The preliminary autopsy reports were waiting in his inbox when he woke. Richard, ever fond of physical copies over digital, printed the files before thumbing through them. The bodies of Lily and the two prison officers were burned so severely that a physical identification or fingerprints were virtually impossible. DNA samples had been forwarded on to a lab in Jamaica and Richard dearly hoped that forensics in the Caribbean was capable of finding a conclusive match against prison records, because the last thing they needed right now was possibly having to send the samples to more specialised labs in Europe or the US.

The next main form of identification for the bodies remaining would be dental records, but considering that Thompson and the two prison officers that had been with her were lifelong Saint Marie residents, unless they had major surgery off the island it was unlikely that dental would be of much use either. The only real clue they had to one of the bodies' identities was the mangled ankle tracker melted to one of them.

As it was, they were already looking at least a couple of weeks to get results back due to current lab backlogs, and assuming there would be no issues with contamination or sheer human incompetence. And suddenly Richard was thrown back thirteen years and on the brink of tearing out his rapidly-disappearing hair at the meagre resources presented to him. How any of them ever solved anything was a miracle in itself.

He sighed. It was just one thing after another. Richard stuffed the files into his briefcase before glancing at his watch.

"What d'you say about an early lunch?"

From the table where he had taken up residence in the fruit bowl, Harry blinked, head cocked to the side.

"Yes, I'm aware that you've already had an early lunch, but I unfortunately need to eat more than citrus since I'm not currently battling a case of scurvy."

Harry's tongue flicked out before he turned tail and took refuge under an orange. Richard pulled a face.

"Ignore me, you ungrateful lizard." He said. "And kindly find your way back outside if you need to go to the toilet again."

There were sounds of retreating footsteps on the porcelain bowl.

And so that was how Richard ended up trudging back through Honoré, kicking up sand with every step. Years of his life up in smoke, hiding from his friends, lying to his family. So close to finding out who had sent him into exile on Saint Marie in the first place and now he was back to square one. Well, he knew who, in general terms, his own Super at Croydon had gladly shipped him off because he couldn't come up with a good enough reason to fire him, but a conclusive why would be nice.

It had been a long time since Richard had allowed himself a good wallow and he was determined to give it his best. The scar over his heart ached, and a hand briefly rose to flutter over his chest before dropping back to his side.

There was a scuff in the sand behind him and Richard's eyes snapped to the side. Once upon a time he would have simply ignored it, but his senses had been running on heightened-awareness for what felt like years now. There was close, and then there was too close.

Tourists were unconcernedly strolling past, but he could see the shadow of a man on the changing tents, gaining on him.

As the shadow reached out to grab his shoulder, Richard stepped back, grabbing the shadow's arm and using the figure's own momentum spun the man over his shoulder. There was a sharp twinge in Richard's back and shoulder, abruptly reminding him that he wasn't young anymore and his body didn't appreciate the sudden bursts of activity over the last few days as he stood bow-legged and trying to regain his breath.

(Richard had never been a particularly big or muscular man and was intimately familiar with the fact that if it wasn't for Newton's Laws of Motion and physics in general he probably wouldn't have been even slightly capable of the more physical aspects the job occasionally required.)

After a moment he blinked, coming back to himself.

"Dwayne?"

Seemingly temporarily dazed, Dwayne Myers blinked up at the sun for a moment before awareness came back to his face and he grinned, linking his hands behind his head and kicking one leg up over the other casually.

"Didn't think you had it in you, Chief."

Richard blinked wordlessly down at him.

"How did you know it was me?"

Dwayne's grin widened, kicking out his foot.

"Fella walking down the beach in a suit? Who else it gonna be?"

Richard looked down at his blazer. "I'm not wearing a suit!"

He just grinned. Richard's nose wrinkled. After a moment he reached down to grab Dwayne's loud shirt and haul the man to his feet, extremely aware that tourists and locals alike were gawking at them.

"Get up."

"Actually, I think I'm comfy right-"

"Get up! You're going to blow my cover!"

Dwayne dusted off his shorts. "You're going to blow your cover," he pointed out. "You're the one in a suit on the beach shoulder-throwing people."

Richard squeezed his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm not wearing – never mind." He scowled at him before proceeding to hunt around for his briefcase.

And stilled in mortification as he realised that the latch had opened, scattering papers all around them. He immediately lunged to grab them before the wind could pick up again and fling autopsy photos to the wilds. Because wouldn't that be professional. Seeing Richard's sudden flurry of manic energy, Dwayne joined him in grabbing at the papers.

Richard's eyes widened. "Dwayne, don't-"

But of course, it was too late as his old friend stood stooped over, all animation having fallen out of his face, staring at the autopsy file he was holding.

Finally Dwayne looked up, his gaze haunted. "Chief?" He said. "This says that… Lily's dead?"

The realisation really slapped him across the face that despite everything, Lily Thompson really had been a friend to people on Saint Marie once.

"I'm… sorry, Dwayne." He said somewhat lamely.

"Oh." The other man said in a small voice. "How?" He looked down at the photos, before thrusting the files at Richard. "How did this happen?"

That caused him to pause and Richard pressed his lips together. He may have been highly socially obtuse, but even he knew that telling an old friend in detail that their old friend had most likely died in agony unable to escape from a burning vehicle was in extreme bad taste. "A road accident."

Dwayne nodded. He had been a police officer long enough that he knew the horrible possibilities encompassed in the phrase 'road accident'.

"I'm sorry."

"You said that already."

Richard flushed with embarrassment, jamming everything haphazardly in his briefcase and snapped it firmly closed. Despite his flap, Richard knew he needed to ask the question he had been thinking for a little while, and his detective's voice whispered traitorously that now would be the best time to get the honest answers he needed.

"Dwayne."

"Yeah?"

"Why did you keep visiting her?"

The man frowned at him. "What?"

Sometimes he really hated himself. "Why did you keep visiting Lily Thompson?"

"How do you-"

"I've seen the visitor's log." He said quietly.

"And you haven't told-?"

"Fidel knows. He brought it to my attention."

Dwayne frowned. "And why haven't you said-"

"Because I want to hear your explanation." Richard said.

Dwayne scrubbed a hand back over his head. "Because we were friends, Chief." He said finally. "I mean, before the smuggling and before Charlie got popped, we were friends. I grew up next door to her mama and big sisters. I still remember her, barefoot, turnin' up and demandin' that I fix her scooter's front wheel." His brow furrowed, the sweet memory tinged dark with the knowledge of who that headstrong little girl would ultimately become.

"She was a friend, Chief. Even after everything, she was still a friend."

Richard understood that, he did. To this day part of him still saw James and Angela as his friends even after James was in a successful plot to kill him and Angela had actively poisoned him, his incapacitation possibly giving Helen the very opening to stab him in the first place. It still didn't erase the good times.

Maybe he was just a moron.

"I know."

Dwayne stuffed his hands in his pockets, kicking out at the sand. Richard hated that he had taken all the energy out of the bouncing colourful Dwayne Myers to leave him colourless and flat. "You sure have a gift of bringing the mood down, sir."

"It's been said."

That was when the bloody telephone started ringing in his pocket, and for a brief shining moment Richard was genuinely tempted to punt the ruddy thing into the ocean, as if he did he would finally be free.

He sighed at the caller.

"Yes?" Richard answered crisply.

"You need to get back here." Roger said sharply. "Now."

Long ago Richard Poole had made the decision that he was never again going to ever ride on a motorbike with Dwayne Myers, on pain of death. And he was perfectly content to keep his streak going until he heard the string of furious French swears in the background of the call and came to the realisation that he should probably go ahead and save Roger from the wrath of a French woman scorned. Heaving got the gist of the conversation from the swearing, Dwayne had darted away, returning moments later with a helmet.

Richard regarded him warily. "I think I'm too old to get in and out of a sidecar."

"Don't be scatty, Chief." Dwayne scoffed. "I sold the sidecar to the station years ago."

He sighed.

And that was how Richard managed to find himself riding pillion-style as Dwayne shot around tourists and locals, bouncing off the uneven roads and threatening to pitch them into the side of a popup stall selling a variety of floaty things to British tourists slathered in suncream.

"You did that deliberately!" Richard's hands tightened around Dwayne's waist. "I'm going to kill you."

"Let it go, sir." Dwayne shouted back over his shoulder. "It's good to let these emotions out."

When the motorbike finally bounced to a stop at the front of the station, Richard felt like his brain had been thoroughly pureed in his skull. Shakily he got to his feet.

"So." Dwayne said. "D'you think she's gone and killed 'im yet?"

Richard grunted. "There's no ambulance out the front, so unless she dispatched of a trained MI5 officer and disposed of the body and evidence in seven minutes, odds are not."

"But if anyone could, it would be Camille." Dwayne said, and Richard had to agree. "And she's got Fidel. Between the two of them, things are handled."

Despite himself he couldn't help but agree. "And probably Bell." He said sourly.

"Who?"

"DC Clarence Bell, my… dogsbody, for want of a better word." Richard elaborated. "The last few weeks, this place has gotten into his ear and turned his head, leading him to… improvisation."

Dwayne laughed at that. "Seems I remember you were pretty good at improvisation."

"Believe me, that was more of necessity than not."

A door slammed somewhere, practically shaking the walls of the station, and the two of them winced.

"Maybe we should keep the helmets on, eh Chief?"

Richard was almost sure he meant it as a joke.

Almost.

The original plan was to sneak into the building and observe at a distance to ascertain the situation first, but of course the bloody hinges squealed as he tried to quietly open the door. Richard winced. Did nobody do any maintenance anymore? The hinges sounded like they hadn't been oiled since he did it over a decade ago!

He looked up to see that everybody in the office beyond were staring at him, and despite himself, he flushed with embarrassment.

Camille had stopped shouting, which was good, but had slipped into the next stage where she was just staring at her target with sharp eyes, searching for weak spots that she could lash out to wound her enemy. Richard could remember being on the other side of that death stare many, many times. Tearing her eyes away from Roger, she stared at Richard.

"Tell me he's wrong."

"Wrong?" Richard frowned. "Wrong about what?"

Camille whirled back to Roger. "You haven't even told him yet?"

Roger looked like he was about to have an aneurism. "If you give me a moment to explain-"

Camille threw her hands in the air, a mannerism that was entirely Bordey. "Explain what? That you brought me here to get me to incriminate my friend?"

"What?" Richard blinked, looking around. "What are you talking about?"

"We've cracked more of the USB." Bell said.

"Yes?"

"Charles Champion is on the ledger." Fidel Best added softly. "The Commissaire de Police of the Police Nationale in Paris. Camille's boss."

"Oh." Richard said dumbly.

…earlier…

The island had been buzzing for days at the news of Selwyn Patterson's imminent return. Saint Marie being Saint Marie and always being up for a party, Camille fully expected that the entire island wouldn't be completely sober for at least the next week. He was one of their own, after all, and the music alone would be enough to create a seismic event strong enough to shift the very island itself.

Catherine Bordey was never much one for live music. Her bar was very much one for casual hangouts, a friendly atmosphere for catching up with old friends you hadn't seen in years or had met only last week. So it was a little surreal, to say the least, as Camille watched people cart speakers and instruments and the props that came with them. Her maman was absolutely determined to throw the biggest welcome back party Saint Marie had ever seen.

Aimèe gazed around at the flurry of colours, her toy lizard in her mouth, and Camille had to laugh. Experiencing so many run of the mill things anew through her daughter's wide-eyed delight gave some of the light and magic back to a world coloured dark through years of police work. She kissed the top of her daughter's head, feeling her mental quandary grow. Of course Camille wanted to go back to police work, the thing that had been her identity for half her life. But she certainly wasn't sure she wanted to go back undercover, or even sure about going back to Paris.

Her mother smiled at her across the bar. Catherine would have them back in an instant and it would be easier to move now while Aimèe was still young, but-

Her conversation with Richard after the ball came back to her, and Camille felt herself agreeing with his assessment of rebuilding himself after a job that had sucked most of the life out of him. They were police; how much of their identity really existed beyond that?

Camille's phone rang and Aimèe laughed at her. She stuck her tongue out and her daughter copied her as she answered the phone.

"Bordey."

"Hello, Inspector. This is Roger Sadler."

Her back immediately straightened. The more she found out about Roger Sadler, the more Camille came to dislike the man. How he and Richard had ever been friends in the first place she couldn't seem to understand.

"Monsieur Sadler." She said coolly. "I can't say I expected to hear from you any time soon."

"Ah, yes, we did get off on rather the wrong foot."

Camille didn't say anything, waiting for the Englishman to get to the point.

"Are you available for a chat, Inspector?"

Her eyes narrowed. "What of?"

"Issues regarding your employers."

"Issues." She said flatly. At that, Sadler sighed.

"Inspector Bordey, I know that I haven't exactly made the best impression on you, but I would really not rather do this on the telephone. I would offer to come to you, but I get the distinct feeling that you would rather not have me in your immediate space."

Camille would honestly rather the infuriating little troll not be on her island to begin with.

"I will meet you at Honoré Police Station."

Aimèe blew a fat raspberry at the phone as Camille hung up.

Since she had been on the island Camille thought she probably owed Juliette a solid two weeks of babysitting at least, and as she dropped her daughter off, she resolved that at the end of this, she would treat her and Fidel to the date of a lifetime.

The station was a bustle of activity when she got there, foreign faces sitting behind the familiar desks. Sadler had been waiting for her, and led Camille to Richard's-Humphrey's-Jack's-Neville's desk as she fought the temptation to tell him to move. From his own desk, Fidel gave her a guarded look.

"So, care to let me in on the secret?" Camille sat down, arms folded. "Do I need my lawyer?"

"No, of course not." The man said. "Not yet."

If it had been Richard saying that, Camille would have immediately known that he was joking in his own wry way. But this man, there was just something that she couldn't pin down. A warning, almost. Danger. Her eyes narrowed.

"That sounds rather ominous, Monsieur Sadler."

"It rather does, doesn't it?" He said mildly. "Inspector, tell me about your relationship with Charles Champion."

The warning started to sound again in her head.

"You've read my file. You know why I'm temporarily out here. I believe there's nothing else that needs to be stated."

Sadler's lips thinned. "You aren't exactly going to make this easy, are you, Inspector?"

"You are yet to explain why I am here and I feel no pressing need to entertain you further." Camille said.

Despite his annoyance, there was a glimmer of approval in his eyes. "Inspector Bordey, as I believe you are aware, there was a USB drive discovered during the investigation into the death of Superintendent Dooley."

"What I may or may not know is immaterial." She said coolly.

"Our technicians cracked the encryption on the drive to discover numerous ledgers and police files of allegedly corrupt officers."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you about to tell me that my own file was discovered on the drive?"

Sadler smiled coldly.

"If your own file was on the drive, Inspector, your welcome would be entirely more formal." He said stiffly. "Inspector Bordey, I am sorry to say that Commissaire Charles Champion's police file was discovered on the USB."

Camille went still. "You lie."

Sadler steadily met her gaze. "Two weeks before you and Commissaire Champion were in that unfortunate traffic incident, he was approached by a known associate of Max Dooley."

She sat still, but she could feel her rage begin to rise. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Were you aware that Charles Champion was involved in police corruption?"

"He was not." Camille said. "Charles Champion would never have been involved in something like this. He worked to put the world right for decades."

"Be that as it may," his face was vaguely pitying, and Camille felt her back teeth set on edge. "If you are aware of any suspicious activities regarding Champion, you need to tell us now."

"I am not."

"Inspector Bordey, this is a serious situation."

"You don't say. I was completely unaware." She deadpanned, feeling her lip lift in a sneer. "Why don't you ask what you want to, Monsieur Sadler?"

That was when the door opened, and a windswept Richard Poole entered, followed closely by Dwayne Myers in his bright shirt. Both of them looked cautious, and from the corner of her eye Camille spotted Fidel's hand creep away from his telephone.

"Tell me he's wrong."

"Wrong?" She knew from experience that Richard was good at playing clueless, his eyes darting between both of them. "Wrong about what?"

Camille whirled between the two men. "You haven't even told him yet?"

"If you give me a moment to explain-" Roger looked desperate.

"Explain what? That you brought me here to get me to incriminate my friend?"

"What? What are you talking about?" Richard desperately looked to Fidel and Bell, where they had been silently watching the show, bloody cowards.

"We've cracked more of the USB." Bell finally said in reply to his questioning look.

"Yes?"

"Charles Champion is on the ledger." Fidel added softly. "The Commissaire de Police of the Police Nationale in Paris. Camille's boss."

"Oh."

It didn't seem worth saying anything else.

"Are you saying that you didn't know?" Camille's voice was dripping with disdain. "That this whole little intervention did not come from you?"

"Of course not!" Richard was affronted. "I would never blindside anyone like this!"

"No." Camille scoffed. "That's all you." The glare that she sent Roger's way made the man involuntarily step back. "Perhaps you should say what you truly want to ask me, Monsieur Sadler?"

"Roger?" Richard's eyes narrowed.

Sadler's face briefly flushed. "I'm sure I don't know what you-"

Camille's face was deadly. "Ask it."

Roger straightened, setting his jaw.

"Inspector Bordey." He said. "Did you delete your police file from the USB?"

The dark laugh that followed sent an icy thrill down his spine and Richard felt himself be rooted to the floor.

"Absolutely not." Camille hissed. "I am a decorated officer. I have seven commendations for bravery. I have been shot four times, stabbed two, and blown up once. Over the years I have watched a variety of self-important, small-minded men sweep in and out to make a mess of things as I have done my best to mitigate the damage they have caused, all the while upholding myself to the higher standard demanded of a female officer against her male peers, having to work twice as hard to be thought of as half as good. I have been wounded in the line of duty, dragged my injured colleagues out of firefights, and have brought down international cartels. And let me assure you, Monsieur Sadler, I would not jeopardise my daughter's life in the vain pursuit of money."

"Camille-" Richard tried, knowing that if he didn't get her out of there soon, it was very likely that she would hit him. And that wasn't likely to improve her case. She stared hard at Roger, preparing her parting shot.

"Perhaps, Monsieur, you should check closer to home for your traitor."

And with that, Camille Bordey spun sharply on her heel and swept out of the station, the door almost shaking off its hinges with the force of the slam.