All language subtitles for S01E01 - The Four Jacks

[theme music playing]

[waves crashing]

[music playing]

See you in a minute.

Celia?

Cel?

Celia?

Come on, Celia, rise and shine.

Come on, up you get.

Mystery calls, my dear.

[ominous music]

POLICEMAN: [inaudible] - Yeah.

This way.

Never had anything like this here before.

Shot in the head.

Well, it's not exactly an everyday occurrence

for us either.

[music playing]

LANE: It was you who called the ambulance, Mr. Edmond?

What was Celia's second name?

Dawe.

D-A-W-E. She's an archeology student.

We both are.

Hey!

Lane, we found the hole for the engine room.

It's right down the bottom, all right?

Right!

We'll talk there, Mr. Edmond.

More comfortable.

[phone ringing]

Wycliffe here.

LANE: Sir, it's Lane.

Girl's in the medevac chopper now on the way to Plymouth.

How bad is she?

LANE: It's all under control.

M-hm.

Doug's getting a door-to-door underway,

and, uh, I'll be doing the dig.

Yes, sir.

Ah, um, who's in charge here?

And who are you, sir?

David Cleeve.

I own the cottage the, um--

the girl was staying in.

Ah, right.

Follow me.

Thank you.

[people conversing]

DI LANE (ON THE PHONE): Right, sir.

Right, sir.

See you later, then.

David Cleeve, ma'am.

Ah, right.

Hello.

Detective Inspector Lane.

Please.

Thank you.

So how can I help you, Mr. Cleeve?

Well, really, I came to ask the same question, I suppose,

Inspector.

I don't know whether I'll be able to contribute anything,

but, uh, I do know that when the police investigate a murder

they need all the background information they can get.

So, uh, here I am.

That's very good of you, Mr. Cleeve,

but what makes you think we're investigating a murder?

Well, I heard.

A young woman's been shot, hasn't she?

But not killed.

She's in surgery now.

Ah, well.

Well, thank heavens for that, at least.

Did you know her?

Celia Dawe?

Um, no, not personally, no.

I only knew them vaguely en masse, the students.

How did you come to be involved

in the dig, Mr. Cleeve?

[chuckles] Aerial photography, apparently.

They spotted the outline of an ancient settlement on my land,

and Professor Faber wrote to me asking

if they could investigate, and before I knew it,

we'd been invaded.

We're quite private, my wife and I, so it

was a bit of a shock having all those young people

setting up camp within hearing distance of the house almost.

You offered them the accommodation?

Yeah.

Living under canvas seemed just too primitive

to me, even for students.

Plus, I have holiday properties, and it's out of season.

And do you know how Celia Dawe came

to have the cottage by herself?

No.

I assume they, um, tossed for it or something.

[music playing]

Doctor?

Detective Superintendent Wycliffe.

She's not going to be much help to you, I'm afraid,

Superintendent.

Will she live?

60/40.

But if she comes around, I'll be, frankly, amazed.

Brain's been very badly damaged.

[music playing]

LANE: What's she like?

Really nice.

Serious.

You know, really into archeology and everything.

Often went back to study when we went down the pub.

Boyfriend?

Go on.

It's just I thought we might, you know,

get something together.

And Celia?

Playing it cool.

But you still work every morning.

She had trouble getting up.

Can you think of any reason why

anyone should want to kill her?

It doesn't make sense.

PROFESSOR: It's actually a very interesting dig.

Typical Iron Age settlement, but how old?

That's the question.

And, uh, Celia Dawe-- was she a good student?

Professor?

Mm?

Oh!

Um, yes.

Yes, yes, excellent.

Poor girl.

And she got on with the others?

Oh, well enough, I believe.

They're a small bunch, and the incident

certainly hit them very hard.

Hm.

Our benefactor.

Yes, we've met.

Does he share much interest in the dig?

More when it suits him.

Bit of a mixed blessing is our Mr. Cleeve, or Stride,

or whatever you want to call him.

Sorry?

Peter Stride?

Author of Medicus, Xanadu-- - Magistra.

Yes, indeed.

All pretentious nonsense, in my opinion, but there you are.

Not like I imagined him at all.

Well, they never are, are they, writers.

No one's supposed to know who he is.

Hates publicity.

Well?

Not really, no.

it was one of the students.

Uh, Celia Dawe.

She's not dead, and they have no idea who did it.

And have you?

Me?

What's it got to do with me?

Oh, I couldn't possibly imagine.

[ominous music]

[knock at door]

Carl phoned about the proofs, and these need signing.

Right.

You all right?

What?

Oh, I don't know, Millie.

They always want everything yesterday-- first draft,

second draft, proofs.

Poor David.

You need a holiday.

So.

MMO-- means, motive, opportunity.

Well, the means is obviously a gun, probably a handgun,

judging by the wound, and probably

using a silencer since the house-to-house

hasn't turned up anyone who actually heard a shot.

But forensics should be able to tell us

more about that in due course.

The motive's trickier.

Traces on the bedding suggest that sex had taken place

quite recently, but how soon before the shooting

we don't know.

That's the way to go [inaudible]

So whoever was there is for now either a prime suspect

or at least a key witness.

So it's a crime of passion, sir?

Right now we've got to keep an open mind.

What have you find out about her, then, Lucy?

Not a great deal.

To all intents and purposes, she was a quiet,

well-liked, studious student.

By day.

That's right, by day.

But if she was leading a double life, who knows what will

turn up if we dig deep enough.

So there's more to do now, you see, OK?

Right.

Opportunity.

What we've got so far is this light-colored

metro-type vehicle seen leaving the village around 3:00 AM.

Gunman?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

But, uh, from past experience, the probability

is that whoever tried to kill Celia Dawe lives locally.

So you start by tracing that car.

[ominous music]

Cleaves has got one.

A metro.

LANE: What I don't get is Redmond says he found Celia

lying on her back under the covers, right,

which means her front was to the door.

So why did the bullet hit her near the back of her head

just above her left ear, the side that was to the wall?

KERSEY: Well, she had to be that way around when she was hit

and then moved.

By who?

Who?

It's Grandma, Douglas.

No need to look so worried.

WYCLIFFE: There's only two possibilities-- realistic ones,

that is.

She was either moved by whoever was with her

or whoever shot her, assuming they're two

different people, of course.

Either way, Lover Boy is top of my list of people

to bring in for a chat.

WYCLIFFE: Excuse me.

LANE: That interview with Cleeve--

something about it didn't feel--

I don't know.

Because when he came in, he didn't

ask any questions about what had happened,

who it was who'd been shot, which cottage, or anything.

He just-- just offered his help straight off.

KERSEY: Perhaps he'd already been told.

Hm.

Perhaps.

WYCLIFFE: Well, I'll try and find

out when I see him tomorrow.

Right now I'm knackered.

See you later.

Actually I think I'll hit the hay.

Just let him brush his teeth.

What?

Oh.

Ha.

Ha.

[sweet music playing]

Saturday?

No, uh, no, no.

No, not the rate this enquiry is going.

What?

No!

No, no, I hadn't forgotten her birthday, no.

Look, yeah, we can take her out to dinner some other time.

Yeah.

Sure.

Well, look.

Tell Emma I'm very sorry, will you?

Yeah.

And are you all right?

[sighs]

Me too, yeah.

I'll see you in a few days, eh?

OK.

Bye, love.

[seagulls chirping]

[seagulls chirping]

Detective Superintendent Wycliffe.

I'm here to see Mr. Cleeve.

Come in.

Thank you.

DAVID CLEEVE: Superintendent Wycliffe?

That's right.

David Cleeve.

My wife, Patricia.

To what do we owe the pleasure of this Visit

I thought I told everything we know to your very

charming Inspector Lane.

Well, you know policemen.

Have to tell them everything half a dozen times

before it finally sinks in--

like the sergeant in one of your stories.

Aha. I see my secret is out.

You know my books, then.

Some of them.

I believe you own a light-colored metro.

Yes.

It's mine.

Only a car of that description was

seen leaving the village around the time

we think the shooting happened.

Well, it can't have been ours.

It's having its annual service in Tamworth.

Right.

Course, you're off the wanted list, then.

[chuckles]

One last thing--

Might it be possible to see with the great man works?

Certainly.

Only I know my wife's going to pump me

for every scrap of information.

Of course.

Thank you very much.

I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Cleeve.

Not at all.

Do come in.

Drink?

No, thank you.

Peter Stride's supposed to be notoriously reclusive.

Aren't you?

Lose your anonymity, and you lose your freedom.

Is that why there are no photos of you in your books?

Yes.

Then why agree to all these students digging up your land?

Well, they don't know me as Peter

Stride, only as David Cleeve.

And besides, I find the past fascinating.

Were you sleeping with Celia Dawe, Mr. Cleeve?

What?

We believe she was with a man the night she was shot.

She was in one of your properties-- alone.

Do you have a key?

Well, yes, of course, but I, um--

I'm sorry, Superintendent, you've

got the wrong fellow this time.

Then you wouldn't mind giving us the clothes you were wearing

the night of the shooting.

The clothes?

And a blood sample for a DNA test--

if it had to come to that, of course.

You don't think I shot her, do you?

Just trying to eliminate you from the inquiries, Mr. Cleeve.

[music playing]

[music turns ominous]

[gun cocks]

[gunshot]

[dog whimpering]

WYCLIFFE: Morning.

LANE: Morning, Sir.

Franks?

Roger Kitson.

Got into his credit cards.

Killed with a single shot in the back of his head,

almost certainly with a rifle if you go by the exit wound.

When?

Oh, not long.

Certainly since the last high tide,

and he was walking his dog.

Can be more exact after the PM.

Was he walking his dog?

It was the dog that led that guy to the body.

- Him over there? - Yeah.

He's just a beach comber.

Well, if he was just a local man out with his dog,

it shouldn't be too difficult digging

up the necessary information.

OK. Thanks.

All right.

Hm.

About 4 o'clock, hopefully.

All right.

Yep.

Bye.

Thank you very much.

[music playing in pub]

Coincidence?

Two shootings in two days.

I don't like coincidences.

It looks like two different weapons.

Oh?

Yeah.

Ballistics just confirmed Celia was shot

with a handgun, 9 millimeter.

So for the time being, we treat these two

shootings as separate, OK?

Right.

I want you to head this up until I get back from HQ.

I'll see if I can find another SIO to look after Celia Dawe,

but don't hold your breath.

OK.

Right.

Well, in that case, can I have D.C. Potter and a mobile unit

down here? - Why?

We're going to be pretty thin on the ground,

and Potter's wasted at the hospital

if Celia's not going to come through.

Fine, I'll pull him on the uniformed lads.

Keep me posted on that.

I'll try and get back by this evening,

but you know how these departmental battles can go on.

Well, actually, I don't.

Well, one day, no doubt, you will.

Worse luck.

CONSTABLE: The way some people live!

I wouldn't keep a dog like this. LANE: Kitson did.

[inaudible].

Bus passes.

Credit cards.

Driver's licenses.

Company ID cards.

Passports.

Arthur Mitchell.

Ronald Clark.

Francis Collins.

Edwin Zellum.

Roger Kitson.

Roger Kitson.

So who was he?

Some kind of card player.

[music playing]

Thanks very much for your time.

Oh, no problem.

What's this, then?

Went to a drivers' convention?

Just the ones that responded to the radio

announcements, Sir.

[phones ringing, chatter]

WYCLIFFE: You [inaudible]?

KERSEY: No, I didn't.

WYCLIFFE: We're losing six officers,

and I'm heading up both these jobs until further notice.

KERSEY: They've got to be bloody mad, Sir.

I said something along those lines myself.

Anything happen here?

Uh, yeah, Kitson murder.

Franks puts the time of death at 10:00 this morning.

Murder weapon-- a high-velocity rifle.

That's interesting.

And you've got a visitor in your interview rooms.

Right.

Celia wasn't the prettiest of the bunch,

but there was something about her, I suppose.

Thank you.

Anyway, I found her attractive, and I made sure she

got the single cottage.

How?

Favor.

[inaudible] arranged it?

They were using my land for nothing.

He understood.

Go on.

Well, then it was just a question of, um,

dropping by one evening and, well,

playing the famous-novelist card, I'm afraid.

It's stood me in rather good stead over the years.

I can't seem to help it, Superintendent.

There are some men, and I'm ashamed to say

I'm one, who seem compelled to sleep with virtually

every woman they meet.

Proving something, I suppose.

Deeply insecure.

Afraid of death, or something.

Anyway, there it is.

Do you understand what I'm saying?

Does your wife know?

Well, she has the grace to regard my ventures as the price

of my genius, I suppose.

From my wife I get comfort, security,

a sense of continuity.

From the others, you name it.

Celia Dawe?

Did your wife know about her too?

She spares herself the details.

And you were with Celia two nights ago?

What happened?

It was utterly bizarre.

She was-- she is--

a young woman full of energy.

We were in bed when she suddenly rolled on top of me

and gave this great jerk and went limp.

Wow, I thought, I've done my stuff, you know.

And, um, lay there, holding her.

But after a while, when she didn't move or say anything,

I began to be a bit alarmed, so, um--

and then the pillow seemed wet.

So I turned on the lamp, and, um, there was blood everywhere.

I just-- I couldn't understand it.

You hadn't heard anything?

Shot?

She was really quite passionate when roused.

What time was this?

Just after 3:00.

Why didn't you call an ambulance?

I know you don't think much of me, gentlemen.

I don't think much of myself.

It's just the way I react to crises.

I don't know why.

Who do you think might have done it, Mr. Cleeve?

I have no idea, unless--

unless they were aiming at me.

So, um, how many women have you

slept with since you moved down here, Mr. Cleeve?

It's been over 20 years, Inspector.

KERSEY: Uh-huh.

Well, 300?

We're going to need a list.

Be sensible, Mr. Wycliffe.

What if there's an enraged husband or brother or lover

out there gunning for you, Mr. Cleeve?

We've got to start looking somewhere.

I'll do my best.

I can't guarantee it'll be exhaustive.

I understand.

In the meantime, I'll need protection.

Yes-- I'm not really sure we can spare the manpower.

But I'm a sitting duck up there.

I've no way to protect myself.

Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not convinced

your life is under threat.

Well, so much for helping the police with their inquiries.

Um, I'll get someone to take a statement for me.

Oh, by the way--

do you know a man called Roger Kitson?

He's about your age, tall, looks like he

might have been in the Army.

No.

What's this about?

It's not important.

LANE: Ronald Clark.

[typing]

Nope.

A. H. Watkins.

No first name?

No.

I have a feeling we're barking up the wrong tree.

OK, Doug, you're Cleeve.

I've just eaten, Sir.

Go on.

I suppose you want me to be Celia.

Get on with it.

Right.

Now.

We know the shot came from here and that Celia

was hit behind the left ear.

According to Cleeve, she was above him,

and then he turned her over onto her back and covered her up.

So--

KERSEY: You OK?

LANE: Yep.

Bang.

So, Doug, what do you do?

I get dressed and legged it, Sir.

Which means?

I'm virtually certain I have blood on my clothes.

That's right.

But if he'd shot me--

I'd get dressed first, so no bloodstains at all.

Forensics is going to make interesting reading.

[wind blowing]

[thunder crashing]

[music playing]

[chatter]

Good morning, all.

LANE: Good morning, Sir.

CONSTABLE: Sir?

Forensic.

WYCLIFFE: Ah, OK.

What's this?

"Compounds revealed significant traces of the victim's blood."

So Cleeve's out of the fray, then.

Not necessarily.

Well, unless she went outside in the nude, he shot her,

came back in, rolled about in her blood,

and then got dressed together--

All right, all right.

What about the boyfriend?

Redmond?

He's too impulsive.

You said so yourself-- this was thought out.

This was planned.

He's a better bet than Cleeve, Sir.

I mean, anyone is.

I want you to find out everything that you can--

and I mean everything-- about this man David Cleeve--

where he was born, what school he went to,

the color of his first bike--

the lot-- and let's see if this metro-being-serviced story

checks out.

The evidence backs his story, Sir.

"Story."

Yeah.

Had that in mind.

Piers? - Sir?

Come on.

Oh, how can I help you, Mr. Wycliffe?

[sighs]

Just one or two things I need to get straight, Mrs. Cleeve.

Did your husband go out yesterday morning after I left?

Yes.

Do you know where?

No.

But whatever it is you suspect he might have done,

all I can say is the night before he was

somewhat the worse for drink.

He often is.

And, uh, I expect he was walking it off.

And you, Mrs. Cleeve--

I'm sorry to have to ask you this,

but, uh, what were you doing Monday night?

The night of the shooting?

I can assure you, Mr. Wycliffe, if I

had been cursed with a jealous nature,

I'd be guilty of mass murder by now.

I was here, in bed, probably asleep.

And no, I don't have anyone to confirm that.

Well, thanks anyway.

Discretion-- that's the sine qua non of these arrangements.

Oh, and the blind eye.

David seems to think that being famous and creative

means he doesn't have to live quite by the same rules

as other people.

Why do you stay?

Oh, the heart, Mr. Wycliffe.

The heart.

WYCLIFFE: Well?

Millie's been his secretary for two years, Sir.

Gets in here at 9:00, goes home at 6:00, doesn't work weekends.

Monday was no exception.

Right, well, for as long as you're here, find out all

you can.

As far as I'm concerned, you're not so much Cleeve's

protection, you're more his own personal jailer,

you understand?

Yes, Sir.

Mr. Wycliffe--

The, uh, the list you wanted, plus approximate dates.

Thank you.

Is Millie on it?

I forgot.

Easily done.

DAVID CLEEVE: Oh, I, um, read in the paper this morning--

chap found dead on the beach near Newquay.

Roger Kitson.

Why do you ask?

Because you were asking about him.

Just out of interest, you said he was about my age.

Yes.

What did he look like exactly?

We'll be in touch, Mr. Cleeve.

[music playing]

LANE: All bridge clubs within a 30-mile radius, OK?

Um, I think we've got something here.

This chap birdwatcher was parked here overlooking the beach

and remembers seeing a yellow metro a couple

of hours before the murder. - Metro.

Did you get the number? - Yep.

He'd heard about it on the radio.

We ran it through PNC.

It's registered to a Mrs. Barbara Prout.

Plus, I checked, and we've already interviewed

the driver, Gerald Prout.

Have we, indeed?

Coincidence?

The super doesn't believe in coincidences.

[music playing]

Yes?

Detective Superintendent Wycliffe, Madame.

And this is my colleague, Detective Inspector Lane.

We're investigating a car.

A yellow metro has been traced to this address.

WYCLIFFE: Thank you.

Um, where is your husband, Mrs. Prout?

He's away on business.

What sort of business?

He's a salesman.

Has he been in touch at all?

Yesterday.

He rang me yesterday.

Why?

We do need to talk to your husband

as a matter of some urgency, Mrs. Prout.

Someone saw his car at the scene of a crime.

Now if we could--

My husband's never been in trouble in his life.

Well, perhaps not.

But if we could only talk to him,

we could perhaps eliminate him from our inquiries.

Oh, yeah?

I've heard that one before.

I'm sorry?

Going to get the right man, are you?

[chuckles] We certainly hope so, Mrs. Prout.

Um, when your husband telephoned,

did he say where he was?

He's been staying in a farmhouse.

Farmhouse?

(IMPATIENTLY) He didn't leave an address.

But do you have a telephone number

where you could contact him?

No.

He rang from a call box.

The car's registered in your name, Mrs. Prout?

What of it?

Well, just for the record, you haven't

used it yourself recently?

I'm not allowed to drive.

Oh?

They took my license away six months ago.

I've not been well, you see.

When you do next hear from your husband, Mrs. Prout,

I'd be grateful if you'd contact me straight away.

I'll not be here.

I beg your pardon?

I'm going away.

Oh, they've tried to put me off again, of course,

but I'll not be stopped.

I'm going to London.

I don't understand.

I had a letter from them this morning-- some office nobody.

Here.

Have a look.

"The Home Secretary regrets he will be unable to see

you at the present time."

I'll camp outside his bloody house all night if I have to,

ill or not.

I've rung the newspapers and the telly people.

They'll all be there to see what happens.

(ANGRILY) He's got to see me!

Jonathan Welsh?

Was he your brother?

Yes!

[inaudible] killings, 1960.

Jonathan Welsh was hanged for shooting a policeman.

Murdered by the state on the 15th of April, 1961.

They said at the trial there were two sets

of fingerprints on the gun.

He had a gun, but my brother never pulled the trigger.

He couldn't have done.

If you'd known what he was like.

It was Larkin did that--

John Larkin.

And the other two lied to save their skins.

Oh, what's the good of telling you?

You're not interested, just like all the rest of them.

Too busy trying to protect your precious legal system!

Cross-- Jack of Hearts--

Roger John Cross--

he let my innocent brother hang while he got

off with a few years in jail.

You call that justice?

Do you?

Roger Cross is dead, Mrs. Prout.

He was shot and killed two days ago.

[ominous music]

WYCLIFFE: All right, call HQ, get them to put the chopper up,

sweep the area within a 20-mile radius-- more if possible.

We're looking for a yellow metro parked outside a farmhouse.

Nothing more precise?

No.

Four Jacks.

[inaudible] was murdered.

Cross is dead.

So what happened to the others--

Jack Shirley and John Larkin?

Let's hope we find them before Prout does.

[music playing]

CONSTABLE: Going somewhere, Mr. Cleeve?

[sighs] For a walk, if that's all right.

I'll get my coat.

I don't want company, thanks very much.

It's Detective Wycliffe's order, Sir.

I'm not to let you out the house unaccompanied.

We're still concerned for your safety.

(ANGRILY) Forget it!

[door slams]

WYCLIFFE: They all had, uh, Jack or John

in their names somewhere.

You've got your John Cross, John Larkin--

Thank you.

--Jack Shirley, Jonathan Welsh.

LANE: Sir?

Jack Shirley's dead as well.

According to CRO, died of a heart

attack in prison eight years ago.

And then there was one--

Larkin.

[music playing]

CONSTABLE: Sir!

They found him!

By the old engine house at Burleigh's Mine.

That's near here, isn't it?

About 10 miles.

WYCLIFFE: Come on, Lucy.

CONSTABLE: Pass out the firearms, would you, Dixon?

We'll wait for them there. - Doug?

KERSEY: Yes, Sir?

You stay here for the info on Cleeve,

if that's who he really is.

We'll soon have two bodies tucked up before long.

[music playing]

OK, I'll tell him.

WYCLIFFE: Looks like the metro is still there,

but there's nothing going on inside the building.

Reckon he's there?

Well, let's wait for firearms to find out.

Well, bad news.

You're on another [inaudible].

So we either play the hero or wait.

We wait.

[waves crashing]

Darling, relax.

Do you know, that's something I don't think I've

ever managed in my entire life.

What you need is a holiday.

[scoffs]

Well, why don't we?

Three weeks a month-- once the new book is published?

We could go to the Bahamas.

[music playing]

LANE: Sir.

CONSTABLE: So what have we got, Sir?

Oh.

[laughs] Hope you don't mind. Helping myself.

This is driving me crazy, cooped up like this.

How long is this going to go on?

I expect as long as necessary, Sir.

Oh, God.

Until we've got someone locked up for shooting Celia Dawe,

I think you'd be safer to stay put.

[music playing]

Sir, just heard, they've got a suspect.

He's believed to be holed up in a cottage

near Burleigh's clay pits. - Who?

Uh, bloke called Prout, apparently.

Armed officers are surrounding the place now.

Everything should be under control

before too long, but best to stay tight until we get

confirmation.

Yes, of course.

I'll let you know when it's all over.

Yes.

MRS. CLEEVE: Constable?

Next time, would you knock?

Oh.

Sorry.

[music playing]

Sir!

Stay here.

CONSTABLE: Nobody home.

He could be anywhere.

But he's not out shooting rabbits--

Nine millimeter.

[ominous music]

CONSTABLE: All of you, follow me!

Come on!

[fax machine rings]

Get that for me, Andy, will you?

Uh-huh.

Stuff about Cleeve, by the look of it.

Aye.

Oh.

Guess what?

David Paul Cleve, born September the 5th, Bristol, 1931,

died 12 October, 1944.

Exeter General Hospital, multiple injuries sustained,

a road traffic accident same day.

- Sir? - Yes?

It's Doug.

He says David Cleeve is--

--John Larkin.

Yes, I know.

9 millimeter-- same as killed Celia Dawe.

[music playing]

MRS. CLEEVE: I know.

[inaudible]

Well, why not?

The world's our oyster.

Hm?

[ominous music]

[ominous music]

I'll go and get an atlas.

LANE: Piers?

Piers receiving. Over.

Piers, Lane here. CONSTABLE: Piers receiving.

Go ahead.

Go and see Cleeve.

[static]

Sorry, can you say that again, please?

[static]

Piers, can you hear me?

Come on, give it to me.

Hello!

Wycliffe here!

Keep Cleeve safe!

Don't let him out of the house on any account,

do you understand me?

Understood.

[ominous music]

[inaudible]

Yes?

Where is he?

Well, he's in the study.

[door squeaks]

Hello, Larkin.

Proust?

[knocking]

[gunshots]

Oh, David!

[inaudible] back!

Stay where you are, Gerald!

Keep the gun pointing at the ground.

Don't lift it.

Whatever you do, Gerald, don't lift the gun.

That's it.

That's it.

It's over, Gerald.

It's over.

We're police.

You don't want to shoot us, do you?

That's it.

Drop the gun.

Let your fingers go. That's it.

Let them go.

Drop it.

That's right.

Agh!

Agh.

I-- I didn't-- get a chance--

I couldn't--

Save it for the inquiry.

[sobbing]

It took a long time to find him.

Covered his tracks real well.

Cleeve-- Strider-- who'd have thought it?

Why now?

Larkin should have hanged 30 years ago.

So you wanted to see justice done, huh?

You married, Mr. Wycliffe?

See, they didn't just kill that young policeman,

and Johnny, you know.

They killed us, too--

our marriage, our life together.

And they finally killed Bob's for real.

Mrs. Prout?

Yeah.

She's dying, Mr. Wycliffe.

Cancer.

Only got a few months left.

Hearing that was the last straw, you know?

So what about Celia Dawe?

Where's the justice for her?

Yeah.

I'm sorry about that.

They moved, didn't they.

I shouldn't have done that.

Didn't mean it.

It's always the innocent who suffer, isn't it.

[hospital monitor beeping]

[music playing]

[theme music playing]