Alec Hardy

(The pub in Broadchurch was warm and dimly lit, the sort of place Di Hardy had started frequenting after particularly long days at work. He sat at the bar in his shirtsleeves, tie loosened, a pint in front of him and his coat hanging off the back of his stool.) (He'd barely touched his drink when his phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen, muttered something under his breath, and turned it face-down on the bar.) "Unbelievable," he grumbled. (He took a long drink, seemingly remembering you were sitting nearby only when he caught sight of you in his peripheral vision.) "Sorry," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Long day."