All language subtitles for Endeavour.S09E01.WEBRip.x264-TORRENTGALAXY

They all think a lot of you,
you know.

You must look after yourself.

I've got a do coming up.

Don't suppose it would be
up your street?

You're young, you're smart.

Break the habit
before it breaks you.

I don't need help!

I can't use you in this shape!

It's Sam. Absent without leave.

A fella from his unit,

a sniper at a checkpoint.

Maybe that knocked him.

I will take those four weeks.

As long as you need.

The sun always comes up.

Just gotta hold on for it
a bit longer...

sometimes.

Oxford Royalty Theatre, please.
Certainly, guv.

'Good evening and welcome.

'It is a beautiful summer's evening
here in Oxford,

'as you join us
in this wonderful setting

'for the first in a series
of homecoming concerts

'by the internationally celebrated
Oxford Concert Orchestra.

'The OCO has performed
at iconic venues the world over,

'but they return tonight

'to perform for the first time
in their home city in over a year.

'The orchestra will perform

'under the baton
of Sir Alexander Lermontov,

'and featuring the gifted soloist
Christina Poole...'

'who has joined the OCO
for the 1972 season.

'Very much Sir Alexander's protege,

'Miss Poole is the latest in
a long line of consummate musicians

'to truly flourish under
his careful guidance. He's been

'a great coach and champion
of her talents.

'He first encountered her...'
Ready?

'...as a teenager
at the Balasco Academy.

'And here comes
Christina Poole now,

'looking utterly beguiling in one
of the beautiful strapless gowns

'which have become
so much her signature.

'And just a few steps behind her,
the unmistakable form

'of Sir Alexander Lermontov.

'As he takes the podium,
a hush falls over the auditorium.'

Oxford, 2-8-3-1. Hello?

Hello? Is anyone there?

Is it Sam?

A triumph, Chrissie! Sensational!

Yes. Madame will be so proud!

Thank you! Thank you so much!

98 pink elephants,

99 nine pink elephants.

You have been in Lyme Regis,
I perceive.

Do we know who he is?

No wallet or identification.

And no-one matching his description

reported missing overnight, so...

I'll take one of those, then,
please, if you can spare.

Of course.
Thank you.

Morse.

Sir.

Aye-aye, matey! Back in the land
of the living, then?

Well, seemingly not. Who found him?

Staff clearing up this morning
after last night's do.

The master doesn't recognise him.

Undergrad from another college,
then?

What was the occasion?

Reception for
the Oxford Concert Orchestra.

Invitation only.
How many in attendance?

About 100, according to the master.

Mainly dons and their guests. Maybe
ten to 15 members of the orchestra.

I've put in for a full list

from the office.
Any idea as to cause, Doctor?

No sign of violence or injury.

Can you put a time to it?

Between nine and three
this morning, approximately.

The bash wound up around midnight,
one o'clock, according to staff.

We can probably assume
he wasn't lying dead

in the middle of a drinks reception,
Sergeant. People tend

to notice that sort of thing.
Just the one shoe?

I've got uniform having a poke
about the bushes for the other.

Well, gentlemen, the postmortem
might give us something more,

but I've done all I can here
for now,

so unless you've any objection,

shall we say two o'clock?
Doctor.

So, how was the West, then, matey?
All pasties and scrumpy?

I was mostly following
in Hardy's footsteps.

Were you?
"There's another fine mess"?

I'll, er, chase up
about that guest list.

If you want to track down the
orchestra members and have a word,

it's probably more up your street
than Jim's or mine.

Most likely just putting a name
to him. Be all right with that?

I should think I'll manage.

Thanks for the postcard.

Expect you were glad
of a bit of sea air after, er...

The cure?

Your extended leave of absence.

How is the...?

I'm cured all right.
Hand steady, eye clear.

The only pink elephants
I'll be encountering are

those enumerated by Dr DeBryn.

Well, that's a weight, I'm sure.

Anyway, I'll see you
back at the nick.

What ho, Mrs T!

Water ain't 'ot yet!

"Her voice was ever soft,
gentle and low,

"an excellent thing in woman."

I say, Mrs Treadle,
whither the orange cremes?

I took them out. Miss Quincannon
likes the goldy foil ones.

I like the goldy foil ones.

You're not orchestra leader.
Speak of the devil!

Well, if you're here, Jack,
hell must be empty.

Morning, gang.
Morning.

Mabs.
What's this?

No orange cremes
for the rank and file.

They're the special reserve
of La Reine Margeaux, apparently.

Render unto Caesar, duckie.

The urn's not hot yet, Margeaux,
so I'm afraid

you'll have to wait your turn
with the rest of us.

I'll just bring you one across
when it's ready, Margs.

It's all right. I'll loiter here
with the hoi polloi.

So, how did it go last night
at the soiree?

Wouldn't know, old cock.
Not my cup of Lapsang.

You mean, you weren't invited?
I went to the pub.

We were at the White Horse.
I didn't see you.

I tonked on down to the Turf.

Margeaux and Mabs was there, though,
weren't you?

With that ghastly old witch.

Madame Belasco is not
a ghastly old witch, Jack.

Ooh, stand by your bunks!

Ave, Imperator,
morituri te salutant.

We've a vacancy
on the Gardener's Tips page

if your fingers have taken a turn
towards the chartreuse.

I've not seen you about.

Well, I've not been about.

It's been months!
I thought maybe you'd moved on,

but I didn't think you'd go
without saying goodbye.

Your colleagues have been
singularly unforthcoming.

Something hush-hush?

All right, keep your secrets.

So, what's the story here?

I'm not sure there is one yet.

And do you have a name for him?

First order of business.

Well, if you fancy a stiffener
before the PM, my round, I think.

But thanks. Another time.

Passing up the offer of a drink?

Are you sure you're quite well?

Never better.

Morse? Well, we didn't have time

for much of a talk, sir,
but, er, he said he was right, so...

Good. Let's hope he's put
all his troubles behind him?

There's a musical connection
to this body found at the college,

which should play to his strengths,
I'd have thought.

Well, sir,
unless there's anything else...

As a matter of fact,
there, is, er...

one thing.

I understand there's
a detective superintendency...

...coming up in the next couple
of months at Carshall New Town.

I have it on good authority

it would be looked on favourably
were you to express an interest.

Carshall, sir?

If I've been off my game at all...
Good heavens, no, no!

If I might put
my cards on the table...

After some thought,

I've decided the time is due,
perhaps long overdue...

...for me to retire.

If possible, I'd like to see my men
into safe harbour -

you, Strange, young Morse...

...else I fear I should feel
I'd left a job only half done.

Well, I don't know what to say, sir.
Er...

I'd always thought - well, hoped -
that after the last few years,

we'd see our service out together.
I'm sorry to let you down.

Never, sir, not for a minute.

Obviously, Carshall would probably
mean a move.

That's something you'd need
to discuss with Mrs Thursday.

But a superintendency
would be the crowning achievement

of an exemplary career.

And Morse, sir?

I'm sure you'd like
to take him with you,

but the appropriate rank

for a superintendent's ADC
is inspector or above.

Nobody could have done more for him.

They all fledge in the end,
Thursday.

Hard as it is,
one has to let them go.

Sooner or later...

...they have to fly alone.

No, no, no, no!

Come on!
Always the bloody wardrobes! You!

Yes, you, bass.

You're always late.

Can't you count?

They're called triplets.
Tri-puh-let! Tri-puh-let!

Who the hell are you?!

Whoever you are, get out!
We're rehearsing.

Donald, what do I pay you for?

Bar 20.

I'm sorry, if it's an interview
you're after,

I'm afraid...
Detective Sergeant Morse,

Thames Valley. Mr...?

Fischer. Erm, Donald Fischer.
Orchestra manager.

I understand a number of
your principals from the orchestra

attended a party
at Beaumont College, last night.

No-one broke anything, did they?

Morning, Donald.
What sort of mood is he in?

Ooh!!

All right?
I'm sorry.

Thank you. My apologies.

That was desperately clumsy of me.
Not at all.

Again! And...

I'm sorry.

You were saying?

We didn't see him, did we, Mabs?

No. No.

And it was quite dark.

Not dark enough
that, if we'd seen him,

we wouldn't remember him.
You are?

Margeaux Quincannon, orchestra
leader. My colleague, Mabs Portman.

It would appear none of us saw
anyone like that, officer.

I know I didn't. So, can we get back
to the rehearsal?

You're sure?

Absolutely, sure.
I never forget a face.

In fact...

you look familiar.

Have we met?

Well, we've not been
formally introduced,

but, er, well, I sing with the
Oxford Scholars' Choral Association.

We were part of Faure's Requiem
in '69.

Were you?

Not our finest hour, as I recall.

What was it Shaw said?
"Hell is full of musical amateurs."

Again, please!

Needless to say,
I had the last laugh.

All done?

Yes, thank you, Mr...?

John Graham-Scott.

"Jack." Viola.

God, here he comes!

Anal Fischer. The only man in Oxford

with a flat
up Alex Lermontov's arse.

If you're ready, gentlemen.

I'm sorry, Donald.
Won't be two ticks.

Excuse me!
Yes?

I just wanted to say

thank you for earlier.
Not at all.

I wondered if I could...

if you'd like to attend
the concert this evening.

It's the premiere of a new concerto
Alex has written... for me.

As my guest, of course.

Erm...
Or I've a prize-giving

at the Belasco this afternoon,
if you're free.

Look, I feel stupid
to even mention it,

but I should value the advice
of a professional,

someone familiar with such things.

What things, Miss Poole?

Barring a superficial scratch
to the neck,

there is no obvious sign of injury,
I'm afraid.

Blood analysis might give us
something, possibly.

It's unusual in one so young,

but it could just be natural causes.

His heart, perhaps.

Stomach contents.

A last supper
of alphabet spaghetti...

if you want me to spell it out.

Ingested within an hour of decease.

Unlikely he ate at college, then.

What do you make to this?

Doubtless this will come
as a great surprise,

but I'm perhaps not as au fait

with the vagaries of fashion

as my position as an eminent
Home Office pathologist

might have led you to believe.
My point is,

that it looks rather new.
Little wear to the sole.

Then he clearly wasn't
in our business.

Now, might a pair of heels
deserve a glass?

No, not for me, thanks.

Late for Lent? New leaf?

Something like that.

Looked well, I thought. Morse.

Yeah.

I was thinking of asking him.

For, er...
Well, no better man.

What you got today, then?

Morse!

Yes, you're back with us
as of this morning, of course.

Yes, sir.
Splendid.

Your tour of the West Country
proved restorative, I hope.

Yes, sir. Thank you.

Yes, well, I'm sure
most of us could benefit

from a little time away
from the usual once in a while.

Well, carry on.

Come in. How did you make out
with the orchestra?

Well, nobody claims

to know him or have seen him
at the college last night.

Well, busy, maybe. I suppose

if he wasn't one of their crowd...

I did find an identity bracelet
in the soil by the body.

"AL". Alan or Albert, perhaps.

Or Alec, if it is his.

The one shoe he did have on
was from Burridges.

Possibly bought fairly recently,
judging by the lack of wear.

I thought I'd pop in. But we could
get a late lunch, if you fancy.

I just got back from the pub
with Jim.

I wasn't sure how long you'd be

or whether it was still
something you...

I suppose we got into the habit,
with you been away.

No, no, no, it's...

Actually,
there was one more curiosity.

Erm, Christina Poole,
the guest soloist.

After the concert last night,
she found someone had scrawled

the word "bitch"
on her dressing room mirror.

Connected, do you think?

I can't see how it can be, but
I did say I'd look into it for her.

She's got some prize-giving
over at the Belasco Academy.

It's a music school
for gifted children.

I thought I'd go there,

then go to Burridges.

Word through from uniform of a body
been found. Sounds like foul play.

Doctor.

You're keeping me busy,
Chief Inspector.

One more corpse and I shall be able
to claim a set of tumblers.

Jesus!

Yes, Sergeant,
I rather think that was

the general idea.

Only this man's tongue
has been torn out

and was nailed to the floor.
That what did for him?

Shot twice.

Once through the heart,
once through the head.

Be able to give you calibre
after the postmortem,

but he'd taken a savage beating

shortly before his decease.
How long?

12 hours, give or take.

Any identification on him?

No. I've put his wallet there.

But if I'm not much mistaken,

he appears to have the telephone
number for Castle Gate

written on his left cuff.

That's Mickey Flood.
You know him?

Knew him, back in the Smoke,

my Cable Street days.

Mickey Flood.

Full-time thief,
part-time informant.

What's he doing in Oxford?

There's a train ticket
in his wallet. Yesterday's date.

So, how do you know him?

My early days on the beat
before the war.

We were of an age, more or less.

He was in my brother Charlie's year.

Always a wrong 'un.

Whole family were thieves.

Their old man,
and his old man before him.

Only Mickey's problem was,
he was never much good at it.

If it was raining luck, Mickey Flood
couldn't get wet to save his life.

Next of kin?

His wife's gone, Lil.

Daughter would be
about Joan's age now, I suppose.

Patty, was it?

You'd better push on
to your prize-giving.

Me and Jim can finish up here
and take the PM.

I'll see you back at the nick.

A former pupil here at the Belasco,

I am delighted to call upon
Christina Poole

to present the Bedlow Prize,

which she herself won
a mere seven years ago.

Thank you so much,
ladies and gentlemen.

Do you get back much?
Only when I'm asked.

But former pupils who'd done well
used to come back and talk to us

when I was here, you see, and so,
one feels one really ought.

I owe the place everything.

That sounds like something
you feel you should say,

rather than something
you actually believe.

Gosh, you really are a detective,
aren't you?

People always imagine

coming somewhere like this
must be endless fun.

There are a lot of tears after dark,

a lot of unhappiness.

One does feel, at times,

rather like some sort of freak,

a performing animal.

I think children are probably
best left to be children.

If you're ready,
we ought to be heading back.

One minute.
Of course.

So, this message on your mirror.
Is that the first you've received?

After a concert, yes.

But I've had one or two
pushed under my door.

I'm staying at the Ragdale Hotel.

Also written in lipstick?
No.

Could it be a jealous girlfriend,
perhaps?

Jealous? Of whom?

I'm altogether rather single.

You get letters, of course,

from lonely men.

Anything too awful
I pass on to Donald Fischer.

I'd better not keep
Alex waiting, erm,

but thank you for coming
and for taking me seriously.

May I help you, sir?

Yes, I'd like to ask you
about these.

Yes, sir, the "Sir John".

I'm not sure we have them
in your size.

In fact, I think that might be
our last pair.

They're not for me.
I'm Detective Sergeant Morse,

Thames Valley. Have you sold
any lately in a size 8?

I'd need to check
with the stock department.

They came in as part of
last year's spring collection.

Right. You don't remember selling
any yourself?

In the last month, say,

to this man?

God. I don't remember him.

But I usually do a half day
Wednesdays,

so my colleague might have
served him.

She's at tea.

I'll call if we find anything.

Anything further on Mickey Flood?

There's a warrant out on him,
back in London.

Some kind of protection racket.

That was never Mickey's caper.

He couldn't knock the skin
off a rice pudding.

He was a thief, first and last.

How did you make out at the school?

It's hard to see how these messages
can relate

to this young man at the college.

It's probably just some bad blood
within the orchestra.

She's a guest soloist, an outsider.

Perhaps somebody just isn't happy
that she's there.

What about Burridges?
Apparently a saleswoman remembered

and said that she had a customer
return a pair recently for exchange.

She can't be 100%, but she thinks
it could be the same young man.

She's put a request out to the
accounts department. It's possible

they have his address on file.

Well, if you've got this concert
to go to,

I'll see you in the morning.

Leave Mickey Flood's things
on my desk, would you?

'Of course, as anyone familiar

'with the world of classical music
will know,

'there's a great deal
of superstition

'about the ninth symphony
of any composer.

'Now, with that in mind,
might one ask

'if you are yet thinking
about tempting fate with a tenth?

'By which, I assume you're referring

'to the "curse of the ninth",
so called,

'which says that composers
must die

'before they complete
their tenth Symphony.

'As with most things, it was
Beethoven who started the legend.

'He died after writing his ninth.

'As did Bruckner, Dvorak...'

Five minutes, sir.

'Your great friend Vaughan Williams,
of course...'

Sir, five minutes.
Yes! Yes, I heard.

'It's debatable. If I remember,
it was Schoenberg who said,

"It seems the ninth is a limit.

"He who wants to go beyond it
must pass away.

"It seems as if something might be
imparted to us in the tenth

"which we ought not yet to know,
for which we are not ready.

"Those who have written a ninth
stood too close

"to the hereafter."'

Margeaux! What the hell are you
doing? You should be on stage.

Don't bloody tell ME!

Tell principal second violin!

Lindsay forgot her peg dope.
I've got some spare in my case.

An informant, you say?

Presumably that's what
the tongue business is about.

When did you see him last?

Must be the best part
of 25 years since.

Why come all this way?

What couldn't he tell you
over the phone from London?

Maybe he wanted to arrange
a face-to-face.

Why not just come
straight to the station?

Far enough off his home ground
for him not to be recognised.

Villains like Mickey would
sooner be caught dead

than set foot inside a nick.
Well, he's dead all right.

I don't like it, Thursday.

Gang business, London business,
here in Oxford?

Never ends well.

Margs!
Margeaux!

Is she ok?
Margeaux!

Margs! Margs!
Donald!

What's wrong with her?

What...?

Ladies and gentlemen,
is there a doctor in the house?

Here! Up here!

Yes, please. Soon as you can.

My God!
I don't think she's breathing.

Donald, do something!
Shall we get her off the stage?

Don't move her, don't move her!

Do something.
It's all right.

Make some space. It's all right.

Morse.

Any idea what happened to her?

Too early to say.

According to her colleagues -
at least those I spoke to -

she was in otherwise good health.

Some kind of fit or stroke, perhaps,

or a heart attack.

Anything back yet from the blood
you sent for analysis

for the young man
found down at Beaumont College?

Give the lab a chance.

I only sent them off this afternoon.

Since then, I've rather had
my hands full with this crucifixion.

But I did stress it was
a matter of some urgency.

Shall we say nine o'clock?

I think we'll all mourn Margeaux

in our own way.

But it will take some time

to come to terms
with the scale of our loss.

We've each of us lost a friend,

and the orchestra has lost

- a fine leader.
- Bloody hypocrite.

In light of this tragedy,

I've instructed Donald
that we'll begin rehearsals

an hour later than scheduled
tomorrow.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to
speak to the rest of the orchestra.

We'll need a next of kin,
Mr Fischer.

Of course. She's, erm...

Parents in Cumbria, I believe,
are quite elderly.

She was unmarried, then?

Er, no, she wasn't married.

No boyfriend or...?

Er, as far as I know.
She lived alone.

How long had she been
with the orchestra?

Ten years?
Was she well liked?

Well liked? Well liked?

What kind of a question is that?

She just died
in front of all of us!

Margeaux was lovely.
She was just lovely.

Yes, of course, she was, Mabs.

They were at the Belasco together.
My condolences.

Come on, Mabs.
Let's go get you a drink.

Would these be hers?

Er, yes, I believe so.

You're taking her things?

Well, there's been a sudden,
unexplained death, Mr Fischer.

There are certain procedures
that we have to follow.

Carshall?

Well, it'd mean
a bit more to the pension.

It's not as if that
wouldn't be welcome

when I do turn in my tin star.

We're here, though.

We've made a home.

You have, you mean.
Home is wherever you are.

You won't get round me
with soft soap.

I'm not trying to get round you.

I can't think of all this right now,

not when everything's in the air
with Sam.

Let's get this week out of the way.

And we've Joan to think of.

Joanie'll be all right.
You sound like

you've already made up your mind.
No!

You'd have to be all right with it.
I wouldn't do anything

without your say-so.
And what about Morse?

You've always had
a lot of time for him.

What'll happen to him if you go?

There's nothing more
I can teach him.

All right, is he, after his trouble?

Yeah.

Well...

I think so. He seems to be.

It's too awful.
I've just been sitting here.

I can't believe she's gone.
She's been so lovely.

You've had a visitor.

Yes, that.
It was here when I got back after...

Seems very trivial
against what's happened.

Were you close,
you and Miss Quincannon?

I don't know about close.

As a guest soloist, you're always
living in someone else's house,

but she'd been very welcoming.

I've got a table booked
at the Tratt.

I'm not sure I'm terribly hungry.
You have to eat.

Doesn't she? She has to eat.

You'll call me through

with a telephone and address
for Miss Quincannon's parents?

Of course, first thing.

Thank you.
Not at all.

I told the maid I'd mislaid my key.

I looked for you...

...after the performance,
such as it was.

Donald took me to a late supper.

Donald!

Must I remind you, the lives of
such as we are defined by sacrifice?

What does that mean?

Are you really going to squander

your time and talent
on some foolish infatuation?

It's not like that.
After all the work,

all I've poured in
to creating a great artist.

What about what I've poured in,

from a child?

Other girls had friends,
parties, fun.

I had a rehearsal room.
You were special.

I didn't ask to be!

I didn't ask to be.

What is it you want, Al?

I want things to be
the way they were.

You listened to me once.

We can put things back together,
just like new.

We'll go to the villa at Mongi

for the summer.

There's so much more I have
to teach you, Chrissy...

...to give you.

I know,

and I am grateful.

But I'm also desperately tired.

It's a terrible thing,
about Margeaux.

Of course, my dear, of course.

Well...

Good night.

Look, two or three years

at Carshall
to see us into my pension,

then we can go where you like,
can't we?

Either where Joanie is by then,

or we've always talked
about the coast. Selsey Bill...

...Bracklesham Bay,

Isle of Wight, even, Shanklin.

We had a lovely time
at the Wavecrest that week.

Morse!

Well, you do look
a sight for sore eyes

and make no mistake!
Much in?

We've a postmortem with Dr DeBryn.

Well, I don't want to hear
about innards

before eight o'clock, I'm sure.
I'll fetch your sandwiches.

The principal violinist at
the Oxford Concert Orchestra died

during last night's performance.

I know it's not suspicious
at first hand,

but I thought, given that death
at Beaumont after their reception...

Here you are. Come home safe.

Morse.
Mrs Thursday.

Right. Miss Quincannon.

Essentially, Miss Quincannon died
of cardiovascular collapse

brought on by respiratory arrest.

Natural causes, then?

After a fashion.

There were signs of pulmonary oedema

which, by itself,
might suggest heart disease.

But there was also laryngeal oedema,

which, since there's
no laryngeal injury,

brings anaphylaxis into play.

A severe allergic reaction.

To what? Something she ate?

Possibly. I've sent her stomach
contents off for analysis

and have put a call in to her GP,

but sometimes, just coming
into contact with the allergen

can be enough to trigger
a fatal response.

Those prone to that kind of thing
usually carry

some sort of antihistamine,
don't they?

Yes.

In extreme cases, if people
are particularly susceptible,

they're liable to carry adrenaline.

Anything like that in her handbag?
No.

Would Miss Quincannon have
understood

what was happening to her?

If she'd had a severe reaction
before, I'd imagine so, yes.

Then why didn't she do
something about it?

Well, perhaps she wanted
to complete the performance

and just misjudged the severity
of the attack until it was too late.

Found these in the bathroom cabinet.

Syringe and what looks
to be adrenaline,

presumably in case she has
an attack.

Anything?
A few school pictures,

certificates, diplomas,
and the like.

Is there much money in it?

Orchestra leader's
the highest paid member,

but she was never gonna die rich.

I imagine she did a bit of teaching.

What's this?

Rosin. String players use it.

This might be something.

She was writing a letter,
or at least drafting one.

"If you think
you're going to put me aside,

"you've got another think coming.

"I won't go quietly.

"I'll make such a scene you won't
be able to show your face again."

Everyone I spoke to in the orchestra
said that she was single.

Maybe they don't know anything
about her private life.

It's interesting. The shade of
lipstick that Miss Quincannon wore

is a very close match to that left
on Christina Poole's mirror.

That might explain the letter.

If she thought she'd been supplanted

in someone's affections
by Miss Poole...

Hell hath no fury.

Poor Margeaux had a seizure,
didn't she?

It was natural causes.
That's what we're here to establish,

Mr Fischer.

You got on well,

with Miss Quincannon, would you say?
For my part.

Margeaux had her ways.

She could be a bit grim

if she didn't take to you,

but I'm just rank and file,

and far too young
to have ever been a threat to her.

What kind of a threat, Miss Trench?
To her position.

It was something she guarded
very jealously.

And quite right, too.

There was a lot of resentment
in the boys' club.

And who'll take her place now?

Well, ordinarily, one might expect
the co-leader to step in,

but... Mabs can't face it.

She's ruled herself out.

They were close, I understand.
Two peas in a pod.

What about Miss Quincannon's
private life?

Can you help us with anything
in that regard?

I don't know
if there's anything in it,

but there's always been talk

that she and Alex
had some sort of...

Well, I don't know.

Something.

But it wasn't something
we discussed.

If anyone knows the ins and outs,
it's Mabs.

Here.
Thank you.

I just cannot believe
that she's gone.

We've shared a desk
for as long as I can remember.

Sergeant Morse tells me

that you and Miss Quincannon studied
music together

when you were young.

At the Belasco, yes.

Can you recall any serious allergic
reaction she had to anything then?

Erm, well, there were some things
that Margeaux didn't eat,

but I always just put that

down to her being faddy.
Such as?

In the summer,
she avoided strawberries.

Was there anyone she was involved
with that you know of?

No. Not recently, at least.

There was the odd chap
here and there.

When you're constantly travelling
the world,

it asks a lot of people
to make something last.

It's been suggested that perhaps
she and Sir Alexander were involved.

Alex was very good to Margeaux
when she was younger.

He... He took her under his wing.

But the idea that there was ever
anything seriously between them?

No, she would've said.

Let's just say, she relished
her position as orchestra leader

a little too much for my taste.

We enjoyed a...

healthy mutual dislike.

I'm sure I wasn't alone in that.

If there's something
you're trying to say...

What's to say?

You've spoken to our young Donald,
I see.

Yes.

Well, he wouldn't be
the first orchestra manager

to lose his head
over a visiting soloist.

Still, as Margeaux proved,

there's always been more than
one way to get to Carnegie Hall.?

Was there ever anything between you
that went beyond the professional?

What, me and Margeaux?

It's been suggested.
By whom?

Margeaux was
a promising young violinist.

I did what I could to help her
develop her talent.

One can see how a young girl might
take all that interest and attention

from a famous and powerful man
and mistake it for something else...

if it was mistaken.

Look...

...whatever mad ideas
Margeaux entertained, then or now,

there was never
anything more between us

than would be right and proper

between mentor and pupil.

What mad ideas are these?

That you and Miss Poole
were carrying on?

God!

Look, Margeaux may have thought it.

But my relationship with Christina

is on an altogether higher plane.
Is it?

If it's beyond a policeman to
understand, let me put it this way.

As a composer,
I view Christina as my instrument,

an extension
of my physical and spiritual self.

I express my innermost being

through her playing.
Well, I'm sure

knowing that must have been
a great comfort to Miss Quincannon.

She was very particular
about her biscuits.

I had to pick them out for her.

She wouldn't have anything
that was just loose in the box.

Thank you. Do they use this space
a lot, the orchestra?

When they're not abroad touring.

Rest of the time, it's all sorts.

We had the Young Generation
in last week,

with that Mimi, is it?
Yeah.

And next month we've got
him off Jolliphant

coming in for a play at the Empire.

Are they a decent bunch?

These?

Well, as long as there's hot water
for the tea and coffee.

Sorry to interrupt, Mrs T. I just
wanted to ask the officer something.

Don't mind me, I'm sure.

Thank you, Mrs Treadle.

I just wondered if there was
any news about my well-wisher.

I'm working on it.
But try not to worry.

These things very rarely escalate.

Are you sure
there's nobody in the orchestra

that you might have upset?

No-one. At least, not intentionally,
I'm sure.

What about Miss Quincannon?

She'd been lovely, so supportive.

You don't think she...?

It's just an avenue of inquiry.

Well, at least
we've a pretty decent idea

of who's been leaving those messages
for Miss Poole.

If Quincannon thought Lermontov
had thrown her over

for his latest protege...

That's if the draft letters
were meant for him.

Yeah,
but I wouldn't put it past his type

to still have been knocking her off
on the QT as and when.

They all seemed to know that she had
some kind of allergy,

even if they couldn't agree
on what it was.

Odd there was nothing
amongst her effects

to counter an attack.
Perhaps there was,

and somebody removed it.
On the other hand,

we could be chasing our own tails
and looking

for something that's not there.
What, an accident?

It's possible, isn't it?

She comes into contact with
something that sets off an attack

by quite innocent means.

Unless we find a solid motive,

I'd say we're looking
at death by misadventure.

At least that's how
the coroner will see it.

Let me call you back.

Aye-aye, matey.
Burridges have been in touch.

Something to do with shoes,
could it be?

Right. Thanks.

And Dr DeBryn called.

Blood results came in
on the body of Beaumont.

Heroin and barbiturate.

A "hot shot", he called it.
How did he miss that?

No obvious track marks on the arms,

so he'd no reason to believe
he was looking at an addict.

Turns out the injection site
was between his toes

on the right foot.

Couldn't say
whether it was self-administered,

but I shouldn't think it's likely,
would you?

Hello, again. I understand you spoke

to one of my colleagues,
Detective Sergeant Strange,

about a pair of shoes that were
recorded in the exchange book.

Yes, sir. Young Mr Burridge has
had the big book set aside for you.

If you'd like to follow me.

No sign of any drugs paraphernalia,

if this Thompson is our man.
It's him, all right.

Alphabet spaghetti. His last meal,
according to Dr DeBryn.

This probably answers
whether he injected himself or not.

I can't see him going out

wearing only one shoe.

You ever heard of
Ace Private Inquiries, Headington?

Don't ring a bell. Why?

Yeah, come in.

Come on through.
I won't be a minute.

Right. Sorry to have...

Ronnie.

Thought you'd left Oxford.

As you can see.

So, to what do I owe?
To whom.

Edward Thompson. A client of yours,

or at least somebody
you've interviewed.

Doesn't ring a bell.

He had one of your cards.

Address in Ford Road, Cowley.
A boarding house.

You know how the private game works,
fellas.

If he was a client,
why would I tell you?

Cos he's dead.
I can see that.

Somebody gave him a hot shot
and dumped

his body in the gardens
of Beaumont College.

What did he want?

He, er... He came to me

for help finding a missing person -

his mother, Brenda.

Left home in '62
after a fall-out with her old man.

Came down south.
From where?

North-east.
What made him think

she'd come here, to Oxford?

Brenda used to send a letter
every so often.

Then, the letters stopped.

Who's Eileen Wright?

Friend of the family. Dead now.

The father didn't want
Brenda writing home,

so the letters came to Eileen.
That was the last.

Get anywhere with it?

Some.

Drink?

I usually nibble a couple
around this time in the afternoon.

Yeah, why not?
No, not for me, thanks.

Why? What's up? Copped a dose?

She used to do a bit of temping,
here and there.

Richardson's in Cowley,

a spell at British Imperial Electric
in the offices.

The last I've got for her
is in the September of '63.

She's at Landesman Construction.

Built Divisional HQ, didn't they?

Did he or his mother
have any connection

to the Oxford Concert Orchestra,
do you know?

If they did,
it never got mentioned to me.

So... how is it back at the factory?

Old Brighty still in charge?

Yeah, Mr Bright's still there.

They'll carry that one out
feet first.

We never much cared for each other,
but I, er...

...I'd never have wished
what happened on him.

I expect there's a lot of things
we wish had gone differently...

...but they went how they went.

Look, I wasn't being cagey earlier.

It's just, when he came to me,
the boy didn't call himself...

What was it?
Edward Thompson.

No. See, it was Andy,
he said his name was.

Andrew.
Andrew Thompson?

No, Lewis. Andrew Lewis.

"AL", then.

Same as the identity bracelet
you found at Beaumont.

Maybe Box turned up
more than he realised.

Stirred up a hornet's nest,
you mean?

Someone gets wind the boy's digging
through what happened to his mother

and decided to put a stop to it.

Assuming something did happen
to her.

What if she just met someone new,

wanted to put
her previous life behind her?

Landesman.

Well, everyone's got to work
somewhere, I suppose.

She'd temped
at British Imperial Electric, too.

But Landesman Construction
was her last known employer

before the postcards stopped.

Hard to see how her disappearance
in '63

and the death of her son ties in

with Miss Quincannon.
What if it doesn't?

What if we're trying to put together

two things that don't fit?

Might be an idea
if we split our labours.

If you push on with Miss Quincannon,
I'll try and track down anyone

who worked Landesman's at the
same time Brenda Lewis was there.

What about Mickey Flood?

I'm waiting to hear back
on the reverse trace.

We had a call at home early evening

the night he died,
but when I picked up

the receiver,
there was no-one there.

Do you think it was him?

He had my number
written in a matchbook.

Maybe he thought
I could do something for him

about this outstanding warrant.

Why would you?

Unless he had something to trade.

You didn't have to come.

I could've made my own way.

I just wanted to make sure
you got back safe.

All right, are you?

Can we stop somewhere?

You can't expect me to see her
straight, not right out of there.

You must know some place.
A copper, aren't you?

A career in music asks a lot
of a young person.

Hours of practice,

dedication.

Not everyone has the temperament.

She was in the same year
as Mabs Portman, I believe.

Mabs?

Mabel. The year above.

Were they close?
Not particularly.

12 months at that age
can seem like a lifetime.

But later, when Mabel switched
from the viola to the violin,

they had a lot more in common.

Was there anybody while she was here
that she was friendly with?

I'm trying to find someone
I can talk to about her later life.

Margeaux's best friend
was Rose Garland.

Enormously gifted.

She would have gone on
to great things.

What happened to her?

A swimming accident,
here in the lake.

It took a great toll on Margeaux.

Guilt is a terrible thing.

What did she have
to feel guilty about?

Being alive.

Take it easy, son.
You've got all day.

I wasn't coming home this morning.

Where were you gonna go?

Anywhere.
Somewhere away from everything.

Nobody's expecting you to carry
on living at home, a grown man.

But you've gotta have
somewhere to lay your head,

at least until you get a place
of your own.

Your mum's been worried sick.

What she does best.
You're everything to her,

to all of us,
but especially to your mother.

You could have sent her a line.

To say what?

Sorry that I flunked it...

...that I pissed my pants
and ran away, that I'm a coward?

You're not a coward. Don't say that!
You weren't any of those things.

You were just...

...not well.

Is that what you told
the neighbours?

You weren't yourself.
That's what I meant.

A mate killed,

standing right next to you.
That would affect anyone.

If it's any consolation,
I know what you've been through.

No... you don't.

You don't have the first idea,
so stop saying that.

It's not all 'Roll Out The Barrel'
and 'Lili Marlene' any more.

I know that.
Do you?

The other side,
they don't wear a uniform.

It's the bloke stood next to you
at the bar...

...the girl you get off with
at the dance,

a kid on a street corner.

Do you want that?

Come here. Come here.
Hello, Mum.

Come on, don't fuss.

Don't fuss?!

I've been back and forth
to the window

that many times,
I must've worn a rut in the carpet.

What kept you?

Traffic bad?
No, we went for a drink.

Don't spoil your appetite.

I'm doing a roast later.
I've got a nice piece of beef.

I'm not hungry later, though, am I?

Landesman?

The company was sold or went broke,
didn't it, after Blenheim Vale?

No-one's seen hide nor hair
of Joe Landesman in six years.

I know, sir. The one that got away.

There's talk from Interpol
he went abroad. Spain, Portugal.

The company had property there.
Holiday hotels, I think.

Surely, you're not suggesting

he's anything to do with this man
found dead at Beaumont?

It's just a coincidence
his mother happened to work

for Landesman's firm, isn't it?

Blenheim Vale is done with,
long since.

We weren't bad lads, not really,

but somehow we all ended up
at Blenheim Vale.

Things happened there.

Awful, terrible things.

They wanted a name for whoever
burned out Wintergreen's car.

I tried not to...

One weekend, Big Pete went off.
He never came back!

You think Peter Williams
was buried here?

He's here... somewhere.

I was born a copper...

...and I'll die one, I expect.

All went well with your son?

I think so, sir. Yes, thank you.

You must be very glad
to have him home.

Come in.

Sorry to interrupt, sir,
but I thought you'd want to know.

It's nuts, apparently,
she was allergic to.

I just got off the phone with
Dr DeBryn about Miss Quincannon.

He spoke to her GP.
All right. Carry on, Sergeant.

The death at the concert, sir.

Just so.

Anything further on Mickey Flood?

Division were asking.

It's early days, sir, but I've put
out a couple of feelers

with some old colleagues in London.

Well, whatever's behind it, we don't
want that kind of business here.

Get to the bottom of it, Thursday,
fast,

and stamp it out.

Er, that's the phone box by
the railway under the bridge, right?

Well, then, get a forensics team
out there and see what's what.

Yeah.

I found these
at Margeaux Quincannon's place

amongst her sheet music.

Hotel bills? Meaning?

Meaning, I don't think

the letter we found there yesterday
was intended

for Alexander Lermontov.

Give me a minute.

So, what can I do for you?

I wonder if you can tell us
why Miss Quincannon had your bill

from the Englischer Hof
in her home.

My hotel bill?

No idea.
Really?

Only we spoke to the manager,
and he remembers you both

quite clearly, because much like
your current billet,

rooms 352 and 354
had a connecting door.

Miss Quincannon insisted upon it,
apparently.

All right.

So, we had a scene. So what?

What goes on tour, you know?

I don't see what that has to do
with the police.

Miss Quincannon thought
your interest had moved on.

She was jealous of the situation.

That would be our interest.

Look, I made it clear to Margeaux
at the start

I'm a free agent.

It was just...
No strings?

Did she threaten to make

your relationship more widely known
amongst the orchestra?

Yes.

But, so what? It's not like
either of us were married.

I can't see that would have gone
over well with Lermontov,

if Miss Quincannon had told him

you'd set your sights

on his latest protege.
We've just looked

at the register, Mr Brathwaite.

Or perhaps you weren't aware

that that connecting door joins
to Miss Poole's room. In fact,

shall we knock, see if she's in?
Look, if anyone was wise

to Margeaux's little games,
it's Alex Lermontov,

and I told her so. I called
her bluff, she didn't like it,

so, instead, she made a big number

about leaving
the Oxford Concert Orchestra

for the Munich Symphony.

Was she serious?

Of course not!
That's just how she was.

Margeaux liked
to throw threats about.

I heard her laying the same number
on Donald on the night she died.

Donald Fischer, why? How's that?

Just as we were about to go on,
I popped a collar stud,

so I had to hurry back
to the green room for a replacement.

They didn't see me,
but I overheard them.

You're damn right we need to talk!

I could finish you,
and don't you forget it.

What did she threaten him with?

I can't be sure,

but when we were together,

she told me she thought
he might be running

some sort of... I don't know,
some sort of racket.

What kind of racket?
Something to do

with when the orchestra was touring.

To be honest,
I didn't ask too many questions.

She was always spitting poison
about someone or other.

You want the full gen, talk to Mabs.

Miss Portman?
Of course.

Margeaux wouldn't belch
without Mabs saying, "Pardon."

Margeaux did go backstage, yeah,
just as we were about to go on.

Well, why was that?
Thank you.

Erm, Lindsay's A-string
was playing up

and she didn't have any peg dope,

so Margs went to dig some
out of her case.

But whatever Fergus may have
heard, I'm sure

it was just a misunderstanding.

Of what, Miss Portman?

Margeaux had this idea

that what the orchestra
was really being charged

for travel and accommodation while
on tour was less than the amount

that Donald was billing for.
And he was pocketing the difference?

Yes, I...

I can't believe he would ever do
anything like that.

Donald is a wonderful
orchestra manager.

But... well, Margeaux would get
these notions.

And once she had an idea,
it was hard to shift.

I refute the allegations, entirely.

Well, Mr Fischer, at the risk
of sounding like Miss Rice-Davies,

you would say that, wouldn't you?
Margeaux never understood

that balancing the books sometimes
requires a little creativity.

We prefer the word "fraud".

If I have to rob Peter to pay Paul,

people keep their jobs.
Very commendable, I'm sure.

The earners, the foreign tours,

that's what pays us to bring
'L'apres-midi D'un Faune'

to a half-empty theatre
on a wet Tuesday night in Nantwich.

And that is important,

cos that one concert might mean
everything to someone.

I know it did to me.
And if someone

like Margeaux Quincannon
stood in the way of that...

Margeaux wasn't a threat to me.
I had her number.

Look, the truth of it is, I was
just about to give her notice.

For what reason?

I didn't think anything
when I saw her coming out.

One can't really have the
orchestra leader sending hate mail

to the guest soloist.
We had an idea as much.

Did you talk to her about it?

I would have done once I got
this week's concerts out of the way,

but as it turned out...

"Coroner Albert Lyons recorded
an open verdict

"in the case of Rose Garland, 14,

"who drowned in early summer
in a lake

"at the Belasco Academy,
situate Banbury.

"Various witnesses gave testimony

"that, despite being
a promising student,

"Miss Garland was a highly-strung
girl who lived on her nerves.

"Her guardian, Mr Harry Treadle,
said his ward, a scholarship girl,

"had never been fully accepted
by her peers

"and had been subjected
to slights and insults

"which left her feeling demoralised.

"This view of the school
was roundly rejected

"by Madame Belasco,
Principal of the Academy,

"and the coroner concluded
there was insufficient evidence

"to support Mr Treadle's assertion."

"Though no note had been found...

"...the Coroner could not rule out
suicide...

"...and was therefore obliged
to record an open verdict."

So, you adopted Rose Garland?

Evacuee, she was.

I can still see her standing
in the church hall,

luggage label threaded through
her buttonhole with her name on.

She was just about as big
as the violin case she was holding.

How was it you came to be
her guardians?

Her mother and her grandparents
both caught it in the Blitz,

and her dad in the Far East.

She had no other family to speak of,
so we took her on.

But you didn't formally adopt her?
No.

She called us Ma and Pops,

but she had a right to her own name.

The war had taken
everything else she had.

We weren't gonna take that
away from her too.

Rose had been close
with Margeaux Quincannon

while she was at the Belasco,
was that right?

Devoted, they were.

Was why I looked after her
when I ran into her again here.

She was one of the nice ones.

We had no idea

Rosie was unhappy.

She never said.

Years after,
I found one of the messages

in the pocket of her blazer.

They told her to kill herself.

Too late to matter then.

But Madame must've known.

To turn a blind eye...

You wouldn't happen to have kept
that message by any chance?

Yes.

I kept everything, good and bad.

All her certificates.

You don't forget.

Broke Harry's heart.

Hello, Sam!

Morse!

Sorry, I didn't see you.
Erm, I'm looking for Joan's.

Has she moved?

Jump in.

Joanie!
Sam!

Come here.

You all right?
Need a pee.

OK, er, down the hall, on the right.

He said he wanted to come round.

I wasn't sure whether to take him
to your parents'.

Er... how is he?

Nothing that
a good night's sleep won't sort out.

Says he's left the Army.
Yeah.

And, erm, you're all right, are you?

Yes.
You've been away.

Yeah.

But you're back.
For now.

Well, I... Erm...

I had some business at Burridges.

I saw that you'd returned
some, erm... some bridal gloves.

Have you got a wedding to go to?

Bridesmaid?

Or if you need an escort...
Morse...

Well, congratulations.
Thank you.

But who's the lucky man?

Aye-aye. One in, one out.

Thought you'd knocked off.

I hear congratulations are in order.

You and Miss Thursday.

Yeah. Thanks very much.

Joanie mentioned, did she?
Yeah.

Keep it under your hat
for the minute, though?

With the old man and everything.
Same nick, and all that.

Wouldn't want to leave him open
to accusations of anything.

Of course. Heaven forbid!

I'll be needing a best man,
though, matey.

Hoping I can rely on you.
Me?

Who else?

We've been up against it together
more times than I can count -

and come through.

You're the best man
any fella could have.

And I know you'd never let me down.

Just get me
to the church on time?

What can I get you, sir?
Pint of Morrell's, please.

Ooh!

Someone's up and at 'em.

That's all very mafioso, isn't it?

What have you got in there?
A tommy gun?

If I'm right,
something just as deadly.

I need you to run some tests for me.

Rosin?

What's rosin when it's at home?

Something to do with musicians,

isn't it?
Yes, sir.

It's solidified tree sap,
generally from conifers.

String players apply it
to their bows.

Why?

So it catches on the strings
and makes a sound.

Without it, the instrument
wouldn't make any noise at all.

And what's that to do
with Miss Quincannon's death?

It's how she was killed, sir.

She was allergic to it, is that what
you're saying? Something she used

all the time?
No, no. She was allergic

to what somebody's put in it.

I think the killer melted down
the top of the stick

sufficiently to then add
a top layer of the same,

only this time,
containing ground nuts,

then, at some point, substituted
the toxic stick

for Miss Quincannon's own.

Miss Quincannon would have applied

the rosin containing
microscopic particles of nut

to her bow
before the concert that evening.

Dr DeBryn has examined the violin

and the stick of rosin
that was found

in Miss Quincannon's case.
And?

And the dust on the body
of the violin has tested positive

for nut particles, but the stick
of rosin itself is clear.

So, someone swapped it back?

Presumably in the aftermath.

Everyone overwhelmed
with shock and grief,

nobody would notice what would be
the action of a moment.

Well, if that's the how,

I'm assuming you've a good idea
of the who.

Yes, sir. Erm, I think some people
find out far too soon

that life will divide us
into winners and everyone else.

For those destined always to walk
a pace behind,

to never have their moment
in the sun...

And no urge stronger than the wish

to be revenged upon the cause
of one's suffering.

Madame will be so proud.

Thank you.

Thus, a cruel and spiteful campaign,

which led to tragic consequences
a quarter of a century ago...

...was destined to repeat itself
in the present.

Quincannon drove the Garland girl
to kill herself. I get that.

But who killed Quincannon?

Well, I think it's one of the uglier
aspects of human nature,

but even the least amongst us need
someone to look down on.

It's a terrible thing
to be disregarded...

...destined to never be more than,
at best, rank and file,

to always be second choice...

...second best...

...second fiddle.

Build, build.

Excuse me, I'm sorry.

Miss Portman.

I believe you know

why we're here. If you'd like
to come with me, please.

What's going on?

You can leave the violin.

Sorry to disturb.

Men say, don't they,
about pairs of women

they see out together in a bar
or a club or something...

There's "the one,"
the "golden girl",

with the looks and the personality.

And there's the other one,

the "friend".

I was always the friend,

at least where Margs was concerned.

And I didn't mind that.

The truth is,
I thought the world of Margeaux.

A year older than me,
she was my heroine.

I would have done anything for her.

And you did.

You helped cover up what she did

that drove Rose Garland
to kill herself.

It was you that helped Margeaux
convince the coroner

that Rose Garland was unstable.

Why?

So she'd notice me.

I needed someone to notice me...

...so that I knew I existed.

And she did notice me.
We... We became inseparable.

And what you covered up bound you
to each other for life.

So that,
every time she looked at you,

she was reminded of what she'd done,
reminded of her guilt and shame.

And as the years went by,
it just got worse.

The... the digs, the sly knife.

She couldn't forgive me,
but she couldn't let me go.

But she recently put it about

that she'd be leaving the orchestra
and maybe going to Munich.

You could finally have stepped
out of her shadow.

That was the breaking point for me.

I stood everything else, but that...

Even now, I'm not sure she didn't do
the whole thing just to get at me...

...you know, to build up my hopes,
only to smash them to pieces.

We couldn't both go on living
like that.

I couldn't face another day
with her, not like that.

It was her or me.

Except, what you covered up
wasn't just Margeaux's culpability

in the death of Rose Garland,
but your own.

No, that's Margeaux's handwriting.

Perhaps,

or a decent approximation of it,

with the exception
of how the Is are dotted.

But that's the alto clef,

unique to the viola,

your original instrument
before swapping to the violin.

So you weren't just
a concerned friend

that covered up for Margeaux.
You were an active participant.

In fact, you went much further

than her campaign of petty
and vindictive name calling.

You told Rose Garland
to kill herself.

And she took you at your word.

So, now you've two deaths
on your conscience.

One we can charge you with now,

and the other which I'm sure will
haunt you for the rest of your days.

I didn't mean it.

I didn't mean it, not like that.
I...

I was a child.

I was a lonely little girl.

I just wanted a friend.

Presumably, she removed the syringe
from Miss Quincannon's handbag.

That'd be my reading of it, sir.

Killed her in front
of over 700 witnesses,

sat right next to her
the whole time.

And this other business,

the body at Beaumont College.

Andrew Lewis.

Inquiries are ongoing.

Landesman, though?

Blenheim Vale?

I'd hoped we'd seen
the last of that.

Bad business, Thursday.

Bad business all round.

Strange said you'd be in here.

They said, er, the odd beer,
the odd short does no harm.

Did they?

Everything in moderation, they said.

Well...

...I'm sure you know best.

You spoke to Miss Poole?

Yes, and Sir Alexander.

I'll type up my notes
in the morning.

Anything on Mickey Flood?

I'm waiting to hear back
from my old oppo at Cable Street.

Cos I was thinking,

if he did come to Oxford
in order to trade you information

in exchange for getting him
off this protection racket charge,

then, clearly, whatever he had
was big enough to get him killed.

So, why not sell it to some
London hat? Why you, I wondered.

Well... I'm sure we'll get
to the bottom of it...

...one way or another.

Usual?

No, er...

...I won't, if it's all the same.

I'm gonna push off,

get back to Win and Sam,

and Joan's coming round
for something to eat.

Is she? Well, that'll be nice.

Congratulations, by the way.

Not so much losing
a Detective Sergeant,

but, er, gaining a son-in-law.

Jim mentioned, did he?
No.

Joanie, then?

Yeah, I thought it best
if it came from them. To be honest,

it had half slipped my mind,
with Sam coming home.

I'm sure they'll be very happy.

Let's hope so.

Well, that's what it's all about
isn't it? So they tell me.

Tomorrow, then.

Yeah.

Same again.

Yeah.

Mind how you go.

It's good to have you back. I've...

Good to have you back.