of determination.
