Who wasn’t placing bets as the waves rolled one last time on Broadchurch beach?
Yes, for all the talk of the ace Olivia Colman-David Tennant cop chemistry and subtle exploration of emotional trauma, what made the Broadchurch cliffs hang was simple: who done it?
Who raped Trish Winterman?
The dodgy taxi driver, Lenny Henry from the farm shop, boyband lad Leo with the footie sock, the creepy ex-husband?
So many red herrings had washed ashore it could have been any or all of them — even Arthur Darvill’s nice vicar? No, of course not.
True to form, the finale did its best to tie the lot of them together with blue twine.
This was water cooler television, canny at blindsiding you when you thought you’d got it sussed.
In the end, the big reveal was a bizarre rites of passage fantasy involving (SPOILER) boyband Leo — yes, the one who looked least like your stereotypical rapist, we get the point — and a surprise apprentice, which had the virtue of being a twist, even if it took a bit of swallowing.
So, no I didn’t buy it. The message about sex cheapened and emotions stunted by internet porn felt more sociology lecture than prime-time drama.
But at least Broadchurch kept you hanging on by your fingertips.