All language subtitles for Midsomer Murders S03E04_Beyond The Grave

...by 3:30 that afternoon,

August 1st, 1644,
the fighting was over.

The Battle of Aspern Tallow
had been lost.

Royalists had fallen
around the king like ripe corn.

But Jonathan Lowrie was not
among the dead.

Now, this way, please.

And keep up if you will.

Ah. Follow.

He had fought that day bravely,
for king and country,

paying dearly for the privilege.

But who would care?

He was a wealthy man,
much in the king's favor,

and had few friends in this
Roundhead part of the world.

He made his way
down this very lane

and paused here
to gather strength

and draw water from the well.

Stand aside, please!
I'm coming through!

Do mind the gradient,
Miss Bunsall.

He drank and moved on.

Follow, follow.

When he reached this point,

Cromwellian thugs on the rampage
caught sight of him from yonder.

For the first time in his life,
Jonathan Lowrie ran.

Blood poured from a wound to his
left shoulder, leaving a trail.

But on he pressed...

...until here before him
stood the family home,

Aspern Hall.

Afternoon.

And as he entered the great
hall,

he called out to his wife.

"Florence! Florence!"

And as he reached this spot,

so a Roundhead musketeer
at the door shot him...

dead.

And in accordance with his wish

to be buried where he fell
that day...

...this became
his last resting place.

Though I know for a fact
he is not at peace.

You're not trying to sell us
a ghost, are you, Mr. Bradford?

Why?

Don't you believe
in such things?

What, have you seen it?

Many have.

And before he walks abroad,
he gives fair warning,

tolling the church bell
mournfully.

We are blessed with
a fine portrait of Jonathan,

crafted at the height
of his powers

by the artist Robert Walk--

You're a policeman.

Do something!

Who says justice is dead?

George Burton fell off the twig

while being interviewed
about his book.

I gather you and George
weren't close.

Last of a gang.

Hijacked four lorries in Dover,
1985.

Nailed one of the drivers
to a fence.

Ooh.
And then wrote a book about it?

That's all the rage, isn't it?

What time did Cully
eventually get in?

Two...ish.

They've got a favor to ask you.

They?

But, Dad, the lease on Nico's
flat has just run out.

I don't care.
He's not moving in.

What about the box room, Tom?

I mean, we could put your stuff
in the garage.

"Stuff"?

It's only for two weeks.

Why is it when I say "no,"
you both hear "yes"?

Oh.
Good morning, Nico.

- There's something else.
- There always is.

He's got a part in a soap opera.

Is it a speaking part?

I-It's a police drama.

I'm a detective sergeant.

We were hoping you'd let him
shadow Gavin, see how it's done.

I suppose a nice, juicy murder
is too much to hope for, then?

The best I can offer
is a vandalized painting

at Aspern Tallow Museum.

But so far
your detective sergeant

is absolutely believable.

Terrific.

Why?

You've observed
rule number one --

always keep the governor
waiting.

Oh, Charlie.

You've nearly finished.

Oh, I don't hang about.

Oh!
It's perfect.

Oh!

It's much better than
that poky attic in my house.

Oh!

Oh.
Careful. Careful.

Oh.

Oh, I never really
thanked you enough

for doing all that you've done
for me --

moving me in here with you.

Well, I'm glad
it's all worked out.

And as from Monday morning,

"Sandra MacKillop.

Paintings restored, framed,
cleaned --

You name it, she can do it."

Actually, I've --
I've had a phone call

from Aspern Tallow Museum.

Alan Bradford wants me to do
a job for him.

Tell me.

Well, there's a portrait
he wants me to repair.

He wants me to go down there
as soon as possible.

And what are you waiting for?

I was hoping that...

...that you'd come with me.

Give me five minutes.

Morning, sir.

Yes. Morning, Angel.

No wonder they broke in, sir.

Fake alarm system,
single mortise lock on the door,

windows that don't close
properly.

Where's Sergeant Troy?

Inside, sir.

This way, sir.

Yes. Thank you, Angel.
I can manage.

Right, sir.

Someone's had a go
at this painting, sir.

Rule number two.

Always treat the boss
as if he's blind and stupid.

Troy, Nico will be following you
around for a week.

What for, sir?

I've been cast
in a police drama.

I'm Inspector Barnaby.
And you are, sir?

Alan Bradford, curator.

I'm surprised
you've got anything left

to curate, Mr. Bradford.

Fake alarm system
on the front wall,

single mortise lock on the door,

windows that won't shut
properly.

Why don't you hang up a notice
saying "Please burgle me"?

It's a question of the readies,
Inspector.

We're not everyone's idea
of a fun day out.

- Give it a go.
- What would that mean, then?

Tell me what happened here
yesterday, then.

I was doing the Jonathan Lowrie
death tour

with half a dozen or so punters.

The portrait was fine
when we left.

Hi, Alan.

Oh, I'm sorry.

Sandra, wonderful to see you.

Come on in.

This is...

Inspector Barnaby.

That's Detective Sergeant Troy
behind you.

Hello.

Oh.
Um, uh, Sandra MacKillop.

I'm here to repair the painting.

MacKillop?
As in MacKillop Software?

That's us.
I'm Charles MacKillop.

I'm Sandra's brother-in-law.

And guardian angel.

Why do you need one,
Mrs. MacKillop?

Uh...

Well, m-my husband died
last year and, um...

Sandra, you said it.

It's marvelous.

Brilliant.

Oh.
Sorry, Inspector.

Alan, Charlie's turning a room
into a studio for me,

but it isn't quite finished.

Is it okay if I start work here?

It's marvelous.

We can rope you off,
turn you into an exhibit.

Jonathan Lowrie.

Royalist, philanthropist,
classical scholar,

and all 'round excellent egg.

Yes.
1591 to 1644.

How do you know?

It says so over there,
where he's buried.

Somebody really meant business.

- Can you fix it?
- Of course she can.

What did he look like,
as a matter of interest?

We turned him into a postcard
one year.

Sold like hotcakes.

You all right?

Yes.

Yes.

When do I start?

There's nothing here for us,
Troy.

File it under "forget."

Did you notice the smell
in there, sir?

Well, it's a museum, Troy.

It's full of stuff
long past its sell-by date.

I did, Sergeant.

Fish.

Your average villain's
gone soft.

Carving up paintings?

They'll be breaking
the speed limit next...

or dropping litter.

You know,
why choose that picture?

Why not one of the others?

And having broken in,
why not nick something?

Have you got something against
us having a quiet day, sir?

What's your opinion, Nico?

- Me?
- Come on, man.

You'll be doing this
for semi-real

in a couple of weeks' time.

Maybe it's a grudge
against the Lowrie family.

Going back 350 years?
Never.

A man dies.

His wife's a picture restorer,

trying to get back
into the game.

Lo and behold,
a portrait is damaged

and she's called in to fix it.

Job creation?

Or is that my nasty,
suspicious mind?

No comment, sir.

Have you got a comment on that?

Yeah.

Someone took a shortcut
across the graveyard

and it fell out
of their shopping bag.

Shortcut where?

The museum's a dead end.

Sir, two minutes ago,
there was nothing here for us.

Now the world turns on a packet
of smoked mackerel.

Put it in the canteen freezer.

Label it carefully,
or it'll end up on the menu.

Look after this.

Morning, Jim.

Morning.

Anything in the papers?

None of it worth reading.

Come and sit down.

Tell me all the news
from the village.

All the gossip, you mean.

Oh. All right.
Tell me all the gossip.

And if there isn't any,
you can make some up.

Well, the shop's had her baby.

And he certainly doesn't look
like anyone I know,

least of all her husband.

They've called him Leonardo,
after that actor.

And then there's the painting,
of course.

- That's got people going.
- What's the feeling about that?

Is it deliberate or casual
or a ghost from Alan's past?

Well, kids is favorite.

Where do you want me to start
today, Jim? Up or down?

Why don't we start with coffee?

George Burton.

All things come
to him who waits.

A book?

What book?

Basically, the job of a D.S.

is to keep a check
on his governor.

I mean, I'm lucky. Old Tom's
a good bloke to work for.

But he does look for trouble
where there isn't any.

He's also coming this way.

Troy, what do you think
of Alan Bradford?

I've handed it back to uniform,
sir.

I thought it was
no further action.

I want to show Nico
how we work --

you know,
the free exchange of ideas.

Bradford?

Over the top, easily rattled,
born to carry the can.

Otherwise harmless.

Nico?

He's a bit theatrical.

But yeah, I agree with Gavin --
harmless.

Well, I've got news
for you both.

The excellent, wonderful,
marvelous Mr. Bradford

has got a record.

Sir, you said, "Troy,
there is nothing here for us.

File it under 'forget.'"

That was before we found
the smoked mackerel.

- Morning, ladies.
- Good morning.

What's all this?

A piece of local history, Jim.

A suit of armor taken
from the battlefield in 1644.

The dead man's descendant
has sent it back to us.

All the way from Champagne,
Illinois.

Well, I'll be damned.

How's Sandra doing?

Marvelous.
Quite a hit.

In fact, I think we could build
on this, Jim.

Open a craft section.

You know, real people
doing real things.

Come on.
Get your jacket.

I'll buy you a pint
and talk you out of it.

Alan!

Alan!

What's wrong?

I'm going outside.

I'll be all right.
I'm sorry.

I thought you said
she was better.

Hiya. How did it go?

-It went well, yes.
- Good.

There's only a couple of things
for you to sign.

Won't take a minute.

Must be a nice place to work,
the museum.

If you like ghosts, yes.

Not that old chestnut, surely.

I'm trying to be sensible,
Charlie, but look at him.

Is it just me?

Oh, come on, Sandie.

The set of the eyes,
I grant you.

- But there the similarity ends.
- The nose, the chin.

The way he's standing.

No.
You're making too much of it.

In any case, even if he does
look a bit like David, so what?

So now you think he does!

Come on.
Let's go home.

I'll cook you something exotic.

Or would you rather talk it over
with Linda Marquis first?

I mentioned to this policeman
that David had died.

And Alan Bradford was thrilled
just because I used the word.

And then it all came
flooding back?

Yes. And then he showed us
this postcard.

I've known that portrait
all my life,

but I've never made
the connection.

Does it remind you of anyone?

Well, yes.

David.

Vaguely, I suppose.

But, Linda, Charlie says no.

Which is it, for God's sake?

It doesn't matter.

The point is it triggered
your memory,

not of the good times that you
and David had shared together,

but of the months of agony when
you couldn't accept his passing.

You forgot the "3D" mantra
that we worked out

should his name be mentioned.

Can you say it for me now?

David. Delight. Departed.

Now mean it, Sandra.

David.

Delight.

Departed.

And again,
with no doubt whatsoever.

David.

Delight.

Departed.

There are no ghosts
in Aspern Tallow museum.

Not in paintings, in rocking
chairs, or under stone slabs.

They're only in your mind.

A gentleman caller
at this time of night?

That'll give my neighbors
something to talk about.

I won't keep you, Annie.

Don't be daft, Jim.

What can I get you?

No. I-I just want to say this
and I'll go.

I'm selling the cottage, Annie.

Well, what for?

Oh.
It's a long story.

For one reason or another, I've
missed out on certain things,

like a wife and family.

I regretted it.

Well, I'm too old for kids,
but not for a wife.

Good-looking man like you, Jim,
you could take your pick.

I have done.

Jonathan Lowrie?

You don't believe in ghosts,
do you, Jim?

It'll be the wind.

Those bells must weigh a ton.

Jim...you mustn't.

So, what's it like?

The chap I'm playing doesn't
have much to say for himself.

His boss has masses.

Look at it.

On and on and on.

- They got that bit right, then.
- Yes.

Except, unlike Tom,

this bloke doesn't see crime
with a capital K in every --

- Morning, Dad.
- Morning, Cully.

Morning, Nico.

You were saying?

The difference between you
and the Chief Inspector here.

He's not nearly so...

s-so thorough.

Doesn't see crime
with a capital K

in every packet
of smoked mackerel?

LS that it?

Sorry.

You're sitting in my place.

- Thank you.
- Dad, it's for you. Gavin.

It was just here.

I took a few steps forward,
paused, looked 'round, and Wham.

Fist to the face.

Did you see the owner
of that fist?

Not really.

Dark hair, I think.

Dark features.
Dark clothes.

But it was dark.

Why were you here
in the first place?

I heard the church bell.

It's the sign Jonathan Lowrie
is up and about.

And you came to meet him?

Of course not.

But someone was ringing
the bell.

Who were they?
What did they want?

Mr. Tate.
You found him, yeah?

That's right.

And what were you doing here?

Bit of a party, was it?

We heard the same thing
that Alan did,

so we came over to investigate.

I'm sorry. I don't think
I've had the pleasure.

Anne Quarritch.

Ah, yes.
You clean the museum, yeah?

And before you ask if I've seen

any dodgy characters
hanging around -- No, I haven't.

Mr. Bradford.

Till just now.

Things are warming up,
Mr. Bradford.

First the painting, now this.

You think they're connected?

300 years of peace and quiet,
and then two crimes in two days?

Of course they're connected.

We're pulling a crowd, sir.

Oh, God.

I didn't realize
you were so out of condition.

Take some deep breaths
before we get down to business.

Can I help you?

Yes. You can chain my tricycle
to that fence.

Actually, that --
that was a polite way

of asking you
what are you doing here.

We're police officers.

Really?

Then you're the ones
who need help, not me.

Do let me know
if I can be of assistance.

You can.
With names.

What's yours?

I am Marcus Lowrie,

Jonathan's great-great-great-

great-great-great-great-great-
great-grandson.

Close, were you?

What are you doing here,
Mr. Lowrie?

The bell tolled
in the middle of the night.

Jonathan is risen.

And we have a question
to ask him.

Well, tough. The museum
is closed, and you can't go in.

Alan, dear, don't be peevish.
What would your mother say?

She'd say, "Leave me alone.
I've been dead for 10 years."

"Dead" is an un-word,
as well you know.

Your mother is right here
with us now,

and she says,
"Don't be unkind to Eleanor.

Let her into the museum."

And I can hear my old mother
too, saying,

"Don't let this lady
come the old acid

until you know who she is."

You're in the presence
of Eleanor Bunsall,

self-appointed queen
of Aspern Tallow.

What was the question
you wanted to ask Jonathan?

Is that any of your business?

Oh, please.
Indulge me.

I need to know what he did
with the family's money.

I'm sorry?

It went missing
shortly after he died.

We've scrimped and saved
for 300 years.

But not anymore.

In that case, be my guest.

Thank you.

Jonathan Lowrie.

I am Eleanor Margaret Bunsall.

What have you got to say
for yourself?

Do you believe in life
after death, Mr. Bradford?

Of course not.

You told one of my colleagues,
P.C. Angel, that you did,

that you'd seen
this Jonathan Lowrie.

Strictly for the punters.
They love it.

Shh!

I know you're there, Jonathan,
so don't let's play silly games.

Yes. Go on!
Speak to her.

Quiet, Marcus.

We need your help with
the family silver, Jonathan.

Any ideas?

I know where it is.

Shh.

Oh, really.
This is too much.

Noises off from you, Marcus,

chattering in the stalls,
and now a late entrance.

Sandra, quickly, take a seat.

Sorry, Miss Bunsall.

Sorry.

He's here!

Everybody out.

Oh, what is it?

Fire extinguisher.

Just when we were getting
somewhere.

Let's hope it works.

Mrs. Bunsall, out -- now!

Is that clear?

It's under control.

- You all right?
- Yeah.

It was a bit of a shock.

- Where did she go?
- Who?

Sandra MacKillop.

She's down there.

Troy. Troy.

Who do you want --

Eleanor Bunsall
or Alan Bradford?

- Bradford, sir.
- Good man.

Ask her how she started
the fire.

- Om
- Go on.

Mr. Bradford.
A word, if I may.

Would this be a good time
to mention your criminal record?

Not if I have a choice
in the matter, no.

You mean that Mr. Tate,
chairman of the trustees,

doesn't know about your passion
for valuable bronzes?

I didn't think
he'd be interested.

I think he'll be fascinated.

No, Inspector.
Please.

But you stole a bust
of Oliver Cromwell

from an auctioneer in Bristol
valued at £13,000.

Not for money.

For love.

Oh, it's the old crime
of passion, is it?

Who was she?

Not that kind of love.

Love of one's subject.

History, the Civil War,
"Cromwell, Our Chief of Men."

Mr. Barnaby wondered
if you had any ideas

on how the fire started,
Miss Bunsall.

Heat, Sergeant.

Yes, but did you have anything
to do with it,

is what he meant, I think.

Do I look like a pyromaniac?

I'm not saying
you're the The Brink's-MAT type,

but you did spend six months
inside Reading Jail.

Did you make any friends
while you were there?

Or more importantly,
any enemies?

You mean you think I'm a target,
Inspector?

Someone doesn't like you,
do they?

I mean, the painting, the nose.

Perhaps that's why they moved
the packing case.

The packing case, Inspector.

It's not where I left it
last night.

Nico.

Sir.

I-I mean yes, Tom?

"Sir" will do just fine.

The Marcus family silver.
You said you know where it is.

The inscription
on the burial slab.

It's Greek.

"Jonathan Lowrie -- Kai panta
ta chremata enthade taphentes."

"Here lies Jonathan Lowrie
and all his worldly goods."

Sir.

You tell Marcus?

He wanted to know.

Would this be
a typical sort of day, Gavin?

Yep. Nutters.
Then more nutters.

Inspector, I gather you've had
quite a day.

We certainly have.

- Let me get you a drink.
- Oh, please.

Why did you let old Miss Bunsall
loose in the museum, Inspector?

Professional curiosity,
I suppose.

See, I don't believe in ghosts,
just people with dark motives.

Is that how you explain
the burning packing cases?

At the moment,
I don't explain it at all.

But I can tell you it was helped
along with a little paraffin.

Hardly the work of a ghost.

It's not a joke, Charlie.

Somethings going on in there.

Otherwise, why is
Inspector Barnaby here?

Actually, I came to ask you --

Why did you rush away
in such a hurry this afternoon?

Is that a crime?

I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.

I-| was frightened.
I was --

I needed to find Charlie.

Anything else?

Yes.

Why did Mr. Bradford choose you
to repair the painting?

Because I'm the only restorer
within 30 miles.

Just seems odd
that as you're trying to get

back into the swing of things,
someone wrecks a painting.

I resent that!

Resent what?

- His implication.
- Which is?

You saw what happened
this afternoon, Inspector.

- I'm in no mood --
- Oh, come on.

- They have to ask these things.
- Well, I don't have to listen.

Will she be all right?

The short-term answer is yes.

As regards the long term,
I really have no idea.

Why is she like she is?

When David, my brother, died,
Sandra couldn't believe it.

Literally.

She had a kind of breakdown.

So I moved her in here with me

and tried to protect her,
if you like.

From what?

Oh, you know.
Garden-fence gossip.

David was the fittest man
you'd ever meet.

Some people suggested he might
have taken his own life.

- But he didn't?
- No.

He wasn't the sort, Inspector.

You and he were
business partners, yeah?

Yeah. And he left quite a gap,
I can tell you.

Sandra may have lost a husband,

but I lost somebody who meant
more to me than I realized.

Tell me about Eleanor Bunsall.

Rider of broomsticks and minder
of other people's business.

She harmless, do you think?

So long as you don't listen
to the rubbish she talks.

Unfortunately, Sandra thinks
the world of her.

Hello.

What's that, Jim?

Oh.
It's a metal detector.

I want to put an article
in the parish magazine --

"There is no silver
in Jonathan Lowrie's grave,

so don't waste your time
digging it up."

I love this place, Annie.

I don't really want to
leave it.

Then why are you going?

No choice.

I'm going to France.

I've got a house there
in the south.

It's miles off the beaten track.

There's olive trees for shade,
vineyard for wines.

The sea's just a stone's throw.

What do you say?

Me?

Think it over.

Sounds like
I've just struck gold.

Buried treasure?

Yes. You come to claim
your share, Inspector?

No.

My sergeant here is a very
practical man, as a rule.

But there's a tiny piece of him

that's willing to believe
in ghosts --

and their ability to set fire
to packing cases.

And it's almost this time
yesterday, almost to the minute.

Troy, give me your hand.

Pardon?

Give me your hand.

Ooh.

That's how it happened.

Old glass.
Maybe 200 years old.

Uneven, with a prism in it.

Which means...

What's that mean, Troy?

Whoever moved the packing case
knew this place very well.

Like a curator.

Or a trustee.

Or a cleaner.

The police think
I cut the portrait myself

to get the job of repairing it.

I'm sure they don't.

And I must finish the job,
for Alan's sake.

For your own sake.

Yes. Yes.

Yes. Of course.

Is it a problem?

I-I don't know where to do it --
at home or at the museum.

Oh, I see.

The museum has taken on
another dimension.

I keep thinking
I see David standing over me,

that he's actually there.

Well, let's tackle that.

If you stay away
from the museum,

your imagination will make
that feeling worse.

If you go there,
you can deal with it.

Do you feel the need to prove

that you're not actually
going mad?

I need to see David.

That's what frightens me.

Right, boys and girls.
Finish up what you're doing.

Time we moved on now.

If you'd like to follow me
to the upstairs room.

Sandie, I need some rivets
for this chap's gauntlet.

I'll be across in my office --
two minutes.

David?

David?

Is that you?

Sandra?

Sandra?

You all right?

Yes.

Yes.
Of course.

You were quite right
to call me in on this, Sandra,

but why didn't you do so
earlier?

I should have.

I know.

I used to tell you everything
in the past, but...

It's Charles, isn't it?

Typical man.

Thinks he's the only one
who can help.

Well, even he thinks
I'm going mad.

He's too polite to say.

"Madness" is an un-word, dear.

It does not exist.

There are only varying degrees
of sanity.

Yours and mine just happen to be
more varied than most.

Now, what can I do for you?

Well, all these strange things
that have been happening --

the portrait, the rocker moving,
the bell, the fire.

People say it's Jonathan Lowrie,

but I think David is trying to
reach me.

Well, we'll soon find out.

David!

What the devil is going on?

Out with it, man.

Bastards!

You stole it.

You stole my inheritance!

Give it to me.

Give it to me, I say.

Aah!

Aah!

Eleanor, no.

We are modern women, Sandra.

We fear nothing.
Follow me.

Inspector, who has done
this terrible thing?

I don't know, Mr. Bradford.
I've only just got here.

To think...
I could be lying in there.

It's Marcus Lowrie, sir.

Came to dig up
the family fortune.

Someone got there before him.

Only I don't think
there was a fortune, Tom.

Pennies in a leather bag,
though.

Oh, God. They've made a mess
of him, haven't they?

What With?

Corner of something solid
and square.

He'd been hit six times.

But not with this?

No blood,
and it doesn't match the dents.

Who reported it?

Eleanor Bunsall, sir.

Oof.
Break out the body armor, Troy.

Lowrie's dog, sir.
Can't just leave him here.

Put him in the car.

Put him in the car.

Come on.

A security system, Mr. Tate.
I believe I did mention it.

I could hardly get it installed
overnight.

Nevertheless, I'd like a proper
chat with you, please, sometime.

What for?

Well, you thought there was
money in that grave, didn't you?

Your metal detector told you
as much.

You'll need a statement
from me as well, Inspector.

Why?
Did you kill him'?

N-No.
Of course I didn't.

Brilliant at making you feel
guilty, isn't he?

Why pennies in the grave, sir?

For the ferryman.

He what?

This Jonathan Lowrie,
Greek scholar.

He'd have taken some coins

to pay the ferryman
to row him over the River Styx.

Why didn't you know that, Troy?

Do a left here.

Rule number --
Where are we up to now?

Uh, seven, sir.

Rule number seven.
Never use the indicator.

Keeps the other drivers
on their toes.

That right, Troy?

What were you doing
in the graveyard

at midnight, Miss Bunsall?

Is that any of your business?

Oh. Indulge me.
Again.

Insomnia.
I often walk at night.

In a graveyard?
Alone?

I have so many friends there.

So there you are, chatting away
with a few old friends.

You hear Marcus scream.

You run inside,
and there he is, dead.

Not dead, Inspector.
Merely murdered.

Oh, I'm sorry.

"Dead" is an un-word.

Did you see anyone else?

Such as?

Well, I had in mind
his "un-killer."

He must have still been there,
in the museum.

If I'd known that, I'd have
stayed on, had it out with him.

I'm very glad you didn't.

I was armed, Inspector.

Sir, this is CS gas.

Yes. I picked it up in France,
at the World Cup,

where it came in very handy,
I can tell you.

Miss Bunsall,
it is illegal in this country.

And I'm confiscating it.

In that case, I shall refuse
to cooperate further.

It's too late.

You've already told us
all we need to know.

Except, of course,
for who was with you last night.

My lips are sealed

in accordance with my version
of the Hippocratic oath.

Oh, the Hippocratic oath, eh?

So you were there
professionally.

Who With?

Any more questions?
Sensible ones.

Yes.

Does nothing die in your world,
Miss Bunsall?

You know, people, plants,
animals?

You're smarter than you look,
young man.

We are all part
of an endless saga.

We fade, yes,

but only to reappear
in ever brighter colors.

So you can talk
to Jonathan Lowrie,

the dickie birds, or --
or even a Christmas tree

just as easily as you can talk
to us?

More so, because they appreciate
what I say.

Oh, right.

Well, thank you.
Thank you, Miss Bunsall.

Thanks for your time.

You're not going already,
surely.

Why? ls there something else
you want to tell us?

No, but he hasn't finished
mending my puncture yet.

God spare me
from little old ladies.

She's a cantankerous old bag
and daft as a bloody brush.

I don't know, Troy.
I rather like her.

Some of what she said
does make sense.

I mean, we are all part
of an eternal pageant.

If you say so, sir.

And on her own admission,

she doesn't see murder
as killing someone, does she?

Ah.

And she was there
when Marcus copped it, you mean.

Oh, hello.
What are those two up to?

Inspector.

Come and join us.

If I were to ask you
where your sister-in-law was

at midnight, sir,
you'd say in bed, I take it.

Well, she was.

Wasn't she?

We think she was in the
graveyard with Eleanor Bunsall,

trying to contact
her dead husband.

Oh, please, no.

Inspector, have you ever known
anyone like Sandra?

With her symptoms, I mean.

What exactly are they?

The usual stuff
associated with a breakdown.

Mood swings, uncertainty,
sudden panic.

But that's so unlike
the real Sandra.

I mean, I've always
thought of her as --

as strong, determined, capable.

People change.

Especially after losing
a partner.

But you told us, Charlie --
Sandra told us herself --

that she was getting stronger.

In the space of a few days,
all that is gone.

Can you explain that?

Not really, but...
one or two things do bother me.

Like what?

The portrait gets slashed.

Sandie's the obvious choice
to fix it.

Put that the other way 'round,
though.

She'll be chosen to repair it,
so let's cut one up.

Are you saying you think
there might be some purpose

in all this?

Go on, Mr. Bradford.

And what's more,

it's a portrait that reminds her
of her dead husband.

You were there the day I showed
her the postcards.

You all right?

Yes.

Yes.

When do I start?

The portrait does bear
an uncanny resemblance to David.

Which puts him firmly back
in her mind.

But she's known that portrait
all her life.

Why is it suddenly so important?

Because of other things
that happen around it.

Bells ring in the night.

The packing cases catch fire.

Yesterday I left her alone
in the museum for two minutes,

during which time a bust
of Charles I fell to the ground.

Sandra says it moved
of its own accord.

And she went straight
to Eleanor Bunsall, Troy.

She did too.

How do you know?

Because I've been
following her around

for the past couple of days.

I'm worried.

Sandie?

Thank God you're here.

What on earth
are you doing here?

Miss Bunsall?

Is he dead?

Yes, but how?
There's no one here.

Leave, both of you.

Quickly and quietly.
Quick!

You were there, Mr. MacKillop.

Thank God.

Supposing he'd lashed out
at Sandra or even Miss Bunsall.

In Miss Bunsall's case,
he'd have regretted it.

- Where's Sandra now?
- In bed.

- I can go and wake her if you --
- No, no. Don't.

Thank you gentlemen.

We'll leave it for now.

So now Sandra's being got at,
is she?

But not in your book,
obviously, Troy.

Right.

Okay. Tell me this.
Why Marcus was killed?

- For the family dosh.
- There wasn't any.

Well, the killer
didn't know that.

He would've
by the time Marcus walked in.

He'd got down
as far as the skeleton.

Hadn't found so much
as a gallstone.

All right, then.
He was pissed off.

All that work for nothing.

So he swings around, clobbers
him, turns him into cat's meat.

The way you tell it, Troy,
so graphically,

one might almost be there.

Annie, I don't mean to --
to push you on this, but...

It's all right, Jim.
I've thought it over.

The answer is yes --
I'll come with you.

You won't regret it.
I promise you.

When do we leave?

Well, I-| think
we should go soon.

Like in a couple of days.

Why?
What's the panic?

Barnaby wants to talk to me.

Oh, Jim, you haven't done
anything daft, have you?

Like killing Marcus?
No, no.

I-I just don't want the police
tramping all over my past life.

There's one or two things
you should know about me

before we go, Annie,
just in case you disapprove.

Why don't you tell me about them
somewhere more comfortable?

Who the hell are you?

The point is, who are you...Jim?

I reckon you were the banker for
George Burton and his cronies.

You shafted them.

And now they're all dead,
you can spend the money.

On your bike.

100 quid?

With all the plans I've got?

100,000, more like.

Aah!

We're not going to see
Miss Bunsall again, are we, sir?

- We can if you want.
- No.

It's just that after
the puncture,

I had to unblock a drain,
putty a window,

and rehang a tile.

That's police work for you --

helping old ladies
across the road.

I'll have egg and bacon bap,

a large white coffee
with two sugars,

and whatever you fancy
for yourself.

Sir?

Um, coffee.
Black.

If you wanted something
more substantial,

I wouldn't rat on you.

Back home, I mean.

No sugar.

Nice lad.

But get a load of this.

He's going to be paid more
for playing me

than I am for being me.

It's a funny old life, Troy.

Listen.

I want you to find out how much
Sandra MacKillop is worth.

You can lean on our old friend
Mr. Jocelyne.

According to this,
he is the company solicitor.

Hop in, Anne.

Ta.

Oh! Ah.

Hold on.

There you go.

Elbows.

Jim?
Mr. Barnaby's here.

Jim, where --

Blimey. They've been going
at it some, whoever they are.

Troy, upstairs.
Go on.

Nico, front room.

Is he going on holiday?

Kind of.

He was going to take me
with him.

What do you think has happened
to him?

Where to?

France.

France, for good.

What, he's leaving all this?
Selling up?

- Sir'?
- Yeah.

Who he is, Annie?

I'll bet you money his name
isn't really James Tate.

It's a mess upstairs as well,
sir.

They've really turned it over.

But he's not there?

No.

What is going on, Annie?

He's in that book.

George Burton, last of a gang

on whom our Mr. Tate was keeping
a very close eye.

Suitcase packed,
ready to got to France, you say.

Whereabouts in France?

South.

Olive trees.
Vineyard. Sea.

That's what he promised me.

And that takes money.

Lots of it.

It doesn't seem real, does it?

No.

But he was there.
We all saw him.

Marcus was a greedy,
lazy old man, Sandra.

If he hadn't been,
he'd still be alive.

Hello, you two.

Hi, Alan.
Um, we've come for the painting.

I'm going to finish it off
in my studio.

Ah.
Morning, Inspector.

Morning.

Sergeant Troy.

That piece of china that got
broken --

Where did it live?

Right here.

Landed there in a dozen pieces.

And you've no idea why it fell?

None whatsoever.

Mrs. MacKillop?

Do you have any ideas?

Uh, sorry.
No.

Just in case you had any doubts,
there are no ghosts here.

Just human beings
with all the usual foibles --

greed, envy, malice.

Someone opened this window
from the outside.

And then they pulled
on a nylon thread --

bit of fish line, maybe --

which was looped around the top
of the figure.

And when the figure smashed,
they pulled the thread clear.

Simple as that?

But why, Inspector?

You smell anything?

Fish.

Do you have a cellar here?

Mm.

Well, show it to me.

On. Right.

Here we are.

Oh. Oh!

You all right, sir?

- Get after him.
- Come on.

- Who is he?
- I don't know.

You must have known he was here!

I didn't.
I swear it.

We've lost him, sir.

You're paid to catch him, Troy,
not to lose him!

Rule number 24.
Don't expect any sympathy.

Who was he, sir?

He, Nico, was a ghost.

With a weakness for fish.

No real damage, Tom.

You'll have a nasty bruise,
though.

Arnica.

A spade, you say?

I didn't know gardening could be
so dangerous.

This was ghostbusting, Cathy.

Thanks a lot, Tracy.
I'll call you next week, okay?

Old friend?

New friend.

Right.

Well, give my love
to Joyce and Cully, won't you?

Cathy, I wouldn't ask this
unless it were important.

And I know you've got
a waiting room full of people.

But if I wanted to...
drive someone over the edge,

could I do it?

- I'm living proof of that, sir.
- Seriously.

Yes.
Of course you could.

Even to suicide?

That would depend
on your victim.

But you can induce paranoia
in all sorts of ways --

psychologically, chemically,
surgically.

Who are we talking about?

Sandra MacKillop.

Ah.

That's why you came here,
not to Causton General.

Well, Sandra, as I'm sure
you know, is a patient of mine,

so don't expect any details.

Even though she might be
in danger?

I would like to help you, yes,
but...

I did send her to a counselor
over the death of her husband.

Now, she might be less ethical.

What's her name, Doctor?

Linda Marquis.

She's good at her job, but she
may already be known to you.

I've had a word with David,
by the way.

Have you?

What did he say?

Oh, he didn't say anything.

But I thought you'd just said
you'd spoken to him.

No, no. You don't understand
how it all works, dear.

The Davids of this world
don't actually speak to me.

I just put myself in their shoes
and speak for them.

It's a rather one-sided
conversation,

something like being back
in the classroom.

Well...

what do you say, then?

I say that David wants you to be
the fun-loving,

confident girl you always were.

So, down to business.

What's made you change?

His d--

His departure.

Well, that's part
of the problem, certainly.

What about diet, though?

Diet?

We are what we eat, Sandra.
Everyone knows that.

But who carries it
to its logical conclusion?

Did you know, for instance,

that spinach can be
a very depressing vegetable?

Or that fennel is uplifting?

No.

Um, Charlie does
all the cooking.

And I-| don't think
he'd be very...

Take me through
a typical day's menu.

Breakfast.

The cellar dweller's gear, sir.

Aha!

Have you got a name for him?

No, nor any sign
of the murder weapon.

Pencil and paper, Nico.

Here.

One round of sandwiches,
pilchard,

going off with a vengeance.

You think Sandra MacKillop's
life is in danger, sir,

or just her sanity?

That's a good question, that,
Troy.

One pocket knife, army,
Swiss thereof.

Have you heard back
from the MacKillops' solicitor?

No.
He's playing hard to get.

One donkey jacket, blue.

Then lean on him.

Look, sir.

We've got a real body,
Marcus Lowrie,

and a couple of real suspects,
favorite being this geezer.

Shouldn't we find out who he is
and where he's gone?

He has gone to ground, Troy.
Don't ask me where.

But I think I know who he is.

- You do?
- Yeah.

And if someone would do
a spot of housebreaking for me,

I could prove it.

You're too kind, Troy.

Sir.

Have you heard anything,
Mr. Barnaby, about Jim?

I've had a forensic team
in his cottage, Annie.

They found some blood
on one of the chairs.

There was a fight, certainly,

but we don't know the extent
of it.

So where is he, then?

He's ditched me, hasn't he?

Like every man I've ever met.

I'll let you know
the moment we hear anything.

Now, give us a pint
and a white wine.

There you go.

- Why this pub, Tom?
- Why? What's the matter?

- Don't you like it?
- I love it.

Now you answer my question.

I'm meeting Troy here.

If he doesn't get caught,
that is.

Doing what?

Breaking into
Anne Quarritch's house.

It's delegation, Joyce.

Troy doing that,
Nico and Cully...

Yes.
Where are they this evening?

Jim Tate's cottage,
in search of his past.

Evening, Mrs. B.

Hello, Gavin.

We're on, sir.
With a slight variation.

Which is?

The smoked mackerel.

I did put it
in the canteen freezer,

and I did label it clearly.

Don't worry.

I nipped into the supermarket
on the way here,

bought us some more.

Won't be a moment.

Go on.

Oh, ta.

What can I get you?

I'll have a large,
straight answer.

This is a till receipt.

I found it pinned to a board
in your kitchen.

On it,
you'll find smoked mackerel

at 2 pounds, 13 P.

That is a packet
of smoked mackerel,

price 2 pounds, 13 P,
found in the graveyard.

You were taking it to the man

who's been hiding
in the museum cellar.

You should have turned him in,
Annie.

Why didn't you?

Because he threatened
to kill me.

Who is he?

I was once married to him.

Ralph Edward Bailey.

Doing 10 years
for manslaughter.

Absconded from Durham Jail
four weeks ago.

You divorced him June 1987.

Went back to using
your maiden name.

And he's killed again,
by the looks of things.

Marcus Lowrie.

You've been harboring
a very dangerous man.

How did you know it was me,
Inspector?

Remember when we gave you a lift
to Jim's cottage?

Dropped your shopping.

A bit heavy on the smoked fish.

Who was it for?

- Me.
- No.

It's for Ralph at the museum.

Well, he's not there now.

So where is he?

He's hiding out
at Jim Tate's cottage.

There we go.

I'll say one thing
for that scene-of-crime lot.

They sure can tidy up.

You should've seen it.

What exactly are we looking for,
though, Nico?

I don't know.

What are you looking for?

Only, uh, I might just have it.

Let's start at the top
and work our way down.

Cully?

Cully!

Dad.

- Where is he?
- Attic.

It's all right.

It's only a car.

No Nico, sir?

No.
Not this time.

Don't want him to see
our darker side.

I'm not sure I want to see that
myself.

Last night you got from the
station to Jim Tate's cottage

in four minutes flat.

Everything I ever said
about your driving,

I take back, unreservedly.

Where are we going, sir?

To see Linda Marquis.

Can I get breakfast
on the way, sir?

On me.

So Marcus was killed
by Ralph Bailey,

who also robbed
Jonathan's grave.

If there was money there,
I'm sure he did.

But why play the ghost
to Sandra MacKillop, then, huh?

To get her out of the museum?

Her presence was cramping
his style.

Bradford's there all the time
as well.

Didn't try getting him
out of the way.

No, but he did smack him one.

Then off he went
to see James Tate

because Annie said he had money.

It hangs together, Troy.
I grant you that.

But it's too clear-cut.

Is that wrong, sir?

No, but life is not like that.

Soto beef things up,
we call on this Linda Marquis.

Not for the hell of it, Troy.

Sandra MacKillop
is at the bottom of all this,

and Linda Marquis
is her confessor.

As indeed I am yours.

How many fried eggs a week

should you not have more than,
then?

I've no idea, sir.

Four.

Bacon roll is just as bad.

I spy with my little eye
something beginning with

Yeah. All right, sir.
I know.

- Cholesterol.
- No.

Charles.

Good morning, Mr. MacKillop.

You're up bright and early.

Morning.

Um...must look odd, Inspector.

But, um, Sandra's not the only
one who's needed counseling.

It's been a tough time
for me, too.

I can imagine.

Is this a professional matter

or a personal one, Inspector?

I'd like to know who's got it in
for Sandra MacKillop.

I thought you were investigating
a murder.

Oh, we are.

What sort of a business
do you think I'm running here?

A very successful one,
by the looks of things.

First client, half past 8:00,
eh?

Mr. MacKillop?

People have busy lives.
I try to accommodate them.

And I never betray
their confidence.

Oh, no, no, no. You are
very good at keeping secrets.

Especially your own.

Do I have any?

Oh, you have a humdinger.

And you fit the description
so perfectly.

Heroin chic.

It was a long time ago.

A short two years ago.

All right.

But it's over now.

For that, more power to your
elbow -- or just above it.

But what would the likes of
Charles MacKillop and Sandra say

if they heard about that?

They'd say it makes me
more understanding,

more of a human being.

Oh, right.

I'll ask them.

No.

If I tell you something, will
she know that it came from me?

Mr. Bradford.

I'm keen on history, too.

Especially yours.

It seems that in the dim and
distant past,

you and Sandra MacKillop
were an item.

Then David MacKillop stepped in,
pots of money,

and you were sidelined.

We'd like to know
how that made you feel.

Bitter?
Angry?

Vengeful?

Not so long ago,
you saw me as the victim

in all this, Inspector.

Slashed portrait,
fist in the face.

I've changed my mind.

How did it make me feel?

Relieved.

Oh, come on.

Passionate romance
with a beautiful woman.

Suddenly drops you.
You were beside yourself.

You've been trying to get back
at her ever since.

That is simply not true,
Inspector.

Yes, I did once throw my cap
at Sandra,

but mainly for my father's sake.

I'm sorry?

He was forever nagging me
to find a girlfriend.

And I did try and fall in love
with Sandie, I promise you,

but my heart just wasn't in it.

And why was that?

If sexuality were the Civil War,

I'd be a Cavalier,
not a Roundhead.

You what?

I've never been attracted
to the opposite sex.

I don't think we need trouble
you any further, sir.

Just a sec.

Charles MacKillop.

No girlfriends, no wife.

In this, um, civil war of
sexuality, where does he stand?

On your side, Inspector.

Which is also mine.

I never doubted it for a moment,
Gavin.

Sir, Sandra MacKillop
and her will.

Mr. Jocelyne drew it up for her,
in favor of a sister in Canada.

Say what she's worth?

Well, she owns half the company,

which is valued
at just over £10 million.

That's worth fighting about.

"I am the resurrection
and the life," saith the Lord.

"He that believeth in me,
though he were dead,

yet shall he live.

And whosoever liveth
and believeth in me

shall never die."

"I know that my redeemer liveth

and that he shall stand at the
latter day upon the earth."

Vicar, halt.

What's wrong?

I'm sorry.

False alarm.
Carry on.

"And though this body be
destroyed, yet shall I see God,

whom I shall see for myself
and mine eyes shall --"

No!
"m "gm!

Inspector.

All is not well down there.

Bring it up.

Right, Troy.
Off you go.

What am I looking for, sir?

Squatters.

Go on.

Oh.

Who is it?

James Tate, Inspector.
Who else would it be?

It is James Tate, sir.

[ Sobs 1

You are sitting in my chair.

And you're probably wearing
my socks.

Aren't you, eh?

Come, come, come.

Who did you say
is coming to take him?

- It's a young P.C. called Angel.
- Ah.

He's coming down today.

Tom, I think we've found
James Tate for you.

George Burton and Co.
stole £3 million worth of stuff.

It cashed in at £1 million.

They hired an accountant,
Michael Whistler,

to pay off safe houses,
car dealers, lawyers...

Bent cops?

Yep.

And invested what was left over.

But one or two of the gang,
who were all inside by now,

wondered whether it really had
boiled down to a million.

Or was it a £1.5 million?

And if so, what happened
to the other half million?

They sent a heavy
to see Whistler, and he'd gone.

Disappeared into thin air.

And you think he's James Tate.

With the gang all inside, he had
time to reinvent himself --

plastic surgery if necessary --

then pop up five years later
in Aspern Tallow.

Well done.
Both of you.

Phone, Tom.

Barnaby.

Yeah.
I'll be there in 10 minutes.

They found him and my car
on a dockside in Hull.

He was trying to get work
on a Polish trawler.

Just mad about fish, eh?

Okay, Ralph.

What's your beef
with Sandra MacKillop?

You what?

If he knew any French now, he'd
point at himself and say, "Moi?"

Christ, where'd they dig you up?

We'll come to the digging later.

In the meantime, what's your
grudge against Sandra MacKillop?

I don't have one.

Convicted killer.
Escapes from Durham Jail.

Comes all the way back here
just to admire the scenery.

Oh, do us a favor.

You had an old score to settle.

So you tried to drive her nuts.

Bells in the night,
breaking china,

burning packing cases.

If you must know,

I've always had
the highest regard for Sandra.

- Ask her.

You've been playing ghosts.

In between killing Marcus Lowrie
and James Tate.

That's it. I'm done.
Solicitor.

It's got to be him, sir.
Or is that still too clear-cut?

Just a little.

Motive -- money.

Opportunity -- bags of it.

On top of which, since we
found him in the cellar,

all this ghosty stuff stopped.

Sandie, are you sure
you don't mind me rushing off?

The meeting's in half an hour.

You go ahead, Charlie.

Alan must be here by now.

- Thanks.
- Pleasure.

Oh, and call in at the office
later on.

There's a heap of stuff
for you to sign.

Ta.

Sandra.
Sandra, what is it?

What --

I...

Michael Aron Whistler,
who became James Tate.

Look at his form, sir.

Oh.
Spoken like a proper copper.

Hello, Cathy.

Nico, a chair
for Dr. Bullard.

Tom, it's about
Sandra MacKillop.

You know you asked if it was
possible to drive someone mad?

Well, at 10:00 this morning,

Anne Quarritch brought Sandra
to my surgery

as near to the edge
as I've seen her.

Why?
What has happened to her?

She claims to have seen writing
on the museum wall.

"David. Delight.
Departed."

- Should that mean something?
- Thank you.

It's a mantra
which Linda Marquis taught her.

Which brings me to why I'm here.

Mrs. MacKillop,
it's Chief Inspector Barnaby.

I'd like us to meet, please.

I need your help.

Hello?
Are you still there?

Yes.

Somewhere private,
and I'd like you to come alone.

Do you know the lake
at Martyr Warren?

Two people have been killed,
both by Ralph Bailey.

But there's a problem.

He couldn't have put the writing
on the museum wall.

He was locked up at the time.

I don't think anyone living
did it, Inspector.

Sandra, you are as sane as I am.

I can prove it to you.

"David, delight, departed"?

You saw it because it was there.

- But when Alan went to look...
-...it wasn't there.

You're the one with any faith
left in me, Inspector.

What's happening to me?

At first, I thought someone
wanted you dead.

But now I believe that's
the last thing they'd want.

Will you help me?

Sandra?

Come in.

Come in.

Close your eyes, Sandra.

What do you see?

Darkness?

Images of this room.

The windows, plants, you.

So it can be with our thoughts.

They can appear on the wall
of our mind.

I saw those words at the museum
because David put them there.

No, Sandra.
You put them there.

He's telling me something,
and I'm refusing to listen.

Linda, you're the only person
that really understands me.

You've got to help.

There are no ghosts there.

They've been conjured up
by the likes of Alan Bradford

for the sake of his visitors.

And now by you.

I will take you to the museum,
and I'll prove it.

When can we go?

This evening.

I've got that stuff
from Dr. Bullard, sir.

The drug stuff.

George Bullard lent me that.

Knocked up the slide for me,
too.

How does it tie in
with the murder?

I'll tell you in the car.

There's one or two loose ends
to tie up.

We'll have the coffee later.
Come on.

Well, tell them that Ralph
threatened to kill you.

At the very least,
he'd have beaten you up --

yet again.

All the more reason to have gone
to the police.

That's what he'll say.

Won't you.

I'm sorry?

Harboring a criminal.

You just tell me the truth,
Annie,

and I promise I'll do my best
for you.

Can't say fairer than that,
can I?

Hello, Mr. Bradford.

Hello.

How did Ralph know
that Jim Tate had money?

- Did you tell him?
- No.

He must have overheard Jim

talking about his place
in France one day in the museum.

Can I ask something?

Mm.

How did old Bunsall know
it was Jim in that grave?

The power of extended logic --
ultra common sense, if you like.

We've all got it,
but she uses it.

You mean it's not
a special gift,

-like she'd have us believe?
- Of course not.

Bags you be the one
to tell her, sir.

In the meantime,

you didn't know that Ralph
was hiding in your cellar?

No.

That makes you either very naive
or stupid.

How about engrossed
in other things?

Such as?

My work.

Trying to shine a light
in dark places.

Like Aspern Tallow.

That much we have in common,
Mr. Bradford.

Anything else?

Troy?

Yes, sir.

Since when have you two been
so, um, friendly?

I'm here to give Annie
her wages.

I do so every week,
and she makes me a cup of tea.

It's called a ritual.

And so far as I know,
it's perfectly legal...

Gavin.

Oh. Why is that, I wonder.

See?

No words on walls.

No moving china.

It's funny.
I've never noticed it before.

But you're quite right.

It's just like him.

And Jonathan Lowrie
back in his place.

How are you, Jonathan?

If only you knew
what you'd put us through.

It's the wind.

What's wrong?

Look.

What?

There.

Can't you see him?

See what?

It's David.

Look!

Sandra.

You and I are the only people
here.

David is dead and buried
and over in the graveyard.

Then who is that?

Where?

What are you talking about?

Are you sure you can't see him,
Linda?

Sandra, you need serious help.

And this was not a good idea.

Can you see me, Miss Marquis?

Troy, see that ghost over there?

Go and run him through
with that.

Go on.

Charlie.

Charlie.

What have I ever done to you?

He'!-

I've been 25 years in this game,

and I have never laid a finger
on a prisoner.

But today I think I understand
why some people do.

All right. So the joke got a bit
out of hand.

Joke?
A joke?

Well, how about this for a deal?

You make me laugh

and you can walk
through that door, soot free.

Better still, tell us why
we're here in the first place.

Directors Sandra MacKillop,
Charles MacKillop...

.in equal measure.

David left his share
of the business to Sandra,

and you wanted it.

You couldn't kill her, because
then it would go to her sister.

So you tried to get
power of attorney over her

by driving her mad.

What for, Mr. MacKillop?

So you could flog it?

Run off with
Miss Needle Features here?

I resent that.

The clinic you were in say you
weren't hooked just on heroin

but also on a drug called
zolazepam.

That's a mind bender.

And you kept back a supply
of it, just in case.

And you hooked Sandra MacKillop
on it.

Not me.

Ooh. Watch out, Charlie.
She's jumping ship.

Go on, Linda.

Do yourself a bit of good.

How did he do it?

In the meals
he's always cooking her.

And then.
a couple of months back,

according to my medical expert,
you withdrew it.

Now, it's a drug that's harder
to kick than heroin,

with 54 known side effects.

Paranoia, confusion, insecurity,

panic, disorientation --
the lot.

There you are.
Read all about it.

You know, Charlie, if you'd
stayed away from this woman,

we might never have got to you.

What?

Remember that morning
we found you outside her house,

pretending there was nothing
between you?

Except for a spot of counseling,
which had gone on all night.

lnspec--

Inspector, before we go
any further,

none of this was my idea.

Oh, it was her fault, was it?

She counseled you to drive
your sister-in-law insane?

Split them up Troy.
Put her in a cell.

Stay where you are.

Feel free.

Why?

Because you are
one of those women

who's had everything thrown
your way, from love to money.

I just wanted a little of both.

Right. Let's clear up
the details, shall we?

The slashed painting.

That was Linda.

Chosen for its likeness
to David?

Yeah.

And the bell at night,
the broken china?

That was me.

The packing cases, too.

I spent a lot of time
in the museum as a kid,

so I knew the hot spot.

The writing on the wall?

Linda.

But I hit Alan Bradford...

something I wanted to do
for a long time.

Can I go now?

This isn't some sort
of priestly confession

where I give you 10 Hail Marys
and send you on your way again.

You mentally tortured
your brother's wife.

But can you go to prison for it?

Playing the caring relative
certainly made a fool of me.

I doubt if I'll do time
for bruising your ego.

Oh, maybe you're right.

But I have a big fat card
up my sleeve.

I'm holding a man down
the corridor for two murders.

Ralph Bailey.
Yeah.

Ralph Bailey.
Yes.

Ralph says you're the man
I'm after.

He saw you bury James Tate.

And the idea really appeals
to me.

I mean, he's going back to jail
anyway.

And, like you say,
you might get off.

So why don't I fit you up
with murder?

Or even two.

Now look, Inspector.

He's the one
who buried Jim Tate.

I watched him do it.

In the absence of any proof,
I prefer his version.

But I can help you.

Not with Marcus --
I wasn't there.

But a couple of nights later,
I was on my way to the museum,

2:00, 3:00 in the morning.

At the gate,
I could hear digging

over at Marcus' grave.

It was Bailey.

Before he dumped Jim
in the grave,

he stole his watch
and a gold chain.

Find them...

and that's proof enough,
isn't it?

Why don't you write it all down?

Then what happens to me?

Oh, then I don't charge you
with a murder you didn't commit.

I said solicitor.

They've all gone to the moon,
Ralph.

But there's a bloke upstairs by
the name of Charlie MacKillop.

Do you know him?

Since we were kids.

He says he saw you
beat Marcus Lowrie to death.

And you believe him?

We can point the evidence
your way if we need to.

Well, you don't need to.

I'd heard Jim Tate run a metal
detector over Jonathan's grave.

So that night,
I lifted the slab.

Halfway through,
in walks Charlie MacKillop.

He set something up.

Slide projector.

He was testing it
when Marcus bowls up.

And you'd chose the place
for peace and quiet.

What did Charlie do?

Hid in the shadows.

Bastards!

You stole it.

You stole my inheritance!

Give it to me.

I said give it to me!

Aah!

Aah!

The projector.

Go take his office apart,
then his house.

But find it.

I am a fair man, Ralph.

You write all this down for me,

and I'll see you don't lose
parole.

Any luck upstairs?

Sorry.

That's everywhere --
house, office, studio.

What now?

Now I tell Barnaby, then duck.

So, where is it?

Well, he -- he could have
chucked it anywhere.

Oh, great.

Sort of random.
Over a hedge, in a tip.

Over there, I suppose.

Yeah. Sure. It's a start.

- oh!
'l Laughs]

You little beauty!

Guess what.

Ralph now says
that you murdered Marcus Lowrie.

Which, of course, I already knew
but was unable to prove.

What are you talking about?

He saw you do it.

Then he's lying!

No, I think you've both
been very honest,

you, with your description
of Jim Tate's unofficial burial,

and Ralph, with his story of how
you beat Marcus Lowrie to death

With this.

No matter how well
you cleaned it up, Charlie,

there'll be bits of him
on it somewhere.

Guess what.

Charlie now says
he saw you bury James Tate,

and he's made a statement
to that effect.

- Yeah, which you wrote for him!
- Oh, come on, Ralph.

What do you take me for,
a cheat?

Don't worry.

I've got a forensic team
taking that grave to bits.

If you were there,
they'll find something.

I wasn't.
He's lying.

And if you weren't, they won't.

However...

Your personal belongings,

taken off you
when you were recaptured.

Tell me -- Why has that got
James Tate's fingerprints on it?

You pair of bastards.

Oh, Ralph.
That's been said before.

And I sincerely hope
it'll be said again.

All right.
I give up.

You stay there.
I'll make do over here.

Dad, you're talking to a dog.

Yeah, I know.
And he's talking back to me.

Aren't you, Spot?

That'll be the men
in white coats, then.

I'll get it.

I'll miss him.

He's really settled in,
don't you think?

Not Nico.
Spot.

- Good morning, sir.
- Hello, Kevin.

Oh, yeah. He's a beauty.

Mum will be well pleased.

- Give her my regards, will you?
- Yeah. Thanks.

Oh, sorry I didn't come 'round
yesterday.

- I was off sick.
- Oh. Are you better?

Yeah, yeah.
Touch of food poisoning.

Canteen grub, sir.
Know what I mean?

Got any idea what it was
disagreed with you?

I think it was the fish pâté
Wednesday.

Smoked mackerel.

Yeah.
Well, that's the trouble.

You never know where they've
been, do you, Troy?

Uh, no, sir.

By the way, we're on page 3
of the Mail.

Is that good or bad?

"Last night police in Causton

charged two local men
with the murders

of Michael Stuart Whistler,
also known as James Tate,

last surviving member
of the George Burton gang,

and of Marcus Jonathan Lowrie."

And then it goes on
about the ghost.

God. What's the world
coming to, Joyce?

Half a paragraph on the crime

and a whole page on something
that doesn't exist.