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.’