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Language:
English
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Published:
2025-05-10
Updated:
2025-07-07
Words:
81,297
Chapters:
20/?
Comments:
24
Kudos:
21
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416

Phony CCTV Cameras

Summary:

When Danny Latimer's body is found on the beach that July morning, Ryan Coates becomes a convenient suspect: he tutored the boy, he lives alone, and he doesn’t have an alibi.
In a town that doesn't forget, suspicion spreads fast, and DI Hardy has no interest in being gentle about it.
What starts as a murder investigation spirals into something else entirely. Along the way, he’s forced to reckon with everything he’s buried: the town’s lies, the detectives' doubts, and the truth about his own past.

A slow-burn, character-driven fic about guilt, grief, and the ways people survive each other.

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As far as I am aware, you could probably read this without actually ever watching Broadchurch as it is close third person POV and for anything not covered here, that is just put down to Ryan's lack of an omniscient view of the overall case(s) within the show. But don't hold me to that!

Notes:

GENERAL CONTENT WARNING: Occasional sexual situations, emotional intensity. No explicit smut on-page (for now) but definitely mature subject matter. Thematic content of trauma, grooming, sexual assault references
I will have specific warnings at the beginning of each chapter. The vast majority of content warned will be vague or implicit, unless I specify otherwise
This fic is essentially "What if Paul Coates had a brother who was a complete mess?" It centres on an OC, Ryan Coates, a secondary school teacher in Broadchurch who becomes entangled in the Latimer case, the Sandbrook investigation, and the emotional fallout left behind.
This is a character-driven story with courtroom drama, trauma recovery, and long-term emotional arcs. Canon characters play major roles.
Themes include childhood trauma, memory, courtroom drama, and found-family.

Is partially written and updates should be consistent. I prefer to write shorter chapters and update a few at a time.
Warnings and tags will be updated as needed.
Thanks for reading.

Chapter 1: Quiet Until It Wasn't

Summary:

By the time Ryan checks his phone, the sirens have already started, and he knows exactly what's gone wrong. He reads the message, then the headline, and still it feels like his body figured it out before his brain did.

Notes:

CONTENT WARNINGS:
Discovery of a child’s death (non-graphic)
Panic reaction/emotional shock

Chapter Text

Part 1 – July 2013

Broadchurch always felt different in the summer.

The heat pressed in heavier, the streets quieter in the early mornings. The sea, usually a sharp, endless blue, was dull and still in the July haze.

Ryan Coates had the day off.

Fridays were his own. No tutoring until half-three, no lesson plans to prep. Just the same routine as always: coffee, a run along the cliffs, maybe a few hours at the gym if he felt up to it. He liked the silence of the early mornings, the way Broadchurch felt untouched before the tourists and locals filled the air with their chatter. He liked the control of it, the predictability.

He raked a hand through his hair, now longer than it used to be. It always fell into his eyes no matter how he styled it. The morning light slanted across the floor, catching in the strands as he pushed them back without thinking. He hadn’t checked his phone yet. Didn’t see the missed calls from Beth Latimer. Didn’t see the message, short and frantic:

“Ryan, have you seen Danny?”

Weird. He only saw Danny on Tuesdays and Thursdays for tutoring. Why would he have seen him this morning? He knew Danny did the paper round for Jack Marshall each morning but Ryan’s flat wasn’t on his round. Maybe he’d had a fight with his parents, taken off for the morning. He was eleven, after all. That’s what kids did.

He was tying his trainers when the first police car shot past his window, sirens blaring. Then another.

Ryan frowned, stepping to the window, watching as the flashing lights tore through the quiet of the high street. Broadchurch wasn’t the kind of place for sirens. It wasn’t the kind of place for crime at all. Occasionally, you’d hear one for a medical emergency, maybe some drunk idiot down at the Railway Tavern – that was the local pub – who needed an ambulance. But this was different. Fast. Urgent.

Something sank in his stomach. He reached for his phone. Saw the missed calls. The message.

And then, before he could make sense of it, before he could even start typing out a response, another message came in from his brother, a link. He clicked on it and his pulse spiked as he read the headline in horror.

His stomach dropped as the article loaded.

BREAKING: BODY FOUND ON BROADCHURCH BEACH, POLICE INVESTIGATING

Ryan barely registered the words before a photo loaded underneath – an aerial shot of the cliffs. Police tape. A white forensic tent on the sand.

No details yet. No confirmation. But he knew.

He sucked in a breath, pressing a hand over his mouth. His lungs felt tight, like the air wasn’t going in right. He read the text again. Ryan, have you seen Danny?

Danny Latimer.

Jesus Christ.

Jesus fucking Christ.