Couple of notes: 'grockle' is an affectionately derogative term used in the south and west of England to describe clueless tourists. In Bournemouth, we often apply it to the idiots who go onto the beach for the day without bothering to use any sun protection cream, and then, once they resemble lobsters, will have to buy after-sun cream to soothe the burn.

Secondly, Humphrey's musings on Camille's habit of wearing as little as possible reminded me of working at a beach shop, where we girls could swan around in shorts and sun-tops if we wanted to, while our poor male colleagues were forced to wear trousers and shirts, and even ties. I've always wondered how Camille gets away with it!

Timing of this: just to clarify, it's set sometime between episodes 4 and 5 of series 3. Basically after Camille's father reappeared but before Humphrey decided to tell his parents about his divorce.

Usual acknowledgement of Robert Thorogood and Red Planet Pictures/Atlantique Production.

Chapter 5: Camille

"And so I told her that if she wanted to set me up again, she should probably – Sir! Are you listening to a word I'm saying?"

"Hmm? Oh yes, of course I am. What's with the 'sir', though? We're off duty now."

His DS gave him one of her dazzling smiles to show that she forgave his distraction. Humphrey shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took another sip of his cold drink.

The diary was stuffed in his back pocket and currently felt as if it was burning a hole in his trousers. He'd pulled on a Hawaiian shirt to disguise its distinctive shape. It was one of those awful ones that Dwayne had been derisive of, but at least had the advantage of being suitably baggy. He still wasn't absolutely sure that he was making the right decision.

It was the appearance of Camille's father that had first put the idea in his mind. First of all, he'd considered posting the little notebook off to Richard's parents – had gone so far as to check the address in his predecessor's murder file – but something had made him hold off. He'd dithered over what to do for almost five months now.

He'd received certain impressions – from Poole's colleagues both here and in London; from the diary itself; from the man's neat organisation of files and notes. He didn't think that Richard had been a particularly happy man, not prior to his arrival in Sainte-Marie at any rate. A man who had been isolated at work and a limited social success at University was unlikely to have had a happy childhood; whereas the diary had revealed flashes of happiness here on the island. For most of his life, Richard had been a square peg in a round hole but somehow had found his niche in the most unlikely of locations.

Looking around the office, Humphrey had often found it hard to believe that Richard had managed to work here. He should have been appalled by the lack of uniformity, the quite blatant disregard of regulations, the lack of resources and scarcity of decent investigative equipment, frequently having to conduct his own experiments to avoid waiting for results from the forensics department on Guadeloupe. Dwayne's flouting of the rules must have driven him mad, and as for Camille, habitually dressing in as few clothes as she could possibly get away with while working…not that she wasn't pleasant to look at, but Humphrey felt that it was most unfair, when he was still required to wear trousers and a shirt at least, even if he had forgone the tie as early as decently possible. How Richard had managed to carry on working in his dark suit and tie without expiring in this tropical heat, he had no idea.

The team and the job must have had something going for them, though. As the diary went on, Richard's enthusiasm for his job had increased. As he began to settle into his new job, Humphrey began to understand why. There was satisfaction to be found in the solving of a case with such a small team. Back at the Met, he'd been involved in some high-profile cases, notably the people-trafficking ring, but always as part of a much larger team. And yes, there'd be a round of drinks on the DCI for the entire team when a big case was concluded, but it was easy to get lost in the crowd. Here, he was able to feel more in control of the cases and when the murderer had been apprehended and shipped off to the larger prison facilities on neighbouring Guadeloupe, he had a much stronger idea of the roles played by each member of the team and a greater sense of achievement.

In addition to Camille, Dwayne and Fidel, there was a small team of special constables who patrolled the island, dealt with minor incidents such as driving offences, and manned the station overnight and at weekends. In addition to this, Humphrey could request the support of the larger police force on Guadeloupe, but so far he had managed his cases with his own team…and he'd grown enormously proud of them over the months. Proud…and fond.

Five months! Had it really been that long? And yet, in many ways, he felt that he was finally starting to fit in. It had taken a while – Humphrey's enthusiasm had been hindered by his lack of understanding of the Caribbean way of life and his unerring ability to mistake the tourist traps for the real thing. Each time he made a mistake, he could almost see the word 'grockle' forming on the lips of his colleagues – or whatever the Sainte-Marie equivalent was. But they'd smile and he'd laugh off the mistake and learn from it. Now, when he walked barefoot along the sand from his beach house towards the seafood stalls, the traders would recognise him and be able to recommend something he'd like. He knew how to haggle at the market stalls, knew how to avoid buying imported food at inflated prices; he even knew where the best hole-in-the-wall restaurants were located. He'd learnt how to drive safely on the rough roads (although he was happy to leave that activity to his DS as much as possible) and was reasonably confident in navigating his way around the small island if he needed to.

And he'd learnt to navigate his way into a reasonably positive working relationship with each of his colleagues. Fidel was easy – a pleasant, hard-working keen young Sergeant. In his diary and in Fidel's own files, Richard had noted his ambition and determination, and Humphrey tended to agree that the young officer was destined for greater things. He hoped that he wouldn't lose the ambitious Fidel to the brighter lights of the Guadeloupe police department or beyond, but then, his family were likely to keep him well-grounded in Sainte-Marie.

Dwayne was trickier, but they had developed a healthy respect for each other's methods. A lack of ambition was the constable's main issue, but Humphrey had no real problems with that. Every police department needed its 'insider' – someone who knew his way around the local petty crime scene. Also, he appreciated Dwayne's ability to keep Fidel out of trouble.

The toughest nut to crack had been Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey. Humphrey had worked with plenty of female officers in his time and usually had no problems getting along with them, but Camille could be…prickly. She was changeable - one minute quite laid back and 'Caribbean', the next utterly and passionately 'French'. She could be stormy if a case bothered her, and he had noticed that any case involving children or less-than-perfect fathers could provoke a snappy mood that would last several days.

When he met Camille's own father, he understood why. Until then, he'd been careful not to get involved in her private life, not really fancying being at the receiving end of her sharp tongue. But the encounter with her father had reminded him uncomfortably of his own family problems. He'd felt for Catherine as well as for Camille, and had hated to see tension mar the easy affection between mother and daughter. For once, he'd found himself getting involved in a colleague's personal affairs, and although he'd felt terribly uncomfortable and English about the whole thing, he was glad he had.

He had been particularly embarrassed about his conversation with Camille outside the station, mentally cringing even as he spouted words about what a great job her mother had done in bringing her up. He'd hoped and prayed Camille wouldn't view his admiring comments as an appalling attempt to chat her up. It certainly wasn't his intention to do so – not that she wasn't – that he wouldn't…but no. Entirely inappropriate.

To his relief, Camille had appeared to take his awkward little speech at face value, and they had moved on as normal – except that their relationship wasn't quite normal. There was something between them now – a quiet intimacy that went unacknowledged but was, nevertheless, there. Suddenly, Humphrey knew that if he needed a friend to talk to, she would be his first choice. Ironic that a French-Caribbean woman that he'd known less than half a year had become his closest confidante.

And she seemed to seek him out too. Not often, and not obviously, but there were subtle signs. She would turn up at the 'shack' unexpectedly, early on Saturday mornings, with two cups of coffee and a casual offer to show him some of the less well-known parts of the island while they weren't on duty. During a case, whenever she drove him home, it was now taken for granted that she would get out and join him on his verandah for a cold beer and a chat over the events of the day.

And the traditional Friday night drink went without saying. Humphrey reflected that it must be a universal practice – that in every country, there were detective inspectors buying their junior officers an obligatory beer in the local 'cop's bar' on a Friday night (or whatever the local beverage of choice might be). In this case – much to his continuing bemusement – the drink of choice was one of Catherine's lethal rum punches and the location just happened to be a tropical island.

And another unusual element was that his DS wasn't some gruff grizzled old sergeant, but instead a really quite ridiculously beautiful woman. Admittedly, the form-fitting red dress was more likely to have been aimed at tonight's would-be blind date – yet another of Catherine's well-meaning arrangements, which had fallen through almost immediately when Camille had noticed him eyeing up a handsome young man in the mirror behind the bar. However, Humphrey didn't think he'd ever seen Camille dressed in anything that didn't look as if it had been made for her.

He grinned. "So I take it you've told Catherine to lay off the blind dates for now?"

Camille gave a mock-shudder. "I thought the last attempt was bad enough!" She shook her head, smiling slightly. "I know she means well… I guess she wants at least the chance of grandchildren, one day. And she doesn't want me -."

She stopped, but Humphrey finished the sentence for her. "She doesn't want you to be lonely."

She sighed, instantly sobering. "She does mean well, but - ."

But you're not ready to move on.

He didn't say it out loud. He'd never openly acknowledged Camille's carefully hidden love for her former DI. It was an irony that those closest to her probably knew much more about her feelings than she realised – certainly Dwayne and her mother had guessed. But what good would it do to talk about them? Camille was a proud woman working in a tough profession. She didn't give her heart easily – it must have taken a lot for Richard to gain that privilege – and she might be embarrassed if she thought that her feelings had been so obvious to those around her.

She looked away from him towards the glittering water, her face serious. It was a slightly cooler Friday evening, if that meant anything in this torrid location, and a light breeze ruffled her curls. Humphrey found himself staring at her profile, mesmerised. Her features were fine and dark, almost Italianate with that strong nose and beautifully sculpted mouth. At times like this, she could look imposing, almost off-putting, but he knew her well enough by now to see behind the carefully constructed mask.

Most of the time, she was simply one of 'the gang'; both a quick-witted no-nonsense cop and an easy-going, sunny young woman, who knew how to have fun. However, there was also a certain sensitivity in her, a gentleness that one wouldn't normally associate with tough DS Bordey. He noticed it at random moments. At crime scenes, when an expression of pity would cross her face at the sight of another murder victim. At the bar whenever she gave her mother a glance of gentle, tolerant affection. In the little smile on her lips whenever Fidel proudly displayed photos of his tiny daughter. During moments at the shack when she would sit on the sand next to him, silently gazing out at a calm sea.

She looked back suddenly, catching his gaze, and he broke it quickly, feeling a prickling sensation of embarrassment as he fiddled with his glass. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded normal, though.

"So, where are Fidel and Dwayne? It's not like them to miss the Friday evening drink."

"Oh, we cancelled, when you mentioned the date." He risked looking up at her, grinning sheepishly. She looked a little flushed, but otherwise composed. "Fidel said something about getting his mother-in-law to babysit tonight, and Dwayne was last seen chatting up a rather pretty tourist. And since I assumed you wouldn't be free…"

She laughed. "I should not have allowed Maman to organise the date on a Friday evening anyway. It does no good to break a tradition."

"A tradition?" He laughed. "I've only been here a few months, Camille."

She lifted her glass to him in an ironic toast. "You think we didn't meet here on a Friday night before you arrived, Humphrey?"

"Oh – well, of course you would have." It'd been on the tip of his tongue to say he hadn't expected Richard to be that sociable, bearing in mind his behaviour at the Met. And yet, the diary had hinted at particular occasions…

To take his mind off it, he asked: "So what made Camille Bordey join the police force, then?"

"Ah – well, that's a story." She laughed and knocked back her drink. "In fact, it is quite simple. It was the only profession that made sense to me – you know? I was OK at school, I guess. I was good at sports and languages and computer science and average at everything else. I enjoyed adventures. I didn't want to end up in an office somewhere. And no profession really appealed – Maman thought I might become a nurse, but it would have been wrong for me. But I liked solving puzzles, and I had a strong sense of justice, and – and it just seemed right. Also, it was a chance to get away."

He raised his eyebrows at this, and she made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, don't get me wrong. I love Sainte-Marie. I grew up here. But there's not much opportunity – not if you're ambitious. And, back then, to this bright young teenager, everyone seemed so - so…parossiale – I don't know how you would translate that."

He grinned. "Well, I don't speak French, but I think I can make an educated guess at 'parochial'. That's sort-of how I felt about where I grew up too."

She smiled at him. "Did you? You must tell me more about that. Well, I was so arrogant, so sure of myself. Maman wanted me to settle down and find myself a young man. I didn't want that."

"So you made your escape."

She nodded. "I had been thinking of moving to Guadeloupe, but then there was a police training programme I could go on, and it was in Paris where Maman grew up, and I hadn't been there apart from a visit to family when I was small. Paris -," she smiled as if in reminiscence, "– was brilliant. So beautiful and so vibrant! So many people, and all so smart and full of life! I expected to stay there much longer than I did. And there was a man for a while…it didn't last." She gave an expressive shrug. "He wasn't in the police and it became difficult to get the balance between the work and my personal life. I was doing a lot of specialist training and he wouldn't hear from me for a couple of weeks at a time... But for a while there… well, I was happy, I think."

She sobered a little and he tried to distract her. "From what I hear, you were more of a female James Bond than a street copper."

She laughed, throwing him an amused look that told him she knew exactly what he was trying to do. "Oui. That was fun. After training, I moved into undercover work. It suited me – I had to be fit, good with computers, able to think on my feet… And I had to be a good actor."

And that's something that you're extremely good at, I suspect.

She carried on, oblivious to his thoughts. "I was good at it and I enjoyed it. No two days were the same and the adrenaline rush was incredible. Well, I worked in Paris on various small cases for eighteen months and then there was a longer case in Marseilles, and another in Morocco, and by the time I returned to Paris, it didn't seem so exciting."

He nodded as he picked up his rum punch. He understood that, from his own experiences out in the field on the people-trafficking case. Not that he could have gone undercover – he'd have been hopeless at trying to assume a new identity – but brilliant, clever Camille would have been excellent at it.

She frowned, thoughtfully. "I didn't expect to find myself moving back to the Caribbean quite so quickly, but I was looking to move somewhere. For a while, I even thought about applying to the British police force…" She laughed as Humphrey choked on the mouthful he had just taken and nearly spat it back into his glass. "That would have been funny – non? I might have met you there!"

"Me – oh, no. I only moved there just after you started working with Richard." He was still reeling from imagining the impact such an impossibly attractive young officer would have had on the grumpy old coppers at the Met. She would certainly have brightened up the Friday night pint.

She seemed to sense his thoughts. "Yes, well. I wouldn't have fit in there at all! I could tell that after Richard arrived."

"Um, well Richard wasn't all that typical of the Met," he ventured cautiously, not sure whether or not this conversation was moving into dangerous territory.

Her smile vanished, very quickly. "No, I know that. He was treated badly by his colleagues." Her voice was flat.

"Yes, I think he rather was."

"It was unfair of them! They did not know what they lost…" She frowned and then shook herself visibly and carried on with her story, with the air of a woman determined not to dwell on certain issues. Her voice, which had grown a little intense, seemed to lighten again. "Anyway, as it turned out, a job came up in Guadeloupe – the people-trafficking case, which led to the murder that Richard was sent here to solve. Due to my background, my Commissionaire had recommended me for the job. And then, almost as soon as I stepped back on Saint-Marie, my cover got blown!" She shrugged again. "The Commissioner here offered me a reassignment, and it made sense to take it. It would have been too dangerous for me to go back into undercover work. So – there you are." She smiled, a little wryly. "I tried to escape, but I ended up back where I started. I suspect Fate."

He wondered whether that embarrassed little smile was a learned response. Richard was all logic and scientific fact, while Camille was all about intuition and finely-honed instinct. Richard's diary had hinted at some tension between the two detectives' very different approaches. Was she used to being on the receiving end of Richard's derision about superstitious beliefs?

"I agree," he surprised himself by saying.

"You do?" Her own surprise was obvious.

"Yes – well, that is I believe that there's a place that fits us. I grew up in the countryside, as I mentioned before, and I hated the place. The people were so…set in their ways. I was happy for a bit by the coast in Bournemouth, and then I was in London…" He looked out at the sea. "And all I could think of was that I didn't fit there. The people were nice enough, and I had friends and Sally of course, and a nice social life, I suppose. But I felt hemmed in on all sides."

"But that is how I came to feel about Paris!" she exclaimed, excitedly. "I felt…suffocated."

"Yes, yes, that's it exactly! Suffocated…" He mulled on the word for a few minutes. He hadn't thought of it before, but was that how Sally had made him feel in the end? He had known that things were wrong and, in a sense, had come to blame that on the oddly enclosed London society they had found themselves in. He had genuinely thought that a fresh start in a new place like Sainte-Marie would have saved them, but now he was not so sure. Would that feeling of suffocation have, in fact, intensified on this island with its small community?

"And now you are here?"

He smiled. "It's such a beautiful place, and the people are interesting, and I love the way of life… I know you and the others think I'm just some kind of over-enthusiastic tourist and that one day I'll pack my bags and head back to London, but for me…this works." He shook his head and refused to meet her eyes, a little embarrassed by his words. "I know it sounds impossibly naff, Camille, but I really believe that I was meant to come here."

"We don't think that." Her voice was soft.

"What?" Reluctantly, he looked up at her face, but there was no derision in it. She wasn't smiling either.

"We – Dwayne and Fidel and I - we don't think you are a tourist." She gave him an oddly intense look before looking down at her hands.

The warm glow definitely wasn't just from the rum. "Oh, I see…thank you. That means… That's – it's good. Good to know."

They were silent for a while, as the buzz of conversation continued around them. Then Camille stirred herself and picked up her empty glass. "Will you have another one?"

"Er…no, I don't think I will, but thank you." Abruptly, his mind was made up. Now was the time.

"Are you sure?" She smiled at him. "Only one tonight? But it is a Friday night, with no work tomorrow, and the night is still young…"

"Camille, there's… there's something I need to tell you. Well, show you, actually. Would you just wait a minute…?"

She had got up to collect the glasses, but when he grabbed her arm, she subsided again, with a quizzical smile. "Of course, but what is it?"

He was fumbling under his shirt, trying to retrieve the book from his back pocket. As he finally succeeded in pulling it free, he could sense her amusement.

"It's…this." He placed the book on the table between them.

"What is it?" She picked it up and opened it, her smile fading. "Is this – it's Richard's writing!"

"Yes. It's his diary."

She put the book down and looked up at him in confusion. "But… but when…?"

He sighed, but it had to be said. "I'm not going to lie to you, Camille. I could pretend that I'd only just found that, but it wouldn't be true. I've had it in my possession for five months now."

He spoke slowly and carefully. Looking at her face, he could see a myriad of emotions flitting over it, shock followed by grief, and then anger, and then back to shock. Scarcely aware of his actions, he found his hand moving across the table to cover one of her own.

"I didn't know what to do with it. He had hidden it, so I was sure that he wouldn't want anyone to read it. And I didn't know you all back then. I could tell that the three of you cared about him a great deal, but I didn't know what would be the best course of action. I didn't know, Camille, you have to believe me. And I didn't know Richard – I never knew him, although I would have liked to. And I respect him, so I had to make the right decision."

"So why now? Why show it to me now?"

"Because I want you to have it. Because… because I think that out of all the people he knew, he would have wanted you to read it…and only you."

Her hand moved from under his and she ran it gently over the leather cover – almost a caress. Her head was bent and he could no longer see her expression. "Have you read it?"

"Yes." He had to admit that too. "I wish I hadn't, but I was trying to understand him. I thought the diary might give me a clue as to who it should be given to. You see…I think he loved you, Camille. And I don't know if he ever had a chance to tell you and I have tried and tried to decide whether he would have wanted you to hear it. I've been carrying it around for weeks, trying to decide when and what to tell you, but anyway, the point is, I think you should read it. I think you need to. It should never have been read by a stranger, and I'm so, so sorry that it was me who found it." He hesitated, before adding gently, "I believe it should be read by – by someone who…loved him."

She was as still as a statue, but he sensed she was still listening. Her fingers slid across the book and curled around it tightly.

"Yes, I'm sorry I read it, but… at the same time, I'm glad. I'm glad I learned a little about Richard Poole. He was a remarkable man."

"Yes. He was." Her voice was a little muffled, as if she was holding back tears.

"I think I should leave you to it," he murmured, a little uncertain. He didn't care to leave her when she was so distressed, but instinct suggested that she needed to be alone with her memories.

"Yes. Yes, you should." He could feel her retreating from him, her focus narrowing to the book in her hands.

He hesitated. "I'm so sorry, Camille, please believe me…" It was barely a whisper.

"I know." She looked up then, giving him a shaky smile as a tear rolled down her cheek. "I do know you are, Humphrey, and – and I believe you did the right thing... But I think I need to be alone just now."

"Of course."

He sat back and watched her walk away, the book held tightly across her chest with both hands. As if it were the most precious of possessions.

Oh, I'm so sorry! I'm just projecting all my grief into this story...