It is the first Sunday since Danny’s body was found. In St Andrew’s church, the dead in the graveyard outnumber the living inside by a hundred to one. Susan Wright watches through narrowed eyes as Liz Roper is comforted by a friend. Jack Marshall looks determinedly to the altar, where Reverend Paul Coates leans heavily on his pulpit.
‘It’s at times like this, we question our faith. Why would a benevolent god allow this to happen? I’m sure we’re all asking that question after the events of last week.’
Liz’s hand rises to the little gold cross around her neck. After the service, the rest of the congregation file out, but she remains in her pew, head bowed, eyes closed. She is there for long enough that when she opens her eyes, the Reverend has changed out of his vestments into simple trousers and a cardigan. He kneels beside her.
‘How are you coping?’ he asks.
‘Oh, it’s not about me, is it?’ she says with forced cheer. ‘It’s Beth and Mark I worry about.’
‘You’re his grandmother. You can’t shut it out.’
Her voice drops. ‘I know.’ She sighs and looks to the leaded lights. ‘This helps. It was a good service. Meant a lot to me – and to the others who came.’
Paul rolls his eyes. ‘Nineteen people. In a town of fifteen thousand.’
‘After the last couple of days. Hardly credit it, can you?’
‘I swear, I have done everything,’ he says wearily. ‘I’ve been into every school and hospital and care home and community centre. I’ve been to every fête and festival and show. Three years. Even now… nothing.’
‘People never know what they need until it’s given to them,’ says Liz, taking his hand. ‘That’s what we need from you. All of us. I’m praying that’s why God placed you here. Our challenge is your challenge. Help us.’ Paul Coates takes both of Liz’s hands in his. They stay like that until she has to pull away and fumble for a tissue. ‘There’s something I want to ask you. Show you, really,’ she says. ‘It’s outside.’
In the far corner of the churchyard, where the graves are still well-tended, a tall headstone stands under a spreading yew.
GEOFFREY ROPER
1954–2007
Beloved Husband, Dad, Granddad
Gone too soon
The bottom half of the stone is blank.
‘We had it left that way for me when we lost him,’ says Liz. ‘It’s all set up so there’s room for another grave. I was wondering if we could lay Dan to rest in there? They were thick as thieves, that pair. I know it’s silly, but I like the idea of them looking after each other.’
‘It’s not silly at all,’ says Paul. ‘I think it’s beautiful. Have you talked to Beth about this? The request would need to come from her and Mark.’
Liz blows her nose noisily and shakes her head. ‘I didn’t want to, not till I’d sounded you out about it first. I thought it might be something I can do for her, take a bit of pressure off her. I know I’m Danny’s nan, but I’m still her mum, too.’ She starts to cry again. ‘But there’s nothing anyone can do to help her really, is there? The only thing she wants is the one thing she can never have.’
Ellie and Hardy watch the clifftop car park CCTV footage from the night Danny was killed. The only movement on the grainy screen is the time stamp stripping the seconds away. Time passes with paint-drying slowness and they both jump when, at 1.23 a.m., a car pulls up. It’s too dark and blurred to make out the registration but there’s no mistaking the figure who gets out. Ellie recognises him before Hardy does. After all, she’s known him for over a decade.
‘He said he was out on a job,’ Ellie whispers. What does this mean? Either Beth knows he was out and she’s lying to cover for Mark. Or Beth doesn’t know he was out, and Mark is lying to everyone. Adrenalin pumps through Ellie, bringing with it confusion rather than clarity.
On the screen Mark Latimer leans back on the bonnet of his car, arms folded.
‘He’s waiting for someone,’ says Hardy. ‘I bet I’m right.’ He peers closely at the screen. Mark stirs, as though he’s heard someone approach. Hardy rubs his hands together.
The screen goes black.
‘Where’s the next tape?’
Ellie checks the evidence bag and finds only a note. ‘Apparently they only have one and they record over it, to save money.’
‘Bollocks!’ Hardy brings his fist down on his desk as this small-town penny-pinching sends Broadchurch down another rung on the ladder of his estimation. Ellie is ashamed of this failure, even though it’s nothing to do with her.
There’s a knock behind them and Steve Connolly, that phone engineer who’s been getting under everyone’s feet all day, is in the doorway, his belt full of tools.
‘Steve Connolly.’ He introduces himself nervously, as though his name is a trigger. ‘It’s Danny Latimer you’re doing, isn’t it? It’s something to do with water. I’ve been told it’s something to do with water.’
Ellie is close enough to Hardy to feel his temperature rise.
‘Told by who?’ she asks.
‘I have this… I have this thing, where I get, I get messages. Psychic messages.’
‘Ach, for God’s sake, who let you in?’ says Hardy, pushing back from his desk. He must be half Connolly’s weight, but indignation seems to lend him mass. Ellie opens the door to usher Connolly out.
‘No, no, no, the thing about the water, that’s important.’ His hand stretches out in placation. ‘I’m supposed to tell you, he was in a boat. He was put in a boat. I don’t know why.’
Ellie studies him hard. He doesn’t look like her idea of a psychic. No silly hair or flamboyant clothes or runic jewellery. He looks like a phone engineer. It’s that, and his admission that he doesn’t understand what’s happening himself, that’s so unnerving.
‘Who told you this, where’d you get this from?’ she asks.
Connolly blinks at them, like it should have been obvious from his first words. ‘Danny.’ Ellie can’t hide her disgust. ‘I don’t want this,’ he protests. ‘It comes to me.’
‘Oh, you’re a reluctant psychic,’ says Hardy. He’s at his mordant best: almost enjoying himself. Connolly takes the proffered offence.
‘You don’t want to listen, that’s fine,’ he says petulantly.
‘A child has died,’ Hardy roars, his accent strengthening in proportion to the volume. ‘And you come in with this self-indulgent horseshit.’
The room outside stops buzzing. Frank’s at the door, ready to jump in.
‘Take him away,’ orders Hardy, turning in his chair to face the wall. Frank puts a hand on the small of Connolly’s back and guides him out of the corner office. Connolly doesn’t resist, but shakes his head. At the threshold, he throws a last riddle over his shoulder.
‘She says she forgives you,’ he says to Hardy. ‘About the pendant.’
Ellie watches as anger blanches Hardy’s already pale skin and for a moment she’s genuinely worried her boss is about to lose control. He remains rigid, as though he’s counting to ten, for longer than he needs to after Connolly has gone. When finally he snaps into action again, it’s as though nothing has happened.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Back to the real investigation. Let’s find out why Mark Latimer lied to us about where he was that night. What now?’
Nish is at the door with a handful of papers.
‘Danny’s social networking profiles,’ he says. ‘Fresh from his hard drive.’
‘Third of May,’ Ellie reads aloud. ‘Going to get a lock on my door. Keep all this crap out. Twelfth of May: Dear Dad, remember me? I’m the one you used to play with. Twelfth of May again: I know what he’s doing.’
Ellie is at a loss: she never heard Danny talk like this. What could he have meant?
She looks to Hardy for his reaction but he has grabbed his coat and is already leaving in a batwing sweep. She follows him out of the door, dragging her feet. She doesn’t want to do this. But doubt has grabbed hold of her and only talking to Mark will shake it loose.