Broadchurch (35 page)

There’s a buzz in CID. Something has changed while Hardy was in with Nige. It’s as obvious as painting the walls a new colour. Miller’s up by the whiteboard, team all around her. She turns around, looking almost pleased to see him. ‘Boss,’ she says. ‘You’ve got to hear this. We’ve traced the number of the call from last night, the one that phoned in to tell us a light was on at the hut. It’s Danny’s mobile. The missing smartphone. Danny’s killer phoned in!’

‘Why would they do that?’ wonders Hardy. ‘Why tell us where they were – and then run? It doesn’t make any sense.’ He flips to instruction mode. ‘Get Nige and Susan released on bail. Have them lodge their passports here and report in every day. No skipping town.’

Miller’s jaw falls open. ‘You’re going to let them out there
together
?’

‘I’ll cobble together some surveillance, use some of those numpties they drafted in while we’ve still got them. Maybe Nige and Susan are
both
lying. Let’s see what they do when released.’

Miller folds her arms in disapproval. ‘Light the blue touchpaper and then retire.’

Hardy draws breath just so he can waste it reminding her how little time they have left, but is interrupted by the phone on his desk.

‘I’m glad it’s you,’ says Paul Coates, when Hardy picks up. ‘Can you come to the church? On your own?’

Hardy’s exit isn’t what he was hoping for: he watches in horror as his right hand refuses to grip the door handle. It appears to be stroking, rather than gripping, the metal. He tries again: it’s like someone else’s arm has been grafted on to his shoulder and his body doesn’t recognise it. This is a first. He’s aware of everyone watching him as he switches sides; his left arm is only marginally stronger but marginal is good enough, and with huge effort he wrenches open the door. Outside, he takes a moment to register the creeping terror of what’s happening to him, then sets it aside.

On the walk to St Andrew’s Hardy thrusts his hands into his pockets, no longer trusting them. His feet, at least, are obedient, getting him to the church without incident.

The graveyard is filled with birdsong. Paul Coates, in his dog collar and jeans, waits inside the nave. They’ve crossed swords often enough to dispense with pleasantries, for which Hardy is grateful.

‘This is Tom Miller’s laptop.’ Coates nods at a bundle of black plastic in his lap. ‘I caught him smashing it up in the graveyard.’

Hardy struggles to understand. ‘What was he trying to get rid of? Why does he do that after his best mate’s died?’

‘Were they really that close?’ says Coates, as though it’s only now occurred to him. ‘I never saw much evidence of it. I had to break up a fight between them a couple of months before Danny died. Tom was really laying into Danny.’ Hardy remembers Tom’s outburst at Jack Marshall’s wake and recasts it in the light of this new information. Coates frowns. ‘I reported it to both sets of parents. I thought Ellie would’ve told you.’ Hardy shakes his head: he is surprised and unsurprised. If Miller can’t even bring herself to take someone like Nige Carter seriously as a suspect, there’s no way she can be objective about her precious Tom.

‘I should tell you,’ says Coates, colouring slightly. ‘Tom knows I have this. He threatened to tell you I abused Danny if I handed this over.’

‘And did you?’

There isn’t a second’s hesitation. ‘No.’

Hardy takes the bag, feeling the mess of sharp edges inside. ‘How long have you had this, then?’

Coates looks at his watch. ‘Just over seven hours.’

‘That’s a long time to hang on to evidence. I suppose someone like you would be able to look through, delete anything that didn’t suit you.’

Coates merely rolls his eyes at the insinuation. Hardy is disappointed that he doesn’t seem to be able to rile him any more. He decides to quit while he’s ahead. He doesn’t know as much about computers as Paul Coates, but he knows that there’s nowhere to hide on a hard drive. He turns to go, but one final question burns its way out of his mouth.

‘How do you keep your faith, with all this going on?’

It’s a straight-up question, stripped of sarcasm or goading, and Coates takes it as intended.

‘I question what happened.’ He offers up empty hands. ‘But I have faith in God to resolve it. I believe that’s why he sent you here.’

‘Hate to let you down, but he didn’t send me.’

Coates returns Hardy’s sardonic smile. ‘That’s what he
wants
you to think.’

The package rustles under Hardy’s arm as he treads the divots of the graveyard. With his free hand he makes a call to Ruth Clarkson, an IT forensic he knows from way back.

‘I need a favour, on the quiet,’ he says. ‘Things are complicated here. I need you to get something off a hard drive for me. Send whatever you find to my personal email. And it needs to be quick.’ He suffers through the phatic expressions of small talk for as long as he can bear, before cutting Ruth off mid-flow: ‘Listen, I have to go. People waiting. I appreciate this.’

57

Over dinner, Dean keeps calling Beth Mrs Latimer, which makes her feel like Mark’s mum. Everything about the evening is weirdly formal: the candles in the middle of the dining table; that they are at the dining table at all. Beth seems as keen to impress Dean as he is to impress her and she doesn’t know why they’re all trying so hard, because he’s just a normal boy. Not posh, not rough. Just normal. Like them. She knows that the effort he’s making is for Chloe and she appreciates it. He’s lovely looking, too, and then there’s the motorbike. She’d probably have been after him herself at Chloe’s age.

After the meal’s over, Dean shyly gives Beth a present. ‘It’s for all of you. For letting me in, and for the future,’ he says. She peels the wrapping paper to reveal a cuddly rabbit. ‘It’s for the new baby.’ She can’t help it; tears overwhelm her. Dean is mortified.

‘I’m sorry,’ he stumbles over his apology. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Mark speaks for all of them. ‘It’s all right, mate. It’s all a bit muddled in together.’

‘Yeah,’ says Dean. He drags his fork across a plate he’s already cleaned. ‘He was a good lad, Dan.’ Beth smiles. Sometimes, it’s as simple as that, someone who knew Danny remembering him the right way. It means more than all the clumsy condolences, the I’m-sorry-for-your-losses.

‘Have you heard any more about Nige?’ Beth asks Mark.

‘I asked Pete, but he said there was no news.’

‘It’s not Nige, Dad,’ says Chloe. ‘Don’t go thinking that. It won’t be.’

‘This is what happens,’ says Mark miserably. ‘Not just Danny, but the way it’s making us look at each other, not trusting anyone. I dunno how we come back from that, even when it’s all done.’

When
it’s all done, thinks Beth. It doesn’t feel like they’re making any progress at all; in fact, it feels like they’re going backwards. How long until they start thinking in terms of
if
?

‘Chloe’s right,’ says Dean. ‘It can’t be Nige. Him and Dan got on really well. I saw it every time we went out catching animals.’ One glance at Mark tells Beth that this is news to him, too. Dean picks up on their shock. ‘They’d come up to the farm and we’d go out from there, late evening? Danny said it was OK. Nige said you knew? They both said you knew.’

Mark’s face is cold. ‘No,’ he says. ‘We didn’t know.’

Nige Carter saunters down Broadchurch High Street with the unhurried pace of an innocent man. Or maybe it’s the slow, deliberate gait of someone who knows he’s being followed, because without warning, he darts into a half-hidden alleyway and sprints. He zigzags at speed through the network of footpaths that lace the town together, finally emerging near the caravan park. Hood up, he creeps along the back of the trailers, past the burbling tellies and the boiling pans.

When Susan Wright comes home, a pint of milk dangling from her right forefinger, she finds Nige sitting on her sofa, his arm around Vince’s neck.

‘I’ve got a life here,’ he snarls at her. ‘I’ve got a
family
.’

‘Keep going, boy. Get it all out. God you’re the spit of your father.’

‘I don’t want to hear anything about him.’ The words hiss through Nige’s clenched teeth.

‘He got things wrong,’ Susan attempts to soothe him. ‘He got confused. But deep down he was a good man. Like you’re a good boy. Nigel, you’re in trouble, and I understand.’

‘You don’t understand anything. How could you tell them it was me?’

‘Because it was.’

Nige draws a knife. ‘If you don’t go, within the hour, I will gut this dog while you sleep.’ He grins manically through his tears.

Susan studies him. ‘If I go, I won’t come back. We’ll never see each other again. I can do that. I’ve done it plenty of times.’

Nige stands. ‘You contact the police and say you made a mistake. It wasn’t me you saw. And then you go.’

They are in deadlock.

‘You’re the spit of him, Nigel,’ says Susan sadly. ‘You’ve got him in you. And it
was
you I saw.’

After Nige has thrown down his knife and gone, Susan sits for a while in the empty caravan before getting to her feet. With a practised hand she removes the clothes from the hangers and the shoes from the cupboard. She picks up all she needs: bag, shoes, dog food. She moves swiftly and mechanically, pausing only for a second over a battered leather photograph album, which she throws into the suitcase without opening. She has packed so little that there is still room to spare when she zips it up. Vince looks up at her. We’re on the move again then, his face seems to say.

‘Come on,’ she says, attaching the dog’s lead to his collar. They are up on the cliff pathway before anyone sees them go.

Two minutes later, the uniformed officer whose job it was to keep track of her pulls up outside caravan number 3 to find the cupboards swept bare and the frosted-glass door swinging open.

By this time, Nige Carter is almost home. He keeps to the alleyways and, rather than be seen in the cul-de-sac, he vaults the fence into his back garden. Faye has dozed off on the sofa in front of
Emmerdale
. With great tenderness, Nige takes the blanket from the back of the sofa and tucks his mother in. He lifts the corner of the net curtain and sweeps the street for police. Seeing nothing, he closes the front door gently behind him. No one stops him as he climbs into the cab of Mark Latimer’s van and takes the long straight road out of Broadchurch.

58

Evening is closing in as Alec Hardy heads for the
Broadchurch Echo
office. With one more night left as a serving police officer he feels bound to grant the promised interview now, while his badge is still in his pocket. He wants to talk while he still counts for something.

No one will miss him from the office: every officer he can spare is out looking for Susan Wright and Nige Carter, both of whom appear to have skipped town. Together? Alive? Hardy has no idea.

Outside the Traders, he perks up at an email on his phone from Ruth Clarkson but slumps at its content. She’s confident she can retrieve the data from Tom Miller’s hard drive, but not until the early hours of tomorrow morning.

Maggie Radcliffe is waiting for him at the door. She leads him through the dark office to a back room where tall shelves packed with archive boxes form a coracle about the size of the interview rooms at Broadchurch nick. Maggie sits next to Olly Stevens: Hardy takes his place across the table. An old anglepoise trains an interrogatory light upon him.

‘Why were you in hospital?’ asks Maggie. When she’s not writing, she holds her pen like a cigarette.

‘I was pursuing a suspect,’ says Hardy. ‘There was an incident. I was injured.’

‘Can you name the suspect?’

If only I could, thinks Hardy, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be hammering on someone’s door with a van waiting outside. ‘No. I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘That’s all I can give you right now. I know it’s not what you want. I promise you’ll be the first to hear.’

That seems to satisfy Maggie.

Olly clears his throat. ‘The Sandbrook case fell apart at the trial.’ Hardy is jolted out of this case and into another. He still hasn’t learned to see the S-word coming, even though it lurks around every corner. ‘Tell me what went wrong.’

‘Channelling your friend Karen White?’ says Hardy, more to buy himself time than anything else.

‘No. I’m not her,’ says Olly firmly. The eager-to-please kid is developing a quiet authority. ‘We’ve seen you here. We know you’re doing the best for the family, for the town. And I don’t think that was any different on Sandbrook. So what happened? How did it go so wrong? You can’t keep it a secret for ever.’

Actually, Hardy
had
intended to keep it a secret for ever. But with his career in its death throes, he hears the siren call of impending relief.

‘Ach, maybe you’re right,’ he hears himself say. ‘Maybe it is time.’ Maggie and Olly, who are usually in constant communication through scribbled notes and secret glances, have not looked at each other once since he started talking. Sandbrook holds all journalists rapt.

‘We had our prime suspect, but all the evidence was circumstantial.’ He takes off his glasses to soft-focus the faces opposite him. ‘Then, during a search of a car he’d just sold, one of my DSes found the pendant belonging to one of the girls. There were clearly prints on it. It was the smoking gun. My DS was taking the bagged evidence back to HQ. And…’ He stops without warning, even to himself. He relives this story so often, but the difference between thinking it and saying it out loud, sharing it, is astonishing. He clears his throat. ‘… she stopped off at a hotel on the way, for a drink. And… her car was broken into.’ He can still picture the inside of that car better than the one he drives today. ‘Car radio, valuables and her bag were all taken. It was only a quick smash and grab – local kids, probably.’

‘And the pendant.’ Maggie guesses correctly.

‘Yeah. We could never make the case, after that. He’s still out there.’ Never mind the hours and the effort they put in. One fuck-up and the whole thing boils down into those last four words.

‘
Why
did she stop off at a hotel?’ asks Olly. The question scratches at Hardy’s bones, pricking the marrow. He looks at the shabby office furniture as though for an escape route and thinks seriously that if he’s going to have a fatal heart attack then now would be an opportune moment. But the shelves do not part to let him leave, and his heart beats limply on.