You ran the Trader’s Hotel in the small, seaside town of Broadchurch, Dorset.

A month ago, one of your guests, DI Alec Hardy who was in charge of the Latimer case had collapsed in his room due to his concealed heart condition.

You’d called an ambulance and ridden along with him to the hospital, claiming you were his spouse because you couldn’t find a next of kin to call, and to be honest, you didn’t want him to be alone.

You’d agreed to keep his heart condition a secret, despite your initial concern.

Late one evening, you had gone to Hardy’s room to warn him that a bunch of members of the press would be staying at the hotel. You'd felt it was right to tell him, since he'd faced such bad publicity due to his history with Sandbrook and recent public criticism with the Latimer case.

After a moment of speaking with you, he said, “Must be difficult, running a hotel this size on yer own?”

“You have no idea,” you’d said with a smile and a nod.

“Do ya ever...find time tae relax?” he asked, his Scottish voice lowering to a slight husk.

“Uh…I have my ways,” you’d said.

“Would you…maybe…” he began hesitantly, almost nervously, “want to relax here...with me? Tonight…?”