Rather annoyingly, I've just discovered that I've got Sally's profession wrong – she's a botanist! Oh well, it's a minor thing… She seemed more like a hard businesswoman type, to be honest.
Usual disclaimer: characters belong to Robert Thorogood and the BBC.
Ch 3 Sainte-Marie
From the moment he stepped off the plane, Humphrey loved Sainte-Marie.
He'd discovered an enjoyment of tropical climates during the trafficking investigations in Hong Kong. He'd been conveyed to an air conditioned hotel and then to the local air conditioned police station in an air conditioned car with tinted windows, and his trip could just as easily have ended up like his previous trips to Moscow or Tangiers where he might as well have never left Heathrow. If it hadn't been for the fact that he was in those locations to interview local gang members, he might not have remembered where he was. In Hong Kong, though, he gave his minders the slip for half a day, during which he wandered around Kowloon getting utterly lost and enchanted by the bustle and confusion. He loved being a stranger, intruding into lives that he never knew existed; he loved not understanding the language or the culture – indeed, not having the foggiest idea what was going on around him.
Sainte-Marie promised a similar experience. He was looking forward to experiencing life there – new food and drink, local music, the beach life. And he wanted Sally there with him – he yearned to recapture the happiness of their early days. She was an adventurer like him, and together they would learn this island and – perhaps – even make it their home too.
Even the heat was welcome. Yes, it adhered his crumpled shirt to his back and his jacket smelt less than fresh, and yes, it did feel like he was walking through a pool of warm water, but in an odd way, it also energised him. He felt as if he was getting in touch with his own body; as if the trickle of sweat was confirmation of his continuing existence.
Or, at least, he would have felt that if he hadn't currently felt as if his head was full of cotton wool and as if he could sleep for a week.
He knew the score. He was out there to solve a murder, and there was no guarantee that the Commissioner would keep him on. He knew the Chief had put in a good word for him, but he also knew that he was expected to hit the ground running. Whatever else he'd been to them, Richard Poole was still one of their own, and they'd want answers. Cops never liked losing a colleague; even at the Met, officers came up to him while he was clearing his desk and wished him luck with "catching the toe rag that got Poole".
So he should have spent the flight alternating between power naps and checking his file of details on Richard's death, so that he arrived as fresh as possible. However, Humphrey found it hard to relax. There'd been something about Sally's behaviour at the airport – something about the way she'd clung to him before he left…
They shouldn't be parted for too long – she had to serve out her notice at her company and then the flat was being let, so she was putting the rest of their belongings in storage…but, despite all that, she could be joining him in as little as two weeks. The thought elated him and unnerved him, in equal measure. What if she hated Sainte-Marie? What if it was all a colossal mistake and she blamed him for ruining their lives? The 'what-if's' span around his head for most of the flight; he couldn't concentrate on the case, his chair was uncomfortable so he couldn't sleep and then, eventually, he passed out from a combination of stress and sheer exhaustion, about two hours before the arrival time. Consequently he had to be woken by a flight attendant on arrival so he could stagger off the plane and into the chaos of customs and immigration.
He arrived at Horore police station severely jet-lagged and sweaty, struggling with his cases, and acutely aware that he was making a very bad first impression – not just on his potential boss but on the small group of officers clustered on the verandah. The looks of bemused contempt on the faces of the two men, he could recognise easily, and his heart sank, even as he plastered a cheerful smile on his face. Here we go, Humphrey…
He knew that he could befriend them, make them understand his methods, just as he'd done with colleagues in the past, but it would be exhausting. And on top of that, he had the spectre of Richard Poole to live up to.
Still - contempt he could overcome. But it was the moment when he saw that look of utter devastation on the face of Camille Bordey that he realised the situation was going to be far more complicated this time.
Somehow, he struggled through the first day, and then the second day, propping his eyes open with coffee when he could grab it. Even Catherine's lethal concoction seemed to help, in an odd way. The case proceeded slowly – which of the old university friends had the motive to kill Richard and why there? Which of them had the opportunity during the party?
And – although he had tried to suppress his thoughts from the moment he met her, feeling oddly disloyal to Sally for even thinking them – had Richard realised that his extraordinarily beautiful Detective Sergeant was in love with him?
It became fairly clear that there had never been an acknowledged relationship between Camille and Richard. He suspected that Dwayne, at least, knew how Camille had really felt about her boss – smart man, that Dwayne, he might lack Fidel's attention to detail, but he knew all about human psychology. But had Richard known? And, if he had, Humphrey couldn't help wondering why he'd done nothing about it. Who could resist Camille – had he been a monk? Or gay, perhaps? He considered this possibility briefly – had Richard been in a relationship with one of the male suspects? – before dismissing it just as quickly. It was quite clear that neither James Moore nor Roger Sadler were interested in men.
Of course, he may have simply not been interested in Camille Bordey. It was more likely, though, that he had been but had chosen not to act on his feelings. She was his junior officer, after all, and there would have been all sorts of complications had he started a relationship with her. The strongest impression Humphrey had had of Richard Poole was that the man was deeply ethical. It was one of the reasons why he'd been so disliked at the Met – according to his colleagues, Poole would have had no hesitation in turning in a fellow officer if he'd uncovered any wrong-doing. With such a high expectation of other officers, Poole mightn't have wanted to fall below his own rigid standards.
It occurred to Humphrey that he really didn't know Richard Poole at all well. The detective he felt he'd already met through his case notes at the Met, but the man was still a stranger. He'd developed some suspicions. Richard was clearly liked, even loved, by his team, but it wasn't so clear to what degree he'd returned that affection. His desk was obsessively neat – and the team's initial reluctance to let Humphrey sit there suggested that they hadn't tidied it for him after his death, so it must have always been like that. Camille's mother's reaction at the bar was odd – why offer Humphrey tea? It would have been the last drink Humphrey would have wanted in that heat, but did Richard drink it? Richard's house had been cleared in preparation for Humphrey's arrival, but the lizard was an oddity and didn't really fit with the rest of the picture that Humphrey was building up about the deceased detective. He needed to hear Richard's own voice in order to understand him.
In the end, it was Camille who gave him the clue, while she was reading Richard's diary from his university days – and how could he forget the wistfulness in her eyes when she said that Richard had been in love with Sasha? She commented that it was sad to read a dead person's diary and learn about their dreams, especially when the dreams wouldn't now come true…and Humphrey had had a thought.
Later, when the case was solved and 'Sasha' and James Moore had been detained and charged - and after he had received that answerphone message from Sally that served only to confirm what he'd somehow already known – he turned his mind back to his suspicions. As a way of taking his mind off his own problems, because if he didn't, he'd probably end up drinking too much, he began to search his – no, Richard's – house.
He didn't think it likely that either Fidel or Dwayne would have found it while they packed Richard's possessions – Richard was clearly a secretive man and would have hated to have had his private thoughts revealed and discussed. When he did find the small, red leather book, stashed under a loose floorboard beneath the bed, Humphrey made a silent and heartfelt vow to Richard that the contents would never be shared with anyone else, even Camille.
Especially Camille, if the diary revealed what he feared it might.
He pulled a chair to the open doorway that led out onto the verandah and savoured the fresh, salty sea breeze before opening the diary. The initial pages were innocuous enough. Humphrey was amused to discover that many of his early assumptions had been wrong. Richard hated the heat with a passion. He hated dressing down even more, so was prepared to suffer in his dark suit. He didn't care for the feel of sand between his toes and was nervous of the sea. There was a hammock in the house, but Richard had never made use of it. So Humphrey's visions of an Englishman in shorts with a beer, hanging out on the beach, had been wrong on almost every level. His entries about endless, weary attempts to find a decent cup of tea confirmed another suspicion. Humphrey wondered whether he'd left poor Catherine assuming that all English detective inspectors required tea in order to work efficiently.
As the diary continued, Richard seemed to become more resigned to his exile. There was one entry written in emphatically angry writing, describing the Commissioner in deeply unflattering terms – he didn't specify the man's exact crime, but Humphrey could match the dates to that time when the Met officers had been told that Richard was not reapplying for his job. It looked as if Richard had been 'played' by that wily individual – Humphrey made a mental note to himself to be on his guard with Selwyn Patterson.
Actually, a lot of Richard's diary was like that. He was discreet, not giving details of cases in a way that would allow any individual to be identified and providing very little in the way of personal information about any of his subordinates. He referred to the three of them by their initials alone. Humphrey appreciated that – clearly, Richard was taking nothing to chance. His heart ached at the realisation that he would almost certainly have liked Richard Poole very much. It was likely that he would not have been quite Richard's cup of tea, so to speak, but he was sure that the two of them would have found plenty of common ground. Just working on a case together would have been fascinating – he could understand why his team had become so loyal to his predecessor.
It warmed his heart to note that Richard was fond of Fidel and wrote of him in admiring terms. In some ways, Richard saw Fidel as the young man he might have become had he not been so lacking in social confidence. Humphrey could see that Richard envied the younger man's ability to balance a happy family life alongside his fierce commitment to his work. "I truly believe that F will be promoted to DCI one day", wrote Richard, "if he continues along the path he has taken." This was written in relation to Fidel's worries about taking his OSPRE sergeant exams, and Humphrey really hoped that Richard had managed to convey his pride to Fidel himself before his death. He was sure it would have done wonders for the younger man's confidence. He made another mental note to review Fidel's professional development and make sure he had plenty of opportunities to develop in his new role.
Richard's relationship with Dwayne was a little more complex. Humphrey himself rather liked the laid-back constable, but he suspected that Richard might have found his laissez-faire attitude to work rather irritating. He hoped that it had been as obvious to Richard as to himself that Dwayne was a quick-witted officer who did care about upholding justice in his community, and that he simply had his own ways of getting his work done. He felt it probably was – Richard didn't mention Dwayne much, but when he did, the comments were usually positive: "As usual, D used his persuasive charms to get the answer we needed – not sure what we'd have done if he hadn't". Humphrey needed to ensure that he made it clear to Dwayne that his methods were appreciated, just in case Richard hadn't had the opportunity.
And then, there was Camille. Richard was cautious in his mentions of her, almost as if he was trying to deny his own admiration. But…who could possibly not admire her? It wasn't just her looks - in the short time that he'd come to know her, Humphrey had been able to look beyond the obvious beauty to see the person inside. She was deeply intelligent and had a knack for making the right connections within a case. She was also very strong, carefully hiding her grief for Richard behind a stoical expression – just occasionally he saw the terrible sadness and bewilderment in her eyes. She was kind, too – far kinder to him than he deserved, with his clumsy attempts to say the right thing. It had been kind of her to invite him to join them for drinks, and it had been a struggle to do the right thing and turn the invitation down.
Camille would have loved Richard passionately if he had acknowledged his feelings for her. Humphrey idly wondered about the happiness of such a man, to have the full force of the young French woman's passion and affection focused on him, and him alone… He shook his head to dislodge such images – how could he even think such things when Sally had just left him? – and refocused on the diary.
For it was true that Richard did have feelings for Camille, in a small way, at least. It was there between the lines, mostly. Little snippets, here and there:
"As usual, I could rely on C to come up with the important fact – the one that saved the case."
"C wore red today. It's funny - I don't normally like red that much."
"Hotter than ever today. Why doesn't C ever look too hot? Must ask."
"Nearly lost the suspect but managed to spot him by moonlight shining off his jacket. C's hair shines silver in moonlight, like a curtain of stars."
"Night at the bar. As usual C wanted me to dance. Would rather stay seated, got two left feet and anyway, I can watch her better that way."
"Wonder if C would really like Clacton?"
And, finally and most poignantly, on the day of that fatal party:
"Will have to confront H, don't want to, but it's not fair on S's memory. Hate parties, anyway. Wonder if C would come and rescue me if I asked? Would she come anyway – somewhere, anywhere - with me? Maybe I should just ask her. Just a drink or something. Am sick of trying to do the right thing. Maybe I'll ask tomorrow."
Humphrey sighed as he closed the diary. He rubbed his eyes, noting with surprise that it was getting dark outside. He'd been reading for almost two hours. He struggled out of the deck chair
His speculations about Richard's feelings for Camille and discovery of the diary had done much to take his mind off Sally's shock announcement, but he found himself returning to it now.
He leaned in the open doorway, Richard's diary still in his hand, and listened to the message again and again, trying to will it to say something different each time. Maybe there was a follow-up message - maybe she'd changed her mind and had rung back to say she was sorry and that she would be coming after all, would be trying to make a go of it – and maybe in his clumsy way he'd deleted the message without hearing it? Somehow he knew that that wasn't the case. Had she even handed in her notice or put the flat on the rental market, as she'd claimed? He'd been too busy, having been given just 36 hours to get packed and on his way – he'd just assumed that she would organise everything after he'd gone. But now, that prolonged hug at the airport made sense. Sally had never had any intention of joining him – she'd known it back then, and was silently saying goodbye for more than just a few weeks.
He felt a heavy depression coming over him. His marriage had failed. Only 38 and he was a failure in this, as in almost anything he had ever tried to achieve. He could just imagine Dad. "I told you, son, don't bugger this up. You won't get another chance". The old man was probably right, too.
He put Richard's diary down on the bed, carefully and walked out of his house and onto the sand. The sun had set and the stars were starting to appear; he could hear nothing but the muffled sounds of laughter from the town, just along the coast, interspersed with the gentle lapping of the waves. He sat down near the tide's edge, hugging his knees and resting his chin on them.
She'd said that she didn't love him anymore. How long had that been coming on? Had he not noticed something obvious? Could he have even done anything about it? If he hadn't given in and moved to London, would they still be together? But then, Sally had wanted to move – if they hadn't, she might have left him even sooner.
The cold reality was that this had always been on the books. He'd told Camille, only half-jokingly, that Sally had often told him when to shut up – and it was true that she'd frequently found him annoying, particularly when her friends were around. Traits that had seemed amusing and even endearing in a fairly new boyfriend had quickly become a serious irritant once they had got married.
It was the little things – the way he insisted on walking on the outside of a pavement and opening doors offended her feminist sensibilities. She hated the way he rambled on and on ("I'm trying to think!"). He tended to hog the middle of the bed, so she was always pushing him away in the summer months ("God, Humph, do you have to be such a hot lump?"). He couldn't get her favourite drink quite right ("OK, I suppose I'll have to fix it myself, since you can't follow a simple instruction"). He couldn't follow recipes to the book, he was always late for dinner dates with friends, he was so often wrong. And she'd always smile and be very nice about it, but it was there. The suppressed sigh of irritation, the look of mild disappointment in her eyes. It was his mother all over again… gradually, so gradually that he hadn't even noticed it happening. And she was always right too, that was the thing. He really was stupid about certain things.
His mind turned to Camille. Which was worse, he wondered, to love someone and never have it openly reciprocated, or to have your love returned and then lose it? What was it they said – "it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all"? Something like that. Anyway, the point was, here he was wallowing in self-pity when he should really be thinking of someone else whose loss was far more terrible. At least the woman he loved was still well and still living, even if she was no longer in his life.
Angry with himself, he got up abruptly and strode back to the house. He hadn't yet unpacked – part of him had been waiting until Sally arrived, since she'd probably have a better idea of where things should go. Well, she wouldn't be coming now, so he'd have to sort it out.
Once he'd unpacked and stowed his cases, he went through the house, picking up bits of rubbish that had been left behind when Fidel and Dwayne had quickly packed up Richard's belongings. He assumed they were no longer needed, scraps of paper, broken tools, dirty old rags, a single hole-y sock. He gathered all this up into a small pile and took it out onto the beach, a safe distance from the house. Humphrey had been a boy scout and, for all his domestic faults, was more than capable of collecting together some driftwood and creating a campfire.
When the fire was blazing nicely, he went back into the house and eyed the book contemplatively. It seemed wrong to keep the diary. Richard clearly wouldn't have wanted anyone else to read it – not in Sainte-Marie anyway. It would be easy to just toss it on the fire, and nobody but him would be any the wiser. But, on the other hand, did he have the right to burn it? Shouldn't that be the decision of someone who knew and loved him?
"Hello? Are you there, Sir?"
He heard Camille's voice approaching from the verandah. He fumbled to slip the book out of sight under the pillow. As he turned away, his hand caught on something on the bedside table, sending it flying to the ground with a crash.
"Ah, you are here, then." She appeared in the open doorway and leaned against the door frame, raising her eyebrows.
He gave her a guilty look as he retrieved the remains of what looked like a rather hideous ornament, in the shape of a conch shell and covered in glitter. "Er…do you suppose this was of any value?"
She gave it a dismissive look. "I shouldn't think so. It wasn't – it didn't belong to…" She swallowed, looking away for a moment. "I think it preceded him. He probably didn't bother to throw it away."
"Oh, well." He chucked the bits in the bin and dusted his hands off, feeling a little hot and acutely aware of her gaze."
"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" She sounded a little tentative.
He waved a hand casually, forcing a smile. "Disturb away. I'm still too jet-lagged to sleep properly. I – um – I'd offer you a drink, but I don't know if I'm organised enough…" He hadn't had time to go shopping, but Fidel had offered to deliver a few basics – milk and so on. He located the fridge and wandered over to it, more in hope than expectation.
"Oh, you don't have to -," she began, as he opened the fridge door and whistled at the row of beer bottles. Basics indeed….
"Aha! Just what I need." He pulled out a couple of beers, passing one to Camille. "Good work, Fidel."
"I wasn't planning on staying," she murmured, as she opened her bottle. "I just wanted to check that you were alright – that you'd settled in."
"I assumed you'd be making a night of it with the others. Um – Richard, and all that -," he added, awkwardly, as they sat down on the sand near the fire.
Her eyes widened. "We did. It's after midnight. After all, tomorrow is a working day – Sir."
"Good point." Call me Humphrey, he wanted to add, but perhaps it was a little too soon for that. "Er…the body – Richard, I mean… what time do they fly him home?"
"Why do you ask?" Was that sharpness in her tone? He didn't know her well enough to be able to interpret.
"Ah, well, I just thought I might send a letter with…him. To his parents. Commiserations, and so on."
"I thought you didn't know him?"
"I didn't. It doesn't matter." He could always get the address later, from Richard's files. Send the diary to his parents. Possibly they would like to read about their son's time on the island – and then they could make the decision about who else should know. It wouldn't be his decision, anyway.
She sighed, staring into the fire. "I still can't quite believe it. You know? Less than a week ago, he was still here."
"It must be very difficult for you – all," he ventured, cautiously.
She shook her head and put the bottle down undrunk. "I don't want this after all. I'm sorry."
"That's quite OK." He scrambled to his feet as she stood up.
She hesitated briefly and glanced towards the verandah. He had the impression that she was looking for someone…someone who would never stand there again. She shook her head again and turned towards the road and her car.
"Good night, Sir."
"Yes, of course. See you tomorrow, Camille."
He stood and watched until she drove away. This was going to be a lot more difficult than he had anticipated.