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2025-11-04
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2025-12-16
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2/?
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Beneath His Grace

Chapter 1: The Weight of Silence

Chapter Text

Maybe it's wrong to be him.

At least that is what he tells himself every day--that he isn't really him. He can still see it.

The soft curve of something that shouldn't be there, a voice that cracks wrong in the silence, a face that still remembers what it used to look like. He tries to be a man, but it always feels like pretending. No one looks beyond that.. No one ever tried.

They only see the rage, the anger, that threatens to spill everywhere his voice should be. The fury... is easier; it keeps people away, keeps the truth buried deep inside of him. What's the point of showing softness when all softness has ever brought him is pain?

Tess used to look at him differently. She'd said she loved him once, but he wonders if she ever meant him, or the version she thought she could fix.

And now she's gone, gone with him, gone with the man she chose instead. "Bloody fucking bastard.." he mutters under his breath. But he isn't sure if he means the man or himself.

He'd been wandering for hours. The air in Brodchurch tastes like regret and salt. He can't stop thinking bout Saandbrook, bout the way they all look at him when they find out the whispers, the laughter, the judgment, the death threats that came in the mail. The chief inspector, a woman pretending to be a man. No one ever said it out loud; no one ever had to. He could feel it every time they looked at him.

He told himself Brodchurch would be different; it had to be different, nobody knew him there outside the Sandbrook case. But ghosts follow you. They always do.

His wrist watch struck quarter prt three when Alec walked past the church again. he didn't know how many times he'd circled the block, or how long he'd been awake. His coat was soaked from the drizzle, and each step sounded like breathing: uneven, tired, useless. The church lights were still on. 

Of course.

Men of faith never sleep; they always have something to confess.

 

 

In one of the pews, Paul sat alone. He had no home before the church.

No mother's voice, no father's warmth, only a name written in the orphanage ledger like a prayer already forgotten. He learned early that silence kept him safe, that keeping still meant surviving another night.

His earliest memory was of his father's shadow, rough hands, and a voice that said Men don't look at other men that way. He hadn't understood what "that way" meant yet only that it hurt to exist beneath that gaze. "Stop lookin' at boys like that, Paul," he'd growl, as if the mere flicker of curiosity were a sin already punished. There were nights when the shouting blurred into silence, when his mother stopped speaking altogether. When she left, she didn't say goodbye.

She just didn't come back.

He was twelve when the neighbors found him; thin, half-starved, clutching an empty bottle he'd stolen to keep the cold out of his bones.
They said he was a drunk already, just like his father.

They said the boy needed God before the devil got to him.

When he turned thirteen, they sent him to a camp designed to reform boys. It smelled of pine and incense, hymns and fear. The priest there spoke of cleansing, of purity, of the sins that live inside you if you look too close for too long, want too much.

One of them told him he was special--chosen. Paul learned then that salvation could hurt, that some kinds of prayers were pushed in your throat until you choked and gagged forgiveness. Some let bruises that you could never point to.

After that, faith became a thing to control, not to feel. He wrapped it around himself like armor. The Church saved him, or at least that's what he told himself, because to admit otherwise would mean naming what really had happened that summer.

So he became a man of God, not because he believed He loved him, but because he feared what he would do to him if he didn't.

He learned to kneel, to fold his hands, to say the words that would make people stop looking at him.

At night, the walls would whisper. The priest said he was chosen, holy, marked for something bigger if he just let himself get help.

When he grew older, he found the bottles again--this time in secret. A sip to sleep, another to forget. Each drink washed away a name, a face, a memory. Until all that remained was faith, carved out of guilt and the need to make sense of what was done in God's name.

 

So he stayed. He stayed because if he left the Church, he'd have to admit what it took from him.

He stayed because the only thing worse than believing... was not believing at all.

The candle guttered low.

Paul rises, straightening shoulders that don’t feel his own.

The night is over.

 

Tomorrow will be another day.

Morning comes muted, gray, and damp. The fog hangs low over the rooftops, clinging to the streets like a secret no one dares speak aloud. Paul woke to the faint scent of earth drifting through the slightly open window. He stretches slowly, carefully, letting his body remind him he’s Alice–alive despite the night, despite the memories that cling stubbornly.

 

He moves through the small house with quiet, measured motions: kettle on, tea steeping, the soft scrape of spoon against cup. The light is weak, filtered through clouds and mist, and he finds himself watching the shadows cast on the walls.

 

Across town, Alec trudges through the drizzle, coat pulled tight, coffee warm in his hands, but it does nothing to thaw the chill that has lodged itself in his chest. Sleep was fitful, haunted by flashes of yesterday–footsteps on wet cobblestones, the faint glow spilling from the church. He tries not to dwell on it, tries to focus on the case, on the mundane routines of Broadchurch, but the night left residue, and his body remembers what his mind would rather forget. 

The town moves around. Unaware. Shopkeepers raise shutters, the gulls cry over the harbor, the Latimer house hums with the soft stirrings of a broken home. And yet, for both of them, the air still feels weighted, the memory of the night a quiet echo neither can fully name correctly.

 

Alec has spent most of his morning reading statements made by his main suspects. He doesn’t know how to narrow it down.. Though, of course, finding out the kid’s father had been having an affair the same day his son died was something. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that the other people in Broadchurch were hiding something. Everyone did.

 

He wonders who would be so heartless to murder an eleven-year-old boy, someone who hadn’t even started life. “Bloody hell..” He can’t help but feel the weight of the case on him; it’s the same heavy weight he felt when he was solving the Sandbrook case, and how he could never make it right for that family. 

He rubs his temple as he sighs. He can feel his vision start to blur as he walks to the bathroom, barely holding his weight on his two feet. He can feel his heart rate dropping quickly.

Nothing about this case is easy: Mark’s affair, the silence of Beth, the strange, sudden closeness of the vicar with the Latimers, and the old shopkeeper. None of it makes sense, and no one is saying the whole truth of what happened that night. He presses a hand to his chest, feeling that familiar, stubborn tightness. He tells himself is just the stress, the caffeine, the sleepless nights–but the memory of Sandbrook lingers like a shadow he can not escape. Another dead child. Another community rotting beneath a smile. 

 

He stands, chair scraping against the floor. “Need air,” he mutters, grabbing the pills and opening the faucet of water as he chugs them down. The bathroom feels small, too suffocating.

 

The bathroom mirror caught him off guard. He barely recognized the man staring back–pale, unshaven, dark creases carved beneath his eyes. The pills went down hard, bitter on his tongue. He leaned against the sink, waiting for his pulse to even out, for the trembling in his hands to stop. It didn’t.

 

Broadchurch was supposed to be a fresh start. That's what he’d told himself when he took the job, that maybe, if he threw himself into something new, somewhere fresh, he would bury Sandbrook for good. But ghosts don’t stay buried for long.

 

The bathroom felt like a cell–four white walls and the low hum of the flickering light above. The mirror didn’t lie, though he wished it would. The man staring back at him looked older than he remembered, as if Broadchurch itself had added another decade to his face overnight. The dark crescents under his eyes were bruises of his own making. The unshaven jaw, the uneven tie, the hollow set of his cheeks–everything about him looked brittle.

 

He didn’t remember the last time he’d slept properly. A few hours, maybe, between nightmares and the endless hum of his mind. The pills helped, though not much. They slowed the world just enough for him to exist peacefully.

 

He leaned over the sink, water still running, listening to it gurgle down the drain. The sound filled the room like white noise, drowning out the thoughts clawing at the back of his head. Sandbrook. Always Sandbrook. No matter how many new cases he will take, how many times he moves away, it will hunt him down. 

 

He pressed his fingers to his chest, feeling the dull ache that lived there now. The price of two years, too many mistakes, too much guilt packed up inside a body that had never quite felt right. His reflection blurred as the pressure in his ribs deepened. He steadied himself against the sink until the wave passed. 

 

Broadchurch had been meant to be a brand new start. A smaller place. Fewer eyes. Fewer questions. But small towns have long memories and sharper tongues. Everyone here knew, or thought they knew, everything about everyone. And already, the cracks were showing.

 

He dried his hands, left the water running out of habit, and pulled his coat. The office could wait a few minutes; he needed air more than anything. Outside, the morning was pale and heavy with fog. The kind that blurred the edges of buildings and made every sound distant, swallowed. The sea air was cold, damp enough to sting his lungs. It reminded him he was still here, still alive, still breathing.

 

He followed the narrow street that led toward the harbour. The world was just waking up — gulls crying over the water, shop shutters rattling open, the faint smell of bread drifting from the bakery down the hill. It could have been peaceful, if not for the case gnawing at the back of his mind.

Daniel Latimer. Eleven years old.

He mouthed the name like a prayer, though he hadn’t believed in anything holy for a long time.

There was something about this case — something that pressed against the same wound Sandbrook had left behind. A dead child. A grieving mother. A father with too many lies. Every detail echoed, like the universe mocking him for ever thinking he’d escaped.

He reached the promenade and stopped near the railing, watching the tide shift below. The horizon looked endless and uncaring. He thought about calling Ellie, then decided against it. She’d already been defensive that morning, protective of the locals, her town. They always were, at first.

He rubbed his palms together, trying to will warmth into them, but his fingers were trembling again. He shoved them into his pockets and kept walking.

It wasn’t until he reached the edge of the harbour that he noticed the church. It sat higher than the other buildings, its stone walls slick with moisture, the windows spilling faint ribbons of coloured light into the mist.

A movement caught his eye — a man standing just outside the entrance, speaking softly to an older woman. Even from across the street, Alec could see the collar, the deliberate calm in his posture.

The vicar. Paul Coates.

He’d heard the name mentioned once or twice — always in connection with the Latimers, always in that same reverent tone small towns used when speaking of their clergy. It set Alec’s teeth on edge.

 

Alec didn’t move. He stood there longer than he meant to, studying the man’s silhouette framed by fog and stained glass. Something about him made Alec uneasy — too still, too serene, like someone trying too hard to look harmless.

Maybe it was the priest thing. Maybe it was the instinct that anyone that clean was hiding something. Or maybe he was just tired of people who claimed to know what was right and wrong.

“Fucking hell..” he muttered under his breath, turning away. He didn’t believe in God, hadn’t for a long time. And he certainly didn’t believe in men who claimed to speak for Him.

Still, as he walked past the church, he couldn’t help glancing back.

The door had closed, and the lights inside flickered faintly, as though the building itself was breathing.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything that the vicar was just another local face, another name on a list of people who’d already lied to him today.

And yet, as he walked back toward the station, the image of that figure in the mist lingered — quiet, unshakable, like the start of something he didn’t want to name.



Paul hadn’t slept at all.

It was already afternoon, and he was sitting down in one of the pews, writing down what he would say for Daniel’s funeral. “That poor boy…” There was no use in dwelling on the death of the boy.

He wished he could help, but he had just been at the church all day praying, his flashbacks had been getting worse and worse recently, and the death of Daniel certainly had hit him. He was a reverend for fucks sake, he was supposed to protect those in need..

So why couldn’t he? A child was dead, the same boy who helped him. He saw himself in Daniel, scrawny, gentle, sunshine boy.. He had once been like that, but that version of himself had been dead for far too long. 

He set the pen down and buried his face in his hands.

Outside, the bells struck four.
 He could hear voices beyond the church doors—Ellie Miller talking to someone, probably the detective again. Hardy.

He’d seen him from afar earlier, pacing by the cliff road, coat whipping in the wind. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in years. Paul told himself it was pity that made him notice, the same kind of pity he was supposed to feel for everyone in this town. But it wasn’t that simple. There was something else, something quieter and more dangerous, an ache that sat behind his ribs.

He hated it.

He rose from the pew, stretching his sore legs, and walked toward the altar. The stained glass threw fractured light over the stone floor, turning his shadow into pieces of color. He stared up at the cross—wood splintered, candlelight flickering across it—and for a moment he almost saw his reflection in it.

“You were supposed to keep him safe,” he whispered, unsure if he meant God or himself.

The wind pushed against the church doors, and for a brief second, he thought it was someone entering again. His chest tightened. He half expected to see Hardy standing there—sharp eyes, that unspoken judgment he carried like a badge.

But the door stayed closed.

Paul exhaled, sitting back down. He picked up his pen again and forced himself to write, even if the words meant nothing.

“We gather not to question His plan,” he wrote, “but to remember the light we lost. To hold it long enough that it doesn’t disappear.”

He paused, reading the line. It was pretty, poetic, hollow. He hated it.

Still, he underlined it twice. It sounded like something a reverend should say.

When the last light began to fade from the stained glass, he finally leaned back and closed his eyes. The church hummed with the sound of the sea, steady and relentless. Somewhere out there, the detective was probably still pacing, still searching for the truth.

And Paul, for all his prayers, still didn’t know if he wanted to find it.

 

The next sound he heard wasn’t the sea or the wind; it was footsteps. Two sets. Firm, purposeful. The kind that didn’t belong in a church unless they were looking for something. Or someone.

Paul opened his eyes.

Hardy stood at the door, the long shadow of his coat stretching down the aisle. Ellie followed closely behind, her expression softer, though her eyes flickered with unease. The church suddenly felt smaller. Too bright but too quiet.

 

“Reverend.. Paul.” Ellie started, her voice careful, the way people talk to someone who might break if they said the wrong thing. “Sorry to drop in unannounced.”
Paul rose slowly from the pew, brushing the dust from his trousers. “No need to apologize. The church is open to everyone.” His voice was softer and steadier than he felt.
Hardy didn’t answer right away. His gaze wandered across the church: the altar, the dead candles, the half-written notes on the pew–before landing on Paul again. “For the funeral, I assume.” Paul followed his eyes to the papers. “Trying to find the right words for it,” he said quietly. “It’s… been hard.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Hardy’s voice came rough and dry. “Can’t be easy finding the right words for it, aye?”

Paul gave a small smile and a short, humorless laugh. “Comfort isn’t the point, is it? Is letting that boy rest in heaven.”
Hardy’s jaw clenched slightly, studying the reverend. “Do you believe that?”
Paul met his eyes, and for a moment, it was quiet; no one spoke. Then he said, “I believe in it.” Ellieheftedd, uncomfortably, was trying to steer the tension elsewhere. “We just have a few questions,” she said, pulling out her notebook. “We need your statement of that night and about your relationship with the victim.”
Paul nodded. “He helped around the church. Little candles, carried hymnals. Good boy. Quiet.”
“Quiet,” Hardy repeated, his tone sharper now. “You mean shy? Secretive? Mysterious?”
Paul frowned slightly. “He was a child, Inspector. he kept things to himself, they all do.”

Hardytooka few steps forward, his shoes clicking against the stone. “Where were you the night he died?”

Paul didn’t flinch away; he just gulped.”Here. In the church.”

“Alone?”

“Yes,”

“No one saw you?”

Paul’s jaw tensed. “God did.”

Hardy snorted. “Right. Anyone real see you?”
Ellie shot him a look. “Hardy.”
“No,” Paul interrupted. “No one did. I was here late. Writing. Praying.” He hesitated, his hands twitching slightly before he folded them together. “Trying to sleep.”

Hardy’s eyes lingered on that movement. “You seem.. affected,” he said. “More than most.”

Paul’s voice cracked just a little. “A child is dead. How else should I be Detective Inspector?”

Something flickered across Hard’s face then, guilt? Maybe, or understanding. It was gone as quickly as it had hit him. Ellie closed her notebook gently. “We won’t keep you longer. Just–if you remember anything, anyone Daniel might’ve mentioned–”
“I’ll be sure to tell you,” Paul finished. “Of course.

Hardy nodded once at him before turning his back on him. They turned to leave, the sound of their footsteps growing softer until the doors creaked open. The sea wind spilled in, cold and sharp. Paul watched them go–Hardy’s shoulders hunched like the weight of the world lived there, Ellie’s face pale against the dim light.

When the doors shut again, the silence returned. heavy. Absolute.

 

The door shut behind them with an empty sound. The kind that lingered long after.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain had thickened into a gray curtain, the kind that blurred everything into shapes and movement, indistinct, fading. Hardy pulled his coat tighter, collar turned up. Ellie walked beside him, arms folded, notebook pressed to her chest like a shield. She kept glancing toward the church. “He seems..” she began, searching for the word.

“Guilt?” Hardy offered. She frowned “I was going to say sad.”

Hardy’s mouth twitched. “Same thing, sometimes.” They stopped at the corner, where the church path met the road. The sea was just visible beyond what their eyes could see, restless, gray, and alive. Hardy stared at it for a long time before speaking again.

“There’s something off about him.”

 

“He’s a vicar, Hardy,” Ellie said, exasperated. “They’re all a bit… I don’t know. Heavy. It’s his job to look like he’s carrying the world.”

 

Hardy shook his head. “No. Not that. It’s something else. The way he talks. The way he looks at people. Like he’s—”

 

“Hiding something?”

 

Hardy glanced at her. She’d meant it as a tease, but there was something uncertain in her tone.

 

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Exactly that.”

 

They started walking again, footsteps crunching on wet gravel.

 

“He was right about one thing,” Ellie murmured. “Daniel was a good kid. Always helped around. He’d show up early to Sunday school, set up the chairs, light candles. My niece said he used to make jokes with Reverend Coates. Like he actually listened to him. Not many boys his age would.”

 

Hardy grunted, half-listening. His mind was somewhere else — the way the reverend’s voice had wavered when he mentioned the boy. Not grief. Not quite guilt either. Something more complicated. He’d seen it before — in witnesses, in suspects, in himself.

 

“People like that,” Hardy said after a while, “the ones who want to save everyone — they’re the ones you need to watch.”

 

Ellie shot him a look. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

 

“Just cautious.”

 

“Paranoid.”

 

“Efficient.”

 

Ellie sighed. “You can’t just suspect the whole town.”

 

“I can, and I do,” Hardy muttered. “Someone killed that boy. And everyone’s pretending not to notice the cracks.”

 

They reached the station, the light spilling from inside warm but dim. 

“Write up your notes,” he said quietly. “We’ll call him in again tomorrow.”

Ellie’s eyebrows shot up. “You think he’s a suspect?”

“I think he’s a man who knows more than he’s saying.”

She looked like she wanted to argue, but instead she nodded, rubbing her arms for warmth. “You’re not sleeping, are you?” she asked finally.

Hardy didn’t answer.

“Thought so,” she said softly, and went inside.

Hardy stayed out a little longer, watching the rain smear the glass. Through the window, he could see the whiteboard in the office — Daniel’s picture at the center, a web of names and faces sprawling out like veins. Paul Coates was there now, added in black marker.

 

The rain thickened. Somewhere far off, church bells started to ring.

 

He told himself it meant nothing. Just routine. Just noise. But still, he looked back once, toward the church, the faint golden light bleeding out of its windows into the dark.





Paul's shoes squeaked against the wet pavement as he approached the station. Rain clung to his umbrella, dropping down to the floor. His hands were cold, trembling slightly despite the layers he wore. He told himself it was just the morning chill, but he knew better. It was the weight in his chest, the persistent ache in his ribs, the shadows that never seemed to lift.

 

Inside, the station smelled of bleach and old coffee. Ellie Miller waved him over, cheerful, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Alec Hardy was already there, sitting behind the desk, reviewing notes. The man hadn’t looked up when Paul entered, just kept tapping his pen against the paper. That single, deliberate silence made Paul shrink slightly in his chair.

 

Ellie placed a hand on his shoulder. “Paul, you okay?” she asked softly, voice like a shield.

 

“I… I’m fine,” he said, though his throat felt dry, tight. His mind was already running in circles, back to Daniel, to Sandbrook, to the nights he had spent hiding in pews, praying for protection he could never give.

 

Hardy finally looked up. Sharp, gray eyes pinning Paul where he sat. “Mr. Coates,” he said, voice low. “We need to go through your interactions with Daniel Latimer again. Just the facts.”

Paul nodded, pressing his hands to his knees. “I… I saw him every Sunday after service. Sometimes during the week if the parents ask. He was… he was always smiling, bright. Always asking questions. He liked to read.”

Hardy’s gaze didn’t soften. “And were you alone with him?”

Paul swallowed. His hands tightened into fists. “Sometimes,” he admitted. The word tasted bitter. Alone with a child—always a risk, even when his intentions were pure. Even when he had only ever wanted to protect.

Paul felt his stomach twist. Something in Hardy’s tone made it clear: he was being watched, measured, weighed for signs of guilt he might not even understand himself. Memories pressed in—old whispers of Sandbrook, eyes judging, people pointing fingers. The ghost of a past he couldn’t shake.

Outside, the town murmured. The baker wiped his hands on a flour-dusted apron and leaned against the window. “Did you hear?” he whispered to the butcher. “They’re questioning the vicar. About the boy. Poor Daniel…”

“Did Daniel ever confide in you? Tell you things he wouldn’t tell his parents?”

Paul hesitated. He wanted to say yes, but the truth was complicated. He remembered Daniel’s small smiles, the way the boy trusted him. But every memory felt like a knife. “Sometimes,” he whispered finally. “He asked… he asked questions about… about right and wrong, about sin.”

Hardy leaned back, silent for a moment. “And you? What did you tell him?”

The words caught in Paul’s throat. He thought of the camp, the priest, the bruises that no one could see, the nights he spent praying for forgiveness that never came. He wanted to lie. To say nothing. But the truth slid out anyway. “I told him… to do what’s right. To listen to his heart.”

“They shouldn’t question him,” the other muttered. “He’s a man of God.”

But everyone in Broadchurch had an opinion, and every opinion carried a weight, an accusation, an echo of judgment.

Hardy reached into a small evidence bag and pulled out a cotton swab. He held it up casually, but the way his eyes never left Paul made it feel like a scalpel. Paul’s throat went dry.

 

“Open your mouth.”

 

Paul froze. He wanted to protest, to ask why, but there was something in Hardy’s presence that made him obey anyway. Slowly, he parted his lips, fingers trembling against the edge of the chair.

 

Hardy’s hand was steady as the swab pressed lightly against the inside of Paul’s cheek. Paul could feel the cold, rough cotton scraping, felt the intrusion deep and personal. His pulse spiked, chest tightening. Memories came unbidden—the nights at the camp, the forced confessions, the way trust had always been a weapon used against him.

 

“Relax,” Hardy muttered, though his tone was anything but comforting. “This won’t take long.”

But it did. Every second felt like hours. Paul’s hands shook, knees bouncing beneath the chair, thoughts spiraling. He imagined what the town would say if they saw him like this. The vicar, kneeling under Hardy’s gaze, stripped bare to scrutiny, every secret leaking out before it even left his mouth.

“Done.” Hardy withdrew the swab, placed it carefully into the evidence tube, and sealed it. Paul exhaled, almost collapsing back against the chair.

Chapter 2: Where the Water Meets the Dawn

Chapter Text

The fog was a living thing. It didn’t just obscure the riverbank where Alec Hardy stood; it consumed it. It swallowed the sound of the water, the distant hum of the world, even the memory of light. It was a void of damp, grey wool, and he was trapped inside it. His shoes were soaked through, the cold leaching up through his soles, but he couldn’t move. A whisper coiled out of the murk behind him.

“Al…ec…”

It was his mother’s voice, worn thin by years and distance, using the lilt of his childhood name. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold racked his spine. He tried to turn, to find her in the formless grey, but the fog pressed in, dense and resistant as wet cloth, binding his arms, filling his mouth with the taste of damp stone and forgotten things.

Then the ground betrayed him.

It didn’t crumble; it simply ceased to be. One moment, he was on slick, sucking mud; the next, he was falling through silent, icy blackness. The shock of the water stole his breath before he could even think to take one. He was underwater, drifting, weightless, and yet anchored by a profound, soul-deep chill.

Above, the world was a shattered mirror. Light from a non-existent sun fractured into a thousand shimmering shards, painting the surface like the ceiling of some drowned, magnificent cathedral. It was beautiful. It was a tomb.

“You promised you’d keep me safe.”

Pippa’s voice. Not as he remembered it from the brief, haunting phone calls, but as it might have been underwater—warped, stretched, muffled by tons of liquid pressure. Each syllable was a bubble of accusation rising past him. He reached for them, but they slipped through his fingers, heading for a surface that seemed to recede with every second.

And then she was there.

Daisy.

Her hair fanned around her head in a dark, floating crown, strands like tendrils of deepest seaweed. Her eyes were open, wide and unblinking, fixed on him through the green-tinged gloom. There was no accusation in them. Only a terrible, empty curiosity. As if she were studying a strange, failing specimen.

Panic, pure and electric, finally jolted through him. He kicked, clawing at the water, fighting for the broken light. As he did, the symbols of his other failure drifted into view. A wooden crucifix, its figure blurred by water and rot, spun lazily past his face. The sound of church bells—not the brisk, calling peal of Sunday morning, but a slow, distorted bong… bong… bong…—vibrated through the water, a death knell from a submerged steeple.

From the darker deep below, a hand emerged. Pale, fingers slightly curled, reaching. Was it Daisy, pulling him down to her? Or was it some spectral saint, offering a salvation he knew he didn’t deserve? He recoiled, his own movements sluggish, futile.

Pippa’s voice returned, but now it had cadence, a rhythm. It was a prayer, the Lord’s Prayer, perhaps, or a psalm, but the words were breaking apart, dissolving into meaningless, gurgling sounds before they reached him. *“Our Father… who art… glub… glub… hallowed be thy… gasp… name…”

He was tired. The cold was in his bones. The light above was fading, the stained-glass window of the surface dimming to a dull, leaden grey. This was it. This was where he would stop. This was the peace he’d chased and dreaded.

A small, firm hand closed around his ankle.

The touch was icier than the water. It wasn’t weak or ghostly; it was shockingly solid, possessively tight. Before he could even look down, the pull came. Inexorable. Absolute. It yanked him downward, away from the last glimmers of light, into the absolute, soundless dark of the deep. He opened his mouth to scream, and the river rushed in.

He awoke with a strangled, wet gasp, as if he’d actually broken through a surface. The air of his rented flat was stale and too warm, but it burned his lungs like ice. He was drenched, sweat plastering his cheap cotton shirt to his chest and back, the bedsheets tangled and soaked around his legs like kelp.

His heart was a wild, trapped thing in his chest. It hammered against his ribs, a frantic, off-rhythm staccato—ba-BUM-bum-bum-BUM-BUM—then stuttered. Skipped. For a terrifying three-count, there was nothing but a hollow, echoing void in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. The room, the cheap furniture, the case files stacked like headstones on the desk—they all tilted on their axis, swimming in and out of focus.

Not now. Not now.

He fumbled for the bedside table, fingers numb and clumsy, knocking over a glass of stale water. The sound of it hitting the laminate floor was a gunshot in the silent room. He didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was the small, orange plastic bottle. He lurched out of bed, the world swaying, and half-ran, half-stumbled to the bathroom, shoulder colliding painfully with the doorframe.

The fluorescent light flickered on with a sickly buzz, revealing the pale, hollow-eyed ghost in the mirror. He ignored it, wrenching open the medicine cabinet. The bottle of beta-blockers was there. He grabbed it, his hands shaking so violently the pills rattled like a snake’s warning. He couldn’t get the child-proof cap to align. A snarl of pure frustration ripped from his throat. He braced the bottle against the edge of the sink, twisted with all his failing strength, and it flew open.

Two white pills leapt out, bouncing off the porcelain with a tiny, mocking click-click before settling in the basin. He stared at them, useless little tablets in a dirty sink. He tipped one into his palm, dropped the bottle, and cupped his other hand under the tap. The water was lukewarm. He shoved the pill into his mouth, swallowed, choked, swallowed again.

He gripped the edges of the sink, head bowed, and waited. The vice around his chest tightened, then loosened one agonizing turn. Then another. The jackhammer in his chest settled into a heavy, laboured thud—not right, not healthy, but enough. Enough to keep him standing. Enough to keep him from dying on this cold bathroom floor in a town that already hated him.

He raised his head. The man in the mirror was a stranger. Pale skin stretched tight over sharp bones, dark circles like bruises under eyes that held too much knowledge and too much fear. Stubble grey-flecked and unkempt. A man haunted by ghosts, both old and new. A man whose own body was a traitor.

He knew he should go back to bed. He knew, with a certainty that was itself exhausting, that he could not. Sleep was the river. Sleep was the small, cold hand.

The desk lamp in the living room cast a small, defiant pool of light against the overwhelming dark of the flat and the deeper dark outside the window. He sat before it, a supplicant at a bleak altar. He opened the first file.

*Mark Latimer. Interview #2. 14/02.*
“I was at the hut. I told you. I was fixing the generator. It was after midnight. I didn’t see anyone.”

The words were clear, typed on the official transcript. But as he stared, they seemed to soften at the edges, the ink bleeding. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, which felt full of grit. He opened the next file.

Tom Miller. Witness Statement.
“He hit him. Mark did. Danny came home crying once, saying Mr. Latimer had slapped him hard by the boats. He was scared of him.”

He turned back to Mark’s transcript. The words had changed. Now they read: “I hit him. I was scared of him.” He shook his head, a sharp, physical motion. The pages rustled. He opened a third file, Beth Latimer’s initial statement.

“He’s just a boy. He’s my boy. Why won’t you tell me where he is?”

Her handwritten words, scanned into the file, began to swim. The ‘’ in ‘boy’ elongated, became the tail of the ‘g’ in ‘generator’ from Mark’s file. The ‘w’ in ‘why’ curved into the shape of the fishing hut. All the words, all the grief, all the lies and evasions, were dissolving into a single, swirling pool of ink, at the bottom of which was Danny Latimer’s small, pale face.

He didn’t know he’d been crying until a drop fell from his chin and landed on Beth’s plea, smudging the word “boy” into an illegible blot. He jerked back, swiping at his face with a furious hand. Weak. Sentimental. Useless.

Hours bled away, unmarked. The only evidence of their passing was the gradual shift in the window from pitch black to the charcoal grey of pre-dawn, and the growing pile of transcribed witness statements he’d read and re-read. When the first proper slash of dirty gold cut across the sky, he realized with a jolt that he’d been sitting there for nearly four hours. He’d read half the case file twice. If asked to summarize a single alibi, a single timeline discrepancy, he would have been unable to do so.

All he could remember was the water.

The briefing room at the Broadchurch police station always smelled of stale coffee and cheap disinfectant. DI Ellie Miller was already there, looking tired but presentable. Hardy looked and felt like something that had been dragged from the sea. He was aware of the slight tremor in his hands, shoved deep in his coat pockets. He was aware of the sweat beading at his temples despite the room’s chill. He focused on the facts. Facts were dry land.

“Right,” he began, his voice a gravelly scrape. He didn’t sit. “Update. Jack Marshall. No alibi for the night of the 11th. Confirmed he had Danny Latimer’s mobile phone for repairs the week prior. Connection is circumstantial but persistent.”

Ellie shifted in her chair, her expression tight.

“Mark Latimer,” Hardy continued, his eyes on his own sparse notes, not on her. “Remains a person of interest. He lied about his whereabouts on the night of the 11th. The initial statement claimed he was at the fishing hut all evening. Phone records and a witness placing a van similar to his near the cliffs create a two-hour gap in his timeline. Furthermore, Tom Miller states he witnessed Mark strike Danny during an argument several weeks ago.”

He finally glanced up. Ellie was looking at the table, her jaw working.

“Ellie?”

She looked up, her eyes conflicted. “I… I don’t know. Mark? He’s a bloke who shouts at football on the telly. He gets angry, sure, but… this?”

“Anger is a data point,” Hardy said flatly. “And his data is inconsistent. Moving on. Paul Coates. Also lacks a verifiable alibi. His church,” he pointed a finger vaguely in the direction of the cliff-top, “has a direct line of sight to the Latimer house. He could come and go unnoticed. I’ve ordered a standard background check.”

Superintendent Jenkinson, who had been listening with her fingers steepled, lowered her hands. “A background check on a reverend, DI Hardy?”

“On a man with no alibi in a murder investigation, ma’am.”

“This town,” Jenkinson said, her voice low and precise, “is a raw nerve wrapped in a sleeping bag. The church is one of its few remaining pillars. You will tread with extreme care. You will be precise. You will not go in with a sledgehammer. Do not offend the church. Do not give the press more ammunition than they already have. Is that understood?”

Hardy felt the collective weight of the town’s suspicion, the force’s doubt, and his own failing body pressing down on him. He gave a curt, stiff nod. “Understood.”

The smell of stale beer and lemon-scented cleaner hit Paul Coates as he sat across from Becca Fisher in her tiny, cluttered office at the back of the pub. Spreadsheets were laid out between them, columns of red numbers like open wounds.

“I’m not trying to be harsh, Becca,” Paul said, his voice gentle but strained. “But the bank statements… they’re very clear. The projections we agreed on for the winter months aren’t being met. The repayment schedule for the refurbishment loan is… they’re not flexible people.”

Becca, arms crossed defensively over her chest, glared at the papers as if they’d personally insulted her. “What do they expect? It’s February. The town is empty. It’s grey, it’s raining, the sea looks like it wants to kill you. Tourists don’t come for the existential dread, Paul.”

“I know, I know. But perhaps we could look at some community events? A quiz night, a…”

The office door didn’t open. It exploded inward.

Beth Latimer stood in the doorway. There was no sound, no precursor scream. Her face was a mask of such pure, concentrated fury it was almost placid. Her eyes locked not on Paul, but on Becca.

Time seemed to slow for Paul. He saw Beth’s arm sweep out in a wide, graceful, terrible arc. Glasses—pint glasses, tumblers, shot glasses—flew from the bar shelf and met the floor in a spectacular, cacophonous crash of shattering crystal. The sound seemed to unlock her.

She moved with a terrifying efficiency. She wrenched open the beer taps one after the other. Amber ale and golden lager fountained out, foaming and wasted, pouring into the drip trays and cascading onto the floor in a sudsy river. She grabbed boxes of snacks from behind the bar, hurling them across the room; bags of crisps burst like shrapnel, scattering cheese-and-onion flakes like confetti.

“MY HUSBAND!” The voice, when it came, was a raw scrape, barely human. “WAS SLEEPING! WITH YOU!”

She turned fully to Becca now, the venom finally finding its target. Becca had shot to her feet, her face pale with shock.

“You,” Beth hissed, taking a step forward. “You vile, selfish… You stay away from my family! You hear me? You look at my children, you come near my house, and I swear to God… YOU STAY AWAY!”

Paul was already moving. Not with aggression, but with the calm, firm urgency of a man used to guiding the lost and the broken. He stepped smoothly between the two women, putting his body in the line of fire. He didn’t grab Beth. He held his hands up, palms open, a gesture of pacification.

“Beth,” he said, his voice low and steady, a rock in the torrent of her rage. “Beth, look at me. Come on. This isn’t you. This is the grief talking. This way. Come with me.”

For a second, she looked at him, truly looked, and he saw the fury crack, revealing the bottomless, howling abyss of pain beneath. A sob racked her frame. He gently took her elbow, not pulling, but guiding. “This way. Come on. Let’s get some air.”

He led her, stumbling and shaking, out of the wreckage of the pub, into the sharp, cleansing cold of the morning, leaving Becca standing amidst the ruins of her business and her reputation.

Hardy and Ellie emerged from the station into a blustery midday. The wind off the sea was sharp, carrying the salt tang of the cliffs. Hardy was buttoning his coat against it when a figure detached itself from the shadow of the wall.

Paul Coates looked like he’d aged a decade since the briefing. His face was drawn, the lines around his eyes deeper. There was a faint tremor in his hands, which he clasped tightly in front of him.

“Inspectors,” he said, stepping forward. His voice had lost its usual resonant calm. “A moment, please.”

Ellie stopped. Hardy paused, his expression giving nothing away.

“It’s about Jack Marshall,” Paul said, the words tumbling out. “The news… the paper… people are talking. They’re turning on him. He’s an innocent man. A scared old man. He’s being harassed. Phone calls in the night, rubbish thrown at his shop window… Can’t you… Isn’t there something you can do? Offer him some protection? Or at least make a statement?”

Hardy studied him. The earnest concern in the vicar’s eyes, the rumpled clothing, the shadow of Beth’s breakdown still clinging to him. All data points.

“Your concern is noted, Reverend,” Hardy said, his voice devoid of inflection. It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t even an acknowledgement. It was a dismissal. He turned and walked towards his car.

Ellie lingered for a second longer, her face a conflict of professional duty and human sympathy. “We’re following all lines of inquiry, Paul. That’s all we can do.”

She caught up with Hardy as he yanked open the car door. Once inside, the engine coughing to life, Hardy stared straight ahead through the windscreen.

“He’s still a suspect,” Hardy muttered, the words sharp in the confined space. “His little performance of pastoral care is a data point, nothing more. Don’t get distracted by the noise, Miller. And for God’s sake, don’t let the bloody press lead this investigation. We follow the evidence. However, it looks.”

Ellie glanced at him. He was pale, a fine sheen of sweat visible on his temple despite the cold. His knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel. “You alright?” she asked, the question automatic.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Forensics. Now.”

The forensics suite was a temple of a different sort: clean, bright, smelling of ozone and chemical sterility. It was a relief after the emotional morass of the town. The lead technician, a woman with a severe grey bob and sharp eyes, laid out four small, clear evidence bags in a neat row on a steel table.

“From the scene,” she said, without preamble. “Approximately ten feet from where the body was placed, above the high tide line. Four cigarette butts. All the same brand. Smoked down to the filter.”

Hardy leaned in. The filters were stained a dark brown.

“Unfiltered, high-tar brand,” the tech continued. “Not common. Niche market. The rain the previous day would have washed away any older debris. These were dropped the night the body was placed, or shortly after. Saliva traces are degraded, but we’re working on it. If we get a DNA profile, it’ll take time to match unless we have a suspect sample. Your best bet might be local knowledge. Someone might remember selling this particular brand.”

Hardy frowned, straightening up. The movement sent a dull throb through his chest, which he ignored. “Four cigarettes? You kill a child, carry his body to a cliff ledge in the middle of the night… and then stand around for what, twenty, thirty minutes? Smoking four cigarettes?”

The forensic tech shrugged, a minute gesture. “People do strange things under stress. Maybe they were waiting for something. Maybe it’s a ritual. It’s not my job to explain it. Just to present it.”

Ellie, who had been watching Hardy closely, saw the logic of his question hit him, and saw something else flicker behind his eyes—not just professional curiosity, but a personal, visceral revulsion at the image. The cold-bloodedness of it. Then she saw his hand come up, almost subconsciously, and press briefly against his sternum. His breathing was too careful, too controlled.

“Alright,” Hardy said, his voice tight. “Get me the brand name. We’ll start with the newsagents, the garage, the off-licence.”

As they left the cool silence of forensics for the chaotic murmur of the main office, Ellie hesitated. “Sir… you look terrible. Did you sleep at all?”

Hardy kept walking, a man marching towards a precipice only he could see. “Sleep is irrelevant, Miller. Those cigarettes aren’t. Someone was there, watching, waiting, thinking. We need to find out who. And why they needed four cigarettes to do it.”

He walked ahead, a solitary, rigid figure against the buzz of the incident room. Ellie watched him go, the superintendent’s warning echoing in her ears, the image of the cigarette butts vivid in her mind, and a new, cold worry for her abrasive, crumbling partner settling in her gut. The case was a maze. And Hardy, she feared, was already lost in the darkest part of it, haunted by waters she couldn’t see.

Of course. Here is the continuation of the story.

The wind off the sea was a physical presence, shoving against them as they left the station, carrying the damp, iodine scent of the cliffs. Hardy’s cheap suit jacket flapped around his thin frame like a flag of surrender. He was mapping a route in his head: newsagents first, then the garage on the bypass, then the solitary off-licence near the caravan park. A methodical grid. Something solid to focus on besides the phantom ache in his chest and the persistent taste of river water in the back of his throat.

“Right,” he said, more to himself than to Ellie. “We split the list. I’ll take Broadchurch News and the BP garage. You take the Costcutter and the One Stop by the beach huts.”

Ellie didn’t move. She was staring past him, her face tightening. “Sir.”

He followed her gaze. A small crowd had gathered outside Jack Marshall’s newsagent’s shop, a dozen or so people clustered on the pavement. It wasn’t a riot. It was worse. It was a silent, seething vigil. Their faces were closed, arms crossed. A young man Hardy recognised as one of the Latimers’ distant cousins stood at the front, holding a copy of that morning’s Broadchurch Echo. The headline, ‘LOCAL MAN HELPED POLICE WITH ENQUIRIES’, was circled in angry red marker.

“For God’s sake,” Hardy muttered, his exhaustion briefly overridden by a spike of pure, professional fury. This was exactly what Jenkinson had warned about. This was the noise.

As they watched, the shop door opened, and Jack Marshall emerged, clutching a stack of fresh newspapers. He looked impossibly small and old, his usual neat cardigan rumpled. He didn’t look at the crowd. He moved to the metal stand outside his shop, his hands trembling as he tried to slot the new papers in.

A single, rotting tomato flew from the back of the crowd. It missed Jack, splattering against the shop window with a wet, ugly slap, seeds and pulp sliding down the glass. Jack flinched, closing his eyes for a long second.

“That’s it,” Ellie said, moving forward, her motherly indignation overriding procedure.

Hardy caught her arm. “Wait.”

“He’s an old man!”

“And if we wade in there like the cavalry, it confirms every suspicion they have. Makes it a story. We watch. We note faces. We call it in for a uniform to disperse them quietly.” His voice was low, urgent. He hated it too—the cowardice of it, the necessary coldness—but he’d seen how these things spiralled. Sandbrook had been a masterclass in public relations disasters.

They watched from the shadows of the alleyway. Jack finished his task, wiped a hand across his brow, and retreated inside, turning the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’. The crowd, deprived of its target, muttered amongst themselves for a few more minutes before slowly, resentfully, beginning to disperse.

“Right,” Hardy said again, his jaw tight. “Now we can go. But not there. Not today. We’ll start elsewhere.”

 

The BP garage on the bypass was a temple of fluorescent light and petrol fumes. The attendant, a pimply young man with headphones around his neck, looked bored.

Hardy flashed his warrant card and placed a photo of the cigarette brand—*Black Russian*—on the counter. “Do you stock these?”

The kid glanced at it. “Nah. Don’t get many calls for coffin nails like that. Try Nige’s fag hut. Or maybe the newsagent in town? Old Jack gets all the weird stuff for the ramblers and artists.”

Hardy felt a cold trickle of frustration. Of course. The one lead they had pointed back to the man currently under siege. He couldn’t interview Jack Marshall today. Not without turning that silent crowd into a mob. It was unprofessional. It was a delay. It made his skin crawl.

“Fine,” he snapped, and left without another word.

Ellie had no better luck. The Costcutter manager shook his head. “Health kick, innit? We only do the low-tar, menthol stuff now. You want proper tabs, you go to Marshall’s. He’s got a wall of ‘em. Like a museum.”

They reconvened by Hardy’s car, the wind whipping around them. “Both roads lead to Marshall,” Ellie said, stating the obvious.

“I am aware,” Hardy bit out. He leaned against the car door, suddenly feeling the weight of the sleepless night, the dream, the pills that only dulled the edges. The world tilted slightly. He focused on a crack in the pavement.

“So what’s the plan?” Ellie pressed. “We can’t just ignore it. They’re his cigarettes. Or he sold them.”

“We wait until tomorrow,” Hardy said, forcing the words out. “Let the uniform patrol calm things down. We’ll see him first thing. With a warrant for his sales records, if necessary.”

“And if the killer is someone else who bought them there, and they see the crowd and decide to bolt?”

“What would you have me do, Miller?” he rounded on her, his temper fraying. “Storm in, scatter the good townsfolk, and drag a terrified old man into an interview room while his neighbours throw bricks? How’s that going to look on the front page tomorrow? How’s that going to help us *find the truth*?”

Ellie took a step back, surprised by the vehemence. She saw it then, clearly: it wasn’t just tactical caution. He was pale, sweating again. A muscle in his jaw was jumping. He was holding onto the car door as if for balance.

“You need to sit down,” she said, her anger shifting into concern.

“I need to work.” He fumbled with the car keys, dropping them on the tarmac. The clatter was shockingly loud. He bent to pick them up, and a wave of dizziness washed over him, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision. He straightened up too fast, grabbing the roof of the car.

“Hardy!”

“I’m fine!” It was a snarl, but it lacked force. He closed his eyes, breathing carefully through his nose. In, out. In, out. The bells from St. Andrew’s on the cliff began to chime the hour; the sound carried on the wind. For a horrifying second, they sounded waterlogged, distorted, just like in the dream. *Bong… bong… bong…*

He opened his eyes. Ellie was watching him, her earlier frustration replaced by a wary, professional assessment. She’d seen coppers break before. Under less pressure than this.

“You’re not fine,” she stated flatly. “You look like death. And you’re no use to Danny Latimer if you collapse in the bloody car park. Go home. Get an hour’s sleep. A proper meal. I’ll do the legwork on the other shops out towards Axchester.”

The humiliation was a hotter, sharper burn than the arrhythmia. Being mothered by Miller. Being seen as weak. It was intolerable. But the alternative—passing out here, an ambulance, Jenkinson’s furious disappointment—was worse.

“I’ll go back to the station,” he conceded, the words ash in his mouth. “Review the financial checks on Coates. Go through Marshall’s old statements.”

It was a compromise. Ellie nodded, not entirely convinced, but accepting it. “Right. I’ll call if I find anything. And for God’s sake, eat a sandwich or something.”

The incident room was a hive of low activity, the quiet hum of computers and phones a stark contrast to the emotional storm outside. Hardy shut the door of his temporary glass-walled office, a feeble attempt at a barrier. He sat, not at the desk, but in the chair beside it, needing to feel the solid wall at his back.

He opened the file on Paul Coates. The background check was preliminary. Clean. No criminal record. Theology degree from Durham. A curacy in Bristol. Took over the Broadchurch parish five years ago after the previous vicar retired. Finances… he skimmed. The church was struggling, like everything else here. Donations down. A small, persistent overdraft. Nothing flagrant. Nothing screamed guilt.

His eyes wandered to the whiteboard. Danny Latimer’s school photo smiled out, gap-toothed and innocent, pinned at the centre of a spider web of names, lines, and question marks. Mark. Beth. Jack. Paul. Tom Miller. Becca Fisher. Nige Carter. A constellation of pain and suspicion.

The words began to blur again. *Financial strain* from Coates’ file merged with *loan repayment* from Becca’s statement. *No alibi* under Jack’s name bled into *two-hour gap* under Mark’s. The lines on the board seemed to waver, to drip, becoming the flowing lines of water, the strands of Daisy’s hair…

He jerked his head up, pinching the bridge of his nose. *Focus.* He needed air. Real air, not this recycled, coffee-scented staleness.

He left the station through the back entrance, avoiding the high street, and took the steep, winding path that led up towards the cliff top. The exertion burned in his calves and sent a warning throb through his chest, but he pushed on, craving the punishing clarity of the wind.

He reached the top, gasping, and braced himself against the wooden railing that kept fools from the edge. Below, the grey Atlantic churned, violent and eternal. The view was breathtaking and terrible. This was where Danny had been laid. This was the last place his small body had rested before the sea took him below.

Hardy looked down at the jagged rocks, the surging water. He understood the impulse. Not to kill, but to… place. To return something to the vast, indifferent deep. To let the water hide your sins. His hand went to his chest again, a useless gesture.

“Inspector.”

The voice made him start. He hadn’t heard anyone approach.

Paul Coates stood a few feet away, his long coat flapping around his legs. He wasn’t smiling. His face was etched with a deep weariness that mirrored Hardy’s own.

“Reverend.” Hardy straightened, adopting his official stance. “Can I help you?”

“I was up at the church. I saw you from the window.” Paul came to stand beside him, not too close, following his gaze out to sea. “It draws people, this spot. In grief. In guilt. In search of answers.”

“It’s a crime scene,” Hardy said bluntly.

“It’s many things.” Paul was silent for a moment. The wind whipped his words away. “I spoke to Jack. After this morning. He’s… broken. He loved that boy. Danny would help him bundle papers, fix little things. He’s a lonely man who found a moment of purpose in a child’s company. And now the town has decided he’s a monster.”

“The town doesn’t decide anything. I do.”
“Do you?” Paul turned to look at him, his gaze penetrating, too kind. “It seems to me the town is doing a great deal of deciding. And the pressure… it weighs on everyone. Even those of us meant to carry it.”

Hardy met his eyes. There was no accusation there, only a profound, unsettling empathy. It felt more invasive than hostile. “Are you asking about the case, Reverend? Or are you asking about me?”

“I’m observing that a man investigating a drowning spends a lot of time staring at the water. And he looks… unwell.”

The directness was a shock. Hardy’s defences slammed up. “My health is not your concern, nor is it relevant to this investigation. Your concern should be your own whereabouts and your own parishioners. Like Beth Latimer. That was quite a scene this morning.”

A shadow passed over Paul’s face. “Beth is in agony. Her marriage is shattered, her son is gone. She’s looking for something to burn so she can feel its heat. Becca was simply the closest fuel.”

“And you? Where were you while your parish was imploding?”

“Where I am every Tuesday night,” Paul replied, his voice steady. “At the church. Preparing my sermon. Alone. As I’ve told you. It’s not an alibi anyone can verify, Inspector. Only God was my witness. I understand that holds little weight in your world.”

*God was my witness.* The phrase echoed in the space between them. Hardy thought of the blurred crucifix drifting in dark water. He said nothing.

Paul sighed, a sound lost in the wind. “I won’t keep you. I just… I wanted to say. The easy answer is rarely the true one. Jack is easy. The strange old man on the edge of things. Mark, with his temper, is easy. Even the vicar with no alibi is a cliché. This town… the hurt here is deep and tangled. Like the roots under the cliffs. To pull one out violently is to risk bringing the whole thing down.”

He gave a slight, sorrowful nod and walked back along the path towards the stark outline of his church, a dark silhouette against the stormy sky.

Hardy watched him go. The man was too insightful, too calm at the centre of the storm. It was suspicious. Or it was saintly. Hardy no longer knew the difference. All he knew was that the reverend’s words had settled inside him like stones.

*The easy answer is rarely the true one.*

He looked back at the sea. The water below wasn’t just water anymore. It was a mirror, reflecting the roiling, trapped chaos of the town above. And somewhere in its depths, the truth about Danny Latimer was waiting, not easy, not simple, but trapped in the same dark, tangled roots that were threatening to pull Alec Hardy under, one sleepless night, one panicked heartbeat, one haunted dream at a time.

He turned his back on the view and started the slow, heavy walk down. The case was a maze, and he was deep in its heart, the walls closing in, the sound of water growing louder with every step.