Broadchurch (8 page)

‘Not by me,’ says the vicar earnestly. ‘You and Lil are both always welcome in my church.’

‘I should think so too,’ says Maggie, only slightly appeased. ‘Look, thanks for the offer, but I don’t want for editorial. What I need right now is advertisers. And that’s not you.’

The vicar drums neat fingers on the countertop. ‘OK then, I’ll buy the space. My personal money. I’ll write a piece, I’ll pay whatever your rate card is. If I have to pay to get words of comfort out there, I’ll do it.’

‘I’ll give you 10 per cent discount,’ Maggie flashes back.

Karen smirks. Two minutes in and she’s already seen corruption. So much for local news being the last bastion of good old-fashioned reporting.

Next up is Becca from the hotel in the kind of dress that showcases a flawless figure. You can tell she doesn’t spend all day sitting on her arse in front of a screen, thinks Karen. Becca flicks her hair at the vicar, then at Maggie, as though out of habit. Some women don’t even know they’re doing it, and it’s always the ones that don’t have to try that hard.

‘What do you write that doesn’t sound glib?’ asks Becca. Maggie’s all smiles now, and it’s easy for Karen to slip past her to the office.

It takes her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness in here. How do they work like this? She’s used to pale-grey ergonomic furniture, plate windows and strip lighting. This place… there’s more wood than in a sauna. An air vent in the tiny window is held together by masking tape and on the sill are some dried flowers in a wobbly clay pot and a wooden cat. A health-and-safety notice clings to the wall for dear life.

Olly Stevens is hunched before his monitor. He looks up at her with a spark of recognition that shows Karen that she’s not the only one who’s been on Google. She sits on the edge of his desk. He’s cute, this cub reporter, even if he is a year or two younger than she first thought. Buttering him up won’t be a hardship.

‘So, d’you think you might have a spare desk or corner of the office I can squirrel myself away in while I’m here? We
are
part of the same newspaper group, after all.’

Olly’s virtually set up a workstation for Karen before Maggie can stop him.

‘Karen White,
Daily Herald
,’ Karen introduces herself. Maggie takes the hand she offers and the two women size each other up.

‘No,’ says Maggie, in answer to the question. ‘We’re a very busy operation here.’ Karen looks round the empty office and bites down hard on a smirk. ‘And if I give you a desk, what happens if others start showing up?’

Karen goes to argue, but then thinks better of it. Less is more. It’s what sets her apart from the rest, this ability to back off from a subject and give them room to think. Journalism is like showbiz – always leave them wanting more. It’s the approach that got her in with the Sandbrook families. It might even work with Hardy one day.

Back on the High Street she weighs up her options. She reminds herself that she’s the only national newspaper journalist chasing this story so far. She glances back at the
Broadchurch Echo
office on her way out. These people aren’t her competition. If she plays them right, they could end up working for her. She thinks hard about the best way to get Olly Stevens onside without burning any bridges with Maggie. She sends him a text asking whether he’d like to show her the sights instead.

She opens the
Echo
website on her phone and runs the word Sandbrook through its search facility. It doesn’t look like they’ve made the connection. Maggie Radcliffe was famous for having an encyclopaedic mind, but who uses encyclopaedias any more? And it doesn’t look like anyone at the paper has thought to do background on the Senior Investigation Officer. Karen White is pleased. She likes to have the advantage.

12

The solvent smell of whiteboard markers always makes Hardy feel woozy, but with concentration he can print with a steady hand.

OPERATION COGDEN

SIO: DI Alec Hardy

Victim: Danny Latimer

Age: 11 years

Height: 4' 8" 142 cm

Loc: Harbour Cliff Beach, Broadchurch

Time of Death: Thurs 18 July 2200–0400h (est.)

CID is a mess. Everyone has been called into work at once, meaning they’ve got more officers than desks. Floor panels are being lifted to access power sockets and install new phone lines. A network of live tripwires criss-crosses the office.

The phone engineer, a burly bloke in gold-rimmed glasses, keeps flicking Hardy nervous glances. Hardy squints to read his name badge – Steve Connolly – and stares back with all the hostility he can muster. The more uncomfortable he makes this Steve Connolly feel, the sooner he’ll get the job done and piss off out of Hardy’s incident room. Hardy’s not happy about having a civilian in here, moving desks about, toppling files that should be under lock and key. Do these people think he has a clean-desk policy for fun?

Miller’s brought him a latte. He salivates at the creamy, nutty smell of it, but even a cup of instant could send him over the edge, and those café blends are like rocket fuel. Of course, she takes the refusal personally.

‘There’s a hut on Briar Cliff,’ he says, ignoring her wounded fawn expression. ‘Mile and a half along the coast from where Danny’s body was found. Find out who owns it. And the car park below. Collect the CCTV from the camera there. How’re we doing on house-to-house?’

‘We’ve got five uniform allocated, two probationers, one who can’t drive and one who’d never taken a statement before last night.’ She grins an apology. ‘It’s a summer weekend. Three festivals and two sporting events within a hundred miles, all other officers attached to those until Monday.’

He hates this place. He hates the stupid people and the way they work, their smiley fucking faces. He turns his attention back to the whiteboard.

‘Danny’s skateboard, Danny’s mobile. Priorities. Also, main suspects. You know this town – who’s most likely?’ Miller, not realising he’s only halfway through, tries to interrupt but he bowls on: ‘If the boy was killed before being left on the beach, where’s the murder scene? What’re you doing today?’

‘We’ve managed to get a Family Liaison Officer, I’m taking him over to the Latimers. And Jack Marshall who runs the paper shop rang in. He said he’d remembered something.’

From nowhere, Hardy feels his fingertips tingle, a sure sign that an attack is on its way. Miller’s voice sounds as though it’s coming from far away. There’s a constriction in his lungs and suddenly there are two Millers standing in front of him, blurring in and out of focus.

‘In a minute,’ Hardy says.

He makes it to the toilet without incident. Mercifully alone, he pops two huge tablets from the blister pack in his pocket and washes them down with tap water. He studies his pale sweaty face in the mirror above the sink and wills it to return to normal.

On the way back, he almost falls over Steve Connolly, who’s unrolling a long white cable. His face is ashen, and it takes Hardy the briefest inspection of the office to realise why. DC Frank Williams’s desk is a mess. A list of questions that still need answering has been pinned to a screen, for fuck’s sake. A picture of Danny’s skateboard, yellow laminate with a jagged navy print, lies across a keyboard and visible under that is – oh, for fuck’s
sake
– autopsy photographs peeking from the file. There’s a blown-up picture of Danny’s neck, huge red handprints on the white skin. Hardy sends Connolly away, then gives Williams a bollocking that silences the room. The talking doesn’t start up again until he is halfway down the corridor.

It’s business as usual at the newsagent’s. Jack Marshall heaves a stack of papers up on to the counter. The effort leaves him slightly breathless.

‘I couldn’t stop thinking about him all last night,’ he says. ‘I run the Sea Brigade. Danny’d been coming about eighteen months, on and off. Cheeky lad, but a good heart. It matters, a good heart.’

You don’t have to tell me that, thinks Hardy. ‘You said you remembered something about seeing him.’

Jack gives a curt nod, as though he’s speaking under duress. ‘Must’ve been end of last month. Around a quarter to eight, on a Wednesday morning. Up past Jocelyn Knight’s house. On the road leading up to the clifftops, near Linton Hill. I saw him.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘Talking to the postman.’ Jack slices through the twine that binds the stack of newspapers with a sharp bright Stanley knife. ‘Well, not talking. More like arguing. I was quite far off. But the body language was pretty clear. Then Danny got on his bike and stormed off. The postman was calling after him.’

‘You’re
certain
it was a postman?’ says Hardy. Jack isn’t wearing glasses, and doesn’t look like the contact lens type.

‘Who else is going to be out that time in the morning? Anyway, he had a bag. And one of those high-visibility jackets.’

‘Describe him to me.’

‘He was a long way off. Medium height, short brown hair, I think. It was only after you were in yesterday that I remembered. I should’ve mentioned it.’

Yes, thinks Hardy. You should have. So why didn’t you?

The Latimer house smells stale, like a bedroom that needs airing. It’s the wrong time of year to keep the windows closed but the press have started to arrive outside and they need shutting out; if they’re not pointing their cameras, they’re making phone calls or bantering loudly.

‘This is DC Pete Lawson,’ Ellie introduces the gangly young man at her side. ‘He’ll be your Family Liaison Officer, keep you up to date with the investigation, answer your questions, talk to you about any questions we might have. It’s a specialised job. Pete’s just completed his training.’

‘You’re my first!’ says Pete cheerily, his smile fading as he catches Ellie’s fury. Of all the inappropriate things…

‘But you
know
us,’ says Beth, echoing Ellie’s thoughts.

‘The best thing I can do for you is find who killed Danny, and I will.’

Ellie lets Pete take charge of the elimination prints, willing him not to fuck it up.

Only Mark kicks up a fuss. ‘Is this really necessary?’ he says, as Liz rocks an inked thumb from side to side on the paper. He’s insulted, Ellie can see that, and she understands. Even burglary victims give their prints indignantly. It’s human nature: intellectually, people know that they’re making a positive contribution to the investigation, but some people feel they’re being processed like a suspect. Ellie cannot begin to imagine how much worse it must be after losing a child. Mark gives his prints, but reluctantly, shaking his head throughout. When the whole family has been done, he asks, ‘When can we start arranging the funeral?’ His voice catches on the word.

Knowing this question was coming doesn’t make the answer any easier. ‘That has to wait,’ says Ellie. ‘Until we have the person responsible in custody, Danny’s – his body – is the… look, I have to talk about it this way, I’m sorry – it’s the most valuable piece of evidence we have. We can’t allow him to be buried until we’re sure we have the right person, and the right evidence to convict them.’

‘We can’t have him back?’ says Beth, horrified.

‘Not yet. Sorry.’

‘He’s not evidence,’ says Chloe. ‘He’s my
brother
.’

‘I know. Really I do,’ says Ellie, well aware that she hasn’t got a clue.

Beth raises her eyebrows in a silent query to Mark. He nods, and brings out a piece of paper which he hands to Ellie.

‘We made a list,’ he says. ‘Of people who might have done it.’

Ellie unfolds it and reads in dismay. She knows most of the names on it. They have included any male with the slightest prominence in the community, and there is naturally some overlap with Wessex Police’s own suspect list. And when they ran out of strangers, Beth and Mark looked closer to home. ‘These are all your
friends
.’ The couple look at her like lost children, like the teen parents they used to be. Ellie is reminded for the first time in years that Beth is still only thirty.

‘We know,’ they say.

Ellie is almost grateful when SOCO Brian calls her out of the room. Upstairs, he hands over an evidence bag.

‘Five hundred pounds in cash. Taped to the underside of the bed frame in Danny’s room.’

13

Karen asked Olly to show her the sights and he’s given her a bird’s-eye view. This clifftop bench is the perfect place for her to get her bearings. Down below, it’s easy to see how the quaint, touristy part of town near the harbour gives way to a cluster of ugly municipal buildings that lower into the sprawl of the estate. The sea stretches before them. And then of course there are the cliffs, the steep mute witnesses to Danny Latimer’s murder. They are mesmerising, with that unearthly golden colour. It’s an effort for Karen to draw her eyes away from them and look at Olly.

‘Tell me about Broadchurch,’ she asks him. ‘Who
lives
here?’

He ponders. ‘Lot’ve been here all their lives, generations, some of them have never been fifty miles outside town. Then there’s the incomers. Young families, left cities when they had babies, came here ’cause they fancied the schools and the sea. We get tourists for six weeks in the summer, but we’re a working town mainly.’

‘Crime?’

‘Mostly thefts from lock-ups, odd bit of drug use, drink driving.’ Karen can’t hide her smirk in time. ‘Seriously. I do the weekly crime report in the paper with one of the uniforms. About thirty offences a week, pretty much all minor. We’ve never had a murder.’ His expression turns grave.

‘And that’s the sort of story you do at the
Echo
?’

He shrugs. ‘Clubs, schools, council meetings. Maggie says we celebrate the everyday.’ Karen shudders internally. She wouldn’t work on a regional for a hundred grand a year. Mind you, Olly will be lucky to earn a tenth of that. She wonders if he still lives with his mum. Then she finds herself wondering what his bedroom looks like.