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Title: Broadchurch: Sins Of The Father

Date of commencement: September 22 2013

Date of completion: December 24 2014

Series: Broadchurch, a sequel to the original, and following on from Life Without Joe

Rating: M

Authors: tkel_paris and tardis_mole

Summary: Two years after Danny's death, life is slowly getting back to normal in Broadchurch. But Hardy's happy life is about to be turned upside down by a spectre from the past he had hoped had been laid to rest. Someone from his past wants to talk to him, someone wants revenge, someone wants to see him ruined. But it's not one 'someone'. But first, he must face the girl in his garden.

Disclaimer: We own nothing, but this is based on Broadchurch by Chris Chibnal, with added clues from the novel by Erin Kelly. We gain no financial benefit nor gratuities, only the enjoyment from writing and working together on this epic journey, shared for the enjoyment of others.

Dedication: Chris Chibnal, long time friend. bas_math_girl, for her beta. And each other for hopefully not ruining each other's lives for too long during the writing part.

Warning: If you have not watched Broadchurch in its entirety, do not read this. We mean it. You will be spoiled. Stop and go back. Now. Ideally you have seen the entire show, not just what was aired on BBC America if you live on that side of the pond, but this is understandable in either case. Also, if you have not read tardis_mole's Life Without Joe, that's okay. It's possible to read this without reading that, if you're not on Moley's approved list. You'll probably find this makes a little more sense if you have read it, but you should be fine without it. Take the time to read Erin Kelly’s novelization, if you can, as it provided certain details that helped with writing this. Though you won’t need to rely on it.

Authors' Notes: tardis: Count the adverts. It all started with me writing Life Without Joe (blowing my own trumpet). The title does not say why Joe was not there, whether he had died or walked out. It was just that he was no long there. No clue, no hint, no spoiler, no Joe. And just in case anyone else caught on before I did – episode four – that it was Joe I had to watch from a play back site because I was first burying my mum and then moving, so I actually missed episodes 2-7 until just days before the finale. My deepest thanks to bas_math_girl who saved me from being “spoilered”. And, sorry, tkel, but it was not the BBC. It was ITV that made and broadcast the original. The BBC can only wish.

I got this idea after watching the original for the however-many time it was. I’d gone out to HMV to find a copy of The Politician’s Wife and on the off-chance asked them if they had a copy of Broadchruch. As it happened the delivery had just arrived. I had the first copy out of the box at HMV Cardiff. There. Selfless advertising. And the Beeb still loses out. So I sat and watched it and thought I wonder what happens next? I’ve lived in hotels. I’ve been in a similar situation as Tom (and Ellie, actually, but that’s neither here nor there), and I know there had to be more. Life would not have been cosy for Ellie.

So I wrote it.

LWJ was the result. And my readers liked it. Tkel refused to read it. And I fully understand and support her reasons.

However, within days of finishing and posting it I got another idea. I sat on it for months while tkel waited for the DVD, and by that time the plot bunny had stewed itself into a balrog (another plug, this one’s LOTR). Tkel was busy. I was in Preston for the long awaited arrival of my first ‘born in Britain’; grandchild. I have been busy looking after him and my daughter and fighting for justice for my son-in-law that the Balrog sat forgotten in a dark room on my data pen for a year. Date of starting: September 22 2013. I had a brief outline and a few notes. I basically picked at it for a year until both tkel and I were ready to put in the time and effort.

November 1 2014. One month turned into three weeks, and over 285400 words later we had a first draft. Chris Chibnall may own the copyrights and I bet his sequel is brilliant, LOOK AWAY NOW IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BE SPOILERED!! but he doesn’t have a murder. Read it and weep, Chris, my friend. Mine does. *Taggart voice* There’s been a murder!

This has been a phenomenal achievement for both of us. Neither of us has done anything like this before. Working with a co-writer is not recommended for everyone. It takes a lot of patience, stamina – I had to sprint to keep up – and a strong willingness to share. I hate sharing. :D

This is going to hurt. Have tissues at the ready. I don’t pull punches. Those who know my work know I have plot twists and unexpected clues, and if you miss them you’ll be left behind. Make notes. You’ll need them.

This is based on Chris Chibnall’s Broadchurch, and a few details from the novelisation by Erin Kelly (another shameless advert), with the addition of some aspects of LWJ. If you haven’t seen Broadchurch, why are you reading this first? Go away and do so, otherwise this will make no sense whatsoever. If you haven’t read the novel, don’t worry. I have, and you can take or leave it. It has some minor flaws and mistakes, but it is a good read. You’ll find my review on Goodreads (another shameless advert) website.

Tkel and I half thought about including our own map, since the blatant error in Erin’s was the mistake you’d expect from a small child. Beth’s and Ellie’s houses are across a field and they can see each other’s kitchens; it was mentioned in the original and in the book. So I’m scratching my head trying to work out why Erin’s map put them practically back to back, separated by a row of houses.

But, anyway, advertisements aside (Did you count them? There are seven.), I hope you like Sins Of The Father. We’ve kept it in the same style as the original eight episode format, but each one will have a different number of chapters. Hopefully, they will all be posted by the time ITV airs the sequel. Though try not to compare. Enjoy.

Authors' Notes: tkel: Being an American with not a lot of time on her hands to learn the tricks for getting things early from the other side of the pond, I had to wait to see Broadchurch. So I had months of reading about how good it was and how amazing David Tennant's performance was. It was more than a bit frustrating, but I give the people on my friends list credit for not spoiling anything other than Hardy's having a medical condition and one other detail. During the wait I noticed my friend Moley post a Broadchurch fanfic. Well, I did not read it. I even made a point of trying to forget I even saw one was posted. Finally the series came to BBC America, although I did not know that about two hours worth of material was cut to make room for the commercials. I was pissed off when I heard that, and promptly decided that where productions with Tennant were concerned, I would buy Region 2 only. (I had learned that computers can be manipulated to act like an all regions playing DVD player, although as of when I wrote the original note I had not yet figured it out. Trust me, I will learn soon enough.)

I was in awe from the first episode. A great cast, a heartbreaking case, and I was trying to figure out who did it almost immediately. Some I figured were unlikely, or would not be the killer without more plot twists. By the end of Episode Seven, I had a sinking suspicion who the killer was. It did not help that my memory chose then to recall what it thought was the title of Moley's fic. But I waited until the final moments had aired, and was in a bit of emotional turmoil. (Which I think we were supposed to be.) At that point, I got on Live Journal and read all five posts of Moley's fic, pausing only to comment. I needed more time to digest it fully, but I had reread it about four times by the next evening.

The thing is, my muse is the type to get ideas at the drop of a hat sometimes. Sometimes no hat, as Moley has reminded me. (giggles) Often when I am trying to work on other things. Bonzina (what I call my Muse) instantly thought about what might happen afterward, thinking about the unresolved things still there from the original story. She had thought of a plot bunny that had me intrigued. So I emailed Moley with the idea, having no idea that it would prove to be the platform for an idea that had been languishing since Life Without Joe was finished, and we bounced it back and forth – like you do when you beta read each other's work. I don't think we'd emailed about it for more than a day before it transformed into a plot balrog. (For those of you who aren't Tolkien fans, that's a giant creature of shadow and flame, “a demon from the ancient world” to quote Gandalf from the movie version of “Fellowship”. Practically impossible to get rid of, as the movie showed.) Basically, it wasn't going to leave either of us alone by then, so we agreed to work on it together as soon as we could both make the time for it. Meanwhile we bounced more ideas back and forth until we had our first outline ready.

Well, although we did a lot of preplanning, we didn't get to writing until I mentioned I was thinking about what to do for NaNoWriMo 2014. Moley noted about Broadchurch 2 being filmed, and we agreed that we should get our balrog finished and fully posted before the first episode airs on ITV. And I was also working on another mystery story at the same time. Only thing is, on that story I had trouble with the outline, and stalled on it in a big way learning why my writer friends gave me the advice they did the hard way as my muse was insistent on trying something different. So I got way ahead on my parts of the story, but I used it to figure out enough so I could resume writing the other story. Even though it may never see the light of day, depending on what I think of it in the end.

Of course, I was very busy. Moved to a new city, started a new job that now means I have a profession, and had to focus on settling in. But I had managed enough that I could do NaNo once again. Although I'm still stalled on that one other story, I know one of the things I need to do with it. I also wrote a few other things, including a Christmas present for another friend – on a dare from said friend. So my grand NaNoWriMo total for 2014? 124,977. Yes. That's correct. And yet someone else managed just over 150,000. You'd better believe I intend to beat that next year.

So that's my side of the story. There will be another Broadchurch collaboration, based off an idea I had from working on this story. Stay tuned about that one. Or maybe... more than one, given that Moley and I seem to be off in slightly different directions for that one. (grins) This was a fun project, and I hope that Moley and I find additional ones to work on together. Not counting the beta reading we already do, or the times when I was utterly stuck on a story and needed more than prodding but wholesale suggestions to get it moving again. (bigger grin)


Summertime. Outdoors. Four girls played together in a garden, giggling as small children do. No cares of the world touched them, or if they did they pretended they did not exist.

There was an undercurrent of sadness. They all knew they would part ways, but no one knew just when they would see each other again. But it was the birthday of one of them, and so they could forget about most troubles for the time being.


Another summer. The air was pleasant, but there was a hint of tension. Mostly in the adults watching.

Three slightly older girls sat on a beech making a sandcastle. They shaped it in honour of the fourth who did not come, looking up at each sometimes in wonder of why they had not heard from their friend.


Two young teenage girls walking together in a busy street, shopping. They tried to laugh, but the aura around them was oppressive. Especially on the taller one. A great weight was hanging on her shoulders, but the haunted look had purchase in the shorter one.


Darkness surrounded the area. The moon's light barely shone through the clouds.

A girl stepped into the light of an open window. She kept low, trying to be invisible. She glanced up at the moon, her face that of the shorter of the teenagers. But her formerly honey-blonde hair had been dyed black. Her face was pale even for the light out, and her whole being spoke of knowing a terror unspeakable.

She looked and listened, closing the window before she repeated the listening. Then she fled into the shadows, as quietly as she could.


Under the same moonlight and yet slightly different clouds angled overhead a sixteen year-old girl stood alone, partly in shadow, leaning against a brick-built bus shelter with the sound of the ocean not far away. It was the taller of the girls. Her long hair fell in waves about her shoulders and at her throat hung a locket that rested against her t-shirt. It was old, as old as she felt. She bore herself as one with the weight of the world on her shoulders. She closed her eyes and stepped back into the shadows, silhouetted against the light of an opening door behind her.

In the distance the echoing cry of a newborn child broke the silence of the night.



Episode Five. Part One: Another Potential Disaster?

As Ellie and Hardy reached their car Connelly stepped from the shadows.

“I knew you’d come out if I waited long enough,” he said.

Ellie had her cuffs out and on his wrists before he had uttered another word. She marched him up the steps to the front desk before he dared to utter another word.

“I found this loitering in the car park,” Ellie told the duty officer.

“Did you now.” PC Ann Strickler smirked up at Connelly.

“If you must know I was trying to give you a message,” Connelly defended. “I saw your car and I waited for you.”

“Shall I book him in on grounds of harassment, or shall I let him go?” Ellie wondered in teasing tones to Ann.

“I dunno, Sarge. I mean it’ll mean paperwork,” Ann returned with a bored edge to her voice.

“And it’s not exactly been a quiet night, upstairs, either,” Ellie added. “It looks like it might be your lucky night, Mr. Connelly. I suggest you use the opportunity wisely and get the fuck out of my sight. You didn’t hear that, did you?” she grinned at the PC.

“Not a word, Sarge,” Ann replied airily.

Ellie unlocked the cuffs. “Out. Now.”

“Wait, I need to tell you-“

“Five,” Ellie began to count. “And if I get to zero I will arrest you on charges of obstructing the police and harassment of a police officer. Four. And with your record I’d think very carefully if I were you. Three!”

In utter frustration, Connelly turned and ran out the doors and vanished into the night.

Ellie grinned at Ann at the desk. “Thanks, Ann. I think he’ll behave himself for a while.”

“I hope so,” Ann replied. “I wouldn’t want to see you reach zero, either, Sarge.”

They shared a laugh and said goodnight.


Five minutes later, they stepped into the house. Ellie pulled off her elastic head band and shook her curls loose.

“What do you mean Daisy doesn't have a mobile?” Hardy snapped.

Ellie waved at him sharply. “For god's sake, lower your voice. It’s two in the morning, and the children do not need to hear us shouting!”

Her quieter tone and calm delivery forced him to agree. He put his hands on his hips and waited.

Satisfied, she continued. “According to several witnesses, and Daisy herself, she was forced to gave her mobile to her mum. She must have used her mother's phone to send the texts to Chloe, or pinched her phone back.”

He frowned. “And Tess hasn't found out?”

“I'm guessing she deleted the evidence of the text and used it when her mother wasn't around. But Daisy won't talk about it. She knows about what happened to her friend, and may be too afraid to talk to us openly. I think she’s being threatened.”

Hardy rubbed his face. “Who's threatened her?”

“I'm not sure who. Could be Stratton or a boyfriend. Does she have a boyfriend?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t know. Maybe. Most girls her age have one.”

“How did the interview go?”

“Before you interrupted or after?” he intoned. “Before you got there I was this close to being charged for the murder of Sarah Wallace. If you hadn’t come in with a hand full of Ace cards, I’d have been looking at the inside of a police cell.”

“Is everything all right? You're not fighting?”

Tom's worried voice broke the tension and they turned to look at him.

“Still getting nightmares, sweetheart?” Ellie asked gently.

Tom shook his head. “I heard you shouting.”

Hardy shook his head. “This isn't what you saw the other day. This is just the pressure of the cases and the memories it's bringing up.”

“But you’re angry,” Tom noticed.

“No, Tom, your dad and I are fine,” Ellie assured him. “It’s only two in the morning. Why are you up?”

“You woke me up. Why the raised voices? And why can't Dad work with you? He's good at his job, right?”

Ellie sighed and rubbed his shoulder with a hand. “Someone wants us to think he's the killer. Whenever one of our own is a suspect we have to keep them away from the case just to be certain. And we'd face serious problems from higher up and the public, never mind risking a conviction, if we don't. As soon as there's enough evidence to prove he couldn't have done either murder I'm sure the Chief Super will convince her superiors to rescind their order.”

Of course she could not admit to the real reason her husband had not yet been let back on the case.

“What's it going to take? How much longer? It won't be like Danny, will it?”

Hardy came over and hugged Tom, who clutched him back. “It's hard being on the outside of something that could alter your life, Tom. I'm actually praying now.”

For all the tension Ellie had to smile and tease him. “Hell really has frozen over then.”

They all laughed. At least a little.


A police car raced up the gentle hill towards the Finch Lane bus stop, with its lights on. They had had a phone call reporting signs of blood at the stop. It had been a female voice, whispering the barest details before hanging up. The voice had not sounded familiar, nor was it very clear. It was a miracle that they had understood what she had meant at all. The call had been too short to trace and the transponder was disconnected.

Lights blazed the way through the dark night, and PC James Tucker dared to break the silence in the car. “I hope that this is not a new crime scene,” he said to his companion who was driving. “Maybe, just maybe, this is the missing first murder scene we've been looking for. The town can't take another murder, I'm sure of it.”

PC Emma Shrove nodded. “It feels like we've been running in circles even with the leads CID keeps bringing in. We need that crime scene. Ah, here it is.

They noticed a glint of a motorcycle nearby in the headlights as they closed in, and quickly spotted two people in the bus stop. She pulled to a stop, and they bolted out, torches at ready. Just then one of the two people, a female, screamed.

“Stay exactly where you are!”

The two people froze as the lights hit their faces.

Shrove stilled. “Chloe Latimer and Dean Thomas? What are you doing here?”

Both flushed red. “We just got here,” Chloe protested.


The moon vanished behind a scudding cloud as SOCO arrived at the bus stop in Finch Lane. Anna Broome from CID had given him a tip-off. The ticket had been traced to here. He had no idea what he would find. As he parked, police officers from another vehicle, with the flashers going, were already on the scene. That was odd.

This was where the bus ticket had been bought. So they were here to find out of they could trace the purchaser and eliminate them from the inquiry, or find out if Sarah Wallace or the murderer had been on the bus, or eliminate the bus ticket altogether.

It was an old bus stop, build to replace the railway station at the bottom of the hill. Some replacement. The buses only ran four times a day. Twice in and twice out. It was a brick built shelter, with a flat roof and two openings in the walls, one at each end. A bit more character than those new plastic jobs, in Brian’s opinion. Except there was a problem. Someone was in the bus shelter.

Brian stepped out of the van.

“... Anything you do say may be used in evidence. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the young man replied quietly.

“What’s happening?” Brian asked as he approached, silver box in one hand.

“Indecent exposure. I’ll get them back to the station,” Tucker replied.

“Wait, my jacket,” Dean called back as the other officer handcuffed Chloe.

Brian shone his torch towards where he was pointing. And then he saw the pool of blood. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Your jacket has blood on it, and this is a crime scene.

Dean looked at him and shuddered. He looked to Chloe, who visibly paled.

“Oh god,” she whimpered. “Please don’t tell me Daisy’s dead. I knew we should have kept looking!” she wailed.

Brian set up the lamp at once and took pictures. An odd thing struck him very quickly. The blood wasn’t arterial. It was darker. Blood from the veins was darker, lacked oxygen and was more viscous. And this didn’t look like venal blood either. And there wasn’t a splatter pattern, as such, either. This was more like a straight down pool. This did not look like an attack. More like an animal being gutted.

Then he began to bag evidence and take samples. He would be able to tell what was going on and what had happened once he had got the samples back to the crime lab.


“Yes,” Brian replied. “More questions. But there’s no evidence of an attack.”

“But where’s the blood come from? Someone’s skinned a rabbit?”

“No, it’s definitely human blood,” Brian replied honestly. “But, there’s not enough blood here to suggest someone died. The splatter pattern in straight down, that means it’s not the result of a blow. And it’s the wrong kind of blood. Venal blood. And there’s no body. Set the tape around it, though, just to be sure.”

Shrove let her partner place the young man into the back of their car, while she held on to Chloe. She was curious about the pool of blood. It was wet and it hadn’t been raining. That meant it was fresh, didn’t it? She stepped closer. “If it’s not enough to kill, what’s happened, then?”

“I don’t know yet,” Brian replied.

Chloe could imagine where this was going. “We haven’t done anything, and we didn’t see anyone.”

As Shrove stepped back out of the way of the tape going up SOCO got to work. “And you're here because?” she demanded.

Chloe reluctantly answered. “We were out looking for a friend and decided to stop for a minute. Dean was low on fuel. So we... were making out for a bit. Never saw the blood until you lot turned up.

“Lots of blood,” Tucker spoke. “I think we better log it as a murder scene until we can prove otherwise. But there was no body.”

Tucker shone his torch around the lane and wooded verges. There was no one else about. He could tell that Dean's jacket was wet on its side, and Chloe's trainers were also bloody, like they had been standing in the puddle.

SOCO stood in the lamplight and stepped back from his colleague who was crouched for a closer look. “This one's very fresh; minutes, I’d say. It’s not even begun to coagulate yet. That means it’s been here less than an hour.”

“Look,” Tucker said, shining his torch on something nearby. The grass along the verge had been disturbed by something.

“A rabbit?” Strickler wondered.

“I’ll check it out,” Brian said. “We definitely have a potential crime scene here.”

Tucker shook his head at Chloe. “We have to take you both in for questioning.”

“What?” cried Chloe.

“Right now you're both suspects.”

“For what?”

“What might be another murder. Get her in the car.”

“Who sent you lot, anyway?” Brian asked.

“Got a call from a member of the public,” Shrove replied.

Brian nodded. “There’s no immediate emergency. Whoever was bleeding is long gone. You can head off. I’ll call in.”


To be continued...

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