Thank you for your lovely reviews! Just a quick note to say that the characters, and most of the dialogue in this chapter, belong to the wonderfully talented Robert Thorogood
Chapter 4: Moving On
The peace of an early Sunday morning on the remote beach was disturbed only by the gentle waves, the squawking of distant seabirds… and an occasional heartfelt curse.
"Blast! Why won't it just… oh, buggering bollocks!"
Humphrey dropped the poles that just wouldn't fit together the way the drawing suggested they should. Absently, he scratched the sunburn on his bare shoulder as he glared at the innocent sections of the would-be hammock, currently strewn across the white sand.
He was…getting there. That was about all he could say.
Well, it wasn't quite as bad as that. He'd had plenty to do, starting with unpacking the additional luggage that had followed him by two weeks and finding places for everything in his 'shack'. Humphrey was by no means a hoarder, but he had been expecting Sally to join him, so there were a fair number of favourite books, CDs and DVDs, to say nothing of bedroom linen, kitchen items and so on to find homes for. Looking around the small house, he did wonder what on earth had made him pack so much; in London, it had felt as if he were travelling light. In his darker moments, he wondered what Sally would do with all the stuff he'd left behind. Would she keep it until he returned, or would she want to be clear of anything that reminded her of him? He supposed she'd pay for a storage unit until his return - she wasn't vindictive.
Then he'd needed to sort out his new desk at work. Not that that took a lot of work, but he'd spent half a day tidying away the few items he'd bought with him, made a little nervous by the curious but so far tolerant gaze of his three subordinates. He'd also spent some time looking through the files of open cases – not that there were many of them, as DI Poole was clearly quite efficient in tying up his investigations. They were mostly trivial matters of petty crime, such as minor smuggling, pickpocketing of hapless tourists and so on – the kind of work that Fidel and Dwayne would investigate sporadically, but put to one side if something more urgent arose.
The downfall of a small team, he soon discovered, was that there wasn't an awful lot of cover in place. Each night and at weekends, only one of the team was theoretically 'on call' in the sense that they kept the mobile phone to which all office calls were rerouted when the tiny police station was closed. In reality, however, all other team members had to be prepared to be called into action at any time, night or day. When there was a case, with so few staff, there was very little down-time to be had.
Having said that, it was rare that they were called out at inconvenient hours. Humphrey was beginning to get used to 'Caribbean time'. Although Honore Police Station made an effort to maintain the standard 9-5 working day and to provide some cover outside that, the rest of the island did not. While he sweated his way through the torrid afternoon heat, working through files at his desk as Camille, Fidel and Dwayne drowsed at theirs, the rest of Sainte-Marie appeared to sleep. It soon became obvious to him that no one would think of the worse of him if he stepped out for a cool afternoon drink at Catherine's bar or even popped home for a couple of hours, least of all his fellow officers, who'd probably take the opportunity for a nap anyway.
He'd also learnt that if he wanted to do some manual work, it was best to do it early in the morning, before the island heat reached its peak. Hence this hammock-building exercise, on his first full day off since arriving.
The morning sun beat down on the back of his neck as he gazed rather hopelessly at the mess of parts. It should be easy. Probably would be for anyone but stupid old Humph, the acidic little alien voice at the back of his brain whispered.
He'd found the hammock in the house, still in its box and carefully stashed between a cupboard and the wall in the small kitchen area. It had a post-it note stuck to the side of it, covered in an untidy scrawl: "Happy birthday, boss! Something to help you with getting that tan."
Even if he hadn't recognised Dwayne's scrawl, he'd have known the likely sender. From what he now knew about Richard, nothing could surely have been quite as unwelcome as a hammock. Deferential Fidel wouldn't have had the nerve to give his DI such a jokey gift and no-nonsense Camille wouldn't have considered wasting her money. Richard had clearly grimaced at the hammock and stowed it in its current location without another thought. Fidel and Dwayne had either not noticed it or decided to leave it when they packed up Richard's possessions.
It had given Humphrey another insight into Richard. The diary had given him a strong sense of what Richard thought of his team, but this irreverent gift was interesting, because it suggested that his team had felt at ease with him. It didn't fit with the image of a stiff, unrelenting, humourless DI that Humphrey had received from colleagues back in London.
Well. Humphrey wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Richard might not have appreciated the sun, sea and sand, but he certainly would – once he'd got the bloody thing sorted out. He pulled a face at the lizard on the verandah.
"Always read the instructions, Harry. Sally drummed it into me… ever since the great shelving collapse of 2003." He frowned at the instruction leaflet – who the hell wrote these things, and why did the accompanying illustrations bear absolutely no resemblance to the pieces that had come out of the box? Surely he couldn't be alone in finding these things utterly incomprehensible?
"Who needs instructions – how hard can it be?" he muttered, and then gasped in pain as he cut his finger.
With his bad luck, Humphrey was no stranger to minor accidents and always made sure he had a plaster somewhere in the vicinity. He continued to mutter, apparently to the lizard, but mostly to himself, as he clumsily attempted to staunch the blood and apply a plaster one-handed.
"So… we plough on regardless and inevitably end up bleeding. Not entirely unlike my marriage, it seems. Well, I can't really put a sticking plaster on that, can I?" he added, rather bitterly, as he finally succeeded in sticking the dressing over the cut.
This oddly bitter mood was new to him; Humphrey was used to looking on the bright side. Why, then, did he currently feel as if he'd wasted some of the best years of his life on a relationship that had been doomed right from the start?
He shook his head impatiently – no good turning sour over it. That way led to… well, he only had to look at that damn diary, currently hidden under his mattress, to know precisely where it might lead. He forced himself to look on the bright side – he was already making changes to his life. Soon have this hammock up, he thought to himself, as he cut the string, and then I'll… oh…
He sighed as he read further on in the instructions and realised his mistake. As he held the useless pieces of cord in his hands, he wondered precisely when they had become a symbol for his marriage. Was there something he could have done to salvage it? Hadn't he always done precisely what Sally had wanted? Was that, in fact, the real problem?
His thoughts wandered to his team, wondering absently what they made of him. He had no concern about their ability to run the station in his absence, but he wondered whether they might be discussing him – their new boss. He imagined Dwayne making some droll comment regarding his appearance or eccentricities or clumsiness. Fidel might reprimand him, but would be secretly amused. And Camille? Would she even care? Would she come to his defence? Or was she still consumed by grief over Richard's loss?
Of the three of them, it was Camille that concerned him the most. She had started out openly hostile to him, but during the investigation into Richard's death, had softened considerably. However, since the night she'd visited him after he'd discovered the diary, she had grown quiet. Perfectly polite and friendly, of course, and she was a diligent sergeant, but she didn't initiate any conversation – she would speak only if spoken to. From time to time, she would stare into space, her eyes distant, and might not respond immediately if someone addressed her.
He didn't know her well enough to tell if this was the real Camille, but he couldn't help thinking that it was not. The reactions of her fellow officers and mother were enough proof. Catherine could hardly hide her anxiety and Fidel frequently threw her a puzzled look. Dwayne gave nothing away, but Humphrey noticed that when she was particularly quiet and unresponsive, he would pat her shoulder or give her arm an encouraging squeeze as he passed her.
His comment about not being able to put a sticking plaster over his marriage had made him think of Camille again. In a sense, it was much easier for him to move on – he was out of familiar territory and starting again in a place where everything was a new, distracting challenge. She didn't have that luxury. What must it do to her to have to go into that office every day and see a new man sitting at Richard's desk? How did she feel about driving the familiar route to his home and seeing untidy, awkward Humphrey waiting for her, instead of fastidious Richard in his dark suit? He wondered at the fact that she hadn't already sought a temporary reassignment away from the island – and then considered, a little uneasily, whether she still might. He'd approve a move if that was what she wanted, of course, but it would leave him with just Fidel for his DS, and the younger officer lacked Camille's experience.
It was almost a relief when the object of his thoughts rang his phone and he had to go and solve the mysterious murder of a stand-in girl on a film set. Game face, Humphrey.
It was ironic that one of the few topics that appeared to raise any enthusiasm in Camille was the supposed imminent arrival of Sally. Again and again, she would remind him of the fact… and again and again, he would open his mouth and try to tell her… but then he would see the spark in her eyes and that crooked little half-smile that animated her beautiful face, and he couldn't bear to.
Perhaps she clung to this subject as proof that someone at least was in a happy relationship – maybe it lessened her own pain in some way. His heart sank ever further at the prospect of having to tell her the truth…which he would have to do very soon.
He'd made the mistake of telling her early on exactly when Sally was due to arrive, which was of course before he'd realised that she wouldn't be coming. Unfortunately, Camille seemed to have something of an eidetic memory (he suspected it was one of the reasons why she'd been deployed to undercover work in the past), and took almost any opportunity to remind him of the date and time.
Despite this, he was quite unprepared to have a bunch of flowers thrust into his hand as she turned the car towards the airport on the appointed day. Something else he'd learned about Camille was that, once on a case, she could be pretty single-minded and stubborn; he thought of it as rather a French characteristic. Soft, half-embarrassed objections didn't seem to work and eventually he had had to resort to shouting to get her to listen to him.
As soon as the car screeched to a halt, he stumbled out and walked, a little blindly, away from her. Now that it was inevitable, he didn't know where to start.
She followed him. "Her plane lands in 15 minutes!"
He forced himself to face her. "Yes…her plane gets here, but she won't be on it." He smiled, tentatively. "In fact, you could hardly call it her plane, really."
"She's not coming?" Her expression was still uncomprehending. It seemed almost perverse of her not to understand without further explanation, especially in view of her own abortive romance with his predecessor.
"She and I…" he stuttered, "- well, we're still married, obviously, but…our marital status is presently…"
Understanding appeared in those intelligent dark eyes. "You've split up with her."
"Or rather she's split up with me, so…" He shrugged, helplessly. "Anyway… it's just one of those things."
"I'm really sorry."
"Bit of a shock…" He met her eyes, forcing himself to admit it. "Although, if I'm totally honest, it's probably been on the cards for a while."
"Doesn't make it any easier," she replied, softly; strangely gentle for hard-headed Camille.
"Not sure how I'm going to muddle along without her," he admitted, sheepishly. "I'm a perfect dunce when it comes to… well, life really."
It was only the truth, after all. What had he been before Sally? Just a lowly detective inspector, plodding along in Bournemouth and probably destined to live out his life in the provinces, with no chance of promotion or recognition. Whatever else she'd done, at least she'd encouraged him to make more of himself.
"No, you're not -." It might have just been a polite denial, but he sensed a little more animation in her voice even as he shook his head.
"Yes. Yes, I am. I couldn't get anything right in the end. Even the little things…" He laughed bitterly, not wanting to say it, but somehow those sympathetic eyes seemed to draw more out of him than he wanted to say and he found himself gabbling, hardly even aware of what he was saying. "I – I'd make her a gin and tonic – ice, slice, dash of tonic, a – and I'd forget it had to be slimline – silly Humph. Couldn't even get that right."
He stopped abruptly, flushing with embarrassment. The sweat prickled his spine and he suddenly felt cold despite the thirty-five degree heat. He hadn't meant to…reveal so much. What would she think of him now? Cool, level-headed, oh so clever Camille. How she must miss Richard Poole. That logic-driven, efficient, intelligent man… No wonder she'd fallen in love with him - who wouldn't? Even in the midst of his shamed misery, his heart ached for her and for him.
She seemed lost in thought for a moment, her eyes distant, before looking up at him again, her face animated. "Maybe you – being here," she gestured with her hands in that lively French manner he'd already grown to…what?...love? "Maybe it's the fresh start you need."
"Absolutely." He forced a smile. Game face, Humphrey. "New page, clean slate, square one and all that – yes. So, right…" He laughed again, embarrassed. "It's all rather awkward, oversharing with a colleague."
She grimaced, seeming a little embarrassed herself. "Not at all – you know, any time." Her voice, her manner, her face – all was gruffly professional once more. He had the strong impression that she generally preferred to keep her feelings to herself. It seemed unnatural to her, and he wondered whether she had tried to restrain her more 'French' characteristics and emotions out of concern for Richard's sensibilities. If so, that was a shame, for he found he rather liked this version of Camille, even if she was just being kind.
He almost wanted to laugh at himself, and would have done if he didn't fear offending her. What a ridiculous thing to blather on about! Not being able to get a gin and slim right… how utterly banal! How…
Oh. Wait a minute, though…
When the case had been wrapped up, Thea Holmes' killer was safely behind bars, the dreaded paperwork was complete and he was – at last! – lying in the hammock, he found his mind returning to his earlier conversation with Camille. It seemed silly to dwell on what she must think of him – silly to even imagine that she gave him a single thought when he wasn't there.
He had no doubt of her empathy – possibly, in some ways, his own unhappiness may have made him more human in her eyes. She might even forgive him his eccentricities – who knew? But, in any case, he was being selfish. How could he compare his own problems with hers? If he wanted to, there was nothing to stop him handing in his notice, getting on a plane and going back to Sally who was, after all, still his wife. If he tried hard enough, he could get her back.
Which rather beggared the question why he hadn't gone straight back. It was just a job, after all, and he'd be more than welcome back at the Met. If she would have been so unhappy here, then why on earth wasn't he prepared to move back? Surely, if he loved her, he'd want to make her happy… Wouldn't he?
Deep in thought, he suddenly noticed the lizard on the verandah rail. As the delicate little creature jumped on his chest and the flimsy hammock gave way, sending him crashing onto the sand, he couldn't help wondering, just for a minute, exactly who had left who.