Chapter Text
Case cracked, orders in, the team are at Le Kaz again, only this time they have an extra team member: Camille Bordey.
'Santé.' Neville says, raising his bottle to her as she gathers the rest of the drinks.
'You speak French?'
'Nah, I just pay attention.' He says, watching as the rest of his team chat at the table.
'Particularly to Florence, yes?' He laughs and shakes his head- She's just like her mother. But Camille isn’t letting him wriggle out of it this time. She raises her eyebrows and waits for a real response.
'I...well, um...' he says, because to say 'no' would be a lie but 'yes' seems a bit dangerous too. She shakes her head.
'So English.'
'I don't think avoiding a workplace sexual harassment tribunal is a particularly English thing.'
'I'm not sure it's French.' Camille replies with a shrug, and Neville laughs. 'It is clear you like her. Say so.'
'I can't. She lost her fiancé.'
'And what if she loses you too? And what if she doesn't know she has you?' There's an edge to her voice, and when Neville raises his eyebrows she sighs. 'It makes me sad to know that no one apart from Maman and the commissioner remembers Richard Poole.' Neville can’t quite see the connection between old subject and new, but his detective's instinct tells him that there is one, that it will reveal itself if he asks the right questions.
'He was before Florence's time, wasn't he?’ he prompts. ‘The one before DI Goodfellow.' The one that was killed, Neville doesn’t add, although it was one of the main things he’d known about the island when the job was offered to him. It wasn’t a big news story in the UK but it did the rounds in the force.
'Goodman.' Camille corrects him. 'Humphrey was a sweet man, Florence probably has told you. A good friend. I got the feeling he wanted more from me but...' Neville puts the pieces together. Goodman came after Poole, Neville not confessing his feelings for Florence reminded her of Poole. Camille didn't love Goodman because she loved Poole, and she lost him.
'Richard Poole.' Neville says, trying to commit the name to memory. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. Do you want to tell me about him?'
'Would you care?'
'Judging from what you say there's not many people left here to care, so maybe you'll feel better knowing I can sit in the shack and raise a glass of rum to him.'
'Tea. Raise a mug of tea to him.' She corrects, with a smile.
'Righto.' Camille hesitates, then reaches into her handbag and pulls out a photo printed on paper, one that has clearly been folded and unfolded multiple times.
‘We took this soon after Richard first came. 2011.’ It shows Camille, Catherine, the commissioner, and two other uniformed officers: one older, with a roguish grin, and the younger a handsome, clean-cut youth. And there in the centre, looking like he’d rather be off to one side or not in the picture at all, is a middle-aged man in a full suit and tie. He isn’t smiling, but nor is he frowning exactly. Neville recognises the look: of a shy person who wants to be included but isn’t entirely sure of their place, afraid to look too keen in case that place is taken away.
‘I’m guessing that that’s Richard, and that must be Dwayne, whose reputation precedes him’ he says, pointing to the older man. ‘Florence mentioned him. And who’s that?’
‘Fidel Best. Florence replaced him as sergeant. He’s on St Lucia now, a police inspector. He’s like JP, I guess. A little by-the-book, but one of the best.’
‘I hope I get to meet him sometime. Richard looks…’ Neville doesn’t finish the thought, realising that he’s not entirely sure what to say except for English. ‘What was he like?’ Camille thinks about this for a moment, which tells Neville that she knew him well, that she needs time to sum up the best points.
'Well, he was… annoying. Florence said you struggled to adjust to the island but Richard...he refused to change at all. Went around the island until he could find afternoon tea. He never took his suit off even in the summer. He was always “Richard”, not Rich or Dicky. He was irritable and never listened, and he hated the French!'
'I hope for your sake that there's a ‘but’ at the end of this, Camille.' Neville laughs.
'But...he cared. He cared about us, and about our careers, and about...about getting everything right. Solving puzzles. Doing justice.'
'And he cared about you.'
'Sometimes I think he didn't. I look back and I wonder if my feelings...his feelings, if they were real. If they were there. He once said he loved me but in the sens général, you know, 'I love you, all of you'.'
'Sounds like he was trying to cover for a Freudian slip if you ask me.'
'I think so too, but…I will never know. Not for certain. And he died not knowing for certain either.' She looks down, blinking hard. Neville touches her shoulder.
'I'm sure he understood. And if there's such a thing an afterlife or whatever I reckon he’d know now.' Religion isn't really Neville's thing, but he knows Catherine is vaguely Catholic and thinks it might be a safe suggestion to make. Camille nods, sniffs, and shakes her head, as if suddenly realising that she's gone off track.
'But my point is...you are not like Richard. Not as...hard. Not as stubborn. And Florence is not like me. You are friends, not just colleagues. It should be easier for you both, so it makes me sad to see two clever people repeating my mistake.' Neville rubs the back of his neck with a frown.
'Friends is enough for me.' He sighs, eventually. 'I don't...she's still grieving. I don't want to muscle in on that and I definitely don't want to look like the guy who makes friends with a woman just on the off-chance she might decide to fancy him someday. Besides, I know things are more casual here but having an affair with your boss is still rarely a good career move. I don't want to put her in an awkward position.'
'English.' She shakes her head. 'Why do you make it so complicated? You like her. You tell her. That's all.'
'You never told Richard.'
'I did, a little.' She cries, and Neville is relieved to note that she sounds more exasperated than upset. 'He just... never said it back and I was too proud to tell him everything. I thought we had time. That is your problem. You think one day Florence will be ready to move on and you think you will be there when it happens.'
'Maybe I will.'
'She thought Patrice would still be here now.' Camille points out. 'You never know when you might lose someone.' And here there’s a little quiver in her voice, and she glances at Catherine, so he makes sure to lighten the mood.
‘I’d make a poor substitute by any standard.'
'He was her fiancé.’ Camille points out. ‘You are her cute boss who likes her and would maybe like to be more than friends. You don't need to be a substitute.' Neville nods but is far from convinced. Florence might like him, might even find him vaguely attractive in a general sort of way, but he’s just…
And Florence is…
It doesn’t even compute.
'Just think about it.' Camille says, pocketing the photo. She picks up the tray of drinks to carry over.
'Camille-' Neville says, and she pauses. 'I think...I think I can guess at why Richard never told you how he felt.’ The older woman frowns but does not tell him to mind his own business, so he continues: ‘Because it wasn't simple. If he's the kind of man you say he was, loving you wouldn't just have meant dating for a while and seeing how things worked out. It would have meant marriage, children, buying a house, the works. Maybe settling down here or in France rather than London. I think Richard sounds like the sort of guy who would want to have it all worked out before he started. And who would want to be sure you were all in before he told you how he felt. So maybe for him just knowing you were fond of him wouldn't have been enough. Maybe he thought he had time too, to wait until you could both give everything.'
Camille stares at him as if he's pulled her heart from her chest and casually cut it into pieces in front of her, and he realises with a dawning horror that she might be about to cry. He darts forward to take the tray from her.
'Shit, sorry. I didn't mean...I'm so sorry that was so personal I didn't mean...' but she waves him off and takes a deep breath, gracefully wipes her eyes.
'You're right. I never thought of it that way. But...yes that makes sense. And it is a nice thought. It sounds like him. You are good at that, I think. Understanding people. Even with the prattling.' She says, and then in a hilariously English way she winks and adds in a stage whisper 'that's why I fancy your chances.' He gives her a playful glare and together they go to join the group.
Florence gives him a quizzical look as he takes his habitual place beside her. He smiles and shrugs, and realises suddenly just how easily they communicate without a word. Almost since the beginning he has been able to catch her eye, raise an eyebrow, trusting that she will see it and understand. It doesn’t mean anything he thinks to himself.
It doesn’t mean nothing. A little voice in his head replies.