Usual disclaimers apply.
It could have been very much worse, Humphrey reflected, as he lay face-down on a bank of suspiciously damp moss. After all, he could have been thrown onto the rough gravel track rather than (mainly) onto a springy bank of foliage.
He lay still, stunned by the impact. The moss felt unpleasantly wet on his face and he could feel the dampness seeping through his clothes, but right now, it seemed a good place to be. There was a sensation of something else trickling down his right calf, and he had the distinct impression that it wasn't water. He felt oddly numb, even displaced from his body. Dimly, he wondered if he was going into shock.
"Ow! Merde!"
He was abruptly dragged back to the present. Grunting, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. A sharp pain radiated from his right knee, but he ignored it. "Camille! God, are you OK?"
His helmet was impeding his vision; staggering to his feet, he pulled it over his head, dropping it on the ground. "Cam – ow!"
He'd turned into the direction of the prone bike, taking a half-step forward with his right leg, and felt another stab of pain. Looking down, he could see a substantial gash running down the outside of his leg. The blood was soaking into his flimsy canvas shoe.
He took a stock check of himself and couple more experimental steps forward, but it didn't seem as if he'd actually broken anything. Apart from the cut, he'd scraped the skin off his elbows and palms and he felt generally bruised and battered, but it looked as if the soft landing had saved him from anything worse. The cut looked more alarming than it actually was. He felt as if he'd twisted his knee, but was able to put his weight on it.
"What the hell were you doing?"
He looked towards the direction of the voice. Camille had fallen further into the mossy verge – in fact, it would be truer to say that she hadn't actually fallen on moss at all. As he watched, she extricated herself from a leaf-filled ditch with some difficulty and staggered, with a squelching sound, back onto the track, clutching her helmet in her hand.
Humphrey looked at her and, despite the severity of the situation, had to bite his lip not to smirk. It was fortunate that the ditch had been piled up with fallen reeds, but here and there, her clothes, arms and legs were spattered with mud. Her hair was standing on end, and there was a shaggy bit of moss sticking out of it. A clump of dirt stuck to her cheek and she rubbed it away irritably.
He hoped he had hidden his reaction, but she knew him too well. Her eyes narrowed.
"This is not funny, Humphrey! It's your fault that we came off – if you hadn't started wriggling around like that…"
He began to feel a little irritated now that it was clear that she wasn't badly injured. His elbows and hands were stinging and, now that the initial shock had worn off, a dull throb had taken up residence in his knee. "Well, I did tell you it was a bad idea. You know what I'm like with my balance, Camille -."
"You were doing fine until now! Idiot!" she spat as she pushed past him. He could tell by the way she winced as she walked that she probably had her own share of bumps and scratches under the mud, but she didn't look too badly hurt.
He sighed, watching as she lifted the stricken bike. "Is it OK?"
"Does it look OK?"
At first glance, it didn't look much worse than it had before, but as he limped closer, he could see that the front wheel was bent out of shape. She hauled it off the track and propped it up against a bush.
"OK…" He looked up and down the track, empty and silent in both directions. "So…where are we?"
"Near the west coast," she replied, absently, as she fumbled in her shorts pocket for her mobile. He remembered, belatedly, that his own was back at the bungalow…along with pretty much anything he owned that could be remotely useful in this situation. Like his money. And his sticking plasters.
She glanced down at his leg as she activated her phone. "I'll call Fidel and get him to send out the truck – merde!"
It was the second time she had sworn, which was unusual for her, and he gave her an alarmed look. "What is it?"
"No reception." She shook the phone, as if it might make a difference and then glared at it in an accusing manner. It was a small, slim model and she kept it in a tough case designed to protect it during accidents. It hadn't ever let her down before, and she continued to stare at it in something like disbelief.
"I thought your network covered the entire island?" He knew that his own network could be flaky, but normally hers was reliable, as they were police-issued phones. "What if we were at a crime scene out here?"
"Usually, I would have access to the car radio," she pointed out through gritted teeth and stuffed her phone back in her pocket.
"Wait! We need that – we can use your maps app to work out where the nearest village is."
She gave him one of her Looks. "What part of 'no reception' did you not understand? And, in any case, I know perfectly well where the nearest village is. About 5K in that direction." She pointed a thumb over her shoulder and then glanced meaningfully at his leg again. "Hope you've got your walking shoes on."
He groaned.
The midday sun beat down on his uncovered head as he limped along the road. He'd tried walking on the bank for a bit, as it was in shade, but the going was rougher there and kept jarring his knee, which was starting to swell. His head was aching and his mouth felt dry; he would have given anything for a nice cold bottle of water. It was no distance to travel, really, only a few miles, but it felt much longer with a sore leg and a raging thirst.
Camille walked slightly ahead of him, not exactly striding but still walking steadily, as if she was pacing herself. She had a few scrapes on her bare arms and legs, and a slightly more significant cut on her shoulder, but they didn't seem to be bothering her. He supposed that, in her past life as an undercover officer, she'd received her fair share of minor injuries and was used to pushing through any pain.
Occasionally, she glanced over her shoulder and adjusted her pace slightly if he was falling behind, but beyond that, she didn't pay him much attention. He could tell by the stiff set of her shoulders that she was still annoyed with him.
He was pretty annoyed with himself too. It had been a bloody stupid way to react in the circumstances – panicking like a teenage boy. Even if she had noticed what was happening, he could've laughed it off; made a joke out of it. A woman as sophisticated as Camille wouldn't have been all that shocked…probably.
But, what if she had been shocked? Couldn't it have been construed as sexual harassment of a junior officer? Somehow, he didn't think she'd see it that way – after all, with her skimpy outfits and tendency to stand a little close, hecould almost make a charge of sexual harassment himself. But Humphrey had seen more than one Met officer's career go south in similar circumstances, and he felt ashamed of himself. He had a responsibility to maintain certain standards of professionalism. It was one thing to be friendly with your team, but it was important not to let that cordiality tip over into unwarranted intimacy.
Richard had had the same problem, of course. In his diary, he'd referred to it between the carefully constructed lines – the difficulty of balancing professional responsibilities with the need to promote friendship within a small team. There were occasions when he'd judged it inappropriate to join his team for a drink. He would try to leave before a party grew too raucous – he had known that he had a reputation as a party-pooper, but there were usually reasons, and they were to do with a desire not to see his colleagues doing anything that he might have to reprimand them for later.
Richard had often had to make decisions about when he should and should not turn a blind eye to Dwayne's little 'deals'. He'd also tried to be crisply professional with Fidel, whose tendency to idolise him had to be ruthlessly quashed, for the young officer's sake. And as for Camille…well, he'd hinted more than once at a struggle to stand by the fraternisation rules.
And now, Humphrey was angry with himself. Angry for falling into the trap of getting too close to Camille. Angry that he'd told Fidel about his feelings for her – it was hardly fair to expect a junior officer to keep such an intimate secret. Angry for forgetting that he was a DI, for heaven's sake! He was here at the whim of the Commissioner; at any time, Sir Selwyn could decide that his services were no longer required. The enigmatic man seemed pleased with Humphrey's work, but if there was any hint of trouble in the team…
As he had been walking along, sunk in his own misery, his pace had slowed down until, eventually, he was hardly able to put one foot in front of another. He stumbled over a stone and hissed through his teeth as a sharp pain ran up his thigh. He stopped for a moment and rubbed his neck, trying to ease the pounding in his head.
Camille turned at the muffled sound and sighed impatiently, but she walked back and offered him her arm.
"Well?" she demanded as he hesitated. "You can't stay here all day. You need to get that cut cleaned, and we both need some fluid. Believe me, you do not want to collapse out here in the middle of the day."
He gave in and let her put a firm arm around his waist to take some of the strain. By putting his arm around her shoulder and leaning some of his weight on her, he was able to hobble on. Although the speed was painful, they were able to make some progress.
"What I don't get -," he gasped. "- is why we can't just wait for someone to come along and wave them down."
"Because you'd be waiting a long time," she commented. "We're not exactly on the beaten track here. There used to be a coffee plantation down there – which is why there's a track – but it closed down about fifteen years' ago, and there is nothing else until you reach the coast. There are no beaches on this side of Sainte-Marie, just high cliffs and rocky coves that you can't access - and you wouldn't want to anyway. There are plenty of shipwrecks off this part of the coast. There is one small natural harbour – I think they used to use it to transport coffee beans to Guadeloupe – but there's nothing there now. It's not the best route, the currents and hidden rocks make it far too dangerous." She paused, reflectively. "Since the plantation closed down, hardly anyone ever comes this way. Especially on a Sunday; they're very traditional around here and don't leave the house except to go to church."
"So, why did you bring us this way?"
She shrugged, with some difficulty under his weight. "I used to ride out here on my scooter when I was a kid. I enjoyed being alone for a few hours. And the views are just magic. On this side, you look out over the sea and you cannot see any land at all. Just blue, as far as the eyes can see…" Her voice faded away, dreamily.
"And you… you brought me here… to see them?" he asked, hesitantly.
"What makes you think that?" Her voice was sharp. "Maybe I wanted to see them! Maybe I should have come here by myself. I would probably have been on my way back by now, if I had."
He was stung by the implication that he was a burden, and attempted to pull away from her. "Why didn't you just leave me by the bike while you went to get help? You're much fitter than me."
She was silent for a moment; then: "I did think about it, but it didn't seem like the best idea. The village I am heading for is not really even that, it's no more than a hamlet – a few houses. And the people are poor. I could not guarantee that I would be able to find transport to pick you up. And that cut needs medical attention sooner rather than later."
"I see." He paused, and then added, awkwardly. "I really am sorry, you know."
She sighed, sounding a little warmer than before. "Yes. I know you are. And so am I. I shouldn't have -."
She broke off and he asked, curiously: "Shouldn't have what?"
"Never mind." She took a deep breath and hauled him forward. "Let's just concentrate on getting there."
The hamlet, when they eventually staggered into it, didn't look all that promising. However, the residents were friendly enough, if a little confused by the sudden appearance of a shabby, large white man being helped along by a scantily clad woman. Humphrey was ushered towards a shady doorway, but when he refused to enter the small house, afraid of leaving bloody footprints, a chair was brought to the doorway for him to sit on. His hostess bustled off to fetch a bottle of water for him.
Humphrey looked around, curiously. There were about dozen dilapidated houses, clustered around a small square, with an old-fashioned well in the middle that didn't look as if it were still in use. He couldn't see any shops or other signs of industry. There were a couple of old trucks pulled up in the square, one of them fully loaded and covered in tarpaulin, and even a dusty bus. He presumed that the locals must travel somewhere else for work – always assuming they had work to travel to. Despite the air of poverty, the wooden hours were painted in bright colours and there were flowers growing in pots around each doorway. It wasn't an entirely unattractive little place.
Camille had moved away from him, walking up a slight slope to get a better signal on her phone. As she passed the well, a couple of young men sitting on the edge of it watched her curiously but with no sign of hostility. Humphrey felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. They seemed harmless enough, but there was something about them that made his well-honed police senses tingle. He fancied that Camille's steps had faltered slightly as she glanced towards them, and wondered whether she had the same bad feeling.
As he watched them, another man, a little older, emerged from the opposite house and called something out to them in Creole. He glanced towards Humphrey as he did so, and Humphrey felt a jolt of recognition go through him. He'd seen this man recently, but he couldn't recall exactly where.
The feeling was clearly mutual, as the man stared back at him, his face expressionless. After a few seconds, he disappeared back inside his house.
Humphrey was distracted by the woman, who came out of the house, talking to him in French. Since he'd been in Sainte-Marie, he'd learned some of the language – it helped to speak it, if you wanted to get by. The island was a British Overseas Territory and English was the official language, but thanks to its chequered Colonial history, around 30 per cent of the population was French-speaking. This woman spoke quickly with a heavy accent and, he suspected, a fair smattering of the local variety of French Creole. He couldn't make out much of what she was saying to him, but the rhythm of her speech was oddly soothing.
She held a bottle of opaque liquid and he expected her to hand it to him, but instead she unscrewed it. A strong smell of alcohol assaulted his nostrils.
"Oh, well, thanks but I'm not sure that's a good idea. Water might be – Aaaagh!"
He yelled in agony as she poured the contents liberally over his cut.
"Oh, don't make a fuss." Camille had returned from making her call. She gave his leg a dismissive glance. "She's probably warded off a bad infection. That's rubbing alcohol – it's antiseptic."
"It bloody hurts!" He attempted to look grateful – no mean feat when his leg felt as if it were splitting open. The woman tutted over his knee and slapped his arm, none too gently. She said something to Camille, too swift for him to follow, before disappearing back into her house.
Camille translated for Humphrey. "She says you've probably sprained that. She's telling you off for walking on it, as you have probably made it worse."
No shit, he felt like saying. "So…any luck getting through?"
"Yes." She sounded annoyed. "Gina is the only one in the office. She says Fidel went out on a case a couple of hours ago, with Dwayne. Apparently, he tried to contact us and then he went to the bungalow, thinking you'd left your mobile off." She waved her mobile at him. "There are a couple of messages from him on here, telling me to contact him as soon as possible. I tried to phone, but there's no reply."
"So, we're stuck here? I take it he took the truck?"
"Looks like it." She frowned. "I wonder what the case is? He sounded worried…"
The woman had come back out of the house again, holding two steaming cups of black coffee for her visitors. Humphrey couldn't think of anything worse than a hot drink at that moment, but he took a sip and found, to his surprise, that the heavily sugared drink was refreshing.
Camille took a sip, made a face at the sweetness, and turned back to the woman, speaking swiftly in the local lingo. The woman seemed to consider for a moment, and then gestured sharply at the two boys sitting by the well.
They sauntered over slowly, both of them quite clearly giving Camille the eye, which she studiously ignored. The woman and Camille talked together, clearly discussing the options.
Humphrey leaned back in his chair, feeling oddly out of things. He gulped back the scalding liquid, feeling his head clear a little. The burning pain in his cut had dulled back to a heavy throb. His knee was distended and he doubted that he'd be able to walk much further.
He let out a long breath and stared up into the sky. It was growing overcast, as so often happened in the early afternoon on Sainte-Marie; the heat and humidity would rise inexorably throughout the day, to be followed by thundery showers. With his filthy t-shirt clinging to his body, he couldn't help thinking that it might be a relief to be soaked by cool, refreshing rain.
He leaned his head against the door frame and watched dully as the man from the house opposite came out again and walked over to them. Again, he had the distinct impression that he had seen the man before, and he tried to collect his scrambled thoughts together, but with the heat and the pain in his leg, it just seemed too hard to even think.
Camille turned back towards him, looking relieved. "These men are going into Gourbeyre. That's a town; we should be able to get a taxi back to Honore from there." She jerked her head towards the truck with the tarpaulin. "We'll have to travel on boards over the back, so it won't be comfortable, but it's probably better than waiting here. The woman says you need a doctor to look at that knee.
He hadn't noticed that the woman had disappeared into the house. Camille took another minute sip of the drink and then took the opportunity to pour the remains discretely in a flower pot just before their hostess reappeared. This time, she had a bowl of steaming water and a towel, which Camille used to wash the dirt off her face and arms, and a large bandage.
"She won't clean it any further," Camille explained, as the woman swathed Humphrey's leg from knee to ankle in the bandage before hurrying away to speak to the man Humphrey recognised. "She is concerned that she might wash the alcohol away."
After exchanging a few muttered words with the woman, the man nodded and sauntered over the loaded truck, beckoning to the two younger men. As he did, his eyes swung over to Humphrey and once again he had the strongest impression he'd seen the man recently…in an entirely different context. Where was it? And when?
Camille was talking to the woman again, with a smooth fluency that he envied and admired in equal measure. He noticed that she had managed to tidy her hair and generally restore her usual glamourous appearance despite the limited facilities available to her. In that, she was not unlike Sally; he presumed it was a female talent.
Certainly not a skill he had, he reflected as he pushed himself to his feet, hissing at the pain in his knee. His vision swam and he clutched at the door frame to anchor himself.
"Are you alright to move?" Camille's voice was surprisingly soft as she looked a little dubiously at his leg. "I'd suggest you stay here while I fetch help, but - ."
"No – no, I'm good to go." He gritted his teeth and hobbled over to the truck. He still had a sense that something wasn't quite right and didn't really fancy splitting up. Judging by the fleeting look of relief on her face, it was clear that she had the same concerns. He noticed that the man he vaguely recognised and one of the youths had got into the driving cabin.
The other younger man had pulled aside the tarpaulin at the back of the truck and was patiently waiting for them to get on board. Peering into the dark interior over Camille's shoulder, Humphrey could make out a number of crates lining the floor of the truck. There were some wooden boards slatted into grooves halfway up the side of the truck, and he guessed that other crates would normally be stacked on top of this, to maximise the amount carried without damaging the lower crates. It appeared that this was where he and Camille would have to sit.
"They're flowers," Camille told him, quietly. "One of the boys is her son and they work for a company that exports flowers to other parts of the Caribbean."
Humphrey frowned. "I should've thought there was any number of tropical flowers all across the Caribbean, so why would someone pay for an exported bunch?" Something was nudging insistently at his dulled senses.
"It's an orchid native to Sainte-Marie," Camille explained, but there was something a little odd in her tone that made him suspect she also had her doubts about the set up. "They have to get them down to Gourbeyre – there's a facility there where they can be stored properly before being driven the airport. The crates and tarpaulin only keep them cool for so long." She peered at the sealed crates intently, as if she could see inside. "They're beautiful – and very popular in the exclusive hotels on Guadeloupe and St Kitts."
She slid herself onto the boards – sitting on one side and sliding her legs up onto the other – and then shuffled sideways into the gloom of the truck beneath the tarpaulin. As always, she made it look easy, and he tried to emulate her to the best of his ability, wincing as he moved his leg. He still felt oddly disorientated and more than a little nauseous. He supposed it must be delayed shock from the accident. He was glad he would be riding at the back of the truck – at least he could lean over the edge if he needed to.
As soon as he was settled, the youth gave him a wide smile and pulled the back flap down, considerately leaving it loose. The interior was dim and stuffy; he was glad that there was at least an option of sticking his head out if he got claustrophobic. From what he could see of her in the dim light, Camille was hugging her knees and peering at the crates beneath the boards, her posture tense.
The truck roared into action and began move slowly along the rutted track. Humphrey soon found he was fully occupied with clinging to the edge of the truck to stop being thrown about too much – the one benefit to this was that it took his mind off his queasiness. It was shady but unpleasantly humid beneath the tarpaulin, and sweat ran freely down his back, soaking his filthy t-shirt. His throat felt parched; his mouth unpleasantly dry despite the coffee he'd drunk.
"There was something a bit odd, back there," Camille commented, raising her voice to be heard above the engine. "That woman was very keen to get rid of us."
"Mmm?" He ran a tongue over his cracked lips and tried to gather his scattered thoughts. He felt as if his head were full of mud. "Didn't she just want me to get to hospital as quickly as possible?"
Camille hesitated for a moment. "It was more than that. I overheard her talking to the driver while I was washing – she didn't think I was paying attention. She told him to get us away from here as quickly as possible. And, why are they transporting flowers today? It's a Sunday – round here, nowhere is open on a Sunday."
"Well, presumably the flowers were already picked and needed to be moved quickly."
She sighed. "I don't know. It just feels…weird."
"I know what you mean." He rubbed his head; it was starting to pound in rhythm with his pulse. "I wonder where they picked them? Where do these orchids grow? Not wild, surely?"
"No – well, yes, they do, but they're also farmed." Why did her voice sound so far away, suddenly? "Apart from controlled growing, you see them in private gardens, the Botanic Gardens in Honore…and I think the Commissioner has some in the Residency grounds…"
"That's it," he dimly heard a voice close to him saying. "That's where I saw him…"
"Humphrey…are you alright?" There was a hand on his arm, but at that moment, the truck lurched violently as it took a sharp turn to the right. His head span and he felt perspiration prickle his forehead. He realised suddenly that he was about to faint.
The hand on his arm moved as Camille leaned across him. Light flickered at the corner of his vision as she lifted the flap. "That's odd – this isn't the way to Gourbeyre…"
"Camille…" He focused on his voice and tried to enunciate clearly. "This isn't just the accident… I think I've been drugged…"
Her face was a blur very close to him, and he felt fingers gripping his chin and lifting it up. "It must have been the coffee," she breathed, close to his ear. "Humphrey, listen…"
He felt her hands move to grip his arms just as the darkness overcame him and he fell backwards into oblivion.