Despite her bravado, Dottie's hands shake as she lifts her cup to her mouth. Hardy doesn't think she actually takes a sip but the action seems to steady her nerves. She puts the mug back on the table and looks from one to the other.
"I'm not a lonely old woman, delusional with grief," she says firmly. "I also don't think she's alive simply because they never found her and I never had a memorial service or a funeral. All that closure bullshit." She looks at Hardy. "No offense."
He ducks his head, tightly pressing his lips together to prevent himself from smiling. Miller looks back and forth between them, a puzzled frown crinkling her forehead.
He clears his throat and says, "Awright. Why don't you start from the beginning?"
Dottie sighs. "The beginning," she says softly. "I wish I knew where that was."
She sits and stares, her face drawn with grief and disappointment. The others sit, quietly waiting until she finally begins to speak.
"I married late. Had Francesca even later. I was forty. I hated the name Francesca, but her father insisted we name her after him." She gives Ellie a rueful look and shakes her head. "I got stupid over a man, at that age. I should have known better. Anyway, Frank left when she was four. Haven't seen him since. Knowing him, I'm sure he's alive and well and living off someone else's money."
She shakes her head and waves a hand.
"Never mind. He has nothing to do with this. Francesca didn't even remember him after a while. He didn't do much with her anyway so his leaving barely mattered. I had a good job, good friends, and she never wanted for anything. I spent as much time with her as possible, signed her up for sports and dance and art and anything else that caught her attention. She was bright and friendly, popular, with a tight-knit circle of friends, some of whom she'd met at her first child-minder's. They were friends right up until the day she disappeared."
A fond smile curves her lips.
"The AlphaBetties," she says softly. She looks at Hardy and Ellie's expressions and chuckles. "They were five and had just learned their letters. Elena, Francesca and Ginger-E, F, G. There were four more by the time she disappeared: Della, Cora, Bianca...and Archie Reynolds." She shakes her head. "I don't know how Archie felt about the nickname, but Elena, Francesca and Ginger were only six when they met him, and the group of girls just sort of...absorbed him. Or maybe they just never met another 'A' willing to do whatever Francesca wanted."
Her smile fades.
"Too bad they don't stay children."
Her lips twist and she again picks up her cup but lowers it before it reaches her mouth.
"Francesca changed when she was, I don't know, twelve, thirteen, fourteen." She shrugs at their confusion. "It happened so gradually. It took me a long time to believe my baby would lie to me about, well, everything, really, most of the time for no reason. At one point, I thought she lied for the sheer joy of the game, to see how long it would take before I figured it out, see how far she could push the boundaries. Only it just kept getting worse, and then she began the emotional manipulation, and for stupid things: to get extra money for school, to go to the movies with her friends. Sometimes, it was just to see me cry.
"I tried everything. I tried talking to her about why what she was doing was wrong. We had therapy, both together and alone. I tried punishing her, taking away the things she enjoyed the most, took her off her teams, kept her away from her friends and activities. She didn't really care and nothing made any difference."
Her eyes flicker away from them as she frowns before continuing.
"By the time she was fifteen, there was no controlling her. I gave up when she was sixteen. She left school, got a job-not much of one, but at least it was some money coming in-and I helped her find a flat and paid part of her rent, and over the next five years, we came to a truce. Of sorts. I don't know much about her life, other than what she allowed me to see, and I...quite honestly, I didn't want to know.
"Then, when she was twenty-one, she went out partying with the AlphaBetties and in the morning, she was gone. Two years later, Archie Reynolds confessed to murder."
Hardy and Miller silently digest everything Dottie had told them while she finally takes a gulp of her now-cool tea.
"So why do you think Archie is lying?" Ellie says. "He said he killed her."
"I don't think he knows he's lying. I don't think he truly remembers what happened that night. From what the other AlphaBetties told me, there were a lot of drugs and alcohol consumed and a great deal of comings and goings as they wound their way through Sandbrook's night-life. They all have gaps in their memories and lost sight of each other at different points in the evening, and it's not like any of them were checking the time. None of them can really say when Francesca actually disappeared."
"But why-" Ellie persists, only to be interrupted by Dottie.
"While Francesca and I came to an uneasy truce, you have to remember, she was still self-centred and manipulative. She mentioned, not long before she disappeared, that she was getting tired of the AlphaBetties, that things weren't the same anymore. When I asked why, it boiled down to the fact that they were no longer revolving round her and what she wanted. They had boyfriends or jobs or were going to school or moving away-that's why they went out that night, by the way, just them. Archie was going up to London on the Monday and it was their last chance to all go out together before he left."
Dottie shrugs helplessly. "It wouldn't surprise me if she initially 'disappeared' to frighten the others, remind them how important she is to the group, perhaps make Archie stay in Sandbrook, then decided not to come back because she preferred her new life...or because she didn't think anyone mourned enough."
Hardy and Miller exchange a glance then Hardy says, "Do you really think your daughter would let an innocent man sit in prison for a crime he didn't commit?"
Dottie gives him a bitter smile. "You don't understand. She'd enjoy it."
Ellie's jaw drops a little before she recovers herself, and Dottie sighs.
"If I'm right, there's an innocent man in prison, and Francesca is out there, doing God knows what." She leans forward, her eyes intent. "I'm seventy-two years old and everyone believes the case is closed-but before I die, I need to know."
*/*/*/*/*
Miller drives him back to the Rosewood Inn in thoughtful silence.
She puts the car in park and says, "I wasn't expecting that."
"No."
They both scowl, staring sightlessly out the window.
"How are we going to approach this?" Ellie finally asks.
Hardy shrugs. "The same as any other case. Read over the case files, re-interview witnesses, see if there's been any activity under any of Francesca's government-issued ID. If Reynolds is guilty, try to get him to lead us to the body."
"We have no resources behind us."
"No," he says, "but we are both still police officers. We'll find a way."
He blinks and shifts in his seat as he gives her an almost apologetic half-smile. "You know this may start the media frenzy all over again."
"What? Us working together?" Miller says with a small laugh.
He gives a short nod. "There are still a few stray reporters and paparazzi following me, you know."
She shrugs. "We've dealt with reporters before. You're practically a pro at it now."
"Still not sure how to deal with it now I'm no longer the villain."
The odd tone in his voice makes her look at him, but he's looking out the passenger window, away from her.
She remembers the editorials written by Will, the level of anger in them against the police in general and at Hardy in particular, and tries to think of something to say.
In the end, she says nothing.
*/*/*/*/*
It's a long drive back to Broadchurch, and Ellie spends most of it chewing over Dottie's story, and wondering how on earth she and Hardy are going to be able to truly investigate the case if they have no access to police resources.
While technically they're both still police officers, as Hardy mentioned, they're lucky he was able to call in a favour or two to get access to the archived files. Only-and this worries her-if they were to uncover something in those files that would call for the case to be re-opened, would that unconventional access be enough to taint the investigation?
They could, of course, request the files as private citizens, but that might result in a significant amount of information being refused to them. Or they could go to one of their CS's and ask them to officially support their activities, using Dottie's personal request as reason to review the case.
Except Rebecca Cranston has already refused, Hardy isn't even on Sandbrook's payroll and is technically still on medical leave from Broadchurch, and Ellie's a traffic cop in Devon, not a detective. Her current CS would not take kindly to her taking time to chase a case that's been closed for almost ten years.
She drums her fingers against the steering wheel, her scowl deepening.
She thinks again about Hardy calling people for favours, and realizes there is one other option.
*/*/*/*/*
Elaine Jenkinson hears her out that evening then says, "You'll have to come back to Broadchurch and work for me, Ellie. You and Hardy."
Ellie blinks. "You're willing to back us on this?"
Elaine smiles a little. "I've been waiting for the two of you to ask to come back ever since he left." She shakes her head. "Nobody walks away from a partnership like yours if they can help it."
Ellie, taken aback, mumbles some response.
"Mind you," Elaine continues, "my budget is small, as is the number on my force. I'll give you a promotion to Detective Inspector, a salary and official backing, and once this investigation is done, I'll expect you to come back on the job." She looks steadily at Ellie. "Will you be all right with that?"
Ellie hesitates.
"Will the town be all right with that?" she asks cautiously.
Elaine smiles. "Ever since that episode of Close to Home aired, I've been inundated with calls and e-mails, telling me I should get you back. You and Hardy both. The two of you did a good thing with the Sandbrook case. A very good thing. The least I can do is help you do another one."
*/*/*/*/*
The next day, Hardy walks into the courtroom and scans for a seat. As the lead detective in the original case, one is reserved for him-thankfully, because the public is lined up outside the door, hoping to get a peek at the Sandbrook Three.
At least there are no cameras in the courtroom, he thinks as he sinks into his chair, and there should be no surprises today. He sees Cate Gillespie, sitting beside Lisa Newberry's parents, all staring unseeingly in front of them.
In the end, Ricky Gillespie and Claire Ripley hadn't deserved his empathy, but these three...he looks at Cate again and feels a phantom weight in his arms. He shies away from the memory and shifts his attention to the reporters' gallery.
The blonde reporter, the one from that American program, catches his eye and nods. He nods back, although he's coming up blank on her name. Then again, more than half the people in that section of the courtroom look familiar.
The door opens and Will Seymour walks in and Hardy can't keep his lips from curling with dislike. Miller had gone back to Broadchurch without mentioning a word about her date with the bloody wanker. He, of course, hadn't asked, not even last night, when she called to tell him about Elaine's offer.
He has no right to ask. It's none of his business.
They're not friends, after all.
He ducks his head and scratches at the scruff on his cheek and ruefully admits agreeing to work Dottie's case with Miller wasn't the best approach to moving on from her and Broadchurch. He's committed now, of course, and he'll see it through, so long as he can stay in Sandbrook. He'd promised Daisy. He'll find another job once they're done and he doesn't think Elaine will have any concerns with that, no matter what she said to Miller.
Besides, staying in Sandbrook will make the break easier when it's over, and it shouldn't take long. He puffs out a small sigh at the thought. He'll call Elaine once court is finished.
The defendants are ushered into the dock, and Hardy turns to look at the three people who had turned so many lives upside down.
Ricky looks sullen and defiant, but that's not surprising. Hardy doesn't think the man will ever admit he's at fault for anything, but at least he agreed to plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter.
Lee looks pale, but calm and almost relieved. Hardy has to admit he was the only one to show a shred of remorse for what had happened and, to his credit, was the first to plead guilty, even if it was to murder.
His attention shifts to Claire, who's watching him with those wide, vulnerable eyes. She pled guilty to being an accomplice to murder, although Hardy is haunted by the questions of just how much rohypnol she'd given Pippa. Hardy's gaze doesn't waver from hers, although his eyes widen when her mouth quirks up in to a smirk and her eyes turn coldly mocking.
Their battle of wills only ends when the judge enters and Claire blinks and turns away.
It's a petty victory, he thinks as he rises to his feet, but he can't help feeling a wee bit triumphant anyway.
*/*/*/*/*
The judge speaks at length about the actions of the three people in the dock, lays out his reasoning, cites case law, then, one by one, he speaks to each defendant individually, condemning their actions, and proceeds to hand down identical sentences: twenty-five to life.
It's relatively quick, as these things go, then the judge leaves, the Sandbrook Three are escorted back to their holding cells, and the spectators file out of the courtroom. Hardy stays until even the family is gone, escorted out the back, away from the reporters waiting just outside the door.
He sits, silent and still and alone.
It's as finished as it can get in his world. The accused has been found guilty, the judge has passed sentence, there's nothing left for the copper to do except return to his desk and continue working on the next file.
He looks down at his hands, at his arms, at his chest. He feels the weight of Pippa's body against his arms, the water streaming down his body from their waterlogged clothes, the burning in his lungs and throat.
He has no desk, and the only file he has is the one given to him by Dottie Livingstone and Ellie Miller.
He turns his hands palms up, his empty arms aching.
He only has this.
*/*/*/*/*
He's surrounded as soon as he leaves the courtroom, cameras flashing, reporters calling questions. He pauses only to make the statement Isabella had prepared then pushes through the crowd and is gone.
He wishes he was leaving more than just the reporters behind him.
*/*/*/*/*
He talks to Elaine, who agrees that he can work from Sandbrook for the Livingstone case, but after that, he'll need to make a decision. She wants him in Broadchurch a week Monday so he and Miller can brief her on the Livingstone case and she can determine what, if any, resources she can spare.
Miller barely hesitated at the offer, giving in her notice in Devon. She'll be back working In Broadchurch as a newly minted Detective Inspector within a fortnight.
He's pleased for her. He'll be back on full pay as soon as his medical records are sent to Broadchurch and the paperwork is approved.
Hope is an unfamiliar emotion now, but that's exactly what he feels. Once he's back on full salary, he'll be able to find a flat, get his meager belongings out of Rachel and Charlie's cellar, and begin to rebuild his relationship with Daisy.
He might even be able to start rebuilding his life.
*/*/*/*/*
A week and a day after the sentencing of the Sandbrook Three, the one-year anniversary of Danny's death dawns clear and hot. A beautiful summer day.
It's as horrible as Ellie expected, and never-ending.
She takes Tom and Fred to the Latimers right after breakfast, where they spend some time reminiscing and holding each other as they cry before they make their way to the church where Paul is holding a special memorial service just for Danny. Mark's sour-faced about it, but goes along with the same defeated air he's had ever Joe's arrest.
The church is packed, as Ellie expected. She scans the pews and remembers doing something similar before Jack Marshall's funeral, looking to see if she could tell if somebody was guilty. Her stomach churns at the memory, wishing she'd thought to look at the man sitting beside her. Now she nods at the faces that are friendly, skimming over those that are not. She's sandwiched between Tom and Beth, with Chloe within reach of her fingers on the other side of Beth.
The service is beautiful, even if the agony of it is wrenching.
They're drained after it, exhausted, even as more people come and go from Beth and Mark's. Ellie knows there will be pictures in the tabloids, taken from across the street and through the hedges and from the trees.
The others finally drift away, leaving only the seven of them: the Millers and the Latimers, clinging together despite it all.
They don't mention Joe.
As Ellie, Tom and Fred trudge across the common that night, Ellie wonders where Joe is and whether he's even now befriending another young boy. She wonders if he's making plans to come back.
She shudders, and pulls her sons close, and feels a sudden sense of kinship with Dottie.
*/*/*/*/*
In spite of her physical and emotional exhaustion, Ellie's restless once she's put Fred down for the night and Tom, even more silent than usual, is up in his room. She's worried about him, and makes a note to herself to share her worries at their family therapy session next week, see if she can get him to talk even if it's not to her.
She wanders into the living room, collapses on to the couch and props her feet up on the coffee table. She checks her phone, thinks about calling Hardy, who's probably sitting in his room at the Rosewood Inn, doing...whatever it is he does when he's alone.
She tosses the phone on the cushion beside her and picks up the remote. She turns on the telly and is startled to see the man she's thinking about on screen. It takes a moment before she remembers they're re-airing the Close to Home episode about Sandbrook and Danny.
She quickly flicks through the channels but there's nothing else that's going to even remotely distract her. She sighs and returns to the true crime documentary. She glances at her watch. It's almost finished anyway. In the back of her mind is the memory of Hardy's smile the first time it was broadcast, that smile which, when seen in person, is even more devasta-
Unusual, she means. Unexpected.
She heads to the kitchen for a drink. She curls up on the couch when she returns and checks her phone again while she absently listens to the telly.
Grace (voice over): The third secret Hardy was hiding was that he was not the police officer driving the car when the pendant was stolen.
Grace (to Hardy): You took the blame.
Hardy: It happened on my watch. It was my responsibility.
Grace: It seems to be a rather drastic step, taking the blame to protect two Detective Sergeants who should have known better than to stop somewhere while they were transporting critical evidence in a criminal investigation.
{{Hardy raises an eyebrow but remains silent.}}
Grace cont'd: Is there something about the theft of the pendant that you're still not sharing?
{{silence}}
Grace cont'd: You tried to take the blame during the Joe Miller trial as well. When they were questioning you about Detective Sergeant Ellie Miller being allowed access to her husband immediately after he had confessed to murder. You said it was your error then, too.
Ellie reaches for her glass and yelps as she knocks it over. She jumps up, frantically moving everything on the coffee table out of the way before she stomps to the kitchen for a towel, cursing under her breath.
Hardy: It was.
Grace (voice over): Detective Inspector Alec Hardy has a unique definition of what is and is not his responsibility.
{{cut to Claire Ripley}}
Grace: You had the pendant in your possession when you were taken in for questioning.
Claire: Well, of course. I'm the one who took it out of the car, after all.
Ellie returns to the living room, towel in hand, and begins mopping up the mess she made.
Grace: Whose car was it?
Ellie glances up at the telly as Grace's question finally registers on her. Her mouth slowly sags open as Claire looks straight into the camera, a slight smirk on her face.
Claire (very deliberately): Tess Henchard's, Alec Hardy's wife.
*/*/*/*/*
A/N: I browsed through the UK's Crown Prosecution Services site to decide on the charge for each member of the Sandbrook Three as well as their possible sentences. Each charge I list in this chapter can have a life sentence attached. Even though Ricky's crime was not pre-meditated, and Claire theoretically didn't actually murder Pippa, I gave them all the same sentence due to the fact that they conspired together to conceal the crimes (even if Ricky didn't know Pippa's death wasn't an accident).
Research, man. Gotta love it. :D