Broadchurch: Across the Pond

Chapter 7

TW: none

Detective Sanchez liked to be the first person from his unit to arrive every morning. Eight o'clock usually did it. So he was rather surprised when he saw lights on and heard a pair of oddly-accented voices.

"I'm gonna need more string."

"Well, I'm fresh out, Millah, you better go huntin!"

"Bloody hell, Alec, this is why ya need to eat breakfast, you're like a toddler!"

"Don't 'bloody hell' me, you're the one who had to stop for a coffee!"

Sanchez went into the office that the Brits had taken over—they were hidden from view by tightly shut blinds—and was met by a bizarre sight. Every scrap of paper from every case file they'd been given was either spread out on the floor or pasted to the wall. A city map was riddled with thumbtacks, some of them connected by lengths of black string; a white board sat propped against the window, covered in pictures of victims, suspects, and persons of interest, with profiles were scrawled beside each in dry-erase marker. The female detective, Ellie, sat on the carpet surrounded by newspaper clippings while the man, Detective Don't-Call-Me-Alec Hardy, stood staring at the map wall.

"Well," Sanchez remarked feebly, "you've certainly made yourselves comfortable."

"This is how we do it back home," Ellie informed him. "Once we're all sorted, we can compare notes with you lot."

"Uh, great." How had they managed to pull this much shit out of the meager files he gave them? "You guys need anything?"

"Some more pushpins and tape would be good," Ellie requested cheerfully. "And string if you have it."

"Um, yeah, sure." Sanchez gazed around at the carnage. "Where'd you get all this stuff? All the tape and thumb tacks?"

"Supply closet," Ellie answered at the same time that Hardy replied, "Your office."

Sanchez decided he better check that his file cabinet was still locked, or things could get sticky. He should also start locking his office at night. "I'll see what I can find. Quick question, though."

"Yeah," the detectives said together.

"Bruh...where're your shoes?"

Hardy looked down at his stocking-feet like he'd forgotten about them. He shrugged and pointed to the map. Sanchez realised that what he had initially taken to be string was actually Hardy's shoelaces.

"What time does this lot take lunch?"

Ellie spun her swivel chair to give Alec a quizzical look. "Why do you care?" She feigned shock. "Are you...hungry?"

"Shut up," Alec retorted. "No, I was thinking that would be a good time to visit—what was the bloody place called?"

"The Shamrock Shack."

"God's sake—the Shamrock Shake and--"

"Shamrock Shack."

"Whatever. Visit the Shamrock Shack and see what we can find out."

"Not a bad idea." Ellie nodded out the window, to the communal office that the Americans called 'the bullpen'. "You notice that little thing with brown hair keeps staring at us?"

Alec glanced out and saw that there was, indeed, a very small young lady staring. He got up and shut the blinds that Ellie insisted they open earlier. "And that is why I want to keep our trip quiet."