A/N: I have literally been writing this story for months on end, but finally got round to publishing it.
For the past while I've been having a serious case of 'anglophenia'. I am not British, so there will be mistakes in this story
If I get enough reads I will defiantly make some sequel chapters. Possibly romantic, possibly not... You tell me :D
Published:28/10/2015
-SEVEN YEARS LATER-
by CuriousityKilledTheCatfish
...CHAPTER ONE...
-LONDON-
Hardy rushed into the bookstore, thankful to get out of the misery. He scrubbed a hand over his hair - it was sopping, and just like the rest him: frozen to the bone. He rubbed his glasses on his scarf in an attempt to wash the raindrops off, but only ended up smudging the lenses even more.
There would be no noise in the vintage bookshop, if it wasn't for the cheesy elevator music and two loud children that ran past Hardy and almost knocked him off his feet.
"Oi!" he shouted at the boy and girl, but they paid no attention to him and continued running down the aisles of books. They were giggling like mad. Kids he thought, losing his train of thought. What was he doing here again? Oh, yes, the book.
Hardy scanned the signs that hung from the ceiling.'Fantasy' – no. 'Science Fiction' – no. He ambled past two women reading the blurbs pink books.'Romance' – defiantly not what was looking for. Then he saw it: 'Crime/Mystery'. Excitement rushed through him.
Hardy had a history with crime novels – he was a copper after all. Ever since he was a teenager Hardy loved the stuff. It was probably what got Hardy so interested in the police in the first place. Well at least that was one of the reasons.
When Hardy was still a skinny - or skinnier - thing with an 80's hairstyle, he was called in for evidence for a murder case. He remembers the day very well. He was on his way home from school when a uniform officer called him in.
"Are you Robert Hardy's son?"
Hardy stopped shuffling along the pavement and ripped his Walkman out his ears.
"Aye. Why?"
"You're going to need you to come with me."
His eyes widened, thinking of what he could have possibly done wrong.
"You're not in trouble, lad. Just a few questions on Mr MacAllan."
"The bloke who ran the video store?"
"Aye, that's the one, boy."
Looking back at it now, the questions they asked him must not have been very important to Mr MacAllan's case, but everything about the visit to that police station was fascinating. As soon as Hardy stepped through the door, it was like entering a new world. He liked the quiet, professional atmosphere of the place. He liked the whiteboard full of pictures and evidence. He liked the idea of working every day to make a difference in something that was bigger than him. DI Ferguson had planted a seed in his mind: he was going to become a detective. And when he left the station, Hardy put on his favourite The Cure song, and ran straight the library to pick up another crime novel.
His hobby had leaked onto his friends, his ex-wife and now Daisy. He and Daisy always took bets cracking who the murderer was as quickly as they could. To his disappointment, Daisy always won. It was such a tragedy that she wanted to be an interior designer.
Hardy was looking for the last book of a well-known murder-mystery series. Disappointment overcame him when he saw the cardboard cut-out sign with writing on it: Kelly Urban: Trackers. It would have been perfect if the bookshelf wasn't so empty. In fact, there was not one copy of Trackers left.
What was he going to do now? Daisy asked him to buy the book while he was still in London, and could already see the setback on her face if he showed up empty-handed next time they had tea.
Think, Hardy, think he told himself. He could go to the other shop across his hotel, but that was a very tiny shore, and Hardy doubted if a busy bookstore like this one didn't have Trackers, the tiny one would. He could try to buy the e-book, but that was beyond his capabilities and he had no clue how to share it with Daisy. Hardy ran his hand through his hair again, just in time for the two blonde children to bump against his legs again.
"Would you please–" he stopped himself there. Keep your tongue he thought. He probably shouldn't shout now, in the bookstore – especially at children. As Hardy watched the children run around the 'Thriller' aisle, until he spotted shadows underneath a bookshelf. He dug his hands under the wood and pulled out two shiny copies of Trackers. Hardy's fingers slid over the covers. In bold red font stood New York Times Bestseller: Kelly Urban's Trackers. There was black and white photo of woman running in a meadow, and a man chasing her from behind with what looked like a spade. Hardy could already hear his daughter's laughter, because the meadow on the front cover was polluted in daisies. He smiled.
What luck was he having today? Not just one, but two copies, hidden away where no one could find them. One for him, and one for Daisy. Hardy considered that he only needed to buy one copy and lend it to Daisy once he'd finished. He could perhaps leave the other copy for the next hopeful person who came storming through the door, but Hardy did not want to wait. And Daisy wouldn't either. The two of them had been waiting for Trackers for over a year now. And this time he had to be the one to catch the murderer.
He made his way to the counter, and obediently stood in the queue. Only now did he really take notice of the other people in the store. There was a couple of people doing their absolute best to ignore the outside world. A man with headphones, a woman checking her phone. They all looked like they should be on the underground.
A woman at the front of the queue left with one of those pink romance novels in her hand and the queue lazily shuffled forward. At the front now was the mother of the two annoying blonde children. Hardy couldn't understand why she wasn't telling them to shut up. The boy was now busy poking the girl, and she responded by kicking him back. Their mother asked the man at the counter if there were any more copies of Trackers left. Hardy quenched his two books deeper under his arms, and watched the cashier explain.
"But surely–"
"Sorry ma'am, we're been sold out since Wednesday." The cashier said, his eyes flicking toward her misbehaving children.
"Didn't the book come out on Wednesday? Surely you're getting more stock soon? I mean Trackers is the book at the moment." The mother argued.
"We're only getting stock on Monday again, sorry."
"Bollocks." She sighed. "Do you know of any place that sells the book?"
"No ma'am, sorry." The cashier said.
"Fred, for god's sake, would you keep quiet?" The mother hissed at her boy.
Hardy looked at the woman properly now. There was something very familiar in her voice - especially when she was shouting, like now. When she turned her head toward Hardy, he recognized her immediately.
"Miller." Hardy whispered to himself.
"Are you going to buy something ma'am? There is quiet the queue, in case you haven't noticed."
"Miller?!" Hardy said, "Ellie?"
She turned around, frowning. The two children, a few people in the queue and the cashier looked at him now.
"Miller?" His pacemaker gave a funny jolt.
"Hardy?" she hesitated, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Miller." He smiled.
"What happened to your beard?"
She started giggling, and some more heads turned to look at him. Hardy felt unpleasantly self-conscious. If anything, she was the one who looked different. Her hair was long. Very long. It ran past her shoulders in lazy curls, not the ones he was used to. Or used to be used to. Hardy left Broadchurch a long time ago. So long ago in fact that some days, weeks even, go by when he doesn't think of the bloody town with the bloody smiling bloody faces. But now, looking at the most smiley face in the whole of Broadchurch, the memories rushed back at him.
They were the pier, on the side of that faithful beach, sitting on the bench. Her curls were flapping up in the wind. She smiled a sad little smile, "Look at us: former detectives club."
They were in the court. She was in the dock, looking like death, as Sharon Bishop threw the questions at her. She was crying, although she was pretending she wasn't – she did that often. He had his hands curled up in fists under his chair.
They were in his little blue shack, both staring at the photos and maps and sticky notes she assembled. He watched her take her marker, and draw a long line connecting Ricky Gillespie from the wedding venue to house...
Hardy popped back into the world when he felt Millers hand pulling his arm.
"No way!" Miller enthused, "Where did you find this?" she asked, looking at Trackers open-mouthed. The whole shop went quiet.
"I've been looking for it all afternoon. Not one bookshop in London has it!"
"That's not fair!" someone said.
"Where'd the bloke find it?" another said.
Even the cashier pulled a face, demanding an explanation.
"It - it was under a shelf somewhere. 'Thriller' aisle I think." Hardy said.
He was not used to his own words having such an effect anymore. The entire queue stormed off on Hardy's command, rushing toward the 'Thriller' aisle. It was like they were all prospectors just being told that there's a pile of gold bricks lying around somewhere.
Miller laughed and Hardy went on to pay for both books, stuffing a few notes in the cashier's hands. Miller was looking at him with those big eyes of hers, and Hardy gave her the one book – Daisy's book. There was something about Miller that always made him be nice. Miller thanked him multiple times, which made him uncomfortable again. Hardy guessed he'd have to work out how to buy Trackers on Kindle after all.
"I owe you now." She said, tapping her fingers on the book impatiently, waiting for the ideas to come, "We should get coffee! We can get now. I saw a place down the street –"
"Coffee, mum?" a little boy asked, his voice thick with disappointment. "Lizzy and I want to go the Lego shop, and you promised…"
"Mum?" Hardy asked. It took him a while to snap that the blonde kids must be Miller's.
"Stop complaining, Fred. We can go to that after coffee. Tom would want to come with anyways."
The boy crossed his arms. "Who are you anyway?" He glanced up at Hardy.
Miller answered for him. "This is Mr Hardy, he's a friend. I used to work with him when you were little."
"Wait is this your toddler?" Hardy asked.
"He's nine now." Miller said.
"Nine?" Hardy shook his head. He did the math. Had it been seven years? Seven years since he left Broadchurch! It didn't feel like yesterday exactly, put just watching the product of seven years of time made it feel like a lifetime had passed. Fred was just the the boy he remembered in the push cart – long blonde curls. He had Ellie's round eyes exactly, if it they weren't blue.
"It's my birthday in two months, so technically I'm ten already." Fred boasted to Hardy.
"No…" The girl said, "You're only ten when you turn ten, silly."
"No. It doesn't work like that, Elizabeth. You won't understand because you're still se-"
"Quit fighting or I'll have you both stay at Olly's – for a week. You too, Lizzy." Miller smirked as Fred and the girl stopped arguing, but if looks could kill.
"Oh, and that's Lizzy, the Latimer's youngest." she gestured toward the little girl who must be exactly seven years old now.
"Okay so you're in for coffee?"
"Actually, I have plans..."
"Oh no, you're not doing this again. If your plans are going back to your hotel and reading your book, then no, you're having coffee with me, Fred and Lizzy. You've got so much to tell me I'm sure. Where do you live again? Weymouth? And Daisy? Come on Hardy, what are the chances?"
Hardy looked at her, eyes insipid. He forgot how bloody relentless the woman can be.
"Yeah, I'll come." Hardy agreed hastily, "But you're paying, Miller. Everything's so bloody overpriced here."