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Richard Poole was sitting in his favourite corner of the snug in the White Hart. There was an unholy level of noise all around him and an absurd amount of cheap flashy Christmas decorations everywhere. It never used to be so tacky in here, he groaned inwardly.
The previous landlord had retired while Richard was in Sainte Marie and the new couple who had taken over were of a younger generation and a different mindset. He sighed: aah, gone were the days when you could have a nice quiet pint by the fire in your local and just sit and hear yourself think. Nowadays everything has to be loud, both literally and metaphorically.
To be fair, he had forgotten to take into account that it was the holiday season and people were in party mood. He looked around again and shuddered; the place looked like Santa's fairy grotto.
Pulling his chair as close to the fire - and as far from other customers - as possible, he reflected on his time back in London thus far. The prisoner handover had gone without a hitch and Ms Vicky Woodward was safely delivered into the custody of the Serious Organised Crime Agency, or SOCA for short. Inspector Darwin himself had accorded Richard the courtesy of meeting them in person at Heathrow and after confirmation and exchange of the relevant documents, Richard's job there was effectively done, bar any remaining paperwork.
They had put him up in a reasonable, albeit not particularly luxurious, hotel and, after checking in, Richard entered his room and switched on his laptop. He rang his parents to let them know he was in England for a few days, but was non-committal about if and when he'd have time to pay them a visit. If they fancied a day in London he might be able to treat them to a meal out, but he doubted he would make it out to their place.
Part of the reason for not taking a day out to visit them was that he didn't actually feel particularly close to them; his mother clucked and fussed almost more than Richard could stand (perhaps unconsciously attempting to compensate for their sending him away to school where he'd been unhappy?), and his father was formal and reserved, rather like Richard himself, only more so.
But the other part was prompted by the interesting e-mail forwarded to him by the Jacaranda Clinic back in Sainte Marie.
He dialled the number provided and was greeted by a very correct sounding voice - in French. Oh great, my favourite language he thought, but the e-mail message had been sufficiently intriguing for him to want to follow it up, so he persevered in his pidgin French.
"Uh...bonjour. Je suis Richard Poole. Je suis anglais..."
To his great relief, the voice immediately switched languages and the impeccable French was replaced by the self-same voice speaking in nearly impeccable English, with an equally correct and deferential tone, asking him to please hold the line for a moment. Shortly afterwards, a well-spoken older gentleman came on the line and greeted Richard in perfect upper class English, genteel and refined in its accents.
"Oh!", exclaimed a much taken aback Inspector Poole, "I wasn't expecting you to speak such good English." He hoped that didn't sound rude.
"Well", the distinguished voice replied, "I grew up with an English nanny - though rather a long time ago, I'm afraid. My parents insisted I should be raised speaking both languages and they were quite right, of course."
Richard was impressed. If only more French people would do likewise, he mused, although actually his time on Sainte Marie in the company of a certain feisty French beauty had mellowed him a bit. He directed his thoughts back to the conversation and, thanking the Parisian gentleman, agreed to the arrangements proposed. Then he took himself off to the White Hart pub.
The next morning, passport in hand, he made his way to London City Airport where a pilot was waiting for him. It took the light aircraft just about an hour and a half to reach the small private airstrip where they landed. There he was met by a waiting limousine whose smartly liveried chauffeur drove him to an extremely imposing Maison just outside Paris.
The elderly man greeted Richard warmly and eventually, fortified by a sumptuous extended luncheon, some animated discussion and considerable Gallic charm, Richard was driven back to the small airstrip for the return flight to London.
Propped up on the bed in his hotel room that evening with a cup of tea, and watching the news, he looked contentedly at his new little parcel and marvelled at the extraordinary events that had just taken place.
The following day he met his parents on Oxford Street for lunch at a nearby brasserie. His mother was determined to see her boy, so she had persuaded Richard's dad to come up into town. Richard didn't mind too much - after all, it wouldn't be that long a visit, he could salve his conscience by being the dutiful son, and even buy a few items of clothing that would be better suited to the hot Caribbean climate.
He was not, however, impressed by the horrendous crush of people whose numbers were swelled, no doubt, by the time of year. It seemed that all of England was out Christmas shopping and he resented being squashed like a sardine packed in a tin. Escaping to a well-known department store, he simply joined another stampede of shoppers, but did miraculously manage to acquire some underwear, cooler pyjamas and - wonder of wonders - a lightweight suit that actually (almost) resembled his more formal ones.
Lunch with his parents was fine as he filled them in on what he had been up to with his work in the Caribbean. Obviously it was a rather abridged version but they got the gist of it, and his mum was pleased that he didn't seem to have lost weight or anything; he must be eating reasonably well.
On the final evening before his return to Sainte Marie, he had a quiet meal in the hotel restaurant, followed by coffee in the lounge. There he began to ponder his future a bit. More introspective and sensitive than many gave him credit for, Richard could analyse and think deeply; he just didn't care to share his private thoughts and feelings with others.
His few days back in England had been a bit of an eye-opener. In the space of less than two years, it was only vaguely recognisable to him. His beloved White Hart had succumbed to the jukebox and the fruit machine; the streets of London resembled the Pamplona bull run; and the good old British weather was not very good at all. True, he had enjoyed it for the first half day, but that was about it. The crisp white snow and frost had turned to filthy slush and the sun was evidently on strike. Grey skies, black snow and cold penetrating rain were not as inviting as he'd anticipated.
He didn't even bother to drop in on his old nick in Croydon either. Doug Anderson may have gone but some of Anderson's cronies were still around and at any rate the culture of laddishness would probably still be prevalent. It began to dawn on Richard that it was not so much that things had changed in the UK, but more that he himself had changed. This was truly a revelation to him; and he made another discovery:
Going back to the Caribbean might not be so terrible after all. Precisely what was there to keep him here in England?
This latter thought was put to the test when, upon arrival at Sainte Marie Airport some 24 hours later, he learned that his luggage had been lost again. He was not pleased. It was actually worse than before because on this occasion there was precious [to him] cargo in it. What if he didn't get his case back this time? Bad enough not to have any clothes - especially the ones he'd just bought - but a minor disaster to lose the other stuff. So the rant wasn't merely due to his exasperation over baggage handlers' inefficiency.
Commissioner Patterson, determined not to lose Richard to a permanent Met or SOCA offer back in the UK, promised to help try and locate his luggage. By the time he got to La Kaz and the smiling (and relieved) welcoming committee, a very tired Inspector Poole had worked himself into a bit of a state.
If the trio were hurt or offended by his opening salvo they didn't show it. Fortunately, Fidel's gentle knowing smile and Camille's obvious joy at seeing him back safe and sound - even if grumpy - did much to mollify him, and Catherine even made him a nice cup of tea with real milk and sugar.
Dwayne generously offered to lend Richard some of his own clothes to tide him over until such time as his case turned up or he was able to buy a few things locally but, kind though the offer was, Richard couldn't really see himself wearing anything of Dwayne's (he had visions of boxer shorts with "Love Machine" printed on them; that hardly describes me, Richard thought ruefully).
His outrage finally dissipating, Richard gradually allowed himself to decompress a little. The team were curious to know how things had gone in London, particularly vis-à-vis the Vicky Woodward handover, but that could wait till Monday. Guessing that Richard and Camille might appreciate some time alone to re-connect, Fidel tactfully excused himself and said he had to get home to Juliet and baby Rosie. And Dwayne cheerfully wandered off to the other side of La Kaz to see if there were any attractive women to chat up, leaving the pair on their own.
Camille spoke first; "You must be exhausted, would you like me to drive you home now, Sir?"
Richard was startled at Camille's use of the term "sir". They were not on duty and even when they were she often called him Richard. And in recent months they had begun to get closer. There had been Camille's tears in front of him, and Richard's occasional confidences to her; and a few hints and exchanged glances between them too.
Richard had finally told Camille how much she meant to him that day on the beach when she was so distraught over Aimee's death. It wasn't much of a declaration, but for an emotionally reticent man like Richard, it was significant.
Camille, in turn, had tried to let him know her own feelings during that night of the (almost) hurricane. Yes, she had definitely said he didn't need to be alone with his puzzles because he had her. He had appeared to get the message but it embarrassed him and made him clam up, which in turn embarrassed her. And he had accused her of enjoying his discomfort! Perhaps to save face a little, Camille had answered "yes", but in truth she had fallen for her emotionally insecure boss.
But it had taken an impromptu trip back to England and a harsh reality check for Richard to realise how much he missed the fiery, sassy, warm, kind and clever French beauty beside him.
Five days earlier she had watched him pack his suitcase for his brief visit "home". He was relishing it, but it had been a silent agony for Camille, wondering if he would really return, especially when he started waffling about plans being subject to change, and even speculating about the possibility of staying there. And it had hurt her when he described himself as having got "stuck out here" unexpectedly.
Was that how he viewed them even after all this time? Was that what he thought of her? Someone he'd been stuck with?
She had fought back the tears as she watched him go, but he had not been completely immune either in spite of his British reserve and bluster. For one thing, he had been secretly moved by their hugs; maybe they really do want me to come back. He knew deep down that he'd never been wanted much before, and certainly not by any of his work colleagues.
He was shaken out of this latest reverie by Camille's voice again.
"Would you like me to drive you home now?"
Oh how he suddenly loved the sound of her voice, the melodic lilt and (even) the French accent. He would never in a million years have imagined that one day he would love anything French, but here before him was the most wondrous thing that had ever happened to him. Please God, don't let me blow it, he told himself; I couldn't bear to lose her now.
Camille studied the travel-weary face of her immediate superior. Richard Poole was not conventionally handsome, but he had a nice face, appealing green eyes (with the occasional hint of blue) that turned her insides to jelly when he trained them on her and smiled. His features had softened a little over time as he learned to trust his team and in turn began to relax a bit.
Camille and he worked well together, and their bickering and sparking off each other enhanced rather than detracted from their relationship. They had that indefinable quality called 'chemistry'.
Leading him gently to the Defender, Camille drove Richard back to his little house on the beach with more respect for the speed limit - and the potholes - than usual. He thanked her with a warm if bleary smile.
"Thank you, Camille. Not just for the lift, of course, but for the warm welcome, for looking after the house and Harry too. For everything."
Camille reached up and tenderly brushed his cheek.
"I'm so glad you came back, Richard."
His heart skipped a beat.
"So am I, Camille, so am I. I'm very tired tonight but perhaps we could meet up tomorrow? There are one or two things I'd like to talk about if that's okay?"
Now it was Camille's heart that missed a beat. She did wonder momentarily whether he was going to drop a bombshell - maybe something about going back to the UK for good - but somehow the gleam in his eye suggested otherwise.
"Yes please, I'd like that very much", she replied.
"Goodnight, Camille."
"Goodnight, Richard."
The next day Richard received some very good news. They'd found his suitcase! Will wonders never cease. Commissioner Patterson had been as good as his word and a driver was duly despatched to deliver it to Richard's little shack.
Opening the case with uncharacteristic eagerness, he was delighted to find that nothing was amiss, all was present and correct. He put the kettle on and, with a kind of reverent awe, lifted the exquisite box of precious Da Hong Pao tea from its nestling place. He breathed it in and later sipped it with an enjoyment bordering on ecstasy. Time to put it away now, he thought to himself, Camille will be here soon.
And just five minutes later, the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld stood smiling shyly on his veranda. Camille was wearing a lovely floaty dress, and her hair tumbled past her shoulders in gorgeous fluffy curls. He stood stock still, barely able to move, taking her in with his senses, smelling her light perfume and feeling lost in the deep pools of her velvet brown eyes.
Oh no, don't clam up again, you idiot, he mentally kicked himself. Start talking.
"You look stunning, Camille."
Ooh, that's what he said to me that night of the Erzulie blind date fiasco, she purred to herself.
Richard continued, "Would you like to go for a drink or dinner if we can get a table somewhere nice? I'm sorry I haven't booked anywhere yet, I wasn't sure what you might want to do. The Paradise Bay Hotel may still have some tables available or, if you prefer, we could go to Pierre's."
Camille was amused. "Pierre's? I thought you preferred not to be stared at by the food on your plate?", she teased. In all honesty she felt she'd be happy spending time with him wherever they went or whatever they did. But she sensed from what he'd mentioned earlier about wanting to talk, that one place that might not be such a good idea was her mother's, La Kaz. She was so nervous, though, that with all the butterflies in her tummy, she didn't think she'd be able to eat anyway.
"Oh that's okay," she answered as nonchalantly as she could, "I'm not all that hungry. But if you are -"
"No, no, I'll be fine, really. I guess I'm not very hungry either, to be honest".
Camille was no longer able to bear the suspense. She had to know what Richard was planning to tell her.
"Um, you said yesterday that there were one or two things you wanted to talk about?" She just hoped she hadn't guessed wrongly and that she was in for a painful surprise.
Richard smiled and - typically - got a bit tongued-tied.
"Yes, yes, that's right. Shall we sit out here - would you like a drink?"
She thought he was stalling for time and had to count to ten to stop herself from screaming, will you please just tell me, for crying out loud?!?
Richard wasn't trying to stall for time as such; he was trying to savour the moment with Camille, to make what he was about to announce both memorable and special. With a show of patience she didn't feel, Camille took a deep breath, smiled sweetly and sat on the veranda with him, looking out onto the sand and sea.
As they sat close, but not touching, Richard said, "Um, when I was in London I did quite a lot of thinking. It's funny, but after all those months of longing to go back, once I got there it wasn't really what I'd expected, how I'd remembered it. Anyway.......I've ....um...decided I might like to stay here indefinitely. I'm not intending to apply for a transfer or look for openings back at the Met. How would you feel about being stuck with me for a lot longer?"
Camille's tummy turned somersaults; she felt elated, and yet there were still some things she needed to be sure of. For example, did something happen back there to send him scampering back to Sainte Marie? Was he simply running away? But most importantly, was there any place for her in his life, apart from on the professional plain?
She answered, "Wow, that's great. Are you sure? Was everything okay in England?" Careful girl, you don't want to talk him out of it!
"Oh yes, fine, fine. It's just that I learned a hard lesson in a way; it didn't really feel much like home any more, certainly not the way it used to. I think I've changed, Camille, maybe not as much as you'd like, I mean I'm still an Englishman abroad who gets hot and irritable, and I'll probably always have an ambivalent relationship with sand."
Camille giggled, "That's so good to hear, Richard. Yes, I think you have mellowed a bit, come to think of it. Were there any other factors in your decision?" She couldn't help fishing.
"Yes." He took a deep breath. "You." Both their hearts were now beating like mad. He searched her face to make sure he wasn't about to be laughed at, but Camille's eyes were misty; no trace of teasing or mockery. Emboldened, Richard continued, "I finally understood that nowhere I went would feel right if you weren't there."
Camille whispered, "Thank God. I....I've cared for you for so long, Richard, but it didn't seem like it would ever happen. I mean sometimes I felt as if I was getting close to breaking through to you, but then the protective shell would re-appear and you'd be out of reach again."
"I don't find it easy to express my feelings, Camille. I'm sorry."
"So what happens now?" She pushed him a bit further.
"First let me show you something." Richard got up and went to his little kitchen, re-emerging on the veranda with the dainty box of Da Hong Pao tea he had brought back from Paris.
Camille frowned in bewilderment.
"Oh, that looks like the tea you got so excited about at Mr Tipping's clinic, the one where that poor Valerie Dupree was killed."
"Yes, it is", he smiled.
"I don't understand. What's the significance?" Was he trying to hint that he'd come into a lot of money, or had negotiated a big salary increase?
"When I arrived in London I found an e-mail forwarded to me by the Jacaranda Clinic. It seems that Mme Dupree's father was extremely grateful for the efforts of the Sainte Marie police in solving his daughter's murder. Apparently, he particularly wanted to thank the officer in charge because he was told about my determination to discover how and why she died; and he asked them to get a message to me on his behalf. He claimed he was most anxious to thank me in person and had left a contact number, hoping I might telephone him.
"It did seem rather odd, but I suppose I was intrigued and there wasn't much else going on in London after the Woodward handover was complete, so I rang up. Would you believe he organised a private flight to Paris and a chauffeur driven car to meet me and take me to his home? I tell you, it was palatial, Camille; obviously an incredibly wealthy family."
"But all that to thank you for catching his daughter's killer? I know that was a big thing, of course, but isn't that what you do after all - a policeman's job?" Camille found it a bit over the top.
"Well, you may remember that the clinic had tried to hush it up and put it down to suicide or maybe accident. He wanted answers but they kept fobbing him off every time he phoned them, and he was too frail to go out there in person. Anyway, he wanted to meet me personally to express the depth of his gratitude, as he put it. He was an elderly widower with no one left but his daughter, and her death has left him utterly bereft. He was not about to let the matter drop."
Camille looked wistful. "That's so sad."
"Yes it is, he was such a nice gentleman, too. At least we were able to give him some answers. Naturally, I couldn't very well accept much in the way of thanks, even though the case is closed and there would be no question of influence. He could see I was reluctant to take anything, but then he had a brainwave. He wondered whether, as an Englishman, I might be partial to tea? He said his daughter's favourite had been a special treat, Da Hong Pao, and I'm afraid that even this poker face couldn't conceal my enthusiasm."
Camille laughed, "Richard, you may be upright and uptight -"
Richard's jaw dropped with indignation.
"No, don't protest, you know you are sometimes," her eyes twinkled mischievously as she continued, "but I don't think anyone could accuse you of having a poker face. I can nearly always tell what you're thinking!"
"Oh really?" the slightly lopsided grin was back and the green eyes held a little challenge.
"Yes, really!"
"Okay then, Detective Sergeant Bordey, if you're so clever, tell me what comes next?", he retorted playfully, folding his arms in that customary manner of his.
Camille hadn't seen that one coming.
"Um... did he offer you a job as his bodyguard, perhaps?" she smirked.
"Oh, very droll." The banter was easy and light; it was so good to be back in each other's company with barriers starting to come down left, right and centre.
Richard went on, "Okay, if you don't want to know.... I brought back something else too, but if you don't want to see it...it's something for you...," he added archly.
Camille's eyes widened. "For me?!"
"Yes, but if you're not interested...."
"Richard Poole, stop teasing me!" Then she added coquettishly, "please can I have my surprise now?", rather like a child whose parent has just come back from a business trip with a little present for them.
Richard could see that he was going to find it very difficult to resist her in future. He made a mental note to beware - for all the good it would do him. Forewarned was not necessarily going to mean forearmed against so bewitching a creature as Mlle Bordey.
"Alright," he pretended to relent, "shut your eyes and no peeking."
She closed her eyes and was quickly rewarded with a charming little cadeau placed on her lap. It was a pretty box, beautifully and tastefully wrapped, with a big red bow.
"I'm afraid it's not actually new." he apologised, "but I'll explain in a minute."
"Oh Richard, it's lovely. Please can I open it now?"
He loved her childlike excitement; she had gone all girly and appealing and he knew he'd lost his heart to her. He hoped the entente would always be this cordiale.
"Of course," he replied. But he suddenly felt very self-conscious and plagued by doubts. What if he'd made a big deal about nothing and she didn't think it worth the build-up? What if it was actually not appropriate?
He needn't have worried. Camille positively squealed with delight and then gasped in amazement. For there on her lap was the delicious little gold evening bag she had so admired in the late Valerie Dupree's room at the clinic. It may not have been brand new but it looked as good as. She stared at Richard in awe.
"Mme Dupree's father gave you his daughter's handbag?? Why would he do that?"
"Because I asked him if I could buy it for you. He kept insisting that I should have more than just the tea, and I remembered how much you liked the bag, so I asked if I could buy it for my Sergeant who had also helped to solve the case. I couldn't accept anything seriously valuable, but I made an offer for this", he made a gesture towards the pretty gold bundle on her lap. "Of course, he was all for just giving it to me, but I couldn't agree to that."
Then he ventured further, "And perhaps before too long we could find you something more personal, something special...?"
Camille's head was spinning.
She had underestimated this extraordinary, thoughtful, unique, wonderful man. She leaned over to give him a hug and he cupped her chin in his hands and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and they clung together for a time before moving indoors.
Much later, curled up on his bed, with the soft moonlight streaming through his windows, Camille said it first.
"I love you, Richard." She was rewarded with a squeeze as he hugged her tighter and kissed the top of her head that was resting on his chest.
"I love you too, Camille", came the response. How she'd longed for months to hear those words.
It got better as he added, "Do you think I should start looking for a bigger place? Maybe somewhere big enough for two?" At that moment he caught sight of Harry watching them from the chest of drawers. "Or even three?" he chuckled.
Lifting her head to look into his eyes, she asked playfully, "Is that a proposal or a proposition?"
"Both," he smiled.
Camille grinned and just then she, too, spotted their little green friend watching over them, and understood.
"Only if Harry can come with us."
Yes, Richard Poole was finally home.