Broadchurch (10 page)

It’s as though the more emotion he’s faced with, the less Hardy displays himself. ‘You have to look at your community from the outside now,’ he says.

‘I can’t be outside it! I don’t want to be.’ He has missed the point, the point of
her
, by miles. Why can’t he acknowledge that empathy is an asset? God knows they all need it more than ever, now Hardy’s here. Smoothing the feathers he has managed to ruffle is a full-time job in itself.

‘If you can’t be objective, you’re not the right fit,’ says Hardy. Ellie snorts. It’s almost funny. How can
she
not be the right fit? This is her turf! It’s him who isn’t, swanning in, taking promotions that were meant for other people and not even accepting a coffee without some great big sigh. He looks her straight in the eye. ‘You need to understand, Miller. Anybody’s capable of this murder. Given the right circumstances.’

‘No,’ she says firmly. ‘People, most people, have a moral compass.’

‘Compasses break,’ he says over the top of his glasses. He’s patronising her now. ‘And murder gnaws at the soul. Whoever did it, they’ll reveal themselves sooner or later. Every killer lets things slip, sooner or later. You know what people are like here ordinarily. Look for the out of the ordinary. Follow your instinct.’

She draws herself up to her full height. ‘My
instinct
tells me the Latimers did not kill their son.’

Hardy raises his eyebrows in slow motion, a gesture that manages to be sarcastic, arrogant and dismissive all at once. Ellie boils inside. He’s so sure he knows everything about human nature. But Ellie knows
these
humans,
this
family. Hardy might have a string of serious crimes on his CV, but there is more than one type of experience and here, now, Ellie believes that hers counts for more.

Caravan number 3 has seen better days, thinks Hardy; rust has moved in on chipped paintwork. A dreamcatcher – he only knows what it’s called because Daisy had one gathering dust in her bedroom – hangs forlornly in the window. This is the residence of one Susan Wright, key-holder to the chalet on the cliff.

At his knock, a dog barks inside, and Hardy recognises the figure even through frosted glass. It’s the woman he saw walking her dog the other morning. The woman who all but ran away from him. Gotcha, he thinks, as she opens the door.

The stench of stale cigarette smoke is an assault on his nostrils. He breathes through his mouth and flashes his badge. ‘DI Hardy, Wessex Police.’

Her body language is remarkable; she has none. She is motionless and neutral as a dummy. ‘What d’you want?’

‘The owner of the chalet on Briar Cliff said you clean it. He said he’d phone ahead and let you know to have the keys ready.’

‘My phone’s dead.’ Her accent is the flat London twang they call Estuary English. No matter how long Hardy spends south of the border, to his mind
estuary
will always mean the Firth of Forth.

‘I need the keys,’ he says. ‘Just want a look inside the place.’

‘To do with that boy?’ She’s the first person Hardy’s met not to express sorrow or sympathy. ‘Show me that ID again.’

Most people have blind faith in his badge but she examines it closely, like she knows what to look for. The slamming door hits the tip of Hardy’s nose. She’s gone a while and when she returns with the keys, she shoves them into his hand with bad grace.

‘I’ll have you sign for them. I don’t want no trouble if you don’t come back.’

He autographs a docket for her; the pen is still poised when the door slams again. He pulls his face away just in time.

Susan Wright stays at the window, her hand on Vince’s head. She watches DI Hardy’s retreating back, makes sure she sees him get into his car. When the sound of his engine fades to nothing, she goes to a cupboard by the front door and opens it a crack. Inside, a yellow skateboard with a navy blue pattern leans on the diagonal. She looks at it for a long time, then lets the door fall shut.

15

It is the first Sunday since Danny’s body was found. In St Andrew’s church, the dead in the graveyard outnumber the living inside by a hundred to one. Susan Wright watches through narrowed eyes as Liz Roper is comforted by a friend. Jack Marshall looks determinedly to the altar, where Reverend Paul Coates leans heavily on his pulpit.

‘It’s at times like this, we question our faith. Why would a benevolent god allow this to happen? I’m sure we’re all asking that question after the events of last week.’

Liz’s hand rises to the little gold cross around her neck. After the service, the rest of the congregation file out, but she remains in her pew, head bowed, eyes closed. She is there for long enough that when she opens her eyes, the Reverend has changed out of his vestments into simple trousers and a cardigan. He kneels beside her.

‘How are you coping?’ he asks.

‘Oh, it’s not about me, is it?’ she says with forced cheer. ‘It’s Beth and Mark I worry about.’

‘You’re his grandmother. You can’t shut it out.’

Her voice drops. ‘I know.’ She sighs and looks to the leaded lights. ‘This helps. It was a good service. Meant a lot to me – and to the others who came.’

Paul rolls his eyes. ‘Nineteen people. In a town of fifteen thousand.’

‘After the last couple of days. Hardly credit it, can you?’

‘I swear, I have done
everything
,’ he says wearily. ‘I’ve been into every school and hospital and care home and community centre. I’ve been to every fête and festival and show. Three years. Even now… nothing.’

‘People never know what they need until it’s given to them,’ says Liz, taking his hand. ‘That’s what we need from you. All of us. I’m praying that’s why God placed you here. Our challenge is your challenge. Help us.’ Paul Coates takes both of Liz’s hands in his. They stay like that until she has to pull away and fumble for a tissue. ‘There’s something I want to ask you. Show you, really,’ she says. ‘It’s outside.’

In the far corner of the churchyard, where the graves are still well-tended, a tall headstone stands under a spreading yew.

GEOFFREY ROPER

1954–2007

Beloved Husband, Dad, Granddad

Gone too soon

The bottom half of the stone is blank.

‘We had it left that way for me when we lost him,’ says Liz. ‘It’s all set up so there’s room for another grave. I was wondering if we could lay Dan to rest in there? They were thick as thieves, that pair. I know it’s silly, but I like the idea of them looking after each other.’

‘It’s not silly at all,’ says Paul. ‘I think it’s beautiful. Have you talked to Beth about this? The request would need to come from her and Mark.’

Liz blows her nose noisily and shakes her head. ‘I didn’t want to, not till I’d sounded you out about it first. I thought it might be something I can do for her, take a bit of pressure off her. I know I’m Danny’s nan, but I’m still her mum, too.’ She starts to cry again. ‘But there’s nothing anyone can do to help her really, is there? The only thing she wants is the one thing she can never have.’

Ellie and Hardy watch the clifftop car park CCTV footage from the night Danny was killed. The only movement on the grainy screen is the time stamp stripping the seconds away. Time passes with paint-drying slowness and they both jump when, at 1.23 a.m., a car pulls up. It’s too dark and blurred to make out the registration but there’s no mistaking the figure who gets out. Ellie recognises him before Hardy does. After all, she’s known him for over a decade.

‘He said he was out on a job,’ Ellie whispers. What does this mean? Either Beth knows he was out and she’s lying to cover for Mark. Or Beth doesn’t know he was out, and Mark is lying to everyone. Adrenalin pumps through Ellie, bringing with it confusion rather than clarity.

On the screen Mark Latimer leans back on the bonnet of his car, arms folded.

‘He’s waiting for someone,’ says Hardy. ‘I bet I’m right.’ He peers closely at the screen. Mark stirs, as though he’s heard someone approach. Hardy rubs his hands together.

The screen goes black.

‘Where’s the next tape?’

Ellie checks the evidence bag and finds only a note. ‘Apparently they only have one and they record over it, to save money.’

‘Bollocks!’ Hardy brings his fist down on his desk as this small-town penny-pinching sends Broadchurch down another rung on the ladder of his estimation. Ellie is ashamed of this failure, even though it’s nothing to do with her.

There’s a knock behind them and Steve Connolly, that phone engineer who’s been getting under everyone’s feet all day, is in the doorway, his belt full of tools.

‘Steve Connolly.’ He introduces himself nervously, as though his name is a trigger. ‘It’s Danny Latimer you’re doing, isn’t it? It’s something to do with water. I’ve been told it’s something to do with water.’

Ellie is close enough to Hardy to feel his temperature rise.

‘Told by who?’ she asks.

‘I have this… I have this thing, where I get, I get messages. Psychic messages.’

‘Ach, for God’s sake, who let you in?’ says Hardy, pushing back from his desk. He must be half Connolly’s weight, but indignation seems to lend him mass. Ellie opens the door to usher Connolly out.

‘No, no, no, the thing about the water, that’s important.’ His hand stretches out in placation. ‘I’m supposed to tell you, he was in a boat. He was put in a boat. I don’t know why.’

Ellie studies him hard. He doesn’t look like her idea of a psychic. No silly hair or flamboyant clothes or runic jewellery. He looks like a phone engineer. It’s that, and his admission that he doesn’t understand what’s happening himself, that’s so unnerving.

‘Who told you this, where’d you get this from?’ she asks.

Connolly blinks at them, like it should have been obvious from his first words. ‘Danny.’ Ellie can’t hide her disgust. ‘I don’t want this,’ he protests. ‘It comes to me.’

‘Oh, you’re a
reluctant
psychic,’ says Hardy. He’s at his mordant best: almost enjoying himself. Connolly takes the proffered offence.

‘You don’t want to listen, that’s fine,’ he says petulantly.

‘A child has died,’ Hardy roars, his accent strengthening in proportion to the volume. ‘And you come in with this self-indulgent
horseshit
.’

The room outside stops buzzing. Frank’s at the door, ready to jump in.

‘Take him away,’ orders Hardy, turning in his chair to face the wall. Frank puts a hand on the small of Connolly’s back and guides him out of the corner office. Connolly doesn’t resist, but shakes his head. At the threshold, he throws a last riddle over his shoulder.

‘She says she forgives you,’ he says to Hardy. ‘About the pendant.’

Ellie watches as anger blanches Hardy’s already pale skin and for a moment she’s genuinely worried her boss is about to lose control. He remains rigid, as though he’s counting to ten, for longer than he needs to after Connolly has gone. When finally he snaps into action again, it’s as though nothing has happened.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Back to the real investigation. Let’s find out why Mark Latimer lied to us about where he was that night. What now?’

Nish is at the door with a handful of papers.

‘Danny’s social networking profiles,’ he says. ‘Fresh from his hard drive.’

‘Third of May,’ Ellie reads aloud. ‘Going to get a lock on my door. Keep all this crap out. Twelfth of May: Dear Dad, remember me? I’m the one you used to play with. Twelfth of May again: I know what he’s doing.’

Ellie is at a loss: she never heard Danny talk like this. What could he have meant?

She looks to Hardy for his reaction but he has grabbed his coat and is already leaving in a batwing sweep. She follows him out of the door, dragging her feet. She doesn’t want to do this. But doubt has grabbed hold of her and only talking to Mark will shake it loose.

16

Beth keeps the news on television night and day, braced for the moment they show Danny’s photograph. She would never admit it to anyone – what would they
think
of her? – but she almost looks forward to it. She waits for that moment like she used to wait for him to come home from school, her heart high in her throat in anticipation of the mundane celebration of his homecoming.

‘How are the people who live in Broadchurch coping with events?’ asks a reporter off screen.

Beth and Mark both flinch to see Reverend Paul Coates’ face fill the screen. ‘First and foremost, all our prayers are with the Latimer family.’ Beth, remembering their conversation in the supermarket car park, feels a chill of betrayal. Why is Paul doing this? Surely he should have asked her first? ‘It’s obviously a very worrying time but we all believe the police investigation will uncover what happened. We’re a strong community. I hope people who live here know that the Church is here for them, to offer whatever support they need, throughout the coming days, faith or no faith. I know the Latimer family quite well and we’ll do everything we can to support them at this time.’

‘He doesn’t speak for us!’ Mark bellows. ‘His God left my boy for
dead
.’ He punches his palm. ‘I’m not going to let him get away with this.’

He slams the front door so hard that it bounces on its hinges and hangs open. The church is only across the field. The camera crew might still be there. Beth screams at Pete to get after him. Now is not time for the world to see what Mark is capable of when he loses his temper. The unwanted memory of his last outburst slams hard into her; the unexpected blood on the knuckles; the remorse seconds later and the way the house was quiet for days afterwards. They were all scared but no one more so than Mark himself, and he hasn’t raised so much as a finger since. He had barely raised his voice until Danny died.

Beth turns her attention back to the television, but they have already moved on to the next story and she has missed her chance to see Danny.

Karen White stalks the alleyway that skirts the playing field. She has been here for over an hour but her perseverance pays off when she sees Chloe Latimer, dragging hard on a cigarette as she walks home. Look at her, thinks Karen: she’s a baby herself. The cigarette makes her look younger, not sophisticated the way she thinks it does.