I took my inspiration for Camille's dress from a photo of the very lovely Sara Martins. I can't post the link, but if you Google her, you'll find it easily enough. It's just a little 'dressier' and more mature than our Camille's usual slightly girlish style, and I thought that might be fun for Camille.

Thanks for your reviews! Usual disclaimers apply: not mine, no money.

Chapter 17

It would have surprised many of his friends and certainly his current colleagues, but Humphrey did, in fact, own a decent suit.

He had Sally to thank for that, in the first place for purchasing said suit for him. She'd bought it when he first started at the Met, with the idea that he might need it for the kind of receptions and parties that ambitious young detective inspectors tended to attend for networking purposes. The fact that he subsequently went out of his way to avoid those kinds of parties was neither here nor there.

Since the suit had gone into storage in the UK, he also had Sally to thank for the fact that after their final bittersweet meeting, she had, very generously in the circumstances, had gone through his possessions, pulled out a few items that she thought might be useful to him and shipped them on. It was typical of Sally's practical nature to assess his current living situation and work out what he might need.

She'd had the suit pressed and packed very carefully, sticking a note to the box which read "Just in case a suitable occasion arises". He'd struggled to think of an occasion, wondering precisely what Sally had been getting at, and had stored the suit still in its packaging in the back of his wardrobe.

He'd worn it for the first time at Sir Selwyn's formal party on Saturday. As he pulled it from its hanger in the wardrobe, hoping that it wasn't too creased, he paused in thought. Had it really been only two days ago that he was sweating and making uncomfortable small talk in the Old Residency gardens? So much had happened since then, it seemed impossible.

A spasm of pain shot through his knee as he changed his trousers and, with a pang of guilt, he remembered the doctor's instructions to rest it. The trouble was, he didn't feel he could hang around on this case. His keen detective senses were telling him that the victims would start to pile up if he didn't get to the bottom of this mystery as quickly as possible. He would have to take time to rest once the perpetrator had been caught…and pray that he hadn't done his knee permanent damage by then.

He paired the suit with his best blue shirt, hesitated over a tie and then decided that it was too hot to even contemplate that. At least he was dressed in a dark bespoke suit from one of the more expensive London houses – that alone should help him fit in with the usual clientele at the Hotel Sainte-Marie International.

There was nothing much he could do about his hair, so he didn't even bother to try.

"Wow!" Camille raised her eyebrows as she arrived to collect him, looking gratifying impressed for once. "You scrub up well when you make the effort."

"Thanks…I think," he muttered drily. He turned away from a gloomy contemplation of his image in the mirror to face her fully and take in the full effect.

She was dressed in red. It was obviously a favourite colour and one that he'd seen her in plenty of times, but he hadn't seen this specific dress before. It was a little longer and more conservative than the dresses she normally wore, ending just above her knees. It was sleeveless, fairly high in the neck and cinched at the waist just enough to accentuate her slim waist and curvy hips. He was no expert on women's fashion, but he could tell by the fine silky appearance of the material that this dress was more expensive than her usual outfits. All in all, she was rather pleasant to look at.

She caught his keen appraisal and looked down at herself, seeming oddly self-conscious for Camille. "Ah…it's from my Paris days. I don't get many chances to wear it…and you did say smart."

"It's lovely… You're lovely," he said quite truthfully, before his brain could catch up enough to tell his stupid mouth to shut up.

She smiled faintly, looking away. "Thank you. It's always nice to be appreciated."

As they wandered over to the jeep, he wondered what she meant. Was it a deliberately objective response? Had she noticed his regard? If she had, was this a subtle way to let him down gently?

"Humphrey, I was just wondering," she asked, as she got into the driver's seat. "What's our cover story for turning up at the International dressed like this?"

He shrugged. "I don't think there needs to be a cover. You're well known, even if I'm not, so it'd be overly optimistic to think that we won't be recognised as local police officers. I think that I'm simply taking my sergeant out for a drink at a nice hotel as a 'thank you' for her hard work."

She raised a wry eyebrow. "Really?"

He flushed a little at the insinuation. "Not like that! Or – wait a minute though -," he thought again, quickly, "- actually, why not exactly that? Um, I mean…let's make it seem that we don't want to be seen by our colleagues or friends, and that's why we're there rather than at our usual bar. Let's seem a little furtive about it – I'm taking a junior member of staff on a date when I really shouldn't be. It might disarm them a bit."

She drove for a couple of minutes in silence before saying: "Is that what you think?"

"Um – what?" He was distracted, thinking of the evening ahead. He had no specific goal in mind, he simply wanted to get a look at Ms Law if he could and get a feeling for the place, the staff and their employer.

She paused before carrying on. "Do you – do British police officers worry about that kind of thing? About… fraternisation with junior officers?"

Ah… He had a feeling he knew where this was going. "Well, it's rather drummed into us, especially at the Met. Sexual harassment and all that. And I think that a senior officer who was very keen on the rules might be particularly concerned…even if those rules were contrary to his wishes," he added, delicately.

"Yes. I see." Her voice was guarded; risking a glance at her, he saw that she was looking straight ahead, focusing on the road.

The tense silence between them deepened until he broke it, hesitantly. "You probably got that from the diary though, I imagine? I mean, you know that he – Richard – was always very keen on the rules."

She gave him a startled look, but before he could explain further, his mobile rang.

It was Dwayne. "Just checking in, boss. First off, I caught up with that girl, Charisse Williams. She thought that the man she saw could be Joshua Lawrence. She confirmed the colour of his hair anyway. But she really did only see the back of him, so it's not a firm ID… And I've been up and down the main strip. The Specials are on the club doors, handing out warnings. Nothing's come up yet. I'm gonna pop home, get out of my uniform. There're a couple of contacts I've got…and they'll be more likely to talk if I'm not there as a policeman, if you get my meaning."

Humphrey got it. All local officers had their unofficial contacts and he had too much sense to get involved. They were usually petty criminals who knew what was going on even if they weren't directly involved, and he trusted his local officers to keep them in line. "Thanks, Dwayne. Good luck – and stay safe."

He filled Camille in and she smiled. "Let's hope you won't need his help tonight, because he'll probably have a couple of beers with them too. Still, it'll relax them and then he'll pick something up without them even thinking about it. He's good at that."

"He is good. Far better than I would be in that situation," he admitted. "Talking of which…"

"I assume you haven't done much undercover work before?" She sounded amused.

"Make that none. I mean, I've travelled around, but usually as myself."

"Well, that's what you are tonight – yourself. It's not as if you have to play someone else."

"Um, no, but – well, you know what I mean. The – um – the whole 'dating' thing."

She slowed down to turn right, shooting him a strange look as she did so. "Please don't tell me you're as awkward with women as Richard was. You have been married, so presumably you know how 'the dating thing' works? I'm sure you can put on a good enough act."

"Well, but…" But his mouth dried up. He couldn't possibly say that this would be a little too close to reality for him.

She paused again, concentrating on the road, before saying casually, "Don't worry, just take your lead from me. I've done this kind of thing enough times in my life."

And that comment opened up a whole new can of worms… But he couldn't start thinking about how many men Camille had dated – or had pretended to date – in her past. He knew from a few acquaintances who had worked undercover that sometimes agents had to do things that were morally suspect just to get close to a suspect of the opposite gender. Was that why Camille was so adept at circumventing unwanted male attention?

They were winding up the steep, tree-lined road that led out of the main town and over the crest of a hill before descending into the next bay. Here, there were a number of large resort-style hotels that attracted the bulk of the island's richer tourists. Each owned their own part of the beach so that, as Dwayne often remarked caustically, the visitors wouldn't be forced to encounter any locals apart from the ones that worked at their hotel. It was a form of tourism that was quite alien to Humphrey; on the rare occasions that he'd holidayed abroad, he'd much preferred to experience the local colour.

"Have you been to the International before?"

"No – I know where it is, of course. But I have never had a reason to. There's never been any crime committed there – not that we know of, anyway. And it isn't the kind of place that you just walk into."

"Why not? It has a bar and restaurant open to non-residents, hasn't it?"

She hesitated. "Yes…but with some of these hotels, it's very clear that you're not really welcome if you're 'just' a local. Well, not unless you have a lot of money to spend, anyway. There's a certain atmosphere…"

Her voice trailed off. He looked at her in surprise; it was not like Camille to be put off by snobbish behaviour. Unless… she couldn't mean…?

"Do you mean, unless you're rich and White?" In this day and age, surely not?

She gave him a wry glance. "There is never anything you can put your finger on, of course. It's just an impression."

Humphrey frowned. He'd never sensed any particular racial tension on Sainte-Marie, which didn't mean it didn't exist, of course. And the patrons of the bigger international hotels did tend to be predominantly White, but he had just assumed that was simply down to the populations that they generally appealed to – mainly upper- or middle-class, middle-aged couples or honeymooners, looking for a peaceful break with guaranteed sunshine. He suspected that their interest in the island went no further than that.

He smiled as the jeep arrived at the gates of the Hotel Sainte-Marie International. "Well, let's just see how 'welcome' they make us feel. I'm not interested in being welcomed, just so long as we can get a good look around."

There was a guard at the open gateway, but he waved them through without much interest. He was obviously there to stop the serious riff-raff from going in. Humphrey supposed that the Honore police jeep didn't fall into that category, however dusty it might be. Actually, it occurred to him that he and Camille must look a little odd, dressed smartly but driving a battered jeep. She obviously had the same thought, because she parked not too far beyond the entrance by simply pulling over to the side of the road that wound through the extensive resort.

Camille smiled a little impishly at Humphrey and put her hand through his arm as they walked up the road together towards the main hotel. His heart thumped a little faster at the contact.

The International was typical of the large hotels in the Caribbean, with its own private beach and enough facilities that the tourists didn't need to venture out of the resort unless they really wanted to. It also owned a substantial piece of inland low-lying scrub, which had been cleverly landscaped into a series of artificial lakes and tropical gardens. The lakes were dotted with isolated, expensive-looking bungalows and linked with palm tree-lined walkways and bridges. The scene was bizarre – in its artificiality, it reminded Humphrey of a Centerparcs resort in the UK, except that here the tourists were using motorised buggies or motorboats to travel around the resort instead of bicycles.

Camille laughed at the look on Humphrey's face. "Awful, isn't it? But people will pay. Most of those bungalows are probably privately owned by finance companies. They'll hold their conferences here and let them out to wealthy tourists when they don't need them."

They strolled around the front of the hotel and into the garden, which led directly to the beach. Here, they could see a number of bars and restaurants, available to anyone and not just those staying in the resort. Although the strip of beach in front of it was described as 'private', in reality, as with all the hotels along this section, there was nothing to stop someone from strolling across the bay from one end to the other. There were security guards looking out for potential thieves or troublemakers, who could include essentially anyone who didn't look rich enough to stay there, but they didn't have the power to detain or remove ordinary people. The hotels generally relied on the fact that the locals had their own beaches and weren't sufficiently interested in invading this one.

It was fairly obvious that the locals really didn't bother. Looking at the people around them, Humphrey realised that he would have looked seriously out of place if he hadn't got changed. The majority of people here were very well dressed for the beach in dinner jackets and expensive dresses; he couldn't see anyone wearing shorts or denim. It was clear that Ms. Law's hotel promoted certain standards. In her Parisian dress, Camille looked perfectly at home, even though he could tell by her slightly stilted body language that she didn't care for the place.

He looked out at a bay crowded with parasols, beach bars and pleasure boats and couldn't help feeling that his own quiet little bay was far superior. He only ventured into these exclusive enclaves when he had to, usually in relation to a case, and in general shared the distaste of the locals who needed to make a living from tourism and had that opportunity denied to them by these 'all-inclusive' resorts.

Camille kept her hand linked through his arm as she steered him towards one of the beach bars; it looked like a friendly gesture but she was leading him quite firmly and he went with her, recognising that she had a purpose in mind. Camille usually had a good 'eye' for a scene, thanks to her training for undercover work. The quivering tension he could feel in her, almost vibrating through her hand, may have indicated discomfort or it may simply have been the adrenaline of being 'undercover' again, albeit in a minor way. He knew she still missed that work to some degree.

"It's the best spot for visibility," she murmured in his ear as they perched on stools by the bar. "Also, I know the bartender well – he is a friend of Maman - which could be useful."

Sure enough, the handsome young barman gave Camille a little wink as he came to take their order. Humphrey had to suppress a twinge of jealousy as his DS chatted happily with the man, the two of them idly discussing cocktails before she made her choice. He didn't seem to have much custom at present; his was just one of a number of small bars dotted around the resort and it was still relatively early in the evening. They made a striking pair as they leaned close to each other across the bar – in fact, Camille was attracting a number of glances, both admiring and envious. She ignored the attention with her usual level-headedness and, when her friend got a little too flirtatious, she laughed at nothing in particular and briefly leaned her cheek against Humphrey's shoulder in a gesture that was designed to appear intimate. Taking in her body language, the barman shook his head ruefully and grinned at them both before going to serve a new customer on the other side of his circular bar.

Humphrey sipped the cocktail that Camille had ordered for him and winced at the sweetness of the liquor. He would very much rather have been relaxing at Catherine's right now, or perhaps on his own terrace with his injured leg propped up and a cold beer in his hand. He felt bone tired; still exhausted from their ordeal of the previous day, and the throbbing in his knee was beginning to irritate. He regretted the necessity for alcohol, since it would make it more difficult for him to take any pain killers later, but it would have looked a little odd if he'd ordered plain water while on a date. The sooner he solved this case, the better.

Camille looked as fresh as ever, the breeze ruffling the silk of her dress, as she glanced around in a casual manner. "It's typical of a resort. Over-priced cocktails – although the quality is surprisingly good." She nodded towards the bartender, speaking quietly. "Maman trained Nico, so he knows his cocktails. I can't imagine he's happy working here, but it's a job. He wants his own bar eventually."

"So you know him quite well?" He tried to force a carefree smile onto frozen lips, but suspected it looked more like a grimace. He was decidedly not good at this undercover stuff.

She glanced at Humphrey quickly before looking back over the scene, a vague smile on her lips. "I might have dated him once or twice. He's fun, but thinks a lot of himself. He's not my type."

That was obvious, he told himself a little bitterly, even as she slipped her fingers around his arm, giving it a comforting little squeeze. He expected her to drop her hand again, but instead she kept hold of him and leaned in to kiss his cheek very lightly.

As her lips moved against his skin, she whispered. "We're being watched. Smile…properly."

Humphrey lifted his glass and grinned at her rather manically as he took another sip. "Where do I need to look?"

"You can't at the moment. She's just over your right shoulder on the opposite side of the bar. Talking to someone but she keeps looking in our direction. It's Jessica Law."

He laughed, as if she had just said something very funny, and leaned a little closer to her. "Well, that was easier than I expected. I wasn't sure she would even be here in the evenings. Doesn't she have a manager to take care of everyday things?"

"I think she's talking to him."

He could tell that Law had stopped looking by the way that Camille's slightly simpering expression was suddenly replaced by a grimace at his over-acting. "She's moving away – you can look now."

He turned his head, trying to be casual about it. Jessica Law was a tall, attractive woman in her late forties, smartly dressed in a skirt suit. He admired the way she negotiated the sand in her high heels as she walked back through the beach and the gardens in the direction of the hotel. She was with a young man, equally well dressed, who was nodding and typing into his smartphone as she gave him her orders.

Just before she disappeared behind some bushes, her neat dark head turned and she looked very deliberately at Humphrey. He had no time to react, but a flash of her sharp blue eyes told him that he was dealing with a very clever woman. She clearly knew who they were – and probably why they were here as well.

He sighed, putting down the sickly drink. "So much for the undercover stuff."

She laughed. "Oh, I don't know. It's fun – I haven't done this for a very long time." Casually, she slid her hand down his arm to entwine her fingers with his while eying a band that was setting up at an open pavilion nearby. "It's a shame about your knee; you could ask me to dance otherwise."

He shuddered. "I'd sooner dance at your mother's bar, or at the beach. This place gives me the willies… I can't say why exactly, but I could never relax in a place like this."

She followed his gaze to the grand frontage of the large hotel. "That's because you have a conscience – and a sense of adventure. I can't imagine you ever going to a place and not plunging into the middle of things."

He smiled a little sheepishly, very conscious of the fact that her hand was still in his and she seemed to show no desire to let it go. "You know me too well. It used to drive Sally mad. We'd go and stay in some picturesque little spot in the Scottish countryside or something, and the next thing she knew I'd have made friends with the locals in the pub and would have been invited out for a full day's fishing at the Loch the following day. Or someone would've told me about some local monument that I just had to see, and instead of a romantic walk around a lake, she'd find herself struggling through mud and pouring rain just to see some mouldy little marker stone."

She laughed. "Well, I can understand that. Although the rain was not really your fault...or rather perhaps it was your fault if you were foolish enough to go on holiday in such a watery place. I do not understand why the British insist on going on holiday in cold, rainy places… Humphrey? What is it?"

He had dropped her hand and turned more fully towards the hotel to stare at a large group of people standing in the gardens immediately in front of it. "I thought I just saw… wait a minute…" He stood up, straining to see in the twilight. "Yes! Right there, just behind that group – do you see him?"

She stood up as well, peering over his shoulder. He pointed towards the retreating figure of a tall, blond man. "That looks like -."

"Eddie Lawrence!" she interrupted. "But since he's unlikely to be here and the man looks much older…?"

"It could be Joshua Lawrence," he continued. "Which means he's here on the island, and maybe it was him at the party. Come on, let's see where he's headed."

The man was moving quickly, and they had to hurry through the crowds to keep him in sight. Without a backward glance, he strode around the side of the hotel and into the grounds beyond. In the half an hour since they arrived, the sun had gone down and Humphrey found it hard to spot him in the dimly lit gardens. After a few tense moments, Camille silently pointed him out walking over one of the bridges towards a dark bungalow.

They backed up into the shadows of the hotel and watched. The man seemed to pause for a moment right underneath a lamp and they got a good view of his pale gleaming head. He turned, looking behind him for a long moment and they froze against the wall. As he turned away again, Camille consulted a copy of the photograph on her phone and nodded emphatically. "That's definitely Joshua Lawrence."

As Humphrey move to follow him, she grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute! Shouldn't we get back-up first? He could be Emilia's killer."

He paused, considering for a moment before speaking slowly. "Nooo…I don't believe he is. Which doesn't mean he isn't dangerous to someone. But not us, I don't think."

She stared at him in the gathering darkness. "Do you know who killed her now? Is this one of those mental leaps you make, where you know who committed the crime and just need to confirm it before you confront the murderer?"

Frustrated, he pushed a hand through his head, making it more unruly than ever. "No, I haven't solved it yet. I don't yet know who the murderer is. I just know who he or she isn't."

He knew his statement was nonsensical, but he felt too tired, his brain too fogged by pain and fatigue, to make his meaning clearer. He found himself waiting for an incredulous response, a demand to explain what he meant, a refusal to go into the situation without back-up…

She stared at him for a further long moment; in the dark, he couldn't make out her expression.

"OK then."

And with that quiet agreement, she started walking along the wooden walkway in the direction that Joshua Lawrence had taken. He paused fractionally, a little touched by her trust. It was not so long ago that she would have hesitated or given Dwayne or Fidel a bewildered or amused look. These days, Camille's belief in him was so strong that she was prepared to go into a potentially dangerous situation without calling back-up first, against her better judgement.

He was as sure as he could be that there was no risk. Whoever had killed Emilia Lawrence, he was absolutely certain it was not her older half-brother. Which didn't mean that her real killer wasn't somewhere very close by…