Ellie puts the phone on the coffee table and stares at it, wondering what the bloody hell she was thinking, telling Hardy she wanted to work the case and—even worse—asking him to work the case with her, even going so far as to say she doesn't want to work on it without him. It's not like she can take any more time from her traffic cop job in Devon. She doesn't even know if it's possible to solve the case, but Dottie had been so quietly confident they could find what happened to Francesca, Ellie had found herself saying yes almost without thinking.
She falls back against the sofa cushions, buries her fingers in her hair and pulls.
"Mum?"
She jumps and stares at Tom, who's standing in the doorway, watching her with a worried look on his face. She drops her hands and forces a smile.
"Yah?"
"Are you all right?"
She blinks. "Of course. Why? Don't I look all right?"
He crunches his face in disbelief and she grimaces.
"Right." She pats the sofa cushion beside her and Tom reluctantly comes towards her and sits down. He's gotten so big so quickly, she thinks he's still not quite sure how to move his suddenly much longer legs and arms. Her stomach twists as she suddenly wonders if Danny would have had this growth spurt too, or if he would have been a late bloomer, or if he would have been shorter than average. She fights the urge to burst into tears and throw her arms around Tom and hug him for all he's worth.
She also fights the guilt she feels at her relief it hadn't been her son.
She shoves down her anger that it had been her husband.
She settles for taking Tom's hand and giving it a comforting squeeze.
"I'm all right," she says with a smile that's only slightly insincere. "A woman came to see me today, about a cold case she'd like to reopen."
"With Hardy?"
She raises an eyebrow at his suspicion tones.
"Yes, with Hardy. He's coming for dinner on Thursday and we're going to go through the information the woman gave us, see if there's anything we can do to help her."
He presses his lips together into a tight line and bows his head.
Ellie frowns.
"I thought you rather liked Hardy?"
He scowls, but doesn't lift his head or look at her.
"Or at least didn't mind him," she says with a trace of humour.
"Did you have an affair with him while you were married to Dad?" he blurts.
She rears back, her mouth sagging open with surprise.
"No! Why would you even think that? God, Hardy even denied it on international television!"
"Well, there's lots of speculation online, and there are newspaper articles saying you did and there's video footage of you and him going in and out of hotels both here and in Sandbrook and-"
"Tom," she says, firmly but kindly, "don't pay attention to people who have nothing better to do than to spout off from behind a keyboard about things they know nothing about! Besides, our trips to Sandbrook were during the trial and were strictly business! We were investigating a suspicious death and a disappearance, successfully, too, I might add, otherwise nobody would be talking about us at all."
She frowns. "What are you doing, looking online about this stuff anyway?"
Tom gives her the pitying look only teenagers are capable of giving their ancient parents. "It's all over, Mum. It's all anyone's talking about."
Her eyes widen. "Good God, why?"
He shrugs. "It's a great story. We'd be talking about it, too, if it wasn't about us."
She opens her mouth to deny it, then pauses.
She remembers when the Sandbrook case first fell apart, when Alec Hardy was just a name in the paper and what really happened was clouded in uncertainty. There'd been a lot of talk, even round Broadchurch, about police corruption at worst, incompetence at best, and whispers of a cover-up that whipped through the policing community like fire on a windy day.
She slowly closes her mouth because she'd been right there with everyone else, at the station and in the coffee shops, clucking her tongue and feeling smugly satisfied crimes like that never happened in Broadchurch, and those sorts of things, whatever those coppers had gotten up to in Sandbrook, would never happen here, not while she was on the force.
She sighs. "Well, just try to stay away from it as much as you can, awright? And trust me and Hardy, because we will tell you the truth. We never had an affair."
He doesn't look at her but tilts his head in what Ellie hopes is agreement.
"Tom," she says firmly.
He gives her a startled look, takes in her expression and straightens. "Awright," he says.
She beams and holds out her arms.
He leans into her and she hugs him tight. "Never forget I love you more than chocolate," she whispers in his ear.
"I won't," he mutters.
She closes her eyes and prays his words will always be true.
*/*/*/*/*
Hardy walks into what used to be Jack Marshall's shop and looks round almost helplessly.
What do you take with you when you're going for dinner, but it's not really a social occasion and it's not strictly a working thing?
It's not like he hasn't eaten meals with Miller since that first dinner, back when she was just an annoying DS and Joe wasn't even a real suspect. But Tess had endlessly lectured him on the protocols when going to dinner with friends versus dinner with acquaintances, and with "we're not exactly friends, Hardy" still ringing in his ears, he decided it might be better to stop and get something so he doesn't arrive empty-handed.
He's wandering the aisles, wondering where to begin when his phone rings.
Isabella.
"What?" he says, distracted.
She's used to him by now and his greeting doesn't faze her. "Hi. Just wanted to let you know I've set up an interview with NBC News for the day after tomorrow."
"On a Saturday? Don't people have something better to do?"
"Sadly, no," Isabella says drily, "at least not while I'm assigned to manage the media requests for you."
"Shouldn't this shite be slowing down by now?"
"Usually we're finished within two weeks. You, apparently, are the gift that keeps on giving."
He pauses in mid-stride, frowning. "What the hell does that even mean?"
"It means the story is still selling papers and people are still clicking on websites and that means money for the media companies. They're not quite ready to stop milking the cash cow."
"Well, how can I get it to stop making money for them?" he growls, frustrated.
"Try being charming. That might throw them off."
He rolls his eyes and wonders if Isabella and Miller were separated at birth. He hopes they never meet while he's in the room. Or while he's out of the room, either.
"Anyway," Isabella says with a chuckle, "can you drop by tomorrow? They've sent the questions they want to ask and we should go over them."
"I won't be back in Sandbrook until tomorrow evening," he says.
"Won't be-where are you?"
"Broadchurch. Trying to decide if I need to take anything to a working dinner."
"Working?" Isabella says sharply. "Are you back with the Broadchurch police department?"
He curses himself for his distraction and letting too much slip through to her.
"I've been asked to look over a case file," he says, which is true enough, "but we're eating dinner first."
Isabella hums skeptically, then says, "Take wine. That's always acceptable, even if you're working afterwards."
"There'll be-" he hesitates. He's not intentionally hiding the fact he's having dinner with Miller, but for some reason, he doesn't feel comfortable sharing that information with Isabella.
"There'll be?" she prompts.
"There'll be people there who can't drink."
"Sparkling grape juice so you can pretend it's wine. Or some other flavour, if that works better."
The thought isn't appealing, but he's going to be late if he doesn't stop waffling.
"Awright," he says.
Isabella sighs. "You're welcome, Hardy. Look, what time are you going to be back tomorrow? We can get take away and go over the questions, and then do final prep at nine the next morning. The interview's scheduled for ten, by the way."
He huffs out a sigh. "I should be there by six."
"Perfect. Do you want me to pick you up at the train?"
"Na, I'll meet you at the police station."
She groans. "Here, again? I swear I spend more time in this place than I do at home."
"Don't we all?" he growls as he glances at his watch. "I'm going to be late. I'll see you tomorrow."
She sighs. "Yes, Hardy."
He hesitates, then reluctantly says, "Thank you for the suggestion. About the sparkling juice, I mean."
"You're welcome," she says, sounding pleased and surprised, and he thinks he really needs to work on his manners.
He pockets his phone, grabs a couple of different flavours of sparkling juice and as he pays for it, he hopes he hasn't just made another social gaffe that's only going to make Miller laugh at him. Again.
*/*/*/*/*
She scowls. "This isn't a social thing," she scolds. "Besides, I think we're long past these kinds of things when you're invited to dinner."
He raises an eyebrow. "This is only the second time I've been invited to dinner," he says mildly and could bite out his tongue because she abruptly turns her back and he knows she's remembering the first time, when neither of them knew about Joe, when she was still in her perfect, happy marriage with the perfect, happy man Joe was pretending to be.
As if he needed to feel even shittier than he already does, he thinks wearily.
She turns and forces an obviously strained 'hostess' smile. "Don't just stand there, come in. Dinner's almost ready."
He follows her into the kitchen and exchanges warily awkward nods with Tom. Fred runs into the room on his chubby toddler legs and stops and stares at Hardy, eyes wide beneath the unruly curls he's inherited from his mother.
Things are a little chaotic after that, with Miller and Tom trying to finish cooking the meal while Fred scampers round underfoot. In the end, it all comes together, like meals always seem to do, and they settle at the table where they eat with a minimum of conversation. Hardy notices Tom is only sparingly sipping at the sparkling juice, obviously not enjoying it but doing his best not to be rude.
Hardy takes pity on him, takes a drink from his own glass and pulls a face.
"This was not a good year," he announces and surprises a smile out of Tom.
"It's fine," Miller automatically assures him, then scowls as Hardy lifts an eyebrow and Tom gives her an incredulous stare. "Awright," she says, "it's far too sweet."
Hardy nods. "Think the other one would be any better, Tom?"
Tom shakes his head. "I've tried it before. It's even worse."
"Well," Hardy sighs, "I didn't get my heart fixed just so I could turn my blood to pure sugar. How about some water? And I'll have to remember to tell Isabella her advice was shite."
"Isabella?" Ellie asks, surprised. "What does Isabella have to do with anything?"
"She rang while I was wondering what to bring. I didn't think wine and nothing else would be appropriate, since Tom and Fred wouldn't be able to drink it."
"And you listened to her?" Miller says, a puzzled half-smile curving her mouth. "I didn't think you listened to anybody."
"I was desperate," Hardy says drily. "Besides, she's been navigating me through all these bloody interviews without a hitch. I didn't think she'd steer me wrong."
"Boy, were you wrong," Tom says.
Hardy turns a baleful stare in his direction then surprises him with a smile. "Story of my life, really," he says.
They're all more relaxed after that and the meal passes pleasantly enough. Ellie and Tom begin clearing up and Hardy takes Fred into the living room where he tries to keep the toddler amused until the others are finished.
"Awright," Miller says as she walks in to the living room, then stalls as Hardy looks up at her from where he's sitting cross-legged on the floor with Fred, a variety of toys strewn round them.
She briskly shakes her head and says, "Ready to get some work done?"
Hardy gives Fred one last toy and puts a warm hand on the boy's shoulder before he pushes himself to his feet.
"I've been ready to get some work done for the last seven weeks," he growls and follows her back to the dining room.
*/*/*/*/*
They read in silence, methodically, Ellie first then Hardy. Hardy piles the finished papers neatly beside him.
She watches as he reads the last one, glasses perched on his nose, forehead wrinkled in a frown, dark eyes moving intently over the page, bottom lip thrust out in a thoughtful pout.
Even though it's only been seven weeks since she last saw him-less than that, if she counts when he was on the telly a few days ago-it feels like forever. He still looks the same, although he's gone back to the light scruff he'd sported when he first arrived in Broadchurch. His hair, while neat when he arrived at her door, is now sticking up in tufts from where he's run his fingers through it during the evening.
She mentally rolls her eyes at herself. For God's sake, it's only been seven weeks; of course he still looks the same.
He puts the last piece of paper neatly on the pile then turns his intense gaze on her. She immediately shifts into work mode.
"I wasn't expecting that," she says. "Did you know?"
"I did some research at the Sandbrook library yesterday, before meeting Daisy," he says, taking off his glasses and dropping them on the table in front of him and rubbing his eyes.
"So you knew Archie Reynolds had confessed to killing Francesca? That he's in prison right now for it?"
He nods. "It was, apparently, big news at the time." His voice is dry.
"So why didn't you tell me? Why bother coming all this way?"
He shrugs, frowning. "I was curious to see what Dottie had given you as a case file."
He falls silent, staring into space, his frown deepening into a thoughtful scowl.
"And?" Ellie finally prompts.
"The body was never found. Dottie Livingstone told me she wanted to find Francesca. She never said she wanted to find Francesca's killer."
Ellie's mouth opens into a soundless 'oh'.
Hardy turns his intense eyes back to her. ''I think we need to have another conversation with Dottie. When can you come to Sandbrook?"
She frowns, mentally flipping through her work and home schedules. "I can't this coming week, but I should be able to arrange things for the week after. I can have Lucy take the boys for a couple nights."
He nods absently. "Fine. That'll give me time to see if I can call in a favour or two in order to get access to both the original case files and to Archie Reynolds."
She eyes him thoughtfully. "What's bothering you?" she asks.
He frowns, his expression once again distant and thoughtful. "The confession."
*/*/*/*/*
A/N: This is going places I hadn't expected. :)
The next update may be longer than a week as I have to do some actual plotting (eeek!). I'll update as soon as I can.