Hardy gathers the Operation Cogden team in front of the whiteboard. He still doesn’t know them all by name: he used to rely on Miller for that sort of thing.
‘At 5 p.m., I will tell the family,’ he says. ‘I’ll then make a short statement to the media. And then we all need to be on hand. This information is going to run a crack through this community. Nish is distributing a list of responsibilities for individuals and groups. You all know DS Miller. She has been removed from the case and put on leave with full pay. There is no suggestion she knew.’ He draws a line with his finger in the air. ‘There is no suggestion she covered anything up. You’re her colleagues and friends. This is unthinkable for her. She’ll need you. She’ll need all of us.’
There are no raised eyebrows, nothing to hint that anyone suspects Miller’s guilt or complicity. But Hardy’s next speech will have a very different audience.
Mark Latimer lets him into the house with no sense of occasion. Visits from the police are routine here now and the family wear their pain like old clothes. They have waited so long that they have stopped being ready. When he asks them to sit down, they do so without anticipation, lined up on the sofa in the same order as the day he and Miller confirmed the news: Beth, Mark, Chloe, Liz. Hardy perches on the edge of a dining chair.
‘We’ve charged someone with Danny’s murder,’ he says.
‘Oh God,’ says Beth. Her hands cup her belly, then her mouth. ‘I don’t want to know,’ she says, turning her face away.
‘No, no, that’s good,’ says Mark.
‘Is it someone we know?’ says Beth.
‘It’s Joe Miller.’ Four faces wear the same stunned expression; for a few seconds they are frozen in shock.
‘Oh my God.’ Chloe looks to her parents.
‘It can’t be,’ says Liz. ‘They only live across the field.’
Beth begins to rock back and forth. Mark drops his head to his knees, linking his hands behind his neck.
‘He’s confessed,’ says Hardy. ‘He and Danny had been meeting secretly for a few months.’
Mark flips. The women on the sofa shrink backwards as he kicks over the coffee table. The whole house shivers as he throws a chair against the wall. Beth, Chloe and Liz are screaming at him to stop, but he’s gone, the front door slamming so hard that Danny’s picture leaps from the wall. Beth darts to pick it up: her fingertips trace the contours of his face before she hangs it again. She turns around slowly.
‘Ellie.’ It’s an accusation.
‘She didn’t know,’ says Hardy, but he can see she doesn’t believe him.
The hotel on the edge of town is part of a chain; simple, functional, anonymous. Ellie places a sleeping Fred on to one of the two double beds. She has a sudden picture of Joe carrying a tiny Fred in a sling and is momentarily convinced, 110 per cent sure, she would bet her life, that Joe is innocent. Her good, kind man, her doting dad, he is incapable of killing a child. Then she pictures his face as she last saw it and knows it is true. She tucks Fred under the shiny counterpane and hopes that he is young enough to forget what he and Joe used to mean to each other.
‘This is nice,’ she says to Tom, drawing the chintzy curtains against the view of the car park. ‘It’s an adventure. You hungry? We could get chips. Sit on the bed, watch telly, eat chips out the packet…’
Tom isn’t fooled for a second.
‘There’s something you need to know.’ Ellie pats the bed and Tom sits next to her. She feels like a surgeon about to operate without anaesthetic.
‘They’ve, we’ve, found out who killed Danny. And…’ She digs her fingernails into her palm. ‘Sweetheart, it was your dad.’
‘No.’ She watches Tom repeat the process she began in the police station. ‘He wouldn’t do that. He didn’t.’ His denial tears at her heart.
‘He did.’ She is crying already. ‘And I don’t know why and it’s nothing we did and I can’t explain it and I am so sorry, you should not have to go through this. But I am here with you and I will never leave you and I’m sorry. Tom, I have to ask you.’ Bile floods her mouth; she swallows it. ‘Did your dad ever touch you, or do anything you felt uncomfortable with?’
‘No! Mum, he’s not like that.’ Tom’s disgust is unfeigned. ‘I promise, I’d tell you. He didn’t, ever.’
‘OK. Thank you.’ She pulls him closer: their tears mingle. ‘Tom, why did you send Danny those threatening emails?’
‘He said he didn’t want to be my friend any more. Said he had a new friend. I was angry.’ He screws his face up as the connection is finally made. ‘That was Dad, wasn’t it?’
A storm tide of anger surges inside Ellie. They worked so hard to raise Tom happy, independent, and enthusiastic. And now, with one blow, Joe has undermined all of it. All the bloody flash cards and home cooking and storybooks and co-sleeping in the world can’t insure against something like this.
‘Yes, love.’ She kisses the top of his head. ‘You know I love you.’
‘More than chocolate?’ If she can give the correct response to his call, then that at least will be normal. She forces a smile.
‘More than chocolate.’
‘I don’t understand. Why would he kill Danny?’
Make it stop, thinks Ellie, please make it stop. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t understand either and I really wish I did.’
Tom cries into her shoulder while Ellie rocks him. On the other bed, Fred turns over in his sleep. The knife has gone in: it is up to her to minimise the scar tissue. Silently she dedicates the rest of her life to getting her boys through this. The three of them are on their own now.
There is a night-before-Christmas hush on Broadchurch High Street. Blinds and shutters are pulled down and the signs in shop windows are turned to CLOSED.
The local media are out in force for the briefing; they stand at the foot of the police station steps, taking light readings for their cameras and checking the batteries on their phones. Karen White is the only national journalist, press or broadcast. When she sees Hardy she gets a shock: his bones protrude through his skin and his eyes look loose in their deep-grey sockets.
‘A thirty-eight-year-old man from Broadchurch has today been charged with the murder of Daniel Latimer,’ he addresses the camera. ‘Danny’s family have been informed and ask for privacy at this time. I would ask for all members of the media not to do anything that would prejudice the suspect’s right to a fair trial. This investigation has affected the whole of the local community. Few people have been left untouched. As Senior Investigating Officer, I would respectfully ask that the town is now left alone to come to terms with what took place here. The privacy of everyone concerned should be respected. There will be no further statements. We are not looking for anyone else in relation to the crime. This has been a delicate and complex investigation and it has left its mark on a close-knit town. Now is the time for Broadchurch to be left to grieve and heal, away from the spotlight.’
He does not take questions.
Karen White falls into step with Maggie Radcliffe on the way back to the Echo.
‘Someone local,’ says Karen. ‘Any idea who?’
‘I want to know but at the same time I can’t bear to,’ replies Maggie.
In the newsroom, Olly is overseeing the layout of the front page, shifting text around the screen, increasing the size of the headline – DANNY KILLER CAUGHT – and pulling Danny’s photo to the centre of the page. There’s a new confidence and decisiveness in Olly that kindles in Karen something nearer to maternal pride than to desire. She gets close enough to read. Under the sub-head LOCAL MAN CHARGED are four perfect paragraphs of concise, objective reporting. She looks up to congratulate him, but he’s on the other side of the room. His mother is in the doorway, her face sallow against her bright hair. They are too far away for Karen to hear or lip-read, but whatever she says has Olly back at his desk within seconds, gathering up his wallet, keys and phone.
‘Family emergency,’ he mutters. He throws his jacket on and he’s gone.
Karen and Maggie exchange bewildered looks. What kind of family emergency could take Olly away from the biggest story of his career? Lucy looked stricken but not ill. Something to do with his dad?
The penny drops for both of them at the same time.
A thirty-eight-year-old man has been arrested.
Uncle Joe.
Maggie sits down hard in her seat. ‘Christ,’ she says. Karen breaks the seal on her packet of cigarettes and offers one to Maggie. After a second’s hesitation, she takes one for herself.
Karen can hear Danvers’ voice as clearly as if he were standing next to her. The wife is the story. Find the wife and get her to talk.