The Daily Herald office is seven storeys above the sticky pavements of London. Senior Reporter Karen White sits under a noisy air-conditioning unit, breathing in the recycled yawns of her fellow employees, picking at a muffin and trying to sex up a press release about wind farm subsidies.
She’s checking her emails, more to keep herself awake than because anything important is happening, when an alert hits her inbox that sends a shot of adrenalin through her veins. In a few keystrokes she’s found a local newsfeed from Dorset and there he is. Her marked man, Detective Inspector Alec Hardy, looking, if anything, even rougher than the last time she saw him.
‘This is a short statement to confirm that this morning the body of an eleven-year-old child was found on Harbour Cliff Beach at Broadchurch,’ he says to the camera. ‘The body was subsequently identified as Daniel Latimer, who lived in the town. We are treating the death as suspicious. Our investigations are continuing, and there’ll be a full briefing later this evening.’
It takes Karen a second or two to digest the news that he got another job after Sandbrook and then she’s off, fingers flying, tracing the story back to its source. The earliest mention is a tweet from the local newspaper, but the fuller story is not on their website yet, and none of the other nationals seem to have picked up on it. Good. There is still time to make the story hers. Her editor’s door is open: Karen checks her reflection in a window, smooths her long dark hair into a ponytail, and pops the collar on the tailored jacket that means business, even if it is a decade too old for her. She doesn’t bother to knock. Len Danvers cut his teeth on Fleet Street back when print was king; he thinks manners get in the way of a deadline.
‘Are you taking the piss?’ he says, when she’s given him a précis of the situation. ‘Let the agencies cover it, and you can polish it up later. Eleven-year-old boys get into trouble all the time.’
‘But it’s Alec Hardy,’ she says. ‘He’s the story.’
‘Only if he fucks up again.’ Danvers waves a hand at a ledger on his desk. ‘You know what the budget’s like at the moment. I’m sorry, Karen. The answer’s no.’
She returns to her desk, sits heavily down in her swivel chair. The press release about wind farm subsidies has not sexed itself up in her absence. She spends another ten minutes tinkering with it, then goes back to the Broadchurch Echo Twitter account. The journalist’s name is Olly Stevens and his bio reads, ‘Fearless reporter with thrusting local paper, Broadchurch Echo.’ She googles his name: he’s posted his CV and samples of his work online and states that his ambition is to be a lead reporter on a national. She punches in his number and is gratified by the admiration in his voice when she introduces herself.
‘I saw you broke the story about Danny Latimer,’ she says. ‘I might be coming down to cover it. I wonder if you’d let me buy you a drink, find out more.’
Of course he says yes. Karen files her wind farm story, then puts in a call to the HR department. She’s worked hard this year, and hasn’t taken a day’s annual leave yet. They owe her.
The street outside shimmers in the heat: the woozy outline of a black cab pulls into sharp focus as it draws near. She hails it and asks the driver to go to Waterloo.
Bloody Twitter. Hardy’s heart sinks at the thought of the work they’ll have to do to rebuild the trust of the Latimer family now. As he leaves the station, DS Miller is still trying to apologise for her nephew. Hardy’s not interested. At least after this morning’s bollocking he’s confident she won’t let that happen again. What a day. What a fucking day.
The fresh air outside doesn’t clear his head: if anything, he feels worse. The shallow breathing and blurred vision that herald an attack set in and all Hardy wants is to collapse on to his bed before it happens in public.
It’s an effort to push open the heavy oak door at the Traders Hotel. It was his choice to stay in a hotel – to look for somewhere more permanent would be to acknowledge that he is here permanently – but he wishes he was staying at the anonymous chain hotel on the ring road. It’s very lovely here – all original flagstone floors, modern art and a Farrow & Ball colour scheme – but the room keys hang on pegs behind the desk and that means making conversation every time he leaves or enters the building.
‘Long day, huh?’ says Becca Fisher when he holds out his hand for the key. She’s nice enough, with a beachy blonde glamour that marks her out as Australian before she even speaks. He quite likes Becca, likes looking at her, anyway, but he doesn’t want her to make his day any longer. ‘Really tragic,’ she continues, blind to Hardy’s impatience. ‘Can’t think what that family are going through. We’re all in shock. Chloe’s got a Saturday job here, you know. I don’t suppose I’ll see her tomorrow. Not that I’ll need her. I’ve had two cancellations already today.’
Hardy mentally files the detail about Chloe but only nods in reply to Becca. He has one foot on the bottom stair when he hears his name behind him. He turns slowly, to keep his balance.
Great. It’s Miller’s roving reporter nephew standing next to a middle-aged blonde woman who might as well have him by the scruff of the neck. ‘Maggie, editor of the Echo,’ she says, extending her hand. Hardy shakes it limply. At Maggie’s prompt, Olly says, ‘I was wrong to post that news. I’m sorry.’
‘I should hang him by the bollocks from the town hall spire,’ says Maggie. ‘All reporting on this will come through me now. The Echo works with the police. I’ll talk to the Latimer family, give them our apologies.’
Hardy blinks slowly. ‘Stay out my way,’ he says to Olly.
It seems that there is to be one more obstacle to freedom. Becca Fisher follows him up to the landing. ‘Do you think the beach’ll be open tomorrow? Only so I know what to tell guests.’
‘I’m going up,’ says Hardy, one hand on the banister to support himself as well as signal intent.
The effort of climbing two flights has him perspiring and struggling for breath.
In his room at last, he empties his jacket: his wallet lands on the bedside table and falls open at the picture of the face that continues to haunt him. The little girl is backlit, her hair a white aureole. It hurts to look at her. All the more reason for him to see it every time he opens his wallet. Before he can loosen his tie or his shoelaces, his legs begin to give way and he collapses into the armchair. His focus switches to a canvas print of Harbour Cliff on the far wall. Even here, he can’t escape the bloody place. Of all the beaches in all the world…
As the sweat cools on his back, he realises his pills are on the other side of the room. It takes everything he’s got to get up and swallow them.