All language subtitles for New.Tricks.S01E02.Painting.On.Loan.WEB-DL.DDP2.0.H.264-squalor_Track03

There you go.

Registered with the
stag owners' club.

British steel,

British upholstery,

British craftsmanship.

It's the last of the
great British cars, this.

Look, look! Smell that leather.

Go on, smell it.

Mobile phone rings

morning. Where are you? I'm
on my way in now. I won't be long.

What are you wearing?
Pardon? What are you wearing?

Well, today, I'm wearing boxers.

Blue cotton, they're
quite clingy, too.

I can feel them riding...
Have you got a tie?

Ooh, you wanna
tie me up, do you?

You want to
restrain...? Phone beeps

just the boss.

♪ It's all right

♪ it's ok

♪ doesn't really matter
if you're old and grey

♪ it's all right I say it's ok

♪ listen to what I say

♪ it's all right doin' fine

♪ doesn't really matter
if the sun don't shine

♪ it's all right I say it's ok

♪ we're getting to
the end of the day. ♪

Mm, what else have you got?

How about a red one to match
his eyes? Come on! Is that all right?

No.

Brian, have a look at this.

When I became a man, I
put away childish things.

Brian giggles looks like
Gerry's got a new car.

They all laugh

yeah, ok, retired maybe. But
we're still officers of the law.

Investigating
officers. Professionals.

I don't care how posh
or precious someone is,

nobody warrants us
getting done up like this.

It shouldn't matter what we wear! I mean,
no-one's that important...! Will you lot shut up?!

We are more than what we wear.

Oh, my god! Should
have worn your cashmere.

I can't believe this. The
first day I don't wear a suit.

Do you like the tie,
though? No, I don't!

I don't get it.

What? Art?

Naked women. The
naked female body.

It's everywhere - art galleries,
advertising, films, magazines.

It's all just naked
women's bodies. Yeah?

I've never
understood the appeal.

It's fundamental, isn't
it?! It's sort of evolutionary.

I just see a wild
animal with no fur.

Oh, here we go - posh alert.

My wife and I really enjoyed... Prat alert!
..Your retrospective at the national, sir Timothy.

What made you suspect one of the queen's
paintings might be a fake? I can't take the glory.

Sadly, I would make
a hopeless detective.

It was one of my hawk-eyed
conscientious restorers.

Part of my crack
team. Man laughs

let me introduce you. Jack
halford. How do you do?

Gerry standing. Hiya.
Hello. Brian Lane. Hi. Hello.

Your crack team.
Man laughs again

I see you're looking at
draper's gates of dawn.

Do you enjoy it? Oh, lovely.

Yeah, it's nice. Yeah.
Different. It's such a tease.

The subject invites
one to be... Academic,

to be grandiose,
but... The paint -

the flesh, the naked,
erotic sensuality -

stirs sensations
far from the intellect.

When one looks
at it, one is aroused,

and yet one feels guilty.

It's supposed to be...
Intellectually stimulating.

It's all very catholic, I'm
afraid. Sex - the great leveller.

Shall we? Lead on to
our vaults of treasures.

Gentlemen.

Pardon me for being forward, but you
have a speck of something on your cheek.

Ok?

All gone. Perfect. Thank you.

So you weren't aware at the time that a copy of
this painting had been put up for auction? No.

We would've assumed the auctioned
painting was a fraudulent copy.

Which it was? We thought we
had the original. Which you don't?

No, so it would
seem. This is a fake.

So, we need to trace the
original and return it to the palace.

That's where ucos comes in. With all due
respect, sir, this is art fraud squad territory.

We have no expertise in this field.
Never underestimate your skills.

There are two reasons why this
is a ucos enquiry and not art fraud.

The first is the hyper-sensitive
nature of the enquiry.

Which means we keep our mouths shut, whereas art
fraud are all, "yap, yap!" The second reason...

I'm a self-serving, arse-kissing
little creep. Did you say something?

It's by decreep(!)

And the second reason...

The second reason is
somewhat embarrassing.

I share it with
you in confidence.

My predecessor, sir Stephen, was a
trusted and loyal servant of her majesty,

a brilliant art historian and,
for me, something of a mentor.

But unfortunately,
he was also...

As bent as a box of bedsprings, flogging off
national treasures and replacing them with fakes.

How many are gone?
Officially, only this one.

Do we believe them? Do we
care? I mean, how much is it worth?

Auction estimate - 1.5 million.

Cor! So... we've got two
fakes and no sign of the original.

Could run DNA
tests on the fakes.

Telephone rings DNA? A
match could find the forger.

But this is paint,
not blood. Spittle.

On the fine detail work,
they lick the brushes.

It's worth a try. Mr halford...

The auction house who handled the fake is on line
one. Thank you. I'll put them through. Thank you.

Hello. Brian: Hello, forensics?

I see you didn't notice eye shadow
plastered across my face, did you?!

Look, this isn't for us!

This is for art fraud, and all the fenellas
and double-barrelled old-school brigade.

Don't worry. We'll check available
evidence to look for the forger,

and if it's all dead ends, we'll
report to bevan and move on. Good.

I'd like a proper case. So you wouldn't be
interested in meeting a mrs Christine Hardy?

45, living in primrose hill,
with a priceless art collection

belonging to her late
husband - a mr Duncan Hardy.

Her late husband?

I'll come with you, Gerry.
No, it's all right. Come on.

Your car or mine?
No, we... yeah, yours.

I thought you didn't like being driven by a woman?
I don't. Thought it made you feel like a nonce.

It's never too late to change your ways. So
where's the stag? Garage. Getting work done?

Yeah, sort of. Panda just
on loan, then? I dunno yet.

Don't know? Are you
gonna unlock it, or not?

Duncan was like a squirrel with a pile of nuts
- he doesn't want to eat them or need them,

but he can't bear the thought of another squirrel
getting them. So, he hides them, secretively.

It's a man thing. I mean, we don't
do it, do we? I don't think so, no.

Do you collect anything? Lame dogs(!)
It's all about acquisition and power.

See, that little squirrel likes to check his
nuts, then have a gloat and cover them up again.

What happens if the squirrel
dies? He can't take them with him.

We totally accept that you didn't realise your
husband's painting was a fake when you auctioned it,

but do you know where he got
it? Oh, he was always buying.

Mostly at auction or Mayfair galleries.
Did he know it was a fake? I doubt it.

God, I'd love to tell him, just
to see his face! She giggles

had you seen the painting before? I think
it hung in one of his offices for a while.

He had more than one office? Duncan had a
lot of things which he didn't share with me.

Like? Two apartments
in Barcelona and nice.

A £12,000 engagement ring, recently commissioned,
for a finger much, much slimmer than mine.

And even four batches of frozen
sperm in a clinic in Gibraltar.

That'd be his nuts.

A cloak of secrecy. I want it
lowered down, over this whole thing,

like a blanket. A
secrecy blanket.

Tucked in round the edges, so that
nothing escapes. Hospital corners.

I want none of your leads or evidence
leaking out... That won't be a problem.

No-one outside your unit... We haven't got
any. The fine art world can be famously opaque.

I'm sorry, but I think this falls a
fair way outside our field of expertise.

All right... don't apologise.

Expecting you just to
take this on was a big ask.

A very big ask.

Well, no harm done. Which is why
I've arranged to import expertise.

It's part of a new model of
interdepartmental asset mobility. Sorry?

So... you get totty.

Totty? Totty. Totty Vogel-downing.
Totty's not your real name, is it?

Oh, Charlotte, but I've
been totty forever. I'll bet.

Totty's been seconded
to ucos from art fraud,

so the investigation is continuing,
only now we have expert help.

Hi! So, rounding up all
your expert knowledge,

what can you tell us about
these? His mother had just died.

He moved from the family
estate into a self-inflicted exile,

choosing the lake district mainly because of it's
topographical drama. But he wasn't happy. Who?!

Stratfold, the artist.
He was depressed.

Here, hold on, hold on,
I'm being a bit thick here.

You're looking at two sexton Blakes,
and telling us how the real artist -

the original artist, who didn't
paint these fakes - was feeling.

Very depressed. Well, how does
that help? Not exactly relevant.

Oh, yes, potentially, and
these are not very good.

And? If you copy an artist's work,
you don't choose to copy his worst.

Unless...

Unless? You're told to.

Paid to. Unless it's available
to study in intimate detail.

Not hung in a public
gallery. So, the forger was...

Someone who had access. Probably
someone sir Stephen knew well.

I'm sure you've ordered
ultrasound and radiographic testing.

We are running some DNA
tests. Spittle. Very good.

What about fingerprints? Um...

Well, normally, we try to be a little more
innovative. This is a thumbprint. Ah, yes. See?

This smudge, and... So is this.

Identical position,
identical size.

They've been done, I'll bet, because the original
had a smudge, so it's part of the forgery.

And? How would an artist make a
thumbprint look like a thumbprint?

Ah, er... use his thumb?

Is that the dry-cleaners you want? I didn't
really want a lift to the dry-cleaners.

But you said... You probably wouldn't have
noticed, but I'm not a dry-cleaning person.

I'm more your machine-wash type. It's economical,
less chemicals, better for the environment.

What are you talking about?! I just thought that
if I asked you to give me a lift in your new car,

you might, somewhere
along the way,

be tempted to tell me
why you've got a new car,

and, ergo, what's
happened to the old one?

I sold it.

Yes?

Well, it's, er...

Well, what with me about
to become a grandfather,

and Paula becoming a single
mum, there'll be things she needs,

so, er... I've got a
cash flow problem.

Do you know how much those
three-wheeled buggy things cost?!

Isn't that why they invented credit cards? I'm
not allowed one. I was... declared bankrupt.

Bankrupts are not allowed...
Not allowed one, yeah.

Go on, then. My
car's back at the office.

Simply red, the
corrs, the corrs.

Ah...

Music starts: "Madame
butterfly" by puccini

Music changes, time has passed

she snores

what are you reading?

Very nice. Nice to see you reading
something that's not an autopsy,

or some evidence of how
somebody died some horrible death.

Van gogh chopped his
ear off with a bread knife.

Chopped it off and took it to a
brothel to give to a prostitute.

Oh! And Robert haydon
shot himself in the throat

in front of his final
unfinished work,

because he'd failed to
become famous enough.

Aw.

Rothko slit his wrists.

I've never been a passionate
man, have I? Not passionate, no.

No, you're a thinker.
You think most of the time.

Not very physical? No.

Does that bother
you? Not really.

Not any more.

Might as well have
parked in watford!

Ooh, look at you all,
fancy and Cosmopolitan.

Yep, mochaccino and
pain au raisin. Totty's shout.

Don't worry, we knew you couldn't
do without your grease. Thank you.

There's a nice cup of Rosie and two bacon
sarnies with lots of brown rocking horse. Lovely.

I'm jealous. You're so lucky! I wish I could
eat fried bacon! Just the smell of it, mmm.

So why are we here?

Got DNA samples from both
pictures, perfect match to each other.

The same artist
painted both fakes.

Does the DNA give us any names or
records? No. No identification available.

What about radiology
and that other thing?

Gave us paint dating.

Approximate year of
manufacture - 1978.

Nothing else? I thought you had
a name? I do - fingerprints. Oh?!

Totty laughs yeah, fingerprints!

Good call, totty.
Thumbprints, to be precise.

Name. Ciaran risk.

Artist, born 1951, wimbledon.

St Peter's grammar school,
'62-'69. Royal college of art, '72-'75.

Graduated with a diploma in fine
art and painting. What's his form?

Arrested for staging an art protest
in the national gallery in 1974,

when he threw red paint
over 14 priceless works of art.

So, right, we've
got a trained painter,

an amateur terrorist, and a
defiler of public works of art.

And finally... died, 1979.

Died?! Committed suicide.

A year after painting the fakes, he drank half a
litre of paraquat. So why are we here?! His mum.

Some people are born survivors.

They're programmed to fight,
not to feel. Ciaran felt everything.

Thought too much about
things that didn't matter.

It made him weak. All his
emotions were on the outside.

Wore his heart on his
sleeve kind of thing?

He had no protection
from his feelings?

Everything affected him deeply.
And that's why he was an artist?

Yes, that's it. What
pushed him over the edge?

A fire in his studio.

Destroyed his work, and it melted
the flesh from his chest and hands.

He tried to beat the
flames out with his hands.

The fire didn't kill him,
though? Oh, yes, it did.

He was dead long
before he killed himself.

Cheer me up, Jack, there
is nothing I like about today.

We've good news. We found the location of your
artist's fire - an old warehouse in shoreditch.

Half artists studios, half
rag-trade sweatshops.

We have victims, a fire officer's
report, and hospital records.

We even have suspects, motives,
and accusations of arson. Excellent!

Almost like a proper case. Fantastic. I
hope that cheers you up. Yes, thank you.

Good, because here's the bad
news. Bevan wants to see you... Now.

If this is about his
bloody blanket... blanket?

Ah, Sandra...

We waited for you in my office, but thought
we might catch you quicker down here.

Trying to keep sir Timothy
within the circle of knowledge.

Not a good moment?
Er... sorry, it's fine.

Lovely to see you. Oh,
I'm terribly sorry. Sticky.

Raspberry, mmm. Mind if I leave you in superintendent
Pullman's capable hands while I, um...?

Please go, I'll be fine.

Capable, and sticky.

Do you want to...? I've
got something to show you.

Right...

Oh, god, not another fake?

No.

So, what's wrong with this
one, then? Nothing that I know of.

So?

So... do you like it?

Yeah, I suppose...
Yeah, it's nice.

Um...

Right, ok, come and stand here.

It's not the best light, but...

..Focus on the
centre of the painting,

then slowly, slowly, let
your eyes move outwards,

taking in the canvas
to the very edge.

Now, let it go back
again to the centre, slowly.

Fireworks bang and explode

and breathe.

Fireworks continue, people cheer

now... do you like it?

It's beautiful.

Good.

And would you like it? What?

Mr bevan's, um... Idea.
It might seem ridiculous,

but part and parcel of
the queen's collection

is that we loan out works to public places,
so the collection can be more widely enjoyed.

I don't know why, but no-one's ever thought
of loaning to Scotland yard before. Oh.

Mr bevan has chosen a very
charming Alfred Cox for his office.

I just thought... Yeah,
thank you, it's lovely.

Good.

I'll leave you two to
get to know each other.

Oh, sir Timothy? Tim.

Do you know, or have you heard
of, an artist called ciaran risk?

Risk? Yeah.

No.

Sorry. Ok.

Enjoy. Thank you.

Rumble of fire burning

The heat was so intense it caused the tissue
on his arms, neck and chest to bubble up.

He never painted again?
Hands were useless.

Lung tissue permanently scorched.
You said arson. Accusations of arson.

Next door to risk's studio was a sweatshop run
by a kurdish entrepreneur, basically illegal.

Three teenage bengali girls were sent to the royal
London hospital in Whitechapel the same night.

All with extensive burns to the upper body
and hands. Same fire? Almost definitely.

Almost? They discharged themselves
that night. Have we names? Sort of.

From the look of the case file, I'd say it was
guesswork. How does this explain the theory of arson?

The fire officer's report was
inconclusive, to say the least.

Inflammable substances were
found. Ones that artists usually have -

oil-based paints, white spirit, turpentine. Which
all contributed to the intensity of the Blaze,

but no actual cause was determined.
Although, according to local police,

prior to the Blaze, there were no less than six
racially-motivated disturbances in the area.

Now... Hold on, Jack. Are you
saying the fire that injured the forger

could be the result of a racist
attack on the sweatshop next door?

Maybe somebody just
wanted the forger dead.

It's a bit far-fetched,
isn't it? Arson and murder.

Make for a more interesting case
than art fraud... No offence meant.

What racists gangs were operating in the
east end during the 1970s? Take your pick.

Clark? National front was busy,

but small-scale bombing
wasn't their style.

The halt immigration now campaign
leased premises in commercial street.

Page 9, column 88 - they
raided a bakery in hackney.

Even the ku klux klan held meetings
in hoxton square. Ku klux klan?!

You're kidding! No, I studied
British Neo-fascists at university.

It's a very interesting subject.
But the klan?! That's a joke?!

First klan visits from america
took place in the sixties.

Really?

Set up klaverns all
around the Midlands.

Klan even held a rally in cable
street, half a mile from the warehouse.

We've got our Neo-Nazi
expert. Now all we need's a racist.

Music: "Mellow
yellow" by Donovan

The property of yellow affects us
like the shrill sound of a trumpet,

or the sound of a
high-pitched fanfare.

Don't go on about the car!

Although kandinsky claimed that yellow
carries with it the nature of brightness,

with a serene, gay, and
softly exciting character.

Oi, are you coming?! Odd
choice for a car, though.

3lb of banana only £1.
Gimme £1 for 3lb of banana.

Here you are, sweetheart. Lovely.
Hello, tubby... What do you want?

I thought you hated foreigners?
Only the ones who live round here.

It's hardly local produce, is it?
I hate 'em, but I'll sell 'em veg.

Tubby's been part of racists groups
since the year dot. Family tradition.

My grandfather marched with moseley's
blackshirts. You must be so proud(!)

Listen, in the late '70s, who was throwing
petrol bombs at sweatshops? Hardly anyone, sadly.

Column 88, white defence league, load of skinheads...
couldn't trust 'em to tie their own shoelaces.

There was a warehouse in bacon street, next to the
railway arches. Used to be full of artists? Yeah.

There was a big fire there in '78. It
was claimed it was a racial attack.

Three bengali seamstresses
were injured. I never knew about it.

Who claimed responsibility?
No-one. Well, it wasn't a racial attack.

How do you work that out?

If a group set a fire in the '70s, they'd claim
responsibility, get support. It was all about profile.

Christ! A successful
firebombing?

If we'd have know about
it, we'd have claimed it.

What do you want, sweetheart?
You're a repulsive shit, you know that?

3lb of banana, only £1. Who'll give
£1 for 3lb of banana? Let's have you!

How did Clark find the address?

The ghetto-theory principle.
Which is? Half a mile, or half a world.

92% of non-English-speaking
asians live in an Asian community,

usually within half a mile
of where they first settled,

secure in their mono-cultural
society. The ghetto. Precisely.

So, what's the half a world?

Stay within half a mile, or they
go home. Not much in between.

I've always wanted to do that!

Here, come here. Whoa...

Vive la revolution!

Can I Chuck another
one in a minute?

That's the trouble with petrol bombs -
they're very showy, very exciting... but?

Crap at starting a fire. The petrol is too refined
- it burns quickly, you get no surface penetration.

Yeah, but you could start a
fire with one, couldn't you?

Sure, if you get lucky and hit some good combustible
material, like paper or dry timber. Or cloth?

Cloth would be good, but to get a big Blaze in a
warehouse, you want your ignition site deep inside.

How much evidence would
you keep from a fire like this one?

I can go and check.
Yeah, cheers. Thanks.

She speaks in bengali

My mother says she and
her sisters were frightened.

They thought people would come into the
hospital and hurt them what people? White men.

Did she hear any disturbance
outside in the street?

Any noise, shouting,
breaking glass?

They talk in bengali

The fire wasn't from the side to the street.
It was in the corner, where the cloth was kept.

The windows had metal bars and the door
was bolted in case of men trying to steal.

She talks in bengali

What happened to her sisters?

My aunt died many years ago.
She was always sick after the fire.

Would it be possible to see your mother's face?
To see where the fire hurt her? If it's too...

You can see her
face... But he can't.

Only my father is allowed.

There is a bag of
stuff in Enfield. Like?

Sifted remains
from the flash site.

All the usual - melted
plastic, melted rubber,

rodent remains,

charred asbestos...

Rodent remains? Yeah, rats and
mice always get killed in these fires.

They try to run from the flames, but not always in
the right direction. What sort of rat? A dead rat.

We don't get to see much beauty
in our job, do we? I don't know.

Eye of the beholder.

If we worked as farmers or gardeners, even
hairdressers, part of our job would be beautiful.

Every day, or most days, we
would see something that was...

..Just beautiful. I
didn't join for the view.

No, I know, but doesn't
it worry you? Too late.

You'd think that being exposed to all the ugliness
would make us more appreciative of beautiful things.

We'd go to exhibitions, or concerts,
or grow amazing wild orchids.

Write poetry and collect
butterflies? But we don't, do we?

We don't balance the ugly with the
beautiful. We just accept ugly. Ugly's safe.

You know where
you are with ugly.

We're trying to trace the gallery
owner who sold the fake. Excellent.

But we're no nearer finding the original painting.
I appreciate the update. You're working so hard.

I wondered... If you're doing
anything tomorrow evening.

So how does the Jeep compare
to the mclaren? Pricewise?

Is he buying another new car?

Baby buggy.

Is this like the initiative thing?
Initiative? Loaning paintings. Good PR.

Oh, absolutely not, no. This is me asking you
if you'd like to go the opera tomorrow night.

Gerry: 'For cash,
then?' The opera?

God help the single mums, eh? ..You're
doing everyone a favour. Thanks a lot(!)

Unbelievable! They've got
three wheels and no engine!

Christ! Don't
worry, it's stuffed.

Rattus norvegicus -
the common brown rat.

Estimated population
in London - 12 million.

Blamed for everything from bubonic plague to weil's
disease, and a 24-hour power cut in hammersmith.

Brian, how many times...?

Also rattus norvegicus - but
genetically and physiologically different.

You see, your
white rat is line bred,

the albino quality the result of
a homozygous recessive gene.

They are the same, but different. Just like
a dog is the same but different from a wolf.

So?

An educated guesstimate of albino
rats in London would be 200,000, tops.

All of which, or nearly all
of which, are in captivity.

Laboratories, pet shops,
small boys' bedrooms.

The chances of finding a white rat in a warehouse
fire in east London are very, very small.

So what sort was
in the evidence bag?

White rat?

Yes. Really?

No doubt. Amazing.

Wow.

Brian, what does
the white rat tell us?

Pat.

Pat?

Pat.

Pat!

Pat the rat...

I blame Edward Heath.

He made you dip rats in petrol
and set fire to them, did he?

The three-day week, the common
market, opened the floodgates.

Another victim of
the recession, eh?

Bent bosses were queuing up to
hire my services. Dipping rats in petrol?

Torching warehouses so the owners
could claim the insurance? No way.

Dip a rat in petrol, he burns too quick. Big
mistake. Petroleum jelly, that's the key.

Smear it all over, rub it right
down into the fur. Burns for ages.

There was a warehouse fire in
bacon street... should have patented it.

It were my invention. There's no evidence, just
burnt-up rat bones. So, the bacon street warehouse?

Soft toilet paper.

What?

You're gonna tell me what
you can do for me if I co-operate.

Yep. Every copper comes here to
offer me a deal to grass up my clients,

telling me what they can do for me.
Soft toilet paper should be simple enough.

They always offer me the same deal, and I always
say the same thing. Which is? Go screw yourself!

And shut the door
on your way out.

Pat's old school. Code of ethics - do the crime,
do the time, and all coppers are bastards.

Isn't that right,
pat? You said it.

Four people were injured, two have
died since. Wasn't one of my fires, then.

White rat, electrical conduit, ailing business.
Certainly looks like one of your jobs!

Bacon street? No,
it's not me. Promise.

That's a promise I'll cherish(!) You ask me about
a job I've done, I wouldn't tell you nothing.

Ask me about a job I didn't
do, I'll tell you whatever I can.

Reckon somebody copied your mo? Should've patented
it. Imitation is theft of my intellectual property.

We need a list of all your
clients over, say, the last 30 years.

I can't give that out without
the gallery owner's permission.

Can you contact her?
Only in an emergency.

We really need your list.

We're investigating
a series of forgeries,

trying to establish galleries which
dealt with one particular collector.

How about I call the inland revenue for an emergency
tax audit? Customs and excise for a vat inspection?

Or, I don't know, say, the rspca
for an endangered species check?

Would that be emergency
enough for you?

We're trying to track
down a particular collector,

so we need a comprehensive list of all your
clients names and addresses, going back 30 years.

It'll take a few minutes to
print out the complete list, but...

Electronic braying

have I missed something? Or was there
a day when all art became so grotesque?

It's supposed to be soothing. Art has a duty
to be provocative. I don't want to be provoked.

Ordinary life is provoking
enough, thank you very much.

You'd never think she was a big art
collector, would you? Hidden depths, eh?

What about Duncan Hardy?

He's on practically all of them.

He was once a busy buyer.

Doesn't tell us
anything, really, does it?

What about this? If you're looking for a dodgy
businessman who knew pat the rat, he'd fit the bill.

The late George Wilson.

May god barbeque his soul.

Who's Wilson?

Has Gerry seen this? No.

(What's it got to
do with Gerry?)

I think you'd
better talk to bevan.

Bevan?

I want standing off this case. Off? I don't want
him advised of this. I want him out of the loop!

Why?! He can't be trusted. Not on anything
connected with George Wilson. Send him home.

There we go...

Abstract expressionists.

Well?

I don't get what
it's meant to be.

I can't see anything.

Brian, remember, less head, more heart.
It's not what you see, it's what you feel.

Hungry. No!

Despair.

Terrible, awful despair.
Good. Very good. Door opens

totty, out.

Brian, don't make me
ask. George Wilson...

A career criminal with
an IQ of 144. Bevan?

In the early '90s, Wilson was the
closest thing we had to a trophy.

Everyone wanted to nail his head above their
desk and bask in the glory. Especially bevan.

Bevan thought he had
him? He did have him.

Two lock-up garages in stratford,
full of funny money from Holland.

For four weeks, they staked out these
lock-ups without anyone coming near.

Four weeks, three shifts a
day. Gerry in charge of b shift -

in charge the day they
collected the money.

This is rubbish.
There was no collar.

Bevan had us staked out in a ground
floor council flat, opposite the garages.

Bloody stupid position. Everyone knew what we
were doing! Wilson knew every move we made.

Anyway, we heard this screaming, really horrible
screaming, from the flat next door, so we broke in.

We found a young girl - she couldn't have been more
than 14 - bruised, cut, claimed she'd been raped.

Blood was coming out of her ear, so I took her back
to where she lived and waited for the ambulance.

You left the garage unwatched?

No...

Bailey was supposed to be
covering, but he snuck off, didn't he?

The money went awol.
Bevan blamed you?

Well... i knew Wilson.

What do you mean, you knew him?

I had a greyhound... no,
actually, I had a couple at that time,

and they were being schooled by a trainer in epping.
Wilson kept some dogs there as well, so I met him.

Every now and again, owners' day at
the track or something, but that was it.

That arsehole, bevan, accused
me of taking a bung off of Wilson.

Then he accused me of setting the girl up and
slapping her around myself. So... I hit him.

Of course, he charged me.

I was scheduled for disciplinary proceedings. Why
didn't you fight the case if you were innocent?

I wasn't innocent. I'd
punched a senior officer.

Bevan's jaw was wired for weeks.

But you didn't
take Wilson's bung?

You think I would?

No.

Look, bevan wants you off this case.
Bevan wants me off ucos. What do you want?

Just stay away
until it's all sorted.

And I come back when the case is all done
and dusted and do what? A bit of filing?

Make the tea? For god's sake, I
am sticking my neck out as it is.

If bevan knows I'm telling you
this, there won't even be any ucos!

Now I'm supposed
to be grateful! No!

You're supposed to take your
macho pride, put it in a box and shut up!

What am I gonna do?

Well, you're just suspended.
You're still on salary.

So, do whatever it
is you used to do...

..Only now you get paid for it.

So, the dealer who sold the fake
paintings and the artist who painted them

both had fatal accidents
within days of each other? Yeah.

The man who borrowed the
painting - sir Stephen - is dead.

The artist is dead. The dealer
who sold the fakes is dead.

One buyer - Hardy - is
dead. George Wilson is dead.

Do you ever have cases
where the suspects are still alive?

The fire wasn't racist, it was meant
for risk. I wouldn't worry about him.

No, he'll be
having a great time.

Down the boozer. In
the bookies. Getting paid.

'He isn't pining for some
crappy case of forged paintings.

'Stolen paintings are
great business for forgers.

'It's the thrill of owning
something famous.'

if someone buys a stolen
painting and it turns out to be a fake,

they'll hardly complain to the police. So they get
a sick thrill, and don't even know it's a fake?

What are they going to do if they
did? These aren't scary tough guys.

George Wilson was.

Thank you. You
not having one? No.

Do you paint? No!

Why would a young guy
want to paint pictures?

It was his father.

He was a painter? No.

Just a complete bastard.

I see. And that made ciaran...

What do you want?

I just wanted to see some of ciaran's art. You
know, get some feel of who he was, soak up...

No, you don't!

No, I don't.

I think someone tried to hurt him. Maybe
even kill him. I want to catch them. Why?

Because you care about ciaran?
Because you care about art?

Because you want to help a mother
through her grief? No, none of those.

It's what I do.

I catch villains. I like catching
villains, it makes me feel good.

This was his graduation show from
the royal college of art. Oh, I see.

We had drinks and a buffet in a
marquee by the Albert memorial.

Very classy. Yes,
it's interesting.

So, everybody
in this book was...

..In the same year?

Woman sings: "Habanera"
from Carmen by bizet

It's one of my palace perks.

These rooms are kept
for visiting dignitaries.

To entertain after the opera.

And this cognac is
older than america.

Just let it breathe first.

Then you breathe in its aroma.

That sip has waited
patiently for hundreds of years.

Maturing, improving,

waiting just to
meet your tongue.

And dazzle.

It's dazzled.

Come here.

This was kept in a
monastery near Florence.

Pilgrims would travel
hundreds of miles,

just to gaze on the
face of the Madonna.

Often they would then faint
at the sight of her beauty.

To be so afflicted by the sight of
beauty, to die in its presence is...

..A great honour.

You are so lucky to live a life that
revolves around such... Beautiful things.

Yes, I am.

But I don't just
see beauty in art.

Why did you lie about
knowing ciaran risk?

You shared a diploma show with him at the royal
college of art. You studied together for four years.

There are tiny moments
in everyone's life,

precise, poignant moments...

..When everything
crystallises...

..Crackles with tension.

When... you know
that the next words

out of your mouth
will determine...

..All manner of things.

The future.

This is one of those
moments, isn't it?

What I did was harmless.

It's just creative counterfeits.

It's only art.

Bits of canvas,
splashes of paint.

It's just ego,

'convention, snobbery,

'it's a silly game.'

not to George
Wilson. He was a thug.

He didn't understand the game.

He took it way too seriously.

And people died.

Yes, they did...

..But I... I really enjoyed tonight.
Oh, good. So did I. You are...

The opera was wonderful.

I was lost, away, transported to another
time, another place, even. Excellent.

You deserve...
but now I'm sorry.

Oh, please... Please don't
say you're going home.

No, I'm not going.

Good.

I'm going to arrest you.

So, softly, softly.

Exactly, we talked
about a blanket.

Tucking in the corners. No
dirty laundry hanging out to dry.

Sir Timothy claimed sir Stephen borrowed the
pictures, faked them and flogged them as stolen art.

But sir Stephen didn't
fake the pictures. Good.

Sir Timothy did. The fakes
were painted by a known activist

and sold to collectors through an exceedingly
reputable and thoroughly bent gallery in Mayfair.

Ah. The borrowing soon stopped.

Yes. Because sir Timothy was
forced to steal one permanently,

on account of being terrified that one of the duped
clients would chop him into tiny pieces. George Wilson.

Ring a bell? Wilson, realising
his painting was dodgy,

had the gallery owner mowed down, and burned
the hands off the artist who painted the fakes.

Sir Timothy was next on the hit list, unless he
could replace the fake painting with the real one,

which, of course, he eagerly did. So, so far,
we've got theft, fraud, arson, attempted murder.

Twice. Then there's
lying to the police.

Attempting to pervert the course
of justice. Misappropriation of funds.

Theft of national assets.
Tampering with evidence.

Treason. And Wilson's widow has still got a few
million quids' worth of her majesty's art collection

hanging over her fireplace.
Anyway, it's all in there.

Painting looks nice.

That's the thing about art, isn't
it? It's so... restful. Refreshing.

Emotional.

Uplifting!

Laughter

well, I've got to go.
Bye-bye. See you around.

Bye, love.

Thank you so much. I learned
such a lot working with you.

Come here.

Look, I just want to say I'm sorry about, at first,
being so negative. No, no, no! You were great.

It's just the whole art thing, it's like...
no, seriously, really, I'm your biggest fan.

Take care, totty. Bye-bye. Bye.

Bye. Ta-ra, tots. You look after
yourself. Take care. Bye. Bye. Bye.

Good bird, eh? Same again?

Same again, Paul.

I am so proud of you.

What, for finding the link between risk and...? No.
I'm proud of you for what you've done. Growing up,

selling your car... Jack told me about the
money situation and the buggy. Oh, did he?

It's terrific, you sacrificing something you
care for, and spending it on your grandchild.

I didn't spend it all on the buggy.
Well, it's still a very mature...

No, I put most of it on the 12 horse. Three valleys.
A bit of an outsider, but if it comes in, wey-hey!

You've done what?!

He's only gone and stuck
it all on a horse. He's what?

One now?

Now he's on his way! The
other one's coming now.

Come on, son. Come on!

Go on, my son! Go on,
go on! He's the winner!

♪ It's all right

♪ it's ok

♪ doesn't really matter
if you're old and grey

♪ it's all right I say it's ok

♪ listen to what I say

♪ it's all right doin' fine

♪ doesn't really matter
if the sun don't shine

♪ it's all right I say it's ok

♪ we're getting to
the end of the day

♪ hi tech low
tech take your pick

♪ cos you can't teach an
old dog a brand new trick

♪ I don't care what anybody says

♪ at the end of the day... ♪