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When he retired three years ago, Charlie Hilliam had been on the force for 40

years. 40 years which saw him go from constable to assistant commissioner.

And the society which he served has decided to honour him.

Well, now, we can do likewise. We can honour him.

Not with gifts or medals, not with titles, but simply by saying that

He was a much -valued colleague, a good honest man, and a

genuine friend.

I'm sure I speak for all those who worked with him here in Oxford, where

talents were first recognised, and later in London, where he's held in equally

high regard.

Well, he knocked it back. It's a wonder he lived to collect an OBE.

People in glass houses?

This is only a little light wine, isn't it? I know what it is.

And it's only my second glass.

Thank to money, Lewis.

Chief Inspector Moss.

This is your sergeant, I'm told.

Yes. Sergeant Lewis, Chief Inspector Dawson. Pleased to meet you, sir. That

a very fine speech you gave.

Charlie was a very fine policeman, Sergeant.

Oh, sure he was.

I've seen a lot of changes.

Technology, organisation.

And policing, Sergeant. In Charlie's day, it was an eye for an eye.

Now it's... Still, it suits them.

Of course.

How long have you known him, sir?

Dalton?

We were detective sergeants together when Hillian was chief inspector here.

When Hivian moved to London, Dawson followed.

They were very close.

Had a reputation as a hard man, didn't he? Capital punishment, longer

It would save a lot of time if you came right out and asked, Lewis.

Just curious.

We've met up at conferences, seminars, usually on different sides of an

argument. Conferences? You?

Yes, Lewis.

My deal's come to torment us all at some stage.

Or should do it.

Still, it's hardly grounds for disliking a person, is it? No.

You got along at one time. Sorry to disappoint you.

Must you?

Yes.

How was it?

It's good.

Though how much he'll remember of it, I had no idea.

There,

that should do it.

He really should be upstairs, you know. Oh, I won't allow it.

You're not a boy anymore, you know.

What do you mean by that? I mean you have to look after yourself. And if you

don't, then I will. Where's my bag?

Not much doubt about how he got into it. Oh, there's a nice footprint over by

that window. Although it could be anybody's, I suppose.

Better get a cast made anyway. Check it against Charlie Hillian's shoes.

Right -o.

Sir.

How's the old lady?

It's Mrs Keelan, sir, the housekeeper. She's a bit better.

She has a key, apparently, sir.

When she got here, she found this.

What about Chief Inspector Dawson?

He turned up shortly after us.

Can I go inside, Sergeant?

I could really do with a leak.

It's in the woods, man.

And a tree.

I'm sorry.

It's all right.

I, um... I came round to say goodbye.

Hadn't a chance last night. He was... very drunk.

There was a weakness with him.

As you know.

Oh, you want details?

Yes.

Can it wait?

She can tell. Nothing's been taken.

I've had a look round upstairs.

No sign of any disturbance.

What about visitors to the cottage?

Only two.

One's a local man, Terence Mitchell.

He's been building a fence outside.

The other one's a Walter Major, living near Evesham. That's about 35 miles.

I know where it is.

Go on.

He's a writer.

He's been helping Mr Hilliam with a book, apparently.

A book?

That's what the old lady said.

All right. Listen, you take Dawson back to his hotel and have a word with this

Mitchell. I'll wait till they've finished here.

He didn't get long to enjoy his honours, did he, sir?

No.

Puts that kind of thing in perspective, don't you think?

Maybe nothing, sir. Just tell him.

I was over the way there and... Well, there was a car, sir.

It drove off fast. We could radio for a chopper, sir. Couldn't have got far.

Maybe get roadblocks set up on all the major routes. Hang on. Hang on, will

I was just trying to be positive, sir.

I take it from all this excitement that you got the car's registration?

Yes, sir. Then check it out in the usual way.

but quietly and with at least the appearance of method.

What the hell's going on, sir? Quite a sight, isn't it?

Some of them have come back off leave.

Others have refused to go home at the end of their shift.

Everybody wants to get this bastard more.

How? I mean, what are they doing?

They're checking Charlie's old cases, tracing people he put away.

Well, forgive me, sir, but won't that amount to quite a crowd?

Perhaps. But we leave no stone unturned on this one, Morse.

No stone.

Mrs Mitchell?

Yes? Sergeant Lewis.

Please?

Well, what's wrong? We haven't done anything.

No, I just wanted to talk to Terence, Mrs Mitchell.

Nobody's saying you've done anything.

But... But what's it about?

Well, if I could speak to Terence.

I'll be about an hour.

You can come back if you want.

Thank you.

Terence!

You frightened them away, Mother. I'm sorry.

This is Sergeant Lewis, Terence.

He's a policeman who's come to ask you some questions.

Hello. Hello.

Oh, that's very good, Matt.

Terence is dyslexic, Sergeant.

We always encouraged him to write and put notes next to his drawings.

My own spelling's none too hot, I can tell you.

Well, Terence has other talents, as you can see.

Mother. No, your mother's right.

Thank you.

Perhaps you could tell us what it is you want to know, Sergeant.

Of course.

Last night, can you tell me where you were, Terence?

It was with me.

Well, all night?

Yeah.

And Mr. Mitchell, he was here too?

John left us years ago.

What's this about, Sergeant?

What is the bad news, Ashley Terence?

Mr. Hillion, he's dead.

Murdered.

But he can't be.

Why not, Terence?

Because I saw him last week.

I'm afraid it's true.

What was it?

It must have been 11 when we left the dinner.

We drove Charlie home. We couldn't have been in the house about a quarter of an

hour. Then we came straight back here.

I saw nothing unusual either going in or coming out of the house.

Can you add anything to that, Mrs. Dawson?

No, no, nothing, Inspector.

Why was he on the sofa?

Oh, for God's sake, Morse, what does it matter in bed on the sofa? Patrick,

please.

Did you know he was writing a book?

Yes.

It was always an ambition with him.

Morse, I have to be in London tonight. There are some things I have to see to.

But I can be back here tomorrow evening.

I'm not sure that's a good idea, are you?

It could get a bit crowded here.

Do you want me to beg, Morse?

Charles Hillion was a very lucky man.

Do you know that?

Then we must all hope to be bled with misfortune.

What?

Oh, that.

No, not that.

Well, yes.

What I mean is, that could have happened at any time in his life.

He had a weak spot in the skull.

Paper thin.

Relatively speaking, of course.

A slight knock in the right place and dead as a dodo.

That's what happened last night.

There could have been a struggle.

He fell and...

When his head hits the floor, whammo, lights out.

Time of death?

1 .30.

Thank you.

Lights out.

Whammo.

For those medical terms, Doctor?

I prefer to keep things simple, Chief Inspector.

Especially when dealing with policemen.

What he said to... Maybe it was unintentional. Well, that doesn't help

What about Mitchell?

Too sensitive a soul for that kind of thing. An artist.

That old Hitler dabbled in oils. Did you know that, Lewis?

He was more of a water -coloured man, actually.

Whatever.

Where was this sensitive soul at the time?

At home with his mother.

You should see her, then.

I'm afraid I've done something rather stupid, Lewis.

You, sir?

Dawson asked to stay in Oxford. I agreed.

Many hounds make light work.

Tried too many coats.

Something tells me it'll be more apt.

You never know, sir. No.

Well, I think I'll go for a walk. What about you?

I could start work on the report, sir, if you want. Good man.

I mean, only if you want.

Oh, why not?

Procrastination is the thief of time since we're swapping problems.

Yes.

See you later.

Table's ready for you, middle.

Oh, thank you.

Good evening, Mrs Dawson.

Oh, Chief Inspector.

Are you on your own?

Yes, yes, I am.

Well, you could join me if you'd like.

Thank you, that's very kind.

Oh, there's a call for Inspector Moore, Sergeant, from the Met.

Right. Come in, sir.

Agreeing to my husband staying in Oxford, it was very good of you.

Charlie meant a great deal to him.

I'm bound to say it was against my better judgment.

We're not exactly bosom friends, and I don't like the idea of not being trusted

to do my job.

Oh, no, no, no, you'd be wrong to believe that, Inspector. I mean, Patrick

thinks you're a very good detective.

Poor policeman and a very good detective.

Really?

Well,

I suppose half a compliment is better than none.

Yes.

What do you think of him?

Mrs. Dawson.

No, only sometimes it is good to get the view of a person you respect.

I think he's a man with very strong views on

the law, for one.

What it should be.

And I can respect that.

It's his certainty that worries me.

And beyond politics?

I think he's become an unhappy man.

I'm not saying... No, no, I know that, I know.

Be simplistic indeed.

It's plain a man's unhappiness solely in terms of his wife or his happiness.

You see, if we'd had children...

Now that,

that was my fault.

They seem to be empty.

Shall I get us another?

Yes, why not?

Yes.

Sir? Sir?

Sir, we have been in and out of every pub in Oxford.

I think we've got him, sir. Who?

The man in the car. Him, you killer.

Names Frederick Redpath, age 58, owns a bookshop in London.

When he was approached, he claimed he'd gone to the South Coast for the day. He

said he wasn't anywhere near Oxford.

Now, have a look at this, Inspector.

What is it?

It's from Charlie Hilliam.

Goes on about his OBE in some book he was writing.

Well, he had this on him? Back of his wallet.

Where have you got him?

He's in the interview room, sir.

Your car was sighted outside the home of Charles Hilliam at the Redpath.

Why did you lie to the police about that?

That was silly, I know.

I was curious.

I slowed down to see what was going on.

And then I drove off.

You were a passer -by? Yes.

This was found in your wallet.

It's an article about Charles Hilliam.

I own a bookshop.

I thought I might sell Mr. Hillion's book when it was published.

So you weren't just passing by?

Put that way, no.

I heard about the Hillion death on the radio.

I didn't want to become involved. I didn't know I'd been seen. It was a

mistake.

Is it usual for a bookshop to approach an author directly?

No.

I thought if I got in quick, I could steal a march on my competitors.

Had you been to the cottage before today, Mr Redpath?

No.

No, never.

We'll have to hold you for questioning, Mr Redpath.

Sergeant Lewis will inform me of your rights and ours.

Could I borrow your shoes?

My shoe?

We made a cast of a footprint found at the cottage we'd like to make in Paris.

What do I think?

I've never heard so many lies. It was like sitting through an election

Yeah, but maybe he's afraid.

Maybe he didn't want to get involved.

Maybe.

I've seen him somewhere before, Lewis. I can't think where.

I'd better take these.

I do it in the morning.

If it is his print, let him sweat on it overnight.

Chief Inspector Morse.

Inspector Morse.

My name's Barbara Redpath.

You're holding my father here. Can I ask on what charge, please?

There's no charge as yet, Miss Redpath.

Then I demand that you release him immediately.

He's done nothing. Nothing!

Well, then he has nothing. Don't give me that bullshit, please!

What you're saying is that he's innocent, but you're working on it,

Now, look here.

I'm investigating the murder of a former policeman, Miss Renpath.

Your father was seen at the victim's cottage, a fact he initially denied.

Now, why should he do that, I ask myself.

When I get an answer to that question, I let him go. Until then, he stays put.

Good night.

Please, Inspector Moore, Thames Valley CID.

I have a word.

Have you moved here

recently, Mr Majors?

It does have that appearance, doesn't it, Inspector?

It's part of an estate, you know.

The family who own it are old aristocracy.

Well, fag end of it, anyway.

The laugh in line let me have a short lease on very generous terms.

Fancy it made him some sort of patron, you see. That was ten years ago.

And you grew to like the place?

No.

I grew poor, Inspector.

Too poor to live anywhere else.

And since I've never felt fully at home, it seemed inappropriate to fully

unpack.

I'd ask you to excuse the mess you've inspected, but that would imply

acceptance. What you see is the rule.

You're lucky to find me home.

I've been in London, you see.

Came home a day early, as it happens.

Oh, Christ almighty.

French.

Fashionable, but badly put together. Can I ask how long you've been away, Mr

Majors?

You can.

I left the night Charlie Hillion departed this life.

You can prove your whereabouts.

If I have to.

The moment I don't see the need. Am I a suspect?

You and the rest of the world, Mr Majors.

Oh, what a deflationary way of putting it. All my life I've striven to rise

above the mass, Inspector.

Had you known Hillion long?

Ah, about a year, since we started our collaboration.

You don't seem too upset about his death.

Don't I? Well, I'm an instinctive optimist, Inspector. I believe in the

resilience of the human spirit, looking on the bright side and all that.

There's a bright side to Hillian's murder.

At a conservative estimate, I'd say sales up by 10%. Is that a fact?

Oh, I know what you're thinking, Chief Inspector.

Charlie Hillian, the copper's copper.

Paragon, O -B -E.

Tell me about the book.

Well, the... The great man's

great cases, basically.

An above -average pot boy, if I do say so myself.

He kept notes throughout his career, you know.

The idea was one case equals one chapter.

Have you impounded his notes?

Not yet.

Killian has no family. Who gets his royalties?

Happily, I do, Inspector.

If I popped off first, he'd have gotten mine.

He didn't exactly pop off, did he?

I suppose not.

You'll think this a cliché, but don't leave town, will you?

Cliché, Inspector?

Shouldn't be surprised if I write that down.

I'll see myself out, Mr. Majors.

Sir.

Oh, Lewis, from here?

No, sir.

Starting to meet you.

I see.

Sir, Redpuff's shoe matched the cut perfectly.

Have you spoken to him?

Not about that, no.

Better get on with it, then, hadn't we?

Now? Now.

Well, the tea's going to get cold.

I don't have any tea.

Sergeant Lewis tells me that your shoe fits the cast we made at the cottage,

Redpath.

Fits it perfectly.

Now, how could that be if, as you say, you were never there?

I don't know.

I take a standard size.

Must be millions.

I don't know.

Mr. Redpath, perhaps you don't appreciate the seriousness of your

An ex -policeman has been murdered, and you're a very strong suspect.

I've killed no one. Then help us to prove that.

Tell us the truth about why you went to visit Helium.

Your daughter, Barbara, is here.

You've spoken to her? Yes.

And as you might expect, she's very upset.

You've spoken to her?

Yes.

I've told you everything, Inspector.

I have nothing more to say.

Why hasn't he asked for a lawyer, Lewis?

Why hasn't his daughter brought him once? He seems the type that would.

If it's me, I'll explain his rights to it.

Listen, now, I want to have a look at Hillian's note.

Find out what time Dawson's due back from London and meet him off the train,

will you?

I'm sure he'll want to get acquainted with the Red Park and drink your tea

before it gets cold.

Well, well.

An inspector called.

Mr. Majors.

Put up your truncheon, Inspector.

All this is perfectly legal.

The excellent Mrs.

Keelan granted me access on condition that I close the door properly when I

leave.

Your arrival is indeed fortuitous.

Timely. Those are Hillian's notes?

In one.

Brilliant. Though, to be precise, I missed some of the late Charlie's

scratching.

There's a chapter missing, I'm happy to say.

A chapter gone.

Charlie Hillion may have been in the cat's pyjamas when it came to banging up

the lawless, Inspector, but about the world of letters, he knew bugger all.

Mr. Major... Our dead sleuth had a most outlandish idea, Inspector, that we

should... including our book, a crime which had defied the very powers of

detection we were meant to be celebrating.

An honest approach, he called it.

Even convinced our publisher.

I told them, success.

That's what people want to read about.

They already know

too much about failure, most of them.

We argued.

Much bellowing to and fro. Then, honest Charlie Hilliam threatened to scrap the

whole idea if he didn't get his way.

With his demise came the... the opportunity to do something about it, if

see what I mean.

No notes, no chapter. Only I needn't have bothered, Inspector.

The bloody thing's gone and I view as a witness that I didn't take it. Now,

isn't that wonderful?

What was the chapter about, Mr. Majors?

It was about a tragedy, Mr. Beckman.

As dark as any.

17, 18 years ago.

The murder of a child.

She was...

I believe, eight years old.

Her name was Mary Lapsley.

The very same inspector.

You were involved.

Where's Lewis?

He's gone to get you.

Did he say when he was there? He's gone to fetch Mr Dawson off the London train,

sir. He should be getting it about now.

Walsh reckons he's been lying through his teeth since we brought him in.

And the footprint is of a good match.

He could wear the cut and not know the difference.

First he said he was just passing.

Then when we showed him the clipping, he changed his mind.

Mots, does he think he's...

What

is this, Mots?

What is this, you bastard?

What's wrong with him? You little toerak, you bastard!

He didn't know!

I didn't know till now, you kept us all away, remember? Remember?

until the day he walked out of here. Now think, man.

That's all.

All right, all right. Back upstairs.

Sorry, Morse.

The shock of seeing him there.

Your apology would be better directed to Sergeant Lloyd, don't you think?

You must let me talk to him, Morse. I know him better than anyone.

You can't, sir.

You saw him just then.

He's a bloody madman. Lewis.

Lay a finger on him and I'll finish you.

Mary Lapsley.

She was eight years old, Liz.

Eight years old and precious.

Even in death.

What shall I call you?

My name is Frederick Redpath.

It has been for the past 11 years.

Redpath knew her.

She played with his daughter.

Visited his house. They had him in for a week.

Hellion Dawson.

This place was electric.

There was talk of excess.

Particularly from Dawson.

We're both too old for... what we went through last time.

Yes.

She was in a boathouse by a lake.

Local anglers used it.

The Redpath... Briars, as he was then, was

one of them.

You seem to have done very well.

I am glad of that.

I found a knife in the boathouse.

It turned out to be Redpath's.

He said he'd lost it a year before the killing.

Did you kill Charlie Helion?

No.

I did not.

You said you found the knife, sir.

Was it you that found the little girl?

Yes.

Does it look bad for me? Yes.

As bad as last time?

Yes.

I didn't do it.

Not then.

Not now.

No.

Redpath, Briars, Claimed he was at home with his daughter at the time of the

killing.

She was upstairs asleep.

He never wavered from that.

So they had to let him go.

No one else was ever held for the murder.

He went to the cottage at 2 .30 in the afternoon.

He wanted to know what Charlie was going to say about the Latchley case.

There was no one at home, so he returned the following morning.

And you believe that?

Yes.

Hillian's notes on the Lapsley case are missing.

We've proved he was at the cottage. Now he comes up with another lie to cover

himself. You're wrong, Mort.

Wrong.

I watched television till half past two.

Then I went into the kitchen and made myself some tea.

And then... Oh, dear.

Just take your time, Mrs Keelan.

That's right. Then the doorbell went, and it was the dry cleaners with Mr

and the evening shoot.

You were in the kitchen when the doorbell rang?

Yes.

Could we go through, Mrs. Keenan, to the kitchen?

I brought the suit in.

Hung it up and then went on mixing these scones.

I was still here when Mr. Hillion got back at four.

He went out to that dinner.

He asked me to stay late to do his ironing. Did Mr. Hillion have his key?

No, the doorbell rang.

He knew I was here, you see.

Twice.

She heard the bell ring twice.

The dry cleaner...

And when Hylian came back in the afternoon.

Not when Redpath says he rang.

Are you the bloke that worked with the Hansen?

Have you spoken to him?

Yeah. His name's Mitchell, from over on Fern Street.

I think it's time we had another chat with Redpath, don't you?

Well, he won't be saying much for a few days, Inspector.

And I want him to have complete rest.

He's sedated at the moment.

Of course.

He was very fortunate, you know.

One more minute and he would have been dead.

Yes, thank you.

For what you've done, Doctor.

Quite a turnip, sir.

Wasn't it?

I reckon it was guilt that made him do it.

Come to gloat, Inspector.

Come to see him broken at last.

What a pity some PC plod denied you your complete victory.

If you're interested, Miss Redpath, the doctor expects your father to make a

full recovery.

Miss Redpath.

Can we call a truce and talk?

Do I have to? It might help your father.

Did your father tell you he was coming to Oxford?

No.

We live separately.

We see each other once or twice a week.

Did he mention Charles Hillion's book to you at all?

Never.

But I can understand why it would concern him.

For five years after Mary's murder, my father was persecuted, Inspector.

He lost his job at the local library.

And when he moved to London, it continued there.

The sooner had he started a job, he'd be asked to leave.

No reasons would ever be given.

There'd be telephone calls.

When he picked up the phone, no one answered.

And then suddenly, it stopped.

We had a bookstore by then. It did very well, so we moved into the shop.

But my father was always afraid that the persecution would start again, so we

changed our name from Briars to Redpath.

I've grown quite useful to him.

You and Mary Lapsley.

You were friends?

Inseparable.

Mary had no father and I had no mother.

She left when I was very young.

So we had a lot in common.

We used to wish our parents would marry so we could be sisters.

But her mother died when Mary was five years old.

What about Mary's father?

I never knew him.

Inspector, my father did not kill Mary.

He was at home with me at the time. I'd come down with some bug or other.

And you were asleep upstairs?

Yeah.

Well, thank you for talking to me, Miss Redpath.

Was I any help?

It's early days.

The other policeman at the hospital.

Chief Inspector Dawson?

That... Dauphin? Yes.

How strange.

Well, he doesn't think my father killed Hylian.

Does the inspector?

No.

No, he doesn't.

Sir, the superintendent is estranged after people drop him.

Now? I think so, sir.

Ah, Morse, come in, please.

Sit down.

Chief Inspector Dawson has some observations about Charlie's death,

which I think we ought to discuss.

Oh?

Well, so long as it's borne in mind that I'm in charge of the investigation.

Let's not allow personal feelings to influence our judgment, Morse.

Chief Inspector.

My point is simple enough.

The missing chapter from Charlie's book points to a connection between his death

and the killing of Mary Lapsley.

I agree.

The connection is Frederick Redpath.

Why would he go back the following day, Morse? It's irrational.

Murder is irrational.

And murderers.

If Charlie's killer and the killer of Mary Lapsley are one and the same

he could have read about the book, as Redpath did, and feared what it might

contain, something that might jog a memory, something not made public at the

time, and which might point to him as the killer.

Anything. With all due respect, sir, everything he says can apply to Redpath.

Good God, man, you had him in for the Lapsley killing! Frederick Redpath did

kill Mary Lapsley!

If he had, I would have proved it.

That is perhaps the most arrogant statement I've ever heard from a

Morse.

You don't think the murderer could have been someone other than Redpath and that

he could also be the Lapsley killer?

It's possible, yes, but let's eliminate Redpath first.

Before we open an 18 -year -old case.

And what about Majors?

He certainly had a motive.

And he'll say nothing of his whereabouts at the time of the killing? That

doesn't surprise me.

Why?

Charlie had me look him over when he hired him. He had an involvement with a

married woman. She's a prominent artist, a devout Catholic, refuses to divorce

her husband. You will probably find he was with her at the time.

So... If you've no fundamental objections, Morse.

Not objections, sir.

Reservations.

There was an entire force on that investigation. Every lead was checked

double -checked. Except one.

There was an extract from a diary, supposedly from the killer. It was

at the work of a crank, and by Charlie Hillion, as I recall.

That's right.

And on good grounds.

Well, then.

Chief Inspector Dawson tells me he has some doubts about the diary morse.

And as we've one of our own men in the morgue, I think we should examine every

possibility.

I'm having copies made for yourself and Sergeant Lewis.

So, we can meet here tomorrow morning.

One sheet of paper, 502 words, posted in Reading, June

20th, 1978.

It arrived here two days later.

502 words, yet three different typewriters were used, one of which was

on the market at the time of the killing.

So what can we conclude from that, assuming it's genuine?

Written at the time of the killing, typed up later to protect the killer's

identity.

I am the killer of Mary Lapsley.

May God forgive me, for soon I shall be no more.

Suicide or terminal illness.

Why bother to conceal his identity?

He says little about the killing. He mostly goes on about how he's feeling.

look at this.

In the hut, I didn't want to hurt her.

She got frightened and started screaming.

Briar's knife came into my hand.

and I stabbed her.

Now look at the line, the police came today, they found her last night.

I found her the night she was killed.

Yes.

So you did.

So, he's given us a chronology, an important one.

We didn't connect the knife to Briar's until two days after the killing.

So how did the killer know it was Briar's knife at the time of the murder?

Yes. If it's a fraud, it's no problem. He could have read about it, heard some

gossip, even guessed it. But he goes on. I think it was all right, though.

Nothing was said.

Who said nothing?

Let's go back a bit.

There was blood on her nice, clean dress, and some of it was on me.

I think they believed me, though.

I think they believed me, though.

Nothing was said.

Someone knew.

Someone always knows.

This was dismissed as a fraud, so why?

The time span, five years after the killing, but more importantly, the

to Mary's nice, clean dress. Three witnesses who saw Mary before she died

said that her dress had been very dirty in the day's play.

It was.

So why bother with it now?

This killer was confused.

He'd just committed a murder.

He didn't even notice he had blood on his own clothes until later.

It's just possibilities, of course.

All the same, I think we should take a look.

Look where, sir? Where do we start?

Well, that's for you to decide, Morse. You're in charge of the investigation.

And I'm sure Chief Inspector Dawson will give you every assistance.

Where do we start, sir?

How the hell should I know?

Hang on a minute.

I'm as unhappy as you are about being bounced along the throat.

We've got to start somewhere, sir.

Yes, you're right. I'm sorry.

What do you make of it, Lewis?

I think it's a fraud to... I mean, why kill someone, write about it in a diary,

keep it for five years and then send it to the police?

Why, indeed.

Still, we'd better go through the motions.

Redpath Inn Hospital, we don't want to be twiddling our thumbs, anyway.

Right, sir.

If it was genuine, we'd want to find out who knew about the knife, wouldn't we?

Absolutely.

Ah, look at that.

The mother was dead, remember, and the girl lived with her grandmother.

See if you can trace her. Is she still alive?

I suppose a door can get out there, sir. No, we'll do it ourselves, Lewis.

The family lived in Fern Street. You can start there.

Small world, sir.

What? Fern Street.

That's where Mitchell lived.

The fellow that's building the fence for Hillian.

Really?

You'll know the way, then.

Inspector?

Miss Redfire.

Good of you to come.

What will you have?

Oh, nothing, thank you. Move it, honey.

So, what can I do for you, Inspector?

Has your father ever talked to you about Mary's murder?

A thousand times.

He was always looking for something that would prove his innocence.

I hope to.

I'm trying to trace a Mrs.

Lapsley. She used to live on this street.

Mrs. Lapsley used to live here.

She's in a nursing home now, though.

The knife that killed Mary.

Her father said he lost it about a year before. Who could have known it was his?

Any number of a dozen people.

Anglers at the lake often borrowed each other's equipment.

Although... Well, on the day he lost it...

He went back to look for it, and he saw two people he knew there, across the

lake.

He waved. They waved back. Who?

John Mitchell and his son Terence.

Did he tell the police this?

Of course.

But the Mitchells couldn't remember the incident.

The Mitchells.

Can you tell me about them?

Thanks again.

You're welcome.

You should have let him in, Mother.

We can't keep them out forever.

I waited at the office for you. I needed to think. You were just in time to give

me a hand.

Doing what?

You had folk in or something?

No, these are cumulative, Lewis.

So what's new?

Well, the grandmother's still with us.

She's in a nursing home.

I got the address off the bloke who's living in her old house.

And guess who's living next door?

The Mitchells.

Oh.

Well, I went there first.

There was no answer.

I've got the impression there was somebody at home.

What about your day?

Redpath claimed that John and parents Mitchell saw him looking for his knife

day he locked it.

He told Dawson and Hillian. Now, why didn't Dawson tell us?

Well, it didn't lead to anything at the time.

Probably didn't seem important.

No, he didn't.

What about the father, John Mitchell?

Walked out on him.

Are we still going through the motion, sir?

Or do I detect a glimmer of interest?

Try up, Lewis.

Cozy? It's not your own home, of course, but they try very hard.

Do you manage to keep in touch with your own community?

Mrs Mitchell keeps me up to date.

My neighbour from Fern Street.

She tried to look after me while I was there, but they got too much for her.

Lapsley, after Mary died, did anyone write or call to say that they were the

killer? Naturally not, or I would have told the police.

There was that diary, of course, but they said that was a fake.

Yes.

Is this Mary and her mother?

Yes. May I?

Go on.

Your daughter was a very handsome woman, Mrs. Lapsley.

Yes. And Mary favoured her, as you can see.

Who was Mary's father, Mrs. Lapsley?

You're very direct, Inspector.

I had a high regard for my daughter, Inspector.

She reared Mary on her own.

It took her a year from her illness to leave this earth, and even then she

wouldn't say who the father was.

Did she go on seeing the father after Mary was born? As far as I know, she

on seeing him until she was taken ill.

Can I borrow this photograph, Mrs Lapsley?

I don't see what for.

They never asked for it when Mary was killed.

Why should you want it now?

Different policemen have different ideas, Mrs Lapsley.

Tell me what you see. Stick to the foreground.

Well, there's the mother, the child, picnic basket.

Everything.

The mother's handbag.

The girl sitting on a jacket.

Mom's a chucker?

What man?

Father.

More than likely. Now tell me, Lewis, who were the first people you'd want to

interview in a child murder?

Well, the parents did.

Brothers and sisters, if there were any.

And yet, Hillian and Dawson showed no interest in that photograph.

I mean, they weren't as observant as we two.

We three, Lewis.

Mrs. Lapsley could see its significance.

That's why she wasn't too keen on letting us have it.

I don't think she would.

Only of trying to keep her daughter's secret.

Well, it's no professional job, that's for sure.

Oh, they're on the jacket.

Inside pocket.

I think it's a tailor's label.

Yes.

Can you do anything with it?

I could cry.

How long will it take?

With a bit of luck, I should be able to have something for you by tomorrow

morning.

You wanted to see me?

Oh, yes, yes.

I often wonder where I'd be if I hadn't moved to London.

Sitting there, perhaps.

You can have no regret, surely.

It was the right move.

Well, the investigation isn't going well.

I wouldn't say so.

You'll get there, Morse. You're a good detective.

But a bad policeman.

I think so, yes.

The law is our only weapon, Morse. Good policemen have no wish to see it

weakened.

I work with what's laid down.

Neutral. You're hardly that, Morse. Your views are known.

I hope you didn't come here to have a debate, Chief Inspector.

Redpath's claim about the knife, that the Mitchells saw him looking for it.

Yes. You never mentioned it.

The Mitchells both said they couldn't remember it.

I saw Mary's grandmother today.

She gave us a photograph of Mary sitting on a man's jacket. She would have been

four years old at the time.

Why didn't you and Hillian perceive the father?

He wasn't around.

Mary's grandmother says he was.

He saw Mary's mother right up until she fell ill.

Yes, but there was some time before the murder, as I remember it.

He was obviously a married man.

Well, suppose his wife had found out about the child.

Suppose she killed her out of jealousy. Suppose he killed her. Didn't that occur

to you?

Charlie didn't think it was important.

Why? You'd have to ask Charlie that, Morse. I really can't remember why.

What do you do with the photographs?

I'm getting it blown up.

There's a label on the inside I'd like to see.

Good.

I'd like to come along if you have no objection.

I'm seeing it in the morning.

Right.

There are two items of interest.

Here at the lapel, it looks like a badge of some sort jutting out.

Square or problem.

Then there's the label.

All I can get are the words Ruth and Oxford.

Now, the R in Ruth is lowercase, which suggests we're only being part of the

name. The rest is probably hidden by the folds in the jacket or the shadow cast

by the little girl.

To Ruth.

What? Caruth.

It's a small tailor, family business in St. Giles. Just the sort of place to

keep a record of measurements.

What about this badge?

That's all you're going to see, I'm afraid.

It was taken at Blackpool in 1969.

How can you tell that?

It was written on the back of the original.

Sure, this is the place.

This is what Dawson said.

It just had to be better as a tailor's.

Oh, no.

It's quite nice in itself.

Of course, it not being a tailor's shop anymore ditches up our inquiry.

Please, Lewis.

Sorry. I was thinking, you know you said Redpath was persecuted for five years

after the murder?

Yes. Well, it was five years after the murder that the diary showed.

Go on.

Well, that's it, really.

This is the last day we concern ourselves with the diary, Lewis, which

till tomorrow to come up with something a bit more enticing than that.

I'm sorry, no -one said you had a visitor.

Oh, it's all right, Inspector. You can come in. This is my friend, Mrs

Oh.

You've met my sergeant twice, almost.

Yes, well, we were out the second time.

My neighbour told me he'd called.

That's right, he said that he'd called looking for you, Rose.

But he gave him the address, so...

Well, I let it pass.

Well, I suppose I'd better be going.

So soon?

I'll be back in a day or two if you need anything. Look after yourself. Thank

you.

You frightened her, Inspector?

I'm sorry.

Oh, it's not your fault. She's afraid of her own shadow, poor thing.

And no wonder with the life she's had.

Her son was committed when he was 20, you know.

Some kind of breakdown, they said.

Breakdown.

A prisoner in his own house, the boy was.

And he was knocked about. I could hear it sometimes.

By his father?

Of course.

Then after he puts his son in a mental hospital, he ups and goes without so

as a bile leaf.

So, Inspector, why have you come?

Oh, your photograph.

The jacket was tailored in Oxford. That's all I could find.

But it was him, wasn't it?

Yes. It was the last time Jane, my daughter, took Mary on holiday with her.

Mary was growing up, you see.

Why is it so important to you?

It wasn't at the time.

It could have been a very great help, Mrs Lapsley.

You mean it might help catch Mary's murderer?

I can't say that.

But it might?

It might.

Well, he did give her something that day.

The day that photo was taken, he gave Mary something.

It's in that little black box.

You can open it if you want.

He gave her this?

That's right.

You heard your daughter took other holidays, Mrs. Lapsley.

Can you remember where?

Not offhand.

I've kept her postcards, though.

May I borrow them?

If they'll help.

And the badge?

I won't need the badge, Mrs. Lapsley.

You should have bought some tacos. I think it's amazing.

Did you call the neighbour?

As soon as I got your message.

He hasn't spoken to Mrs Mitchell in over a week. And certainly not about my

second visit.

She was lying to him.

I was engaged to more things.

But not that.

Not a kiddie.

John Mitchell drove his son to a breakdown, hardly let him out of the

then walked out on both of them.

It all happened five years after.

Go on.

Two shalers.

John Mitchell, 14 Fern Street, Oxford.

Is that right?

That's it.

Right.

Good grief.

How the mighty have fallen.

What is it?

According to this, he served his apprenticeship as a draftsman, worked in

trade for 16 years, then gave it up to come a knight.

be enough.

Maybe you were right.

Oh, no.

It's right here.

Left voluntarily.

Benefit suspended.

Do you have the name of the cleaning company?

Cowan's Cleaning Services.

270 Finsbury Road.

Thank you.

Thanks very much. You're welcome.

Have a nice day.

Frank's been with his donkeys years.

Mr. Carran.

Chief Inspector Morse, Frank Park.

This is Sergeant Lewis, Frank.

How do you do?

They want to know about a John Mitchell.

They used to work for us.

Sorry, when did you say, sir?

He left 13 years ago. He worked here for four, four and a half years.

Yeah, I remember Mitchell.

Can you tell us anything about him, Mr Parks?

I doubt it. He was a quiet bloke.

Kept himself apart.

That's it, really.

Why did he leave?

I don't know.

Lots of blokes came and went then.

Thank you, Mr Parks, Mr Carr.

I'm sorry we couldn't tell.

Oh, no, no, you've helped enough.

Tell me, do you operate in Reading?

No. Oh, we did then, Mr. Cowan. Couple of offices.

It wasn't paying, so your dad pulled us out.

Thanks again.

It all adds up.

What does?

Mitchell. The diaries were typed on three different machines.

Well, he must have been surrounded by them.

Posted in Reading.

Well, you heard what Park said.

Yeah. Well, wherever he is now, he's probably still working.

We've only got to go back to the employment people and get them to trace

We're going back to the office, Lewis.

But we could trace him.

I said the office.

If we don't put a trace on Mitchell, it'll be gross negligence.

You're questioning my judgment, Lewis. I can't have that.

You what?

The interior.

You're owed some leave, am I right?

Yeah?

Then I'd like you to take it.

Leave?

Have you gone mad? We're getting close.

To the girl's killer, maybe to Hillion's.

You don't know what you're talking about, Sergeant.

I think I do.

I think John Mitchell did find Red Park Knife, and he used it to kill the girl.

His family found out and kept quiet, but for how long?

Maybe he could be sure about his wife, but not the son, and that's why he kept

him at home.

But he maltreats him.

The lad winds up in an institution, a place where Mitchell can't control him,

place where he might say anything.

So then Mitchell sends this diary to the police, hoping to make us believe the

killer's dead or dying.

Anything the son says then can be dismissed as lunatic raving.

Only Hillian comes out, says the diary's a fraud.

So Mitchell takes off, never to be seen again, except by Hillian, maybe, on the

night he died.

Well, Mitchell would be a lot more anxious about Alien's book than Redpath.

And how long has it taken you to get there, Lewis?

A couple of days, since we got the diary.

I don't believe this.

Good God.

You're jealous, aren't you?

You can't stand the idea of Dawson being right.

He's proved his point about the diary and you can't stomach it. Take your

Sergeant. No, sir, I'm not taking any leave.

And if you insist, I'll go in front of Strange with it right now.

So, what about this trace on Mitros?

He wanted to take a shortcut.

He wanted to ask his wife where he is.

Sunset? When?

Not yet.

You've done well, Morton. You've done very well.

Not me.

You and Sergeant Lewis.

Your conviction about the diary, Lewis's organisation of the facts?

You've got yourself a good man there, it would seem. Yes, I think so.

What about Redpath?

Well, it's almost certain he didn't murder the girl, which makes it seem

likely that he killed Charlie. Yes.

His daughter says he was persecuted for five years following Mary's death.

His visit to Charlie looked as if it had more to do with safeguarding his new

identity than concealing his guilt.

Then we have cleared an innocent man, Lord.

That's a tremendous achievement, don't you think?

Yes, I do.

Now, what about the guilty man?

Mitchell?

I don't know.

I thought his wife might know where he is.

She's protected him all these years.

They may even be in touch.

Why not go and ask her?

That's what the super says.

And? Well, two things, really.

I think it would be fitting if you handled it.

And the other?

I don't think I'd know how.

Oxford's gentrified you, Morse. No, just soft.

Mrs Mitchell. What the hell is going on?

Nothing for you to worry about. Sir, let's get back inside.

We know you're in there.

We have to let them in, Mother.

Can't you see it's no use? Oh, for God's sake, no.

Don't take him off me, Terence.

He'll go away.

He'll go away.

What's he waiting for?

Kick it in.

Do it.

Do it, man.

What are you doing? You can't do this.

We've come about the murder of Mary Lapsley, Mrs. Victor.

Mary Lapsley. Remember, 18 years ago.

You remember.

He killed her and you knew about it, didn't you?

Didn't you?

Didn't you, you bitch? You bloody knew about it and you protected her. And your

husband murdered her and you kept quiet about it, didn't you? Yes. No. Your

husband killed her. Yes. Yes.

Didn't ask her where he is. What?

Her husband. He didn't ask her where he is.

He left her 13 years ago.

That's the truth.

Now leave her alone.

What's happened here, sir? I just want to say, I think it's a disgrace.

And so will the jury.

What do you know about it? These are criminals. They're animals. I want them

arrested most, both of them.

There'll be time enough for that, Chief Inspector.

It's over.

Moss?

The police think they know who killed Mary Lapsley, Mr. Redpath. It was John

Mitchell.

Can't you people ever get it right?

Go on, Mr. Redpath.

What are you saying?

I'm very sorry.

I've lived every second of that day, over and over, rerunning what I said

and to whom, who said what to me.

There was a doctor called at the library to return some books.

Two belonged to John Mitchell.

The books were overdue, and Mitchell had asked the doctor to bring them in. He

couldn't do it himself because he was in bed, ill.

With the same virus that Barbara and the others had contracted.

The doctor had just come from Mitchell's house, boss.

John Mitchell couldn't have killed the guy.

Victor Morfitt.

Am I going blind, or is it really dark out here? Mr. Majors, I'm sorry. This is

very important.

Monumentally so, I hope.

He was in bed, ill at the time.

Her nice, clean dress.

Is that how you remember it?

Yes.

I didn't mean to kill her.

At school, the girls laughed at me.

Thought I was stupid.

I only wanted to touch her.

I wrote it in my diary to remind myself of the terrible thing I'd done.

Father found it when I went into hospital.

I didn't mean to kill her.

And Mr. Hilliam?

Mr. May just saw you outside when he and Hilliam were arguing about the book.

I couldn't be sure what was in it.

I knew about his party and thought that would be my chance.

But there were people there.

I waited.

I could see Mr. Hillion was drunk when they brought him home. Why did your

father beat you?

He tried to protect me.

He took his job so he could watch me during the day.

At night it was to be mother's turn, but she'd fall asleep and I'd go out. If he

found out...

Mother doesn't know about Mr. Hilly.

No.

Father was afraid of what I might say in hospital.

So he sent the diary to make the police think the killer was dead.

That way it would be all right if I said anything.

He typed it because of my writing.

Well done, Lewis.

Do you know where your father is, Terence?

He went out one night and never came back.

We thought it had all gotten too much for him.

But he was a good man, Inspector.

I'm sure he was, Terence.

And his disciples rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus saw it, he

much displeased and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto

and forbid them not.

For of such is the kingdom of God.

I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little

child, he shall not enter therein.

And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them.

They came running.

Hello, Mrs. Dawson. Is Chief Inspector Dawson in, please?

Si?

What?

You look as if something's the matter, is it?

I'd like to speak to you alone, Chief Inspector.

Well, what is it?

Of course you can't speak to him alone.

Whatever for?

Please, Dawson, you heard my wife.

Lewis. Sir.

Go on, Lewis!

We're here to arrest you, sir, for the murder of John Mitchell.

Don't be ridiculous, man.

You don't have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you say

may be given in evidence.

Alone, Dawson.

Please.

No, Patrick. It's all right. Get out! Take it with you!

I don't think so.

You see, in a few days, we cleared up a crime that an entire police force

couldn't solve 18 years ago.

I said you're a good detective, Morse. What more do you want? It wasn't

detection. It was the diary.

You knew it was genuine.

You found that out 13 years ago.

So you set us up and watched us go, second time around, straight to John

Mitchell.

You held back about the Mitchells seeing Redpath look for his knife, but you

knew we'd find out about that sooner or later.

The diary was dismissed by everyone as a fatal. Yes.

Dismissed by Charlie Hillion, by Lewis, and me.

But not you.

Because we lacked your great incentive, didn't we?

To find the man that killed your daughter.

What are you saying?

Daughter?

Patrick, what is he saying?

Where did you get that?

It's mine.

The one you gave Mary Lapsley is still with her grandmother.

I was there, remember?

Blackpool, 1969.

We were both in debates on hanging, if I recall.

There were any number of delegates there.

Not all wearing jackets tailored in Oxford.

Mrs. Lapsley also has the postcards her daughter sent from her annual holiday.

The dates and venue correspond with the police federation conferences.

Oh, God.

A child.

You never said she had a child.

It's not true.

Tell her it's not true.

Tell her Mary's not your daughter.

No.

But it doesn't prove I killed Mitchell.

You wanted us to think twice about Redpath.

You wanted him off the hook.

So you gave us Mitchell.

And then we'd know Redpath was not a killer.

That he went to Charlie Hillion's to safeguard his new identity, not because

was guilty of any crime.

Why would I risk so much for Redpath?

Because you persecuted him after Mary died.

For five years.

Until the diary turned up and you discovered the truth.

You punished an innocent man and here was a chance for restitution.

He is innocent, Moss.

Yes. And so am I. This whole thing is preposterous.

I wish it were.

John Mitchell did not kill Mary.

It was his son, Terence.

And he killed Hylian.

Now, how will you put that right?

Well, that's silly. You heard her, the mother.

Terence Mitchell signed a confession this morning.

But he admitted it.

He said he did it. He told me he did it. Who told you?

I had lost the only two people I ever really loved.

I was prepared to marry Jane, but she wouldn't have it. She said that it would

hurt.

She even forbade me to visit her when she was ill. Can you imagine that?

When she died, I consoled myself with Mary.

I'd watch her from a distance, at school, playing in the garden.

And then she was taken from me.

Charlie knew about Mary.

But he went up against the diary.

How many times I read it.

Then I remembered the knife. What if Mitchell had found it? So I started

watching Mitchell, and I found out about the job. It all made sense. The

typewriter's an office cleaner. So I decided to confront him with it, to ask

him. And he admitted it straight away. He said it was him. He said it was an

accident. But the more he spoke, the less I heard. All I could think of was

Mary's killer was sitting right next to me. And I thought about what he would

get when he came out. 15 or 20 years. And I couldn't stand the thought of

So I just kept on beating him until he stopped breathing.

And then I buried him.

He admitted it, Morse.

Why would he do that?

Because he loved his son just as you loved your daughter.

She should have been found by me.

Not you.

She should have been held by me just once.

Not sent to lie on some... lab.

You should have been held.

Perhaps she was.

I got it wrong, didn't I?

About the father? Well, that's understandable.

What about that?

You know what I mean.

Oh, you mean about me.

My professional jealousy, my gross negligence.

Yeah, I'd say you've come way off the mark.

I need to rub it in.

Checkmate.

I'll never learn.

That time.

He must have loved them very much.

He did.

If John Mitchell had been guilty, would Dawson have been right?

If you'd asked me that the day they brought Mary's body home, I'd have said

But now?

I think I'd like to spend some time alone, Inspector.

Of course.

I think you're going to let her win the chess, Sid.

That's the worst kind of deception, Merce.

badge of yours.

Why did you keep it?

Vanity, I suppose.

It was my first public speech.

Did you win?

No. We lost.