I should have said in the last chapter that I am completely hopeless when it comes to matters technical and scientific, so please forgive any obvious howlers!

The next afternoon Richard and Camille set off to interview Sarah Jarvis. It was a long, winding drive right up into the hills to reach the Peverel Plantation through endless rows of banana trees, the growing fruit hanging in heavy green clusters awaiting harvest. Perhaps it was the oppressive heat but Camille felt an unexplainable sense of menace as they finally drew up to the plantation buildings, where Sarah Jarvis was waiting for them. She was a dark-haired woman in her late thirties, smartly dressed and exuding an air of general competence and efficiency which Richard had come to recognise as rare on this most laid-back of Caribbean islands.

"How are you managing without Mr Peverel?" asked Richard.

"Well, we have to carry on, there's a business to run. It's what he would have wanted", she said sadly.

"What will happen to the business now?"

"Well, I don't know. Mrs Peverel inherits everything but she has no interest in the business and neither does her son Jason. I expect she will sell it – in fact I believe she's already had an offer."

"Who from?"

"Well, she hasn't said anything to me personally but I've heard that Philippe Delacroix is interested. He and Martin were quite friendly – in fact they were due to go diving together just before …". Her voice tailed off as she fought to control her emotions.

"Miss Jarvis, would you mind telling us where you were on Friday" interjected Camille after a respectful pause.

Sarah pulled herself together with an obvious effort, though her voice was still shaking. "Yes of course. I was here at the plantation until about 7, then I went back to my house and had some dinner."

"You live here on the plantation?"

"Yes, my house is right on top of the hill."

"And did you see Martin Peverel that evening?"

She hesitated, and gave a resigned shrug. "Well, I suppose you know already. Martin and I were a couple, we were planning to get married once his divorce came through. Yes, he came to see me that night, some time after 9, after he left the family dinner."

"And did he seem in any way disturbed or worried?"

"No, not at all. He didn't stay long because he had an early start the next morning. I just couldn't believe it when I saw the explosion."

"You saw it? You weren't asleep?"

"No, I was out on the balcony. I couldn't sleep, I often can't. I can see the bay very clearly from my house. I heard a huge bang and then a massive fireball. I knew it had to be Martin's yacht - it was the only one moored there." She dabbed at her eyes again.

"I'm sorry I have to ask" said Richard quite gently, "but can you think of anyone who would want Martin dead? A business rival, perhaps?"

"He didn't have any rivals on the island. Yes, he competed with other growers on other islands but the market for bananas is huge and he was really quite a small fish in a very large pond. You know, although he was a very rich man by the standards of Saint-Marie you really couldn't compare him to the growers on some of the bigger islands – the plantation is just too small to cause them any real problems."

"So you have no idea who could have killed him?"

"No, none at all. He wasn't on good terms with his son and in fact they had a row only the day before, but I can't believe that Jason would have done something like that. Oh I've just remembered he did have a bit of an argument with some young man – I didn't actually see him so I don't know who he was or what it was about but I did hear the young man threaten to take him to court. There was a lot of shouting and angry words but I was in the warehouse at the time so couldn't really hear."

"And did Martin mention the incident?"

"He just said he was some nutter, after money."

"Thank you, Miss Jarvis. Do you mind if we take a look around the warehouse?"

"Not at all, though there's not much to see." She led the way. "The pickers load the bananas into trucks, they come in here, and the packers then wrap the bunches in layers of straw and lay them in the crates, ready for loading on to the lorries for transportation to the airport in the morning. It's the same routine every day. Here is the office where I work and where Martin also had a desk."

Richard and Camille conducted a quick but expert search of Martin's desk, impounding the contents, including his laptop. Copies of orders and despatch notes were carefully filed in a cabinet, the accounting records meticulous. Richard nodded with approval. "Everything seems to be in immaculate order. Most impressive. Thank you." He smiled at Sarah.

"One last thing, Miss Jarvis", he said. "Do you know what Martin Peverel used a pink highlighter pen for? There don't seem to be any other highlighter pens in his desk."

She stared at him, startled. "I never saw him with any highlighter pens", she replied, "though I have one in my desk." She pulled open a drawer and showed him a yellow pen.

"Thank you, you've been most helpful. I'm sorry we had to trouble you at this difficult time."

"You liked her, didn't you?" There was an accusing tone in Camille's voice, as they walked back to the Defender.

"It's not a question of liking or not liking, Camille. I'm a detective, I have to look at the facts, keep a fair and open mind."

"You were quite gentle with her."

"Well, she was clearly very upset."

"Or a good actress. But I could see that you liked her."

"And you didn't." He was starting to get annoyed. "She is clearly an efficient woman, which in my not inconsiderable experience is a very rare thing on this island, Detective Sergeant! I appreciated her for that," he said somewhat bombastically.

"Oh, so you don't think women on Saint-Marie can be efficient! Thank you very much. How am I supposed to take that?"

"That's typical of you, Camille, if I may say so. You take everything personally. Of course I didn't mean you – you don't count" retorted Richard, digging himself in even further.

Stormy brown eyes raged at cool green ones. "So I'm not efficient and I don't count. Good. At least I know where I stand."

"Oh really, Camille, this is ridiculous. Now you're being childish."

"You're calling me childish? Isn't that the pan calling the kettle black?"

"The pot" he corrected automatically. She looked at him uncomprehendingly. "It's the pot that calls the kettle black. Old English proverb …"

"Aaarrgghh!"

"Now what have I said?"

"You're just so annoying when you're like this, Richard!"

"Sir to you, if you please. And you are being very emotional."

"Excuse me, and what exactly is wrong with being emotional, Sir? I'd rather be emotional than go through life caring about nothing but scientific facts! She wrenched open the car door, got into the driving seat, slammed it shut with as much force as she could muster and started the engine. She drove a little way down the drive then abruptly stopped. She would have liked to abandon him at the plantation but knew it would be a serious breach of professional behaviour. So she waited while he caught her up.

How on earth had she allowed herself to fall for someone so totally, so utterly unsuitable, she asked herself in despair for the umpteenth time. But she had, she could no longer deny it even to herself. He was really quite hopeless. It was painful to watch him in social situations – so gauche and awkward, so totally incapable of finding the right words, such a total contrast to the confident and masterful way in which he exposed the murderer at the end of an investigation. And how could someone who kept a secret hoard of jelly babies (yes, she knew perfectly well what was in that tin) behave in quite such a pompous manner? He was so full of contradictions and there were times when she wasn't sure if she even liked him. But somehow he had got to her, and she knew that no-one had ever mattered to her more. She doubted that he would ever really care for her – that, she thought, was probably more than he was capable of. But the hope would not quite die. There were times when she had found a chink in the armour, and had thought that perhaps, just perhaps, there was something more there than mere friendship. But there had been other – many – occasions when he had driven her to screaming point. Like now, for instance.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wheel, trying to regain enough control to face him again. She heard the gravel crunching louder and louder as he drew near. He opened the door and got in. Not a word was spoken. She put the vehicle into gear and drove off, staring rigidly ahead. "You can drop me at my house." "OK". They drove in miserable silence. "Thank you" he said punctiliously as she drew up in front of his shack. She watched him go in, biting her lip and resisting the temptation to run after him. He was right, she knew – she had been childish and over-emotional. She waited for a few minutes, but he didn't come back, so she slammed her foot on the accelerator and screeched off down the track.

Richard dropped into his usual chair and sank his head into his hands. "Well, that went well. So how was your day, Harry? Who did you upset? Mrs Harry? Is there one?" The lizard blinked and continued to stare at him. "I don't know how I manage to do it. It must be sheer natural talent. Just when things were going so well. Well, it's my own fault, I should have known better than to ask her out to dinner. What did I expect?" He got up and took a beer from the fridge, pressing the bottle's coolness against his raging forehead. He hesitated. Should he ring her and apologise? He so wanted to – he couldn't bear the tension that had suddenly sprung up between them. He picked up his mobile and his finger hovered over her number. But what would he say? How would he ever find the right words? He would probably just make the situation even worse. It would be bad enough having to face her again in the morning. No, better not. He put the phone down again.

Harry was looking at him plaintively. His evening meal was long overdue. Richard hastily caught a few bugs and mashed up some mango for his little green companion. He had no appetite himself. He opened his briefcase and pulled out all the files relating to the case. He spent the next two hours reviewing all the evidence, trying to fit together the various pieces of the puzzle. But his brain just would not function properly. Camille's stony face during the long silent drive back swam before his eyes. He gave up in despair, stuffed the files back into his briefcase and picked up his book. Perhaps the history of feudalism in 12th century England would succeed in holding his attention.

"You have been reading the same page for the last ten minutes."

Shocked out of his reverie, Richard looked up. Camille was standing on the veranda with a look on her face that was part defiance, part apprehension. "I brought you these", she said, a little nervously. "I thought you might be hungry." She held out a bunch of bananas. It was clearly a peace offering.

"Yes, er, well, thanks. Look, I didn't mean to upset you but you know what I'm like …"

"I know. It was my fault. And I'm sorry. I know you do have emotions, even if you don't show them very often."

If she hadn't been so overwrought it would have amused her to see how uncomfortable that made Richard. He almost squirmed. He really couldn't handle such personal topics so changed the subject quickly. "Would you like a beer?" he offered, opening the door of the fridge. She nodded. They sat on the veranda, eating bananas and drinking beer and listening to the waves breaking gently on the shore. There was no need for words. Peace had been restored.

Arriving at the station the following morning Richard was greeted by Dwayne, who hastened to tell him that the young man in the Che Guevara T-shirt had been brought in for questioning. "His name is Jackson Freeman, a UK national", he added.

"Well, let's see what he has to say for himself."

Camille drew her chair alongside Richard's and they faced the young man across the desk. He looked to be in his late 20s and was clearly not happy at being dragged in for questioning.

"You're not from these parts, Mr Freeman. What are you doing on Saint-Marie?"

"I could say the same about you", replied Jackson. "You don't exactly look as if you belong in the Caribbean! Oh OK" he added, responding to the irritated look on Richard's face, "I'm here on holiday, looking up some long lost relations."

"And by the sound of you, you come from South London?"

"Peckham, yes."

"Why were you arguing with Martin Peverel?" asked Camille. "We have several witnesses who heard you", she added, seeing that he was about issue a denial.

Jackson Freeman sighed. "Look, I had just got a casual job in the kitchen at Pierre's restaurant and I was riding my bike home when this car came belting along and forced me right off the road into a wall. That's how I got this." He indicated his right arm, which was supported by a sling. "Broken. I won't be able to work for weeks. So how am I supposed to support myself without an income? There was a guy who witnessed the accident, said it was Martin Peverel's car, so once I had got myself fixed up at the hospital I decided to pay him a visit."

"To point out the error of his ways?" enquired Richard with heavy irony.

"Something like that, yeah. Only he kept denying that it was him. Too rich to understand that he had just destroyed my whole means of support on the island. So I said I would go to the police and report him for dangerous driving. Which I would have done if he hadn't got himself blown up first."

"I see, and you had no further contact with Mr Peverel?"

"Nope."

"OK thank you, Mr Freeman. I don't think we have any further questions at the moment."

"Did you find your family?" enquired Camille.

"Not family exactly, old family friends. But no-one seems to know them. Name of Dibble." He looked enquiringly at both Camille and Richard.

Camille shook her head. "I've never heard of anyone of that name on Saint-Marie", she said, "but the person to ask is my mother. She runs the café La Kaz and she knows everyone – and her memory is very long!"

"Thanks, I'll try her. Can I go?"

Richard nodded and Jackson sauntered out of the police station.

"Well, I think we can probably rule him out as a suspect, but I suppose we had better run some background checks on him. Ask Dwayne, would you? And also on Sarah Jarvis."

Jackson Freeman sipped his drink hopefully. "Dibble?" repeated Catherine slowly, "no I don't think there is anyone on the island called Dibble. I'm so sorry." The young man looked really disappointed.

"They must have moved away, I guess, or they're all dead. Ah well, it was worth a try." He got up to leave.

"No, wait a minute, let me try and remember. There was a family called Dibble but it's such a long time ago. Let me think. Yes, they left the island – it must be 25-30 years ago. Ah! How could I be so stupid! Of course, the son is still here, but he changed his name, that's why I didn't immediately recognise it. Here, I'll write down his name and address for you." And she passed a piece of paper to Jackson, who glanced quickly at it and tucked it into his wallet with a small smile.