ALEC HARDY

17 July 2013

8. 02 a. m.

That bastard seagull has been cawing outside Alec Hardy’s hotel window since dawn. He sits up in bed, reaches for the glass of water by his side and downs two huge, chalky tablets before getting up. He’s been staying in the Traders for ten days now and he can navigate his room in the dark as easily as if it were home, a thought he finds profoundly depressing.

Squawk, squawk. The sound is a jackhammer in his brain. He strides across the room and flings open the curtains, too quickly; golden sunlight punches him in the eyes. He always feels hungover these days, although he’s given up the booze along with the coffee and all that other life-enhancing, performance-enhancing stuff. There’s a tugging pain in his chest and armpit while he waits for the medicine to do its thing.

Hardy looks out over Broadchurch. Those huge cliffs everyone keeps telling him to go and look at glow amber in the distance; the sea is the same pale blue. He doesn’t like horizons. They make him feel agoraphobic, like nothing’s got edges, like everything could spill everywhere.

Now that the seagull’s gone, it’s too quiet. There is no noise apart from the chink and ting of breakfast things being laid out downstairs. You get the wrong kind of noise in the countryside. Hardy thrives on the white noise of the built environment, the comforting rumble of an A-road in the distance.

He salivates at the thought of the hotel’s eggs Benedict but knows he should eat the wholegrain cereal in the dispenser, even though he’ll be charged the same price. What a waste, and a waste of police money, too. But that’s all to the good; it’s his own money he should be worrying about. Between the maintenance he pays Tess and Daisy and his other, secret expenses, he’s sliding into the red. Time now is measured in pounds and pennies as well as hours and days.

How much money he’ll spend, how many nights he sleeps in the Traders, depends on how long it takes him to break down Claire Ripley. Things are moving in the right direction for the first time since the trial collapsed. He has her where he needs her, in safety and isolation, with only her secrets for company. Claire depends on Alec Hardy for everything. Everything.

He is her self-appointed protector. She is understandably terrified of Lee Ashworth. But even with him out of the picture she can’t relax, and all Hardy’s instincts tell him that she’s holding something back. It’s in the set of her shoulders when she stands up; the way her eyes slide out from under his gaze. She phones him every day but never says anything new.

The quieter DI Hardy’s professional life remains, the more energy he has to focus on Claire. That’s why he was drawn to this place: nothing has ever happened here. Almost literally – you search for Broadchurch and all that comes up is the low crime rate. The state-of-the-art police station is used to process petty drug dealers and shoplifters. Once that would have been anathema to Alec Hardy but these days it suits him just fine. It would only take one big investigation to throw his secret project into chaos.

He can still feel the weight of Pippa Gillespie’s bloated, lifeless body in his arms, and the snap of bluebells under his feet. He will carry that weight until Claire Ripley talks. Not until then can Sandbrook be solved.

Then, perhaps he’ll be free to leave Broadchurch and go back home, back to Tess and Daisy, to see what he can rebuild of their broken home. The thought of Dave sitting at his table, sleeping in his bed, fuels the fire of his motivation.

The sooner this is sorted, the better. He calls Claire, like he does every morning. There’s no landline in her isolated little cottage, but there’s a good signal thanks to a phone mast in a neighbouring field. He presses her number and instead of ringing out, the phone makes a weird, high-pitched sound.

Alec Hardy’s heart skips a beat it can’t afford to miss.

8. 55 a. m.

‘God, the traffic, ’ says the minicab driver. There are maybe ten cars in front of them, waiting for a combine harvester to do a three-point turn in a narrow country lane. This is not traffic. Hardy thinks lovingly again of the South Mercia gyratory system with its beautiful gridlocks and bottlenecks. These bumpkins don’t know how cosseted they are down here. Hardy takes in the local landmarks: a dead fox at the side of the road, a corrugated barn with a tractor and a boat outside, a crumbling stone outbuilding with a lime-green cock and balls spray-painted on the side. It’s no Banksy.

The combine harvester gets stuck in a ditch, and the driver and half a dozen other men get out to push. Hardy leans out of the passenger window. He’s maybe half a mile from Claire’s house but the walk would ruin him for the rest of the day, and he needs the driver to get him back to Broadchurch. Even if she’s fine, even if this weird thing with her phone is a false alarm, he’s already going to be late for work. Someone behind them sounds their horn, long and loud, jolting him from anxiety into panic, and he has one of those micro-crises that happen two or three times a day now. He hasn’t got time for this. What the hell is he doing? He was so sure this set-up was the only way to save his sanity, but he realises now it’s just as likely to destroy it. It has put his career on the line again, and God knows his career is all he has left now.

By the time the traffic gets moving again, it is already ten minutes into Hardy’s shift. If Claire’s gone missing, if something’s happened … he doesn’t let himself think that far ahead.

‘Wait here, ’ says Hardy to the driver as they pull in to the bumpy driveway. The driver raises his eyes as Claire emerges in the garden, blowsy and flustered in a dressing gown that’s half-undone and Hardy sees him putting two and two together and making five.

He didn’t think this through, when he was booking the cottage, when he was posing as Claire’s husband, about the logistics of travel. Reliant on minicabs, he tries to use a different driver each time. He doesn’t want anyone to see a pattern, notice that he’s going to the same place every day. He already understands what an incestuous, gossipy little bit of England he’s stuck in. The last thing he wants is to draw attention to himself. He cannot have anyone know the real reason he is here in Broadchurch. Not even Claire herself.

9. 17 a. m.

‘Get in the house, ’ says Hardy. Claire trots in obediently and sits in front of a cup of tea that steams on the kitchen table. It’s dark in here, and Hardy has to be careful not to bang his head on the beams jutting from the low ceiling. It’s fussy and dusty; it doesn’t suit Claire at all. But then, this isn’t a long-term thing.

She doesn’t look surprised to see him; she doesn’t look pleased. He has long been mystified by females but this one takes the prize. She’s never the same woman twice. He’s seen her hiss like a cat and cry like a baby. Sometimes she tries to flirt, batting those long eyelashes under her fringe. Sometimes she virtually blanks him. Does she know he thinks she’s holding something back? Hardy wishes he could tell.

‘We agreed you’d keep your phone on, ’ says Hardy. ‘I haven’t got time to be chasing you like this. ’

‘I dropped it, ’ she says, gesturing to the dresser. The casing is so badly smashed that the circuitry is visible. Hardy’s just about to ask Claire whether she dropped it from a skyscraper when her eyes flick, for a split second, to a mark on the wall; a square-edged dent in the plaster. His eyes sweep the room, left to right. There’s usually a row of glasses on the shelf up there, and only one is left. The dustpan is by the bin; a single remaining bright shard glistens in the bristles of the brush. Hardy recreates the scene, Claire throwing things against the wall in a tantrum. It’s information without insight; he files it away. This is what comes out of her, but what’s inside?

He picks up the phone; it’s beyond repair. And on the inside, where Claire Ripley can’t see it, he smiles. She’s given him an opportunity he’s wanted for ages.

‘Are you due an upgrade? ’ he asks.

‘Not for another ten months. ’

‘Let me take care of it, ’ he says. ‘C’mon, now. We’ll get a new phone, a number no one knows. The press and all those other nutters will stop hassling you. I can keep you under the radar. The fewer traces you leave, the safer you’ll be. ’ Resistance is there in the twist of her mouth. She knows that him taking over the bill means he can monitor who she talks to. Her own phone is her fingertip hold on independence. She won’t cope without one. And she can’t afford a new one. Hardy might be worried about money, but at least he’s got an income to waste. Claire’s gone off-grid, no job, no benefits, nothing that will identify her. Hardy feels no compunction about exploiting that to tighten his grip on her.

He thinks quickly. He could order a new phone at his desk, have it delivered, but he doesn’t want to leave any kind of trail on his work computer. His own phone is no more secure. All coppers accept that their records might be pulled any day, for any reason. There’s a shop called Daz’s Phones in Broadchurch; he can have a new handset for her in a few hours and if one more round trip in a minicab is another expense on top of the price of the phone, then so be it.

‘I’ll come back with a new one at lunchtime, ’ he says. She starts to shake, and he grips her upper arms and looks into her eyes. There’s no flirtation in there now, just fear and confusion. She has a way of making herself look very young. ‘I’ve got to go. I do have another job apart from you. ’

Claire nods, and Hardy wonders if she realises just how loaded that statement is. Does she realise that she has the power to land him in the shit? Does she know what a huge transgression he has made? What he’s doing is not a secret you could dump on anyone, not even your most trusted colleague. And DI Alec Hardy has no mates in Broadchurch nick.

10. 55 a. m.

In CID, there’s excited chatter about a charity shop in town that’s had a smash-and-grab on a collection tin. ‘It’s all kicking off on the high street, boss, ’ says Frank, a relentlessly jovial DS. Nothing short of a murder or serious sexual assault will shake him out of his complacency. Hardy has known the horror of true evil; petty crime slides off him now. ‘Want to come and do the interview with me? ’

‘I don’t know, ’ says Hardy, taking off his jacket as sweat pools in his armpits. ‘Are you sure this isn’t one for a Major Incident Team? Serious and Organised, maybe? ’

He lets his office door slam closed behind him, but still hears Frank’s whinge: ‘Why’s he always got to be such a sarky bollocks? ’

‘Sooner Ellie comes back, the better, ’ says someone else.

At least no one has commented on his late arrival.

11. 05 a. m.

At his desk, Hardy reaches in his drawer for the next dose of medicine and is aghast to find he’s down to his last four pills. He never forgets to keep on top of his medication; it’s this ridiculous double life he’s living, it’s sending him all off track. He puts in a call to the new GP, outlines the situation, asks for an urgent appointment, and is given one for twenty minutes’ time. He’ll go to the chemist on the high street when he buys the mobile phone at lunchtime.

There’s a figure in his doorway.

‘Alec, glad I caught you at last. ’ Evidently his timekeeping has been noted after all. It’s Chief Superintendent Jenkinson, she of the ice queen smarm and the only one in Broadchurch nick who knows his history, although of course she is unaware of his immediate present.

‘Sorry, ma’am, ’ he says. ‘Dental appointment. ’

‘God, did they take a tooth out or something? You look dreadful, ’ she greets him. He’ll have to remember he’s used this excuse now. Or perhaps he could fake a dental complaint that will necessitate lots of small, sudden appointments? But then what happens if his real condition worsens? It cannot be allowed to happen. He groans inwardly to realise just how complicated juggling work and Claire could get. And this is all without a proper case to work. It’s a good thing fuck all ever happens around here.

‘Aye, something like that, ’ he replies.

‘I just wanted to brief you about Ellie, DS Miller, the officer who was in line for your job. She gets back from her holiday tomorrow. ’

Ah, the famous Ellie Miller, everyone’s best friend by the sound of things. There’s a picture of her in the kitchenette, a page torn from the Broadchurch Echo. COPPER RUNS 10K FOR HOSPICE says the headline, above a picture of a grinning woman dressed up as a bee at the start-line of a charity fun run. A bee, for fuck’s sake. If she was the competition, no wonder he waltzed into the job. ‘Anyway, let me deal with her when she comes in. Your presence here is probably going to come as a shock. It’s tricky. ’

‘Tricky for her, maybe, not for me. If she wasn’t good enough, that’s her problem. ’

Jenkinson narrows her eyes. ‘Please try to be sensitive about this, Alec. Speaking of sensitivity, I’ve had a request from Maggie Radcliffe, editor of the local paper. She’d like an interview with you. ’

Alec visibly stiffens. ‘How does she …’

He’s been deliberately vague about his past. On his first day, Frank jumped to the conclusion he’d come straight from Scotland and the assumption has stuck.

‘It’s not about Sandbrook, not as far as I’m aware, ’ says Jenkinson. ‘She just wants your picture in the paper. Wants the locals to get to know their latest DI. It’s that kind of place. ’

‘No, ’ he says. ‘No way. I’m through with the press. ’ The hand on the clock jumps another minute closer to his appointment at the doctor’s. ‘Ma’am, if it’s OK, I’ve got to be somewhere. ’

11. 24 a. m.

Hardy circles the harbour at the fastest pace he can manage, his breath noisy in a tight chest. A seagull hops along beside him, little button eyes looking at him with such impertinence he’s sure it must be the one from the hotel. He’s wondering how fast a seagull’s reflexes are, whether it would get out of the way in time if he swung his boot into its face, but people are watching.

He makes it to the GP just in time, and has a prescription written out to last him another month.

Outside the surgery, his phone rings. ‘Ah, there you are, boss, ’ says Frank. ‘Three more charity tins nicked. That takes it up to four today. Uniform are on the high street. ’

Hardy fingers the prescription in his pocket. It would be useful for him to go to the high street now. ‘Let’s go and see what’s what. Pick me up at the harbour edge. ’

11. 40 a. m.

On the short drive, Frank briefs Hardy about the crime wave: two charity shops, a discount bookshop and a café. ‘I’ve already done a phoner with the first victim, ’ he says. ‘Manager of the St Margaret’s charity shop, Liz Roper. She was out the back in the stock room when it happened; she didn’t hear anything till the door banged when they left. ’

Their first port of call is the second charity shop, a shabby little enterprise in aid of a dog shelter. Deirdre, the volunteer, needs a great deal of comforting before she can bring herself to talk, and when she regains her composure there is much fussing over tea and biscuits which Frank only serves to prolong.

‘Where’s Ellie? ’ says Deirdre. ‘Still in Florida? ’

‘Back tomorrow, ’ says Frank, dunking a custard cream. Hardy surreptitiously washes down the last of his medicine with sweet, stewed tea. He’s so unused to caffeine that even one mouthful goes straight to his veins, and he sets the cup to one side.

‘Ooh, I hope she brings a bit of the sunshine back with her. ’

‘Weather said we’re in for a mini-heatwave, ’ says Frank. ‘Apparently—’

Hardy cuts in. ‘What time was the collection box stolen? ’

Deirdre shifts her bosom, affronted. ‘I didn’t actually see it go. I just noticed it was gone, around 11 a. m., ’ she says.

Hardy inspects the counter; it is smooth, no flakes of wood or broken plastic to indicate how the box was removed. ‘How was it secured? ’ he asks. Deirdre blinks slowly.

‘Well, it wasn’t, was it? It was just left there, on the counter. Because that sort of thing doesn’t happen round here, ’ she says. ‘You’ve got to have a bit of trust, or where are you? ’

The interview circles on for nearly an hour. Hardy can see the chemist and the phone shop across the street, but can’t get to either of them without Frank asking why. Deirdre drones on. Hardy has had more enjoyable angiograms.

1. 49 p. m.

It gets slightly better at the café. There, the waitress saw two kids, both with their hoods up, hanging around the counter. She threw them out, thinking they were trying to nick Cokes, and only realised the collection box was gone when Liz Roper from St Margaret’s came in and told her what had happened there. The kids left on bikes, she can’t say in which direction.

And there’s a ray of hope in the bookshop. There, one of the kids distracted the owner by kicking over a display in the corner, while the other ripped the tin from its chains. Their hoods were up, but the whole thing was captured on CCTV.

‘You’re welcome to the tape, ’ says the bookshop owner. ‘But it isn’t exactly state-of-the-art. ’ And from a machine by the till, he ejects a chunky black VHS cassette. Could be worse; could be Betamax.

Hardy hands it to his colleague. ‘Do what you can with that. Are uniform checking out all the skate parks and the amusements? ’ Frank nods. ‘Get all the CCTV from the high street this morning, They can’t have gone far without being picked up. ’

‘Actually, this place is riddled with blind spots, ’ says Frank. ‘There’s lots of little alleyways linking the streets. If they’re local, they’d probably be able to get from one end of Broadchurch to the other without being picked up. ’

‘Have you rung the local secondary to see if any of the usual suspects are bunking off today? ’ Frank shakes his head. ‘Well, do that, go back to CID and get all this logged. ’

Frank nods and trots off to the car. That’s the good thing about someone of senior rank being dropped in – they don’t question you. They’re good little sheep really.

3. 30 p. m.

Directly outside Daz’s Phones is a young man with a notebook in hand and a press pass around his neck, deep in conversation with Deirdre. Hardy ducks his head, then swings left towards the chemist.

The pharmacist reads Hardy’s prescription then makes a little moue of concern. ‘One minute. ’ She disappears into a back area where small boxes of medicine are stacked floor to ceiling like uneven bricks.

‘Mr Hardy, we can get this in for you by tomorrow afternoon, OK? ’

Hardy’s mouth goes dry.

‘No. No, it is not OK. I need these pills today. ’

‘It’s just that it’s a very specific combination, your prescription. It’s a shame it’s the afternoon or I could have sent you through to the pharmacy at the cottage hospital, but they’re only open till 1 p. m., since the cuts. ’ She looks at him sternly. ‘I’m surprised you let the prescription expire, to be honest. I’ll make a call, though, see what I can do. ’

While she mumbles in the back room Hardy surveys Broadchurch high street. School’s out and children in blue uniforms walk down the road in twos and threes, many of them gliding past on bikes and skateboards. That’s the one thing Broadchurch has going for it: childhood is still childhood here. Hardy and Tess haven’t let Daisy out on her own since the day he found Pippa Gillespie’s body. He wonders if it would be different here. Probably not, not after what happened. Not after what he’s seen.

The pharmacist re-emerges. ‘Right, they’ve got these in the late-opening chemist in Beaminster. ’

‘You are shitting me, ’ says Hardy. Beaminster is a forty-quid round trip in a cab. There’s no way he can get a uniform to drive him out. Another hour lost from the day and he still hasn’t got Claire a new phone. Lunchtime has been and gone and she’s on her own at the cottage, without a phone, in a weird mood, liable to panic, liable to … he doesn’t know what she might do. That’s the problem.

But he needs these pills.

‘Just gimme the postcode, ’ says Hardy. The pharmacist holds her pen in the air for a few seconds, clearly giving him some time to think about his language, then scribbles an address on the back of the prescription.

4. 45 p. m.

Daz, a short, fat man with receding hair in dreadlocks, seems a bit shocked by Hardy’s request for a handset and contract. ‘Wow – you’re the second this afternoon! We do more unlocking and accessories than actual phones, really. Still, having said that, the woman earlier didn’t buy anything. ’ Hardy feels his heart clench and release. Was it Claire? She had promised she wouldn’t come into Broadchurch. For his scheme to work, everything needs to stay in the neat compartments he has created. ‘Said she couldn’t afford my prices. You can’t compete with the big out-of-town stores, that’s the problem. I don’t suppose you’d sign my petition, trying to get a few more people to shop local, and …’

Hardy’s swiping through his own phone, thumb skidding over images of Daisy until finally he pulls up what he’s looking for, a picture of Claire, surreptitiously snapped the day he brought her to Wessex. It goes against everything he’s put together to let a Broadchurch resident connect him with her, but he needs to know. The shape of his day depends on it. Whatever is left of the Sandbrook case could depend on it.

‘It wasn’t this woman, was it? ’

‘That’s her! ’ says Daz. Oh, Christ, thinks Hardy. How did she get to Broadchurch? Did she walk?

‘I had to say to her in the end, the only way you’re going to get a phone on your budget is if you go to the big Tesco on the way to West Milton. Is she anything to do with all these money boxes being nicked? She doesn’t look the type. ’

‘It’s a line of enquiry, ’ says Hardy, and he’s off, Daz waving the petition at his back.

5. 30 p. m.

‘Where to, guvnor? ’ says the latest minicab driver.

Hardy hesitates. His vision is blurring, always a sure sign he needs to take a tablet, sit down, lie down if possible. Reason says he ought to go to the pharmacy. But the broken logic of his post-Sandbrook mind is stronger: Claire is on the loose, upset, at risk or even posing it. ‘Big Tesco, West Milton, ’ he says, even though it is in the opposite direction to Beaminster where his medication patiently waits for him. They are out of Broadchurch in minutes, and he closes his eyes against the soft green rise and fall of the Wessex downs.

Sitting in the car, his body has a chance to recover but his mind works faster than ever. It hits him again just how wild this goose-chase is. What’s to say Claire will even be there? And what if she’s been and he’s missed her? What if she’s bought another phone already and he’s lost that chance to keep her close? A thought snaps his eyes open. Maybe she’s had a second phone all along. He didn’t think of that. He needs to search the cottage, but how can he do that when she never goes anywhere?

His phone buzzes next to his heart. Work. Hardy balks before answering it: if it’s Jenkinson wondering where he is now, what will he say? Bad reaction to this morning’s procedure? He runs through excuses like a kid caught bunking school.

But it’s only Frank, so excited by developments in the heist of the century that he doesn’t even ask where Hardy is.

‘Three more collection boxes reported gone, ’ he says, bristling with self-importance. ‘They got one from the church, the little sods, one outside the newsagent on the harbour and another one from just inside the tourist office. They’ve used bolt-cutters for all of them. ’

‘They’re raising the stakes, ’ Hardy says.

‘More CCTV’s come in, although it’s not all that helpful. Nothing special about the kids. Nothing special about the bikes. And we don’t know which way they went. ’

‘Send it all to my phone anyway. ’

‘What about the local press? ’ suggests Frank. ‘I’ve had the Echo on the phone; they’re usually very good with this sort of thing. ’

That’s one responsibility Hardy is all too happy to delegate. ‘Knock yourself out. ’

The images that come through from Frank are the best yet; the boys have been captured from behind and their hoods are still up but the charity tins are clearly visible poking from their rucksacks. A couple of the pictures are even in colour. Hardy studies the photographs and tries to work out which camera captured them; from the angle he calculates it must be the bank on the corner. He zooms in on one of them. There’s something distinctive about one of the bikes: a lurid lime green that sears Hardy’s retina even at this remove. What does it remind him of? He pulls the zoom to 100 per cent and sees that it’s a bad spray job, some of the spray on the mudguards. He calls Frank and tells him where to search next.

6. 08 p. m.

He finds Claire in the electrical section, wandering around the phone displays with that slack, blank look you get when you’re trying to process too much information. He folds his arms and watches her as she turns out her little cloth purse, cobbling together a handful of fivers then studying the price tags like she hopes they’ll suddenly change. How did she expect to get home? They’re thirty miles and twenty quid from the cottage.

He walks up to her and clears his throat. Her face is a blank mask: even the pout of surprise only lasts for a split second, then she all but throws herself into his arms. ‘How could you leave me like that, Alec? I was so scared. ’ She gestures around the supermarket as though surprised to find herself there. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. ’

He’s beginning to think that Claire knows exactly what she’s doing. Is she taking him for a fool? He takes her by the upper arm and leads her across the store, on the lookout for somewhere he can talk to her in relative privacy. He finds a spot at the end of the wines and spirits aisle where the checkouts are shut. ‘I made a promise to look after you, ’ he hisses under his breath. ‘But I can’t keep that promise if you run off like this. ’

‘You left me without a phone! ’ she whispers. ‘I didn’t feel safe. ’

A man loading his basket with wine raises an eyebrow and smiles, as if this is a familiar minor domestic.

‘Right, well, let’s do that now, shall we? I’ll pay for it. No arguments. ’

They march back to the electrical aisle and Hardy picks up a bog-standard pay-as-you-go, knowing full well that he’ll upgrade the account to a contract with itemised billing first thing tomorrow. Claire has no choice but to acquiesce. She folds her arms across her chest and holds whatever she’s feeling close.

‘How’d you get here, anyway? ’ he says, as they stand in the queue to pay.

‘Hitch-hiked, ’ she says in a babyish voice that’s presumably meant to stop him losing his temper with her.

He loses his temper with her.

‘You hitched? ’ he yells. Nearby shoppers stop pushing their trolleys and turn to enjoy the show; Hardy lowers his voice. ‘And you have the temerity to tell me I’m not keeping you safe enough? Christ. Let’s go. ’

She snorts. ‘I don’t want to go back there. ’

He tries to swallow his rage at her ingratitude.

‘Move, ’ he says, ushering her into the queue. He pays for the phone and drops it into a carrier. He doesn’t have a home any more either, or a marriage, or a family, thanks to the shockwaves of the Sandbrook case. But he can’t tell her that, it would be giving her too much of himself.

A twinge in his chest acts as an alarm call; he’s half an hour late taking his medication. He needs to leave now if he’s to catch the chemist, and take Claire with him. The detour is worth it if it means she stays put. Even she won’t do another runner in the dark. Will she? He fumbles in his pocket for the prescription. Sweat has soaked through his shirt and the address is smudged to illegibility. Panic intensifies his symptoms and he starts to pant.

‘Oh my God, Alec, what’s wrong with you? ’ says Claire. Her shock and concern seem genuine. Hardy can’t answer; pins and needles shoot through his arms and legs and when he tries to walk, his feet drag on the ground.

‘Right, you sit down here, ’ says Claire. Now she holds him by the arm as she steers him to a bench near the café. Vertigo tilts Hardy’s world and the effort to stay upright leaves him defenceless as Claire takes the crumpled paper from his hands. No, he tries to say but his throat closes around the world. No no no no no but he is helpless as her blurred figure vanishes from view. Hardy closes his eyes, leans his head against the wall and surrenders to the darkness.

7. 01 p. m.

Claire is there, opening a bottle of water and popping the tablets from their blister pack, pushing one onto his tongue. ‘There, ’ she says, then holds the bottle to his lips. For three seconds, maybe four, he gives in to the soft warmth of her hand on his chin, her arm around his shoulders. How long has it been since a woman looked after him like this? How long has it been since a woman touched him? It spills down his cheek but that’s good, it wakes him up again, and he takes the bottle from her with a muttered thanks.

‘How’d you get them so quickly? ’ he says.

‘Did you not notice the great big chemist’s sign over your head? ’ she says. Hardy follows her gaze to a green and white cross on the wall.

She’s smiling as if she’s got one over on him. Or is he imagining that?

7. 52 p. m.

They head back to the cottage in yet another minicab. Hardy tots up the day’s fares: close on a hundred quid. This is unsustainable.

His phone goes again. ‘We got them, ’ says Frank. ‘Just where you said they would be. I tell you what, it must be easier to break into Buckingham Palace than it is to open one of them boxes without the key. The boys were trying to smash them up with hammers. I don’t think they got a penny out of them. ’

‘Good work, Frank, ’ says Hardy sardonically, and he waits for Frank to acknowledge that if it weren’t for Hardy, they’d all still be searching the amusement arcade blindly and in vain. It doesn’t happen.

‘By the way, the Chief Super was sniffing around after you, ’ says Frank. Hardy feels his gorge rise and waits for the questioning but there’s no curiosity in Frank’s voice, only a matey warning. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, then, ’ he says, when Hardy doesn’t answer. ‘I’m taking a half day. It’s sports day at my kids’ school tomorrow. I’m in the dads’ egg and spoon race. Wish me luck! ’

Hardy cuts the call dead.

9 p. m.

Dusk is falling by the time they get back to Claire’s cottage. A waxing moon gives out a weak silvery light. The countryside has got all its sound effects turned up loud tonight. Grasshoppers sing and rodents rustle in the long borders that line the verges. Somewhere, an owl even hoots.

In the kitchen, Hardy plugs the phone in and watches the little pinwheel spin as it charges.

‘Glass of wine? ’ says Claire, like they’re a couple just in from a long day at work.

‘No. ’

‘Suit yourself, ’ she says, pouring a good glug of red into the remaining wine glass. She is getting harder, not easier, to read. He wishes he could download her mind and search it forensically.

He punches his own number into her phone.

‘Did you mean that, about looking after me? ’ asks Claire.

‘It’s my job, ’ he says, although they both know that he has answered the call of something deeper than duty. ‘Look, it’s been a long day. I’ll ring you in the morning. ’

Hardy pulls out his phone to call a car and wanders into the front garden where the signal is strongest. Claire follows him, her breath on the back of his neck. The countryside rolls out all around them, dark blue velvet, and Hardy instinctively turns towards where the sea is. They are miles inland, though, and he must be imagining the salt in the breeze.

Today has nearly killed him. He’ll deal with her again tomorrow when he has the strength. Today was a one-off. A blip. Now she’s got her phone and he’s got his medication. Tomorrow they’ll charge a couple of little thieves and that’ll be it. No drama, unless the dads’ egg and spoon race turns nasty.

Claire puts her hand on his arm, pushing the phone down and away, and looks up into Hardy’s eyes. Gently, gently, she stares him out in a dark, horribly adult version of the childhood game where the loser blinks first. Her eyes widen until the whites are visible around the green irises, and her pupils are huge black pools. Hardy stares back and lets his thoughts telegraph to hers. I will get the truth out of you, he thinks, and soon. I will find out what you know. I will find out who is responsible for those girls’ deaths and I will put them behind bars. I will do this. I will get them. Whatever it takes.

A bat flaps through the trees above them, and they both blink at the same time.

Tomorrow, he thinks.

Have you read all the Broadchurch short stories?

#1 The End is Where it Begins (Ellie)

#2 The Letter (Maggie)

#3 Old Friends (Jocelyn)

#4 Over The Side (Tess)

#5 Protection (Sharon)

#6 One More Secret (Beth)

#7 The Leaving of Claire Ripley (Claire)