Title: The Blonde in the Leather Jacket

Author: Nagi Kokuyo

Fandom(s): Broadchurch & Doctor Who

Rating: T

Warnings: Some swearing, dead girls

Spoilers: I don't think there's anything important, but you should probably see up to ep 8 of Broadchurch, just in case

Summary: The first time they meet, they're on the same case and she vanishes in an instant. The second time, she's committing burglary and theft in front of him. When he realizes no one else can see her, Hardy is left worrying he's insane. Is the blonde woman only in his mind?

A/N: First fic for either fandom, so this should be fun.

Disclaimer: Also, I don't own anything, except the attitude. That's all mine.

oOoOoOo

The first time they meet, they're investigating the same serial murder case and she disappears without a trace.

Well, it isn't really a string of serial murders, not the kind they're used to—more like a stranded alien's sloppy leftovers—but he doesn't know that.

DI Alec Hardy does know that Violet Kayne—age nineteen, redhead, lives…lived with her boyfriend—is the fifth body found in a month span. It's the first found in Broadchurch, and has the potential to thoroughly ruin his day, if not the foreseeable future.

Which it will, if the knot in his stomach is anything to go by.

"Alright," says Miller as she walks beside him towards the body, "there have been four other bodies—Daisy Marks, Heather White, Anne Smith, and Dahlia Rhode. So far, the inquiry has produced no commonalities aside from gender. All young females ranging in age from sixteen to twenty-six, no apparent connections to each other or shared associates. Different occupations, different lifestyles, no similarities in physical appearance or personality."

Hardy snorts, distinctly unimpressed with the investigative work done so far.

"So, basically, we've got nothing. 'S that what you're sayin'?"

He is irritated for many reasons, top among them a murder victim falling on his plate first thing in the morning. Also, he didn't get the chance to have his tea, and that really made him irked.

So, if he takes that out on the poor officer who got on the scene first and had to deal with the cranky detective inspector, he can't really be blamed. If someone has a problem with it, they can take it up with 'im later.

The body looks like a wild animal had gone at it, except the cuts are too precise—surgical, almost—and strategic; they go straight through important arteries and muscles, an attack planned to cripple the victim. There is very little blood around the body, though it's soaked into the shredded remnants of the poor girl's clothes.

Forensics is all over the scene, and already taped it off against civilians; he takes a quick look at the body and sticks around just long enough to find out there are no witnesses and the body was called in via anonymous tip from a payphone. He lets forensics take care of it, and thinks of how this day doesn't have to be a total loss.

It's on the way off the crime scene that they cross paths. Or, rather, she appears out of nowhere and he nearly walks straight into her. She doesn't really just materialize out of thin air, he knows that, but damn, if she isn't fast and quiet. She's so focused on the tablet in her hands that she doesn't notice him until he grabs her shoulder to steady himself, but that's enough to earn himself a loud sound of protest. Her eyes widen when she sees him and a mix of hope, fear, and confusion crawls across her face before she can school it into impassiveness.

She's petite and lush like a flower, with sleek blonde hair and intelligent, dark brown eyes—dyed hair, he notices; her roots are showing, and her eyebrows are dark. She's pretty—some might say beautiful—and her round, full cheeks and smooth skin betray her youth; she's in her early to mid-twenties, with that sharp, determined look Hardy has come to associate with journalists, bloggers, and conspiracy nutters. That would explain the long leather jacket, more suited to a U-boat captain than a young lady, whose other clothes are blatantly designer and probably cost quite a bit.

So. A rich, probably entitled, conspiracy nutter.

Bloody hell.

"Clear off, lass. If you're lookin' for a quote, you're not gonna find one here."

Whatever Hardy might have seen in her face is replaced with irritation and…yes, that is disappointment. Then, it's gone again and she' giving him an affronted look, as if he just rudely poked her with a stick.

Or, maybe, walked onto her crime scene instead of the other way round.

"Sorry, you've got the wrong girl, I'm the investigator on the case. I 'ave every right to be here, Mister…"

He scowls; he was right, an out of towner—Londoner, going by the accent. He tries not to think about how that was him not too long ago, and when had he started to think of himself as a townie, anyway? She says she's an investigator, but that makes no sense.

"Detective Inspector, actually," he corrects her, and purposely leaves out his name. Last thing he needs is to get himself mentioned in this nutter's article. "An investigator, you say? I'm in charge of this case and I wasn't made aware of any outside…help."

She has to force herself to focus on him, he can tell; her eyes keep wandering—to the body, to her tablet, anywhere but him. Hardy feels a spark of hate for this young woman, who carries around her an air of superiority and entitlement like a coat. She flashes a badge, too quickly for him to really get a good look. Her jacket sleeve slips up her arm, revealing a large, gaudy something on her wrist. It looked almost like a GPS on a leather strap, something he'd never seen before.

"No, you wouldn't've been. I'm part of a special taskforce, classified. I'll be taking over the investigation, Detective Inspector." She says it with the same matter-of-fact tone some use to talk about the weather or where to eat for lunch. "I've already got the files, you can go back to whatever 'tis you do. Don't worry about this too much, nothing for you t' worry about."

He puffs up, eyes flashing, and snarls, "I will not! This is my case and if you'd like to change that, you can take it up with the Superintendent and go through the channels."

She looks like she wants to argue, but apparently thinks better of it and nods.

"Alright, Inspector. Have it your way. The case is all yours. Have fun." She smiles, as if to a private joke he wasn't privy to, and fiddles with the device on her arm.

"Sir!"

He turns his head towards Miller, just for a moment, and tells her he'll be right there. When he turns back, the woman is gone and the smell of fish and chips is strong in the air. He looks around, the questions he never asks on his lips, but she's nowhere to be seen, almost like she vanished into thin air. Hardy asks a young reporter if he saw which way she went, and the reporter looks at him like he's grown a second head.

"What woman, sir?"

"The blonde woman, she was standing right there a moment ago."

"Sir…there was no one there, I swear it."

Miller tells him the same thing when he asks her, and after that, he decides to drop the topic. Needn't give the Chief Superintendent reason to suspend him, not when he'd just gotten reinstated after his surgery; last thing he needed was people thinking he was hallucinating.

And, somewhere between his silent resolution and speaking with the boyfriend, he forgets about the blonde in the leather jacket.

No other bodies show up. He decides, for the sake of his heart, not to stress over it and just thank whatever force kept a long, complicated serial murder investigation off his desk.

That would have been a lot of paperwork.

oOoOoOo

I'll update as soon as I have a few reviews, or next Sunday-whichever comes first. Hope you enjoy, please review and let me know. Since it's un-beta'd, please let me know if you see any errors.

~Nagi