I don't know how I missed this series. It's like being on holiday just watching it. I'm not normally a fan of murder books or programmes, but it's light enough to watch without going to bed with nightmares…
Out of all the Detective Inspectors, Ben Miller's character is my favourite…
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Chapter 1
It began with a forensics report, lungs filled with fresh water, not sea water…
Wind blew, not cold, and winter-prophesying, but warm and full of life. The orange land rover was on the way: Detective Inspector Richard Poole could see it coming down the hill. Camille. His heart lightened.
And then he turned back to the paper in his hand.
No. It began with the toxicology report on the body of Angelique Morel, who predicted her own death, or so it seemed: rum and arsenic.
No, no, it wasn't that either. The little dash over the "i". Enough to perturb Richard Poole. And this was a man who did not like to be perturbed.
Now, it was three years since he had left London, and he had wondered why he had never gone back.
"Come on," Camille encouraged. Her smile was as dazzling as the sun.
"There's been a murder, sir.". A careworn Fidel, obviously up for most of the night on baby duty, yawned as DI Poole entered the building. "I've phoned again for the toxicology reports, but it seems they are short staffed. Sir.". Stifled a yawn.
"Indeed?"
He had been fifteen years' old when he had met her. Richard Poole and Bobbie Weymouth. He had loved her.
But she had grown to resent him, his decisions.
There were only so many times that he could tell her that the decisions had not been his - his father was not to be crossed. Boarding school was a relief from the arguments at home. Except he had missed her.
"Body, tied up, rocks put in the pockets." Fidel was gesturing towards the case board, photos of the murder victim were already up. "Passport in her pocket. Drowned."
"Drowned?"
"Sent to join the fishes," Camille confirmed.
Those letter "i's, DI Poole thought. Her face.
And then he heard the name. One he knew almost as well as his own.
"We have a passport, stamped "Jamaica", "Guadeloupe", "Antigua"." Dwayne placed it on the desk in front of him. "One "Roberta Claire Weymouth."
"Hm…hm…." nodded the detective inspector, to the board, to the desk. Anywhere than look at his colleagues right now.
Perhaps he hadn't heard right. Or the person had Bobbie's passport.
Or, as so many murders that happened here, it was a case of mistaken identity.
"We know the victim was murdered?" Richard Poole dared to look across to Fidel, in front of whom, at least, he must set a perfect example.
"Bread knife between the shoulder blades," Dwayne confirmed. "Unless she slipped and fell making sandwiches," Dwayne quipped. DI Poole nodded, his heart sinking in resignation.
"Well, if you can just get on with it for a moment, I just need to step outside for a moment." A warning sign that Camille usually would have picked up on, had she not been occupied with a piece of paper with a phone number on it.
Richard knew that it was for the toxicology laboratory on Antigua. Their turnaround time had been slow of late, and Sergeant Boudan was now chasing up for results. It was obvious now why they had been taking so long.
He slipped outside, and turned the corner, into a blind spot that he knew was just there.
No tears. There must be no tears - none. He was a well-trained private school boy who had learned to put aside his feelings. But the absence of weeping was not keeping the sensation of utter, utter loss from filling his stomach. Richard Poole loved Bobbie Weymouth, now, then, and for all time. She had come all the way to Saint Marie for some reason - one that DI Poole might have guessed.
And now she was dead, dead and gone and, after everything, ultimately, he had completely failed to protect her. Life would never be the same again.