The sun blazed down with a fury usually reserved for oven settings, not holiday resorts. Detective Inspector Richard Poole wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that had long since surrendered to the sweat. His uniform clung to him like an overenthusiastic octopus.

He stormed into the tiny café, determined to restore order—or at least, dignity.

“I’m an officer o’ the law, I am!”

He bellowed, his accent thick and unmistakably British.

“Now would someone be so kind as to brew me a bleedin’ cuppa tea before I faint dead away?”

The locals, wide-eyed and baffled, exchanged rapid words in a language Richard couldn’t hope to decipher. A woman behind the counter stared at the badge he was thrusting toward her as if it were a particularly aggressive crab.

Richard tapped his badge again.

“Coppers! Britanni’ finest! Tea? Yes? Chuffin’ ‘eck, it’s ’ot in ’ere!”

The only response was a confused chorus of chatter and a small boy offering him a coconut with a flower stuck in it.

Richard took a deep breath, trying to summon the patience of an English butler at a particularly disastrous garden party.