Broadchurch (6 page)

She’s checking her emails, more to keep herself awake than because anything important is happening, when an alert hits her inbox that sends a shot of adrenalin through her veins. In a few keystrokes she’s found a local newsfeed from Dorset and there he is. Her marked man, Detective Inspector Alec Hardy, looking, if anything, even rougher than the last time she saw him.

‘This is a short statement to confirm that this morning the body of an eleven-year-old child was found on Harbour Cliff Beach at Broadchurch,’ he says to the camera. ‘The body was subsequently identified as Daniel Latimer, who lived in the town. We are treating the death as suspicious. Our investigations are continuing, and there’ll be a full briefing later this evening.’

It takes Karen a second or two to digest the news that he got another job after Sandbrook and then she’s off, fingers flying, tracing the story back to its source. The earliest mention is a tweet from the local newspaper, but the fuller story is not on their website yet, and none of the other nationals seem to have picked up on it. Good. There is still time to make the story hers. Her editor’s door is open: Karen checks her reflection in a window, smooths her long dark hair into a ponytail, and pops the collar on the tailored jacket that means business, even if it is a decade too old for her. She doesn’t bother to knock. Len Danvers cut his teeth on Fleet Street back when print was king; he thinks manners get in the way of a deadline.

‘Are you taking the piss?’ he says, when she’s given him a précis of the situation. ‘Let the agencies cover it, and you can polish it up later. Eleven-year-old boys get into trouble all the time.’

‘But it’s
Alec Hardy
,’ she says. ‘
He
’s the story.’

‘Only if he fucks up again.’ Danvers waves a hand at a ledger on his desk. ‘You know what the budget’s like at the moment. I’m sorry, Karen. The answer’s no.’

She returns to her desk, sits heavily down in her swivel chair. The press release about wind farm subsidies has not sexed itself up in her absence. She spends another ten minutes tinkering with it, then goes back to the
Broadchurch Echo
Twitter account. The journalist’s name is Olly Stevens and his bio reads, ‘Fearless reporter with thrusting local paper,
Broadchurch Echo
.’ She googles his name: he’s posted his CV and samples of his work online and states that his ambition is to be a lead reporter on a national. She punches in his number and is gratified by the admiration in his voice when she introduces herself.

‘I saw you broke the story about Danny Latimer,’ she says. ‘I might be coming down to cover it. I wonder if you’d let me buy you a drink, find out more.’

Of course he says yes. Karen files her wind farm story, then puts in a call to the HR department. She’s worked hard this year, and hasn’t taken a day’s annual leave yet. They owe her.

The street outside shimmers in the heat: the woozy outline of a black cab pulls into sharp focus as it draws near. She hails it and asks the driver to go to Waterloo.

Bloody
Twitter
. Hardy’s heart sinks at the thought of the work they’ll have to do to rebuild the trust of the Latimer family now. As he leaves the station, DS Miller is still trying to apologise for her nephew. Hardy’s not interested. At least after this morning’s bollocking he’s confident she won’t let that happen again. What a day. What a fucking day.

The fresh air outside doesn’t clear his head: if anything, he feels worse. The shallow breathing and blurred vision that herald an attack set in and all Hardy wants is to collapse on to his bed before it happens in public.

It’s an effort to push open the heavy oak door at the Traders Hotel. It was his choice to stay in a hotel – to look for somewhere more permanent would be to acknowledge that he is here permanently – but he wishes he was staying at the anonymous chain hotel on the ring road. It’s very lovely here – all original flagstone floors, modern art and a Farrow & Ball colour scheme – but the room keys hang on pegs behind the desk and that means making conversation every time he leaves or enters the building.

‘Long day, huh?’ says Becca Fisher when he holds out his hand for the key. She’s nice enough, with a beachy blonde glamour that marks her out as Australian before she even speaks. He quite likes Becca, likes looking at her, anyway, but he doesn’t want her to make his day any longer. ‘Really tragic,’ she continues, blind to Hardy’s impatience. ‘Can’t think what that family are going through. We’re all in shock. Chloe’s got a Saturday job here, you know. I don’t suppose I’ll see her tomorrow. Not that I’ll need her. I’ve had two cancellations already today.’

Hardy mentally files the detail about Chloe but only nods in reply to Becca. He has one foot on the bottom stair when he hears his name behind him. He turns slowly, to keep his balance.

Great. It’s Miller’s roving reporter nephew standing next to a middle-aged blonde woman who might as well have him by the scruff of the neck. ‘Maggie, editor of the
Echo
,’ she says, extending her hand. Hardy shakes it limply. At Maggie’s prompt, Olly says, ‘I was wrong to post that news. I’m sorry.’

‘I should hang him by the bollocks from the town hall spire,’ says Maggie. ‘All reporting on this will come through me now. The
Echo
works
with
the police. I’ll talk to the Latimer family, give them our apologies.’

Hardy blinks slowly. ‘Stay out my way,’ he says to Olly.

It seems that there is to be one more obstacle to freedom. Becca Fisher follows him up to the landing. ‘Do you think the beach’ll be open tomorrow? Only so I know what to tell guests.’

‘I’m going up,’ says Hardy, one hand on the banister to support himself as well as signal intent.

The effort of climbing two flights has him perspiring and struggling for breath.

In his room at last, he empties his jacket: his wallet lands on the bedside table and falls open at the picture of the face that continues to haunt him. The little girl is backlit, her hair a white aureole. It hurts to look at her. All the more reason for him to see it every time he opens his wallet. Before he can loosen his tie or his shoelaces, his legs begin to give way and he collapses into the armchair. His focus switches to a canvas print of Harbour Cliff on the far wall. Even here, he can’t escape the bloody place. Of all the beaches in all the world…

As the sweat cools on his back, he realises his pills are on the other side of the room. It takes everything he’s got to get up and swallow them.

9

Ellie and Beth stand with their backs to the cliffs, looking to the water. A pink sun hangs low in a golden sky. The place is almost deserted, out of fear or respect. Even the sea is discreet, the tide on the turn. Ellie, terrified of saying the wrong thing, is relieved when Beth speaks first.

‘I used to bring him down here when he was a baby,’ she says. ‘Middle of the day, just me and him. I’d pick him up and dip him in the waves, then whoosh him up, his little fat legs all wet. God he loved it, he used to laugh like mad.’ She smiles, and it’s the saddest thing Ellie’s ever seen. Without warning, Beth punches herself hard in the chest. ‘There’s nothing
there
, Ell. Like, I know it’s happened, but I can’t feel anything.’

‘I think it’s shock.’

‘Promise me, Ellie, ’cause I don’t know your boss from Adam…’ Ellie’s stomach flips as she realises that Beth still hasn’t made the connection between Hardy and Sandbrook. ‘But you and me go back. The
boys
go back. I’m counting on you to get them caught.’

‘I swear,’ says Ellie. Should she tell Beth now? Better she finds out from Ellie, from a friend, than she makes the connection on her own or she finds out from the press. Ellie draws a deep breath, but Beth’s eyes are on her, pleading.

‘He did know, didn’t he? That I love him.’

The moment is gone. How can Ellie answer a question like that with the truth about Sandbrook? She can’t kick her friend while she’s this far down. She’ll give Beth another day for things to sink in. Nothing will come out between now and the media briefing. ‘Of course he did,’ she tells Beth. ‘He was a
beautiful
boy. You don’t deserve this.’

Beth turns her head away. ‘I just feel like I’m very far away from myself.’

The sun hits the horizon and seems to linger there for ever.

Ellie parks outside her house in Lime Avenue. Instead of getting out of the car, she stares through the windscreen at her home. Taking five minutes here usually helps her to make the gear shift between work and home, but today those boundaries were broken and she can’t switch off. The light in Tom’s bedroom is on: Fred’s curtains are closed, meaning he’s asleep already. Gratitude that her two children are still here gives way to a sickening guilt. Ellie has survivor’s guilt by proxy: she wonders if Tom feels the real thing.

Joe must have heard Ellie’s key in the door because he’s waiting in the hall to hold her. He looks hollowed out. Ellie wraps herself in him: he smells of yoghurt and baby wipes and the familiar solid shape of him is exactly what she needs.

‘Are you all right?’ he whispers into her hair. She nods a lie into his shoulder.

‘I’m just here for a shower, then I have to get back. Does Tom know?’

Joe breaks off the hug and shakes his head. ‘He’s upstairs. I kept him away from it all.’ He covers his mouth with his hand, afraid to ask the next question. ‘Should
we
be worried? For other kids?’

‘I don’t know,’ she says honestly. ‘I mean, we’ll watch Tom like a hawk, but whether it’s a one-off or…’ She can’t finish her sentence: that there might be more is too horrific to contemplate.

Joe strokes her cheek. ‘I’m sorry about the job,’ he says. The contrast between the morning’s happiness and this evening’s despair is the trigger Ellie needs to break down and cry.

‘I saw him lying there,’ she says. ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’

Joe murmurs reassurances and rocks her gently.

‘Hey,’ he says, after a while. ‘Actually, no, it doesn’t matter.’

‘What?’

Joe shakes his head. ‘It can wait. You need to get on with your job.’ He’s always done this: he
knows
how much it infuriates her.

‘I won’t be able to concentrate on the job if I’m wondering what you’re not telling me.’

‘Lucy was round earlier.’ Joe cowers in a pantomime of fear that is only partly feigned. He’s always been slightly afraid of Lucy and that situation wasn’t helped by the last time he saw her, the two sisters in a stand-up, screaming row over the missing cash. Mind you, he was probably quite scared of Ellie as well after that. She can’t remember the last time she was so angry. ‘She banged on the door really loudly,’ says Joe. ‘Woke Fred up from his nap.’

That doesn’t sound like someone come to offer an apology, which is the only thing Ellie wants from Lucy now. ‘That’s all I fucking need. Did you tell her?’

‘I couldn’t find the words.’

She takes the stairs slowly, nursing a cowardly hope that Tom’s already asleep and that she can put this off until the morning. But he’s up, playing a game on his phone, tongue lolling in concentration. She seizes a moment to watch this version of her son, to savour the last few seconds of his childhood. Softly she creeps in and sits on the edge of his bed.

‘You know Danny wasn’t at school today?’ she says.

Instantly he picks up on her mood. Fear leaks into his voice. ‘Yeah?’

Ellie puts her son’s little hand in hers. ‘Tom, sweetheart. Danny died.’ He doesn’t react. ‘I’m sorry.’

He blinks. Ellie knows that tears are on their way and sees the effort it takes him to hold them back. ‘How?’ he eventually manages.

‘We’re not sure yet. He was found on the beach, early this morning.’

‘Do his mum and dad know?’ The solipsistic innocence of the question, the idea that she would, or could, tell Tom before Mark and Beth, breaks Ellie’s heart.

‘Yes. So… look… When someone dies unexpectedly, it leaves a big hole. It’s all right to feel sad or have a cry.’ She sounds even to herself like a pamphlet on bereavement.

‘OK. Will you… I mean, will the police want to ask me questions?’

‘Yes. Is there anything you want to tell me now?’ She walks the fine tightrope between gentle and vague. ‘Was Danny all right?’

‘Yeah. ’Course.’ He picks at the duvet. ‘Can I have a bit of time on my own now?’ he asks.

Ellie wonders when he became ashamed to cry in front of her.

‘Of course.’

By the time she’s showered and changed, Tom’s asleep. It’s dark outside. So much for making an arrest by nightfall.

Joe presses a sandwich into her hand on her way out of the door. She eats it one-handed on the drive to the station, chases it with a cup of weak tea back at her desk and goes through the list that one of the DCs has left for her of belongings recovered from Danny’s body and bedroom. Something – the lack of something – jumps out at her, making her heartbeat spike. She reads it again. No mobile phone. He definitely had one. It was the same model as Tom’s. She looks for someone to tell, but she’s alone in the office.

She sets that to one side, then starts to go through the previous night’s CCTV footage from the town centre. She makes screen grabs of the few figures who appear. Then, at 10.47, she sees an image that steals her breath. The picture is grainy but there’s no doubt that the boy whizzing down Broadchurch High Street on his skateboard is Danny Latimer. What the
hell
is he doing out on his own? She replays it twice.

‘Have a look at this!’ she calls. This time Hardy materialises at her shoulder, new suit on. Ellie can feel a list coming on.

‘He wasn’t abducted. He snuck out. Why? Where was he going? Who was he meeting?’

He pauses to knot his tie. Ellie beats him to the next point.

‘And where’s the skateboard?’

10

Chloe is crying in her bedroom, soft ladylike sobs – even her crying is grown-up now – occasionally punctuated by the ping of texts hitting her phone.

‘Do you want a cuddle?’ Beth whispers through the keyhole. ‘You know I’m here when you need me.’