A Good Man in Honoré

Once more, a disclaimer: all belongs to Robert Thorogood and the BBC.

Ch 2: Richard

Sally had a number of logical reasons for wanting to sell up and leave Bournemouth after just over three years in the town. Humphrey found it difficult to argue with any of them.

First of all, her job was not at all as she'd expected. She'd trained in business administration originally, and had gone into teaching ostensibly to 'give something back', but in reality as a way of escaping the confines of the city. She enjoyed her more outside lifestyle, but she didn't enjoy the lower salary or the stresses of teaching. She felt that it would be far better to pursue her original career choice, and it would be far easier to do that in London.

More to the point, she'd grown up in north London and was beginning to miss the bright lights of the big city life – visiting friends in bars after work, going to concerts and plays, walking on Hampstead Heath on sunny Sunday afternoons. Possibly, it had something to do with having just entered her thirties – perhaps she was just feeling old and craving an earlier lifestyle, but there it was.

And, besides, her family lived in London. Unlike Humphrey's, her parents were a generous, fun-loving couple with a bewildering number of children and grandchildren constantly coming and going at their large Victorian detached house in Tufnell Park. Humphrey had always felt more at ease there than with his own family. Sally had two brothers and a sister, all married with kids, and all in the London suburbs. It was perhaps inevitable that she would feel drawn back eventually. He wondered a little whether, in her own mind, she saw it as a prelude to starting their own family – and also wondered why the prospect didn't thrill him. Anyway, the topic was never raised.

And finally, as she pointed out, Humphrey's job was hardly exciting. That odd murder apart, he spent most of his time investigating drug transactions in the deprived area of Boscombe, interspersed with the theft of luxury goods from the far richer populations of Branksome and Sandbanks. She pressed her point: his abilities were wasted at such a small Constabulary. Surely there'd be an opening at the Met? She had every confidence that he would be able to adjust to a big city mentality and that he'd enjoy the challenge. If he could make DI there, his salary would be much higher too.

Humphrey was not so certain. It would mean starting again, getting a new group of colleagues used to his odd but effective methods, and he was tired of being laughed at behind his back by people who assumed he was far stupider than he was. He probably could make it work, but he'd miss the coastline and the sense of peace it gave him at the end of a frustrating day. It would mean leaving another set of friends behind too.

Nevertheless, Sally prevailed, a transfer to the Met was sought and granted, and they moved into the ground floor of a semi-detached house in Enfield. Sally celebrated by getting tickets for Centre Court at Wimbledon. She lost no time in securing a well-paid job in marketing for an international shipping company.

Humphrey was initially nervous of the hard-edged CID officers at the Met – they had a reputation for being dismissive of county-trained detective inspectors – but he found that he fitted in surprisingly well. They were more tolerant of less conventional methods; if an officer got the job done and was loyal to his comrades, then that was all they cared about. Most of them were single or else childless, like himself, and were consequently more sociable at the end of a tough week. He learnt fairly early on that it was considered good form for a new DI to turn up at their 'local' on a Friday night and be prepared to stand his round. Once more, he became "good old Humph", but there was less sniggering and more camaraderie here in London then there had been in Bournemouth. With his longer working hours and his drinking sessions with colleagues, he found that he was spending far less time with his wife, but she didn't seem to mind, being busy enough with her own friends at work.

He'd learnt about the importance of the Friday night drink from a colleague who had been referring to a fellow officer who went by the name of Richard Poole. This man had, it transpired, been something of a hermit. "You'd have understood him, Humph," the officer explained, "but you wouldn't have liked him. Right miserable bastard, he was. We had a party when he left – by which I mean after he left."

Poole had apparently been isolated – or had isolated himself perhaps - in a depressingly dark corner of the communal office. Since his departure some six months before Humphrey arrived, it had lain empty. Humphrey had been a little confused by that, having assumed that he'd been brought into to replace Poole, but it turned out that the DI was merely on an extended placement and his job was being kept open for him. His colleagues had shown their feelings about that by covering the temporarily empty desk with dusty piles of unwanted stationery.

For some reason, even as he settled into his new role and grew used to the faster pace of city policing, Humphrey found himself drawn to that dusty corner. Initially, his kind nature rebelled at the idea of a fellow officer being treated so shabbily by his colleagues, however socially inept he might be. But more than that, he felt a strange sense of fellow-feeling with the mysterious Poole.

Later on, he grew obsessed with the spectre of this unknown quantity. Poole's name had been mentioned more than once in discussions about previous cases – usually a reluctant nod to an unusual but effective method that had led to a crime being solved. The irony was that Poole's methods were not dissimilar to Humphrey's own, with their focus on 'the means, the method and the opportunity'. His colleagues might have disliked him, but they had to acknowledge the value of the man's obvious brilliance and dogged determination. Comments such as: "Remember when Poole solved that case by sorting that bag of marbles by size? That was really weird" only served to whet Humphrey's curiosity further.

Humphrey often (but privately) felt that Richard Poole's methods were not all that odd. After all, they worked. He personally couldn't work out what was wrong with an old-fashioned board and a bunch of photographs; far better than a sophisticated computer programme that would go wrong as soon as he looked at it. Occasionally, when he was stuck with an investigation, he'd find his eyes going to that deserted corner and would wonder what Poole's insight would be.

He felt he could instinctively understand this prickly but intelligent stranger. If he knew Sally was going out for dinner with friends, he would occasionally stay late and look through old files of Poole's cases, admiring his reasoning and methodology. In the spiky, rather jerky writing he found in the files, he felt he could hear the man's voice. DI Richard Poole would, of course, be fluent, concise and brilliantly confident in his delivery. He wouldn't stutter or go off at a tangent, like Humphrey. People would listen to him with respect. A man like Richard Poole wouldn't have to put up with poorly disguised eye-rolling and patronising smiles. Poole wouldn't have to plaster a grin on his face every time someone slapped him on the back and called him "good old Humph".

He regretted the fact that he hadn't worked alongside the man. All he knew was that he'd been temporarily transferred to "some God-awful little mosquito-infested backwater of an island somewhere in the Caribbean". Somehow, even that unattractive description sounded impossibly alluring.

Humphrey envied him. He had visions of Richard lying in a hammock in Hawaiian shorts, looking out over a peaceful tropical bay, beer in hand. It sounded wonderful – after his years of self-imposed isolation at the Met, Poole must really love his exile to paradise. The image appealed to his sense of justice; it was surely right that an intelligent but misunderstood detective was now enjoying a more relaxed lifestyle.

The fact that he was enjoying it was confirmed by the fact that Poole didn't apply to return to his old job after a year, even though he'd apparently been informed that it was still open. Instead, it was announced that Poole had become Chief Inspector on the island of Saint-Marie. The reaction of Humphrey's fellow officers was something along the lines of 'good riddance to bad rubbish'. Humphrey's own reaction was disappointment that it was unlikely he'd ever get a chance to work with Richard Poole.

Life went on and another year passed, during which Humphrey becoming involved in a long and complicated case involving a large people trafficking ring that took up the majority of his time. The case involved extensive travel in the Far East and North Africa, and he put in some good investigative work that led to the ring being broken up and its chief members being arrested and charged. His satisfaction with this result and the impact on his reputation at work kept him happy. His obsession with Richard Poole lessened, although he occasionally used some of the DI's methods in his own investigations. Occasionally, he wondered whether he ought to contact the man – acknowledge Poole's contributions to his cases…but that seemed like excessive, 'stalkerish' behaviour, and he doubted that Poole would appreciate it.

He found himself dreaming of tropical islands with white sand beaches and dazzlingly blue seas increasingly often. It took him longer than it should have done to work out the reason why.

The opportunity came out of the blue, via a rumour that Poole had finally got fed up with his exotic posting and would be coming back. As the rest of the team bemoaned the news, Humphrey found his mind turning to the job itself. If Poole was vacating the post, did that mean the job would be available?

He did a little digging. Saint-Marie was a fairly compact island. Its police force had responsibility for a number of smaller outlying islands, but appeared surprisingly under-resourced for its geographic coverage; he assumed this meant it was a relatively crime-free area. Perhaps that was why Poole was returning – no longer a big enough challenge? There was only one DI position at the small police station in Honoré, supported by a sergeant and a couple of junior officers. As far as he knew, that post would be vacant once Poole returned. A return to small-town policing might suit Humphrey, and the exotic location would be fun – a kind of adventure. Humphrey had enjoyed his travels during the past year, even though they had revolved around investigations, and he'd developed a taste for tropical locations.

It did make a fair amount of sense. If he applied, perhaps Sally could get a transfer? Her company had substantial links with the Caribbean. Or perhaps, she could find something local to do – even set up her own business. Someone as bright and as ambitious as Sally could always turn an opportunity to her advantage, and she had an adventurous streak too.

He tentatively mooted the idea with his Chief Superintendent. The man was sympathetic but couldn't confirm that Poole was even leaving the post. It turned out that he was coming to the UK briefly as part of an investigation, but the Chief Super hadn't heard that Poole intended to stay. Nevertheless, if Humphrey felt he could offer something, then while he would be sorry to lose such a good detective, he'd certainly support his application to the Commissioner, etc., etc…

Next, Humphrey, even more tentatively, raised the opportunity with Sally. He wasn't sure what her reaction would be – in fact, he wasn't sure of much these days. He didn't see an awful lot of her, and when he did, she seemed reasonably happy but a little distant.

They hardly ever did anything together, and their sex life had declined since the move to London, which he assumed to be his fault. It was just that the job was so time-consuming, and he'd had to put in all that extra time on the trafficking case, and then sometimes, when he got home, he was too knackered to do anything more than make a coffee and sit in front of crappy TV. He could hardly blame her for not being so interested in him these days, could he? Sometimes, he feared that they'd prematurely reached a state of comfortable but essentially boring middle-aged domesticity, albeit one without the usual 2.4 kids.

When he raised the topic of Sainte-Marie, he expected her to explode, to ask him if he was serious, to point out the many reasons why it was such a bad idea. Sally had always been good at making logical decisions, and no doubt she'd find half a dozen immediate and major flaws to his plan. Much to his surprise, however, her reaction was reasonably positive.

"Well, it would be a major change…but I suppose we could make it work."

"Really? You mean it?" He was astounded. "You really wouldn't mind leaving London behind for this?" For me…for us? was the unspoken subtext to this.

"Well…" She hesitated and bit her lip, uncharacteristically hesitant. "You obviously want to, and…it'll be something different, anyway."

Exalted beyond belief by this unexpected reaction, he went ahead with the preparation of his application for the post of the Chief Detective Inspector of Sainte-Marie, to be submitted the moment Poole announced his resignation. In the process of this, he didn't notice that Sally's responses to the topic grew quieter, her enthusiasm more muted. Whenever he asked her, she still seemed firmly in favour of the move, and yet appeared to make no effort to prepare for it. She wouldn't hand in her notice at work ("better to wait and see what turns up when you get confirmation, don't you think?"), or their notice to their landlord ("after all, I wouldn't be able to leave immediately, and I'd need somewhere to stay until we've moved all our things"). It was all perfectly sensible, of course – he'd expect no more of her. After all, Poole hadn't resigned quite yet, and even if he did, Humphrey wasn't assured of the post.

Much later, he would be able to acknowledge that he had always known she was unhappy about the move. Subconsciously, Humphrey had realised that their relationship had grown stale. It was possible that this desire for the Sainte-Marie post was at least partially borne out by a perceived need to galvanise his relationship. In a fresh location, learning a new culture and adjusting to the climate and way of life would be a challenge that would push them together again. Their London lifestyle was choking the life out of their marriage. He knew it, and she knew it…the big question was, would she show that she still believed in them by coming with him?

In the event, Humphrey was unable to submit his application, for the simple reason that Richard Poole was not, after all, resigning. It really was just a flying visit to London, and Humphrey didn't even set eyes on the man, as he was called away to the scene of a particularly gristly murder on the same day.

The disappointment lay heavy in his gut. He saw his life continuing as a neat sequence of work, pub, bed, and work again, day in, day out, with an occasional polite exchange of words with his wife – he could hardly even term them conversations these days. Sally was as nice as ever, commiserating with him on the post and being kind enough not to point out that it had been silly of him to get so excited in the first place.

He felt deeply tired – exhausted. Not physically, although the hours he worked were tough enough, but mentally. It was a struggle to force himself out of bed in the mornings, sometimes even to put one foot in front of the other. In Bournemouth, he could always counter mental fatigue with a peaceful, refreshing, early morning walk on the deserted beach; here, even if he had the time, there was nowhere to go.

One Monday morning, nearly three months after his application was abandoned, as he walked into New Scotland Yard, he was aware of a certain degree of excited whispering among a group of uniformed officers hanging around the reception area. He frowned, his tired senses immediately sharpening. It was clear that something fairly major was going on. No one looked at him, and it wasn't in his nature to gate-crash a private conversation, so he continued on his way to his office, wondering when he would find out.

As it turned out, he didn't have long to wait. The atmosphere in the large, open-plan CID office was strangely subdued, even for a Monday morning. One of the other DIs spun around on his office chair as Humphrey passed his desk.

"You heard the news? About Poole?"

"No – what?"

The DI grimaced, looking a little discomforted as he spun back. "Only gone and got himself bloody killed. Or suicide. They're not sure which."

Humphrey froze. He found his eyes turning again, automatically, to that dark corner desk, covered with dusty old stacks of paper as usual. He'd occasionally imagined what Poole's response would have been if he'd returned to his job – he imagined the man muttering in annoyance as he cleared his desk. For some reason, he hadn't thought about whether Richard had come back to his old office when he'd come over for his short visit – no one had mentioned it and he hadn't thought to ask. If he had come in during that visit, would he have cleared the desk anyway, even if he hadn't planned to stay for long? He was just the type to be fussy enough to do so.

Well, he'd never clear it now.

Humphrey felt a sudden sensation of deep grief, so sharp that it nearly doubled him over. He clutched at his stomach and took a sharp breath, closing his eyes against the pain. Oddly, he had an inappropriate desire to laugh – how utterly ridiculous to mourn someone you had never met! – and then he realised it was just the shock. Ironic that despite years of dealing with nasty deaths and recognising shock in the newly-bereaved, he failed to recognise the same reaction in himself.

"Sir?"

It was his DS, a competent young woman called Barrett, and he had the horrible feeling that she'd been calling his name for a while. He opened his eyes and noticed that one or two of his colleagues were looking at him strangely.

"Are you OK, Sir?"

"Yes," he assured Barrett. "Just thinking of…something. What is it?"

"The Chief wanted to see you as soon as you got in this morning."

As Humphrey hurried towards his boss's office, he had a fair idea of what was going to be asked of him. He wasn't sure precisely how he felt… He'd wanted the job of course, but not like this.

He'd have to tread very carefully. He had no real sense of how Poole's colleagues might be feeling – clearly it must have been an awful shock to find themselves investigating his death.

Of course, it wasn't very clear how close they had been to him. If he'd been as unsociable with them as with his London colleagues, they might not have had that great a working relationship with him. Though…if that was the case, surely he wouldn't have stayed on? But then, it sounded as if Richard Poole had been impatient with the niceties of office friendships – it was more than likely he'd just led his team in a formally professional manner and they'd probably respected his abilities even if they didn't care for him personally very much.

His main source of information would probably be that DS of his – what was her name, now? Something French. Camilla? Camille? Anyway, he'd soon find out what she'd thought of her deceased boss.

Of course, his speculations about Richard Poole meant that, when he did finally meet DS Camille Borday, he was entirely unprepared for the look of utter devastation on her face.