Well, this is my way of dealing with the unavoidable fact that Richard is being written out and plays only a small part in Series 3. It takes place at the end of Series 3.
Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey drove down the track and parked the Defender. The noise of the engine died away and she sat for a while lost in her thoughts before reluctantly getting out. She really didn't want to be here but she had promised. The shack looked as dilapidated as ever. Really, she thought, it was amazing that it had withstood so many tropical storms; it was fortunate that they hadn't had a full-blown hurricane for some years, as she was sure it would not survive.
Well, she had promised Humphrey, so she had better get on with it. She turned the key in the lock, opened the door and walked in. As always, a barrage of memories instantly hit her. It was why she hated coming here now and rarely did so. There was the chair where Richard had always sat, the kitchen where he carried out all those amazing scientific experiments which she had only pretended to understand, the television that he had tried so hard to tune to Fiona Bruce (whoever she was), the bed that in the end they had never shared. She remembered the times when she had surprised him in his pajamas, when he was shooing away the hens or backing nervously away from the snake, the times when she had found him sleeping in his chair like a cherub, the times they had sat on the veranda together.
Camille gave herself a mental shake. Enough of that. It was over, and she had a job to do. She picked up a mango and started to chop. Trust Humphrey to land her with the job of looking after Harry while he went swanning off to Jamaica for the week. Someone must have told him that she had done it while Richard was away, and he had asked her so charmingly before he left this morning that it was impossible to say no. But that was Humphrey for you: clever, witty, lively and oh-so-charming in his laid-back way - and she hated him. Hated him for sitting at Richard's desk, hated him for doing Richard's job, hated him for living in Richard's house, hated him basically for not being Richard. Except that of course she didn't really hate him, try as she might – it was impossible to hate Humphrey. (He had insisted that they all call him Humphrey. This had confused poor Fidel dreadfully at first, who had a tendency at the beginning to call him Sir – Humphrey, which DI Goodman had found most amusing.)
They had all succumbed eventually of course. Dwayne was the first – he recognised in Humphrey a fellow acolyte of the relaxed Caribbean lifestyle and embraced his presence with hardly a second thought. Fidel had held out longer: he had been devoted to his old boss, had been heart-broken at not being able to say goodbye, and had taken some time to accept the new man. But he was a good officer and he knew that loyalty to his superior was essential if the team was to function, even if at times it felt like betrayal. And the team did function; Humphrey's way of working may have been completely different from Richard's but his mind was just as incisive and they had solved a number of baffling murders together.
As for herself, Camille had from the very first determined that she would treat DI Goodman with a degree of professionalism that was beyond reproach. She did her job with her usual efficiency, she was helpful and polite but she displayed a coolness and a reserve which set her apart from the other members of the team. She suspected that Fidel and Dwayne had warned Humphrey that she had had a 'thing' about Richard, for he never tried for the same degree of familiarity that he achieved with the two junior officers. By unspoken but mutual consent, Richard's name was rarely spoken in the police station these days.
Camille sighed and looked round the shack. Although the maid had been in to clean and change the sheets that morning, the place still looked a mess. Books, papers and clothes were tossed on any available surface, there was the usual pile of washing up in the sink, and the sand was starting to invade the floor again. How Richard would have disapproved. But Richard wasn't here, hadn't been here for more than six months now. She wasn't going to be stupidly sentimental and count the days since she had last heard from him, but it was a very long time. He had rung her shortly after he got back to the UK to tell her that his father was having another operation to repair damage to internal organs and would then need to have a prosthetic leg fitted. His mother appeared to have suffered a stroke but it wasn't yet clear how seriously she would be affected. Then, at exactly the end of his two weeks of compassionate leave, had come the email (not even a phone call) in which he announced that he would not be returning to the island. She knew the words by heart, she had read them so often. He had said he hoped she would understand and that he would always remember the time they had spent together with affection. Affection! It was lucid, reasoned and quite, quite cold. She had felt the chill seep through her veins as she read it. So that was it: she had meant nothing more to him than this. She cursed the circumstances that had taken him from her before they had really had a chance. Two very tentative kisses were just not enough to build a relationship on, she reflected bitterly. It had taken some time before she finally accepted that he had lost interest in her; when her birthday was approaching she could not stop herself from wondering whether she might just hear from him, but the day came and went with no sign. That was when she finally gave up hope.
Catherine observed her daughter with some concern. Outwardly she was the same Camille, though perhaps some of the old sparkle was missing. But Catherine detected a subtle change, it was as if Camille had developed an inner core of steel that could not be penetrated. Catherine had been instantly captivated by the beguiling charm of the new DI, who paid her easy compliments, drank her cocktails and ate her seafood platters with great relish. Yes, he was chaotic and disorganised but in his own way he was just as brilliant as Richard and, in Catherine's eyes, very much more suitable for Camille as a potential husband. She had taken to inviting him to dinner and invariably found an excuse to leave him alone with her daughter. Camille had not been remotely deceived by her mother's tactics, however, and had berated her soundly.
"Richard is not coming back. I know that, maman, but that doesn't mean that I am going to succumb to the next eligible man who crosses my path. I am sorry about the grandchildren, but I have decided that marriage is not for me. I am going to concentrate on taking my Inspector's exams – I want to be the first native-born Inspector on this island. So please stop trying to throw me and Humphrey together." Catherine never mentioned the subject again.
So here she was, back at the shack, back feeding that bloody lizard. And she was fine. Just fine. She was over it. Over him. Really. She was. But the bloody lizard was nowhere to be found. "Harry! Harry!" she called, with increasing irritation. Her phone rang. She put down the bowl of mango, picked up her mobile and stared at the name that was flashing at her. It couldn't be. Not after all this time. For a moment she felt completely paralysed; the phone continued to ring and she continued to stare at it. Finally she pressed the button. "Richard? Richard, what do you think you're doing ringing me after all these months? Where are you?"
"Well actually I'm, um, on the veranda" said a very familiar voice.
She spun round incredulously. There, standing in the doorway of the shack, stood Richard Poole.
Richard Poole crunched up the gravelled drive and parked his car in its usual place. It had been a so-so sort of day at work but he had stayed late. To be honest, he was never particularly keen to go home in the evenings. He tried his best, but he found living with two invalids who happened also to be his parents really quite stressful. Of course there were carers who came and went during the day, but ultimately the responsibility for his parents' well being was his, and it was not one that he particularly welcomed or thought he was much good at. So he was glad to leave for work every morning, even if the job he was doing wasn't a patch on what he had had at Croydon, let alone on Saint-Marie.
When it had become clear that his parents' need of him was going to prevent him from returning to the Caribbean, he had sold his house in Croydon and moved into the upper floor of their house. For the first time he was glad that his parents had bought such a large house; at least he could retire to his sanctuary upstairs, pull up the drawbridge and enjoy some privacy. It was not that he disliked his parents, but he had never been close to them and he found living in such intimacy really very difficult. They had never had a great deal in common and the sheer effort of trying to predict and then meet their needs found him frequently irritable and short-tempered. Camille would have called him grumpy – but he wasn't thinking about Camille.
His father had recovered physically from the operation, but was left wheelchair-bound - and extremely bad-tempered as a consequence. (If Camille thought he, Richard, was grumpy she should just meet his father! But of course she never would.) Richard had had to have parts of the ground floor specially adapted for wheelchair access. Gordon Poole had been fitted with a prosthetic limb to replace the lower leg he had lost in the accident but much to Richard's irritation refused to wear it. They had had endless arguments on the subject but his father remained firmly in his wheelchair. At least, thought Richard savagely, it stops him from coming upstairs.
His mother was a different matter. Edwina ("after Lady Mountbatten, dear") had been in a coma for some days. When she emerged it was into a strange twilight sort of world. The doctors concluded that she had had a fairly serious stroke. Her speech was hardly affected but her left side was weak and her memory was impaired. There were times when she was almost normal, and others when she thought Richard was still a child and reminded him to change his underpants or wash behind his ears. He never knew which mother he would encounter.
He reflected bitterly that for one who had most definitely never been a 'people person' there could be few individuals less suited to a caring role. Camille, for instance, would have been fantastic at it, with her warmth and natural empathy – but he wasn't thinking about Camille. He was just grateful for the steady trickle of carers who saw to the immediate needs of the ground floor, and wished he didn't feel so utterly trapped. He was glad to be back in England again of course – that went without saying. He had complained so frequently about the constant heat and the sand that he couldn't possibly miss them, could he. The grey skies and seemingly constant drizzle were an excellent antidote.
He looked in briefly on his parents then made his way upstairs. He took a ready meal out of the freezer, popped it in the microwave and switched on his computer to check his emails. His eye stopped on one very familiar address. What on earth was Commissioner Patterson writing to him about? He opened the email with some reluctance. The island and everything (and everyone) in it was firmly locked away in a far corner of his mind. He very rarely spoke about his time in the Caribbean, even to his parents; he didn't want to stir up old memories. Most of all, he didn't want to remember Camille – her warmth, her laughter, her scent, the feel of her lips on his, the relationship that never quite was. He didn't want to acknowledge the yawning gap that had opened up in his life since he had left her.
It had not taken him many days to realise that he would not be able to return to Saint-Marie, at least for some years, and he really couldn't expect her to wait that long for him. He knew he had to tell her, but couldn't bring himself to do it. When the fortnight's compassionate leave was up he had forced himself to sit down and email her. He should have rung her, he knew, but he didn't think he could cope with hearing her voice and he was afraid his resolve would fail. The email had gone through fourteen drafts before he was satisfied with it. He gradually eliminated all the more emotional parts where he tried to tell her how much she had meant to him and what a difference she had made to his life. It was better she thought that he didn't care, he reasoned. That would make it easier for her to find someone else – someone younger and more suitable and most importantly someone who was free to spend his life with her. So he pared the email down to the bare bones and clicked the send button. She didn't reply.
Then it was her birthday (not that he had been counting the days, of course). Acting on impulse one day he had bought her a card, but he had tied himself in so many knots trying to find something appropriate to write in it that in the end he had not sent it. He got a beer from his fridge and drank a silent toast to her on the day instead.
But now here was the Commissioner forcing him to revisit painful memories. He half expected the email to start "May I have a word, Inspector?" It didn't of course and apart from a few polite enquiries about his own and his parents' well being it confined itself to informing him that the trial of Sarah Jarvis and Philippe Delacroix was due to start in a couple of weeks. It had been delayed, the Commissioner explained, because of Interpol's wish to clear up the whole drugs ring first. As the officer in charge of the case he, Richard, would be required to give evidence. The Commissioner assumed that he would not be able to do this in person and suggested that it should be done via Skype. Richard noted the date and emailed his agreement to the proposal. He felt distinctly unsettled.
In the days that followed Richard tried to focus on his work and put the forthcoming trial to the back of his mind. He had got a job with the police in Bristol. It wasn't the Murder Squad of course and he spent much of his time dealing with robberies, domestic disputes and anti-social behaviour, but it was convenient and fairly close to home. His colleagues were pleasant if unexciting and he made a genuine effort to get on with them. He wasn't exactly popular, but neither was he laughed at or ignored. He got on with his work quietly and efficiently, more or less successfully trying to stifle the longing for a nice, complicated murder to get his teeth into.
But the Commissioner's email had opened Pandora's Box. However much he tried, Richard couldn't prevent his thoughts from straying thousands of miles across the ocean. He couldn't stop himself from thinking about Camille. He wouldn't have believed it possible to miss someone so much. He knew going back was out of the question but the sheer frustration of his situation made him even more querulous and irritable than normal. He just about managed to contain it at work but it spilled over as soon as he got home. He had less and less patience with the world in general and his parents in particular. One evening, after a long rant about the inefficiency of the local GP's surgery and the time it took to get an appointment, he was launching into a second diatribe about his father's inability to keep the garden in order even with the help of a handyman when Gordon Poole interrupted him.
"For God's sake Richard, you're becoming downright impossible to live with. I thought you had improved when you first came back but now you're getting worse by the day. What on earth is the matter with you?"
"Sorry, dad" he mumbled.
"It's that case, back on the island, isn't it?" said Gordon shrewdly. "Ever since that email came you've been like a bear with a sore head and I damned if I know why. It's not as if you have to actually turn up, all you have to do is talk to them over the internet."
"Well, um, the internet connection on the island isn't all that good and I'm worried it won't work."
Gordon snorted with derision. "Oh do me a favour and just book yourself a flight. Go back to that bloody island and leave your mother and me in peace for once – you can book us into respite care for a week."
And so it was that a week later Richard Poole stepped off the plane once more at Saint-Marie Airport, to be hit by a wall of heat that almost made him stagger. He had forgotten just how hot the island could get. He had no luggage apart from his overnight bag, figuring that any suitcase of his was bound to be lost so there was no point in bringing one. He ordered a taxi to take him to the beachfront hotel he had booked. On the journey familiar sights, sounds and smells assailed him: the battered old cars, the colourful market traders, the rustling of the wind in the palm trees, the heavy scent of the flowers. A kaleidoscope of memories came rushing towards him. Not for the first time he wondered if he had been wise to come. No-one was expecting him – he hadn't notified even the Commissioner that he would be giving his evidence in person. In fact he could turn around and get the next plane back to London if he chose to.
It all depended on Camille really. If he was honest with himself, the only reason he had come back was to see her again. It was a moment of sheer weakness which he knew he should have been strong enough to resist, for nothing had changed: he couldn't stay on the island and it would only make going back home again even harder. But his life had been so empty without her. Of course she might have moved on in the six months since he had left, might have found another man – perhaps even the new DI. The more he thought about it, the likelier it seemed. A small part of him hoped that she had, for then he would know for sure that it was over and in a funny kind of way that would help.
He didn't want to call at the station, didn't want to have to face Dwayne and Fidel just yet. Neither did he want to call on Camille at La Kaz – Catherine was the last person he wanted to see. He thought he would walk along the beach in the evening to his old house, where the new DI was presumably in residence, and introduce himself. He was sure he could rely on DI Goodman to tell the other members of the team that he was back, so if she wanted to see him Camille would come and find him at the hotel. And if she didn't turn up then he would have his answer.
He wandered along the beach in the direction of the shack. For some reason that he could not fathom the sand seemed less of an irritant than it used to. Several people spotted him and waved or shouted a greeting, and he realised that word would soon get around that the strange Englishman in the woollen suit was back on the island. The shack looked just the same, the Roast Beef drawn up on the sand. He approached the veranda of the house, then stopped dead. There was a voice issuing from the shack and it certainly wasn't that of DI Goodman. This was completely unexpected. Listening to Camille calling to Harry, his confidence deserted him. How would she react? Would she be pleased to see him? Had she missed him? Would she even speak to him? He stood in nervous indecision for a while, unable to go either forwards or back, then pulled out his phone and dialled her number.
They stood staring at each other – incredulity on Camille's face, apprehension on Richard's. There was an awkward silence. She finally managed to speak.
"What on earth are you doing here?" Her tone was hostile.
"I didn't know you were here. I came to see DI Goodman."
"He's in Jamaica, having a week's leave. That's not what I meant. I thought you were giving evidence via Skype?"
This was not going well. "Well, I, um, I was worried that the, er, connection wouldn't work properly."
"And just how long did you spend on this island? Did the internet connection ever fail you?" The sarcasm was unmistakeable. Richard started to feel sick. He knew he shouldn't have come.
"Well, er, no, not really. I just thought it would be better to do it in person."
"And you didn't think it might be a good idea – courteous even – to let me, people know you were coming?"
"Sorry" he mumbled.
Camille was a boiling cauldron of mixed emotions: joy, relief, amazement, fear, hope. Suddenly she knew which one was uppermost – it was sheer bloody anger. How dare he just turn up out of the blue after all this time. How dare he put her through six months of misery and then expect her to welcome him with open arms. She fought back the tears that were springing unbidden to her eyes and hissed at him.
"Yes, it's easy just to say sorry, isn't it. Do you have any idea what you put me through, Richard? Six months, and not a word. Do you know what that felt like? Do you know what it's like to be dumped? To have your colleagues whispering behind your back and feeling sorry for you? Then you suddenly appear out of nowhere. What am I supposed to say? 'Don't worry, it's OK'? Well it's not OK, it's very much not OK. How could you do that to me, Richard? How could you be so cruel?"
He blanched at the onslaught. She was hitting him now with her fists, but the tears which had threatened for so long had started to spill over and were quickly turning into choking sobs. Now Richard Poole was a man who had run his entire life on the basis of logic and reason; emotion and instinct he had always scorned. And logic and reason were screaming at him to apologise, leave quickly and get the next plane back to London. Yet somehow proven scientific facts seemed unequal to the task of pacifying the passionate, sobbing woman before him, the woman he had come halfway round the world to see. For probably the first time in his life he acted entirely on impulse. He caught her fists, slid his arms around her, and held her tightly. For a few seconds she resisted, then laid her head against him, crying weakly into his shoulder. For once, the words came easily to him.
"I'm so sorry, Camille, I didn't mean to hurt you. I honestly thought it was for the best. I knew it would be years before I could come back to Saint-Marie and I couldn't expect you to wait that long. I thought it would give you a chance to find someone else, someone younger, someone more suitable." She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her and continued. "I'm no match for you, Camille. I'm … I'm all the things you used to call me: annoying, pompous, pedantic, rude, smug, awkward, childish, grumpy – I lost count. And I'm nearly middle-aged. You're still young, you're so full of life and fun, you don't need a dull, old, emotionally stunted idiot like me."
Her face still hidden, her voice was muffled. "Don't you think I should be the judge of that? So why did you come back then?"
There was a pause while Richard desperately searched for words. This was important – he had to get it right.
"Because … because for the past six months I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, however hard I tried, and I knew I just had to see you again. I've missed you so much, life has been so empty." He reached into his pocket and drew out a crumpled envelope. "Happy birthday", he said, offering it to her. "Sorry it's a bit late." She wiped away a tear and opened it.
"But it doesn't say anything?"
"No, well, you see, um, I couldn't think what to write, so in the end I didn't send it."
For the first time she smiled. "Same old Richard, never able to find the right words!"
A flash of bright green skittered across the floor towards the bowl of mango, stopped dead in front of Richard and stared at him.
"Harry seems pleased to see you. We were quite worried about your little lizard after you left. Seemed to go into a bit of a decline. Or perhaps it was just a sulk."
"Well, he's clearly got over it now."
"Actually, there's something you need to know. Harry isn't Harry, he's Harriet. Shortly after you left he laid a clutch of eggs and for a while poor Humphrey was overrun by baby lizards! I would have thought that with all the lizard books you had you would have been able to tell what sex she was!"
"Well I told you I was no good with women!"
"Well, let's see how good you are with this one", and she pulled him towards her for a long, breathless kiss.
"You have no idea how much I want you" she murmured when they finally separated, propelling him gently but firmly backwards until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he toppled over. He protested feebly when she began to strip off his clothes. The hated suit was soon on the floor closely followed by sundry other items. She began to cover him with a myriad of tiny kisses. He stopped her, briefly.
"Camille, I haven't …" he said uncertainly.
"I know, it doesn't matter", she replied tenderly. And it didn't.
Some time later, when she had finally caught her breath, Camille rolled on her side and looked quizzically at Richard.
"Are you quite certain you haven't done that before?"
"I feel sure I would have noticed."
She giggled and snuggled happily into him. It augured well for the future.
Just before dawn she stirred from a deep and peaceful sleep. She stretched out her arm for him but it fell upon a cold and empty bed. She sat up. She could see Richard's silhouette out on the veranda, staring out at the sea and the rising sun. She swung her legs out of bed and stepped on a pile of crumpled wool which had so heedlessly been discarded along with a pile of tangled inhibitions. Coming up softly behind him she slid her arms around his torso and kissed the nape of his neck. He shuddered uncontrollably.
"What is it, Richard?" she whispered.
His whole body seemed to heave. He spoke in a low but anguished voice. "It's no good, Camille, I shouldn't have come back to the island. I got carried away. It was a mistake, I should have known better."
"Are you sorry that it happened? I rather thought you quite enjoyed it!"
He turned to face her and gripped her hands tightly. "It was the most amazing and fantastic thing that has ever happened to me! Believe me, there is nothing in this world I want more than to stay here with you, but I can't, Camille, I can't! I have to go back. My parents need me." His voice cracked, he turned from her and stared again out to sea.
"Richard Poole, for such a clever man, you can be amazingly stupid at times! No, you can't stay here. Yes, you have to go back to England. But there are other options. What about me? I need you too. I've tried staying here without you and I didn't like it at all, and there's no way I'm going to let you leave me again. So the solution is obvious – I have to go to England as well."
He turned and stared intently into her face. "You would do that, Camille? You would really do that?"
"Yes, of course. It's the only way."
"But what about your job, your mother, your friends …?"
"I'll miss my mother of course, but there's Skype. And yes, I'll be sorry to leave my job, but they have police forces in England don't they? None of it really matters, Richard, as long as we can be together. That's all I want." She clung to him and he buried his face in her hair.
"Marry me, Camille" he murmured thickly and felt her quiver in response.
"I thought you'd never ask." His arms tightened round her and they stood locked together for some time.
"There's just one problem."
"What?" he asked anxiously.
Her hands slid down to the pajama bottoms he had put on.
"You're wearing too many clothes again."
It was nearly 8 am when they stirred from sleep again. The sunlight was streaming into the shack and it was already becoming very warm. Richard turned and smiled at the dark head on the pillow next to him. He felt incredibly alive.
"Good morning"
She smiled back. "Good morning to you too." She cuddled up to him. "Some time last night you asked me to marry you. Did you mean it?"
He looked horrified. "Of course I meant it. And I seem to recall that you said yes." His eyes narrowed. "Are you telling me that you've changed your mind?" He steeled himself for her answer.
"No of course not. I love you so much."
He sighed with relief. "Well that's all right then."
"Do you love me, Richard?"
He considered for a moment then replied dreamily. "No, not really. I always sleep with my sergeants. Fidel is next. Ow!" A vicious blow from a well-aimed pillow left him gasping. He threw her onto her back, his face hovering just above hers. "Of course I do" he said softly, and kissed her quite gently. She wriggled with pure contentment.
"You know I won't be able to leave the island immediately", she warned. "I'll have to work my notice period. But then I'll come to England and we can get married there."
"No," he said with a sudden firmness that surprised her. "I want to get married here, on Saint-Marie. It just feels right."
"But …"
"But nothing. I've got five days before I fly back to London. Surely that's long enough to arrange a wedding?"
Her eyes were alight with excitement. "You clearly know nothing about weddings! But if we do without all the usual frills it might just be possible. We'll need a Special Licence – I'll speak to the Commissioner about that when I give him my resignation, he's bound to know the right people. And we can leave everything else to maman!"
If you had asked Richard Poole to describe his ideal wedding, he would have replied, with total honesty, that he had never given it any thought, that he had never even entertained the possibility of getting married. If pushed, he supposed it would involve a centuries-old church with a vicar and choirboys in crumpled surplices, an organist who missed out all the difficult notes, and ladies in smart dresses, large hats and heels they could barely walk in. It would most definitely not involve an expanse of golden sand, a steel band with its sinuous and intoxicating rhythms, and an assortment of the most colourful and flamboyant clothes he had ever seen – and that was just the men. But Richard simply didn't care. Camille had explained that no hotel could accommodate them at such short notice, so a simple beach wedding was really the only option, and he had been happy to go along with that.
A small canopy had been set up for the actual ceremony and a carpet laid in the aisle between several rows of benches. Richard hadn't really thought the benches were necessary – after all, he reasoned, he really knew very few people on the island and he didn't expect more than a handful to turn up at his wedding. It was therefore quite a surprise when he arrived to find a packed 'congregation'. He supposed that Camille must have more friends and relations than he had thought – until he looked more closely and realised that many of them were in fact known to him. There was Father Charles, now Headmaster of a much happier school, and Phil and Alex Owen, whose boat rental business was surviving, if only just. Curtis (fortunately without his snake) and Avita, now married themselves were there, together with Alex and Nicole Seymour, happily now sober, who had once more taken over the running of the Seymour Plantation. He spotted Father John and Sister Marguerite, exchanging a little banter with Dwayne, and Carlton Banks, now Head Nurse at the Clinic, guiding and supporting the almost blind surgeon Jeremy Tipping. And finally there was Laura Peverel, on the arm of her fiancé Matt McAllister. Richard was astonished.
"You see, Chief, there are a lot of people on this island who appreciate what you've done and wish you well. You have more friends than you think," said Dwayne, approaching with Jackson. "And may I say how very smart you look, Chief!"
Richard had agonised over what to wear for his wedding. Camille had threatened not to turn up if he wore one of his woollen suits, so he had visited a local tailor, taking Fidel with him for advice as he really didn't trust his own judgment in matters sartorial. The result had been a lightweight cream jacket over beige trousers, and a short-sleeved open-necked shirt. He felt rather self-conscious but had to admit that it was lot more comfortable in the heat than his usual suit. He also rather beautifully matched the sand, he thought ruefully.
He moved nervously to loosen his tie before remembering that he wasn't wearing one. Fidel smiled reassuringly at him. He was acting as Best Man, and had checked at least six times that he had the rings safely in his pocket. Richard tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. He wondered if all bridegrooms felt this nervous. The minutes ticked past while they waited for the arrival of the bride. She was late. It was two minutes past the specified time and Richard began to panic seriously. What if she didn't come? What if she had changed her mind? He had asked her several times over the past few days if she was quite sure she wanted to marry him, until finally she had sat him down and spoken to him quite firmly.
"Why would I not want to marry you, Richard? I love you, why can't you just accept that? Why do you disparage yourself so? Yes, you can be pompous, pedantic, childish and all those other things at times, though you're much better than you used to be, but you're also funny, kind, caring and gentle. That's the Richard I love and the Richard that I want to marry." He hadn't asked her again. But perhaps at the last minute she had had second thoughts?
"Don't worry, Sir, she'll be here!" whispered Fidel. At that moment there was a stir in the crowd. The bride had arrived.
It hadn't occurred to Richard to ask who would be giving Camille away, since she had no father to speak of. He was therefore staggered to see her advancing towards him on the arm of a beaming Commissioner Patterson, resplendent in full dress uniform. He was a magnificent sight but Richard had eyes for no-one but Camille. On a day-to-day basis he would normally rate her as stunning but today, radiant with happiness, she was just breathtaking, in a long dress of cerulean blue. "I'm not wearing white", she had warned him. "White is for demure young girls, and I'm none of those things." Reflecting on the activities of the past few days (and nights), he had felt unable to disagree. And now here she was standing next to him. She smiled, and his heart turned somersaults. The service began.
Afterwards, while the guests were tucking into the platters so kindly provided by Pierre, Richard found time to thank the Commissioner for agreeing to release Camille early so that she could return to the UK with him.
"To tell you the truth, Inspector, I was under some pressure from the Governor's niece. She's currently working with the police in Antigua and has been inundating me with requests to transfer to Saint-Marie, so it has worked out very conveniently. And it's always good to keep in with the Governor. I trust that you will enjoy living in England, Camille. I always think it's very important to know where you belong. You should bear that in mind, Inspector."
"I will, Sir, I will. And thank you for giving Camille away today – that was quite unexpected."
"Well, when she asked me so nicely how could I refuse? Besides, since I was the one who brought you together to start with, it seemed only appropriate."
"Yes, and it was me and Fidel who encouraged you to ask her out in the first place with a little conversation that you were intended to overhear!" added Dwayne, joining the little group.
"And I put an aphrodisiac in your tea once I realised the way the wind was blowing" added Catherine.
Richard turned to Camille. "Did we have any say in this?" he asked in mock despair.
She tucked her hand into his arm and laughed. "They just wanted us to be happy – and we will be" she promised.
DI Humphrey Goodman, just back from his holiday, strolled up. To anyone who knew him, he had clearly made an effort to smarten up, but to Richard he merely looked dishevelled. Camille introduced him. The two men had not previously met and eyed each other warily. It had not taken more than a glance around the shack for Richard to realise that Humphrey was cut from a very different cloth. For his part, Humphrey had heard many stories about his predecessor's quirky behaviour. He waved what looked like the leg of a lobster at Richard.
"Congratulations, and all that. Do you fancy a beer?"
The two men moved off and Camille turned her attention to her mother, who was supervising the drinks, with the assistance of Jackson. Catherine was full of mixed emotions: joy at her daughter's happiness, tinged with sadness at the prospect of her imminent departure and a slight reservation about her choice of husband. But she was a positive person and was focusing her thoughts instead on the prospect of a grandchild.
"Where's Richard?" she asked.
"Oh he went off with Humphrey. I'm not sure where they … Oh I don't believe it! Look!"
Catherine followed her daughter's accusatory finger. There, floating in the bay, was the Roast Beef, with two very merry Detective Inspectors on board. Richard caught sight of her, raised his bottle in silent toast and waved. Humphrey said something and the two men collapsed into helpless laughter.
"I want a divorce!" announced Camille, hands on hips, when they eventually returned to shore. "We've only been married a couple of hours and you're already running off with another man! And anyway, what was so funny?"
The two men looked shifty and exchanged significant glances.
"Wouldn't you like to know!" teased Richard, ducking to avoid the flying vol au vent.
Catherine intervened. "Camille, you need to go and change." They were spending the night at a local hotel prior to flying off the next day.
"So, Richard" she said when they were alone and he had thanked her for her part in organising the day's events. "So you're taking my little girl away from me, away from the sunshine to cold and grey old England."
"The sun does shine some of the time" he objected mildly. "Look, Catherine" he added, emboldened by the several beers he had drunk, "I know I'm not your first choice as a husband for Camille, but I promise I'll look after her."
"No, perhaps not my first choice" she replied, with a slightly wistful glance in the direction of DI Goodman, "but as soon as you came back I knew how it would be. I could see the difference in her immediately. Don't worry, Richard, I promise not to be the mother-in-law from hell, and I expect we'll rub along pretty well. All I want is for Camille to be happy."
"Then there's something we agree on. All I can say is that if she isn't, it won't be from want of trying on my part."
Catherine nodded approvingly and embraced him warmly on both cheeks. He told himself that he would just have to get used to such open displays of emotion now that he had married into a French family. He couldn't really imagine his own parents being so demonstrative when they met Camille for the first time – not that he had actually told them about her: he was going to surprise them and was keeping his fingers metaphorically very tightly crossed that it would go down well.
The festive mood was suddenly disrupted by a very loud bang. A gunshot! Both Richard and Humphrey immediately sprung into full detective mode and prepared to race to the scene of the supposed crime.
"Calm yourselves, gentlemen" called the Commissioner benignly, "If I am not very much mistaken I think you will find that was actually my official car backfiring. I'm afraid it needs a new exhaust."
Amid the amused laughter, Richard and Camille wandered into the shack seeking a last moment alone before they left for the hotel.
"You'd better say goodbye to Harry" she advised him. "She probably won't be here the next time you're on the island. Lizards don't live all that long, you know. Catch some bugs and I'll get some mango and maybe she'll make an appearance."
Harry had been nowhere to be seen all day, frightened by all the activity. But she found it impossible to resist the really large and juicy bugs which Richard caught for her and eventually made a cautious approach.
"Goodbye, Harry", he said, "and thank you for your company. You were my first friend on this island." He felt a little foolish, getting sentimental with a lizard, but Camille didn't seem to be laughing at him, so he continued. "I have to leave now, but I'll miss you, my little green friend."
Harry stared at him once more, twitched her tail and shot off back to her bolthole. Richard felt ridiculously sad for a moment but soon recovered when Camille slid her hand into his and pulled him away. It was time to go.
The following day the airport was crowded with the usual motley assortment of travellers: businessmen in suits, holidaymakers in shorts and local people carrying everything from surfboards to goats and chicken. Camille and Richard fought their way through the melee and checked in for their flight. This was the difficult part: saying goodbye to their friends and relations. Camille hugged Dwayne and Fidel tightly, with tears in her eyes. Her embrace with Catherine was wordless but prolonged. Richard turned to the two junior members of the team, with whom he had worked on so many cases, shook their hands warmly and then, throwing caution to the wind, hugged them both. They thumped him on the back.
"Goodbye, Chief, have a good flight and good luck in your new life."
"Goodbye, Sir. I learned such a lot from you and I'm so grateful for your help and encouragement."
Richard felt strangely emotional. These two men, so different from each other, had become more than work colleagues during the time he had spent on the island. They were his friends – and he felt a warm glow at the thought. He had never had friends before.
"It has been a pleasure and a privilege to work with you both" he said "and I will really miss you. But it's not for ever – I'm sure we shall be back to visit from time to time."
They were calling the flight. Another quick round of hugs and goodbyes and they were through the barrier, through the departure lounge and on to the plane. Richard reached for Camille's hand as the plane roared down the runway. He thought what a different person he was to the man who had first arrived on the island all that time ago and what a joyful future now lay before him.
"Thank you, Saint-Marie" he whispered under his breath.
The ground receded below them. They could see the island lying spread out beneath them, the green interior fringed with golden sands. The sky around and in front of them was cloudless and blue.