A/N - Apologies for the delay in updating, the RW has been keeping me rather more occupied than I care for lately, and my other WiP for Spooks has been taking up most of my downtime. Hope you will enjoy...there is one more chapter to come - Airgead

At 2.30pm that afternoon, the market-goers of St Honoré are treated to an odd sight: a pale, sweating Englishman, in a heavy woollen suit, attempting to move quickly through the throng of shoppers and stallholders outside the police station. His odd half-trotting, half-loping gait draws smiles of amusement – he looks like a child's pull-along toy being tugged over rough ground – but as they see his anxious expression as he glances frequently at his watch, they wonder what is wrong with him. After all, it's a beautiful day here in Paradise…and doesn't he realise that he's on island time now?

When they see Sergeant Bordey slipping along after him, moving with her usual grace and ease through the crowd, some of the stallholders exchange knowing glances – they have heard, from Catherine, the story of the English policeman who was sent to investigate a colleague's murder and was subsequently detained at the Commissioner's pleasure, and how he blundered into her daughter's undercover investigation. It is common knowledge on the island that the two have been assigned to work together, and no-one is in any doubt as to how Camille feels about it. Catherine has been vocal in her disapprobation of Inspector Poole on her daughter's behalf, indignant that she is being made to work with the man who, in Catherine's view, has ruined Camille's promising career. "Yet another damn Englishman, handed a job he hasn't earned, taking opportunities from us, and the worst of it is, he doesn't even want to be here…it is too insulting!" Catherine's regulars have all been treated to her tirade on the subject recently, and most of them, having either seen or had dealings with the man themselves, are inclined to agree with her. He doesn't belong, is the general consensus.

Camille has no trouble shadowing the Inspector; he is so hell-bent on getting to wherever it is that he is going, he never looks behind him once. He'd be hopeless as an undercover officer, she thinks, smiling grimly to herself at the idea of her awkward new boss trying to fit in with…well, anyone, really. He is exactly what he looks like, a pompous, stuffy, uptight Englishman with his head so far up his own… Camille breaks off this line of thought as she realises that Richard has stopped, at the outdoor lounge of the best hotel on the island, where he now seems to be haranguing the receptionist…she stares in astonishment as he actually waves his police badge in the poor man's face. What a rude man, she thinks disparagingly, doesn't he know the first thing about manners? Here on Sainte-Marie, a little "s'il vous plait" goes a long way… she watches in disbelief as he is led to a white-clothed table, and sits down – facing away from the lovely view over the lagoon, she notes, rolling her eyes – and proceeds to unfurl a napkin across his lap. He's still on shift! she fumes to herself…what does he think this is, the return of the British Empire?

Richard, red in the face after his hurried journey and his altercation with the unhelpful receptionist - surely everyone knows that High Tea is served from three o'clock to four, and not from two till three - settles into a wicker chair beneath a large umbrella, and awaits the arrival of said High Tea with the sort of anticipation he hasn't known in more than thirty years, when Christmases were still eagerly looked forward to and he had believed that the Easter Bunny really did leave chocolate eggs in his grandparents' garden for him to find…of course, he had soon enough grown out of such childish fancies. Boarding school had soon knocked all that out of him, while knocking in a few harsh realities at the same time. Richard shakes his head, dismissing these thoughts – it was what it was, no point in dwelling on it, Poole – and sits up a little straighter as a tiered stand of finger sandwiches and little cakes arrives at his table, followed by a florid china tea service painted with tropical flowers and butterflies, of all things. Steam rises from the spout of the tea pot, and Richard inhales the fragrance of freshly brewed tea with a beatific expression, before pouring a cup – good colour, no stray leaves – and adding milk. He raises the cup to his lips, takes a final sniff, and then sips…oh, yes…yes…no! No, no, no…what?!

He can't believe it, just can't believe it – sliding into the chair opposite is his new Detective Sergeant, with an arch look on her face as she signals the waiter and orders a flamboyant cocktail, grinning at his discomfiture as she settles in, to all intents and purposes, for an afternoon's drinking. How the hell did she know where to find me? Tea is one thing, Richard thinks disapprovingly, but strong Caribbean cocktails are quite another…and she's still on shift! He tries to upbraid her for her underhandedness in following him, but she quickly points out that he is standing on rather shaky ground, having absented himself from the station, and he subsides reluctantly, staring at his tea in disappointment. He doesn't know what they do to the tea on this island, but he is in despair of ever finding a drinkable cup…or drinkable anything, he laments privately, looking in disapproval at the fruit-bedecked, swizzle-sticked, towering concoction that is placed before Camille. Richard glares in disappointment at his very expensive, very awful cup of tea, and once more wishes he had never heard of Sainte-Marie, much less Commissioner Patterson or Camille Bordey, now eyeing the jug of milk on the table before him before smirking at him…what is it with her and milk, he wonders…

Camille gives Richard a triumphant look as she registers his dissatisfaction with his tea, before enjoying a long sip of her drink, which is everything she had hoped it would be. Just as she does, something white and fluttering plunges into the lagoon, just on the edge of her peripheral vision; she glances back to the Inspector, and realises that he too has seen it, and with the experienced air of a detective who has seen too much not to recognise a human body falling through space, he is already getting to his feet. Camille is surprised to see a certain gleam in her superior's eye – not excitement, exactly, but rather the look of a man who realises he is needed – and she notices how he straightens his back and sets his shoulders as he strides towards the hotel. He's proud of what he is, she realises, and proud of the job he does, even if he doesn't like himself very much…interesting! If only he wasn't such a colossal pain in the backside to work with…he hasn't even waited for me. Doesn't he know how to work with a partner?

The answer to that question, Camille soon discovers, is a resounding No, and her dislike of the Inspector quickly turns to loathing, as he pushes through doors first, cuts her off mid-sentence, and generally behaves without an iota of the respect due to her rank and experience, if not her sex. She puts up with it, until he belittles her in front of the hotel butler, who is assisting them with their enquiries into the death of a young woman, married that day, and shot through the heart with a spear-gun…Enough is enough, she decides, and clicks her fingers commandingly…

Richard, deep in his initial enquiries, poring over the plush hotel suite, practically quivering with repressed excitement at being on the scene of what is shaping up to be one of the more interesting cases of his career, barely notices Camille except as a hindrance who keeps trying to interrupt his train of thought. He is determined not to allow her to distract him from this case as Lily so successfully managed to do with the Hulme murder; he will not be taken in again by a beautiful, but deceptive, female. Thinking of Camille in these terms, he finds it easy to be brusque with her, and is taken aback when she snaps her fingers at him…