Original subtitles

There you go.

Registered with the stag owners' club.

British steel,

British upholstery,

British craftsmanship.

It's the last of the great British cars, this.

Look, look! Smell that leather.

Go on, smell it.

Mobile phone rings

morning. Where are you? I'm on my way in now. I won't be long.

What are you wearing? Pardon? What are you wearing?

Well, today, I'm wearing boxers.

Blue cotton, they're quite clingy, too.

I can feel them riding... Have you got a tie?

Ooh, you wanna tie me up, do you?

You want to restrain...? Phone beeps

just the boss.

♪ It's all right

♪ it's ok

♪ doesn't really matter if you're old and grey

♪ it's all right I say it's ok

♪ listen to what I say

♪ it's all right doin' fine

♪ doesn't really matter if the sun don't shine

♪ it's all right I say it's ok

♪ we're getting to the end of the day. ♪

Mm, what else have you got?

How about a red one to match his eyes? Come on! Is that all right?

No.

Brian, have a look at this.

When I became a man, I put away childish things.

Brian giggles looks like Gerry's got a new car.

They all laugh

yeah, ok, retired maybe. But we're still officers of the law.

Investigating officers. Professionals.

I don't care how posh or precious someone is,

nobody warrants us getting done up like this.

It shouldn't matter what we wear! I mean, no-one's that important...! Will you lot shut up?!

We are more than what we wear.

Oh, my god! Should have worn your cashmere.

I can't believe this. The first day I don't wear a suit.

Do you like the tie, though? No, I don't!

I don't get it.

What? Art?

Naked women. The naked female body.

It's everywhere - art galleries, advertising, films, magazines.

It's all just naked women's bodies. Yeah?

I've never understood the appeal.

It's fundamental, isn't it?! It's sort of evolutionary.

I just see a wild animal with no fur.

Oh, here we go - posh alert.

My wife and I really enjoyed... Prat alert! ..Your retrospective at the national, sir Timothy.

What made you suspect one of the queen's paintings might be a fake? I can't take the glory.

Sadly, I would make a hopeless detective.

It was one of my hawk-eyed conscientious restorers.

Part of my crack team. Man laughs

let me introduce you. Jack halford. How do you do?

Gerry standing. Hiya. Hello. Brian Lane. Hi. Hello.

Your crack team. Man laughs again

I see you're looking at draper's gates of dawn.

Do you enjoy it? Oh, lovely.

Yeah, it's nice. Yeah. Different. It's such a tease.

The subject invites one to be... Academic,

to be grandiose, but... The paint -

the flesh, the naked, erotic sensuality -

stirs sensations far from the intellect.

When one looks at it, one is aroused,

and yet one feels guilty.

It's supposed to be... Intellectually stimulating.

It's all very catholic, I'm afraid. Sex - the great leveller.

Shall we? Lead on to our vaults of treasures.

Gentlemen.

Pardon me for being forward, but you have a speck of something on your cheek.

Ok?

All gone. Perfect. Thank you.

So you weren't aware at the time that a copy of this painting had been put up for auction? No.

We would've assumed the auctioned painting was a fraudulent copy.

Which it was? We thought we had the original. Which you don't?

No, so it would seem. This is a fake.

So, we need to trace the original and return it to the palace.

That's where ucos comes in. With all due respect, sir, this is art fraud squad territory.

We have no expertise in this field. Never underestimate your skills.

There are two reasons why this is a ucos enquiry and not art fraud.

The first is the hyper-sensitive nature of the enquiry.

Which means we keep our mouths shut, whereas art fraud are all, "yap, yap!" The second reason...

I'm a self-serving, arse-kissing little creep. Did you say something?

It's by decreep(!)

And the second reason...

The second reason is somewhat embarrassing.

I share it with you in confidence.

My predecessor, sir Stephen, was a trusted and loyal servant of her majesty,

a brilliant art historian and, for me, something of a mentor.

But unfortunately, he was also...

As bent as a box of bedsprings, flogging off national treasures and replacing them with fakes.

How many are gone? Officially, only this one.

Do we believe them? Do we care? I mean, how much is it worth?

Auction estimate - 1.5 million.

Cor! So... we've got two fakes and no sign of the original.

Could run DNA tests on the fakes.

Telephone rings DNA? A match could find the forger.

But this is paint, not blood. Spittle.

On the fine detail work, they lick the brushes.

It's worth a try. Mr halford...

The auction house who handled the fake is on line one. Thank you. I'll put them through. Thank you.

Hello. Brian: Hello, forensics?

I see you didn't notice eye shadow plastered across my face, did you?!

Look, this isn't for us!

This is for art fraud, and all the fenellas and double-barrelled old-school brigade.

Don't worry. We'll check available evidence to look for the forger,

and if it's all dead ends, we'll report to bevan and move on. Good.

I'd like a proper case. So you wouldn't be interested in meeting a mrs Christine Hardy?

45, living in primrose hill, with a priceless art collection

belonging to her late husband - a mr Duncan Hardy.

Her late husband?

I'll come with you, Gerry. No, it's all right. Come on.

Your car or mine? No, we... yeah, yours.

I thought you didn't like being driven by a woman? I don't. Thought it made you feel like a nonce.

It's never too late to change your ways. So where's the stag? Garage. Getting work done?

Yeah, sort of. Panda just on loan, then? I dunno yet.

Don't know? Are you gonna unlock it, or not?

Duncan was like a squirrel with a pile of nuts - he doesn't want to eat them or need them,

but he can't bear the thought of another squirrel getting them. So, he hides them, secretively.

It's a man thing. I mean, we don't do it, do we? I don't think so, no.

Do you collect anything? Lame dogs(!) It's all about acquisition and power.

See, that little squirrel likes to check his nuts, then have a gloat and cover them up again.

What happens if the squirrel dies? He can't take them with him.

We totally accept that you didn't realise your husband's painting was a fake when you auctioned it,

but do you know where he got it? Oh, he was always buying.

Mostly at auction or Mayfair galleries. Did he know it was a fake? I doubt it.

God, I'd love to tell him, just to see his face! She giggles

had you seen the painting before? I think it hung in one of his offices for a while.

He had more than one office? Duncan had a lot of things which he didn't share with me.

Like? Two apartments in Barcelona and nice.

A £12,000 engagement ring, recently commissioned, for a finger much, much slimmer than mine.

And even four batches of frozen sperm in a clinic in Gibraltar.

That'd be his nuts.

A cloak of secrecy. I want it lowered down, over this whole thing,

like a blanket. A secrecy blanket.

Tucked in round the edges, so that nothing escapes. Hospital corners.

I want none of your leads or evidence leaking out... That won't be a problem.

No-one outside your unit... We haven't got any. The fine art world can be famously opaque.

I'm sorry, but I think this falls a fair way outside our field of expertise.

All right... don't apologise.

Expecting you just to take this on was a big ask.

A very big ask.

Well, no harm done. Which is why I've arranged to import expertise.

It's part of a new model of interdepartmental asset mobility. Sorry?

So... you get totty.

Totty? Totty. Totty Vogel-downing. Totty's not your real name, is it?

Oh, Charlotte, but I've been totty forever. I'll bet.

Totty's been seconded to ucos from art fraud,

so the investigation is continuing, only now we have expert help.

Hi! So, rounding up all your expert knowledge,

what can you tell us about these? His mother had just died.

He moved from the family estate into a self-inflicted exile,

choosing the lake district mainly because of it's topographical drama. But he wasn't happy. Who?!

Stratfold, the artist. He was depressed.

Here, hold on, hold on, I'm being a bit thick here.

You're looking at two sexton Blakes, and telling us how the real artist -

the original artist, who didn't paint these fakes - was feeling.

Very depressed. Well, how does that help? Not exactly relevant.

Oh, yes, potentially, and these are not very good.

And? If you copy an artist's work, you don't choose to copy his worst.

Unless...

Unless? You're told to.

Paid to. Unless it's available to study in intimate detail.

Not hung in a public gallery. So, the forger was...

Someone who had access. Probably someone sir Stephen knew well.

I'm sure you've ordered ultrasound and radiographic testing.

We are running some DNA tests. Spittle. Very good.

What about fingerprints? Um...

Well, normally, we try to be a little more innovative. This is a thumbprint. Ah, yes. See?

This smudge, and... So is this.

Identical position, identical size.

They've been done, I'll bet, because the original had a smudge, so it's part of the forgery.

And? How would an artist make a thumbprint look like a thumbprint?

Ah, er... use his thumb?

Is that the dry-cleaners you want? I didn't really want a lift to the dry-cleaners.

But you said... You probably wouldn't have noticed, but I'm not a dry-cleaning person.

I'm more your machine-wash type. It's economical, less chemicals, better for the environment.

What are you talking about?! I just thought that if I asked you to give me a lift in your new car,

you might, somewhere along the way,

be tempted to tell me why you've got a new car,

and, ergo, what's happened to the old one?

I sold it.

Yes?

Well, it's, er...

Well, what with me about to become a grandfather,

and Paula becoming a single mum, there'll be things she needs,

so, er... I've got a cash flow problem.

Do you know how much those three-wheeled buggy things cost?!

Isn't that why they invented credit cards? I'm not allowed one. I was... declared bankrupt.

Bankrupts are not allowed... Not allowed one, yeah.

Go on, then. My car's back at the office.

Simply red, the corrs, the corrs.

Ah...

Music starts: "Madame butterfly" by puccini

Music changes, time has passed

she snores

what are you reading?

Very nice. Nice to see you reading something that's not an autopsy,

or some evidence of how somebody died some horrible death.

Van gogh chopped his ear off with a bread knife.

Chopped it off and took it to a brothel to give to a prostitute.

Oh! And Robert haydon shot himself in the throat

in front of his final unfinished work,

because he'd failed to become famous enough.

Aw.

Rothko slit his wrists.

I've never been a passionate man, have I? Not passionate, no.

No, you're a thinker. You think most of the time.

Not very physical? No.

Does that bother you? Not really.

Not any more.

Might as well have parked in watford!

Ooh, look at you all, fancy and Cosmopolitan.

Yep, mochaccino and pain au raisin. Totty's shout.

Don't worry, we knew you couldn't do without your grease. Thank you.

There's a nice cup of Rosie and two bacon sarnies with lots of brown rocking horse. Lovely.

I'm jealous. You're so lucky! I wish I could eat fried bacon! Just the smell of it, mmm.

So why are we here?

Got DNA samples from both pictures, perfect match to each other.

The same artist painted both fakes.

Does the DNA give us any names or records? No. No identification available.

What about radiology and that other thing?

Gave us paint dating.

Approximate year of manufacture - 1978.

Nothing else? I thought you had a name? I do - fingerprints. Oh?!

Totty laughs yeah, fingerprints!

Good call, totty. Thumbprints, to be precise.

Name. Ciaran risk.

Artist, born 1951, wimbledon.

St Peter's grammar school, '62-'69. Royal college of art, '72-'75.

Graduated with a diploma in fine art and painting. What's his form?

Arrested for staging an art protest in the national gallery in 1974,

when he threw red paint over 14 priceless works of art.

So, right, we've got a trained painter,

an amateur terrorist, and a defiler of public works of art.

And finally... died, 1979.

Died?! Committed suicide.

A year after painting the fakes, he drank half a litre of paraquat. So why are we here?! His mum.

Some people are born survivors.

They're programmed to fight, not to feel. Ciaran felt everything.

Thought too much about things that didn't matter.

It made him weak. All his emotions were on the outside.

Wore his heart on his sleeve kind of thing?

He had no protection from his feelings?

Everything affected him deeply. And that's why he was an artist?

Yes, that's it. What pushed him over the edge?

A fire in his studio.

Destroyed his work, and it melted the flesh from his chest and hands.

He tried to beat the flames out with his hands.

The fire didn't kill him, though? Oh, yes, it did.

He was dead long before he killed himself.

Cheer me up, Jack, there is nothing I like about today.

We've good news. We found the location of your artist's fire - an old warehouse in shoreditch.

Half artists studios, half rag-trade sweatshops.

We have victims, a fire officer's report, and hospital records.

We even have suspects, motives, and accusations of arson. Excellent!

Almost like a proper case. Fantastic. I hope that cheers you up. Yes, thank you.

Good, because here's the bad news. Bevan wants to see you... Now.

If this is about his bloody blanket... blanket?

Ah, Sandra...

We waited for you in my office, but thought we might catch you quicker down here.

Trying to keep sir Timothy within the circle of knowledge.

Not a good moment? Er... sorry, it's fine.

Lovely to see you. Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Sticky.

Raspberry, mmm. Mind if I leave you in superintendent Pullman's capable hands while I, um...?

Please go, I'll be fine.

Capable, and sticky.

Do you want to...? I've got something to show you.

Right...

Oh, god, not another fake?

No.

So, what's wrong with this one, then? Nothing that I know of.

So?

So... do you like it?

Yeah, I suppose... Yeah, it's nice.

Um...

Right, ok, come and stand here.

It's not the best light, but...

..Focus on the centre of the painting,

then slowly, slowly, let your eyes move outwards,

taking in the canvas to the very edge.

Now, let it go back again to the centre, slowly.

Fireworks bang and explode

and breathe.

Fireworks continue, people cheer

now... do you like it?

It's beautiful.

Good.

And would you like it? What?

Mr bevan's, um... Idea. It might seem ridiculous,

but part and parcel of the queen's collection

is that we loan out works to public places, so the collection can be more widely enjoyed.

I don't know why, but no-one's ever thought of loaning to Scotland yard before. Oh.

Mr bevan has chosen a very charming Alfred Cox for his office.

I just thought... Yeah, thank you, it's lovely.

Good.

I'll leave you two to get to know each other.

Oh, sir Timothy? Tim.

Do you know, or have you heard of, an artist called ciaran risk?

Risk? Yeah.

No.

Sorry. Ok.

Enjoy. Thank you.

Rumble of fire burning

The heat was so intense it caused the tissue on his arms, neck and chest to bubble up.

He never painted again? Hands were useless.

Lung tissue permanently scorched. You said arson. Accusations of arson.

Next door to risk's studio was a sweatshop run by a kurdish entrepreneur, basically illegal.

Three teenage bengali girls were sent to the royal London hospital in Whitechapel the same night.

All with extensive burns to the upper body and hands. Same fire? Almost definitely.

Almost? They discharged themselves that night. Have we names? Sort of.

From the look of the case file, I'd say it was guesswork. How does this explain the theory of arson?

The fire officer's report was inconclusive, to say the least.

Inflammable substances were found. Ones that artists usually have -

oil-based paints, white spirit, turpentine. Which all contributed to the intensity of the Blaze,

but no actual cause was determined. Although, according to local police,

prior to the Blaze, there were no less than six racially-motivated disturbances in the area.

Now... Hold on, Jack. Are you saying the fire that injured the forger

could be the result of a racist attack on the sweatshop next door?

Maybe somebody just wanted the forger dead.

It's a bit far-fetched, isn't it? Arson and murder.

Make for a more interesting case than art fraud... No offence meant.

What racists gangs were operating in the east end during the 1970s? Take your pick.

Clark? National front was busy,

but small-scale bombing wasn't their style.

The halt immigration now campaign leased premises in commercial street.

Page 9, column 88 - they raided a bakery in hackney.

Even the ku klux klan held meetings in hoxton square. Ku klux klan?!

You're kidding! No, I studied British Neo-fascists at university.

It's a very interesting subject. But the klan?! That's a joke?!

First klan visits from america took place in the sixties.

Really?

Set up klaverns all around the Midlands.

Klan even held a rally in cable street, half a mile from the warehouse.

We've got our Neo-Nazi expert. Now all we need's a racist.

Music: "Mellow yellow" by Donovan

The property of yellow affects us like the shrill sound of a trumpet,

or the sound of a high-pitched fanfare.

Don't go on about the car!

Although kandinsky claimed that yellow carries with it the nature of brightness,

with a serene, gay, and softly exciting character.

Oi, are you coming?! Odd choice for a car, though.

3lb of banana only £1. Gimme £1 for 3lb of banana.

Here you are, sweetheart. Lovely. Hello, tubby... What do you want?

I thought you hated foreigners? Only the ones who live round here.

It's hardly local produce, is it? I hate 'em, but I'll sell 'em veg.

Tubby's been part of racists groups since the year dot. Family tradition.

My grandfather marched with moseley's blackshirts. You must be so proud(!)

Listen, in the late '70s, who was throwing petrol bombs at sweatshops? Hardly anyone, sadly.

Column 88, white defence league, load of skinheads... couldn't trust 'em to tie their own shoelaces.

There was a warehouse in bacon street, next to the railway arches. Used to be full of artists? Yeah.

There was a big fire there in '78. It was claimed it was a racial attack.

Three bengali seamstresses were injured. I never knew about it.

Who claimed responsibility? No-one. Well, it wasn't a racial attack.

How do you work that out?

If a group set a fire in the '70s, they'd claim responsibility, get support. It was all about profile.

Christ! A successful firebombing?

If we'd have know about it, we'd have claimed it.

What do you want, sweetheart? You're a repulsive shit, you know that?

3lb of banana, only £1. Who'll give £1 for 3lb of banana? Let's have you!

How did Clark find the address?

The ghetto-theory principle. Which is? Half a mile, or half a world.

92% of non-English-speaking asians live in an Asian community,

usually within half a mile of where they first settled,

secure in their mono-cultural society. The ghetto. Precisely.

So, what's the half a world?

Stay within half a mile, or they go home. Not much in between.

I've always wanted to do that!

Here, come here. Whoa...

Vive la revolution!

Can I Chuck another one in a minute?

That's the trouble with petrol bombs - they're very showy, very exciting... but?

Crap at starting a fire. The petrol is too refined - it burns quickly, you get no surface penetration.

Yeah, but you could start a fire with one, couldn't you?

Sure, if you get lucky and hit some good combustible material, like paper or dry timber. Or cloth?

Cloth would be good, but to get a big Blaze in a warehouse, you want your ignition site deep inside.

How much evidence would you keep from a fire like this one?

I can go and check. Yeah, cheers. Thanks.

She speaks in bengali

My mother says she and her sisters were frightened.

They thought people would come into the hospital and hurt them what people? White men.

Did she hear any disturbance outside in the street?

Any noise, shouting, breaking glass?

They talk in bengali

The fire wasn't from the side to the street. It was in the corner, where the cloth was kept.

The windows had metal bars and the door was bolted in case of men trying to steal.

She talks in bengali

What happened to her sisters?

My aunt died many years ago. She was always sick after the fire.

Would it be possible to see your mother's face? To see where the fire hurt her? If it's too...

You can see her face... But he can't.

Only my father is allowed.

There is a bag of stuff in Enfield. Like?

Sifted remains from the flash site.

All the usual - melted plastic, melted rubber,

rodent remains,

charred asbestos...

Rodent remains? Yeah, rats and mice always get killed in these fires.

They try to run from the flames, but not always in the right direction. What sort of rat? A dead rat.

We don't get to see much beauty in our job, do we? I don't know.

Eye of the beholder.

If we worked as farmers or gardeners, even hairdressers, part of our job would be beautiful.

Every day, or most days, we would see something that was...

..Just beautiful. I didn't join for the view.

No, I know, but doesn't it worry you? Too late.

You'd think that being exposed to all the ugliness would make us more appreciative of beautiful things.

We'd go to exhibitions, or concerts, or grow amazing wild orchids.

Write poetry and collect butterflies? But we don't, do we?

We don't balance the ugly with the beautiful. We just accept ugly. Ugly's safe.

You know where you are with ugly.

We're trying to trace the gallery owner who sold the fake. Excellent.

But we're no nearer finding the original painting. I appreciate the update. You're working so hard.

I wondered... If you're doing anything tomorrow evening.

So how does the Jeep compare to the mclaren? Pricewise?

Is he buying another new car?

Baby buggy.

Is this like the initiative thing? Initiative? Loaning paintings. Good PR.

Oh, absolutely not, no. This is me asking you if you'd like to go the opera tomorrow night.

Gerry: 'For cash, then?' The opera?

God help the single mums, eh? ..You're doing everyone a favour. Thanks a lot(!)

Unbelievable! They've got three wheels and no engine!

Christ! Don't worry, it's stuffed.

Rattus norvegicus - the common brown rat.

Estimated population in London - 12 million.

Blamed for everything from bubonic plague to weil's disease, and a 24-hour power cut in hammersmith.

Brian, how many times...?

Also rattus norvegicus - but genetically and physiologically different.

You see, your white rat is line bred,

the albino quality the result of a homozygous recessive gene.

They are the same, but different. Just like a dog is the same but different from a wolf.

So?

An educated guesstimate of albino rats in London would be 200,000, tops.

All of which, or nearly all of which, are in captivity.

Laboratories, pet shops, small boys' bedrooms.

The chances of finding a white rat in a warehouse fire in east London are very, very small.

So what sort was in the evidence bag?

White rat?

Yes. Really?

No doubt. Amazing.

Wow.

Brian, what does the white rat tell us?

Pat.

Pat?

Pat.

Pat!

Pat the rat...

I blame Edward Heath.

He made you dip rats in petrol and set fire to them, did he?

The three-day week, the common market, opened the floodgates.

Another victim of the recession, eh?

Bent bosses were queuing up to hire my services. Dipping rats in petrol?

Torching warehouses so the owners could claim the insurance? No way.

Dip a rat in petrol, he burns too quick. Big mistake. Petroleum jelly, that's the key.

Smear it all over, rub it right down into the fur. Burns for ages.

There was a warehouse fire in bacon street... should have patented it.

It were my invention. There's no evidence, just burnt-up rat bones. So, the bacon street warehouse?

Soft toilet paper.

What?

You're gonna tell me what you can do for me if I co-operate.

Yep. Every copper comes here to offer me a deal to grass up my clients,

telling me what they can do for me. Soft toilet paper should be simple enough.

They always offer me the same deal, and I always say the same thing. Which is? Go screw yourself!

And shut the door on your way out.

Pat's old school. Code of ethics - do the crime, do the time, and all coppers are bastards.

Isn't that right, pat? You said it.

Four people were injured, two have died since. Wasn't one of my fires, then.

White rat, electrical conduit, ailing business. Certainly looks like one of your jobs!

Bacon street? No, it's not me. Promise.

That's a promise I'll cherish(!) You ask me about a job I've done, I wouldn't tell you nothing.

Ask me about a job I didn't do, I'll tell you whatever I can.

Reckon somebody copied your mo? Should've patented it. Imitation is theft of my intellectual property.

We need a list of all your clients over, say, the last 30 years.

I can't give that out without the gallery owner's permission.

Can you contact her? Only in an emergency.

We really need your list.

We're investigating a series of forgeries,

trying to establish galleries which dealt with one particular collector.

How about I call the inland revenue for an emergency tax audit? Customs and excise for a vat inspection?

Or, I don't know, say, the rspca for an endangered species check?

Would that be emergency enough for you?

We're trying to track down a particular collector,

so we need a comprehensive list of all your clients names and addresses, going back 30 years.

It'll take a few minutes to print out the complete list, but...

Electronic braying

have I missed something? Or was there a day when all art became so grotesque?

It's supposed to be soothing. Art has a duty to be provocative. I don't want to be provoked.

Ordinary life is provoking enough, thank you very much.

You'd never think she was a big art collector, would you? Hidden depths, eh?

What about Duncan Hardy?

He's on practically all of them.

He was once a busy buyer.

Doesn't tell us anything, really, does it?

What about this? If you're looking for a dodgy businessman who knew pat the rat, he'd fit the bill.

The late George Wilson.

May god barbeque his soul.

Who's Wilson?

Has Gerry seen this? No.

(What's it got to do with Gerry?)

I think you'd better talk to bevan.

Bevan?

I want standing off this case. Off? I don't want him advised of this. I want him out of the loop!

Why?! He can't be trusted. Not on anything connected with George Wilson. Send him home.

There we go...

Abstract expressionists.

Well?

I don't get what it's meant to be.

I can't see anything.

Brian, remember, less head, more heart. It's not what you see, it's what you feel.

Hungry. No!

Despair.

Terrible, awful despair. Good. Very good. Door opens

totty, out.

Brian, don't make me ask. George Wilson...

A career criminal with an IQ of 144. Bevan?

In the early '90s, Wilson was the closest thing we had to a trophy.

Everyone wanted to nail his head above their desk and bask in the glory. Especially bevan.

Bevan thought he had him? He did have him.

Two lock-up garages in stratford, full of funny money from Holland.

For four weeks, they staked out these lock-ups without anyone coming near.

Four weeks, three shifts a day. Gerry in charge of b shift -

in charge the day they collected the money.

This is rubbish. There was no collar.

Bevan had us staked out in a ground floor council flat, opposite the garages.

Bloody stupid position. Everyone knew what we were doing! Wilson knew every move we made.

Anyway, we heard this screaming, really horrible screaming, from the flat next door, so we broke in.

We found a young girl - she couldn't have been more than 14 - bruised, cut, claimed she'd been raped.

Blood was coming out of her ear, so I took her back to where she lived and waited for the ambulance.

You left the garage unwatched?

No...

Bailey was supposed to be covering, but he snuck off, didn't he?

The money went awol. Bevan blamed you?

Well... i knew Wilson.

What do you mean, you knew him?

I had a greyhound... no, actually, I had a couple at that time,

and they were being schooled by a trainer in epping. Wilson kept some dogs there as well, so I met him.

Every now and again, owners' day at the track or something, but that was it.

That arsehole, bevan, accused me of taking a bung off of Wilson.

Then he accused me of setting the girl up and slapping her around myself. So... I hit him.

Of course, he charged me.

I was scheduled for disciplinary proceedings. Why didn't you fight the case if you were innocent?

I wasn't innocent. I'd punched a senior officer.

Bevan's jaw was wired for weeks.

But you didn't take Wilson's bung?

You think I would?

No.

Look, bevan wants you off this case. Bevan wants me off ucos. What do you want?

Just stay away until it's all sorted.

And I come back when the case is all done and dusted and do what? A bit of filing?

Make the tea? For god's sake, I am sticking my neck out as it is.

If bevan knows I'm telling you this, there won't even be any ucos!

Now I'm supposed to be grateful! No!

You're supposed to take your macho pride, put it in a box and shut up!

What am I gonna do?

Well, you're just suspended. You're still on salary.

So, do whatever it is you used to do...

..Only now you get paid for it.

So, the dealer who sold the fake paintings and the artist who painted them

both had fatal accidents within days of each other? Yeah.

The man who borrowed the painting - sir Stephen - is dead.

The artist is dead. The dealer who sold the fakes is dead.

One buyer - Hardy - is dead. George Wilson is dead.

Do you ever have cases where the suspects are still alive?

The fire wasn't racist, it was meant for risk. I wouldn't worry about him.

No, he'll be having a great time.

Down the boozer. In the bookies. Getting paid.

'He isn't pining for some crappy case of forged paintings.

'Stolen paintings are great business for forgers.

'It's the thrill of owning something famous.'

if someone buys a stolen painting and it turns out to be a fake,

they'll hardly complain to the police. So they get a sick thrill, and don't even know it's a fake?

What are they going to do if they did? These aren't scary tough guys.

George Wilson was.

Thank you. You not having one? No.

Do you paint? No!

Why would a young guy want to paint pictures?

It was his father.

He was a painter? No.

Just a complete bastard.

I see. And that made ciaran...

What do you want?

I just wanted to see some of ciaran's art. You know, get some feel of who he was, soak up...

No, you don't!

No, I don't.

I think someone tried to hurt him. Maybe even kill him. I want to catch them. Why?

Because you care about ciaran? Because you care about art?

Because you want to help a mother through her grief? No, none of those.

It's what I do.

I catch villains. I like catching villains, it makes me feel good.

This was his graduation show from the royal college of art. Oh, I see.

We had drinks and a buffet in a marquee by the Albert memorial.

Very classy. Yes, it's interesting.

So, everybody in this book was...

..In the same year?

Woman sings: "Habanera" from Carmen by bizet

It's one of my palace perks.

These rooms are kept for visiting dignitaries.

To entertain after the opera.

And this cognac is older than america.

Just let it breathe first.

Then you breathe in its aroma.

That sip has waited patiently for hundreds of years.

Maturing, improving,

waiting just to meet your tongue.

And dazzle.

It's dazzled.

Come here.

This was kept in a monastery near Florence.

Pilgrims would travel hundreds of miles,

just to gaze on the face of the Madonna.

Often they would then faint at the sight of her beauty.

To be so afflicted by the sight of beauty, to die in its presence is...

..A great honour.

You are so lucky to live a life that revolves around such... Beautiful things.

Yes, I am.

But I don't just see beauty in art.

Why did you lie about knowing ciaran risk?

You shared a diploma show with him at the royal college of art. You studied together for four years.

There are tiny moments in everyone's life,

precise, poignant moments...

..When everything crystallises...

..Crackles with tension.

When... you know that the next words

out of your mouth will determine...

..All manner of things.

The future.

This is one of those moments, isn't it?

What I did was harmless.

It's just creative counterfeits.

It's only art.

Bits of canvas, splashes of paint.

It's just ego,

'convention, snobbery,

'it's a silly game.'

not to George Wilson. He was a thug.

He didn't understand the game.

He took it way too seriously.

And people died.

Yes, they did...

..But I... I really enjoyed tonight. Oh, good. So did I. You are...

The opera was wonderful.

I was lost, away, transported to another time, another place, even. Excellent.

You deserve... but now I'm sorry.

Oh, please... Please don't say you're going home.

No, I'm not going.

Good.

I'm going to arrest you.

So, softly, softly.

Exactly, we talked about a blanket.

Tucking in the corners. No dirty laundry hanging out to dry.

Sir Timothy claimed sir Stephen borrowed the pictures, faked them and flogged them as stolen art.

But sir Stephen didn't fake the pictures. Good.

Sir Timothy did. The fakes were painted by a known activist

and sold to collectors through an exceedingly reputable and thoroughly bent gallery in Mayfair.

Ah. The borrowing soon stopped.

Yes. Because sir Timothy was forced to steal one permanently,

on account of being terrified that one of the duped clients would chop him into tiny pieces. George Wilson.

Ring a bell? Wilson, realising his painting was dodgy,

had the gallery owner mowed down, and burned the hands off the artist who painted the fakes.

Sir Timothy was next on the hit list, unless he could replace the fake painting with the real one,

which, of course, he eagerly did. So, so far, we've got theft, fraud, arson, attempted murder.

Twice. Then there's lying to the police.

Attempting to pervert the course of justice. Misappropriation of funds.

Theft of national assets. Tampering with evidence.

Treason. And Wilson's widow has still got a few million quids' worth of her majesty's art collection

hanging over her fireplace. Anyway, it's all in there.

Painting looks nice.

That's the thing about art, isn't it? It's so... restful. Refreshing.

Emotional.

Uplifting!

Laughter

well, I've got to go. Bye-bye. See you around.

Bye, love.

Thank you so much. I learned such a lot working with you.

Come here.

Look, I just want to say I'm sorry about, at first, being so negative. No, no, no! You were great.

It's just the whole art thing, it's like... no, seriously, really, I'm your biggest fan.

Take care, totty. Bye-bye. Bye.

Bye. Ta-ra, tots. You look after yourself. Take care. Bye. Bye. Bye.

Good bird, eh? Same again?

Same again, Paul.

I am so proud of you.

What, for finding the link between risk and...? No. I'm proud of you for what you've done. Growing up,

selling your car... Jack told me about the money situation and the buggy. Oh, did he?

It's terrific, you sacrificing something you care for, and spending it on your grandchild.

I didn't spend it all on the buggy. Well, it's still a very mature...

No, I put most of it on the 12 horse. Three valleys. A bit of an outsider, but if it comes in, wey-hey!

You've done what?!

He's only gone and stuck it all on a horse. He's what?

One now?

Now he's on his way! The other one's coming now.

Come on, son. Come on!

Go on, my son! Go on, go on! He's the winner!

♪ It's all right

♪ it's ok

♪ doesn't really matter if you're old and grey

♪ it's all right I say it's ok

♪ listen to what I say

♪ it's all right doin' fine

♪ doesn't really matter if the sun don't shine

♪ it's all right I say it's ok

♪ we're getting to the end of the day

♪ hi tech low tech take your pick

♪ cos you can't teach an old dog a brand new trick

♪ I don't care what anybody says

♪ at the end of the day... ♪