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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 Six. Part One: Gathering The Strands

Broome was examining paper records with an air of one who had had victory snatched from their fingers. She had been so sure that the bus ticket would be the clue that clinched the entire investigation. But it had come to nothing. It had the killer’s boot print on it. That was it. Otherwise, she would have thrown the slip of paper in the bin.

The thing that nagged her was why Sarah Wallace would have been on that bus in the first place. It was the farm and orchard up Finch Lane, all the way to the B-road at the top.

Suddenly, her phone rang. The number on the screen matched one she had dialled an hour ago. She’d sent PC Bob Daniels to the bus station in Bridport to trace the bus and the driver. She pressed the green button.

“Broome... Hi, Bob.” She grabbed a notebook and pen and listened for a long moment, jotting down notes in shorthand. Then her eyes widened. “And that's for certain...? Oh, thank you. That is very good to know. I owe you for checking that.” She laughed. “Yes, well, we'll see about that. Later.” When she hung up she looked up at the white board the team was using. “Ellie?”

Ellie, who was standing there looking for connections between two murders and a third possibly attempted case, turned around. “What did you find?”

“That was Bob Daniels at the bus station. He traced that ticket. I was right. It was bought at Finch Lane. But, it was bought there earlier in the day. Finch Lane, at the Stage Four bus stop, Mr. Grebes bought the ticket at 11:26 am for the 41 bus. He’s a regular on the route. The driver knows him well, always gets on at that stop, sometimes with his sister, always refuses to use his free pensioner’s pass to pay full fare. On the day this ticket was bought, Mr Grebes was the only passenger on that bus for the date the ticket was issued. Mr. Grebes got off at the High Street and he got on again for the return journey two hours later. But he’d lost his ticket and that’s why the return fare wasn’t used. Grebes bought a new ticket, even though the driver, Mr. Gregory Filbert, said he knew he’d been issued one and let him on anyway. igh Street. HighSarah Wallace never boarded any bus. The driver never saw her.”

“Relief driver, shared route?”

Anna shook her head. “Neither. Mr. Filbert always does that route and he was driving that day. And there’s no evening service after six. I think we can confirm that Sarah Wallace was not on that bus. We have to assume she was merely at the bus stop that evening.”

“Any other bus routes that stop at those two bus stops?”

“No. Only that one. There used to be one all the way to Weymouth, but that was stopped four years ago, in favour of the rail service.”

“Fat load of good that is, our station closed in 1956,” Ellie grumbled. “So the question is, what was Sarah Wallace doing at the bus stop?” she wondered.

“Couldn’t have been a boyfriend. She was here on holiday,” Anna sound-boarded.

“I have your answer,” Frank spoke, retrieving several sheets of paper from the printer. “Been on to Facebook. They’ve been dragging their feet. Said British law and our problems were nothing to do with them. So I mentioned the international agreements between Britain and the US, quoted several paragraphs and clauses. They must have gone away and read them, because look what just came through.”

He handed the sheets to Ellie. The paper was still warm from the printer.

Ellie flicked through them. “Sarah Wallace was using her phone. SOCO wasn’t joking when he said she was a keen facebooker. What do they call them, tweeters?”

“No, Sarge, that’s Twitter,” Anna corrected her patiently.

“It’s all one and the same to me.”

“This lot is just the last 12 hours of Sarah’s activity on Facebook. But I skimmed them as they were printing. Go straight to the final page.”

Ellie got to the final page reading several posted messages, all date stamped. “18:35, going to dinner, will be back on later. 19:47 Am stuffed. Food here is so good I could make a pig of myself. 19:48 From John Wallace; Sarah, where are you? 19:49 Just nipped out for a walk, really stuffed, working off my dinner, will be back in, in a minute. 19:49 From Mariana; Haha, and then you’d put back on all that weight you lost. 19:49 no, not going back to that. Took me long enough to lose it. 19:50 From John Wallace; Ok, just don’t be too long.19:50 From Mariana; You look gorgeous. 19:51 Thanks. I feel it too. 19:52 From Mariana; Mind you, you always did. But now you look even better. 19:53 Does that mean you’ll marry me now? We can get married in England, you know. 19:54 Yeah, when you’re legal. 19:55 I can’t believe I got to sixteen and they raised the legal age. I now have to wait another two years. It’s not fair. 19:56 Unless you ask for parental consent. 19:57 My parents would never agree. They’re both great and really good people, but they’re homophobic. 19:58 From Mariana; Yeah. Don’t remind me. Met them once, remember? 19:59 Erfvnm 20:00 From Mariana: What? Lol. What happened there? Dropped your phone? 20:05 From Mariana; Are you still there? 20:07 From Mariana; Sarah? 20:13 From Mariana; has your phone died again? You seriously need to replace the battery. 20:17 From Mariana; You’re still logged in, so I know you’re there. 20:25 From Mariana; Sarah, you’re usually on your laptop by now. What’s going on?”

Anna covered her mouth to hold in a sob. But Ellie wasn’t done yet, and it was already pulling at her vocal chords to continue.

“20:30 From Mariana; Sarah? Where are you? 20:58 From Holly; Broadchurch looks gorge. 20:59 From Holly; Just googled it. You lucky sod. Don’t get sunburned. 21:15 From Mariana; Sarah? Are you back yet? 22:00 From Mariana; I’m off to bed. Love you, babe. 08:03 From Mariana; Sarah? Are you there? 08:19 From John Wallace: Sarah, you said you’d be back by now. Where are you? 08:20 They said on the news someone died in Broadcurch. Message me. 08:45 From Mariana; Sarah? Please tell me you’re all right.”

Ellie stopped then. She had thankfully reached the end of the last page. Anna was in silent tears. Even Frank looked ready to burst the flood banks. Ellie took a deep breath and wiped both cheeks with her hand.

“Did anyone think of sending an officer to give Mariana the news?” Frank asked.

“Of course we bloody didn’t!” Ellie erupted. “No one even knew who the other girl in the photo was, but I think we can bloody guess now...! Sorry.”

Frank gave her arm a gentle supportive squeeze.

Anna drew several calming breaths. “I think we can glean some important clues from that conversation.”

“Like what?” Ellie could see it too, but right now she was too emotional to speak, so she let Anna do it.

“Sarah’s typing is accurate, concise and uses punctuation. Right up until her last message.”

“E. R. F. V. N. M. What is that? Text speak? One of them textisms?”

“I’ve not heard of it,” Frank spoke. “And I use them with my daughters.”

“No, It’s more simple than that,” Anna put in. “Look at the pattern? The letters are going from top left to bottom right. I think someone tried to take the mobile off her. I think that’s the moment she was attacked.”

“Ok,” Ellie took a whiteboard pen and wrote it on the board; ETD 19:59. She circled it. “So where does the bus ticket come in?”

“It was on the wearer’s shoe,” Frank supposed.

“The killer’s shoe must have picked it up at the bus stop, where Enoch Grebes got off and dropped it,” Ellie guessed. “And it stayed on the shoe because...”

“They drove away from the bus stop,” Frank took it up. “SOCO said the body had been stored somewhere enclosed, folded up, until it was dumped hours later.”

Ellie's eyes widened. “Sarah could have been in a boot of a car all night before she was left in my driveway. She’s not a short girl. How many cars have a big enough boot to hold a body 5’ 7” tall?”

“It has to be a saloon,” Anna suggested.

“No they’d have to have laid it down,” Ellie dismissed. “Brian said she was upright. Blood pool pattern was in her buttocks and heals.”

“A people carrier,” Frank put in. “There’s a gap between the rear seats and the rear doors. It would take a pretty strong person to do it, but it can be done.”

“Got a vehicle we can test it on?” Ellie asked.

“Well, yes, mine. It’s downstairs in the car park.”

“Good, find someone who’s 5’ 7”, a second person who's close in build but maybe a little stronger, and test your theory.”

Frank hurried off to do just that.

“Ok, details,” Ellie turned to the board. “What have we got?”

“Unused return ticket, bought by Enoch Grebes. And he couldn’t have done it. He’s a frail old man and he doesn’t have a car.”

“He also has no motive and no time to do it, and he has a cast iron alibi all day. We checked,” Ellie dismissed. “Window of attack is no longer several hours. It’s there in black and white. On the dot 19:59. We’re looking for anyone without an alibi, who drives and has a grudge against my or my husband. Who in town has a people carrier?”

“There's more,” Anna said carefully. “I was looking at phone records of our various persons of interest. There's a text that was sent from Daisy Hardy's phone within that time window, 20:00 exactly. It said: 'At the Traders’ Hotel in Broadchurch. Am tired but unharmed so far. Hurry'.”

“Where did you get that?”

“It was on Hailey’s phone. She replied with, ‘Has your mum given you your phone back?’ And the reply said, ‘Not yet, she’s gone out for petrol and Bruce is downstairs getting drunk as usual. I saw my mum check my phone so I’m deleting messages as I go’. To which Hailey replied, ‘We better use a code, just in case someone else tries to text me on your phone’. The key there, ‘someone else’. Someone else was using Daisy’s phone. And Daisy’s last message that night was ‘Chrysanthemum, my dad’s favourite flower. My mum can’t spell it. Use it every time you text’.”

“That corroborates what I've heard,” Ellie commented.

“There’s nothing for six hours, until 02:01, when Hailey was messaged again with, Hi, having a great time, just gone to bed’. What seventeen year-old stays up that late, especially one that is as ill as Daisy?”

Ellie agreed.

“Hailey is convinced that Daisy did not send it. The code word is missing. Since that night, Daisy’s mobile had absolutely no outgoing activities to Hailey until yesterday.”

>“She’s been messaging Chloe Latimer,” Ellie announced. “They used the same code. What did Daisy’s last message say?”

“It said, 'Found my phone. Mum keeps hiding it in different places. Where are you? Please tell me you’re almost here. Ben’s in hospital and I’m getting scared. Chrysanthemum'.”

Ellie grabbed the paper Anna was holding, confirming the words with her own eyes. “She found her phone. It was hidden in different places? That means her mum is deliberately blocking her from contacting her dad. Alec might be able to challenge the custody arrangement now, or at least argue for better contact. If we could just get a full statement from her about what's happened, on record.”

“Ellie? Do you have a moment?”

She looked up and saw Brian Young looking rather grim and yet satisfied.

“Good work, Anna. See if you can find Frank and get the results of that experiment,” she told Broome, who nodded and took the papers back to her desk before leaving the CID room.


“Why ask me to come back here to your office? Why not say it in the open?” Ellie demanded.

“Anyone could have walked in,” Brian began. “And with the DI looking into that baby's origins, I don't know where he is and I don't want him to overhear this. Something like this should come from you.”

Ellie stiffened. “What did you find?”

“Those footprints found at your house that seemed too faint to compare? I found one that was clear enough, and ran it through the database. It belongs to a woman's shoe, police issue boot, size seven.”

“So? I walk up and down that path, so do several of my mates from the station.”

“Yes, but there’s a big difference between our boots here in Broadchurch and those up at the Met Office. So, on a hunch I asked my counterpart in Sandbrook to run it against any shoe prints in their database. I learned that the style of sole is the new design, issued to police officers in the Met from the beginning of June.”

“Who in Broadchurch would have those boots?” Ellie asked, and then bit her tongue. She stared at him, screaming inside for him to clarify or refute what he was implying. They both knew there was only one known Metropolitan Police officer in Broadchurch.

And as much as her instincts and the evidence was suggesting what she suspected he was about to tell her, part of her wanted to be wrong. For three people's sakes.

“It gets worse,” Brian continued. “I sent him the print profile. There was an incident where they didn't realise a crime had been committed and several female officers had to have their soles examined for elimination purposes. This particular sole profile, while not an exact match in the wear and tear marks, is consistent in terms of how a particular person on the force walks.”

“Do you mean Sarah Wallace was murdered by a woman?” That was the first question out of her mouth, but Ellie had several more. But this was just circumstantial. Wasn’t it?

“I believe that Sarah Wallace was murdered by the woman who left those footprints. And that woman is someone from the Metropolitan Police.”

Ellie did not need a name and, thankfully, Brian was reluctant to actually verbalise it. There was only one woman who fit that description who had been in Broadchurch in recent memory. In fact she was still here. But it was still only circumstantial. They needed more than a boot print. For all they knew she could have come to the house, knocked on their door but found them not in, had left the shoes on the doorstep and gone away again. There was nothing connecting said woman to a murder. Coppers did go bad from time to time, but the one Brian seemed to be implicating was a by-the-book officer.

No wonder Brian had not wanted Hardy to overhear this from the wrong source.

Ellie was silent, numb. Now she knew exactly how her husband must have felt when he realised who had to be Danny's killer.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Take the information to the Chief Super; no one else,” Ellie gulped. “Keep a lid on it. I’ll have to find the right time to tell Alec.”


To be continued...

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