S1 E6 – I've Heard About You

Part 1 of 3

DI Richard Poole is back at his desk where he was so sorely missed by his team, even the team member who hadn't actually been present during his bout of tropical fever but had hopped a jet heading south in a blind panic that… that… well, that maybe he needed her. For she desperately needed HIM!

Because from where she's sitting now, only 10 feet away, watching his every move, she's beginning to wonder if he needed her at all. He'd appeared rather abruptly this morning, taking everyone by surprise since they'd assumed he'd take the day off to recuperate and regain his strength. But no, he'd steadfastly, if slowly, walked to his desk, lowered himself gingerly into his chair, nodded to them all, then lost himself in the wealth of papers awaiting his attention.

She half-rises to make him a cup of tea but Fidel beats her to it. Then she thinks to bring a fan to help cool him but Dwayne is already on it. So, there he sits, a cup of tea in his hand with cool(er) air wafting the hair back off his forehead and she feels totally useless and unnecessary. Then he saves her sanity by lifting slow eyes to hers and murmuring, "I'm glad you're back, Camille. Sorry about last night."

'Last night' being the totally pointless and anti-productive argument they'd had at the station after she'd roared out of her taxi in highest dudgeon. Well, it hadn't really been an argument. Arguments are two-sided. It had been mostly a vexatious rant from her with him trying his best to defend himself without getting a word in edgewise. She'd stormed up the steps, accusing him of everything under the sun, knowing he was labouring after her despite his weakened condition but still couldn't stop herself.

She'd been so mad because she'd been so frightened. She can't think of him as ill, in danger, mortal.

She winces and looks away, "Um, I'm the one that's sorry. Instead of attacking you and tearing a strip off, I should have bundled you back into the taxi and taken you home to put you to bed. You were in no shape for a knock-down drag-out fight."

He smiles ruefully, "Am I ever?"

She swivels back to face him, "Yes, you are! Even though I've never admitted it, you can put me in my place with just a glance. Use your big words on me and I'm pared down to tiny size tout suite. No one's ever been able to do that, not all the time, not even Maman, not since I was three years old. So, let me say I'm sorrier than you, OK?"

He sighs tiredly, "OK, agreed, we're both sorry, we both forgive each other for whatever slings and arrows we slung at one another yesterday. Now, all that remains is for me to convince your mother not to poison me with my next meal at La Kaz." He thinks briefly then adds, "Do you think she would make me a bowl of chicken soup for lunch today? For some reason I'm craving it now."

She's on her feet. A quest, he has set her a quest and she will prevail! "Yes, of course, I'll go right now and ask her to put a pot on. I'll even stop at the bakery and get one of those little pastries you like so much." She's looping her purse over her shoulder when his soft voice stops her cold.

"What little pastries might those be?"

She freezes. It is her covert surveillance of all things Poole that had supplied that little nugget of intel. She keeps her back turned, "Um, oh, I dunno, someone must have mentioned it, I guess."

Dwayne saves the day, "Yeah, and that 'someone' wuz me! I seen you inna shop, Chief, I love those things too." He gestures to Fidel, "C'mon, officer Best, time you 'n me did our rounds an' picked up some more a those puffy creams fer our own selves, eh?"

Fidel's eyes light up and he joins the pair at the doorway, "Yes, you bet." He waves to his boss, "Be back soon, sir. Don't strain yourself doing anything hard until we get back, OK?"

DI Poole nods and watches the trio jostle and joke their way out the door, listens to their chatter as they descend the steps, waits another minute as peaceful silence rushes in to fill the room, then slumps and groans. Oh, it's too soon. I should have stayed home like they all told me to. But, no, I had to prove myself, didn't I? Richard Poole doesn't get ill and, if he does, he doesn't stay ill. He sinks his head down onto his crossed forearms atop his desk and basks in doing absolutely nothing with no witnesses. He's almost in a doze when a strange voice startles him awake.

"I've heard about you."

END – part 1