It was mind-numbingly boring to sit in his office and do overdue paperwork, so when the call came that there was a suspicious person hiding in the shadows of old Mrs Sondersen's backyard, Hardy jumped at it to everyone's surprise.

"It's on my way home", he grumbled, annoyed that their stunned reaction let him feel an explanation was necessary. It wasn't. He didn't care what they thought, after all. With another grunt, he shut down his computer and grabbed his coat. Originally, he'd wanted to go out, check the suspicious person which would probably turn out to be a cat or something, and then come back and do more boring paperwork. Now, with his stupid forced explanation, he had to actually head home instead. Hmpf.

Daisy was with her mom since Friday after school, and even worse than being in his office was sitting at his home alone. He hated being alone but rarely tolerated company. It made life a bit of a hassle, he knew that quite well.

Barely seven, it was early for him to leave work without a reason, and while sunset had been hours ago already, the air was fresh and not too cold. Quite balmy, actually, considering it was November. Then again, this was Dorset and not Scotland, where he would have been drenched in rain after stepping a foot out of the door or frozen to an icicle by the frigid wind. Or both at once.

God, he missed Scotland something fierce, some days.

With a deep breath, he decided to walk to Mrs Sondersen. He could collect his car tomorrow, and she really did live right on his way home. Hardy grabbed the torch from the car and was on his way, with the slight wind from the sea getting through his trousers. But his chest stayed pleasantly warm. He would probably have to tell Daisy that the jacket she'd bought – well, ordered, he'd had to pay for it himself – had been a good idea. It was snuggly and comfy and dry, and it wasn't bright-orange or yellow or some other sensible but arse-ugly colour but a friendly, greenish-brown.

It also had amazing pockets. Maybe one of two too many, as he kept losing sight of where he'd put his keys, but they were roomy and it didn't look silly when he put his hands into them for warmth, like he was doing now.

It wasn't that Hardy didn't have a sense of fashion, like Tess had often accused him. He just didn't like flashy or otherwise remarkable. Or memorable.

Mrs Sondersen's house was set back from the street and surrounded by a neck-high yew-hedge. His neck, so Mrs Sondersen couldn't look over it if she wasn't up in her bedroom. From the road, he didn't see anything suspicious, but since Broadchurch had had enough cases of violence already under his tenure, Hardy decided to be thorough and give it a quick look around.

And indeed, on the backside of her house, off from any path, was a figure huddled into a small alcove that a sloppy gardener had cut into the hedge. The person – male, it seemed – startled at his approach and yanked his hand up to cover his eyes against the sudden beam of light. "Ey!", he shouted, "watch it, mate, where you shine that thing."

Hardy frowned. He knew that voice… "Tom?"

"Detective Hardy?" Tom Miller blinked into the torchlight and Hardy dropped the beam from his face to the ground. "What're you doing here?" He sounded nervous but not panicky or scared. Good. Whatever the kid was doing here, it didn't seem to be illegal. More like embarrassing.

"Could ask you the same. Will ask you the same – you scared Mrs Sondersen, sitting here. Watching porn, are you?" He had neither claimed nor ever aspired to be tactful.

But Tom didn't look embarrassed or guilty. "No, I'm not!", he scowled and there was so much contempt in his eyes that Hardy was inclined to believe him.

"Oh? Then what are you doing out here in the dark?"

"None of your business," Tom muttered angrily and the added "Sir" didn't really help against the insolence.

Despite the rudeness, Hardy was amused. "Well. Whatever it is you're doing, you better do it somewhere else, cause Mrs Sondersen thought there was someone waiting in the bushes to rob her. C'm on, go home or … don't know, just don't stay here. I'll let Mrs Sondersen know everything's fine. Go on, get."

He shooed Tom off and then went to speak with the old owner of the house. It took some time to assure her, and when he was finally done, Hardy felt even grouchier than before. He'd barely escaped getting invited for tea!

To his surprise, Tom had waited for him at the street-corner, trying to look very much like that hadn't been what he'd been doing and it was pure coincidence that he ran into Hardy again. Slouching, hands in his pockets, Tom fell into step with him without saying a word. That was fine. Non-verbal was definitely his favourite form of conversation.

Sadly, but not unexpectedly, it didn't last.

"Can I ask you something, sir?" Oh, the manners were back. Interesting. Hardy nodded. "'S just… I mean, I…" Tom fell silent once more, but it felt stifling and wrong and despite his promise to himself that he'd never get involved in his partner's home-life, Hardy felt the need to urge the boy on.

He stopped and turned towards the sky, looking at the stars. "Can't see that many in Glasgow," he muttered, giving Tom all the opportunities: He could leave and never say a word to him again – preferable, but not bloody likely – or stay and stare at the stars or take the chance to spill what had been on his mind.

Despite being equipped with rather poor social-skills, Hardy knew how to read people and where to push and when to back off. He wouldn't be as good a copper as he was if he were completely rubbish at all things interpersonal. So it wasn't surprising when Tom took option number three. What did surprise him was what he actually said.

"I found my dad."

It took Hardy a moment to sift through possible answers, because his first reaction – 'What the bloody hell have you been thinking even looking for him, you daft wallaper' – would probably not go over well. He had to decide if he cared enough to continue their … for lack of a better word, call it 'talk', or if he'd rather be home on his couch.

The couch was tempting, but the idea of Tom Miller wanting to see his father and what would and could and might happen if he did was too scary to imagine. Miller had just recently become less twitchy whenever Joe became a subject, and he rather liked her less twitchy. It diminished the danger of having a mug thrown at him.

"Ah," was what Hardy's paperwork-addled brain decided on. "And you looked for him because…?" he deliberately added, sticking to the gist of his first thought but deleting the swearing.

"Just... stuff. You know?"

No. No, he really didn't. For all he'd never asked what had happened to Joe Miller after the shitty outcome of the bloody trial, he was rather certain that all of the parties involved where better off with Joe out of the picture. Luckily, Tom didn't need for him to supply words to explain.

"Just… wanted to know where he is. 'S all."

Yeah. Like hell.

"Right. And now you know. How do you know?"

Tom muttered something, and it might have been 'Mark' he'd said but Hardy had by then decided that he didn't want to know. Not really. Just in case. It was getting chilly, and while it was still early enough for a boy Tom's age to be out, it was dark and he was tired. For all he cared, the boy could have hired an investigator from his pocket-money. The outcome was the same. Tom knew the whereabouts of his father, and he certainly didn't get the information from his mother. What worried him was what Tom would do with that information, because none of the options were desirable.

With a deep sigh, he ran his hand through his hair, then let it drop heavily against his side. "It's getting late, Tom. Better go home. I … I know it's hard for you right now, I do. But whatever you're thinking about… please talk to your mother before you do anything."

Tom looked up and stared at him curiously and a cheeky smile stole on his face, looking oddly wrong on him, considering the topic. "You're scared of her, aren't cha? Sir?"

"I'm not scared of your mother," Hardy scowled, though maybe that was a lie. "I just… Talk to her. Whatever you want to do with your newfound knowledge, it concerns her, too. That's all I'm saying. I promise not to tell her about this, if you promise to not do anything without talking to her first. Deal?" He held out his hand.

Reluctantly, Tom took it. "Yeah, 'kay. Deal." They started walking again until they reached the crossing that led down to Miller's house. Tom was already three feet away when he turned once more. "Thanks," he said, giving a little wave from hip-high.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, Hardy went home.