All language subtitles for Midsomer Murders S14E08 - A Rare Bird

(chirping)

There we go. You're a beauty, aren't you?

Hello.

(beeping)

(man) Nothing exciting today. Just a greenfinch.

(Russian accent) Patrick, I'm pregnant.

What? Well, that's impossible. You can't be.

Oh, yes, yes, the test was positive.

- Whose? - What do you mean?

- Whose is it? - Patrick, you're hurting me.

I'll kill you. You hear me? I'll kill you!

What's the matter?

(hums)

See you again tomorrow, then.

There's another load of logs to come up.

- Tomorrow? I'm not sure. - Well, just give me a bell.

I mean, I can come up any time you're available.

Better be off.

- Call me, yeah? - Yes.

What's Foxely doing here?

I ordered wood from Napier's farm.

- Didn't I tell you... - I'm late for my class.

Is he the one? Was it Foxely?

(speaks Russian)

All right.

So, I thought we'd go round Swansdown Lake,

over to Midsomer Parva,

pub there, through the woods and then back.

- How far is that? - Oh, it's about eight miles.

You said a gentle stroll, not a route march.

You'll enjoy it.

Remember that walk we did above Downs Way in Brighton?

Remember it? I've still got the blisters.

One of the reasons we came to Midsomer

was to enjoy the peace and tranquillity of the countryside.

True.

- Ta-da! - What are those?

They're gaiters. Causton camping shop.

Stops the rain getting in your boots.

Are we expecting rain?

We are going to go for a good walk, aren't we, Sykesy?

Come on. And I will be in charge of the map reading.

(groans) We know what's guaranteed to spoil a good walk,

don't we, Sykes?

Come on. Come on.

Those logs you delivered, I phoned Napier earlier

and told him to take them off my land.

What's this?

My wife ordered that wood in error.

I'm not paying. Is that clear? I want it off my land.

Well, I might be wrong,

but in my world a contract is a contract.

- Well, the order's cancelled. - Right.

Well, I'll fetch them back up again, then.

But in the meantime we've gotta get these drainage pipes laid.

You're not going ahead with that?

Oh, yeah.

Drain the mead and you'll drain my wetlands.

They are habitat to several birds with protected status.

It's my living that needs protecting, not them birds!

- I'll sue you if I have to. - Do what you like!

You ain't the only cock can crow!

Damn birds!

Chicken plucking so-and-so.

He's not an happy bunny.

Got problems indoors with the wife.

Ain't getting his rations.

Whatever. He'd better turn the volume down.

It's the duck that quacks loudest gets shot.

And one and two and three and four.

Good.

Look to the right, Ffion.

Good. Neat feet, neat feet.

Hands up, Gloria. Up, up, up. Good.

Good.

And finish. Very well done.

OK, temps levés from the corner.

Good, good. Back, back, back, back.

- (bird call ringtone) - And... eyes up, eyes up.

Temps levé, temps levé, temps levé and temps levé.

Good, girls.

And temps levé. Up, up.

Good, Aimee. Good, good, good. Bravo!

OK, all of you, reverence, all of you.

Everyone together. Thank you, maestro.

Right, plié, and to the left, plié.

Finish. Proud finish.

Good, girls. Thank you very much.

Remember, finale concert and awards.

Remind mums and dads to book tickets

if they have not done so.

Tim.

You must encourage her. She is mad for the dance.

But she's not made for it, though, is she?

I mean, her feet aren't exactly feathers.

She has her dreams.

We all have our dreams.

Yes.

Listen, look, is there any chance

you could have Aimee at yours this morning,

or drop her off at my mother's?

Yes, of course. She will be fine with me.

Thank you. That's great.

- I'll call. - OK. OK.

Can I give you a lift?

No, thank you. I have car.

Ralph Ford spotted a blue-crested hoopoe

up by Swansdown Lake.

- A hoopoe? In Midsomer? - That's what he says.

It's probably flopped in on its way to Africa.

Be a British first if Ralph's spotted it right.

The others have headed up there

in case the place is overrun with townie twitchers.

Right. I'm with you. Let's go.

- Bye, sweetie. - Bye, Dad.

- Wednesday, then. - OK.

- Come on! That's it. - I'm sorry.

- Come on, Bob. - I'm going as fast as I can.

- Blimey. - Come on!

Well, the track is heading this way.

- So if I just turn the map... - John, are we lost?

No, no, no. I'm just checking.

(whispers) Excuse me. Excuse me.

Not spotted the hoopoe, have you?

- Hmm? - The blue-crested hoopoe.

Extremely rare visitor to Britain.

Been tweets about it on Twitter all morning.

- Oh, I'm sorry. I don't... - Shh, shh!

Quiet. Listen.

Yeah, that sounded like its call.

A sort of a ooh-poo-poo!

Ooh-poo-poo!

Whatever it was, it came from that way.

Come on, before this lot spook the damn thing.

- (barks) - Shh!

- Keep that dog quiet! - I beg your pardon?

- Ooh. - Quickly! Quickly!

Come on, come on.

Follow them, follow them.

Right.

(wheezes)

Excuse I.

Well, so much for the peace and tranquillity

of the countryside.

- Where to next? - On to Swansdown Lake.

Which is north of here, wherever here is.

- Darling, just give me the map. - No, it's fine.

- Give me the map and... - It's...

It's this way, it is. It's this way.

No. Sorry. No. This way. It's definitely this way.

This way.

Sykes.

(groans)

- I'm sure it was a chiffchaff. - Where was this?

I did. I smashed him right on the chin.

Oh, can I get you one in? Usual?

No, thanks, Olivia. We'd better start.

Still besotted, are we?

Buttocks to you, Ralph.

- Bloody bird watchers, eh? - That lot love it.

They think bird-watching is better than sex.

Probably is, the way they do it.

(cuckoos)

- Please, please. - Will you sit down now?

- No, I will not. - Get a grip, Patrick.

Not until he withdraws the accusation.

Order! Order!

- Order! - (silence)

Thank you.

Now... Ralph has claimed that he saw a blue-crested...

It's not a claim. I saw the bloody thing.

- A mega. - Oh, Ralph.

Ralph says he saw a blue-crested hoopoe by Swansdown Lake.

- Upupa epops. - Yes, thank you.

- Were you alone at the time? - Yes.

Then it's unverifiable, as Patrick says.

Whatever happened to birders' honour?

My word is my bond.

Nobody's questioning your word, Ralph.

Yes, he is! And why?

Because this sighting gives me a ten-point lead

in this year's list competition.

Ten points ahead of you, Patrick.

That's what this is all about.

The committee is merely trying to establish

how it is you saw the hoopoe and no one else has spotted it.

Because I'm up at a sparrow's fart every morning

and sat in the sticks every night, year round, that's how!

It's not just a seldom-seen, Ralph.

It's an endangered species native to Uganda.

So it made a pit stop on its way home.

Oh, that's... We never saw it.

I propose we refer the sighting to the national committee

and it will not count towards the year list competition.

- Seconded. - I saw it!

- What more do you want? - Proof would be good.

You're as likely to see a blue-crested hoopoe

land in Midsomer as Concorde, truth be told.

You wouldn't know the truth if it plopped on you

from a great height.

Do you accept the proposal?

I know your game, Patrick.

This is war.

From now on, consider yourself an endangered species.

- Ralph. - To hell with all of you!

You can't speak to the president like that.

- You can't... - We're at a meeting, Ralph.

You can all get stuffed!

We'll take that as a no, then, shall we?

(birdsong)

(makes bird calls)

(church bell rings)

(bird call ringtone)

(whooshing)

Hey! What the hell?

Spotted this morning at 10am by a dog walker.

The body was entangled in that net.

Contusion to the rear of the skull.

Asphyxiation by drowning most likely cause of death.

We can eliminate accident, then?

I wouldn't be too hasty.

He could have stumbled into the net, fallen,

hit his head, rolled into the lake.

Looks like blood on the end of this.

It's a bramble beater, isn't it? Could be blackberry juice.

You think of everything.

I trust nothing and no one till tested and proven.

- How about time of death? - All night in the lake?

- Cheers. - Hard to say yet.

Sir, his name's Patrick Morgan.

Aged 51, married, lives in the big house over there.

He was a bird-watcher.

Binoculars, notebook, lots of sketches of birds.

Oh, I thought I recognised him.

There's also an interesting text message on his mobile.

It says: "Hoopoe now showing. Lakeside."

"250m east of Swansdown House. 23:59."

Now, one of the lads is a bit of a birder.

Says they get hotline alerts when rare birds are spotted.

Twitchers come running at all hours from every direction.

Let's find out who sent it.

But first we'd better talk to his wife.

- I'm very sorry, Mrs Morgan. - (sobs)

Is there somewhere we could sit down?

Yes, yes, yes.

When did you last see your husband, Mrs Morgan?

Nina, please. Yesterday evening. He came back from his meeting.

He is president of ornithological society.

There'd been argument. He was angry.

He got himself drink to wind down. I went to bed.

You didn't think to raise the alarm

when he wasn't there in the morning?

He is bird-watcher.

He disappears all the time at any hour.

- I'm sorry. This is difficult. - (Barnaby) Of course.

No, especially... Patrick and I are expecting our first child.

I see.

We've been trying for years, ever since we were married.

We moved here to start a family.

- How long ago was that? - Ten years.

Is this you?

Yes, at Kirov Ballet.

I was prima ballerina.

Well, I think that's enough for now, Nina.

If you think of anything else, give me a call, please.

Just pregnant and your husband dead. That's tough.

At least she confirmed the bird-watching angle.

Mmm.

Oh, here's trouble.

- Dave Foxely, sir. - Known to us?

He's had community service and a few minor punishments.

Still thinks stealing's easier than working.

A bit of a ladies' man too.

What's happened? They been burgled?

Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.

Work for Mr Morgan, do you?

No, George Napier. That's his truck.

And I'm just collecting some logs Morgan doesn't want.

Where were you late last night?

I was spark out. Five pints and I'm nobody's.

Mr Morgan was killed last night.

What? Never.

Mrs Morgan, do you know her well?

Well, not as well as I'd like to.

She fit or what, Jonesy, eh?

Forget it. I'll pick up those logs tomorrow.

You don't think Nina Morgan would go for somebody

as rough as Dave Foxely, sir?

Ever read Lady Chatterley's Lover, Jones?

Only bits.

OK. Patrick Morgan ran a city finance firm.

Retired to Midsomer ten years ago.

Just a sec.

Bought a 200-acre estate on Swansdown Lake.

I want us to check for previous on Patrick

and on his wife, Nina.

- Are you with me, Jones? - Yes.

I got a trace on that text message, the bird alert.

It was sent from a mobile belonging to a Ralph Ford.

Here's a list of the Midsomer-in-the-Marsh

Ornithological Society Committee.

Ralph Ford is a member.

Nina mentioned that there was an argument

at their meeting last night.

And sending the text message is a smart way

to lure Patrick up there.

But Ford sent it from his own phone.

Which is not smart at all.

- (sneezes) - Bless you.

Sorry.

Got drenched this morning, out birding.

It was persisting it down. Got a stinking cold.

- (sneezes) - Bless you.

- Sorry. - As long as it's not bird flu.

- This your hobby, Mr Ford? - No, my profession.

I'm a taxidermist.

You'd be surprised at what people want to preserve

and how much they're prepared to pay for it.

You name it, I've stuffed it.

Hunting trophies, are they?

Well, the fish were all hooked, the bear got shot,

but the birds, they all died a natural death.

This is their resurrection. I give them life after death.

Pity we can't do that for Patrick Morgan.

You had a row with him yesterday evening. That right?

I spotted a blue-crested hoopoe.

A mega, a rare bird.

Patrick said I was lying

because it gave me a ten-point lead in the annual list cup

for spotting the most different species in a year.

He couldn't bear to be beaten.

This is Patrick's mobile.

There's a message on it purporting to be a bird alert,

a message which drew him to his death.

It was sent from your phone, Mr Ford.

That's ridiculous.

I'll show it to you.

Oh, God. It's not here.

- Where is it? - Well, I don't know. Um...

I had it last night at the Feathers.

I hung my coat up in the snug.

Somebody must have taken it.

- Who would do that? - Well, I don't know.

All the committee were there.

Dave Foxely's crowd were all in the snug, by the coats.

Um, Napier, the farmer.

He's always at war with Patrick over the wetlands.

Look, it wasn't me.

Sitting in a bush all morning waiting to spot a bird,

what's that about?

Well, psychologically speaking,

birding is classic obsessive behaviour.

It's bonkers if you ask me.

It's like hunting without the kill.

We're all instinctively hunter-gatherers.

Didn't you ever go train-spotting

or collect stamps or football stickers?

No, sir.

I had an uncle who collected beer mats. Died of drink.

So getting soaked to the skin just to tick a bird

off your list isn't crazy?

It's not so very different from what we do.

We tick all our suspects off our little list

until we find our killer.

Does that make us any saner than the twitchers?

Nina Morgan, sir.

She's not exactly devastated

by Patrick's death, is she?

Tim Whitley?

Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby,

Detective Sergeant Jones, Causton CID.

With you in a minute.

Oh, it's a... it's a mist net. For catching birds.

It doesn't harm them.

We ring them and release them immediately.

Patrick Morgan was found tangled up in one of these.

Yes, well, you know, they look quite fragile,

but they're really very strong.

Was that Mrs Morgan we just saw?

Yes, yes, she's... she's quite some lady.

She'd arranged to give Aimee,

that's my daughter, extra ballet lessons today.

She insisted despite what's happened.

I'm a single parent, you see.

I lost the wife four years ago.

- I'm sorry. - No. No, no.

She got sick of the birds.

You or the tufted ducks, was it?

Afraid so. Actually, I was just about to ring the police.

- Really? - Yes, come in. Come in.

It's... It's a bit of a mess, I'm afraid.

I work from home. Computer and audiovisual repairs.

You're a keen member

of the Midsomer-in-the-Marsh birders' club.

Yes, yes. Actually, birdsong's my thing.

Mating calls. The chat-up lines of our feathered friends.

(Jones) Can you tell us where you were last night?

Yes, I was at the club meeting at the Feathers.

- And after that? - Well, I went up to the lake.

I was hoping to get a recording of the blue-crested hoopoe

which Ralph Ford says he saw but no one else did.

I understand Mr Ford had a row

with Patrick Morgan at this meeting.

Yes. At first Ralph just dropped his bottom lip and sulked.

Well, then he lost it, he was flapping,

fit to take off, which he eventually did.

He was cursing everyone.

Were you up at the lake all night?

Yes. Now, that's what I wanted to talk to you about.

I had my mikes open and sound running.

I played everything back this morning

when I heard about Patrick.

I think I've found something interesting.

Now, watch the up-slurs and down-slurs on the sonogram.

- (burst of sound) - There. A cry.

Uh, wait, wait.

There. A splash.

- Is the recording time-coded? - No.

Run it again, can you? There was something in the background.

I'll whack up the ambience.

(owl hoots)

(church bell rings)

Oh, well, that's just the church clock.

Quiet.

11... 12.

(yell)

Then the cry.

And you didn't see or hear anything?

Well, I heard a sage sparrow, which is nothing sensational,

but it turned out to be a male dunnock mimicking.

- Fascinating. - Yes, I thought so too.

Look, I'm sorry I can't be more helpful.

You've been a great help, Mr Whitley.

We now know that Patrick Morgan was killed

on the stroke of midnight.

(Barnaby) Just need some thinking space.

(Jones) Right, well, just follow the path

and you can't miss Hipsman's cottage.

(Barnaby) OK.

You tackle the farmer, Napier.

Ask him about Dave Foxely

and about this land dispute with Patrick Morgan.

Yes, sir.

(oboe music from Swan Lake)

(Nina) And here neat feet. Pull up.

Up, up, up, up.

(applause)

Bravo!

Bravo! Bravo!

Bravo!

Bravo!

Bravo! Bravo!

- (sobs) - (Aimee) Nina!

It's OK.

Hello? Police.

Hello? Mr Hipsman?

Ah. Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby, Causton CID.

- Michael Hipsman? - Yes. Um...

I'm terribly sorry, but I'm in a tearing hurry.

I've got a class to play for.

Is this about Patrick?

Yes. How well did you know him?

Well enough to know the man was an arse.

Frankly, I had nothing but contempt for him.

Far too impressed with himself.

(sobbing)

Are you all right, dear?

Oh, yes, yes.

I was just dancing and... thinking of Patrick.

Yes, it's terrible.

Awful.

- You have my condolences. - Thank you.

We fell so much in love at first.

So much.

You understand.

Yes... I understand. Better than you think.

I'm sorry. I must be going.

Things to deliver. Sorry.

Bye.

I get the impression

that Patrick didn't have many admirers.

No. Not that it bothered him. He was his own fan club.

Patrick had to be top of the pecking order.

Everyone else could kiss the ground.

This month's newsletter.

Oh, just put it through the door, would you, Olivia?

Here's my card. I have a small bookshop on the high street.

If there's anything else you want to know,

you can find me there.

Bye, Inspector.

- Are you the police? - Yes.

Olivia Carter, secretary of the Midsomer-in-the-Marsh

Ornithological Society.

Are you here about the murder?

I'm investigating Patrick Morgan's death, yes.

You know it was Ralph Ford who did it?

- Do I? - The man's crazy as a coot.

He'd kill to get his hands on that cup,

rip your throat out to win the prize.

And there was me thinking that bird-watching

was such an innocent pastime.

It's not a pastime, Inspector. It's a religion.

Birders are a bunch of jealous, self-centred maniacs.

They'd cancel their own wedding for the glimpse of a rare bird.

Oh, yes.

And what's in it for you, Ms Carter?

I... I just enjoy the exercise.

None of that committee appreciated Patrick.

Ten years he served as president.

He loved birds, their freedom to fly,

to steer by the stars.

Yes, he could be overbearing, but he was a man, Inspector,

not an intumescent wimp like the rest of them.

Too good to live. Sorry.

Excuse me.

(sobs)

Pull!

(gunshots)

Patrick Morgan. He give me the right Humperdinck.

Always complaining.

Me draining my pasture

or shooting them rooks what was eating my seedlings.

Your land adjoins his, does it?

Yeah. He's put in to get the wetlands designated

as a site of special scientific interest or some such cock.

And he calls the locals all peasants.

You were in the Feathers last night.

Did you see anyone take Ralph Ford's mobile from his coat?

No.

- One of Dave Foxely's lot? - What's Dave got to do with it?

- Is he banging Morgan's wife? - Oh, he might be. Who knows?

She's fit. Dave's got a feather in his pants, that's for sure.

- You'd better ask him. - I will.

- I feel sorry for her. - Oh, yeah?

Well, she's a trophy wife like, you know.

Young woman he's got his hooks into.

Well, she's well rid of him.

We all are. Pull!

It was blood, Patrick's blood, on the bramble beater.

So I was right. Murder for certain.

It would seem so.

Glean anything from Napier?

He hated Patrick Morgan, sir.

And he implied things were a bit cold

between him and his wife.

Must have warmed up sometime recently.

She's expecting his child.

No. Oh, no, she isn't. I read his notes.

He had a vasectomy 15 years ago and not reversed.

She definitely said it was his.

- She lied to us. - And very convincingly.

I've underestimated Nina Kustanova.

Can't always get things right, can we?

I'm no detective, but it strikes me whoever fathered her child

may well be the killer of her husband.

(excited chatter)

- Shh, shh. - (girl) Sorry.

And drop the foot and finish. Good. We try together. OK.

And music, maestro.

And plié and chassé and up.

Aimee, Aimee, tummies in, head up and lift.

And à terre, and finish. Good, good, good.

OK, let's finish with reverence, yes?

OK. Tummies in, heads up. Thank you, maestro.

And right and plié.

And to the left and plié.

Finish, finish, proud, proud. Heads up.

Good. Well done. OK.

Remember it's finale concert. Go home, practise, yes!

Well done, sweetie. You were terrific.

We'd like a quiet word with Mrs Morgan.

Yes. Yes, of course.

Bye, Nina.

You misled us, didn't you, Nina?

Sorry?

You said you were expecting your husband's child.

But your husband had a vasectomy 15 years ago.

It's true, yes, during his first marriage.

So could you explain how you managed to become pregnant?

Things between Patrick and I were not good.

I went to London to a party, got drunk, met a man.

Hardly knew his name. I wanted child.

And Patrick believed your story about this one-night stand?

Yes. No. He suspected every man who ever came near me.

How did you know about vasectomy?

Our pathologist, Kate Wilding.

She's usually right about things.

I'm sorry I misled you, Inspector.

This is a murder inquiry, Nina.

When people lie to us, it makes us suspicious.

Thank you. There you are.

I'm sure she's lying about how she got pregnant, sir.

Is that your male intuition, Jones, or can you prove it?

Patrick's nearly 20 years older than her.

She married a meal ticket.

Probably got bored after ten years and went adrift on him.

Two 99s, please.

Or could be... biological clock ticking,

foetal attraction, all that?

Or she could've got pregnant accidentally with someone local.

There's Dr Markham, sir. He's also a member of the committee.

Let's check out his bedside manner.

Ah, Michael Hipsman, the pianist.

I didn't have a chance to check his alibi

for the time of the murder.

- Go and check it out with him. - Yes, sir.

Thank you.

- Mm. Thank you, Jones? - What?

- £4, please. - Four?

(noisy eating)

How long have you been Dr Markham's receptionist,

Ms Carter?

Since he moved here five years ago.

We met at the Ornithological Society.

And Nina Morgan is his patient?

Yes.

Are they any closer than that?

- How do you mean? - Oh, socially?

Personally?

I don't know.

You think they were carrying on behind Patrick's back?

Oh, I'm not sure what I think at the moment.

Oh, poor Patrick.

- Mrs Phillips. Thanks. - Thank you very much.

- Goodbye. - Bye-bye.

Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby, Causton CID.

- Dr Markham. - Uh...

Let's take a stroll in the garden.

You're a member of the Midsomer-in-the-Marsh

bird club committee, Doctor.

- Yes. - Forgive me.

I wouldn't have put you down

as the kind of dotty spotter

that I've recently encountered

running around here.

There are bird-spotters, there are twitchers

and there are ornithologists.

I'm of the last. I'm interested in avian memory paradigms.

The scientific study of the development

of neural pathways in avian brains,

especially for me in rare birds.

Can I ask you about Patrick Morgan? He was your patient?

He was on my list, but I rarely saw him.

Patrick thought illness was a character defect.

And Nina Morgan. You're aware that she's pregnant, I take it?

If she's told you that, I'd be happy to confirm it.

Bit of a miracle, really,

since her husband's matrimonial software no longer functioned.

He'd had the snip.

Where exactly are you going with this, Inspector?

I'm interested in what you know about your patients,

Patrick and Nina Morgan.

I was treating Mrs Morgan for depression.

Are you and Nina particularly close?

My relationship with her

has been and is entirely professional.

Can't be everybody's Doctor Zhivago, I suppose.

I didn't father her child if that's what you're implying.

Look, I do have patients waiting.

Of course, of course. Oh, one more thing.

You were you at the... the birders' club

the night Patrick and Ralph Ford had a blazing row.

Yes, and it might be more fruitful

if you turn your attentions in that direction.

Perhaps Patrick's death has nothing to do

with his wife's pregnancy.

Oh, indeed. We could be completely on the wrong track.

You know, our business is a little bit like bird-watching.

Wherever you look,

you're almost bound to find something interesting.

I'm sorry. I can't tell you anything more.

You'll appreciate that my duty

is to protect my patients' confidentiality

as well as to care for them.

(printer whirs)

Mr Hipsman?

(printer whirs)

(printer whirs)

Ah, Mr Hipsman.

I'm Detective Sergeant Jones, Causton CID.

Patrick Morgan was killed

on the night of the birders' club meeting.

I discussed all that with Inspector Barnaby.

He was murdered around midnight to be precise.

Where you were at the time?

I came home after the meeting,

which had been a bit bloody, as you know.

I had a glass of wine

and I played the oboe to wind down a bit.

Oh. Were you alone?

Yes, but I assure you I was there, at home, at midnight.

- You're certain about that? - Yes.

Because shortly after I finished playing,

I turned on the radio and the midnight news had just started.

Uh-huh. Well, that's all I need to ask you for the moment.

Fine. Oh, you're welcome to browse.

I have a very good crime fiction section.

I get enough of the real thing, thank you.

So, tell me more about Nina the ballerina.

- She's Russian, you said? - Yes, um, very chic.

Dancer's thighs. Bottom like an apple.

Oh, you noticed?

It's my job to take down her particulars.

Cheers.

So, her husband had a vasectomy, you said.

And when he married her, had he told her about it?

I don't know whether he'd told her or not.

- Why wouldn't he? - Oh, come on.

Do you tell a woman that you're dating, who's 20 years younger,

that you can't have children?

I bet he didn't.

You could be right.

Imagine trying for a child for ten years

and not knowing it couldn't happen.

No wonder she nipped off for a one-night stand.

I'm surprised she didn't kill him.

Maybe she did.

The female of the species can be more deadly than the male.

(growls)

It's OK, Sykes. We're all right.

"The female blue-crested hoopoe has multiple partners

and attacks the male viciously

in the nether regions after mating."

Well, that should stop them feeling frisky.

- Ouch. - Are you feeling frisky?

Will you attack me viciously

in the nether regions afterwards?

- Quite possibly. - You're on.

(whines)

The police have questioned me twice. They suspect me.

(man) Calm down, Nina.

I told them I have no idea who child's father is.

Then that's the end of the matter.

You must stop stressing. Your pulse is way up.

(Nina) Can you give me anything to help me sleep?

I can't handle this. I'm sorry.

(Markham) It's OK.

He had me and Sykes wandering

round and round that lake in circles.

Well, it's easy enough to get lost up there.

It's easier for some than others.

Thanks, Ben. See you later, John!

Bye!

- (barks) - Away, dog!

- It's Sykes. - Away, Sykes!

Away!

Basket!

Got him well trained, sir.

Anybody can train a dog, Jones.

As the dog whisperers say, there's only one rule.

You have to be cleverer than he is.

The council's planning department has confirmed

there's been a long-running dispute

over the wetlands shared by Napier and Morgan.

And Napier said something interesting to me about Nina.

- Right. - About her being a trophy wife.

- And feeling sorry for her. - So?

Well, he's unmarried, he lives alone

and he's glad to see the back of Morgan.

Look at this. A CD was delivered during the night.

No return address, no sender's name.

Dr Markham On a home visit.

The question is, who's feeding us these photographs and why?

(Jones) Those bird-watchers have got fancy cameras

and telephoto lenses.

Olivia Carter's interesting.

She was obviously carrying a torch for Patrick Morgan.

Oh! Oh... Oh!

You ever seen these photographs before?

No.

I never dreamt that something was going on between them.

Not till you asked me the other day.

Look at the hussy!

Patrick gave her everything a woman could want

and she appreciated none of it.

You worked closely with him as secretary

of the Ornithological Society, didn't you?

Patrick and I were... simpatico.

Birds of a feather?

He didn't tolerate fools gladly.

- Neither do I. - (phone rings)

Regardless of my feelings,

there was never anything between me and Patrick,

if that's what you think.

Nothing but respect. Excuse me.

Olivia Carter.

- There's something showing. - Where?

Third tree on the left. Fagus sylvatica Purpurea.

- Where? - Copper beech, ignoramus.

Shh!

Ooh! The way it's spreading its tail,

I'd say it was a yellow-rumped warbler.

No, it's twitching its tail.

It's a black-throated green warbler.

Ooh, ooh! Could be a Lucy's warbler.

It's got a rusty rump. It's not yellow.

No, it's a redstart.

- No, it's not. - (sneezes)

- (wings flap) - It's gone!

Sorry.

You... You seen anything else?

Certainly not a blue-crested hoopoe.

Well, maybe it's headed back to Uganda for a summer of love.

You sure it was a hoopoe you saw, Ralph?

Wasn't a trick of the light?

Best to be honest about uncertainty, Ralph.

What are you, my conscience?

I saw it. I've got the tick in my book.

- You want to argue about that? - No.

- You can just stuff it! - Shh.

- Oh, Ralph. Ralph. - Bugger off.

- Shh! - Ralph, don't slam the door!

(wings flap)

- (sighs) - He's unsquashable.

He's game as a badger. Oh!

- There you are, George. - Cheers.

(laughter)

Bloody twitchers ruining my drinking here.

All the gear and no idea.

- Yeah. - She's showing now!

(horns blare)

- What's all that about? - Some sort of birders' hotline.

They get one of them, whoosh, they're out before you know it.

Like somebody shouted "Fire!" in the cinema.

This what they're after?

Aye, that's it. Blue-crested hoopoe.

I could find me one of these

quicker than plucking a chicken.

Oh, yeah? Where?

Ah, that's for me to know.

Could be a nice drop of money in this.

Ralph!

Ralph, are you in there?

It's Dave Foxely.

Ralph?

(Jones) I haven't been to the ballet, sir.

Tights and tutus, not my thing.

Ballerinas are consummate athletes, Jones.

They've pushed themselves through the pain barrier

with ruthless self-discipline.

You think Nina's that ruthless?

Oh, there's a steel in her.

She's more than just beauty.

Be a cherry on anybody's cake.

Hmm, yeah, I was thinking of something rather more spiritual.

Something of the unattainable object of desire.

Out of my depth there, sir.

Jones, you'd be out of your depth in a puddle.

Come on.

Your surgery told us that you were on call.

Nothing serious, I hope?

Mr Horrocks is 97, alive beyond his natural span.

- Too many are these days. - Not Patrick Morgan.

Where did you get these?

Who took them? Have you been following me?

Somebody sent them to us anonymously. Any comment?

Mrs Morgan was stressed. She called me.

She wanted a sedative. She's been through real trauma.

- She needed to talk. - Tea and cuddles, was it?

She was upset.

Would you like to have a second think

about what you told me regarding how close you and she are?

No.

All right. I hated Patrick Morgan.

It wasn't personal. Everybody did.

But I'm not the father of Mrs Morgan's child,

or her lover... or Patrick's killer.

If you think I'm any of those things, you prove it.

Oh, don't worry, Doctor, if you are Patrick's killer,

I will nail you for it.

He could've acted alone,

or Nina could have been a willing accomplice.

- Talk to her now? - No.

I'm sure we'll get the same story from her as he's given us.

I wouldn't be surprised if he's talking to her right now.

Oh, God! You damn fool!

What's the matter, Ralph? Dodgy ticker, have you?

I'm not surprised, that nasty secret you've been sitting on.

What do you mean?

Well, you had a row with Morgan over that bird.

Now, if I tell the world what went on there,

you're in the sticky stuff.

You wouldn't do that, would you, Dave?

Rattle a few teacups round here, that, wouldn't it?

- Please, Dave. Please. - Don't worry, Ralph.

I don't rat on people, not even to the coppers.

I wouldn't do that to you.

Not if you made me an offer.

How's 50 squid for starters?

- 50? - Yeah.

It's enough for a few good swallows,

and I'm talking beers, not birds.

I'll meet you in the Feathers tonight.

- Bring the money. - I promise.

- But, listen, you won't... - It's all right, Ralph.

I'll stay quiet. That way we'll both make a killing.

Won't we?

Oh, God!

- Thanks. - Thanks very much.

Have you heard the latest, about Nina?

Nina. Nina.

- Nina. - Nina!

- I'm sorry it keeps happening. - You don't have to do this.

- You could cancel the concert. - No, no.

Patrick would have wanted it to go on. Thank you, Michael.

Thank you.

Have you heard the latest?

The police have got photographs of her and Dr Markham.

- What sort of photographs? - They've been at it.

Still, what do you expect? Russians.

Free love and all that malarkey.

Oh, give it a rest, Olivia.

She's got all you middle-aged buffers

gasping for it, hasn't she?

Leave it, Olivia.

She'll get what's coming to her. You mark my words.

You know, I thought at first Ralph had done it,

but, no, the police are onto her.

Oh.

So congenial and fun-loving, Olivia.

I mean, what's she so cranked up about?

Well, she worshipped Patrick.

That was never gonna happen, was it?

He always cold-shouldered her.

I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't her that did for him.

- What? - He spurned her, didn't he?

- Hell hath no fury, Michael. - Olivia certainly does, Tim.

Dad!

Ah, there you are. Come on.

Yes. Yes, don't worry. I'm on my way now.

Well, no. Try to stay calm, all right?

Be right there.

(whooshing)

What the...?

No. No!

Shotgun, double-clicked, close range.

Murder.

- We're agreed on this occasion. - Entry-level common sense.

And we have a precisely determined time of death.

Do we?

His watch was hit by gunshot.

It stopped at exactly two minutes after midnight.

Well, it saves me a job.

Same time of death as Patrick. Same kind of net.

- It's the same killer, sir. - Could be.

He received a call on his mobile at 23:45.

Number traces to a phone box outside the Feathers.

Someone lured him here with a false emergency call-out.

Sir?

He had his medical bag with him.

Michael Hipsman found the body, out for his morning walk.

- What was he doing last night? - Says he heard nothing.

Went to bed at 10:30. Slept right through.

Well, I suppose we can cross Dr Markham off the list.

It may still be the good doctor who killed Patrick Morgan

and now somebody else has disposed of him.

Dr Markham is father of my child.

- I'm sorry I lied to you. - Not for the first time.

He begged me to tell no one. He was afraid he'd be struck off.

You also lied to me about Patrick's vasectomy.

Did you know he'd had that done when you married him?

No. He kept it from me.

Ten years trying for child and all the time...

So how did you find out he was firing blanks

I believe is the expression?

After I found out I was pregnant,

I told Patrick child was his.

He said it couldn't be. Then he told me about vasectomy.

And how did that make you feel?

Sick to my stomach.

We had flaming row. I hated him at that moment.

- Enough to kill him? - No. I love Patrick.

But he fell in love with me when I was still prima ballerina.

He became obsessed with me from a distance.

Like an unattainable object of desire?

Yes.

After my injury,

he promised me new life,

with him, a family.

I loved Patrick, but now I realise

he just wanted to cage me here, trap me,

for himself, not for me.

And Dr Markham, was he committed to you

once you became pregnant, or did he back away?

Did he disappoint you as well?

Dr Markham gave me child I wanted.

Who kill him, Inspector?

Who is doing this to me?

She could have killed both of them

once she got what she wants, sir.

Oi! I thought Mr Morgan cancelled this wood.

Yeah, well, since he's turned up dead, Nina changed her mind.

Where were you last night around midnight?

I was in me caravan on me tod. I'd had a couple of six packs.

- Completely Schindler's. - Oh, yeah?

- Yours, I take it? - Yeah.

What, know which end of a gun goes bang, do you?

Double-barrelled, 12-bore, side-lock ejector, isn't it?

- Valuable gun. - Yeah, yeah.

Belongs to George Napier. Left to his father.

Used to be gamekeeper to Lord Midsomer.

Ah.

Oh! Oh!

Oi!

Whoops.

Well, at least it's safe now.

Cheeky sod.

Done a spot of shooting in your time have you, sir?

No. School cadet corps. Learnt all sorts of skills there.

Shooting, map-reading...

Oh, yeah. Your wife mentioned how handy you are with a map.

Did she?

(cuckoos)

Sorry I'm late. I've just seen a peewit.

Oh, sit down, Tim.

Now, let's get on.

(shutter whirs)

- Tim, really. - Sorry.

Come on, please.

Olivia, as committee secretary,

will chair this meeting in the absence of Patrick...

and Dr Markham.

Given the present tragic circumstances,

the annual year list cup competition has to be closed.

- Oh, fine with me. I win. - Oh, Ralph.

I've got 173 ticks, including the blue-crested hoopoe.

No, she means completely cancelled, Ralph. Null and void.

- No way. - (Tim) Come on, Ralph.

It's the only decent thing to do.

Don't be so pathetic. You're such a loser, Tim.

You're all losers. Sat here like tits in a trance.

Ralph, please, we've got to agree on this.

I'm reaching the end of my tether.

Tie a knot in it and give everyone a rest.

- Witter, witter. - Apologise, Ralph.

If anyone is mouthing off, it's you!

- No, I will not apologise! - You moron!

- Apologise! - I will not apologise!

The competition has two days to go.

It's a sprint to the finish

and you all know who the winner will be.

- The prize is mine! - No. No way!

Leave it! just leave it.

(arguing continues)

(Tim) No way, Ralph, no way.

We've run checks on all our suspects. All clean.

But Michael Hipsman's name came up

connected with an assault 14 years ago.

I'm waiting to hear back from the Met on that.

Could be something and nothing.

But we do have an interesting tie-in

just turned up from ballistics.

The cartridge cases you snaffled from Foxely's gun

match the cases found near Markham's body.

The firing pin and compression marks are identical.

Yes, sir. Now, we know Foxely was sweet on Nina.

So maybe he put Patrick out of his way.

And he could have found out about Nina and the doctor

and he's the one who sent us the photos.

- Cartridges. - (Foxely) You what?

- Cartridges. - What are you on about?

I'm asking you, how come cartridge cases from your gun

were found next to Dr Markham's body in Swansdown Woods?

Cartridges. The woods?

I go rook shooting all over them woods.

My spent cases would be as common as bird crap round there.

Did you kill Dr Markham, Dave?

Did you find out he was involved with Nina as well as you?

- Did you find out... - No way.

Yeah, she might have had an heart-throb,

but I wasn't the lucky one pleasuring her.

Perhaps you'd like to spend some time

pleasuring Her Majesty down Causton nick?

Look, you have got this all wrong.

I can help you. I know who did for Patrick Morgan.

Really?

- Who? - Ralph Ford.

He hated Morgan. Ralph, he's as nutty as a fruit cake.

- He's a liar and a cheat. - Is he?

Ralph and Morgan had this upset about this rare bird, yeah?

This... hoopee?

Well, Ralph did see it, and I know cos I saw it too.

Oh, you a closet bird-watcher now, Dave?

Yeah, whatever. Look, I shot a couple of rooks last week.

But this other bird fell to earth as well. It was strange.

It was sort of like a bluey-brown colour. A hoopee.

So I takes it to Ralph,

cos he buys any dead rare animals,

stuffs 'em, sells 'em on.

So Ralph was telling the truth

about spotting it?

Yeah.

Only after I'd shot it stone dead.

That's cheating, see,

cos they can't claim a tick in their book

if it's dead when they spot it.

Listen, you wanna get down Ralph Ford's workshop

and shake his tree, not mine.

That thing's eyes keep following me.

Don't turn your back on it, Jones.

Look at the teeth on that pike.

"Caught in Swansdown Lake."

- (yowls) - Oh!

This place gives me the creeps.

(clock chimes)

What's through there?

It's locked.

Maybe it's just a bit stiff.

I'd say definitely a blue-crested hoopoe.

And definitely dead, sir.

Like Patrick Morgan and Dr Markham.

Dead as... I don't know what.

(indistinct voices)

It's one thing if it's some sort of prize and you shot it

but quite another if...

- Hmm. - What are you doing here?

We've found a rare bird, Mr Ford.

A blue-crested hoopoe, I believe.

Yes. Yes, it is.

Dave Foxely told us everything.

You cheated by lying about seeing it alive.

That's my affair. What's it got to do with you?

We know you've told us one lie, Ralph.

How many more have you told us?

What do you mean?

Your phone was used

to lure Patrick Morgan to his death.

Look, I told you, it was stolen.

Can anyone confirm where you were around midnight last night?

No. I was here, working alone.

- Do you own a shotgun, Mr Ford? - What?

- Did you kill Dr Markham? - What? No!

I could never harm another living thing.

I mean, I couldn't.

I'm a vegetarian.

I don't quite see the relevance of that.

Well, I'm just saying, as a vegetarian,

I could never put a living corpse into my mouth,

chew its hacked flesh, swallow the juices of its death wounds.

We're not accusing you of eating him, Mr Ford.

I'm just saying that I could never harm, eat,

let alone kill a fellow creature.

You're surrounded by dead animals.

I told you, I don't kill them.

I stuff them and give them resurrection.

Life after death in all their glory.

- Bag up the bird, Jones. - Yes, sir.

Yes, all right, all right, you take it.

But, look, you don't have to tell everyone that I lied.

My tick?

I imagine it'll be all over Midsomer before long.

You'll have to take the shame, Mr Ford.

Well, Foxely was right about him. He's out of his tree.

All that stuff about vegetarianism.

Maybe he's got a point. Not everyone's capable of killing.

Could you wring a chicken's neck?

If I had to, yeah.

But you couldn't call me a killer for that.

A chicken could.

(owl hoots)

(church bell rings)

Here, here. We're coming to it.

- (gunshot) - There.

- (gunshot) - Two bangs in the distance.

Shotgun.

We've established the shots that killed Dr Markham

were fired at midnight.

Did you hear anything else last night?

Well, yes, about half an hour later

I thought I'd picked up the hoopoe.

Ooh-poo-poo! Ooh-poo-poo!

But it turned out to be...

(tuneful whistle)

The meadow lark.

(low drone)

What's that other sound after the bird call?

I'll whack up the ambience.

(distorted music)

That's just Michael playing his oboe.

Yeah, his cottage is right by the lake.

It echoes all round the woods whenever he plays.

Did you see anyone else out by the lake last night?

- No, no. No. - Do you own a shotgun, Tim?

Me? Yes, yes.

I do a bit of clay-pigeon shooting occasionally.

- I keep it locked away. - Good.

Mind if we take a look at it?

Well, actually, I'm... I'm running a bit late.

It's Aimee's ballet graduation class tonight.

It'll only take you a minute to get it.

It'll be very useful to us

if we could eliminate it from our inquiries.

Yes, yes, of course. Just hold on.

(oboe music from Swan Lake)

You said Michael Hipsman told you he was in bed by 10:30.

He did.

Then how come he's playing the oboe at half past 12?

Really?

All right. Yeah, thanks.

That was the Met, sir.

Remember Michael Hipsman's name

came up with a spot of previous?

Came to nothing.

Apparently he and three other musicians

were slightly worse for wear in Covent Garden,

a bit Brahms and Liszt.

He was questioned but not charged.

Right. Tim Whitley's gun has been recently fired.

Get it checked.

And first thing tomorrow go and ask Michael Hipsman

if he remembers playing the oboe in his sleep.

♪ Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy

(woman) Please!

(Barnaby hums)

Do I have to work to the sound of music?

- It's not, is it? - It's Swan Lake, Tchaikovsky.

And I've been listening to it all evening.

Sorry. I can't get the damn tune out of my head.

What are we having?

Um, how about a salad with some roasted Moroccan veg?

- (barks) - (Sarah) What brought that on?

Well, one of our suspects is a vegetarian taxidermist,

if that isn't a contradiction in terms.

So I suppose I'm trying some... method detecting.

(hums)

It's not his greatest ballet, is it?

You don't think so? Well, it's very Russian.

- Love, betrayal, death. - It's a bit dark.

Really?

There's dark and there's light in it.

The black and white swans,

the evil Odile corrupting Odette the innocent

and both drowning at midnight, with their lover prince

in a lake of tears.

You remember it very well.

Look at this.

We were checking this out this afternoon in the office.

Background for this case that we're working on.

Some video of Nina Kustanova at a gala performance.

Here. Here.

(cheering and applause)

(cheering and applause)

Hang on, hang on. I need to go back a few seconds.

When I looked at it before, I was focused on Nina, but...

- Of course. - What is it?

Come on, Jones.

Jones, where are you?

What do you mean, you're in bed? It's only quarter past...

Ah. Oh, I see.

Well, make your excuses, get your kit on,

and meet me at the station in ten minutes.

Sorry.

What about your roasted Moroccan veg?

I don't need it any more. Take Sykesy out for a burger.

(barks)

♪ Dance of the Little Swans

(cheering)

(church bell rings)

This is the recording that Tim Whitley made

on the night of Patrick's death.

Now, there's the church bell

striking midnight.

- (yell) - Then Patrick's cry.

- (splash) - And a little later the splash.

- Yes? - Yeah, I remember all that.

What else can you hear?

- Nothing. - Exactly.

I think we've got our killer. Come on.

You remember when Tim Whitley told us

about picking up the sound of the oboe

whenever Michael Hipsman played it,

and Michael Hipsman told you

that at the time of Patrick's death

he was at home playing the oboe.

But if he had been playing his oboe,

Tim Whitley's microphone would have picked it up.

But it didn't. There was nothing on the recording.

So he wasn't playing it at the time of Patrick's death.

No, he was lying. I think Nina's his next victim.

- Where to, sir? - Village hall.

(siren wails)

- Just keep turning it. Turn it. - What?

- Is Nina Morgan still here? - Oh, no, she's just gone.

Michael Hipsman's giving her a lift home. Her car's packed in.

Or someone tampered with it. Hipsman's place now.

He might have taken her there.

Listen, I'm waiting for the repair man.

It could just be the differential,

or perhaps the manifold's cracked or something...

Michael? Police! Check upstairs.

Yes, sir.

- This was in there. - He came here with her.

- All clear upstairs, sir. - Come on.

You two men get over to Swansdown House. Check it out.

I'll go with them, sir.

- Jones! - Sir?

Wow.

What's that?

It's a circlet, Nina's circlet,

from the ballet Swan Lake.

She threw it into the audience

at the end of her final gala performance

and Michael caught it.

And my guess is that now

Michael will want to destroy her.

When Odette, his innocent white swan,

was made pregnant by Dr Markham,

she became Odile, the corrupted, the black swan.

Both drowning at midnight with their lover prince

in a lake of tears.

The lake!

(Hipsman) It's OK.

It's all right.

(groans)

Get some back-up down here now.

(Hipsman) Don't worry.

We're nearly there.

You take the left. I'll go right.

If he gets her in this water, we'll never find her.

Just you and me, ballerina. Just you and me.

Michael!?

It's all right, my darling.

Let her go, Michael! Leave her!

Stay back! She's mine!

We found your... your shrine.

The feathered circlet that she threw into the audience on...

She gave it to me!

You were playing the oboe on her final gala performance

when she threw the circlet and you caught it, didn't you?

Caught it and kept it,

your little secret in your own

private little twilight zone.

And then when she left the ballet,

you followed her here, to Midsomer-in-the-Marsh.

To save her. To protect and rescue her.

- (groans) - From Patrick Morgan?

He didn't deserve her. I worshipped her!

- (Patrick) I'll kill you! - I promise you it's yours.

- No, that's impossible. - What do you mean?

I had a vasectomy 15 years ago.

- I cannot father a child. - What?

All the time you knew? You bastard!

Was it then you decided to kill Patrick?

- You did kill him, didn't you? - What?

- Stay still, Nina! - Keep away from me!

Michael, wait, wait!

Why did you send us those photographs?

You were trying to throw suspicion onto Markham.

But once you heard that Markham was the father of Nina's child,

well, he had to go too, didn't he?

No!

So you shot him.

You dropped those spent cases you'd picked up in the woods.

Cases from Dave Foxely's shotgun,

trying to implicate him as well.

You seem to know everything, Inspector.

It's my job, Michael.

Then you'll know why Nina has to die in the lake.

We'll both go down together, I and Odile.

No, Michael. She's innocent.

She's still Odette. She's still the white swan.

No! No! Look at her! The black swan!

We must drown together in a lake of tears!

Jones!

It's OK, Nina.

It's OK. You're OK. You're safe now. You're safe now.

- Need a hand? - No, sir, no.

No need for you to get yourself wet.

Watch out for the pike in there, Jones. Give you a nasty nip.

- Cheers, sir. - Cheers, Jones. Well done.

To a very rare bird.

To the beautiful Nina,

who for a moment there was almost a dying swan.

I didn't mean Nina.

- I meant our feathered friend. - Ah, of course. To her.

To the blue-crested hoopoe.

A very rare bird indeed.