I'm back from holidays and getting back into this story. This is a pretty big chapter; I tried to split it up in some way, but couldn't, so sorry about that! Thanks for the lovely reviews.

Usual disclaimers apply: not mine, no money.

Chapter 11

"Ok, give me the facts."

Three hours' later, Humphrey was sitting up on a bed in the small private hospital that usually cared for members of the police force on Sainte-Marie, courtesy of Sir Selwyn Patterson's rather surprising generosity. His cut had been stitched up and he'd been given a tetanus booster. His knee had been diagnosed as a minor sprain and he had been advised to rest it for a few days.

Chance will be a fine thing, he thought to himself as he waited impatiently to be discharged. The delay was due to the blood sample that had been taken and was currently being tested to check exactly what he'd been drugged with. He was still in his shorts, but had been given a hospital gown to cover up. The sad remains of his t-shirt had been chucked in the bin.

Dwayne and Fidel were perched on chairs in his private room, still in their damp uniforms. Fidel had his customary notebook open on his knee. He'd passed Humphrey a preliminary pathologist report to read.

"Samples have gone off to Guadeloupe this afternoon, Sir, but to be honest, it's a formality. It's clearly an overdose."

"We've seen this one before," Dwayne added, his voice and the dark expression on his face telling Humphrey that the unspoken subtext was too many times. "The symptoms are too similar to miss it."

Humphrey looked carefully at the photos attached to the front of the sparse file with a paperclip. Fidel had obtained a recent image of the eighteen year old girl from her grieving parents – so recent it'd been taken on the first day of the British family's arrival at their holiday home. A pretty blonde girl smiled out at him, her arm slung casually around the shoulders of her older brother. She was the picture of innocence and teenage good health, unlike her older brother, whose slightly hazy expression suggested that he was intoxicated with something, even if only mildly. Humphrey's heart clenched as he compared the girl's happy image with that of her dead body – naked from the waist up, with dried blood around her mouth and a spreading bruise across her ribs from the violent efforts employed by a medical team to try to thump her heart back into beating.

"Christ, I hope they cleaned her up before the parents identified her," he muttered, frowning at the notes below.

It was depressingly familiar. Fidel, as the on-duty officer, had been called to the local hospital in Honore at 11.45 that morning. The girl, Emilia Lawrence, had been found unconscious by her brother at around 8.30; they'd been at an all-night party. He'd called an ambulance and the team had spent some time trying to resuscitate her from a major heart attack. The doctors had identified the symptoms as similar to five other drug-related deaths this year.

"Sir Selwyn wants it investigated immediately. The family have had a house here for years and have invested heavily in the island…and they are friends of his. The main difference between this death and the others is that they were local kids and were known to take drugs," Dwayne said. "So it's been given low priority up to now…"

"Low priority?" Humphrey exclaimed, outraged, just as Camille came in. He glanced in her direction; like him, she'd received minor treatment for various injuries. He handed her the file and focused his attention on Dwayne.

"Not by us," Dwayne continued, with some emphasis on the final word. The laid-back officer seemed unusually angry. "We've been pushing Guadeloupe to look closer at the known trafficking routes, but they tell us that it's just 'one of those things' - kids like to party hard here and that there'll be some casualties. Makes me sick, if you want to know the truth. Just cos they're habitual drug users doesn't make it OK."

"It's a cocktail based on cocaine, according to the earlier tox reports," Fidel jumped in before his colleague could say anything else. "We're just waiting for the lab to confirm that this is the same. Dwayne and I have been investigating it the last couple of weeks, when we can."

Humphrey nodded. He remembered Fidel talking about it at the last team meeting. Drug trafficking, particularly of cocaine, was an inevitable fact of life on a Caribbean island with direct routes from South America. Fortunately, strict regulations made it more-or-less impossible to grow hard drugs on Sainte-Marie, but he was quite used to Fidel and Dwayne following cross-border trafficking trails and closing them down with judicious arrests where they could. Guadeloupe to France was a popular route for the drug mules, and they often hopped over to Sainte-Marie in the hope of escaping attention.

"This is something different, though," he said, looking at Fidel and Dwayne through narrowed eyes. "A cocktail, you said. Something new?"

His junior officers looked at each other. He knew them well enough by now to recognise their concern.

"It comes as a joint," Fidel began. "We found one, half smoked, at the squat where the last victim was found. Looked like cannabis at first, but we sent it off for analysis and it wasn't. It matched the toxins found in his blood - definitely cocaine, but also something that they hadn't seen before. And here's the thing. Up to now, it's only appeared here - on Sainte-Marie. Usually we get these 'designer drugs' coming over from the bigger islands once the craze has been established. But this one hasn't been found anywhere else yet. I keep checking with forensics across the region."

"Cocktails do come up from time to time, especially among recreational cocaine users," added Dwayne. "They're usually looking for something extra – to intensify the experience."

"As if it wasn't intense enough," Camille murmured. Humphrey glanced at her; she was sitting in one of the visitor chairs, staring at the photographs.

"Sometimes, it's not necessarily about increasing the risk," Dwayne continued. "More often, it's a way of diluting the strength of the cocaine without losing the effects. Makes it cheaper and also safer…assuming the mixture has been created safely."

"What would you mix it with?" Humphrey wondered. He'd dealt with plenty of drug trafficking in the past, particularly in the Far East, but was not so familiar with the South American/Caribbean routes.

Fidel frowned. "That's what we're trying to find out. Probably something hallucinogenic. May even be a herb with minor effects by itself, but when combined with cocaine…"

Camille got up suddenly and came over to the bed to show Humphrey the photograph. "She's no habitual drug taker," she said, tapping at the photograph, first on Emilia's face and then on her brother's. "But he is. Am I right?"

Fidel nodded. "Yes. We saw that too. Pulled him in for questioning and he admitted it almost immediately. He'd 'obtained' the joint from someone at the party, for his own use, but she must have got it off him somehow – he didn't know how. He woke up in bed with some girl at the party, went to collect his sister…and found her unconscious. Actually, it's how we found you."

Humphrey and Camille shared a glance. "I was wondering how you managed to trace us."

Dwayne grinned and pulled something out of his pocket. "Recognise this?"

He threw it at Humphrey, who fumbled to catch it. It was a stump of broken pencil, but he could just make out the pink colour and a familiar annoyingly perky silhouette.

A couple of months' previously, Camille had finally lost her patience at the sight of Humphrey searching hopelessly in his pockets for something to write on and with. She'd announced her intention to order in a large quantity of pencils and notebooks, which she proposed to keep with her at all times, ready to hand over whenever he needed something. He was grateful for this – he frequently ordered in his own stationery, but things just seemed to disappear all the time. However, Camille, in a wicked mood, had ordered from the Hello Kitty range, which meant that Humphrey often found himself writing gory details over pale pink pages adorned with cute cat images and with a bright pink pencil. Camille might have hoped that the humiliation would encourage Humphrey to be more organised; sadly it made no difference.

He stared at the offensively cute object in his hand. "I must have had it in my pocket."

"Or possibly me," Camille admitted, sheepishly. "I might have dropped it in the village when I got my mobile out. Was that where you found it?"

"Yes." Dwayne continued the story, "We'd got the confession out of the brother pretty quickly, including a name - a first name only, of course. We had to go through the party guests but eventually, we were able to match a name to a kid that we've had in a couple of times on possession charges. Fidel had tried to contact you, but there was no reply. When we came out of the brother's interview, he checked again and got Camille's message. We tried to phone again…but no luck. So we decided to drive out to that village to pick the kid up.

"When we got there, he was nowhere in sight and his mum said he was off with his mates and she hadn't seen him for days. She looked a bit shifty but we didn't have any proof that she was lying. Just as we were leaving, I spotted that pencil in the dirt just outside her door. It could've belonged to someone else, but there only seemed to be teenage boys living there – we'd looked around and there was no sign of a girl. And we'd been getting worried about the fact that you guys hadn't been in touch. We just had a feeling… So we leaned on the woman a bit, and she confessed quickly enough. Said you'd gone off with her sons and their boss and admitted that they were probably going to Guadeloupe by boat from that little harbour. She didn't know what they were carrying in the truck – some kind of plant but she wasn't sure what. I think that was genuine. We alerted the coastguard as we thought we might have to chase the boat, and they met us there."

"The really alarming thing," went on Fidel, "was that she admitted to giving you both some kind of sedative to make you drowsy. I think she believed the plan was to dump you both somewhere safe where you'd be found eventually or else would come round when they were safely away. But she also seemed a bit worried. I don't think she likes their boss much. And we had no idea what she'd given you – she didn't know what it was, or wouldn't tell us, and for all we knew, it was the same drug that the others had died using. So we were pretty freaked. I can't tell you what a relief it was to find you in that boathouse."

"Well," Humphrey rubbed his arm, where a little round plaster covered the mark left by the needle. "Hopefully we'll find out what it was soon, but I don't think it could have been anything more than a strong sedative. And thank heavens Camille didn't like the coffee. So…evidently, they were trafficking the drug, but where did it come from in the first place? Who's producing it? And why does this case involve the Commissioner?"

Fidel looked startled. "You know about the Commissioner? The brother said he met his drug dealer at the Residency party yesterday. That's one of the reasons why Sir Selwyn's in such a state about it. I think he feels partly responsible, although he has no idea how the kid came to be there."

"Oh… No, I didn't know about that, but I was at that party too and bumped into their boss, who was masquerading as a gardener. Do we have a name for him yet?"

"Working on it. We've got a name, but it's false. He's fairly new to the island; only been here about six months. He met the boys at the Botanic Gardens, where they both do casual work from time to time." Fidel hesitated. "That woman really didn't like him. In fact, I thought she was a bit scared of him – what did you think?"

Dwayne nodded. "Yeah, definitely. She was trying to hide it, but…yeah. I sensed that. She was worried for her sons."

Humphrey clapped his hands together. "OK. So – to recap. The ringleader has come from abroad on a false passport – we need to find out who he is and where he comes from as quickly as possible. He moves here and gets those boys to work for him moving plants of some nature – plants that are used to create that drug. Probably not the cocaine itself – someone else is dealing with that. Someone – either on Sainte-Marie or possibly Guadeloupe – is making this new cocktail, but it's not working well, not here anyway. Causing these deaths…they all died the same way, I take it?"

"Yes. Sudden heart attack in each case."

"Which is always a risk with cocaine, but it must be interacting with this other plant to make the risk worse. OK…so they were planning to move some plants by boat to Guadeloupe, or possibly somewhere else in Sainte-Marie. They were using that harbour to avoid being seen. Camille and I inadvertently stumbled right into the middle of it, and that man definitely recognised me. And I recognised him eventually, but a little too late."

"He's a nasty man," Camille interjected. "More than a petty criminal – a murderer, I'm sure of it. That woman might have thought that drugging us would just keep us out of sight for a bit, but he definitely had other plans for us. I'm sure he was going to take us out to sea and throw us over the side. The other two might not have realised what he had planned. I don't think they mean anyone to get harmed, but they were definitely afraid of him. It was only the fact that I was conscious that stopped him. While I was fighting with them, I could sense that the other two didn't want to hurt me much, but he didn't care. And he left us in that boathouse to die – I'm sure of it."

Humphrey sighed and rubbed his face. His knee was still throbbing and he felt shattered enough to sleep for a week. "Any sign of the boat?"

"Not yet," Fidel replied. "The coastguard is onto it, but we don't have a lot to go on. There's any number of power boats in these waters, and they just don't have the resources to board each and every one of them. We rely on them coming through the main harbours. It probably wasn't registered for Sainte-Marie. He must have come into the island by it, and probably never took it through the official channels."

"We should check with Interpol to see if there's anyone they're chasing in the vicinity," Camille added. "There was something about that man. I'm sure he's a wanted killer."

"Yes, OK." Humphrey shifted and stifled a yawn. "Well, amazing though it may seem, given that I spent much of this afternoon unconscious, I could really do with a good night's sleep." He swung his legs off the bed.

"But…aren't they keeping you in?"

He rolled his eyes at Camille's surprise. "I am not staying here with a minor knee sprain. All I need are some crutches and antibiotics. I can manage perfectly well at home."

"Yes, but…what about the drug they gave you?"

"I'm feeling fine now," he lied. As she raised a suspicious eyebrow, he sighed again. "Look, I'm sure it was just a sedative. If it was anything dangerous, I would know about it by now. The hospital can ring me when they have the results."

His doctor was reluctant to discharge him, but Humphrey could be very persuasive when he felt himself to be right. Within half an hour, he'd been issued with some pills, some spare dressings and crutches, plus some very clear instructions on the importance of keeping his cut dry. "No more wading in waist-high water!" was the final comment as he said goodbye.

"Zero change of that," he muttered to himself, and looked around for the jeep. The others had gone over to the car park to bring it around to the main entrance. He glanced at a clock just inside the door and was shocked to see that it was nearly midnight. His head was throbbing again, but this time from sheer exhaustion.

The car pulled up and he limped his way into the front passenger seat. He glanced over, surprised to see Camille driving, with the others in the back.

"I'm taking the jeep home," she explained, with a wry look. "In theory, I'm on duty from 6AM tomorrow morning."

"Well, let's hope and pray that Sainte-Marie's criminals decide to take a holiday," he said, equally drily. "If it wasn't for this, I'd tell you to take the day off tomorrow, or rather today…but we'd better not. I don't like this case at all."

Repressing another yawn, he issued orders on the way home. "Fidel, you get onto Interpol tomorrow morning with a description of that man, and also chase Guadeloupe for those toxicology results. Dwayne, put the word out around your contacts – even if the regular users are not prepared to provide names, they still need to know that this cocktail is dangerous and should be avoided. Also, get down to the Botanic Gardens and the Residency and ask around – does anyone know anything about him? Camille and I will go back to that village tomorrow - take a look at where he's been living and have another chat with that woman. I take it you didn't bring her in?"

"No, it didn't seem like the best idea. We warned her not to go anywhere, and I'm pretty sure she won't."

"Good. With any luck, one or the other of her sons will be in touch at some point, and it might be nice to get some kind of clue as to where they've gone. Any chance we could tap her line?"

"Might be difficult," Fidel commented after a brief silence. "We usually call Guadeloupe in if we need to do some surveillance on the phone lines. It takes them a while to set it up."

He frowned; he'd forgotten for a moment that the technology here wasn't as advanced as in Britain. "OK, forget it then. We'll think of something."

Silence fell in the car. Fidel and Dwayne were conferring quietly in the back. He was aware that the two local officers had informal contacts in the drug world that they didn't necessarily intend to share with their DI. He was fine about that, being experienced enough to recognise that it was sometimes necessary to keep out of it and trust one's junior officers to pass on the information that really mattered.

He was somehow aware that Camille was struggling not to say something, but he felt deeply fatigued and simply didn't have the energy to draw her out and work out what the problem was. It occurred to him that the day had taken a considerable toll on both of them, both physically and mentally, but for the moment he could only summon the reserves to cope with his own warring emotions.

He felt physically tired but also profoundly depressed. In the nervous energy of those moments when it seemed quite possible that they would not survive the night, he had found it easy to put his own concerns and regrets aside to focus on Camille's. It had felt right, at the time, to draw her out on the topic of Richard and to try to be a comforting presence. It was only now, in the safe darkness of the jeep's interior, that he could acknowledge the deep pain her words had caused.

Her voice when she spoke of Richard - of her happiness in his presence and grief at the knowledge that she had never told him how she felt… It was the voice of a woman still very much in love with a dead man. And, even if he waited patiently for the feelings to fade, the harsh reality was that he was nothing like Richard Poole, the good-looking, quiet, deeply intelligent detective with his little obsessions and rather odd charm. He felt gauche, clumsy, stupid and unsophisticated by comparison.

He shifted in his seat, suppressing a wince as he moved his stiff knee. No, Camille would never love him in return. She might come to like him more, but it would be a pale reflection of the feelings she had had for his predecessor. It was possible that loneliness or perhaps even pity would drive her towards him at some future date…which was his greatest fear. Having made a huge mistake with Sally, he couldn't bear the prospect of another woman ending up with him for the wrong reasons.

He wanted to be loved – and not just in the casually affectionate way of all his friends, who couldn't see beyond the clownish appearance and embarrassing behaviour – but in some real, passionate way. He didn't want to be laughed at anymore, and he didn't want to be 'good old Humph', the kindly, caring man that the girls passed by for the good-looking but cruel ones, but were happy to lean on once their hearts had been broken. He'd had that – he'd had years of it. He wanted to be taken seriously, just for once.

And – dammit – he just had to go and fall in love with a woman who was in love with a dead man and could never return his feelings.

He wondered, a little desperately, whether he should see this one case through and then ask for a transfer… But a transfer to what?

The thought of returning to his old job in London made him cold inside. He supposed he had a solid enough reputation to walk into pretty much any DI vacancy around the English-speaking world – most of the forces would be delighted to take an ex-Met officer - but he was also tired of travelling and constantly trying to create a new life. He wanted to settle – in fact, he very much wanted to settle here, on Sainte-Marie. He had a sense that in coming to this little island, he'd reached some kind of central point in his life – a pivotal moment during which his decisions would have a lasting effect on his future, and not just in terms of his career.

He felt the tension between him and his silent DS increase as she dropped off first Fidel and then Dwayne at their homes. It was telling that she'd decided on that route, as it would have made far more sense to have dropped him at his slightly out-of-town location first. However, she didn't say anything, even after Dwayne said his goodnight and slammed the door shut.

As she stopped outside his house, pulling up the handbrake with an unnecessary degree of force, he broke the silence. "Ok, out with it. You obviously have something to say."

She kept her face averted, staring out of the windscreen as she replied, in a small tight voice. "Why do you insist on pushing yourself so hard?"

"What?" He was a little wrong-footed, having assumed that she was preoccupied with something else.

She shrugged. "I could make that house visit tomorrow. You should be resting your knee."

Suddenly furious for no good reason, he found himself snapping at her. "Don't tell me what I should do. I think I'm probably the best judge of what I'm capable of." He struggled out of the car. "Good night, Sergeant Bordey."

It was a petty reaction, especially since he'd never even thought to pull rank up until now. He supposed he was lucky that she hadn't taken offence – or at least that she was sufficiently concerned to overlook it on this occasion. She swung out of her side of the jeep and slammed the door.

"I'm tired, Camille. I don't want to talk about whatever it is that's really bugging you right now," he threw over his shoulder as he limped towards the beach house, awkward on his crutches. "Can't we just leave it til the morning?"

She was silent for a moment, as she walked by his side. As they reached the verandah, she moved ahead of him and unlocked the door with her spare key. "I'm trying to help you. That's all."

Her voice sounded odd – quiet and almost sad. It was this that stopped his automatic rejoinder – that he didn't need her help. Again, that would have been petty considering the painful fact that he really did.

He propelled himself through the door and sank onto his bed, staring at the floor, his shoulders slumped.

"Do you want something to drink? Tea? Water?" she asked, sounding tentative and unsure.

"No, not really. Help yourself though," he added, belatedly attempting to be the genial host that he normally was.

"No, I…" She broke off and sat down herself, rather more carefully, on a chair near the open door. Looking towards her, he shivered involuntarily. Normally he'd close his door while he slept, even on the muggiest of nights and despite the fact that no one could see in and it was hardly secure. However, he didn't think he'd feel able to tonight.

He slumped into a prone position on the bed, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. Watching the lizards and little bugs and larger spiders flitting in and out of the shadows of the rough wood.

In her chair, Camille was almost unnaturally still.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "What I said in the car. It was wrong of me. Do you…do you think I don't trust you to investigate alone? Because that couldn't be further from the truth. I do trust you – of course I do. But we normally work better together…don't we? Get better results that way. We complement each others' style, and I thought we also understood each other…"

"We do. I think we do." Her voice was quiet and he moved his head slightly to look at her out of the corner of his eye. She was frowning at the floor, her forearms propped on her knees. "Or I thought so, anyway. It's not that…"

It seemed to him that she was trying to make up her mind about something. He looked back at the ceiling, unsure of what to say or whether to deflect her.

"Humphrey…what happened out there? This – yesterday - morning, I mean. Why did you panic so suddenly on the bike? You were OK before."

He almost laughed out loud at the triviality of the question. That moment on the bike, which had been so embarrassing and so significant at the time, seemed eons ago - and so unimportant now. What did it matter – a physical reaction and a fear of a sexual harassment claim? In the scheme of things, and particularly in the face of death, what did any of it matter?

"I…suppose I must have panicked at the time. I can't remember. It doesn't really matter now, does it? It just happened… I'm sorry about your bike," he added.

She was silent for a moment; he had the strong impression that she was not satisfied with his explanation. "It doesn't matter. I'll get Gustave to run out with his pick-up tomorrow morning and take it to his repair shop. But…I suppose you're right. It doesn't matter. Does it?"

"No. It doesn't," he agreed, his eyes on her again.

She shifted a little on her chair. "I'm sorry. You must be tired and I… I know I should go, and I'm tired too. It's not something I can really explain, but…"

Her voice trailed away, but he finished for her. "You don't want to go to sleep yet."

She gave him a quick look, perhaps surprised by his perceptiveness. "We almost died in that boathouse, Humphrey."

He tried to minimise it, as much for his own sake as for hers. "We don't know that for certain. Even if Dwayne hadn't found the pencil, we might have been found by someone else, or -."

"I know it." She cut across his words sharply. "We would have died if they hadn't found us. By the morning, your parents and my mother…well. It just – it makes you think about all the things you leave unsaid. Things you might never get a chance to say…"

He suppressed a sigh. Richard again.

"It…" he began, hesitantly. "It probably takes a while to get over these things. You should be easy on yourself for a while. If you feel you need some time off…"

"No." She stood up and paced across the floor, restlessly.

He propped himself up on an elbow, watching her. "It's no shame to admit that you need some space, Camille. Not many officers go through a near-death experience and bounce back as if nothing ever happened. I promise it won't reflect on your record in any way -."

"Will you?" she challenged him, stopping in the middle of the floor. "Will you take time off to recover?"

He shook his head, trying to avoid her gaze. "No, I really can't – this case -."

She threw up her hands in apparent exasperation. "Then neither will I...if only because you need someone to bang some sense into your head occasionally! Humphrey, why won't you listen? You were hurt falling off a bike, got drugged by some unknown substance and then nearly drowned! If anyone needs a break…"

He shook his head, feeling muzzy with tiredness and a little confused. "I don't understand – why do you care whether or not I take care of myself? Why should it matter so much to you?"

"Because we're friends!" She spread her arms wide. "Or I thought we were, but you seem – I don't know – 'closed off'? What is it that has upset you? You must have been as afraid as I was in that boathouse, so why can't you admit it and deal with it?"

He sat up and glared at her, swinging his feet to the floor. "Hasn't it occurred to you that I am dealing with it, in my own way? What do you want me to do – cry? Fall apart – have some kind of breakdown? That wouldn't help matters much, now would it?"

She shook her head, seeming less angry than merely bewildered. "All I know is that you're not the Humphrey I knew this morning. Something happened today…"

"Yeah, so you told me." He got up and limped over to the door, staring out at the sea. "We nearly drowned – remember? You said it – I've been through a lot today. So have you. I should think that would give me enough of an excuse to be a little different – don't you?"

She stared at him, her eyes narrowing. "You remind me of... of Richard."

"Oh, Richard." He managed to choke out a laugh even as the bitterness burned inside. "I can't imagine how. I can't think of two more different people."

She moved towards him quietly. "He did that – what you're doing there. Deflecting. Always trying to hide; trying to avoid any…emotional conflict. And I thought you were different, but…"

"Oh, God, Camille," he whispered, rubbing a hand furiously over his eyes. "Please, I just can't discuss this right now. I'm so damned tired…"

"Of course." Abruptly, she was practical again, no longer trying to bore into the imperfect barriers he had clumsily tried to construct around his heart. "You should rest – I'm sorry I've kept you up."

She took his hand and led him across to the bed; he went with her, mute and unresisting. She pushed him gently down on the bed and pulled off his shoes, pulling a light sheet over him. He closed his eyes, feeling oddly safe under her care. His knee ached but only a little, the pain possibly deadened by exhaustion and emotional turmoil.

As she pulled the sheet up over his chest, she bent close; he could feel the scent of her warm breath on his cheek. "Please don't be like Richard," she whispered in his ear, so quietly he wasn't entirely sure whether or not he was imagining it. "Not you. Not you."

And then there was the briefest press of warm lips on his cheek. His eyes opened again, but she was moving away, an indistinct shape against the backdrop of his door.

He closed his eyes and slept.