Chapter Text
“…you’d be doing us a favor, actually. Hiring someone with your record of success with our budgets… well, let’s say that closing this deal would get me raised a grade.”
Normally a compliment that blatant from someone that handsome would ensure continued interest but the subject had long taken the listener's attention away. Not even a curious gaze came the speaker’s way.
“… I been clear? Will you consider the offer? The department lead is still tender from losing you. Cost him a grade or two.”
Attention partially — and courtesy fully — returned, his distracted listener replied in a manner guaranteed to leave the nerves of the young emissary on edge in the stifling heat.
“I’m flattered and overwhelmed actually. I’d like time to think it over. Is that okay?”
Mopping a soggy neck with a hastily snatched disposable tissue, the youngster had to ad lib a response.
“Yes! Fine! I’ll… I’ll check in with my head when I get back to my hotel and see if they have a deadline.”
The difference in his continental French accent and her island version could be heard on every “L” and many “ITH” pronunciations.
“Merci. Dwayne! Could you take —”
Two quick finger snaps in his direction communicated the need for the stranger to repeat his name again.
“Jordain!”
“Jordain to the Royal Highlands?”
“On my way, DS. Come now!” Dwayne called out, snatching his cap and keys and rounding his desk for the door leading to the Rover faster than the young, sweating and nervous emissary thought possible two minutes ago.
“Until later, Detective Sergeant Bordey.”
“Yes…”
Camille’s thoughts had already left the present to consider the future and the past in tandem.
“Hello?” a decidedly public school voice spoke on the other end of the international call.
“Helen? It’s Camille.”
“It’s good to hear your voice again, dear. It’s been some time. Is everything okay? Your mother?”
“No-no. Maman is fine. I want your advice — I’ve been offered a managing detective’s job in the National Police Force. I would lead up the financial interdiction unit — the group that handles money movement, identity sales and human trafficking.”
“That’s wonderful! Are you considering it seriously? Have you spoken to your mother?”
The hidden inquiry traveled within the more visible request for the expected information.
“Humphries is a good detective — when he’s not tripping and falling all over our crime scene — but it’s not the same. I’m ready to…”
Helen Poole pretend to miss the sniff from the tropical end of the call.
“Something has to change...”
“I’m quite sure my role is to be objective but I agree. You’re capable of so much more, Camille. How ridiculous that they sent that clumsy oaf instead of promoting you. Richard told me you handled every case as well as he did. If the French services are brighter than our Met, then I say good riddance to the lot of them.”
Such a rousing endorsement led to tears. However reserved Richard’s parents might have been during his childhood, Helen never restrained herself when talking to Camille.
“I won’t pretend I’m not happy to hear this. You’ll be a ferry ride away, for once. So what’s next?”
“I’m going to talk to my mother. Then I’ll decide.”
Goodbyes were made in French and a number exchanged. After a moment’s quiet contemplation about the enormity of the choice before her, Camille stowed her phone and left the station for La Kaz.
“Hello Fidel?”
“Camille??? Is something wrong?”
“No-no. I wanted to tell you —”
“— that you’re going to back France?” he chuckled back at her.
“Juliet?”
Camille considered how fast the information network operated on Saint Marie EXCEPT when a crime had been committed.
“No — Dwayne. Have you said ‘yes’?”
Her laughter cut off the sound on Camille’s end of the phone.
“No, but everybody thinks I should.”
“It’s time, Camille.”
“That’s Sergeant to you,” she chuckled.
“You’re ready. D.C.I. Poole would have promoted you.”
“You think I should go?”
“Juliet can help you pack, Commissaire Divisionnaire Bordey.”
“I’ll miss you terribly, especially Rosie and little Fidel.”
“Little Fidel won't be here for months. We’ll visit when I get my next promotion.”
Fidel’s work in the months since his transfer to Guadeloupe racked up an average of a commendation a month. Sergeant Best would soon be Detective Sergeant Best with a nice bump in pay.
“You have a place to stay when you come. Thank you.”
“Go. Before Catherine finds out last and poisons us all.”
Laughing in agreement, Camille sped up to a jog on her way to confess her intent to her mother.
“You’re leaving,” met Camille as she slid behind the service counter to kiss her mother.
“This island is too small,” Camille whinged as she took a stool at the bar. The table seats were more comfortable but Camille had no intention of broadcasting her possible resignation to the island from one of those chairs.
“Did you tell him?”
Catherine Bordey had a reputation for her no-nonsense interrogations — all conducted over savory treats exquisitely prepared.
“No…”
“Cami, he deserves to know your decision. You know how he feels about you.”
“He won’t want me to leave. It will make it hard on him… On both of us.”
“Talk to him. Tell him how you feel — for both of you.”
“Are you upset?”
“No, chou, no. I’m a mother; mothers worry. You will be taking deep cover assignments.”
“I will be the Chief —”
“I know you — and so does that idiot Etienne Navarre who let you go after getting Robert killed. You were not made to sit behind a desk, not like your ‘Richard’. So, I worry.”
“The salary is very good. I will fly you over; you never take a vacation.”
“I have a business to look after and nowhere I really wanted to go. And you are delaying; talk to him.”
The flush reddened her mocha-tinted skin. Embarrassment of the heterosexual type forced that reaction since her harrowing teenage dating behaviors.
“Love you, maman.”
“You have my blessing, Cami. Go. Start your new life.”
Flopping on the sofa in her flat placed Camille in the direct path of the air con, a concession and gift to Richard’s body thermostat. Richard’s shack leaked air like a sieve so she’d paid an exorbitant price for the appliance and its installation in her place then dressed for Iceland whenever they stayed at hers. But it worked — Richard made her chilled home his sanctuary.
Distracted by memories, she dialed the wrong number three successive times.
Telling him she would once again change homes and lives rattled her. If Camille had half the courage she routinely called on to chase down perps, she’d have skyped.
Chilled air blowing through her tropical living space reminded her of Richard: her bed — sporting the new mattresses he’d insisted on the morning he awoke from a long night’s love-making unable to straighten up, the loose tea next to her ground coffee, his old personal laptop they’d split the cost of replacing and three of his dress shirts she wore around the house.
Richard Poole got under her skin on their first official case together and took up residency in her heart.
She missed him with an unrelenting ache.
“You’re in?”
Mumbling on the other end echoed the playful chiding at her stupid question.
He informed her that he’d heard about “the offer”.
“I haven’t decided —”
— and he cut her off before she spoke the compassionate lie.
More buzzing from the tiny speaker vibrated his acknowledgement of the wonderful opportunity and her readiness for the next step.
Then the uncomfortable silence set in.
“You’ve been a good friend.”
She winced reflexively at the loud crash in the background — he’d tripped over his chair.
His muttered response covered for what he wanted to say, that he’d do anything to keep her close. Having made that mistake before, he stuttered out best wishes for her success.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
Anyone standing near her in her empty flat would’ve clearly heard his resignation —
“He’s a hard act to follow…”
and a sad, soft goodbye.
Over the next days Camille made more calls, said more “goodbyes” and “hellos” and prepared to leave her birthplace again.