Original subtitles

May I suggest some restraint?

Restraint? You mean don't throw him down the stairs?

One of these days, I'll get you drunk, and you'll tell me about your old job.

I don't drink.

Sam Haig.

He's with the Scottish Telegraph. Attended the Finch trial.

- Every day. - No, don't know him.

He and Merritt spent Thursday afternoons in a hotel room.

Mm, she didn't introduce us.

Even close as you said you were?

We didn't discuss her personal life, remember?

Well, we believe they were working on a corruption case together.

What sort of corruption? And where?

Something that connected Graham Finch and Kirsty Atkins.

- Kirsty Atkins? - Potential witness.

You wouldn't allow her to testify in the case.

And why wouldn't I?

We were hoping you'd tell us.

I have no recollection of this... Kirsty Atkins

or what she may or may not have to say in the case.

I suggest you ask Liam Taylor.

We did. He said to ask you.

We know that Kirsty told Merritt that she'd testify

that she'd met Finch's wife a year before in a woman's refuge.

The wife being there on account of Finch beating the shit out of her.

So this will have been not particularly helpful information... for Finch.

Then why wasn't she brought in?

Kirsty was a, uh, prolific offender and long-term resident of Saughton Prison.

So not necessarily credible.

It's our understanding Merritt thought differently.

Soon after their conversation,

Kirsty was jumped.

So someone thought she was credible enough.

So again, our question would be,

why wasn't she called?

I have no recollection of this individual. I can only comment generally.

And with an individual like that,

a jury sees someone who wants to get out of prison.

In a few weeks, she'll be fresh out of prison, missing an eye,

with several dozen scars from a shanking while in protective custody.

- Does he ever speak? - Not if I can help it.

This attack would've been around the time you told Merritt she couldn't use Kirsty.

I have to take your word,

because once more, I have no recollection of any of this.

But you agree, to make this happen,

Finch would've needed friends on the inside.

Morck, you are truly, as advertised, out of your fucking mind.

Why would I ever help out someone like Graham Finch?

He wasn't a random husband

who threw his half-pissed wife down the concrete stairs.

He had money. He had juice.

Finch was a long-time wrong guy with his own long-time connections.

He had no need for any of my help.

Merritt would've come to you if she wanted to call Kirsty.

Is there a record of Merritt wanting to call Kirsty?

- Why are you so certain of all this? - I believe Kirsty.

The serial drug offender who wants out of prison.

What about the, uh... journalist that Merritt was supposedly working with?

He's dead.

Had a bad fall the day before Merritt disappeared,

which, if you're keeping score,

means that's one dead, one alive, one disappeared

within a week after Merritt came to you with a witness who could put away Finch.

Okay, Morck.

You got me.

I'm owned by Graham Finch.

I assume he pays me in gold coins or something.

No, sir.

We think you were threatened by him, indirectly.

Your daughter, Julia,

she was run off the road during the trial.

She, in turn, struck and seriously injured another man. It was all very messy.

A father never stops thinking of all the ways

that harm can touch what he cares about.

For any man, this is a weakness.

May I ask, sir, how do you know that Kirsty Atkins is a drug offender?

Well, you said so.

No. D.C.I. Morck said she was a prolific offender. That's all.

Well, it seems the only person who can help us prove any of this

is dead.

Well, we are not certain that Merritt is dead.

You'd better hope she is.

Thank you for your time.

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

La, la, la

La, la, la

La, la, la

You're the only one I can talk to.

What about Alison? Mia, Jenna? That lot?

They're too fuckin' high and mighty.

"High and mighty." You sound like my fuckin' mum.

Stop it.

They're the right words, all right?

Yeah, they'll talk to William, but I'm too scary.

You are... very fucking scary.

Aye, fucking right I am.

I like talking to you though.

- I can say almost anything. - Almost?

What can't you say? Give an example.

- I can't give you an example. - Why not?

Because if I could say it to you, I'd say it.

Good point.

What's so funny?

Lyle. What the fuck?

Mum told me to tell you she needs you at home.

Okay, you told me. Now fuck off.

She told me to drag you out of here.

Like that's gonna fucking happen.

Smells like sex.

As if you'd know.

Your da's here.

- Fuck. - It's okay. Just leave it.

- Hey, Harry. - You win?

Eh, nah, not today. We could've used you though.

I'm retired.

- You're Lyle Jennings. - Mr. Lingard.

You're not here to burn the place down?

Da.

No, sir. I'm just here to pick up Harry. Our ma needs him.

- She's awake, is she? - We're just leaving.

Aye.

Lyle.

See you tomorrow.

What did I say about Harry Jennings being in the house when I'm not?

- Ah, he's not so bad. - I'm talking to your sister.

Me and Harry,

we like each other.

- Harry and I. - In fact...

we love each other.

- Like Romeo and Juliet? - Whatever.

- He's not gonna be back anytime soon. - You missed your brother's game.

William doesn't care if I go to his stupid games. Do you?

- Only if you want to. - See? Doesn't care.

- That's not the point. - What is the point then? Family?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

Do you mind?

Detective Morck.

Didn't recognize you.

You're not in your shitty car outside my office.

Be glad I'm not sitting in your office.

Yet.

How you doin', Robbie?

Do we know each other?

I've seen you on the telly enough to feel like we do.

I suppose I could say the same.

Like all good advocates, I assume you turn away

when your client kicks his ball out of the rough.

Are you here to harass Mr. Finch, Detective?

If so, can we at least have lunch first?

It's all good, Robbie.

Detective Morck's just here to apologize for a misunderstanding.

It was an accident, was it, that your...

trained cockroach slimed all over a 17-year-old kid?

It was. He was supposed to slime all over you.

I'm very sorry.

I have to say you tooled up Fritz pretty good.

I got the feeling Fritz enjoyed it.

Aye. You made his day.

You have my apology. Was there anything else?

Well, yeah.

Do you mind, Detective? Those are very expensive clubs.

Here's the thing.

You can't be tried again for the murder of your wife.

So hats off there, Advocate.

But what I can get you for

is paying for the botched hit on Kirsty Atkins.

The botched what on who?

Let's just not.

What do you say?

What do you say, Detective? You leave Mr. Finch to have his lunch.

You have proof?

I have your other paid cockroach, Ed Solomon,

who scraped Fritz off the fuckin' pavement and drove him to hospital.

- Who now himself is in hospital, I'm told. - Yeah.

Yeah, with a broken leg.

Well, it's a good job he doesn't need his leg to talk.

Quite the conversationalist, Ed.

Turns out he's got a number of texts and voicemails from you

that are fucking hilarious.

Hilarious if you're not you.

- Or your lawyer. - Such as?

"Gabby says he can put you in touch with a couple of dykes at Saughton

who can cut one of her fucking eyes out and make her eat it."

As she was threatening to testify against you,

that's both metaphoric and symbolic.

Detective, I think we can end this little interview now.

Now, we assume that this Gabby

is a fellow traveler in your world of fuckery,

but what we don't know

is who told you about Kirsty in the first place.

Detective Morck.

Wasn't Stephen Burns by any chance?

Maybe right after Ed or Fritz ran

his daughter's car off the fucking motorway.

If you want to talk to Mr. Finch like this,

you can either make a formal charge or you can go.

- This is a private golf... - Fore!

You might wanna go and pick that up.

I beg your fucking pardon?

You can beg all you like.

On you go, Robbie.

Promise not to admit to anything while you're away.

Kirsty gets out next month.

I'll send her a muffin basket.

You'll forget she ever existed.

Why would I do that?

Because if anything happens to her,

if she so much as stubs her fucking toe,

I'm gonna assume it was your fault and come knocking.

Is that all?

I'm guessing it was the genetic fuckups

who visited Jasper and Kirsty who also had a go at Fergus Dunbar,

the cop who caught the Lingard case the first time around.

Might have been. They do have a lot of free time.

Did you have anything to do with Merritt's disappearance?

- Found that funny? - Hilarious.

Why would I go after a prosecutor after I was acquitted?

You were acquitted of murder. She was looking into corruption.

With a reporter, Sam Haig, who happened to die

the day before she disappeared.

She could've gotten you another way.

Now, that is very suspicious.

You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?

No. Then, I'm not in the habit of killing reporters.

Just your wife?

Fritz did say you appeared to be a lunatic.

Oh, coming from Fritz, that's high praise indeed. Look.

- Haig was at your trial. - If you say so.

Aye, he was.

He was also the one who told me about Kirsty Atkins.

When?

One day at trial.

He came up to me during a break and told me she was going to testify

and that it would be quite damning.

- He just offered it up? - He did.

Which made the information suspect.

I informed Graham that were it true,

I would file an immediate motion against it.

It was my feeling that, given the woman's history,

the ruling was likely to be in our favor.

In the end... I did nothing.

I didn't have to.

And Graham was fine with waiting to file a motion?

I was not party to any further conversation in the matter.

And if Graham had wanted to pursue a more aggressive approach,

I would, of course, have reminded him

that we had a very strong case without resorting to... intimidation.

Any idea why Haig gave you such a gift in the first place?

- No. - No quid pro quo?

None.

I assume that neither of you have the slightest inkling

of what happened to Haig after he delivered

his fortuitous piece of intelligence, hmm?

In my experience, Detective,

if you wanna stop a reporter from looking at you,

the absolute worst thing you could do would be to harm that reporter.

Same goes for the cops.

Once you go after one of theirs,

they will never leave you alone.

It's not worth it.

A lot of gray area there, Mr. Finch.

The thing with the golf club was very amusing.

Thank you.

Though I have to say I was most relieved when you didn't hit him with it.

Ugh, Jesus. All this talk about me losing control.

You're the one who's crushing windpipes and chucking people down the stairs.

Yes, except when I do these things,

I'm never out of control.

I'm very much in control.

What the fuck did you do back in Syria? Come on.

Are you going to answer that?

Morck.

- Someone's fucking with you. - Who is this?

Your favorite reporter, Dennis Piper.

Don't hang up. I'm about to help you.

That's very generous, but I think you're a fucking rodent.

I'm texting you something. Take a look at it.

If you wanna talk after, I'll be at the Golden Rule for an hour.

What the fuck are you talking about?

Shall we watch?

Fuck!

Hey.

My tooth is infected.

I need antibiotics.

Better yet, a fucking dentist.

Look.

Oh, okay, fine. I'll just die from fucking sepsis.

Rob you of the pleasure of doing it.

Seems a bit anticlimactic after all this time.

He was never gonna leave me alone.

Every time I'd turn around, there he'd be, staring at me.

- Staring at you? - Yeah.

I'd be eating or working out in the weight room.

I'd be reading in the library, and he'd come and sit across from me.

I even caught him watching me sleep one time.

I couldn't take that anymore.

You messed him up pretty good. He may lose that eye.

Sam, did you hear what I said?

He might lose his eye.

Do you feel anything when I tell you that?

- Yeah, I feel good. - You feel good?

He wasn't ever gonna leave me alone.

Sam?

I'm not his fucking brother. Had to get that into his head somehow.

Pound it into his head, you mean?

Are you sure there wasn't something more to it?

Like more what?

Like more complicated?

Nah. Nah, I'm done talking.

Sam.

I said, I'm done talking.

This concludes the post-offence interview with Samuel Haig, age 17.

10th March, 2013,

at 11:09 a.m.

With myself, Terry Dundee,

corrections counselor at Godhaven HMYOI.

I knew Haig, better than most, which isn't saying much.

Haig was fucking precious about everything.

He wouldn't share sources.

Wouldn't talk to anyone at the office, when he bothered to show up.

But, still, everyone thought he was so clever.

- But not you. - I fucking knew the guy.

I knew the reason he got on so well with people who crossed the line.

He was one of them.

- How'd you get the video? - It was on his computer.

- Oh, you hacked Haig's computer? - After he died.

Like it doesn't make a difference. How did Haig get the video?

Someone at Godhaven must have gave it to him.

He'd been going back to the place in the last few months before he died.

- Why? - He was working on a story.

- Can we read it? - I've still got some standards.

Fuck off. You're a journalist. You'd do your own mother from behind.

How does this help in our investigation?

It helps in your investigation into who killed Sam Haig.

We're not investigating Haig's death.

Well, maybe you should be.

Sam found this kid. The one he was talking about in the video.

The one he practically skelped to death.

What is this kid's name?

He called him "X" to protect his identity.

And how does Mr. X relate to Merritt Lingard?

Oh, wait. It doesn't.

Unless Haig got her screwed into whatever was happening

with this kid from his past.

Sounds like something a crackerjack journo like you should look into.

Talk to Terry Dundee,

the other voice on the tape, the one talking to Sam.

He's still at Godhaven.

I've reached out, but he gave me the big fuck off

about how records are sealed.

This has been fascinating.

Well, if you find anything, Morck, you be sure to remember me.

- Hey. - All right?

- What are you watching? - Oh, just some shite.

Perfect.

You had this look on your face.

I've never seen it, even when you're super pissed off at me.

When you went after that guy, you were like...

this guy I didn't even know.

Yeah.

Okay.

I'm two people.

Yeah? I have to be.

I see things most days no one person can see,

that no one person... can handle, or should ever have to see, to be honest.

Like what? What's the worst thing you've seen?

I'm not gonna do that to you.

Not gonna put what's in my head into yours.

I didn't to your mum. I'm not gonna to you.

- Why not? - You live in a different world.

Yeah? There's no need for you to know the specifics of the other world

beyond that it exists and once in a blue moon,

something from over there crosses into here.

So the guy in the ice cream shop, he knows that.

He wants to scare you by showing you the other world.

He wants to... make you so afraid that he fucking owns you.

You can't go through what you did without it... stirring things up.

What, like...

do you mean I'm gonna have... have nightmares and shit?

Who knows what it'll be,

but if you think you're gonna die or you're around death,

all of a sudden there's this... menu of various and sundry shit

that's just waiting to sneak up on you.

- Are you trying to scare me? - You're already scared.

That's the whole point.

You now know that things can change...

in an instant.

- We're members of the same club. - Well, I don't wanna be in that club.

Well, no one joins voluntarily, fella.

People spend their whole lives trying to avoid that kind of... calamity.

But you have to go to the meetings, speak to the other members of the club

so you know you're not the only one who's thinking and feeling the...

shit

that you're thinking and feeling.

What, so like...

you and Hardy?

Yeah.

Like me and Hardy.

And now me and you.

Wait, you...

you wanna talk about it?

Yeah.

When you need to, sure.

About... what... what happened?

About what's happening.

Maybe we should start with how thoroughly pissed off you are

at me ruining things with your mum.

And then abandoning you when I was shot.

I mean, that's... that's not your fault. You... You couldn't help it.

No.

But you can still be mad.

That's okay. You're allowed to be fucking mad.

Maybe let's have our first meeting about that.

I am here.

I'm listening.

Promise.

Morning.

Not much of a file, is it?

Police took one look at that cliff and made the call right there.

I'd likely have done the same myself.

Injuries consistent with traumatic fall from a great height.

As if there's a fall from a great height that's not traumatic.

Okay, so what's your problem?

Outside of the timeline and cause of death being very fucking dodgy.

- Mm, the guy who found Haig, Paul Evans. - Yeah, yeah, the climbing instructor.

Yeah.

He says he was with his wife the night before

and found Haig's body in the morning when he went to take pictures.

But the day he found Haig's body, it was pouring rain.

It's Scotland.

Could've been rain when he woke up,

sun when he got there, a fuckin' blizzard when he went home.

He also sent about a dozen messages to Haig's burner phone that night.

- A few examples. - Go on.

"No more secrets."

"I think you need to get everything out in the open."

"This isn't about my wife." "I want you to know that I see you."

"Are you back at the hotel?"

"Is she still there?"

- Hold on. Who's "she"? - It's gotta be Merritt.

And there was no response until the last message, which said,

"I'm going for a climb, S."

And no one followed up on any of it.

It was irrelevant to Haig's death once it was deemed accidental.

It's not irrelevant to Merritt.

Haig and Merritt had been meeting up at the Prince's Garden Hotel,

and Haig's editor said he had a burner phone for security.

So Evans was talking to Haig about all that stuff, secrets,

and "I see you" and all that.

- You and Carl don't talk like that? - I don't talk to my wife like that.

Maybe you should.

- Hello, Rose. - Hiya, Donna.

- You want breakfast, Mr. Grumpy Arse? - I'm not hungry.

Wanna face the wee angel of darkness on an empty stomach?

- I'm not hungry. - Suit yourself.

Fuck sake.

Rose, you want anything? Cup of tea?

Uh, no, thanks. I've had too many cups already.

- Did you tell Ritesh to mow the lawn? - Yeah, why?

He's your carer, not your gardener.

The garden needs more care than I do. Looks like shite.

He's better off out there than fucking hovering around all the time.

Angel of darkness?

Physiologist who's either gonna get me walking again or locked up for murder.

Okay, so...

tell me.

If Carl already shook the tree of Paul Evans,

then why are we having this conversation?

- Evans's story's full of holes. - It's leaky as fuck.

Probably doesn't want anyone to know about his special friendship with Haig.

Or he knows more than he's saying. About Merritt.

If you think that, then go back and pester him again. Ask him.

- Ask him...? - What he's hiding.

Just come right out and ask him?

Why not? That's what you wanna know.

Paul Evans is not gonna tell me if he's hiding something.

There's ways to ask and ways not to ask, if you know what I mean.

Depends on how big your balls are.

I don't even have...

- Well, they're not that big. - Wrong answer.

I'm serious, Rose. If that's true, what the fuck are you doing here?

Try again.

I have very big balls.

There you go. That was easy.

Let's me and you figure out how you're gonna fuck with Paul Evans.

God, that effing, fucking safety hatch.

Argh!

Hurry up!

I told that bastarding boy he needs to fix that.

Fucking arsehole.

I'm here for my appointment.

Oh, could you not?

Thank you.

I take it you found my address by inappropriate means?

Which is fair enough, given your abandonment of me.

Gotta say, it's a nice place. I mean, a bit weird.

But cute.

Cute?

Mm, like 20-year-old you lived here with your student mates.

20-year-old me did live here with my student mates.

- What's your place like? - Like my ex-wife.

So we both live steeped in our own sad histories.

I'll bet you had a lot more fun here.

Not really. I was severely underweight and deeply depressed.

My twenties were spent weighing carrots and doing star jumps.

Sounds better than my marriage.

I'd rather have gotten my suffering out in my twenties.

- You know suffering, do you? - Fifteen years on the murder squad.

I meant your own.

So this is where you accuse me of self-pity. Great.

I don't accuse.

I just... observe.

- Have you met Dr. Sonnenberg? - I have.

And what did you think?

She reminds me of my aunt Enid.

The kind that likes to potter round the garden,

making sure all the pansies are healthy

on top of all the bodies buried underneath.

Anyway, I'm giving up on therapy.

You can hardly give up on something you haven't tried.

Martin, my lodger, says I should pay more attention to my dreams.

Honestly can't remember the last one I had.

You're supposed to write them down as soon as you wake up before you forget.

No, I meant I don't have them.

You don't dream?

I don't sleep.

And you don't need therapy?

- I need sleep. - Well, they have pills and things now.

Mm. They scare me.

You read about people all the time, waking up after a sleeping pill

and they've eaten everything in the fridge,

or the front door's open and the dog's got its lead on,

or you wake up naked next to their ex in the bathroom.

Why are you here, Carl?

I don't know.

I thought I did.

But now I don't.

When you figure it out, you can come back and tell me.

I think that's us for today.

Fuck's sake.

Yes.

You know, I tried rock climbing once.

I do Zumba now. Prefer to keep my feet on the ground.

Right. What is it that brings you here then?

Oh.

D.C. Dixon. I'm looking for Chloe Evans?

- Chloe? - That's right.

You just missed her.

- Are you sure? We had an appointment. - I'm very sure. I'm her husband.

She's gone to see her midwife.

Ah.

So you're Paul?

Okay.

Um...

Is there something I can help with?

No, no, I don't think so,

as this is a follow-up appointment

to a conversation I had with Chloe the other day, so...

What conversation?

Sorry, I can't share any information brought to our attention.

But I'm her husband.

Again, I'm sorry.

If you let her know I was here and have her give me a call on this number

as soon as she can.

Lovely to meet you, Paul.

She told you, didn't she?

Who told me what, Paul?

Ah. You're good right there.

Is that Mace?

Pepper spray.

I've also got a pair of brass knuckles and a wee Taser.

You think I wanna hurt you?

I know you don't want to get sprayed.

Are you even a real cop?

I often ask myself the same question.

But can I ask you about Sam Haig?

Right, so Chloe did tell you about us?

No, but you just did.

The word "us" that did it. And it's totally fine, by the way.

For fuck's sake, I'm not even gay.

No. Course you're not. Maybe you just wanted to experiment.

I wasn't involved with Sam in any kind of sexual way.

How were you involved with Sam?

When you climb, you become close.

Trust is everything.

I was the one person Sam felt he could say anything to.

- Such as? - You name it.

We'd get up on a cliff or a crag, and...

...we'd just talk.

So climbing was like therapy.

Sam trusted you with the rope and his deep, dark secrets.

Yeah, that's about it.

You were lying then when you told the other detectives

you didn't know about Sam and Merritt Lingard?

- Of course he would've told you. - I wasn't lying. Sam never mentioned her.

Come on.

With all that sharing going on, she'd have came up.

She didn't. I didn't think Sam was involved with anyone back then.

What about the dozen or so texts you sent two days before?

The ones with the bits like, "We can't leave it like this."

"I see you." Blah, blah, blah.

We'd all been drinking that night,

and Sam was going on about his latest piece,

saying he thought it was gonna change his life.

Of course, Chloe, who never liked Sam, she was always annoyed with his secrecy,

she said something along the lines of, well, that's good

because he needed to make some big fucking changes in his life

or he was definitely gonna die and take me with him.

- They had a big row and Sam left. - He went to the hotel?

The one you mentioned in your texts.

"Are you at the hotel? Is she still there?"

I'm assuming that the "she" you were referring to was Merritt.

Why assume that?

Sam and Merritt had been meeting up at a hotel.

Like I've told you several times now, he never mentioned her.

Don't suppose you know the hotel?

Course I do. It's up the road from us. The Spivey Inn.

- The Spivey Inn? - Aye.

Really? And you're sure that's where he was?

Yeah, very sure.

And he wasn't with a woman?

I didn't say that.

"It's not about Chloe. Is she still there?"

Oh, fuck me.

I sent her back to apologize.

Chloe went to see Sam?

- Aye. - Alone?

Well, I was too pissed to go anywhere.

And did she? Apologize?

In a manner of speaking.

What manner would that be?

Like I said, we'd all been drinking.

Oh.

But... I thought you said that she didn't even like him?

Sometimes it makes it better.

Why didn't you tell the police back then?

- It was a one-time thing. - Are you sure?

- I didn't kill Sam Haig. - No one said you did, but...

- Come on, did you kill Sam Haig? - Course not.

- He shagged your wife. - Yeah, thank you.

I didn't know about that. I was worried because he wasn't responding to my texts.

At least not until the last one he sent. The one saying he was going for a climb.

If you wanna speak to me or my wife again,

call our lawyer.

Thank you.

Good morning, Merritt.

It's rubbish day.

My favorite day of the month.

There you go.

Ah, just take your own sweet time.

You wanna live in your own shit for another month, that's fine by me,

ya' manky bitch.

Emergency. Which service?