Warning: Contains non-graphic descriptions of a dead body and a crime scene. Factual description, like something you'd hear in a true crime documentary.
Hardy
Six months after leaving Broadchurch, Hardy's still, ultimately, alone. He's content enough, and possibly even happy in some ways. He feels better than he has in years, he's regained his passion for the work, and he has a spring in his step and a spark in his eyes that has been sorely lacking for far too long.
He's come to a prickly understanding with the Detective Constables, Detective Sergeants and others he works with, but there's still a vast distance between them. All their cases so far have been easily solved, so the comradery that's created under the pressure to break a case has so far eluded them. He's all right with that. Even after six months, the Miller-shaped empty space in his professional life is still too open, too fresh, too sore. He'll find someone else who can work with him like that; Miller wasn't the first, she won't be the last. He rotates through his DSs with each new case as it arises, looking for that special something that means the working relationship is going to be better than average. So far, no luck, but he recently took on some new DSs, including the Miller look-alike who had so startled him a month or two ago. He's been reluctant to work with her but knows if he doesn't, the others will talk. He's kept her 'til last, but the next case he catches will have to be hers.
He's at least doling out the pain in equal measure, or so he's heard his DSs say when they think he's not paying attention. They say a lot of things when they think he's not listening, and there are a couple who could give Miller a run for her money in terms of the creativity of the insults directed towards him. She's still the only one brave enough to say them to his face.
He drives to Sandbrook every weekend Daisy is free and she's come to Stonebridge a time or two. He takes the time to talk to her or her voice mail every day. He can sometimes hear the puzzlement in her voice, and he's waiting for the moment she explodes and asks why he's making such an effort now when he'd been so distant for so long. He knows she continues to harbor some simmering resentment about the breakup of their family. She still doesn't know the whole truth, and he hopes she never does.
Beyond his days at work and his time with Daisy, he has no human interaction. There are no invitations to dinner, friendly or threatening or otherwise, and when his officers leave at the end of the day, they barely acknowledge he's still at his desk. That suits him fine, most of the time, but even he sometimes needs conversation that doesn't revolve around murder and suspects, evidence and witnesses.
During one of his evening strolls he finds a pub beside an upscale hotel near the centre of town and has made it 'his'. He sits at the bar and listens to the talk and laughter around him while he nurses a single beer. He leaves when he's done, and it's enough. He's become a bit of a regular, going in at least once or twice a week. He only speaks to order his beer and the bartenders soon get to the point where he doesn't even need to do that.
Tonight there's someone new working the bar and he has to give her his drink order twice before she catches it, but she has a sweetly apologetic smile and he gives her a small one in return. He nods his thanks as she places the mug in front of him. He's listening to the blessedly ordinary conversations around him when he's startled by a woman sliding onto the chair beside him.
She gives him an appreciative smile as she meets his gaze. She's attractive, with shoulder length brown hair and impeccable makeup. Her clothes are off-the-rack and a little too suggestive to be appropriate for a pub like this and there's a certain seductiveness in her posture that sets alarms bells ringing in his head.
"Buy me a drink?" she purrs.
He considers her thoughtfully, one eyebrow lifted high, then signals the bartender.
"Whatever the lady wants," he says, indicating his new-found friend.
The bartender's sweet smile is nowhere in sight, and the look in her eyes as she quickly glances at the woman then to him and away again says more than words ever could.
He turns to the woman and wracks his brain for a conversation starter. If his hunch is correct, however, she'll likely take care of it for him.
"What's your name?" she asks with a smile, leaning closer and showing him a discreet flash of cleavage. His eyebrow rises higher, if for no other reason than he can't remember the last time a woman deliberately showed him her cleavage.
"Alec."
"Alec," she says. "Alec. I like that name. I'm Missy."
He shakes the proffered hand. "Why'd you come over here, Missy?" He sounds like a stern father and the thought amuses even him, and he smiles a little.
"I see you in here quite often," she says. "Always alone. I thought you could use a little company."
She sounds and looks sincere, the deliberate seductiveness no longer anywhere in sight. Hardy hesitates. Perhaps he's read her wrong. Perhaps he's become so used to being invisible to women that he can't tell when someone is sincerely interested in him.
She puts one delicate hand on his forearm. "Would you? Like some company, I mean. It's worth the investment, I promise." She looks at him with wide, soulful green eyes.
He gets a sudden flash of Claire Ripley's face and hides a shudder.
He notices the bartender watching them with a disgusted expression before he turns back to Missy. "What kind of investment?" he asks.
"A little time, a little effort, a little..." She shrugs and smiles. "We can work something out."
He gives her a blank stare then smiles a genuine smile. Her own smile widens as he digs out his wallet.
It quickly disappears when he shows her his police ID.
She gasps, and slides off the stool.
Hardy grabs her arm. "Na, na, na, not so fast."
Her wide eyes flick to his, and he realizes she's much younger than she first appeared, no more than twenty-five.
"Don't worry," he says, "I'm not running you to the nick."
A cynically resigned look flashes across her face as he guides her back to her seat and Hardy wonders how many coppers she's run into who have been abusing their authority.
"Have you eaten today?" he asks.
She laughs, a harsh cynical bark of sound. "What's this? What? Are you trying to be kind? Why? You trying to save me with tea and sympathy?"
He rolls his eyes. "Would you prefer I run you in?"
She glares, all pretense at seduction gone now. "Yes," she bites out, "I've eaten today."
"How old are you?"
"None of your business."
"Where're you from? How long have you been doing this?"
"None of your damn business."
She's defiant now that she thinks she knows how this is going to end. Judging from the glare the bartender is shooting his way, that lady also thinks she knows how this is going to end.
Hardy persists, though a part of him wonders what the fuck he's doing. He realizes, this is the longest conversation he's had with a woman that hasn't been about work since he left Broadchurch. He's not sure if he's appalled by that fact or simply resigned to it.
"Are you working for yourself or someone else?" he asks. She doesn't respond. "What are you doing here? I've been coming here for weeks now, and I've never noticed you before."
"I'm not saying anything else to you."
He sighs. "Fine. Go on, finish your drink, then you can go. Do you need money for cab fare?" He grimaces. He still has an unfortunate desire to rescue women, something he'd thought he'd gotten rid of after everything that happened with Sandbrook. He was obviously mistaken.
Her mouth is a sullen line. "No."
"Fine," he says again, and turns back to the bar. He meets the bartender's angry eyes and stares impassively back until she flushes and turns away.
Missy leaves, and he stays to finish his drink and settle the bill without speaking another word to the bartender, whose disapproval is tempered somewhat by confusion. As he strolls back to his flat, he fishes the phone out of his pocket and scrolls to Miller's name. He ponders the call button before putting the phone away again.
He can already hear her laughing at him; he doesn't really need to hear it in real life.
He walks into his flat, flicks on the light and pauses on the threshold. His eyes scan the room, and he wonders what it is that feels...different. He frowns and listens intently, but there's nothing but silence. He shrugs.
His encounter with Missy and the bartender's contempt must have bothered him more than he realized.
That night, he dreams about drowning.
Ellie
Ellie goes on her first official date six months after Hardy left Broadchurch.
Wait. She means six months after Joe was exiled from Broadchurch. Hardy's departure has nothing to do with anything.
She wonders why she's even thinking about him while she's smiling and pretending to listen to the man across the table ramble on about...something she lost track of ten minutes ago. She supposes it would be rude to simply interrupt him, although all she really wants to do is tell him to either get to the bloody point already or shut the fuck up because he's making her head hurt.
Ah, that's why Hardy's on her mind: those last thoughts had gone through her head in a strong Scottish accent, accompanied by the memory of his look of sheer disgust at having to deal with this horseshit at all. She bites back a laugh and tries to refocus on her date's stream of consciousness conversation, but it's useless. Thankfully, her companion doesn't seem to need anything more than a smile, a murmur and a nod once in a while. She decides to make it through dinner, then polite good-byes and perhaps give the friend who arranged this meeting a stern talking to about the kind of men she might be interested in.
There is definitely no sex in the near future, and she has a sudden, cringe-inducing memory of the night she and Claire went out in Weymouth and the unfortunate shag at the end of it. She hides a shudder, then thinks her companion wouldn't notice anything amiss even if her head started spinning round.
Her date is surprisingly difficult to shake in the parking lot, demanding at least a kiss in thanks for the meal if she wasn't going to go back to his place, or take him to hers. She smiles through her teeth, reminds him what she does for a living, and firmly shakes his hand with finality.
She drives home in a cloud of disappointment mixed, surprisingly enough, with relief. Relief the wretched thing was over, and, if she was honest, relief they hadn't hit it off. Maybe she's not as ready to move on from Joe as she'd thought, although it isn't really Joe's face that keeps hovering in her memory.
She quietly lets herself into the house, sees Ollie is asleep on the sofa then goes upstairs to check on the boys. She smiles as she watches them sleep before tiptoeing back downstairs to the kitchen. She opens the fridge and surveys its contents without pleasure. She's not hungry, but she feels restless, unsettled, and she knows she's not going to sleep any time soon. She finally decides on a glass of milk, just for something to do. She carries it to her room and gets ready for bed. She settles under the covers, sips her milk and reaches for the phone.
She finds Hardy's name, and considers texting him. Something like "never realized how much I appreciated a silent man until my date tonight." She imagines the sour and confused look on his face if she sent him such a message, because Hardy's ability to relate to anyone on a personal level is practically non-existent. But he might say or do something rather amusing to take her mind off the disaster of the night. Most likely he'd say something completely clichéd or unsupportive and she'd get angry and snap some insult at him, releasing all of her anger and unhappiness and loneliness with one word or phrase in his general direction.
And the world would feel right again, which is stupid, because really, they only worked together for what? Six months, at most. On two of the most intense investigations she hopes she'll ever experience, resulting in devastation and redemption and justice...or lack thereof. She regained her family and friends, her career and her community, while Hardy...
Set off alone, searching for a home.
The thought makes her scowl, and she slaps the phone down on the bedside table.
It's not like the stubborn sod has gotten in touch with her. Besides, they said their good-byes in that little blue shack and that's the end of it. Wherever he is, she's sure he's making life miserable for some poor, unsuspecting DS, barking orders, making them work night and day, and demanding they explain the point of their existence. Driving them harder than they've ever been driven before, demanding better than their best, and grudgingly earning their respect just as they will grudgingly earn his.
For some reason, that makes her scowl even more.
She finishes her milk and turns out the light then stares at the darkened ceiling waiting for sleep.
Hardy
The day after Hardy's encounter with Missy, there's a call out down to the river. The area looks so similar to where he found Pippa that he pauses, feeling the water closing over his head, the phantom weight of her in his arms. He closes his eyes, rides it out then continues walking to where a couple of his Detective Constables and SOCO technicians are surrounding what he wishes was a pile of discarded clothing.
Sal Edwards meets him. She's the fresh-faced Miller look-alike Detective Sergeant he's been avoiding working with in the six weeks since she transferred to his squad. As a result, she still isn't over her terror of him, as evidenced by the trepidation on her face. Looking more closely at her now, he sees her resemblance to Miller is superficial at best, but there's still a familiar air of open innocence about her that Hardy wishes he could protect. Miller's had gradually dimmed during the investigation into Danny Latimer's death, and he himself had shattered it when he told her about Joe.
But Miller is a two and a half hour drive and six months in the past and he has a different DS in front of him and a new crime scene to investigate.
"What have we got?" he says, a bit more brusquely than he intended as they get closer to the site.
She swallows heavily and he suspects she's already vomited a couple of times before his arrival. So long as she hasn't contaminated the crime scene, Hardy's prepared to be understanding.
He stops at the perimeter and watches the activity. He turns impatiently to Sal and finds her staring at the crime scene with a devastated expression. He waits and she glances at him, and she jumps a little when she realizes he's watching her with an eyebrow raised in expectation.
She gulps and begins speaking rapidly, eyes wide as the words trip over themselves off her tongue.
"Female, early to mid-twenties, from what we can tell." Hardy's eyes narrow. "She's been here a few days," she adds quickly. "Caucasian. Partially nude. The post-mortem will confirm but there appear to be multiple stab-wounds and what looks like ligature marks around her wrists and ankles."
"Any identification on the body?"
"None found yet, but SOCO's only started gathering evidence. There's some clothing nearby, so..." she trails off as she looks again towards the body.
Hardy notices the sudden sweat on her forehead, the green sheen to her skin and he quickly spins her around and frog marches her to a tree that he believes is far enough away. Just in time, too, because she's already gagging even as they get there.
"I'll be back at the scene when you're finished," he says with a note of sympathy she likely can't hear over her own retching.
He grimaces, then returns to his spot. The chief SOCO technician walks to him.
"No ID on the body, sir," he says. "She does have a tattoo on her right hipbone. A small dragon. Nothing really unique enough about it to track down the artist, though." He glances down at the tattoos showing beneath the sleeves of his own shirt and Hardy absently nods.
"At least it's something. Think she was killed here?"
"Doubtful. We're still processing, so things could change, and she's obviously been here for several days, but preliminary examination of the scene shows this is most likely just the dump site. Not enough blood evident in the vicinity for this to be the place where the wounds were inflicted. She would have bled profusely. That'll be confirmed once the soil samples are analyzed."
Hardy swallows and almost envies Sal's ability to vomit. He glances over as she returns to his side, looking a little shaky and wiping a hand over her mouth.
She clears her throat and it sounds sore and thick with phlegm.
"Long way to walk with a body," she croaks.
The SOCO technician nods. "We're scouting the area, checking for roads or trails the killer may have used."
Hardy nods. "Awright," he says and turns away.
"Where do we start?" Sal asks, almost tripping as she tries to keep up.
Hardy despairs of the new detective.
"Check missing persons reports. See if anyone matches the description of our victim. She's been here for a few days, somebody should have noticed she was gone by now."
"Unless the killer is the one who should have noticed," Sal says.
Hardy's hopes for her rise again and he gives her a small smile and a nod. Her eyes widen and her jaw drops and he thinks he's obviously just as miserable a wanker in Stonebridge as he'd been in Broadchurch and Sandbrook if a simple almost-smile is enough to shock his DS.
"She has a dragon tattoo on her right hipbone," he says. "That will hopefully help to identify her."
She nods eagerly and follows him back to the road.
The victim is quickly identified as Marney, a street prostitute plying her trade along the street the cops call Tom Avenue. Her fellow sex workers reluctantly direct them to her room in a rooming house not far from the area of the street she patrolled every night.
Once SOCO is finished, Hardy stands on the threshold of her room and looks in. He can see everything but he ducks beneath the yellow crime tape anyway and stands in the middle of the space.
It's pitifully bare, showing little evidence of the woman who had lived there, of the person she'd been before turning to the streets, of the person she'd become after. No one they've spoken with knows who she was before she arrived in Stonebridge, or if they do, they're not talking.
He turns in a slow circle, inspecting everything in the room. It's spotlessly clean, much cleaner than the hallway or the rest of the house he's seen, and the bed is tidily made up. He turns a picture that's facing the bed with a gloved hand and sees the beaming face of the victim with sweat-soaked hair plastered to her forehead, sitting in a hospital bed holding a newborn baby.
His lips twist.
Of course there'd be a baby somewhere, he thinks, because what happened to the poor woman isn't nearly bad enough.
He leaves and goes back to the station, bowed with the knowledge that crimes like this are notoriously difficult to solve. Their only hope is if she knew her killer.
As expected, the case quickly goes cold, and the case is put to the bottom of the pile.
Stonebridge doesn't have a high homicide rate, but there's definitely more activity than in Sandbrook and much more than in Broadchurch. It doesn't make Hardy feel any better that Marney's case so quickly runs out of leads and becomes all but forgotten.
Until the second body is found three weeks later.
And the third two weeks after that.