A/N: Again, apologies for the gap in posting – but here is the final chapter of this story! I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.
Carrying his briefcase with him, Richard follows his Detective Sergeant across the hall and into an empty hotel suite. I don't have time for this... I've got to get on with questioning suspects, finding leads, following up the forensics reports…do I have to do everything around here? As soon as the heavy door clunks shut, Camille rounds on him, eyes flashing, finger jabbing into his chest in her fury; and for the next five minutes, Richard has the novel and thoroughly unpleasant experience of being given the mother of all dressing-downs, by none other than his subordinate, younger, French, female officer. Sister Benedict has nothing on Sergeant Bordey, he thinks, as she hurls words at him like spears; apparently, he is an ignorant, self-important, rude man, who expects everyone else to follow him around and hang on his every word. His sergeant, on the other hand, is virtually a paragon of policing, who graduated top of her year, has three commendations for bravery (that's three more than you have, Poole), has been shot twice, and is confident of her ability to beat him in a fist fight.
Richard hates the very idea of fighting, and whatever else he may or may not have done, he has never in his life raised his hand to a woman. He'd quite like to tell her that, at least, but she won't let him get a word in. As Camille berates him, he finds himself listening less and less, and looking more and more; at her brown eyes, glinting with fury; at the play of muscles beneath her skin as she uses her hands to emphasise her point; at the cloud of dark curls surrounding her piquant face, at her full lips and her slender figure and…"From now on, you treat me with a little more respect, or I'll be forced to forget I'm a police officer. Okay?" Richard drags his attention back to what she's saying, and feeling about fifteen years old again, he nods gormlessly in reply…why did I not notice how very beautiful she is, before? he wonders, as he stands back to allow her to pass through the door first, awkwardly trying to convey his newfound respect for her.
In his heart of hearts, Richard suspects the answer is that he has been so determined not to be taken in again, that he has missed the truth of the situation altogether. Camille Bordey is no Lily Thompson; she is a dedicated, decorated, utterly honest officer, and one who is not afraid of telling him a few home truths, either. She is the sort of Detective Sergeant that any Detective Inspector would be proud to work with; so why are his hands suddenly clammy, his heart racing, and his tie too tight around his neck? I can't think about that now, Richard tells himself sternly, and leaves the hotel room, careful to avoid the sardonic eye of that infuriatingly ever-present butler chap as he crosses the foyer back to the crime scene. Right, on with the show…now where would the killer get a spear gun, of all things, from?
For the rest of the day, Richard feels as if he is walking a tightrope; if Camille is right about anything, she is quick to point it out, and if she considers that he is delegating tasks to her which should properly be carried out by a more junior officer, she pointedly reassigns them to Fidel. She seems determined to stick by his side throughout the course of the investigation like a bur on a blanket, and Richard, unaccustomed to working closely with anyone, finds it difficult to adjust. He knows that as a DI, he should be able to lead a team, but he has never been assigned one. At the Met he had sometimes been attached to another officer's team, but they usually found a way to shake him off and into some back-office role; or else he would be given all the dreary backlog of work that no-one else wanted to do, with perhaps a junior constable to assist him until they got themselves promoted, or transferred. He has to admit, there are advantages to working with DS Bordey…she's bright, has local knowledge, and seems prepared to put up with him, although from her comment about beating him in a fist fight, there are limits to how much she is willing to tolerate…and yet, all Richard really wants is to be left alone, to work by himself, the way he has always done.
It's safer that way, not to get close to one's colleagues, or, heaven forbid, involved with them. He knows he doesn't understand people, doesn't like being swamped by the morass of tiny details that make up their lives, and which for some unfathomable reason they feel compelled to tell each other about ad nauseam…mortgage, kids, partner, dog, cats, in-laws, parents, holidays, illnesses…an endless litany of irrelevant information that he longs to escape from, back into his solitary, perfectly ordered existence. A lonely, friendless existence, the little voice at the back of his head niggles, but Richard shushes it firmly, and reminds himself that people only disappoint and betray him, in the end. Far better to live a life apart, and suffer the occasional pangs of longing and loneliness…
Both of which he is feeling, as he sits in the carpark, waiting for Camille to return from her rather impromptu meeting with Stefan, the hotel diving instructor. As she swings into the driver's seat of the Defender, he is perturbed at the little spark of excitement which flares at seeing her again; a spark which he promptly douses, by telling her (and reminding himself) that a woman's mind is a complete mystery to him. She looks at him quizzically, and then, quite unexpectedly, invites him for a drink. He knows he should refuse, he knows he should command her to drive him straight back to his shack on the lagoon, but there is something irresistible about the way she smiles at him, and he finds himself going along with her suggestion with hardly a peep of protest. After all, he reassures himself, this is what people back at the Met did all the time – go out for a drink after work. This is normal, this is good. Oh, this is so not what I do…
Richard looks around the bar suspiciously, and then glances at the tall, elegant woman in a colourful frock and turban, who is pouring him tea. She's French, he thinks, what do they know about tea? He says as much to Camille, forgetting that she too is French. The next words he hears make him want to slither through a crack in the floorboards and disappear forever beneath the white coral sand of Sainte-Marie…
"Why did you bring him here?" the older woman asks Camille indignantly, and she replies, "I'm sorry, Maman…" Richard looks from one to the other, brain trying to make sense of what his ears and eyes are telling him, as an awful truth dawns. He has just flagrantly insulted not only an entire race, but the very race that Camille comes from, and her mother, into the bargain. Stuttering some awkward words of apology, he hopes that Madame Bordey is not about to tip the contents of the tea pot she is holding into his lap, or that Camille will not feel the need to challenge him to a fist fight in defence of her mother. And this, Poole, is why you do not socialise, because you're rubbish at it… Hand trembling slightly, he adds milk from the gravy boat in which it has been served, and takes a hasty sip of tea, both because his mouth is suddenly too dry for speech, and in an attempt to placate both women. He is too preoccupied with correcting his faux pas at first to notice, but then it hits his palate like a tannic tidal wave: this is the best cup of tea he has tasted since leaving London…in fact, it's better than many a cup of tea he has drunk in London! His eyes close in bliss, his mouth curves into a beatific smile, and he sips again, unable to believe that anything here could taste so good.
Camille watches him with amusement, chinking her beer bottle against his cup. She notices that he has quite a nice face, really, when he smiles, and as he opens his eyes and looks at her with the expression of one who has been vouchsafed a vision of Heaven, she feels a nervous flutter in her stomach at his clear green gaze. Hey, careful, he's your boss, and impossible in every way, she chides herself. But there's no harm in looking, right…or in asking him to dance? Camille can see the amazement with which he is looking at her mother, now swaying to a gentle reggae beat on the dance floor with one of her regular customers, and so she tries to persuade him for a dance. This proves to be a step too far, too fast, and like a snail sensing danger, Richard retreats into his shell, safe behind his cup of tea, only to watch wistfully as she joins her mother, moving gracefully to the music. She's so beautiful…
Later that night, as Camille drives him home, Richard is uncharacteristically quiet; he has much to mull over, and not all of it is connected to the case. He feels abashed at getting off on the wrong foot with not only Camille's mother, but the alchemist who can conjure up such delicious-tasting tea; he is ashamed of the way that he has behaved since arriving on the island, as Camille so eloquently pointed out to him earlier, and he is homesick. It is worst at night, perhaps because of the vast mass of stars scattered above, each one millions of miles away from its fellows, shining alone; or perhaps because he misses his dull, cosy Croydon routine. Home on the Tube, pop into the White Hart for a pint in the snug, perhaps duck across the road to pick up a ready meal from Sainsbury's, then back to his small, tidy semi-detached to watch a police procedural drama (scoffing and picking it to bits all the way) or perhaps to work on his latest five thousand piece puzzle, spread across the dining room table which he never uses for any other purpose.
As the Defender trundles to a halt in front of the lagoon, he feels strangely unwilling to get out and go inside, alone. Camille looks across at him, waiting for him to disembark, and in an attempt to delay the inevitable, Richard starts to talk. "That really was an excellent cup of tea your mother made…I wonder how she does it?" Camille regards him wryly, before answering, "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." She sees his eyes widen in shock, until he realises she is joking. He tries another line of enquiry. "I've had tea all over the island, and nothing tasted as good. I just can't quite put my finger on it…" Camille rolls her eyes impatiently, and says, "You're not going to get out until I've told you, is that it? Very well…" and she leans across the gearbox towards Richard, who backs up against the passenger door in alarm as her physical proximity threatens to overwhelm his senses. She sighs, and brings her lips to his ear. She whispers rapidly, then straightens back up, both hands on the steering wheel. "Goodnight, Inspector," she tells him, a demure smile playing around the corners of her mouth, as he clumsily lets himself out, too dazed by what he has just heard to move with his usual dexterity. "Um, er, yes, thank you, Camille, you too," he blurts, and then watches as she turns the big vehicle and heads back up the track to the main road.
Richard makes his way up the stairs and into his gleamingly clean home, shucking his suit, taking a cool shower, and pulling on his pyjamas, before getting a beer – I need a nightcap after that! – and carrying it through to the wicker chair that is fast becoming his favourite, out on the veranda, where the balmy night breeze is rattling the palm fronds and the scent of jasmine and frangipani is sweetest. He takes a deep breath – I could almost eat this air – and sits, beer in hand, watching the wavelets rippling onto the shore, listening to the sounds of the night ebb and flow around him. Up on the ceiling of the veranda, his uninvited reptilian house guest is earning its keep, methodically catching the small flying insects that hover around the light as they land, and Richard raises his beer to the lizard in salute. "You can stay, if this is your usual clean-up rate," he tells it, and it cocks its head as if listening to him. In his head, Richard can still hear Camille's whispered words, and as he replays them over and over, he begins to see the funny side of things. A chuckle escapes him, then a guffaw, and before he knows it, he is lying in the chair, roaring with laughter, as the lizard keeps a wary eye on him.
Finally catching his breath, Richard looks up at his companion and explains, "French…the tea I like so much turns out to be French…it's something called Mariage Frères, all the way from Paris, and Madame Bordey skims the milk herself…and I've been such an idiot…I was so determined not to be fooled again, that I ended up being the biggest fool because I couldn't see what was right in front of me." Camille had explained to him that the little bottle of fresh milk in his fridge had not come from the Commissioner's hamper, but from her mother's own supply for the bar; this was why she had been so offended when he had poured it away, but when she had complained to Catherine of his off-handed treatment of such an expensive item, her mother had simply looked thoughtful, and explained that while the French might prefer creamy milk for their morning café-au-lait, it did not marry well with tea. 'Semi-skimmed, I think they call it…we would need to scald the milk, and skim off the cream first – my grandmother used to do it when we were too sick for rich food, and then give us the skimmed milk. I think still have her scalding pan, somewhere…' Richard is humbled that a complete stranger would go to such lengths to ensure he felt at home, and embarrassed that he promptly repaid Catherine's kindness by insulting her. Camille had added, 'You'll still have to make amends with Maman, but I forgive you. You're only English, after all.'
He can't believe it, he just can't believe it. This day is now officially the best so far of his stay on Sainte-Marie, and it is all because of Camille. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me, he thinks as he finally turns in for the night, but I was only fooling myself. Maybe some people are worth trusting, after all… Richard falls asleep to the memory of Camille dancing joyously with her mother, and wishing that he had found the courage to get up and join her…Next time, he decides, sinking into unconsciousness, if there ever is a next time, I think I'll say Yes.
