All language subtitles for Murder in Mind S01E04

Here.

I've always loved this garden,
even in the winter.

I'm just sorry I shan't see the spring.

Brandy?

Well, the alcohol will speed it up.

Always the doctor, aren't you?

Yes, I would like a little brandy.

Mmm... What a lovely smell.

At least I haven't lost my sense of smell.

And now the medicine.

Careful, William.

You really never do think for yourself, do you?

- We can't have your fingerprints on the bottle.
- What?

It's the first thing the police will look for.

They will come
and they'll ask you a lot of questions.

- You are ready for that?
- Yes, I suppose so.

This won't take a long time, will it?

- What?
- William?

Oh, no, no, no. Just... sleep.

I suppose there's some good
in being married to a doctor.

Kiss me, William.

I'm sorry... I'm sorry I wasn't a better husband...

That's enough. You'd better leave.

- Margaret...
- Go on.

Did you give her the Diproxamol?

She took it.

We had discussed it,

but she knew
where I kept my keys and took it herself.

Your wife was a very wealthy woman.

- Yes.
- Had she written a will?

- You know perfectly well.
- You inherit the house, money...

Mr. Bannister, I would have given
every penny of the money to make her well.

Tell me about her illness.

Good evening. A country doctor,
married for 30 years,

helps his wife with a so-called assisted suicide.

To the police, he's potentially a criminal.

To the public and to the community
that knows him, he's a hero.

What is the truth?

Tonight we talk to Dr. William Collins,

the man at the centre of the storm, to find out.

Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Collins.

Dr. Collins, we're very grateful for you
agreeing to appear on "Today's Debate".

Was that an easy decision for you to make?

Well, it was unavoidable
with all the media interest.

There is, of course, a very real possibility
that you may be prosecuted

for your part
in the assisted suicide of your wife.

The police have to do what they have to do,
but I was only doing what she asked me to do.

- My conscience is clear.
- Do you believe in euthanasia?

No.

Some might find that surprising.

Then they haven't understood what happened.

I was drawn into it. It was never my choice.

Let's start at the beginning.
What sort of person was your wife?

Margaret? Well, she was the sort of person
you would describe as indomitable.

In what way?

Well, she wasn't a person
you'd want to cross swords with, not Margaret.

Excuse me?

Excuse me?

- Excuse me?
- What?

- I take it this is your van?
- Yeah.

- Can't you read?
- I'm sorry?

It says, "No parking on the green".

- Well, I need...
- You have a job to do, I'm sure,

but this land
has been here since the 12th century.

Not only have you parked on it,
but you've made a great gouge mark.

- I'll move it if it's such a big deal!
- It IS a big deal.

This is part of our history, and there's no point
in moving it now. The damage is done.

We are proud of our green,
and don't slice it up when you leave.

Thank you. Come along, dear.

- Is something the matter?
- No, no. I think everything's taken care of.

Not the best way to meet your new neighbour,

but the great thing about Margaret
was that she had a good heart.

She was very well liked in the village.

We're near Reading, not quite commuter country.

Quite a few retired people.

The bank closed down in January
and there's talk of converting it.

- Morning.
- Couple of pubs and the village green.

That's where I have my surgery.

- Doctor?
- What is it?

There's an emergency.

- Thanks. It's my son Sam.
- What happened?

He can't breathe. I think he swallowed something.

I'm just going to thump you on the back.

He was in the back of the car, and I turned round
and next thing he wasn't breathing.

- I was going to take him to the hosp... Oh!
- I'm nearer.

- That's it. That's it. There. You take him.
- Good boy.

Come on. There you are.

There we go, Sam. All right.

There's the trouble. Lodged in his windpipe.

- Farmer Giles.
- He may have a sore throat tonight.

Thanks so much. I'm not even registered.

- All part of the service.
- Actually, we have met at Reading Coroner's.

My name's Bannister, Detective
Superintendent Bannister, Reading Police.

Well, glad I could help.

- Bye, Sam.
- Come on, you.

Come on. Say thank you.

It was Margaret, of course,
who persuaded me to move to Trentbury.

She'd been born there and she loved it.

We'd been living there
just on 12 years... when it began.

- Margaret.
- Oh, hello, dear.

Brought you some tea.

- How's the headache?
- It's back.

How many of these have you had?

- Two this morning and two after lunch.
- You shouldn't take so many.

- Let me have a look at you.
- I'm all right. Don't fuss.

- Stop it. I'm the doctor.
- Honestly, it's just a cold.

Half of the village has a cold, like every winter.

Yes, but this has been going on too long.

- How was surgery?
- We had a bit of excitement.

- A boy had an obstruction in his throat.
- Did you clear it?

Yes. Knocked it out of him.

- You been in all day?
- Yes.

- Since breakfast?
- I just feel so tired.

Your pulse is a little slow.

- Has the dizziness come back?
- A little.

- Nausea?
- I felt sick after breakfast.

- Probably my cooking.
- I'm just out of sorts, that's all.

Maybe. Perhaps it is just a cold,
but you ought to see a specialist.

- I don't like being ill.
- Well, I don't like it either.

I worry about you.

Oh, what are we going to do for dinner?

Salmon. That's what you told me to get.

- Did I?
- Yes. You told me this morning.

Don't you remember?

That was when
you first knew she was seriously ill?

No, I had no idea how ill she was.

That was later.

You see, when you're married
to someone you love very much...

...you don't dare to think the worst.

You persuade yourself
that it's going to be all right.

We'd been married for 29 years,

we had a grown-up daughter,

and Margaret was everyth...

Excuse me.

So when did you find out?

About a week later.

Margaret did a lot of work for the church -
flowers, harvest festival and so on.

- Morning.
- Morning, Margaret.

And then the Good Samaritan came along

and he saw the poor man lying in the road.

Can anyone tell me what he did?

- Reece?
- He walked past too.

No. Of course he didn't walk past.

If he'd walked past, he wouldn't have
been called the Good Samaritan.

No. He helped him.

He wrapped him up in his clothes,
he helped him onto his donkey

and whisked him off to the best hotel -
the Jerusalem Hilton.

And the point of the story...

The point...

Olivia, could you...?

Alice Young was the neighbour I mentioned.

She and the vicar brought Margaret home.

- How is she?
- She's in bed. She's a bit shaken up.

- Thank you for bringing her.
- It's the least I could do.

- Would you like me to stay?
- No. Thank you.

- I could cook something for lunch.
- No, no.

- Do you know what it is?
- Well, it could just be a bad cold,

but it has been a couple of weeks now.

- Well, please keep me informed.
- Of course.

And if there's anything you need, please call.

Thank you.

- I'm taking you to London.
- No.

- Yes. This has gone on long enough.
- I don't want to.

I can't look after you.
It's against GMC guidelines, for a start.

Anyway, I'm worried about you.

For once, you'll do as I say.

- What did you find?
- Nothing.

- What were you looking for?
- I was looking at your optic disc.

- I want you to go to a neurologist.
- But... that's for the brain.

- I'm worried about your symptoms.
- What were you looking for?

- Margaret...
- Tell me. You were looking for a tumour.

- No.
- Don't lie to me, William.

You were never any good at lying.

- I was looking for a space-occupying lesion.
- And?

- There's no sign of it.
- But it could still be there?

I don't know. I just have to be sure.

We both have to be sure.

We'll go and see Patrick Whitfield.
I've known him since medical school.

- He's the best there is.
- I hate being ill!

It's not very good for me either.

A doctor's wife? Hardly a good advertisement.

If we went to London, you could see Sarah.
You'd like that, wouldn't you?

- All right.
- I'll make the call.

Thank you, Jan.

So you've been having dizzy spells?

- Yes.
- And bad headaches?

- From time to time.
- From time to time.

Now, I want you to count down from 100,
but in intervals of seven, do you understand?

I'm sorry?

100, 93 and so on.

Each time subtracting seven.

One hundred...

Ninety-three...

E- Eight...

- Eighty-six.
- Yes.

Eighty-six.

S...

Seventy... seven.

Seventy-one...

S- S...

Sixty...

It's all right.

I'd like to ask one more question, Margaret.
What's the name of my nurse?

- You didn't tell me.
- Oh, didn't I?

I don't think so.

How long did you say this has been going on?

A couple of months now. Been worse recently.

- Patrick?
- What?

- How long are you going to be here?
- What do you mean?

Well, you said you were retiring. Canada.

Yes, I'm finally doing it, taking the plunge.
heading off into the wild.

Bit drastic, isn't it?

No, no. Mary's got family there.
She's always talked about going back.

We're leaving at the end of the month.

But don't worry, Bill.
If there's anything wrong, we'll know by then.

Oh, I'm exhausted!

Well, it's all over now.

- Oh, William.
- It's nothing serious. You know that.

Just tests.
It's just a process of elimination.

- You're exposing your queen.
- What?

Oh. Oh, yes.

I'll get it.

Hello? Yes, speaking.

Oh, Patrick. Do you have any news?

No, but I want to hear.

And that was when you heard?

- Yes.
- Did you tell her?

No. I couldn't.

Yes, that'd be better for both of us.

Well, as soon as possible.

Wednesday? What time?

Right. Ten o'clock.

Um... Thank you, Patrick.

I appreciate this. Thank you.

- What is it?
- Nothing.

- It was Dr. Whitfield. I heard.
- He's got the results of the tests.

He's referring you to another doctor
in Reading, er... Jane Watts.

It'll save us the trouble
of going up to London.

We've got an appointment
Wednesday at ten o'clock.

Did he say what was wrong with me?

No, he just said that we ought to see Dr. Watts.

Ah, Neurology.

Mind how you go. He said 107.

105...

106... Ah, here we go.

Come in. I've sent it down to Radiology.
Can you let me know when it arrives?

Dr. Collins, Mrs. Collins, please sit down.
I'm sorry to have kept you.

- What's going on outside?
- Oh, decorators.

They were meant to finish weeks ago.

My name is Dr. Watts. I'm attached to
the neurological department at Reading Hospital

and I'm a colleague of Dr. Whitfield.

Yes.

As you know, Dr. Whitfield is about to leave
his practice and he sent your results to me.

He thought that in the circumstances,

you might find it easier
to have a doctor closer to hand.

What circumstances?

I'm afraid you're very ill, Mrs. Collins.

Very ill indeed.

Please, tell me.

The results of your tests show
that you have a brain-deteriorating disease

called encephalitis lethargica.

Ah.

I'm terribly sorry.

Encephalitis?

It's a very rare illness,
often associated with Parkinson's disease,

but I have to be honest,
Mrs. Collins, it's considerably worse.

- Are you absolutely sure about this?
- Yes.

You have seen all Dr. Whitfield's notes?

I have all the test results and the notes.
I've checked everything.

He was very thorough.

It can be carried into the body
by bacteria or protozoa.

The most common cause of infection,
however, is by a neurotropic virus,

a blood transfusion, for example.

You were given blood in Spain.

But that was years ago.

- I was in an accident.
- It can lie dormant in the system.

Look, we're going to do everything we can.
We're going to make further tests.

What about Dr. Whitfield?

There's not very much he can do.

What are you saying?

I'm afraid there's no cure
for this form of encephalitis, Mrs. Collins.

The best we can do
is contain some of the symptoms.

And you're going to need support.

Therapy.

I'll arrange someone for you to see.

You have to understand my wife Margaret.

She was a very dignified person.

It mattered a great deal to her, appearances.

If it isn't too painful, Dr. Collins,

can you outline for us
the way the disease would develop?

Encephalitis lethargica begins with
the kind of symptoms she'd already displayed -

headaches, fever.

Progressive dementia would follow,

convulsions,
a loss of all physical and mental functions.

- It is a particularly horrible death.
- And was she aware of this?

She became aware. Yes.

After six months,
Natalie Shaw was clearly wasting away.

She was no longer able
to move or swallow without help

and looked 30 years older than her 27 years.

- Finally she drifted into a coma...
- Margaret!

- ...before dying from pneumonia.
- What are you doing?!

What was it?

It was a documentary.

I know what it was. Why were you watching it?

It was just on when I came in.

You shouldn't be watching it.

William?

- What?
- You haven't told Sarah about my illness?

Not yet, no.

I don't want you to. I don't want anyone to know.

I've decided. I'm not going on like this.

- There's no point.
- What?

Don't be obtuse, William.
You know what I'm talking about.

No, I don't.

I'm not going to turn into some half-dead thing,

and I'm not having therapists
and do-gooders pitying me

and poking their noses into my private life.

You've got drugs in your cabinet.

- I'm sure you can fish something out.
- No!

Why not? You heard what the doctor said.
If there's no hope...

- There are second opinions.
- Hers was a second opinion.

Whitfield gave me every test under the sun.

Anyway, I've made up my mind.
I'm doing this my way.

It's out of the question.

What's so great about old age?

I've had a good life. I brought up a child.

My marriage, I suppose,
has been reasonably happy.

- Oh, Margaret.
- Let's not pretend, William.

It's been a while since we were intimate.

And you always had an eye
for any barmaid or nurse.

I won't have you saying that!
I've never been unfaithful!

Stop it, Margaret. What you're saying,
it's out of the question.

We won't consider it.

I already have considered it.

I've thought it all through.
I'm not afraid of death, William,

but I won't lose my dignity.

If you won't help, I'll find someone who will.

I can't help you, even if I wanted to.
They'd put me in prison.

All you have to do
is show me what to take. I'll do the rest.

- I can't.
- I'll make sure you're not implicated,

I promise you,
but you won't make me change my mind.

So let me get this absolutely straight.

It was your wife
who first suggested the idea of suicide?

- Absolutely.
- And you didn't agree?

I'd been married to Margaret
for nearly three decades.

She was everything to me.
I didn't want to lose her.

But I couldn't stand by and watch her suffer.

You want to talk about euthanasia.

As a doctor, I disapprove of it.

But this was different.
It was what she wanted. I never had the choice.

We talked about it again and again.

But once Margaret had made up her mind
about something, she'd never change it.

We still hadn't told anyone,

but... the time was getting close.

I knew.

Diproxamol...

- What is it?
- It's a painkiller.

Dextropropoxyphene.

- It contains paracetamol.
- I thought you said no to paracetamol.

On its own. This is something different.

- How much do I take?
- Please, Margaret...

- How much?
- Doctor, I'm just popping out. Is that OK?

Yes, of course. Thank you, Carol.

A few days later
our daughter Sarah came to lunch.

Margaret had invited her...
I think to say goodbye.

Sarah, have some more lamb. William.

- No, I'm fine, Mum.
- You're not eating enough.

You young people - too many late nights,
and you don't look after yourselves.

You should talk. You haven't had anything.

- Oh, I'm not hungry.
- Well, I'm going to have some.

- Why won't you say what's wrong with you?
- I've told you. It's flu. Nothing more.

- It's been weeks now.
- Oh, you speak to her.

When did your mother ever listen to me?
Anyway, everything's in hand.

- What does that mean?
- It means I'm being looked after.

- By Dad?
- Why ever not?

- I think you should see someone.
- I can look after my own wife.

It's all right, William.

I have seen someone.
I'm run down. I need a rest. Nothing more.

Mum, you've never been ill.

I'm getting old, Sarah. I can't go on for ever.

- It's not flu, is it?
- Sarah.

I'm going up for my rest.

You'll probably be gone before I come down.

But... I do love you...

...and I'm very proud of you getting to university.

And you're not to worry about me.

Dad...

What's going on?

- Has she gone?
- Half an hour ago.

You didn't tell her anything?

- Of course not.
- She'll be terribly upset about this.

She's the one I'm most worried about.

- Promise me you'll look after her.
- If she'll let me.

I'm relying on you.

I'll look after her.

Good.

Well, I suppose
I'd better think about writing that letter.

- What letter?
- The letter to the police, William.

They will expect to find one.

- I don't know how you can be so...
- What?

...businesslike about it.

Dying is a business, William.

You should know that.

She wrote the letter the next morning.
It was a Monday.

- She did it in her bedroom after breakfast.
- Were you there?

No, she wouldn't allow me in.
She'd even locked the door.

Why was that?

I suppose it was painful for her.

At least, that's what I thought at the time.

Of course, with Margaret
I never knew where I was.

She always had to do everything her own way.

Ah. How are you feeling?

- I'm just going outside for some fresh air.
- Now?

- Why not?
- I'll come with you.

No.

I'm just walking down to the green.

I'll be all right.

That was the last time she left the house.

Later that day,
just before lunch, we got more news.

It's from Dr. Watts, isn't it?

Yes.

It's the result of the second lot of tests.

- Go on.
- They confirm the first.

- Do you want to look?
- No.

She says a Ms. Dewhurst will be ringing
to arrange an appointment.

From Social Services.

- She's part of the team offering support.
- I don't want support.

I want to be left alone.

I don't think we have any choice.

Yes...

...we have.

Margaret, I beg of you one last time...

No, William.

I'm ready.

I've always loved you, Margaret.

Have you?

You know, my mother never wanted me
to marry you. She didn't like you.

Your mother never liked anybody.

She was difficult, wasn't she?

- Like me.
- Not like you.

Margaret, you don't have to do this.

I'll look after you.

I'll nurse you to the end.
When you can't dress, I'll dress you...

Stop it. I've made up my mind.

I've had a good life,
and you'll be well provided for

with the house and all the rest of it.

You'll have to phone Lawson about the will.

And now the medicine.

Careful, William.

You really never do think for yourself, do you?

We can't have your fingerprints on the bottle.

What?

It's the first thing the police will look for.

They will come
and they'll ask a lot of questions.

The husband's always the one they suspect.

But I've taken care of it.

The letter's in the dining room
on the mantelpiece.

It explains everything.

Everything?

As much as they need to know.

This won't take a long time, will it?

- What?
- William?

Oh, no, no, no. Just... sleep.

- Margaret...
- Go on.

I went back to see her at 11 o'clock.

Her heart had stopped beating.
There was no sign of any breath.

Margaret had been right.
The investigation was being handled locally.

"Dear William, I have decided,
in the face of my illness,

"that my life is no longer worth living..."

I have not discussed
my feelings with you,

nor have I asked you to help me
with what I have to do.

If something should go wrong,
I do not wish to be resuscitated

or kept alive mechanically
or by any other means.

I wish to be buried in the village cemetery...

".. next to the church
which I have always loved. Margaret Collins."

It's a very businesslike letter, Dr. Collins.
Hardly very personal.

She knew it would be read by you.

- Even so.
- She was a very businesslike woman.

Ask anyone who knew her.
And she was very private.

The drug that your wife took, the Diproxamol,
where did she get that from?

- Did she have a key to this cabinet?
- That's where I keep dangerous drugs. No.

- But she knew where to find mine.
- And where was that?

At the back of my desk drawer.
I don't carry it. I'm afraid I'll lose it.

Look, I'm sorry to put you through all this.

No, it's all right. I understand.

Your wife had been depressed for some time?

Ever since she became ill, yes.

Did you have any idea of what she was planning?

No. She never told me.

What was the illness?

- I'd prefer not to say.
- Oh, Doctor Collins...

She was my wife. Patient confidentiality.

It must have been a very difficult time.

The next few days, yes, certainly.

There was the inquest, of course -

death by suicide - and then the funeral.

...through Our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

And the police didn't ask you
any more questions about your wife's death?

No. Her letter made it clear
that I had nothing to do with it.

The suicide note, yes,
but there was a second letter, wasn't there?

Yes, I knew nothing about that,
and she didn't tell me.

She wrote a letter to the vicar, Robert Fraser.

It was her conscience, you see.

Suicide is a sin. She could lie
to anyone, but not to the Church.

That second letter was her confession.

And it told everything.

The letter clearly implicates you
in her suicide, William.

- I'm shocked.
- You understand why she wrote it?

- She knew it was wrong.
- I tried to stop her.

But she says
that you told her about this... Diproxamol,

that you administered the dose.

In the end I did it because she asked me to.
But it was her decision.

She wrote a letter for the police to find,

then she wrote this second letter to you,
and did so in confidence.

William, her letter tells me...
that you colluded in her death.

She was ill. She had encephalitis!
She wanted to die!

Robert...

You can't show that letter to anyone.

- Why not?
- Well, I've already said.

It's confidential. It's like a confession.
It's between her and you.

I don't think that applies here. It's a letter.

- She sent it to me as a friend.
- She sent it to you as her vicar.

It doesn't say so.

So what are you going to do?
Are you going to show it to the police?

I was only doing what she asked.
I've done nothing wrong.

You helped her die.

Any man who loved his wife
would have done the same.

I'm not sure about that.

So you would have just watched her decline?

Dribbling, hunched up, racked with pain?

Is that what God wants?

You're not hearing what I'm saying, William.

It's nothing to do with what God wants.

It's nothing to do
with my feelings about you or Margaret,

although as a Christian
I have to say I'm appalled

to think that you agreed to assist her
in this way, no matter what the circumstances.

It's unthinkable.

But that's not the issue here.

For whatever reason, Margaret wrote to me,

and I have a clear duty to pass this on.

No matter what it'll mean for me?

I'm sorry.

As you know, I was arrested on suspicion
of aiding and abetting my wife's suicide.

It was made clear to me
that I was in a serious position.

I might even be charged with manslaughter.

They're discussing
with the Crown Prosecution Service

whether there's a case for me to answer.

But it does look unlikely that there will be
a prosecution, given the public support.

Well, I can't comment on that for legal reasons,

but I think most people would accept
that I've done nothing morally wrong.

Dr. Collins, has your family
stood by you through all of this?

It's been very hard for my daughter.
Hard for her to understand.

- Why didn't you tell me?
- I wanted to.

Sarah, God knows I wanted to,
but your mother wouldn't hear of it.

I could at least have said goodbye.

You wouldn't have tried to stop her?

Was she really that ill?

What will happen now? What did the police say?

I don't know. They may charge me
with assisting a suicide.

- There might be a trial.
- Why did you do it?

I had to. It was a mercy. You must understand.

She was my mum!

It was her idea.

- I didn't want any part of it.
- But you didn't stop her.

And I can't forgive you for that, Dad.

Whatever your reasons, it was still wrong.

You could have stopped her.
You could have done something.

You didn't even try.

You weren't here. You don't understand.

I don't want to understand..

I don't want to know.

William.

Alice.

- How are you?
- Well...

Would you like to come in for tea?
You shouldn't be on your own.

Oh... Well, yes, thank you.

Of course, the news of what had happened
became widely known after your arrest.

Yes, I've become
what you might call a cause c�l�bre,

but it's the last thing I wanted.

But the press has certainly come down
very heavily on your side.

"Dr William Collins emerges
as a sympathetic and charismatic figure

"who was placed in an impossible situation

"and who acted in a way
that must be understandable to us all."

And here.

"There are enough real thugs around
without the police stalking a man

"who only deserves to be free."

They have been very kind, yes.

It would be interesting
to have a show of hands.

The question is, who broadly supports
what Dr. Collins has done

and believes that the police would be wrong
to prosecute him in this case?

Well, I'd say that's about 80%.

Thank you very much.

- I understand you maintain your practice?
- I intend to go on working, yes.

And your support is almost universal?

- Yes, I believe so.
- Well, let's take a look.

I'd only worked for him for about a year.
He wasn't bad, I suppose.

I think Mrs. Collins made him do it.
He always did what she said.

I'm not against euthanasia. Not really.
I think people should have a choice.

William... Dr. Collins
is a good and caring doctor

who's spent his whole life
looking after other people.

I think it's completely wrong
that he's being persecuted like this.

He helped his wife to die with dignity.

Anyone would have done the same.

I'm sure that Dr. Collins thought
he was doing the right thing...

...but I personally believe that nothing
justifies the taking of another human life.

I'm praying for him.

And for Margaret.

Dr. Collins, this is a difficult question, I know...

...but do you now regret what you did?

I've always regretted it.

Even while it was happening, I regretted it.

Is that why you agreed
to come on this programme?

I agreed to come because...

Did you hope
to sway public opinion?

If there was no trial,
there'd be no further investigation.

- That had nothing to do with it.
- It had everything to do with it.

- I have nothing to hide.
- I think you do.

Now... you're under arrest for murder.

Why?

Because I've spoken to Dr. Whitfield.

You thought he'd be in Canada.

That's why you chose him,
because you didn't think he'd be around.

When your wife mentioned encephalitis
in her letter and we knew what the disease was,

we went out and we found him -
Patrick Whitfield.

He did examine your wife - CT scan,
the magnetic resonance imaging and all that -

but when I spoke to him, he was puzzled.

Your wife displayed all the signs
of a neurological disorder,

but the tests came up negative.

- That's not what he told me.
- He wrote to you

asking you to bring your wife in for further tests.

He showed me a copy. And you rang him back
saying that her condition had improved

and that there was no need
for further consultation.

He rang me. Margaret was there.

I'll get it.

Oh, Patrick. Do you have any news?
No, but I want to hear.

It wasn't Dr. Whitfield on the phone, was it?

He never made that call.

And anyway, it would have been impossible
for him to diagnose encephalitis lethargica.

He hadn't even taken a sample
of her cerebral spinal fluid.

Your wife must have been terrified, of course.

And I think you made her life hell.

Did you offer to dress her when she couldn't,
feed her when she couldn't?

We found a video in your house.

The state she was in, she probably
couldn't tell it was a video recording.

My guess is you made sure she saw it.

Margaret!

- She was ill.
- She was ill, yes.

We've had her body exhumed.

Something came up at the first inquest.
We didn't pay much attention.

It didn't seem relevant at the time.

A blunting of the hair filaments.

It's a symptom of thallium poisoning.

Is that what you were giving her? Thallium?

That was what was making her sick.

The dizziness, the nausea,
the general sense of malaise.

Thallium administered
in small but constant doses.

Oh, yeah, and as for the memory loss,

we had another look
at the blood sample that Dr. Whitfield took.

He'd held on to it,
but then he was concerned for her.

And what did we find? Rohypnol.

It's a benzodiazepine, the date-rape drug.

That would have been responsible for
the short-term memory loss she was displaying.

You didn't love your wife, did you?

You were tired of her
and you'd met someone else.

But you couldn't divorce her
because she had the house and the money,

so you came up with this extraordinary plan.

You would literally frighten her to death,

make her think she had encephalitis
when she was perfectly healthy...

...and then persuade her to kill herself.

- No!
- Yes.

Because you were in love with Alice Young,

the woman who lived across the road.

If there's anything you need, please call.

You nearly got away with it.

Your wife had killed herself and exonerated you.

Dr. Whitfield was in Canada.

Nobody would have even known
about the fake disease.

But then your wife wrote that second letter.

Was it just to clear her conscience?

Or was it that deep down inside,
somehow she knew.

You took her to a wing of the Reading Hospital
that was closed for redecoration.

You must have scouted it out earlier,
because you gained access to an empty office.

The results of your tests show
that you have a brain-deteriorating disease

called encephalitis lethargica.

Bye.

There is no Dr. Jane Watts at Reading Hospital.

It was a dressed-up Alice Young
you took your wife to.

Your wife had hardly ever met her,
and she was drugged out of her mind,

so she would have been easy to fool.

If anyone had caught you there,

it would have been the end of your plan,
probably your marriage,

but you hadn't committed a crime, not yet.

So it was worth the risk.

We arrested Alice Young this morning.

She's confessed to her part
and she's saying it was all your idea.

Yes... she would.

I could just have killed her, I suppose.

I thought about it, poisoning her...

...even strangling her, just to shut her up.

Yes.

She had the money, she had the house,
and I had to put up with her for 30 years.

But I knew... they'd know it was me.

It'd be bloody obvious, wouldn't it?

Unless I could somehow persuade her
to kill herself.

The perfect murder.

Where the victim does it for you.

And no one... would ever know.

When you're married
to someone that you love very much,

you don't dare to think the worst.

We have to keep persuading ourself
that it's going to be all right.

We'd been married for 29 years.

We had a grown-up daughter.
Margaret was everyth...