Original subtitles

The Greeks called it apeiros.

Anaximander of Miletus termed it apeiron.

But we generally take it to mean the same thing,

which is to say,

"endless."

Damn.

All right, matey?

We'll try and calm your nerves, all right?

Vivienne Haldane, sir, 43.

Husband's Rufus Haldane,

Maths Don at St. Saviour's, according to neighbors.

Body was found by the postie.

No sign of a break-in.

Dr. deBryn?

Strangled, from behind.

With a silk stocking.

Not hers.

Underwear balled up in her handbag.

And physical relations had taken place

within an hour or two of death.

Nothing to say unwillingly.

At first glance.

Any similarities with Mrs. Curran-Matthews?

Besides the sex.

The stocking's new.

If it is him.

Mrs. Curran-Matthews, it was manual.

Same as Mrs. Merchant.

Start of last month.

I thought the husband had been charged for that?

He's on remand for it, but...

That's DI Chard's case, isn't it?

I took a look at the case files.

Did you?

That will please Mr. Chard.

Mrs. Merchant's body was found on waste ground.

Mrs. Curran-Matthews at home.

If it's the same bloke, it's hardly consistent.

It's him.

The strangler.

Mrs. Merchant.

Mrs. Curran-Matthews.

Now Mrs. Haldane.

Yeah?

Three women.

So?

So, three married women,

not one of whom have been found wearing a wedding ring.

What's that?

It's a diary from Mrs. Haldane's handbag.

And?

Just appointments.

Hair.

Dentist.

Getting her nails done.

Golf with Prue and Audrey, couple of times a week.

Supper with this Josephine.

Other than that...

A junior officer calling the work

of a senior Detective Inspector

into question?

Mr. Merchant's been charged, for God's sake.

Are you sure about this?

Wedding and engagement rings are missing

in all three cases.

Could go long, sir.

I'd be glad of Morse,

if you could spare him from this report.

Yes.

Yes, I suppose.

Very well.

Probably best to keep him out of DI Chard's way.

Not everyone has my forgiving nature.

Right on top of Guy Fawkes.

Nip it in the bud, fast.

Or we'll have a panic on our hands.

Lynch mobs and all the rest of it.

Shall we carry on?

When did you last see your wife, Doctor?

Yesterday morning.

No.

The day before.

I think.

Yes.

Yes, the day before.

I went home to collect a fresh shirt.

Vivienne and I lived apart.

She had her world and I mine.

What was her world, sir?

I don't know.

Whatever women do, I suppose.

Could I ask, sir,

what your movements were yesterday evening?

I had a late tutorial.

Dined in.

Dropped by the SCR

and returned to my room about 9:30

to work on a lecture.

Anyone confirm that, sir?

My pupils.

Some fellows, I'm sure.

I can give you a list of names.

It appears your wife had an appointment

in her diary last night

for supper with someone called Josephine.

It seems to have been a regular occurrence

these past few months.

Only I can't find anyone of that name

in her address book.

Any idea who that might be?

I'm afraid not.

You've no idea of the company she kept?

Who she might have been seeing?

Dr. Haldane?

A man, you mean?

No.

I suppose I hoped we might resolve our differences.

It was a pattern, you see, with Vivienne.

Every few years or so.

I was a disappointment to her, I think.

In all the important ways, at least.

The ways that matter.

To a woman.

You see, the way I look at it,

when it comes to birds,

there's two types of men in this world:

them that's got it and them that don't.

Know what I mean?

Yeah, not bad.

Not bad at all.

I'll take it.

Very good, sir.

Isobel Merchant.

38 years old.

Housewife.

One daughter at Belbury Tech.

Mr. Merchant's a long-distance lorry driver.

Last week, Mrs. Ann Curran-Matthews.

43, housewife.

Husband's something in the city, where he stays during the week.

Now this morning, Mrs. Vivienne Haldane.

So... we've got a multiple murderer on our hands

but no suggestion he'll call time at three.

Sergeant Jakes?

Right.

Persons of interest.

The usual fragrant bunch-- flashers, sex cases.

Ask about chokers and pseudo-stranglers.

You know the drill.

Thank you.

Good morning, sir.

How may I be of assistance?

Detective Constable Morse.

City Police.

I'd like to ask someone about stockings.

Ladies' stockings.

You want Mrs. Armstrong in hosiery.

If you'd like to come this way.

Mrs. Armstrong.

This gentleman is from the police.

He'd like some assistance

in the matter of ladies' stockings.

Yes, certainly.

I'm trying to find out if anywhere in Oxford

sells a particular brand of stocking.

Black, silk, seamed.

With a design at the top.

Do you have it, the stocking?

I'm afraid not, but I have a sketch of the design.

Ah, si.

Le Minou Noir.

French.

It's a new line.

They only came into stock for the autumn/winter season.

That's the one.

I don't suppose you'd know how many you've sold?

Oh, I'd need to check with the stock room,

but two or three pairs a week.

Quite expensive.

17 and six.

So, if you'd like to come back?

Perhaps after lunch?

I will.

Thank you very much for your help.

Norman Parkis speaking.

Hello, Norman,

this is Mrs. Armstrong in hosiery.

Yes?

Could you bring me the stock sheets

for Le Minou Noir stocking, please?

Right away.

Thank you.

The name of the stocking is Le Minou Noir.

There may be others, but the only place I've found so far

that sells them in Oxford is Burridges.

Unless he's not from Oxford.

I'd have thought so, wouldn't you?

The odds of him finding three married women,

all of whom live alone?

So?

So he knew them.

Or had been watching them long enough

to know their whereabouts.

Someone was with Mrs. Haldane last night.

What do you make to this ring business?

Souvenir, maybe?

Some kind of memento?

Right, then-- let's see what we shall see.

You'll see ham and tomato.

Thursday.

Why don't you go away for your anniversary?

Calais, Ostend, St. Malo...

Abroad?!

We're not made of money.

Where's this from, a magazine?

All right, Torquay, then?

Out of season?

It's your own fault.

Who gets married in November?

We did.

So much for the June bride.

Well, it was the war.

Things were different.

He had a 48-hour pass.

One weekend.

Married on a Saturday, honeymoon Sunday,

shipped back to the desert on Monday.

That was it, till after V.E. day.

Mmm, you must have seen him once before then.

Oh, yes, right, the once.

Brought him back to London

for... something, I don't know.

Hush-hush.

Hush-hush? Dad?

Well, it must have been important

because they put us up at the Dorchester.

Get you.

What did he do, Dad?

He never talked about it.

And I know better than to ask.

I expect Mrs. Thursday's made a few rounds over the years.

How long have you been married?

Well, let's see.

A while now.

How long would that be?

A good while.

In dog years.

Matter of fact, it's our silver wedding next week.

Lot to be said for being settled.

Where are you in that regard these days?

As a matter of interest.

Me?

I haven't got time, really.

Work's all well and good,

but there's more to life than coppering.

Or should be, man your age.

Morse?

Three weeks.

Between the first and second victims.

Less than a week between the second and third.

It hadn't escaped me.

The next could be days away.

Thanks for helping me with Dad's present.

It was fun.

Can I help you onto the bus?

Oh, thank you.

There you go, one step up.

Thank you, conductor.

See you later. Bye, Mum.

Bye.

Extra! Extra! Read all about it.

Strangler claims third victim.

Oxford woman murdered in her own home!

I went back to Mrs. Haldane's and found this.

She kept a private diary,

outside of her appointments book.

Those "every second Wednesdays"

she was meant to be seeing Josephine.

"Saw X, and we made violent love.

"I know X is a brute,

but I can't help myself."

"X is taking advantage.

I know he's using me, and he knows I know."

Next week...

"Terrible row with X.

"I told him I wasn't prepared to go on with things

"the way they are.

"That it had to change.

"I wept and wept

"as if the world were ending.

"Afterwards X very kind

"and thoughtful and comforting.

"He put his hands on me

"and I let him do what he wanted.

I'm such a fool."

What do they want?

Passion seems to be the long and the short of it, sir.

Passion.

Going by the diary.

Excitement.

Ah!

Excitement!

What happened to reliability, hmm?

Of course, North Oxford's full of that type.

Life a drama...

and themselves its star.

The damage done.

What about the rest of them?

Anything like that there?

Mrs. Merchant, it's difficult to say

as she wasn't found at home.

With Mrs. Curran-Matthews there was no sign of a forced entry,

nor at Mrs. Haldane's.

Did you get anything out of this stocking business?

Morse is on it now, sir.

I'm meeting him at Burridges.

Mr. Highbank!

Where do you want this Colston?

Window number four, please, Mr. Huggins.

Walk this way.

If I could walk that way,

I wouldn't need the talcum powder.

Hello.

Hello.

Haven't seen you about for a while.

I've been on nights, mostly.

Listen, I meant to apologize

for the night we were meant to...

You don't need to explain.

I do need to explain.

And I should have then.

You see, a friend asked me to do him a favor.

To make up a four.

I'd completely forgotten until the last minute,

but I didn't want to let him down.

I didn't know what to tell you.

The truth.

I'd like the chance to make it up to you.

You could buy me a drink

if you're not doing anything?

I've got to see the manager now for work.

But I'm free about 7:30?

Shall I give you a knock?

You going to turn up this time?

Good afternoon, sir.

Madam.

How may I be of service today?

Oh.

I-I'm sorry, you misunderstand...

Perhaps madam knows?

Yes.

A new mattress.

Of course.

This way.

This one looks nice.

Ah, the Silent Spring deluxe.

A wise choice.

Madam certainly recognizes

quality when she sees it.

As I'm sure sir would agree.

It's quite comfy.

Of course, to fully grasp

the wonder of the new cantilever springing

truly requires the presence of a second occupant.

Just as you would at home, hmm?

As you see, we've sold 19 pairs

of the particular stocking you were after.

13 to some six account holders.

The remaining five to casual shoppers.

So clearly if Mrs. Haldane did buy a pair,

she certainly didn't charge it to her account.

And we've no record of the other two names

you've asked for:

Mrs. Curran-Matthews and Mrs. Merchant.

Do you recognize them, Mrs. Armstrong?

I recognize this lady from the newspapers,

but no, I never served any of them.

Mr. Quinbury.

Sir, may I present

Detective Constable Morse of the City Police.

Constable, this is Mr. Alan Burridge,

the proprietor.

Uh, forgive me.

Please.

Mr. Quinbury gave me to understand

we might resolve this issue

without troubling the police.

Which issue, sir?

Sir, the officer is here

in regard of another matter, sir,

the stranglings.

I see.

One of the victims held an account here, sir.

A Mrs. Haldane.

My goodness.

How awful.

Well, of course, if there's any way we can be of use?

Thank you, sir.

Mr. Quinbury's been very helpful.

Well, then, I'll leave you to it.

What's this amongst her purchases?

"Ronson.

Engraved."

Oh, it's a gent's lighter.

We have a heel-bar key-cutting service in the basement.

Mr. Jopling, our principal cutter,

he handles all the engraving.

Would it be possible to find out

what Mrs. Haldane had engraved upon the lighter?

Certainly.

She has also bought a couple of pairs

of cuff links and a gent's tie pin.

A description of those items

would probably be very useful.

Yes?

Another policeman to see you, sir.

Send him in.

Good afternoon, sir.

Detective Inspector Thursday.

Oxford City Police.

Sergente Giovedi?

Fredo?

Si.

Sir?

Must've been a shock.

That's all.

I knew...

Mrs., is it?

Armstrong.

Mrs. Armstrong.

During the war.

They had it bad, her people.

She doesn't want all that bringing up again.

Look, you'd better take her through

whatever she's got to say

about this stocking business, all right?

Of course.

I'll see you back at the nick.

You... can't come in here.

Staff only.

N-not customers.

It's all right, Norman.

This gentleman

is with the Police.

Yes, sir.

Oh, Mr. Burridge, what issue was it you'd hoped

might be resolved without involving the police?

A small amount of petty pilfering.

Nothing we can't resolve within the store, I'm sure.

Well, if you do need our assistance...

Of course. Thank you.

Mrs. Armstrong's been with us three years.

Widowed, sadly.

She is powdering her nose.

Did your colleague say...?

The war.

Ah, strange.

You know, I look around,

people going about their business, living their lives.

You wonder sometimes whether any of it really happened.

Forgive and forget, I suppose.

11 Group.

Spits. Kenley.

One of the lucky ones.

Walking wounded.

Afternoon, sir.

Any luck at Burridges?

Morse is on it.

Anything doing?

Door-to-door's put a green car outside Mrs. Haldane's

on one or two of these Wednesdays

she's been seeing Mr. X.

No make, model or registration number.

I went overwitness statements on Mrs. Merchant.

Report of her getting into a green car

earlier that evening.

And you'd remember if a man

had ever bought a pair, presumably?

A man? Si.

But no.

No, nothing like that.

Unless there's anything else?

Perhaps Mrs. Armstrong could return to work.

Of course. Of course.

If I remember anything else,

where can I find you?

Cowley Road Police Station.

My number's on the card.

Your, uh... colleague?

He had to return to the station.

Sends his regrets.

Yes.

Of course.

Is there anywhere else you know of in Oxford

that stocks Le Minou Noir?

You'd need to ask the suppliers.

A Mr. Lisk, Goldfarb-Ligourin.

Well, thank you.

So what have we got on our hands?

A sex killer, hmm?

Doctor?

Both Mrs. Merchant and Mrs. Curran-Matthews

had engaged in coitus

within a few hours of death.

But like Mrs. Haldane,

there was no evidence of force having been used.

There is one thing you might want to bear in mind.

I've only just had the initial reports back

on Mrs. Curran-Matthews' clothing,

but the skirt is showing traces

of calcium sulfate dihydrate.

Gypsum.

A plasterer, then.

Some sort of manual laborer.

It's also used as a fertilizer, I believe.

An agricultural connection?

Of course she might well have come

into contact with the material

through wholly innocent means.

Nothing like that showed up on the first victim?

Mrs. Merchant?

No, and it'll be a day or two

before we've a result back on Mrs. Haldane's clothing.

I showed her a photograph of Mrs. Haldane,

but she'd no recollection

of having served her.

Oh.

How was it you knew Mrs. Armstrong?

I told you.

The war.

The engraving on the lighter wasn't much use either.

Just, "They asked me how I knew..."

"Smoke Gets in Your Eyes."

Present for her fancy man, I expect.

Think it's him?

I know the type.

Bleed them for all they've got,

and move on to the next meal ticket.

Why not just drop them?

To sleep with all three

and then strangle them seems a bit...?

Maybe it's just his thing.

Maybe he'd had money off of them,

and they were looking to make trouble for him.

Who knows with women-haters?

Look.

Your secret admirer?

Came in the pneumatic mail not ten minutes ago.

The second one today.

One more and I'll have a dozen.

Are those your invoices?

I'll pop them up before I go.

Thank you, Mrs. Deeks.

Coming down the Lion, Lu?

Not tonight, Charlie.

Story of my life.

What was all that about earlier?

I heard you had a turn.

A dizzy spell, that's all.

I'm fine now.

Just a little tired.

Still on for our Friday manjarie, though, right?

Of course!

See you tomorrow, then.

Watch how you go in that fog.

Don't go talking to any strange men.

You hear me?

Ciao bella.

Ciao.

All right, that's the lot, then.

Don't.

All right, Norman.

What you got there, then?

Here, look, Roy.

I'm Jake the Peg.

I've got to get on.

If I don't get on,

I-I'll get told off.

Mr. Quinbury have your g-g-guts, will he?

Give it back, you...

Oi!

Give it him.

You shouldn't tease people.

You can talk.

Anyway, he's not people.

He's Norman.

You have very beautiful hands.

You know that?

You can tell a lot

about a person by their hands.

What can you tell from this?

That whoever he is, he's a fool to leave you

out on your own.

Joan and me thought we'd go to the display

in the Botanic Gardens.

Just make sure you stay out of trouble.

You know what they get like in town.

I suppose you'll be working?

Dad?

Fireworks night.

You'll be working.

He always works Fireworks.

What're you going to be doing?

I've just said, the Botanic Gardens.

Well, don't go off and leave her, all right?

You know how bad things can get in town.

And you, mind how you get home from the bank of an evening.

Stay where it's well lit.

Same goes for you.

This thing in the paper?

I don't want to have to spell it out.

Just be careful.

All right?

Ever had your palm read?

You'll get your face red in a minute.

I'm waiting for someone, so skip the blarney.

No, you're not.

You...

You're a very beautiful young girl.

Problem is that you know it.

See, I reckon someone broke your heart,

and now you think all men are only after one thing.

And you're not, I suppose.

You wear that ring as a wall to keep the wolves out.

And I don't blame you.

Only it's been up so long,

you can't tell when the genuine article comes along.

It's full-time with you, isn't it?

On the ward this afternoon,

they were all talking about this strangler.

Sorry, I shouldn't ask.

No, it's...

You'll be all right.

Because it's only married women he goes for.

Oh...

Anyway, shall we have another bottle?

Yeah.

Drop of Dutch?

Tell me it's not my place, Glo.

I know it must be hard on you

with Steve being...

where he is.

God knows we can all use a friendly port.

But are you sure about this?

All set?

I can't.

What do you mean can't?

The car's outside. Come on.

I said I'll take you up Boar's Hill, see the sights.

I changed my mind.

I'm sorry.

I bought you a drink.

Hey, handsome.

She said she's not interested.

And who asked you?

This young lady

happens to be a friend of mine.

Oh, is that right?

Well, you're barking up the wrong tree there, darling.

He's a bloody fairy.

I don't know why they let your type in here.

Should be strangled at birth.

Well, thank you, Cary Grant.

Don't, Charlie.

My old man fought a war for people like you?

And he never got one? Shame.

Listen...

Pick on someone your own size!

Are you with him?!

Yeah!

You leave him alone.

What is this?

The circus in town?

It's a bloody freak show.

You want to think about who you let in, Pat.

This place has gone right down.

When no one arrived at the rendezvous,

I made my way back to the villa with Lupo.

We saw from the olive grove through binoculars.

They had you all lined up against the white wall.

Francesca I recognized first.

Her red dress.

Then I saw you beside her.

I saw you fall.

I thought you were dead.

I tried to get down there, but Lupo cold-cocked me.

Probably just as well.

More than likely I'd have got them killed as well.

When I came to, it was dark.

A cave somewhere.

He said they'd got everyone.

They did.

Francesca?

The next afternoon,

an English company arrived.

They found me lying with everyone else.

Close to death but somehow not.

There was an officer.

Major Hugh Armstrong.

He saw to it that I was taken to a field hospital.

How did they get to you?

We were betrayed.

Who?

It doesn't matter.

The nearest farm down the hill.

Ugo.

The farmer's boy.

A good little fascisto.

Anche malato d'amore.

Lovesick.

For Francesca.

He took to following her.

Spying on her.

He saw where she went, who she met.

And then he realized she was una stafetta.

And Ugo?

Hanged.

With his father.

After the war.

The mountains don't forget.

Well, let me see you home.

Thanks.

So...

Was that a date, or...?

I don't know.

Maybe we should do it again.

Just to be sure.

If it was a date or not.

Well, I'd better...

Of course.

Good night.

Good night.

What time do you finish on Bonfire Night?

Midnight.

Why?

I'll pick you up.

This is him, is it?

Major Armstrong?

He came back for me after the war.

Brought me here.

He was a good man.

I'm glad.

Children?

No.

They took that away from me too, the Germans.

French cigarettes.

Hugh's favorite.

I buy a packet from time to time.

I let one burn out in an ashtray.

You get used to things.

So what about you?

You have children?

A boy and a girl.

Sam and Joan.

And a wife?

Yes.

And a wife.

The same wife?

Yeah.

I wondered if you would come after today.

What do you want, Fredo?

I'm not her.

She died.

Remember the girl you knew.

I have.

Always.

Well, it's somebody's initial, presumably.

"A" for what? Andrew?

Albert? Whoever it is,

DI Chard's men missed it.

I'd think twice before throwing accusations

like that around, if I was you.

Mrs. Merchant was killed four weeks ago.

Who knows who's been through there since?

I suppose.

Right, what's the order of battle?

You're going to pick up with this stocking supplier?

Middleman, whatever he is?

Mr. Lisk?

See if there's any other local retailers.

And of course I've the account holders

of Burridges to work through.

Right, best get to it.

Dad? Sandwiches.

You're not thinking this morning.

No, I...

Come home safe.

Are we all here?

Where's Mrs. Deeks?

Not in yet, sir.

Then we'll have to start without her.

Now, for the fourth month in a row,

we have a discrepancy between sales recorded

and monies received,

to the sum of £18, 14 shillings and nine pence.

Until further notice,

the evening cash-up for each department

will take place in the presence

of either myself or Mr. Jellicoe.

Where is your poppy, Mr. Lee?

My apologies, Mr. Quinbury.

It was there when I left the house.

As may be.

The offense is given.

I'm sure no slight was intended,

Mr. Quinbury.

The pin must have gone.

Happens to me all the time.

Here.

Please.

Have mine.

Thank you, Mr. Burridge.

To your departments.

Mr. Jellicoe.

Sir.

If you would, Mr. Potter?

Mr. Lisk?

Detective Constable Morse.

City Police.

You're the intermediary for Le Minou Noir.

A range of hosiery.

Oh.

Right.

Well, I carried the line for a bit.

I'm afraid we won't be getting any more in.

Problem with the manufacturers.

Do you want to get that?

Hello?

No, that's the previous occupant.

As far as I'm aware, they ceased trading

some months ago.

No, you'd have to apply to the lessor

for a forwarding address.

Actually, I'm afraid

it's not very convenient right now.

If you could call back tomorrow?

Ta.

Spelt with an "R," isn't it, Parma?

Have a bottle if you want.

You'll be beating them off with a stick.

I won't, thanks.

But what I would like

is a list of all the retailers

you've supplied with these stockings.

Apart from Burridges.

Well, Burridges was the main...

outlet.

If not, in fact, the only.

Probably.

It was B-stock, to be honest.

I got lumbered with it.

Job lot.

What I've had, they got.

There won't be no more.

So Burridges is the only place in the county which sells them?

In the country, in a nutshell.

What's this about?

I'm not at liberty to say.

But just for the record,

where were you Wednesday night?

Me? Yes.

Birmingham. Doing what?

I had a bit of business in the afternoon.

The toy line.

What with Christmas coming up.

And the evening?

I ran into this air hostess.

Some bar somewhere.

Carol something.

Took her for a meal.

Saw her back to her flat.

And, uh...

Got a number for her? Nah.

Address? She did tell the taxi,

but I wasn't paying attention as to where we were going.

Had my hands full, if you follow me.

And she threw in a fried breakfast.

You can't say fairer, can you?

Still no Mrs. Deeks?

No, sir, not yet.

This isn't like Gloria, Mr. Burridge.

She's usually dead on time.

Perhaps you could telephone, Mr. Quinbury.

Just to make sure she's not ill or anything.

Traditionally, sir,

it's always been for the staff

to notify the store of such an eventuality.

Certainly that's always how things were done

under Mr. Burridge Sr.

Mr. Quinbury,

you've served my late father and the store

better than any man alive for 20 years.

He often spoke to me of how he valued your advice.

As, indeed, do I.

Good of you to say so, sir.

Truth is,

I've only been in the job for three months,

and I don't doubt I'll make a great many mistakes.

But one thing I do know.

Burridges is its staff.

Their happiness and well-being

are my whole concern.

Now with that in mind, might we not, together,

create a few new traditions of our own?

I'll telephone at once, sir.

So, what do you make to him?

He's a fly-by-night wide-boy knocking out third-rate tat.

Denies knowing any of the victims,

but can't provide a satisfactory alibi for any of them.

He'd have to be pretty stupid

to knock these women off with his own stock.

What about a car?

Two-tone Cortina, he says.

Mark 1, blue with a white top.

Not our man then.

Whoever killed Mrs. Haldane

bought these stockings themselves,

or is close to someone who did.

A wife, maybe, a girlfriend.

A daughter, or sister, even.

Stockings aren't as popular as they used to be

with younger women, sir.

It's more pantyhose nowadays.

Indeed.

I'm sure we're grateful for your expertise.

They've sold how many? Burridges?

Nineteen, sir.

Over ten or so customers,

six of whom are account holders with the store.

Right, better start there, then-- process of elimination.

There's no reply at her home.

Ah.

Here she is now.

Mrs. Deeks!

You missed Mr. Burridges' roll call.

I'm so sorry, sir.

Only the cat brought down a shelf in my front room

with the goldfish on.

Time I'd got it tidied, I'd missed the bus.

Perfectly understandable.

It won't happen again, Mr. Burridge.

Alan, please.

All right.

Get to your post.

How many's this?

Of the account customers?

Five of the six.

Mrs. Shears.

Bought a single pair Tuesday last.

Bloody wild goose chase.

I bet you we'll get through the list,

they'll all be present and accounted for.

It's gonna be one of these five we don't know about.

Mrs. Shears? Hello?

Mrs. Shears?

Police, Mrs. Shears.

Mrs. Shears?

With the one found around Mrs. Haldane's throat,

I would imagine that to make the pair, presumably.

Stockings.

But not hers.

We found the pair she bought from Burridges

in a bedroom drawer, unopened.

This was caught in her hand.

Unlikely to have been wearing one on her nightclothes.

She's reached back over her shoulder, clawing at him,

and only managed to dislodge the poppy.

Can you put a time to it, Doctor?

About six hours.

Must've been after the kids left for school.

Two girls, April and Claire.

A car and a WPC on way.

Neighbor this side said there was a bloke

watching the house first thing.

It was dark still, so no description,

but he was carrying a bag of some sort.

Hold-all, maybe.

Any sign of a break-in? No, sir.

Front door was on the latch, possible she let him in.

The back door was unsecured.

He could've come in that way, pretty much unseen,

and gone out via the front.

So he left it unlocked.

According to the woman over the road,

there was a green car parked in the drive yesterday.

And not for the first time whilst the old man's away.

What about the husband?

Away in Scotland on business.

Left the day before yesterday.

What do you reckon to that?

Behind the door in the front room.

Door stop, maybe?

Something you should see.

It's the mathematical symbol for infinity.

Or it's an eight that's had one too many.

Unless there's another four victims

we don't know about? So what does it mean?

A message perhaps?

A signature?

Infinity.

That goes on forever, doesn't it?

Maybe what he's trying to say is he's not going to stop.

Until we catch him.

Hello.

Detective Constable Beckett's phone.

DC Morse speaking.

I usually call DC Beckett in these situations.

She just keeps saying it's a mistake.

They all say that, of course.

You saw her take them, Mister...?

Len Jellicoe.

Detective Sergeant, retired.

I saw her standing by the section.

When I looked back, she was gone.

And so was a nice pair of kid-skin gloves.

I stopped her on the way out.

Asked her to step into the manager's office.

The gloves were found in her handbag.

My day, that was as open and shut as it gets.

This way.

Here she is.

I didn't do it.

Of course you didn't.

I told him, I've never taken a thing in my life

that didn't belong to me.

Detective!

He couldn't detect muck on a rug!

And then he has the damn cheek to tell me

that if I pay a fine

I could be on my way, no need to fetch the police.

I said to him, "You fetch 'em!"

I wasn't having that!

A fine?

What sort of fine?

It's Money with Menaces, Mr. Quinbury.

She's lying.

They'd say anything to get out of trouble.

What's this?

A shoplifting incident, sir.

Actually, it's rather more than that.

I believe your store detective is running an extortion racket.

Wait a minute.

Look here, son.

I'm ex-job myself.

He is planting goods on customers,

then offering them a fine of ten pounds

or risk having the police brought in.

Is this true, Jellicoe?

Of course not, sir.

It's her word against mine.

Sir, who are you going to believe?

Don't tell Fred.

Tell him what?

Nothing's happened.

No.

Well, I don't want him bothered.

He's got enough on his plate with all this at work.

You must be rushed off your feet, the pair of you.

I mean, his tea barely had a chance to go down last night

before he was out again till all hours.

Observation, he said.

This thing in the paper, is it?

Well, I... can't really go into it.

No.

You're like two peas in a pod.

I'm glad he's got you to keep an eye on him.

It's got to him, this one.

Joan and Sam are organizing some sort of surprise do

for our anniversary.

I'd like you to come.

Well, that's a... family occasion.

Surely.

Well, I'd like you to be there.

And I know Fred would too.

You never thought to go back

after your husband died?

There's nothing for me there.

Family?

No.

You shouldn't be alone.

Too much life in you for that.

I should find someone to take care of me, you mean?

Who?

A policeman?

We were friends once.

That's the last thing we were.

Friendship takes time.

What did we have?

Two months?

Three?

If that.

There wasn't room for friendship too.

Don't tell me, I was there.

I remember everything.

Everything.

Every moment.

Like nothing before or since.

It's here, still.

Forever.

The scent of the pines, the sun on the water.

So vivid.

And you.

All above everything, I remember you.

Your eyes.

You can't say these things.

You can't.

Not to me.

I've no one else to say them to.

Don't go.

Not like that.

Let me get you another. I said only one drink.

I have to go, really.

I'll see you home.

You can walk with me to the bus.

This may seem rather an odd question,

Dr. Haldane, but your piano at home--

would you happen to know if it's been tuned lately?

That was Viv's department.

But we used to have a chap come by once a year.

Usually around this time, in fact.

Mr... Mr. Pugh.

Viv would have kept his number in her address book.

You think it has something to do with what happened?

I don't know.

It's just a line of inquiry.

Could I trouble you for one more thing?

Certainly.

What does this mean to you?

It's a lemniscate.

Introduced into mathematics in the mid-17th century

by John Wallis.

It stands almost invariably for infinity.

Does it have any other significance?

It symbolized eternity and the soul of the world.

And, of course,

in modern mysticism, it represents Ouroboros.

The snake which devours its own tail.

Yes, just so.

Right, thank you.

Mmm, that was delicious.

How is your bum for love bites?

Anything on the horizon?

Apart from oojamaflip?

Luuuu...

I met someone.

Someone I knew before.

Before?

We were something to each other.

I hadn't seen him for more than 20 years.

I never thought I would see him again.

Only now...

He was waiting for me after work.

I don't know what he wants.

To be a friend, or...

What do you want?

Not love.

Not now.

My heart can't take it.

Too hard.

I had an old-time used-to-be.

Boson's mate.

First time I saw him, in some Bijou Harbor bar on Gib.

Tanned... blond.

I heard Mantovani.

Proper pals we was.

What happened?

I got careless.

Lost him somewhere.

You're young, you think love's like buses.

There'll be another one along in a minute.

That was '48.

I saw him last New Year, Berwick Street market.

Me on one side of the road, him on the other.

I could have said something.

Maybe I should've.

I let it go.

Funny.

What is?

It's never the one you haven't met.

Only the one you can't forget.

What's the story?

We've got a dead body.

Looks like someone's attempted to knock off yesterday's take.

The manager's office has been turned over,

some ham-fisted attempt to open the safe.

Robbery?

That's what they're saying.

Norman Parkis, sir.

Stock clerk.

He was working late last night.

Passer-by noticed him in the window just after4:00.

Uniform were first on the scene, sir.

Found the door to the loading bay unsecured.

Dr. deBryn?

Multiple stab wounds to the chest.

Time of death between 11:00 and 1:00.

Be able to speak to the nature of the fatal blow

once I've completed the postmortem.

From the volume and patterning of the blood,

this would appear to be the locus of the attack.

And he went this way...

So, Thursday, anything to go on?

There's talk of a disgruntled ex-employee.

Store detective by the name of Jellicoe,

former police officer got given his cards yesterday,

and the promise of poor references.

What was the cause of his dismissal?

Some sort of bust-up in the afternoon

over a shoplifting scam.

Led to a search of Jellicoe's locker, which turned up

several marked notes the management had planted

in the float.

Marked notes?

Petty cash had gone missing the last few months.

In any event, this Jellicoe left in pretty high dudgeon

by all accounts.

And last night this.

Personnel's taken a going over too, sir.

It's connected to the strangler.

The strangler? By what means?

The stockings he's used on the past two victims.

Burridges is the only place...

The only place that supplies them-- yes, we know.

But outside of that?

The victim in this instance is male,

and he's been stabbed rather than strangled.

Which leads me to believe the inquiry should be assigned

to another investigating officer.

It would leave us free to concentrate

on the strangler, sir.

John Gorman's back off leave later today.

He's a safe pair of hands.

Very well.

Sgt. Jakes will act as de facto ADC pending the handover

and see Mr. Gorman has everything he needs

when he arrives.

Morse can help with statements and pars from the staff.

Yes, sir.

Carry on.

That stock basket's half-full of Le Minou Noir.

This is where Parkis was stabbed.

On the hosiery counter.

And it's not connected?

He was sweet.

Lived by himself, I think.

No mum and dad to speak of, as far as I know.

He'd been in somewhere,

when he was younger.

Blenheim Vale, I think it was called.

Place for...

well, the ones that ain't quite right.

But he was nice.

Kind.

Maybe it makes 'em that way.

I'm sorry to trouble you,

but I wonder when the staff might be released.

Just as soon as they have given their statements.

Is all this strictly necessary?

If it's Jellicoe?

We still have to follow procedure, Mr. Burridge.

You've given an account of your own whereabouts, presumably?

No, no, not yet.

I attended a meeting of the Oxford Traders Association

in the function room above the King's Head.

After which I went straight home.

Anyone vouch for you?

At the pub, certainly.

But I live by myself.

Did you get any further with your other inquiries?

This strangler?

It's ongoing.

We'll return to that just as soon as we've finished here.

Well, here's hoping you catch him soon.

It's a worry for the female members of staff.

Indeed.

Well, thank you for your help, Mr. Burridge.

Not at all.

And it's Alan.

Please.

Mr. Burridge, do you favor cuff links or buttons?

Buttons.

Cuff links are old hat.

Not to mention liable to fall out.

Indeed.

Last night?

I was at home.

Can anyone vouch for you, Mr. Huggins?

Flo, my missus, she'll tell you.

I'm in most evenings.

How well did you know Mr. Parkis?

Just at work.

Bit soft like, but he wouldn't hurt a fly.

He was sweet on Gloria--

Mrs. Deeks-- from Ladies wear.

Not that he was alone there.

How's that?

Half the blokes in the store are.

Not that she has any truck with that sort of thing, mind,

but that don't stop 'em trying.

I'm sure her husband would have something to say about that.

He's inside, isn't he?

Prison, Farnleigh.

Went away in the summer, three years.

Only been married five minutes.

That gives some of 'em ideas.

You know, you can imagine.

But we all keep an eye out for her.

Another pair of stockings have gone from the inventory.

Ah.

Yes.

Actually, that was me.

I, uh...

I find a stocking over my leg,

where it fits into the prosthesis,

I find silk slightly more comfortable.

I usually just grab a pair and pay for them,

but it was after hours and I'm afraid I forgot.

What an old wreck.

I turned 20 that month.

Can you believe it?

Throwing a machine around the sky

360-odd miles an hour.

My son's a year older now than I was then.

He doesn't even drive yet.

It must have been terrifying.

Later, perhaps.

When the piano stops and the beer runs dry,

but not in the moment.

It happens so fast.

And then it's over, and you find yourself alone

out on the edge of it.

The light up there-- my God.

And this patchwork below.

You fall in love.

With what?

England.

"Her ways to roam."

Morse spoke to all the staff.

Roy Huggins gave his missus Flo as a alibi.

Barry Dobbs lives at home.

In all evening, parents will vouch, apparently.

And Mrs. Armstrong?

Where was she?

With this window-dresser, Charles Highbank.

Regular dinner date, every Friday.

All girls together.

Ex-Merchant Navy, isn't he?

Rum, bum, and concertina.

Widow, she is, so...

company for her, I suppose.

Any event, I've handed it all over to Mr. Gorman.

Got a ports and airports in place on Jellicoe.

So, only a matter of time.

We can get back onto the strangler.

Speaking of which, where's Morse?

Mr. Pugh?

Detective Constable Morse-- City Police.

I wondered if I might ask you a few questions.

Those of you in mufti, it is your responsibility

to identify the chief troublemakers

to your uniformed colleagues.

However, this evening's firework festivities take place

beneath the shadow of something far worse

than mindless yahoo-ism.

There is a strangler at large

who has already claimed four victims.

It is up to us to ensure he does not claim a fifth.

Yes, I tuned Mrs. Haldane's piano a few weeks ago.

What about a Mrs. Curran-Matthews?

I was there in August.

Rather an inferior instrument.

Too long neglected.

Almost impossible to restore to concert pitch.

And a Mrs. Shears?

Watling Street, yes?

Yes.

I was there very recently...

Thursday afternoon.

He said she'd had a man there before he arrived.

It was the same man who had been at both

Mrs. Curran-Matthews's and Mrs. Haldane's house.

How would he know that?

He could smell him.

He wore the same aftershave in each instance.

Lots of blokes wear the same aftershave.

Yes, and smoke French cigarettes?

Turns out Mr. Pugh's something of a connoisseur

when it comes to tobacco.

Mrs. Haldane's fancy man was seeing all of them, then.

Good, write it up.

I'll tell Mr. Bright.

This came for you.

Oh, thank you.

It wasn't Alan.

What wasn't? The cuff link I found.

That description of the items Mrs. Haldane bought for Mr. X

has just come through from Burridges.

It was part of an alpha and omega set.

You what? Didn't you go to Sunday school?

You don't want to know where I went.

Revelations.

"I am the alpha and the omega."

The first and last letters of the classic Greek alphabet.

The beginning and the end.

Mrs. Merchant was the first victim.

So, if she was the alpha...

who's the omega?

Damn.

Okay.

Here, take this.

Oh, no.

Go on. No, you need it.

I'll be all right, go on.

Go on.

Better?

Much.

I came to give you these.

I've no right to keep them.

Never have had if I'm honest.

Francesca's in one of them.

And the other, well...

You should have 'em.

Arrivederci.

Fredo...

Hold me.

Once.

For what we were.

Fredo, don't come back.

Ever.

Please.

That you, Dad?

Fred?

Yeah, it's me.

How was it?

Oh, you know, the usual.

Nothing serious.

Guy Fawkes night's always a bit busy.

You go through and have a warm, and I'll put the kettle on.

Have you ate?

Doesn't matter if you have,

but I made stew and dumplings just in case.

Go nice with a Mackesons?

Dad?

Yeah, go on, then.

Oh, bugger.

Get away from me, you bastard!

Come back, you little bitch!

Get off of me!

What's this? Piss off, mate.

Just get in the car, all right? I don't want to...

Get in the motor, stop messing around.

I'm not your mate, matey.

I'm the law and you're nicked.

You're not on today, are you?

You know a Mrs. Shears, Mr. Lisk?

Mrs. Janet Shears, 32 Watling Street?

What about Vivienne Haldane?

12 The Elms.

Isobel Merchant?

156 Gilbert Avenue?

No.

But you do know there's a strangler on the loose.

Each of these three women was found choked to death

with a black Le Minou Noir silk stocking,

a brand of which

you're sole supplier.

Smoke 'em if you've got 'em.

"They ask me how I knew...

Smoke gets in your eyes."

DC Morse found a very nice tie pin and a cuff link

'round your place.

Didn't you?

One of an alpha and omega set.

Only the alpha was missing.

I lost one.

Down the Baths.

Careless.

See, we recovered an alpha cuff link on waste ground

where Mrs. Merchant was found strangled.

Here's the thing:

sundry receipts of items identical

to your tie pin and cuff links and lighter,

bought and paid for on account by Mrs. Vivienne Haldane.

Anything you want to tell me about that?

Where'd you meet her?

Dinner and dance.

Golf club.

We got talking, I drove her home.

It went from there.

And the others?

Look, if they were getting what they needed at home,

they wouldn't have to look outside for it, would they?

What would that be?

Attention.

Someone in their lives with more to say for themselves

than, "What's for tea?"

I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.

Hard-faced tarts past the first flush.

They know what the score is and I'm good company.

You're a real charmer.

Don't kid yourself.

Most blokes'd do exactly the same as me if they had

more than milk running through their veins.

Like the man said, who wants to buy a book?

I didn't kill them.

Come!

He admits seeing the first three on the nights they died,

but says he left them alive and well.

And Mrs. Shears?

He's no alibi for the morning she was killed,

but he says he was in traffic on the way to work.

I'm going to hold him another 24 hours,

and see if that changes his mind.

Well done.

Oh, thank you very much, sir.

Now that's the sort of collar

that gets a bloke noticed, matey.

So Joey Lisk's our strangler, then?

Do me a favor.

If I get this lot booked into the evidence store,

would you keep an eye?

Make sure none of it takes a walk.

Couple of things been going missing lately.

Some light-fingered bugger, do you think?

Let's hope that's all it is.

Mrs. Armstrong, your name's turned up

in Joey Lisk's address book.

He came to the shop to sell his stockings.

I was under no illusion as to what he was

or even that I was the only one.

Does Inspector Thursday know?

It would hurt him very much, I think.

You were friends?

In Italy?

More.

We were comrades.

Hello.

Hello.

Just off to work?

Mm-hmm.

Hey, that new mattress,

they delivered it this afternoon.

They got it up the stairs?

They did.

What time are you back?

I'll knock.

Good.

Good.

I'll see you later, then.

Good-bye.

A policeman's lot is not a happy one, I am told.

But the lot of a policeman's wife hardly gets a mention.

But while I've been out running around, nabbing villains,

and generally playing silly buggers...

...the real brains of the outfit has made a house a home,

raised two children-- our children--

seen 'em off to school each morning, clean and smart,

and somehow, even with all that to do,

there's always been a hot meal for me when I get home.

25 years ago, I got the best bit of luck any man ever had.

The toast is "my Win."

Win!

Morse!

You got a drink?

I'd hate to intrude...

Not a bit of it, you were invited.

I know, but... it's not Joey Lisk, sir.

Now?

This is my wedding anniversary. I'm sorry.

Go and do your job.

If I'd wanted dull, I'd have picked someone else.

So what's it all about?

You remember the calcium sulfate dihydrate,

the material we found on Mrs. Curran-Matthews's clothes?

Plaster or fertilizer or whatever it was...

It's neither.

And both.

It's the same stuff we found on Mrs. Shears' wall--

good old-fashioned rock chalk.

From where?

I suppose it's important,

the order the deliveries go on board.

You wouldn't want to get to your first drop

and find the washing machine you were delivering

was right at the back of the van.

That's why they chalk 'em.

So we know the right order to stick 'em on.

More of an art than a science, Roy says.

Did you make a drop to a Mrs. Shears the other day?

32 Watling Street?

A Colston dishwasher?

She had the manual on the side in the kitchen.

Yeah.

That would have been the eighth drop on your delivery that day.

Yeah.

How did you know that?

Right.

It wasn't infinity.

It was just an eight on its side.

And presumably the chalk on Mrs. Curran-Matthews

came off his work clothes.

Neighbor saw him leave about an hour ago.

He had a hold-all with him.

And I found these

on the bedside table.

The victims' rings.

He could be anywhere.

We've no idea who he's after.

Actually, sir, I think I might.

Joey Lisk's latest flame.

Mr. Huggins.

Cup of tea?

Yeah.

Ta.

Do you like music?

I don't mind.

This was my Flo's favorite.

She used to love dancing to this.

When was the last time you danced with someone?

Before your Steve went away?

Probably.

I expect you're a good little mover.

I don't know about that, Mr. Huggins.

No, Roy.

Come on, it's nothing like that.

I've got a daughter your age.

Have you? Yeah.

Just be like dancing with your dad.

You know, in the old days,

a gentleman always wore gloves to dance with a lady.

So as not to spoil her dress.

People were more considerate then.

Gallant.

Fred and Ginger.

And we thought it was Joey Lisk.

We were meant to.

The music's stopped now, Mr. Huggins.

We've got our own music, Flo.

I don't think we should be doing this, Mr. Huggins.

What about that bloke the other night?

That Lisk bastard?

Eh?

I bet he's light on his feet, ain't he?

And you, a married woman?

I can smell him on you.

That ponce's aftershave he wears.

I could smell him on my Flo the same

the nights she'd been with him.

Can you imagine getting into our bed... with me?

And you're no better, are you?

She just threw it at me, didn't she?

Just like that, after 23 years.

I've never lifted a hand to her in all that time.

I only hit her the once.

It was not even with my fist.

It was open handed.

It's just she...

She fell awkward and...

and she banged her head on the fire surround.

Where is she?

She's behind the bath panel.

I wouldn't have hurt her for the world.

It was an accident.

These other women,

they weren't an accident, were they?

Hmm?

That was planned.

You followed Joey Lisk to find out who else he was meeting

and if they were married...

Two victims in, we hadn't made the connection.

That's why you started to use

the stockings he supplied,

then went back to the scene of Mrs. Merchant's murder

and planted the cuff link.

They weren't an accident, were they?

He hadn't come between me and Flo,

I wouldn't have had to do any of it.

It's his fault.

You kill four innocent women,

and poor Norman Parkis,

who was unlucky enough to find you helping yourself

to more stockings.

Isn't that how it went?

I'm sorry about Norman.

Wrong place, wrong time.

But going behind their husbands' back

with a bastard like that?

You call that innocent?

Why didn't you just go after Joey Lisk?

Because I wanted him to suffer.

I wanted people to see him for what he is.

Well, you nearly pulled it off.

We had Lisk in custody, ready to charge him.

If you'd have killed Gloria Deeks,

you'd have proved that he was innocent.

I don't think that mattered much

to Mr. Huggins anymore, Morse.

Did it?

What started out as a means to an end

had become an end in itself.

There you go. Thank you.

Where've you been all night?

Don't ask.

So, you dancing?

You asking?

I'll get you another one.

Morse, something's come up with a lady from Burridges.

Can I have a word outside, please?

Of course.

Suicide.

While the balance of her mind was impaired.

Did the coroner say why?

Grief at her husband's death.

A broken heart.

I know a pub.

No.

Thanks all the same.

Home.

I found this.

That should have gone to the coroner.

I forgot.

You read it?

It's addressed to you.

Where was it?

On the mantel.

Coroner was wrong.

"Died of wounds."

That's what we used to put.

Those that didn't die at once.

A week.

A month.

Years, some of them.

Bullet, bit of shrapnel.

Works its way to the heart.

She died of wounds.

"You should know.

"It was not Ugo who betrayed us all those years ago.

"They said they'd spare Francesca.

"I should have died at the Villa Casabianca.

"I have lived with my sin.

"Hidden it from the world.

"And then I saw you again.

"I just want to be at peace.

"Every life holds one great love.

"One name to hold on to at the end.

"One face to take into the dark.

"It was always too late.

"Remember the girl you knew.

"And forgive her.

"We were young.

"It was the war.

Amore mio."