"Mr. Hardy? Alec Hardy?"
He stops in his journey towards the nearest tea shop round the corner from his new motel, closes his eyes and groans. The Rosewood Inn may be at the lowest end of the scale, but it's what he can afford and since they rent by the hour, they don't ask any questions or require a real name. He doesn't want to find a new place to stay if another bloody reporter's tracked him down. Besides, he's only just finished sanitizing the room to point where he thinks he'll be able to sleep in it.
He heaves a sigh and turns.
It's not a reporter.
It's an elderly woman, about seventy or so, bundled into a bulky cardigan, loose jeans and ancient trainers. For a moment he's reminded of Susan Wright, only this woman's wide face is open and friendly even as she's watching him with wary curiosity and a hopeful air.
Bloody hell-another 'fan'.
He mutters, "I don't give autographs," as kindly as he can.
The woman blinks, taken aback, then says, "I don't want your autograph! I want to hire you!"
*/*/*/*/*
The woman wraps her hands around the steaming cup of tea in front of her. Hardy escorted her to this quiet tea shop after her surprising announcement, settled her at a table and ordered their tea without saying much of anything to her or anyone else. Now they slouch over the tiny table taking the other's measure.
"So," she says with a faint smile, wrinkles crinkling the corners of her eyes. She looks like a slightly eccentric, cozy grandmother albeit one, Hardy can see now, with a lingering sadness beneath the surface. "You're getting pressed for autographs, then?"
He shrugs. "One or two," he growls, "although I suspect my ex-wife and former co-workers are just taking the piss." His eyes widen. "Sorry," he mutters.
She waves away his apology. "Or maybe people really do just want your autograph. You were very impressive on Friday."
He gives a slight lift to his shoulders. "I looked like an arse," he says then grimaces with another apology.
She raises an eyebrow. "Did you watch the entire thing?"
He shakes his head. "Na, I didn't even mean to watch the bit I saw. I walked into the pub and it was on the telly-God knows why. I walked out again once I realized what it was."
She smiles more broadly, eyes twinkling in spite of her underlying sadness. "Well, if you had looked like an arse, I wouldn't be here."
He gives her a slight smile then hunches a little closer over the table, pinning her with an intense stare. "I'm not a private investigator."
"I know," she says, "but you are the first ray of hope I've seen in years."
He sighs. "Well, tell me what's going on, and if nothing else, I may be able to tell you who to talk to."
She thoughtfully considers him. "You don't recognize me, do you?"
He studies her for a long moment before giving a slight shake of his head.
"Back in the day, when anyone mentioned 'The Sandbrook Case', they meant us. I'm Dorothea Livingstone. My daughter, Francesca, has been missing for ten years, eight months and seventeen days. I want you to help me find her."
"Mrs. Livingstone-"
"Dottie. Please."
Hardy hesitates before he says, "Dottie...I'm not on active duty at the moment." He doesn't mention that the only reason he has any money at all is because the Broadchurch police department is still paying his salary.
"Which is why you'll have time to focus on this case."
"I don't have access to any of my usual resources: DSs or uniforms, forensics, databases, all that."
"I'm not worried about that," she says, sitting back in her chair with a shrug.
"Why not?"
"You found a way to solve the Gillespie/Newberry cases. You'll find a way to solve this one."
"That was different, Mrs. Living-Dottie."
Dottie leans forward, her hands loosely clasped on the table in front of her. "It was personal. I know." She meets his eyes with a calm, steady gaze of her own. "This is personal, too, Mr. Hardy."
*/*/*/*/*
CS Rebecca Cranston turns him down without hesitation.
He clenches his teeth and growls, "Why not?"
"We don't have the resources."
"Then put me back on active duty as a-a special investigator or something and I'll look into it! You don't have to assign anyone else."
"I am not putting you back on the force just so you can use up our resources chasing down a case that's ten years old! We both know you can't do it on your own, and we have new cases we need to focus on."
"Well, maybe you need to focus on solving cases rather than letting them moulder in the file room!"
Rebecca barks a bitter laugh. "That kind of attitude isn't going to get you back on this force, Hardy!"
He glares at her for long, silent moments then growls, "You've been punishing me ever since I came back to Sandbrook. What's really driving all this? Why are you so determined to keep me out?"
Rebecca's eyes narrow as she glares at him. He can almost see the gears turning in her head and knows the moment she's made the decision to tell him why she was so angry. She leans forward.
"You lied to me, Hardy! You stood here, in my office, looked me straight in the eye and told me the pendant was lost because of you. That was bad enough, but then I find out-months after that fact! And from the Broadchurch Echo, of all the bloody places-that you took the fall for two incompetent, terminally stupid Detective Sergeants! You chose to protect two bloody idiots rather than the integrity and quality of our team and therefore the work that we do. And I'm left to wonder which of my officers I should trust and which ones I shouldn't! Why did you do it, Hardy?"
He looks back at her, eyes wide and pained, lips pressed into a tight line.
"Are you going to tell me who they were?"
He doesn't respond.
Rebecca lifts her lip in an angry sneer and leans back in her chair. "Don't you have another interview to do?"
*/*/*/*/*
Hardy does the only thing he can.
*/*/*/*/*
He isn't surprised when his phone rings late the next day and Miller's name pops up on the screen.
"Yeah?"
"You sent that poor woman to me, didn't you?"
"Is that what she told you?"
"Ah ha! You're not even asking which poor woman I'm talking about!"
"We-ell, it could be any one of a dozen poor women who've been talking to me the last few days."
That trips her up a little. "That many?"
"I guess you'll find out."
He almost hears her eyes rolling. "Well, the woman I'm talking about is Dottie Livingstone."
"Yeah."
"Did you turn her down?"
"What did she tell you?"
"She said you sent her to me."
"Yeah."
"God, getting you to talk some days...why?"
"Because things aren't going to get better with the CS here any time soon. While I still have favours I can call in, I won't have official access to the resources I may need to be able to fully investigate the case. No official forensics or DNA analysis, which might taint the case if it ever does get solved. Besides, Dottie wants the person who solved Sandbrook. That's you, Miller."
"Oh, for-don't be daft!"
"I'm stating a fact."
"You're the one who wouldn't let it go!"
"You're the one who saw the evidence that broke Lee's story!"
"Well, then Dottie Livingstone needs both of us, doesn't she?"
He opens his mouth and stops cold as her words sink in.
"What?" he finally manages.
"I said, she needs both of us."
He gulps a little then says, "You want to work the case? With me?"
"Well, you're a celebrity now. That must come with some perks, yah? Free tea, if nothing else."
"Miller."
"Oh, for God's sake, yes! Yes, I want to work the case! This poor woman doesn't know where her daughter is or what happened to her, and it's been ten years. And yes, I think we should work it together since she's asked so nicely."
He's silent, scowling into the distance. On the one hand, his newly regulated heart is racing with happiness, but on the other hand...
"I didn't think you wanted to see me again," he says, "or speak to me. If it hadn't been for all the media shite the last few weeks, you never would have called me again."
"We-ell, you looked like you couldn't wait to get away from Broadchurch."
"I couldn't."
"There, see? We're not exactly friends, Hardy."
He swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and knows he'll never tell her just how much she means to him. She'd never believe him...and she wouldn't want to know. At least he can save what small bit of pride he has left if he moves on without her ever finding out how he feels.
"Suppose not," he mutters.
"So? Are you going to work on Dottie's case with me?"
"You don't really need me, Miller."
There's silence on the other end of the phone.
"I don't want to do it without you," she finally mutters, almost angrily.
The ensuing silence is filled with possibilities as he desperately tries to think of what, if anything, to say in response.
He finally settles for, "I have plans with Daisy tomorrow, but I can be in Broadchurch the day after."
"Get here in time for dinner. We can go over the case notes after we eat."
"Awright."
They end the call and he tosses the phone on the bed, then paces the room with one hand on his hip while he roughly runs the other through his hair.
He doesn't know what he's thinking, saying yes to working yet another case with Miller. Except all he's doing now is dancing to Rebecca Cranston's tune and talking to bloody reporters, and Dottie Livingstone has been waiting for answers for ten years, eight months and eighteen days, and Miller...
Well.
Miller.
He's an idiot.
*/*/*/*/*
