Free Broadchurch by Erin Kelly, Chris Chibnall

of Death: Thurs 18 July 2200–0400h (est.)
    CID is a mess. Everyone has been called into work at once, meaning they’ve got more officers than desks. Floor panels are being lifted to access power sockets and install new phone lines. A network of live tripwires criss-crosses the office.
    The phone engineer, a burly bloke in gold-rimmed glasses, keeps flicking Hardy nervous glances. Hardy squints to read his name badge – Steve Connolly – and stares back with all the hostility he can muster. The more uncomfortable he makes this Steve Connolly feel, the sooner he’ll get the job done and piss off out of Hardy’s incident room. Hardy’s not happy about having a civilian in here, moving desks about, toppling files that should be under lock and key. Do these people think he has a clean-desk policy for fun?
    Miller’s brought him a latte. He salivates at the creamy, nutty smell of it, but even a cup of instant could send him over the edge, and those café blends are like rocket fuel. Of course, she takes the refusal personally.
    ‘There’s a hut on Briar Cliff,’ he says, ignoring her wounded fawn expression. ‘Mile and a half along the coast from where Danny’s body was found. Find out who owns it. And the car park below. Collect the CCTV from the camera there. How’re we doing on house-to-house?’
    ‘We’ve got five uniform allocated, two probationers, one who can’t drive and one who’d never taken a statement before last night.’ She grins an apology. ‘It’s a summer weekend. Three festivals and two sporting events within a hundred miles, all other officers attached to those until Monday.’
    He hates this place. He hates the stupid people and the way they work, their smiley fucking faces. He turns his attention back to the whiteboard.
    ‘Danny’s skateboard, Danny’s mobile. Priorities. Also, main suspects. You know this town – who’s most likely?’ Miller, not realising he’s only halfway through, tries to interrupt but he bowls on: ‘If the boy was killed before being left on the beach, where’s the murder scene? What’re you doing today?’
    ‘We’ve managed to get a Family Liaison Officer, I’m taking him over to the Latimers. And Jack Marshall who runs the paper shop rang in. He said he’d remembered something.’
    From nowhere, Hardy feels his fingertips tingle, a sure sign that an attack is on its way. Miller’s voice sounds as though it’s coming from far away. There’s a constriction in his lungs and suddenly there are two Millers standing in front of him, blurring in and out of focus.
    ‘In a minute,’ Hardy says.
    He makes it to the toilet without incident. Mercifully alone, he pops two huge tablets from the blister pack in his pocket and washes them down with tap water. He studies his pale sweaty face in the mirror above the sink and wills it to return to normal.
    On the way back, he almost falls over Steve Connolly, who’s unrolling a long white cable. His face is ashen, and it takes Hardy the briefest inspection of the office to realise why. DC Frank Williams’s desk is a mess. A list of questions that still need answering has been pinned to a screen, for fuck’s sake. A picture of Danny’s skateboard, yellow laminate with a jagged navy print, lies across a keyboard and visible under that is – oh, for fuck’s sake – autopsy photographs peeking from the file. There’s a blown-up picture of Danny’s neck, huge red handprints on the white skin. Hardy sends Connolly away, then gives Williams a bollocking that silences the room. The talking doesn’t start up again until he is halfway down the corridor.
     
    It’s business as usual at the newsagent’s. Jack Marshall heaves a stack of papers up on to the counter. The effort leaves him slightly breathless.
    ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about him all last night,’ he says. ‘I run the Sea Brigade. Danny’d been coming about eighteen months, on and off. Cheeky lad, but a good heart. It matters, a good