It was midwinter in Broadchurch, and for once, the coastal wind hadn’t stripped the snow clean off the streets. A pale, powdery layer lay on pavement, a rare sight for the small town, really.

Alec Hardy was not at work, which irritated him more than the sore throat that had kept him home. Thursday. He should’ve been in the station, solving cases, not stuck at home doing nothing. Miller had practically shoved him out the door yesterday, muttering something about 'Infecting the whole bloody department.'

Now he sat on his sofa, blanket over his legs, mug of tea in hand, the telly mumbling something irrelevant in the background. He wasn’t really watching, just stewing. Thinking about the latest case, whether Daisy had texted him back, and whether he had the energy to cook or just defrost one of those miserable microwave meals.

But suddenly there was a sound. A sharp rustle outside. Then, a metallic rattle. The wheelie bin. He narrowed his eyes, already irritated. A fox, probably. Or a raccoon, or something of similar nature. Still, he decided he had nothing better to do. Might as well check.

Muttering under his breath, Alec set the mug down, pulled on his coat, didn’t bother with proper shoes, and stepped outside into the sharp bite of winter air. Snow crunched underfoot as he moved around the side of the house.

The wheelie bin stood crooked, lid ajar. He paused. Gave it one last squint. Then, with a resigned sigh, he yanked the lid fully open....