Chapter Text
It had become a joke around the station. When the sun came out, they knew Detective Inspector Richard Poole would grab a sandwich at a Pret a Manger and head for a park at lunchtime. For a man who claimed to love a good London drizzle, he was inordinately fond of sunshine. Fortunately for him, London had lots of parks.
When he’d been assigned to Islington, the detectives at the station were curious. A newcomer was always interesting. They’d heard the stories about the DI who’d been sent to a Caribbean island. Supposedly, he’d had a record-setting clearance rate. So good, in fact, the Met had brought him home, feeling his talents would be put to better use in London. He was rumored to be in line to become a Detective Chief Inspector. So far, he was still DI Poole, and the team were glad to have him.
Richard had been there two years, and nobody knew him very well. He did go out for drinks at the pub on a Friday from time to time. They knew he’d dated a series of women. Only one at a time, mind you. And no one lasted very long. He never said much about them. Too much of a gentleman to kiss and tell was the majority opinion. One rather homophobic DS had suggested that Poole might be gay. But the newest DC, Peggie Davidson, who had a bit of a crush on Poole, said it couldn’t possibly be true. One of her brothers was gay, so she’d know. Peggie was everyone’s kid sister, smart most of the time, but also naïve about some things. So the men let it go at that and didn’t tease her.
One day, when Richard went out to interview several witnesses—who might turn out to be prime suspects—he asked Peggie to go with him, as some of the witnesses were women. As he navigated through traffic, Richard explained that he would ask the questions, and her job was to watch the witnesses, especially the women.
“I don’t ‘read’ women well. I’ve been told that on numerous occasions, actually.”
“To do with work, or personal—sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”
“No, that’s a fair question. I guess I’m somewhat old-fashioned and never want it to be the wife who’s guilty. And yes, women I’ve known have told me that I am utterly clueless. That’s why I appreciate having your point of view when we interview the women.”
“Right. I’ll have my liar antennae on alert.”
“And don’t interrupt. My questions may sound a bit random, but I will be heading somewhere.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not saying you can’t ask questions. If you think of something, and I don’t get to it, ask when I’m finished. If I forget to invite you to add your questions, then, you know, say ‘pardon me, could I ask’ or something like that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It isn’t that I doubt your abilities, Peggie. You’re new, and it takes a while to figure out how best to work with someone new. For two detectives to alternate asking questions is tricky. It’s kind of like actors who’ve done a lot of improv together. You know where the other person is heading, even if you aren’t working from a script. I’m not explaining it well. But when it works, it’s fantastic.”
“Like a good marriage,” said Peggie. Then she cringed inwardly, remembering she was talking to the serially single member of the team. She thought she saw a wistful expression cross his usually impassive face. She didn’t know she wasn’t changing the subject when she asked, “Did you ever have a partner like that?”
“Once, for a year. It was when I was assigned to an island in the Caribbean. I hated so much about that time. It was hot, I mean hellishly hot. Buggy, sandy. Sunny, except for incredible rainstorms where it would come down in buckets. Have you ever been to the Caribbean?”
“No. You don’t exactly make it sound like paradise.”
“It wasn’t my kind of place at all. But the people were lovely. Best partner I ever had. Best team I ever had. There was this bar … but we don’t have time for that now. Let’s see these witnesses.”
After interviewing the family of the victim, Richard noted the time.
“Lunchtime! There’s a pub with tables overlooking the canal. Is that all right with you, Peggie?”
“Sounds nice. I love the canal. Have you ever taken one of the boat rides?”
“No. I’ve seen them go by, packed with tourists.”
“My boyfriend took me on a dinner trip for my birthday.”
“That sounds festive.”
“It was. We talked about maybe renting a narrowboat for a vacation.”
“I had a boat,” said Richard. “A dinghy called the Roast Beef.”
“That’s a funny name!”
“My team named it. Island humor. My partner’s mother owned a bar. She made a roast beef dinner for me when I first was on the island. I was homesick for all things English. She made pretty good tea, too. My Englishness was a bit of a joke with the team.”
“They made fun of the Chief? We joke amongst ourselves, but we never make fun of the Gov.”
“It was done affectionately. We were a small team, all very close. It’s so different there. I’ve never met people with such a capacity for joy.” Richard shook his head, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
“It’s the little sister thing,” said Peggie. “I’m the newest and the youngest and the only woman DS at the station. And I’m short and freckled, so I seem to be everyone’s kid sister.”
“If you feel you’ve been bullied, or slighted, or treated badly—”
“No! It’s rather sweet, actually.”
“If it ever turns unpleasant in any way, please tell me. Workplace harassment is an ugly thing. I’ve seen it happen, and I don’t ever want to see it again.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that. And any time you need someone to talk to, little sisters are good listeners.”
“Speaking of listening, tell me what you got out of our interviews this morning.”
“The biggest thing to me is that the sister-in-law is lying about something. I don’t know what, but I just have a feeling…”
Peggie talked about the witness/suspect, and Richard tried to pay attention. All that talk of the Caribbean had unsettled him. Two years later and ‘I just have a feeling’ made him homesick for Saint Marie, the team, and Camille. He’d stayed in touch for a while. Then the gaps between emails got longer, and eventually he stopped. There was nothing in his life worth telling. He felt pathetic, like he was Dickie Boy again, the man who had no life.
-o-o-o-o-
Richard had a small flat in a quiet neighborhood. The elderly woman next door fussed over him. When she baked, she would give him cookies. When he had a cold, she would make soup for him. She frequently asked him if he had a girlfriend. Apparently, Mrs. Gregg had an endless supply of available nieces and acquaintances. Once in a while, she would wear him down and he’d agree to a date.
Mrs. Gregg was right. They were all lovely women. A few were too young for him—he began to wonder if Mrs. Gregg should have her eyeglasses checked. Most were his age, or close enough. They would go on a few dates, then get bored with each other and say “nice knowing you,” and go their separate ways. It was never ugly or nasty. Neither had ever been sufficiently invested emotionally to make a fuss.
Then Richard met Marcia, the most depressing woman on the planet. She had broken up after a two-year relationship with a man who, despite his promises, was never going to leave his wife. Richard and Marcia had met at a pub. She was drowning her sorrows, and it was the day after his birthday. He had just turned 40. He’d had a nice weekend with his family, lots of presents, some teasing about entering a new decade. And the next day, there he was at his local, sipping a pint—by himself—realizing that he would probably spend his life by himself. Listening to Marcia was depressing, but it helped him see that he wasn’t the most pathetic person alive. Close, but not a champion.
They dated a few times. Marcia made it clear that she was not looking for love and the almost certain heartbreak that would follow. Richard was happy to be a rebound romance. No strings, easy, nothing messy.
One night, after too much wine, Marcia managed to get Richard to tell her his story.
“Why are you alone?” she had asked. And Richard told her that he had loved someone he couldn’t have, and he probably would never find somebody that fantastic again.
“You know what you need?” she slurred. “You need some unlove songs.”
“What’s that?”
“Sad songs. Like you love someone who doesn’t love you. Or you screwed it up and now you feel sorry for yourself.”
“That doesn’t sound healthy, Marcia. Much too depressing.”
“But they’re beautiful. So sad. But so beautiful. I’ll send you some.” And, despite her inebriated state, Marcia took out her phone and managed to send some sound files to Richard’s email. “Listen to them. They’re great for when you need a good cry.”
“You’ve cried enough for tonight,” said Richard. “Let’s get you home.” He walked Marcia home and said goodnight.
“I’m sorry I’m so depressing,” she said sadly.
“It’s all right. You have your good cry and a good sleep, and you’ll feel better. Well, you know, after you get over the hangover you’re almost certainly going to have.”
“Goodnight, Richard. Thanks for being such a good shoulder to cry on. Listen to the songs. It helps to know you’re not the only one who ever loved unwisely.”