Unlike Alec Hardy’s investigation room, the Broadchurch Echo does not have a clean-desk policy. Karen and Olly, going hard after Jack Marshall, are drowning in paperwork. Every surface is awash with Post-its, web printouts, newspapers and notes spilling from box files. It seems to multiply when they’re not looking, as do the dirty mugs that pile up around them.
They are alone in the office. Maggie’s ill or something: she’s been in a strange mood all day, snappy and vague, forgoing her usual long walk home in favour of getting Lil to come and pick her up in the car. Olly’s worried about her but Karen feels liberated; with Maggie gone, she can do things her way.
‘Anything interesting?’ she asks. Olly rummages noisily through loose pages until he finds a picture of Jack with his arms round a Sea Brigade boy.
‘I’m going to dig out the original,’ he says, handing it to Karen and taking the photograph she gives him in return. It’s a picture of Jack looking angry on the threshold of the Latimer house.
‘Wow,’ he whistles. ‘Where’d you get this?’ Karen is gratified by his response. She got the picture exclusive herself, inviting the photographer to her hotel and making an offer on behalf of the Herald. When the story made the News At Ten, Danvers all but gave her a blank chequebook.
‘Why’d he go to their house?’ asks Olly.
‘Exactly,’ says Karen. ‘OK. Four hundred words on the reconstruction and then, main article, the exclusive, everything you dug up on Jack, especially his previous convictions. Write it up.’
‘Me?’ Olly looks equally delighted and terrified. ‘I’ve never written for a national.’
‘Look at your little face! Of course you. You did the work, you write the article. They can run it under my byline, it’ll be our secret.’
She keeps Olly topped up with tea and biscuits, watching surreptitiously over his shoulder as he types. He’s making some rookie mistakes – not mentioning Marshall’s age until the end of the piece, neglecting to mention how close his house is to the beach – but he’s got all the facts, asking questions, there’s a clear point of view and nothing’s sensationalised. Karen thinks fondly back to her own apprenticeship, learning on the job as seasoned Fleet Street hacks taught her how to be a reporter, line by line. Most of the kids coming up through the newsrooms now don’t know how to write an original report. It feels good to hand the old skills on, even if they are on their way out.
She motions for Olly to pull his chair close to hers. She can feel his breath on her cheek as she edits the piece, hard. He’s crestfallen at first, but she talks him through the reason for each cut-and-paste and by the end he’s grinning with the delight of what she’s done to his piece. ‘That is brilliant, it’s loads better. You’ve smashed it,’ he says.
‘Shall we press send?’
He hits the button himself, happy as a little kid being allowed to play on his mum’s computer.
Karen is more guarded. It’s good copy. But that doesn’t guarantee it’ll make tomorrow’s paper. They are still at the mercy of Len Danvers’ whim and of course the news itself, which doesn’t respect her commitment to this story. Who knows which other stories are creeping up on the inside lane? Karen is losing track of what’s happening in the outside world.
She is so lost in thought that she barely registers the small shifting movement at her side. When Olly lunges to kiss her, she recoils in shock rather than distaste.
‘Sorry.’ Olly is mortified. ‘It’s just… I’ve been wanting to do that ever since you first walked in.’ His olive skin flushes.
‘You cheeky bastard!’ says Karen, to cover how flattered she is. ‘We’re working here.’
‘Sorry. It was inappropriate.’ But there’s no denying the tingle his lips left on hers.
‘Yeah,’ says Karen. ‘It was.’ A second later, she’s kissing him back.
Four hours after the press conference and Beth is already used to seeing her own face, drawn and tear-stained, on the television. Danny is the top story every half-hour. What’s weird is how quickly it stops being weird. This is how it should be: this is what he deserves.
When midnight comes and goes, and yawns distort the screen, Beth and Mark go up to bed. Automatically she turns the bedroom television on, too, volume on low so as not to wake Chloe. If it goes off, they might have to finish the conversation that was cut short by the press conference. Beth wonders now what possessed her to initiate it. Mark takes the remote from her hand and gently mutes the set.
‘Are we going to talk about what happened?’ He’s fidgeting, shuffling his feet and smoothing down his hair. It’s a long time – years – since Beth has seen Mark nervous about anything. Despite her anger, there’s a reflexive urge to comfort him. She summons the image of him and Becca on the harbour and the urge subsides.
She turns so that she’s sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to him. If they’re going to have this conversation, she’s not sure she can bear to look him in the eye. It’s the only way she’ll stay strong enough not to break down.
‘You mean what you did?’
‘Yeah.’
The swelling hurt inside her finally bursts. ‘OK,’ she begins carefully. ‘You selfish… childish… egotistical… self-centred bastard.’ Each word lets a little more air out of the balloon.
‘Yeah,’ he agrees. Is that all he’s got? Rage rises again. She has an unlimited supply of it.
‘Two children. Two. Children.’ She begins to shake. ‘Fifteen years of collecting all of everyone’s shit and washing it and cleaning it and folding it and tidying it and going back to the start like I’m on a bloody wheel. I’ve had offers too, you know. I could’ve shagged my way around the King’s Arms, for a start.’
‘I’m sure you could.’
‘But I didn’t. Because I’m a… I’m a human being, not a bloody animal. Fifteen. Fifteen, I’ve been with you, since —’ He’s got no defence, and the humiliating but essential question she’s been dreading slips into the silence. ‘Do you still fancy me?’
‘’Course I do!’ he says indignantly. It’s almost more insulting than the ‘no’ she was expecting.
‘No, not of course you do! You had sex with someone else! Why? What don’t you get from me? Truthfully.’ She stares fixedly ahead. A long pause follows: she can hear Mark weighing up the pros and cons of truth and lies. She can’t see his face, but she doesn’t need to. She knows him well enough to picture the twisting mouth, the shifting posture.
‘Surprise,’ he hits her with.
‘Wow,’ says Beth, vainly trying to mask her hurt with sarcasm. ‘’Cause I’m not, what, inventive enough? What is it you want, S&M? Role play? Threesomes? Well, I’m sorry, but if I’m dull, it’s only because I’ve never slept with anyone apart from you.’
‘It wasn’t about you, Beth.’ Impatience tinges his words.
‘Becca, then.’ She spits the name. ‘What’s so great about her?’
‘She was different.’ Mark shrugs. ‘Not sexier, not prettier. Just… new.’ He sweeps his hand across the room. ‘This house, this town, the job of mine, that’s all my life will ever be and I knew every second of it and every second to come. I just felt trapped, Beth. And that’s why I did it. And I wish to God I hadn’t.’ His voice breaks. ‘I wish I could get our old, predictable, beautiful life back, because what I wouldn’t give for that right now. But I can’t, can I?’ He waits for her response but she’s too bloody tired. ‘I don’t want to lose you, Beth. But I think I already have.’
‘I’m pregnant,’ she says, to her own shock as well as Mark’s. He fails to suppress a smile and she’s furious with herself.
‘Since when?’
She rolls her eyes. It’s not like their sex life is so relentless it all blurs into one. ‘Ouzo night. First shag in months.’
‘You have to keep it.’
‘I don’t have to do anything you say right now.’ Finally something feels good. The moment of triumph is swiftly followed by the sickening realisation that she has only told Mark about the baby for the spiteful pleasure of threatening to take it away from him.
The weather is on its best behaviour this morning. There is just enough breeze to take the sting out of a strong sun, and the sea and the sky compete for the brightest shade of blue.
Up on the clifftop path, Beth is a blur of black-and-red Lycra. She runs too fast for eye contact or condolence, too fast for anyone to notice the subtle convexity of her belly. If she could bring herself to look at Harbour Cliff Beach she would see that the crime scene tents are being dismantled and the cordon removed, restoring the shoreline to its picture-postcard glory.
Down on the harbourside, Reverend Paul Coates looks on as Becca Fisher comes to the end of an interview for local radio. The reporter brought her down to the sea for the sound effects but the waves and the seagulls are proving stiff competition and she is forced to lean in close to the microphone that she’s clearly terrified of.
‘As you can see,’ she says, ‘the police tape’s coming down, the beaches are fully open, it’s a beautiful part of the world, and we hope people won’t be put off coming by this tragic but isolated event.’
The reporter slips his headphones around his neck to signal that the conversation is over and Becca gives a long exhalation of relief. She turns to Paul. ‘Did I sound like a complete arsehole?’
‘Not a complete one,’ he smiles. ‘I’m next up, so you’ll have some competition.’
‘I hate this stuff,’ she admits. ‘I’ve never done it before.’
‘I do it all the time. Just nobody normally cares except my mum. It’s the only time she believes I’m a real priest.’
‘That’s parents for you,’ says Becca. She folds her arms and kicks an imaginary pebble at her feet while the reporter listens to the playback of their conversation.
‘You got family here?’ says Paul.
‘No. Melbourne. Worrying about me. I wish I’d never told them the business was in trouble.’
Paul frowns, as though only now remembering something. ‘Wasn’t there a guy who used to run the Traders with you?’
‘My partner,’ she says with a grimace. ‘Ex-partner. It ended badly. Well, started badly, middled badly, ended badly. Here’s what I’ve learned: don’t buy a hotel with a dickhead.’
Paul smiles. ‘Good advice. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians says much the same.’
Becca laughs in surprise. ‘You’re funny. Never met a funny vicar before.’
The researcher motions Paul over to the bench. He rubs his hands together in anticipation before stepping up to the microphone.
The beds at the Traders are very comfortable. Olly Stevens and Karen White, who have had something of a late night, both sleep in well past breakfast.
He wakes first, jumping out of bed like a jack-in-a-box when he realises the time. Karen stirs but her head stays firmly on the pillow while she replays the events of the previous evening in fast-forward. Behind her, she can hear Olly fighting his way into his clothes. Fun as it was, she doesn’t want this going public any more than she wants him getting heavy.
‘You are going to use the back entrance, aren’t you?’ she says.
‘You really are one dirty girl,’ begins Olly, then blushes to realise she was being literal. ‘Ah. Got you.’ He does up his shirt, the buttons misaligned with their holes so that he has to start again. ‘But we had a – a good – I mean, it was nice? It was all right, wasn’t it?’
Karen stretches like a cat under the covers. ‘You’re quite needy, Olly, always wanting affirmation, anyone tell you that?’
‘Always grateful for feedback. Happy to give it another go.’
‘Maybe,’ she says. She needs them to part on a professional note. ‘Hey, I was wondering, that boat the police turned up? How would you get out that far? Could you row, do you need a motor?’
He gathers his coat from where it lies puddled by the door, then puts one hand on the doorknob. ‘I’ll tell you, if you call me later,’ he grins, then he’s gone. Before she can remind him to use the back door, he returns, the smile vanished and a copy of the Herald in his hand.
‘This isn’t what we wrote,’ he says.
Karen doesn’t care who sees them together as they sprint to the Echo office. She wants to make this call on speakerphone, with Olly and Maggie as her witnesses.
‘That’s not my article!’ she says when Len Danvers picks up. ‘You rewrote the whole bloody thing, loaded it against him.’
‘Now it’s got punch,’ he says. The mask of anxiety on Maggie’s face flickers briefly into something like amusement.
‘But everyone here’s going to think I wrote it!’ Karen can hear the whine and barely recognises herself. What’s wrong with her? These people are getting to her. She’ll turn into one of them if she stays here any longer. Maybe the small-town mentality is sexually transmitted.
‘Don’t get too close to the flame,’ Danvers crackles over the speakerphone. ‘You’re ahead of the pack. Keep going.’
When he ends the call, Karen turns to Maggie. ‘Before you go off on me, read the piece I sent. It was totally different.’ She’s surprised how important Maggie’s respect has become to her. She needs the real thing, she realises, not just Olly’s adulation.
Maggie snorts. ‘You got a page-one story but they threw you under the bus,’ she says. Clearly she saw this coming from day one. ‘The more things change, the more they stay the same. No use feeling sorry for yourself. Get back out there and write something so brilliant, so truthful, that he can’t change a word. You owe us that.’
The words hit home hard. Karen isn’t used to questioning her own judgement, and it’s a horrible feeling. It’s not that she thinks Jack Marshall is innocent – far from it – but reluctantly she admits to herself that maybe, in her haste to beat Alec Hardy, she might have jumped the gun. She should have waited until she had something harder, a better source, and then she should have written the piece herself. Even with a hard edit, Olly’s article was still loose enough for them to pick apart and knit into this sensationalist shit.
Cheeks blazing, she sits down heavily at her desk and checks her emails for the first time that day. There are forty-five unread messages in her inbox. Even at a glance she can see that most of them are from old contacts – people she hasn’t spoken to for years – wanting the inside track on Broadchurch. Karen’s misgivings evaporate. The search for Danny Latimer’s killer is the hottest story in the country. She has done the right thing by the victim’s family. Nothing else matters.
There are no customers in the newsagent’s. The only movement in the shop is the soft plastic ripple of the rainbow curtain.
Jack Marshall stands behind the counter, a copy of the Daily Herald before him, staring down into the terrible mirror of the front page.
I DID NOT KILL YOUR SON
EXCLUSIVE: EX-CON SHOPKEEPER’S PLEA TO DANNY’S PARENTS
His face is blank.