All language subtitles for Dept.Q.S01E05.Episode.5.1080p.NF.WEB-DL.DDP5.1.Atmos.H.264-FLUX.en

Paul Evans?

Sorry, guys.
Whatever you're selling, I don't need it.

- Definitely can't afford it.
- We're buying, not selling.

- Sam Haig.
- What about him?

- You found him?
- Yeah.

He's a person of interest
in a case we're working on.

- Sam's dead four years now.
- Yeah, September 26th.

Woman named Merritt Lingard
went missing on the 27th.

- Okay.
- They were in a relationship.

What sort of relationship?

That's what we're trying to figure out.

Is it the adrenaline?
Is that the attraction, the danger?

No, it's not really like that. Um...

Climbing takes focus.
More like meditating.

Meditating by hanging on
by your fingertips?

Yeah. Suppose you can't understand it
unless you've done it.

- Any of these Haig?
- Yeah.

- Which one's Haig?
- Here.

Ooh.

Happy-go-lucky chap?

He was pissed off I took that picture.

- Can I have that?
- Sure.

Thanks. So tell us how you found him.

I went up there early one morning
to take some photos for the website.

That's when I noticed
Sam's car was in the car park.

How early?

Before the gate was open.

I had my own key,

but that meant that
Sam's car had been locked in overnight.

Any idea how he fell?
Outside that he let go.

I couldn't say.
Other than he broke my cardinal rule.

Never climb alone.

- And why would he do that?
- Don't know.

Maybe he'd been watching
too many Alex Honnold videos

and decided to free-solo the crag.

Yeah, like a fucking idiot.
Help yourselves.

Thank you.

So, what, he... liked to take risks?

Sam? His whole damn life was one big risk.

I think he preferred the word "adventure."

He shows up
saying he needed a distraction.

That he was bored with his routine
investigating murderers or whatever.

If you can believe that.

- Didn't like him?
- I liked Sam.

I just wasn't thrilled
about his friendship with Paul.

Why?

Well, he was a psycho.

- Chloe, come on.
- He was.

I wasn't remotely surprised he'd fallen.
Just relieved Paul wasn't with him.

You know he knew
you didn't like having him around.

- Yeah, 'cause he was always around.
- He was lonely.

You reap what you sow.

Meaning he was responsible
for his own death?

Meaning it was inevitable.

Look, I don't know if Sam was having
a relationship with this, um...

- Merritt Lingard.
- Yeah, this Merritt person.

But if it was personal,
he never mentioned it.

If it was professional,
there's no way he would've told me.

We don't know what it was yet.

Did he ever mention anyone?
Other friends, maybe?

Family? Girlfriend?

Well, he was lonely.

When he wasn't at work,
he was here or up on the crag.

Yeah, with Paul.

Okay.

I think we've taken up
enough of your time. Thank you.

Uh, how often did Sam climb the crag?

Once a week.

On any particular day, or...

Usually later on when it was less busy.

And how long
does it take to get to the top?

Uh, for Sam, 45 minutes.

- Longer if he was free-soloing it.
- Why longer?

You're more careful
when there isn't a rope.

- Thank you.
- Sure.

So he climbed
all the way up there without any ropes.

Doesn't exactly scream murder
so much as "What the fuck did you expect?"

There is at least a dozen signs stating
the hours of the park

and how the gate will be locked
and your vehicle will be unable to leave.

He ignored the signs.

Sam Haig fell on a Sunday.

We know
because he wasn't found until Monday

when Paul Evans saw
his car still in the car park.

Sam climbed here once a week.

The climb takes 45 minutes,
or an hour if you're free-climbing.

I get your point.

He knew he did not have time.
He knew the rules. Why did he do it?

Either he was a raving lunatic
like what's-her-name said

or someone chucked him off.

Again, why?

I don't know, but the answer lies
with whatever he was doing with Merritt

as opposed to here.

He didn't have his car keys.

Somehow his car is locked,
with his equipment bag still inside,

but no keys were ever found.

Not in the lockers in the climbing center,

not on his person,
not anywhere around here where he fell.

I won't argue. It's all wrong.

It's all obviously wrong,
as it was with Merritt.

Where I come from,
when facts are being so clearly ignored,

it's never because of incompetence.

La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la

La, la, la

La, la, la

La, la, la

- Sam Haig. Wasn't sure you'd come.
- I'm not staying.

- Oh?
- You need to stop bothering my PA.

- Sabrine said I was bothering her.
- I'm saying it.

Okay.

Not remotely interested
in talking to a reporter about my work.

Understood.

Well,

thank you for taking the time
to come by and tell me in person.

I might as well have something to eat.

Hear the onion soup's amazing.

You don't do profiles.

Not anymore, no.

- You cover organized crime.
- Yeah.

- Why would you want to write about me?
- I don't.

Like you said, you're not my thing.
The idea came up in a meeting.

I see.

It was my editor.

Saw a statement you made on TV,

the one about, um,
how nobody gets away with anything,

and I thought you might be
worth looking into.

- But not you.
- I did what I do.

- Found some interesting things.
- But?

But it's maybe the stuff
I couldn't find that's more interesting.

Like what?

Like your background.

- Mhòr in particular.
- What about Mhòr in particular?

You don't talk about it.

You talk about uni.

You talk about work.

I can't find anything
where you talk about... you.

Because I'm
the least interesting part of my life.

I wonder.

Unlike most people,
I don't curate my private life.

- Keep it private.
- You want to remain a mystery, I get that.

Hey, Sam.

Bullshit.

Let's cut the cute little boy act
and get to what's happening.

You think there's
something rotten in my department.

Something having to do with, say,
oh, I don't know, organized crime?

So that's why
you came to meet me in person.

You want to eyeball me.

Yeah, I'd do the same.

So is there?

Something rotten in Denmark?

I have no idea,

but if you're the one asking,

I bet you have one.

Your dad's a fisherman, right?

So you know that a boat
with a weak spot in the hull is

the same as a boat with a leak.

And in that awesome metaphor,
am I the weak spot or the leak?

Maybe you're just on a leaky boat.

You're the mystery.

- Am I?
- More like a phantom.

Byline in a bunch of headlines.
Lots of awards.

But...

no bio.

No social media.

No recent photos.

Camera makes me look fat.

Given who and what you write about,

I suppose
some level of caution is necessary.

Only if I want to continue living.

I can't be my own subject.

And in that regard,
you and I are in the same boat,

so to speak.

Enjoy your soup, Mr. Haig.

Hello?

Oh, hello.

Need some help?

Uh, yeah, that'd be lovely. Thank you.

Yeah, just...

- Where's it going?
- Just over there. Sorry.

- Jesus Christ.
- Ah, it's heavier than it looks.

Uh... Oh, it's the other way round.

Oh.

Okay, here we go. I'll just grab it.

- Oh.
- Yeah.

Oh.

- You got it?
- Yep, got it.

Yeah, cool, thank you.

- I'm looking for...
- Hold on.

Okay.

I'm looking for Carl.

With regard to...

Oh, we had an appointment,
which, of course, he missed,

so I'm here to tell him
how I feel about that.

And you are?

Rachel Irving. I'm working with HR.

- You're the cover for Dr. Sonnenberg.
- You should be a detective.

Well, I heard Carl say
you were very nice to look at, so...

Is that a urinal?

Is, um... is Sally coming back?

Uh, Dr. Sonnenberg.

I don't think so.

Were you seeing her?

Maybe for your OCD?

I'm not seeing her anymore.
I only saw her once or twice.

Mm.

Maybe a bit more than that,
but, um... no, that was a while ago.

She was nice.

I had a bit of PTSD.

Along with the OCD.

And some ADHD. BED.

Wow. Walloped by the whole alphabet.

Right in the bahookie, yeah.

Did the tennis balls help?

Not really, no,
but, uh, she seemed very keen.

- So...
- Mm.

Got a firm handshake now.

How are you feeling now?

Better.

I mean, not totally better.
I get the odd flashback, but, um...

- Yeah.
- It's all right.

Don't have to talk about it.

Thank you.

- Looks like a big case.
- Aye.

Thought he was exaggerating.

Uh, no, Carl doesn't really lie.

Not about the big stuff, anyway.
Just about himself.

Mm. That's the human condition, isn't it?

Protecting ourselves.

I find the human condition

to be more indecision,
disappointment, and depression.

What's your name?

Uh, Rose.

Well, Rose, we've only just met,
so take this as you will,

but maybe sitting in a dark basement
isn't the best place for you.

I think I met her once,

Merritt Lingard.

- On the job?
- No, at a party with an ex.

Lawyers. All know each other.

- What was she like?
- Guarded.

Well, I should get going.

If you do see Carl...

I was a passenger in a pursuit
when we hit a pedestrian.

Ferry Road? Pensioner?

I'm so sorry. I remember that.

Me too,

which is the problem.

Uh, what was your message for Carl?

Doesn't matter.

I mean, why bother? He'll just ignore it.

I think he feels responsible.

For what?

Everything.

Well, it was nice to meet you, Rose.

Oh, wow.

You weren't kidding about that handshake.

It's not that unusual.

Sam Haig met lots of his sources
in hotels of one sort or another.

Sure, but did any go missing after,
or in this case, the day after Sam died?

I obviously couldn't say.

Could he have been working
on a story with Merritt,

one that put her at risk as well?

If he was,
it'd be the first I've heard of it,

but that also isn't so unusual.

- But you were his editor.
- Doesn't mean I knew what he was up to.

Sam worked under the radar
for his own safety.

How did that work?

I spoke with him, but I rarely saw him.

He lived in the sticks,
used a burner phone.

I'm not even sure
Sam Haig was his real name.

We had what you might call
an arm's-length relationship.

Still, you must have known
what he was working on.

Not until he was ready to tell me.
Until then, he did his own thing.

- I assume he took notes?
- I'm sure he did.

But as to where he may have kept them,
I'm afraid that information died with him

and probably for the best.

- You weren't curious at all?
- I was damn curious.

And great effort was made
to locate any of his work product,

but nothing was found.

That itself is curious.

Again, not if you knew the sorts of people
Sam spent his time with.

Do you think one of them
shoved him off the cliff?

This may sound surprising
coming from someone like me,

but not everything is a conspiracy.

As Freud liked to say,

sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

And sometimes it's a big, throbbing...

Thank you very much for your time.

Thank you.

Thought I'd give you a call
so you can see our new home.

Yeah, that's right.

We're down in the fucking basement.

Lots of storage.

Mm. Helmets, need to remember them.

That's the big yin's desk,

Akram's desk,

and... my desk.

Ooh, over here, we have...
the bathroom unit.

Got some lovely showers,

a disgusting sink,

and some toilets
so horrendous the rats avoid them.

I had no idea
any of this stuff was even down here.

Before my time, I guess.

Can I have a tissue?

Look, I'm sorry
for falling all to pieces the other day.

- Thank you for setting me right.
- Is that the board?

Yeah. Do you want to see it?

No, I wanna see more urinals.
Yeah, I fuckin' wanna see it.

What's the cormorant?

- The what?
- The cormorant, the bird on the hat.

Oh. No, that's a boobrie.

Is it fuck. It's a cormorant, a real bird.

Not some fucking myth that lives
in lochs and eats otters and shit.

- There's a bird that eats otters?
- Not a real one. It changes shape.

Sometimes it's a giant insect
that sucks blood out of horses.

- Really?
- Really.

That's not a boobrie. It's a cormorant.

But how do you know?

'Cause I'm a fucking fisherman. Or I was.

What's it doing on the board?

Whatever type of bird it is,
I think maybe it ate Merritt.

What?

William Lingard twice saw
someone wearing that hat.

- Once on the boat and once at home.
- At home?

Apparently,
someone was prowling around the house.

- Why "apparently"?
- William isn't exactly communicative.

So he drew this one
after he escaped from Egley House

and this one right before she disappeared.

Can you do me a favor, pal?

Can you scan both sides
and send it over to me?

Okay.

Inspector. Uh, Dennis Piper.
I was at your press conference.

Lucky you.

- I wondered if you heard the news.
- What news?

About P.C. Anderson's fiancée.
The officer killed in Leith Park.

I know who the fuck he was.
What about his fiancée?

She had her baby today. A wee girl.

Care to comment?

Yeah. Fuck off.

No message for her? How about an apology?

She blames you, Morck.
Says it should have been you who died.

Well, maybe it should.

Carl.

Carl's not down here.

I know, ma'am. He took some personal time.

Of course he did.
Walk me through all of this.

I should probably let D.C.I. Morck...

Just walk me through it.

Right.

Well, along with determining her movements
in the weeks before she disappeared,

we are trying to get a sense
of who Merritt Lingard was.

And who was she?

She was... controversial.

So, basically, you don't have much?

Not yet. We don't.

There was a...
an incident at the Lingard house.

An incident?

Apparently.

A young man
who was squatting there with two females

was admitted to hospital
with a crushed windpipe.

- Well, it sounds painful.
- Knock it off.

I didn't crush his windpipe.

I didn't say you did.

I meant I didn't crush it.
I only bruised it.

I could have, of course, have crushed it,

but then he wouldn't
have been able to talk.

Where'd you learn such techniques?

I grew up in a very rough part of Syria.

Isn't it all rough there these days?

Some of it is very beautiful.

You understand that you're not in Syria.
You're not a policeman.

- Yes, ma'am.
- You're here to assist Carl.

And... it's a real pleasure.

If anything should happen
while you're out there playing policeman,

bruising but not crushing people's necks,

there'd be hell to pay,

for all of us.

Of course, ma'am. I understand.

Good. Keep me informed.

Fucking hell.

Don't know who's doing your PR.
I'd be asking for a refund.

Here we go.

There's some good surgeons here.
One of them could sew your mouth shut.

Tell you what, how about instead,
"Carl, you fucking legend, thank you"?

"Thank you, thank you,

for my brand-spanking-new
fucking computer."

"Hey, anything for you, Hardy.
You're welcome."

It's interesting
you got Rose to deliver it.

She's in a funk.
You two are thick as thieves.

She's in a funk 'cause you're a cunt.

There's meds for that.
I'm in the right place.

- She just wants to impress you.
- Unlikely.

- Maybe fake it once in a while.
- You were always better at that.

I was better at everything.

Right, first of all...

this is a cormorant.

I'll take your word for it.

- What do we make of it?
- We think it's a logo.

- No shit, Sherlock. For whom?
- Nothing's turned up.

For me neither.

Oh.

What a relief it is to know
that you're checking on my work.

More like doing it.

I have a motive
as to why someone might have taken her.

- She and Haig were poking the wrong bear.
- Different motive.

Hit me.

It's the universal motive
for all crime throughout human history.

- Love?
- Money.

Go back to your birds
because that family were broke.

Jamie Lingard was broke.

Lila Lingard, née Lila Graham, was rich.
Her family had money.

Money from where?

Centuries of dead relatives.
This is Britain, after all.

I gather you traced the card
that she paid for the hotel room with.

- You gather correctly.
- And?

It's linked to a trust account
in the Channel Islands Bank on Jersey,

where sadly the trail,

much like the money
of the wealthy cunts there, vanished.

Your brilliant motive is
someone took Merritt

in order to somehow steal her money?

Wicked, Watson.

- Good morning, James.
- Dr. Loo, is it Wednesday already?

No, but your most recent MRI
was so promising,

I thought I'd add a session.

- Shite.
- Like lying in bed all day?

Yeah, his favorite things happen in there.

Who are you? What are you doing here
interrupting my session?

Carl, my ex-partner.

- Ah, didn't know you were gay.
- Police.

You should've said
"partner in the police," then, yes?

These days, you have
to help people parse these things.

What's the deal with the rehab?

The doctor said
he was as far as he's gonna get.

Well, aren't you
just a ray of bloody sunshine?

I, too, am a doctor,
and as I told James last month,

his other doctor doesn't know him
as well as I do,

and therefore doesn't know that he may,
in fact, be able to walk again.

- May.
- Depends on how James continues to heal.

- Which so far has been encouraging.
- So far.

- How long's this been going on?
- Not long.

I like to start within days of surgery.

Days? Oh, okay.

One waits too long
and the body forgets itself.

These four months of rehab
have been productive.

When Dr. Loo says rehab,
what she really means is

watching me fall over
and me cursing her every fucking day.

I don't laugh, and you don't curse,
or you know what happens.

- Hey.
- Oh, progress.

You can feel that, yeah?

Wee bit.

You can leave.

Yeah.

Cheery-bye, well.

Feel free to beat the shit out of him.

Carl, Moira wants to see you.

Mm-hmm.

- Did you hear what I said?
- Yeah, and she saw me.

So it's very often
the most boring, insignificant detail

that leads to a solution.

The mundane or a break from the mundane.

Four years gone,
it's difficult to reconstruct

the details of a person's life,

so we gravitate towards
the events right before the crime.

But in this case,

we need to look further back...

- Fuck's sake, Carl.
- ...and look at...

Save your lecture on criminology.
You're sending me to sleep.

Get to the point. Merritt's money.

It's called being a mentor.

Aye, you're doing a bang-up job.

Okay.

What does everyone think
about Hardy's "Merritt had money" theory?

We know she had a trust fund.

We know she was drawing money
from the trust up until she disappeared.

We don't know
what happens if Merritt dies.

But we can guess it all goes to William.

- A lot of fucking guessing.
- You're not helping.

And could you sit up, for Christ's sake?
You look like a fucking severed head.

Are you a wee bit upset
I didn't tell you about rehab?

- I wasn't upset.
- Looked like you were gonna cry again.

Fuck off. You could've said something.

Had an enema. Should I have told you that?

Yeah, 'cause it would have cheered me up.
The troll thinks that you can walk.

She thinks I can move.
There's a wee difference.

Still, would've been nice to have known.

If William couldn't manage
the trust, then who would?

It would've been managed
by his legal guardian.

She told you she was his legal guardian.

- She did.
- Wait, who's "she"?

- In those exact words.
- In those exact words.

- Where are we going? Who is "she"?
- I'll tell you in the car.

Do I win?

Hello?

Alice, come on in.

Make yourself comfortable.
I won't be long.

- You have cobwebs.
- Technically, they're not mine.

A spider could drop from the ceiling
onto one of your patients.

Potentially.

I heard they're good luck
when they're crawling in your hair.

Ah, no. I... I don't think that's true.

So... I assume you've seen the paper?

- I tried to warn you.
- Aren't you supposed to be helping?

The man has to be here for me to help him.

- What?
- He was a no-show yesterday.

Jesus, Carl.

I'd love to rubber-stamp him
and send him on his merry way.

If something happens,
I'll get blamed for cutting him loose.

He's already loose.

That's on you, not me.

It was a goodish idea
keeping him in the basement

'cause letting him out in public
with all that anger...

He's already assaulted a journalist.

That was more of a shove.

What happens when he shoves a suspect?

Or a colleague?

What if he turns on himself?

Carl's a lot of things,
but he'd never do that.

Are you sure?

You're relying on this loophole

about cold cases
not being active duty, but...

it's bitten you in the bum, hasn't it?

Maybe it's a personality clash.

- How do you mean?
- Him not coming.

After all, not every therapist is
right for every patient.

That's very true.

So, it's possible Carl might respond
better to a different therapist.

He might.

I'd suggest you shop around.
See who he clicks with.

Knowing Carl, I'm sure he'd love to go
on that journey of discovery.

I'm just trying to be pragmatic.

Not my circus, not my monkeys,
as they say.

Tell him I said tatty-bye?

- D.C.I. Morck to see Doc Wallace.
- I know who you are.

You can't go up there.

Let them do their job, please.
Buzz Dr. Wallace.

- I don't believe we have an appointment.
- We don't.

Might wanna close the door, Doc.

Are you going to tell me
what this intrusion is about?

Sit down,

please.

Why do you allow William Lingard
to stay here gratis?

I don't allow him anything.

It's an arrangement where he gets a home

and I get to observe his condition
in more conducive surroundings.

- And by conducive, you mean comfortable?
- Certainly.

No one flourishes in a warehouse,
which is what most institutions are.

William?

Ah, you must have collated
an awful lot of data

over the four years he's been here.

Quite a bit, yes.

I hasten to add that William's condition
has improved significantly as well.

You said his condition was deteriorating.

I think you may have misheard me.

St. Moritz. Nice.

William.

You said you had the power
to prevent me talking to William

on the grounds
that you were his legal guardian.

That's true. I am.

What does that mean, exactly?

It means, simply put, I make
all the decisions that affect his life.

Such as how best to, um...

allocate his finances?

I'm not sure I follow you.

And I'm sure you do.

- I'm not sure I like what you're implying.
- What's that?

That I'm somehow stealing money
from one of my patients, which is absurd.

Very nice piece.

- What's happening?
- This man is not well.

You need to leave now.

- Police. We're here to check on him.
- I don't care. Neither of you can be here.

What is wrong with him?

Fucking hell.

As legal guardian,
even with power of attorney,

I'm only allowed to contact the trustee.

I have no reason to be

because I provide
for every aspect of William's care.

Except the trustee, in this case,
has been missing for four years.

Which is why the bank appointed
a lawyer to act as the trustee.

Yeah, the Bank of Jersey.

Wherever it may be, yes.

- Rose, help me.
- Absolutely not.

- I was not asking you for permission.
- Mm.

Listen, my friend,
it's best you step aside.

Thank you.

- Right.
- Let's turn him over.

- Okay.
- Careful.

Say I search this office.

What do you think the chances are...

...there might be a checkbook
or bank card in William Lingard's name?

Zero chance.

Because you're not going to search
this office, not without a warrant.

That's a funny old answer.

Meaning?

Meaning you could've just said "zero."

As someone with power of attorney,
I'm entitled to hold those documents.

Yeah, but you told me
you pay for William's care

in exchange
for the vast knowledge he's giving you.

I'm making a point that there are rules.

If I were withdrawing money
from William's trust,

I'd need to account for every expense.

Yeah, such as the annual service
on a 2024 Mercedes SLC 250D.

That would trigger an immediate audit.

But go ahead, have your fun.

With no family to complain,
not much chance of anybody noticing.

There's a large chance
of the bank noticing.

There are systems that alert them
if anyone goes over the allotted limit.

How many of your patients are
only children from old money?

Okay, you can leave now.

You're worse than impertinent.
You're being scurrilous.

How'd you think
it'll sound to a prosecutor

when they hear that not long
after Merritt Lingard disappeared,

you showed up, whisked her brother away,
and then started spending his money?

Get out.

And when the fine folk
in your world find out,

oh, fuck me...

...you're done.

- I'm done?
- Mm-hmm.

Do you have any idea
who I know in your world?

Uh, no,

and I don't give a shit,

so you can save this righteous indignation

for your trial, okay?

- They've got him drugged.
- He's fine.

- He's just been sedated.
- What for?

Sometimes if he's agitated, we give him
a small dose of Thorazine or Haldol.

Sometimes? Or right before we turned up?
How many other patients you got doped up?

They all are.

Fuck.

Where's William?

- Get him in the car.
- I don't think you have the author...

No.

- No.
- You're in enough trouble.

I don't think you planned it.

My guess is it probably just evolved
as you looked after William.

One of those things that once you started,
once you got a taste

for how easy it was to get that money,
you couldn't stop.

And then, like most embezzlers,

you sleep like a fucking baby at night
by telling yourself you earned it.

I'd like to speak to my lawyer.

I cannot stress to you
how much I don't wanna regret this, okay?

Now, didn't pack anything,
so he's gonna need a toothbrush and a t...

Jasper!

Was that Jasper I just saw?

It was.

Said he needed a few essentials,
but the only essential I saw was a bong.

Why didn't you ask him to wait for me?

You asked me repeatedly
to mind my own fucking business.

Not when you can see
there's a hand grenade about to go off.

- Well, fear not. The flat did not explode.
- I was talking about Jasper.

I got the metaphor.

Bad day at the office?

Fuck off.

Go on, stick your choo-choos back on.

Wait. I live here too.

As if I need reminding.

- I'm allowed to be concerned.
- I'm allowed not to care.

You need to deal with some stuff.
You can't keep putting things off.

Says the man in his fucking eighth year
of a PhD on Wittgenstein.

It's Kierkegaard, you arse.
Do you never listen?

Maybe you should
because one of Søren's big themes

is why we get up in the morning.

A specific one, just for us.
Our own truth.

- Want to know mine?
- Not remotely.

I love my life.

Got my studies,

bit of work,

friends, hobbies.

How about you?

If you've got friends and hobbies,
why the fuck are you always here?

I'd love one, thanks.

Good throw, arsehole.

And for your information,
I've been going to a life drawing class.

Even met a lovely woman there.
Portuguese or maybe Brazilian.

We've been flirting.
Well, I've been flirting.

Her English isn't very good. Still...

Point is, I think you need
to find your own truth, Carl.

For everybody's sake, but mainly mine.

Finished?

I think I preferred it
when you were quoting Yoko.

Oh, piss off, Carl.
Think about what I said.

Oh, Jesus.

Don't fall asleep on the couch.
You'll wake up more depressed.

- Where are you off to?
- The laundry.

Before it closes.

Do your laundry in your own fucking time.
There's actual police work to be done.

It's not my laundry. It's Merritt's.

I'm doing what you told me to do.
Looking at the boring and the mundane.

Meaning what?

You'll think it's stupid.

Oh, I'm sure I will.

But tell me anyway,
or I'll give you the boot,

and you can resume your prior role
as merry-andrew to the cunts upstairs.

Jesus, Carl.
You can't just say things like that.

What, "merry-andrew"?

No, "cunt."

Want to use it at the pub, fine,
but you can't bandy it about at work.

- There's rules.
- It's good enough for Chaucer.

Except this isn't Old England,
and you're not fucking Beowulf.

Beowulf? Chaucer wrote
The Canterbury Tale...

Just tell me, Wife of Bath.

I went again through Merritt's
receipts and credit card statements.

But this time, I went back for a year,
and I saw a pattern. Or a kind of one.

The shops she went to were
close to the Crown Offices,

which makes sense because there's not much
where she and William were living.

It made sense that, after work,

she'd do the shopping
or errands before she went home.

But it stood out to me
there was one place that she went to,

a laundry near the Cowgate

that wasn't really near the Crown Offices.

At first, I thought,
"That's not so weird."

Merritt would be particular
about where she took her clothes

because they were so nice.

She'd have her trusted place

where they know
how to look after nice things.

But this place wasn't that type of place.

She only went once, as far as I can tell,

whereas she went lots of times
to a posh place near the offices.

The statements show
she'd been going there for years.

What was she doing at this other place?

Oh, and it was only a week
before she disappeared.

Take Akram with you.

Cool.

Um...

I'm D.C. Dixon. This is D.C. Salim.

Are you the proprietor?

Aye.

- Are you Shirley Atkins?
- What is this about?

I have a receipt from four years ago.

I was wondering if you might be able
to tell me about the customer.

I'll look, but I doubt I could help.
I don't even keep records for that long.

What is this?

- You know bloody well I know who this is.
- Sorry...

Honestly think
I'd help you look for this bitch?

After what she did to my Kirsty?

- You knew Merritt?
- I wish I'd never fucking met her.

- She was a customer?
- She was never a customer.

She came here to apologize to me and Keith
but lost her fucking nerve.

Danny, Kirsty's brother,
was working that day.

She took one look at him

and pretended
that her coat needed dry-cleaning

and got the hell out.

You say she left her coat with you.
Have you still got it?

Are you kidding? I fucking burnt it.

- What was she apologizing for?
- Why don't you go ask my daughter?

Kirsty, you said her name was.
Um, where can I find her?

Inside Pentlands.

The prison?

Where they put her after Merritt Lingard
nearly got her killed in Saughton.

P.C. Mark Gilbey.

You remember him?

- Should I?
- My first partner.

He was on call.

A disturbance outside a pub.

It looked like nothing
until there was a knife.

Then Mark was on the ground
in a pool of blood.

He survived, but...

he left the job.

I'm not sure
what we'd have done different,

but I felt guilty all the same.

Still do.

But I've never wished it had been me.

I didn't say that. Not exactly.

You kinda did.

You all right, Carl?

Seems to be a matter of opinion.

Well, I had no shortage of them today.
There's a few people round here who worry.

- I'm fine.
- Uh, not about you.

- About their reputations.
- It was a...

journalist looking for a story.

I overreacted.

They want you stood down.

- I thought that was your shout.
- It is.

Which puts me in the firing line
for any further disasters.

Not letting them get to you, are you?

Don't presume, Carl.

We go back,
but right now, that's an argument

for listening to those opinions
rather than ignoring them.

You put me
in that fucking basement for a reason.

Yes.

I'd like you to do your thing quietly,
without bothering me.

Out of sight, out of mind,

while I do someone else's
dirty work, yeah?

What dirty work exactly is that?

Why did you assign Merritt Lingard's case
to Fergus Dunbar? Hm?

I would imagine
on the account of him being up next.

- Why'd you ask?
- You said yourself it was high profile.

Had all the earmarks
that your betters get all tingly about.

That calls for someone good.

- Fergus ran a solid investigation.
- If it was so solid, why'd you pull him?

There were no more leads, it went cold,
and I needed him elsewhere.

Elsewhere. Hmm.

- Out of the building?
- That was his choice, not mine.

I liked Fergus.

Just like that,
everybody forgot about Merritt Lingard.

- Not everyone.
- So what, then?

Phone call, middle of the night?
Someone tell you to shut it down?

I'm the first woman ever to do this job,

and that's important to me, yes,

but it's also important
for anyone who comes after me.

So you went along with it

so you didn't jeopardize
your important fucking position?

That's not what I'm saying at all.
I'm no fucking coward.

I push when I have to push,
and you fucking well know that too.

- Need I remind you...
- No, you need not.

...that I have saved your bacon
on more than one occasion.

In here, out there.

You made a mistake back then.
Bad call, fucking whatever.

Now you want me to fix it.

Now I would like you to solve the case

without being bounced
for being fucking psycho.

- Is that possible?
- Depends.

Got my back or not?

If you have to ask me that,
you've not been listening.

And for Christ's sake,
stop saying drippy rubbish

like "It should've been me."

Hi, Kirsty. Uh, take a seat.

Is this some kind of a stitch-up?
Here to fuck up my parole?

- No.
- 'Cause I'm out in six weeks.

You're a model prisoner.

I fucking well am.

- Gonna go back to the laundry?
- Had enough laundry, thank you.

I'm getting as far away as I can.

Start all over?

Disappear.

You're afraid.

Be an idiot otherwise.

Who attacked you at Saughton?

Seeing as the first thing they did
was stab me in the eye, I couldn't say.

Merritt Lingard disappeared
not long after.

Aye, I had her killed.

- Payback for nearly getting me killed.
- Really?

Hired a hitman
who followed her onto a ferry

and threw her over.

Well, that solves that.

You're welcome.

What?

I've found there are times

when people want to scare someone
to be quiet.

And there are times
when they skip that part

and make them quiet.

Okay.

I look at you and your injuries.
I can see you were not meant to be warned.

You were meant to be killed.

This is not new information to you.
You are sensibly afraid.

You know something.

You told Merritt
in hopes of getting an early release,

but something happened.

Fucking yeah, something happened.

She fucking bailed on me.

What was the information?

There's no way I testify in court.

No way I admit to have seen anything.
I won't make that promise ever again.

I don't blame you.

Okay?

I was in a women's refuge for a while.

Before I got arrested.

I met this woman.

She wasnae there long,
but we got quite pally.

She said her husband tried to kill her.

He fucking gave her a beatdown.

Left her with black eyes and broken ribs.

He fucking broke her cheekbone.

She was convinced that he'd find her
at the refuge, so she left,

and I never saw her again
or even thought of her...

until her face was all over the news.

What for?

That case Lingard had.

The husband that killed his wife. Finch?

The woman was his wife.

Andrea Finch.

Deal was I'd testify
about Andrea at the refuge

and get early release.

But last minute,
that bitch changes her mind...

saying that I couldn't testify

on account
of someone like me wasn't credible.

Only there's word out there
that I've been talking to her,

so I call her...

and I tell her...

I'm not safe.

I'm getting threats.

Wait, who came for you?

These two bitches.
Fucking lifers, the both of them.

They walk in waving their shanks,
saying I pissed off somebody heavy.

- Who paid?
- I don't fucking know.

They get 500 quid on their commissary
and a name in their laundry bag.

But why go after you for information
that no one even knows you have?

There's people in here that know Finch,

and they know that I've talked to you,
so now you have to help me.

What did Merritt do?

- Where are you calling from?
- My cell.

On a smuggled phone?

What fucking difference does it make?
I told you.

I told you there's nothing I can do.

You fucking bitch.

Are you high?

I'm fucking terrified.

Are you high?

What do you expect me to do?

Oh, Jesus Chr...

She hung up.

What was I supposed to do?

You left me hanging.
You wouldn't let me use Kirsty's evidence.

She was not going to help you.

She would've made it worse, in fact.

Kirsty Atkins has been stabbed.

Oh, God.

Uh...

- How bad is it?
- I don't know.

She's, uh... alive, but she's in a coma.

Look, Kirsty's life has been the result
of a multitude of shitty choices,

none of them having
anything to do with you.

Well, tell that to her family.
They'll find that very comforting.

The first took out her eye,
the other punctured her lung,

along with another that missed her heart
by just a few millimeters.

Three wounds only. Two hit their mark,
while one of them was right close.

If it hadn't happened in prison,
I'd say a professional did it.

Where do you think
all the professionals are?

Sam Haig speaking.

- Kirsty!
- Hello?

Okay.

- Merritt?
- I'll talk to you.

Tell me where and when.