All language subtitles for Lewis s01e02 Old School Ties.eng

We live in a world of information.

Cyberspace is choc-a-block
with the stuff.

Half of it is accurate, but boring.

The other half is just plain wrong
and useless.

But one per cent of it
is of great value.

And one per cent of that one per
cent is lethal.

ALL: Cheers!

To Jo.
It's horrible.

Happy birthday, Jo.

Just what I wanted.

I got a pony for my 21st.
She's already got a pony.

I was a sneak thief.

I hacked into the Pentagon,

The Ministry of Defence,

City of London, and other places.

And I had a good look at their dirty
underwear.

I tell you, it's not a good way to
make friends.

I wouldn't blame them for wanting me
dead.

Yes. Yes, I've seen it.

Well, I suppose one should be
grateful that the apostrophe's in the right place.

Of course...
I have taken remedial action.

Have you picked your first victim
yet?

How long a list do you want?

I'm speaking to ex-criminal turned
best-selling author, Nicky Turnbull.

Mr Turnbull.
Nicky.

Sorry. Nicky. On the cover of your
paperback,

you're called "the first of the
rock'n'roll hackers." Would you like to elaborate?

We live in a world of information.

Cyberspace is choc-a-block with the
stuff. Tosser.

Hi, pet, it's your dad.
I got your message. Um...

I'll try again this evening.

Let's try and have a conversation one
of these young days,

or one of these weeks. Love you.

Morning, sir. Governor wants a word.

It's all right,
I've scrubbed my fingernails.

Does the name Nicky Turnbull
mean anything to you?

Celebrity criminal. I happened to
catch him on the radio on the way in.

Any conclusions? I wasn't really
paying much attention.

He's been getting death threats.
His agent telephoned.

Could we keep an eye on him
while he's in Oxford?

Baby-sitting?

I'm not utterly convinced
about these death threats,

but, on the other hand,
I made a discreet call to Whitehall.

Mr Turnbull's not without enemies.

I don't suppose you've read his
book? No, it passed me by.

Just out in paperback.

"The astonishing story of how a boy
from the wrong side of the tracks on Tyneside

uncovered the deadliest secrets of
MI5 and the Pentagon."

The first "rock'n'roll hacker".

Ah! You were paying attention.

Well, that bit sort of sunk in.

He also stole a few million quid
from various corporate piggy banks -

including a couple
of Oxford colleges

ending up in prison where he learned
to be a writer and found redemption.

Warms your heart, doesn't it? I can
think of better ways to warm my heart.

He's from your part of the world, so
you can talk about whippets, and leeks, and Alan Shearer.

Is that his name? Yeah, that's his
name. But he's retired now.

There's the book, and there's a copy
of his Oxford itinerary.

Try and keep him alive till four
o'clock tomorrow.

And maybe check
whether he's really retired.

Noted.

I remember this place
when it was a prison.

I suppose it's a compliment to our
clean-up rate that it isn't needed any more.

Yeah, that must be it.

Finished that already?
I sort of speed-read it.

I see. Any good?

It's exploiting the public's
fascination with crime and criminals.

Are we being exploited?

I wonder if this police protection
is just a publicity stunt.

I wouldn't bet against it, sir.

What is it about people that wear
dark glasses even when the sun isn't shining?

Wow! A formidable police presence,
eh?

Your agent says you've had death
threats.

We've been ordered to give you
protection.

I could have done with yous two
when I was in prison.

The old lags give you a hard time?
It's all in the book.

Don't suppose you've read it yet,
but... No, I've read it.

Oh, he's a good lad, your sergeant.
I know.

I haven't read your book, so you'll
need to tell me who might like to kill you.

I certainly upset people in the
Pentagon.

And in Whitehall, I caused one or
two early retirements on full pension.

Then I took a few million from er...
a couple of chaps in the City of London.

They do it to each other all the
time, like, but they don't like it when it's a lad like me.

"Robin Hood of the '90s. I stole
from the rich and I kept it for myself."

That's very good.

I'm quoting your book.

As I said, very good.

Why would any of these people
want to kill you now?

This was all years ago. You say
you've retired.

Or is it just publicity for your
paperback?

Probably the publication of the
paperback has reminded them

that I know where
some of the bodies are buried.

Hotel security, James.

So, do you get back home much?

Every night. Unless there's a major
incident.

No, I mean up North.

Last proper visit, 15 years ago.
My Uncle Harry's funeral.

Don't you miss it?

If I did, I'd go up more often.

Howay man! You can take the lad out
of Tyneside,

you canna take Tyneside
out of the lad.

Sorry, I've never been much of
a professional Northerner.

Thank you very much, Mr Webster.
Enjoy your stay.

I shall make resolute efforts so to
do. Thank you.

Excuse me.

How can I help you, sir?

I was wondering if you could tell me
about hotel security.

Security? As in people coming in and
going out.

I see evidence of CCTV.

Yes. I suppose...
that's the security.

Covering what? The main entrance and
the exit to the car park?

Well...

..yes.

Does it run 24 hours?
I expect so.

I go off at five.
Handing over to...?

His name's Paul. He's a proper hotel
person. I'm only part-time.

OK. Well, thanks, Chloe.

Oh, what are you reading?
PPE.

Politics, Philosophy, Economics.

Good luck. Have a nice life.

Hi. Mr Turnbull?

Nicky.
Nicky.

We are your reception committee.

Caroline Morton,
reading English and Union President.

David Harvey, Union Secretary.
I wrote the grovelling invitation.

Which I dictated, because I do long
words and I schmooze well.

Jo Gilchrist, student journalist.

I'm a rugby player. I mainly do
muscle.

Aye. Didn't I see you playing for
England? You were there?

No, on the box, like.

You saw the Aussie who jumped on my
leg and knackered my knee.

I haven't played since.
But we help him with his therapy.

I bet you do.

Stephen Gilchrist, Jo's brother.
I'm not on any committees.

I just like to hang around for the
free suppers, try to keep my sister out of trouble.

Totally without success.

Now there's a surprise.

But we let Stephen do the money.

He'll be dealing with your expenses.

Well, that's easy, there aren't any.

The cheque'll be in the post
tomorrow.

(CHUCKLES) Right.

I'm an old family friend from
Tyneside, just passing through.

Shall we sit down and relax?

Anybody object to champagne?

Could we have a bottle of champagne
and five glasses?

How do you want to organise this,
sir?

Well, for a start, it's not a two-man
job. In fact, I don't think it's a proper job at all.

Afternoon shift or evening shift?
Take your pick.

Afternoon. I'm doing something this
evening, but I can change it if you've got plans.

I very rarely have plans.

Oh, he signed your book.

Oh, I shall no doubt treasure it.

"To Tom, my favourite copper"? Tom?

Tom. James.

Not even close, are they?

Look how he's spelt favourite.
The O and the U the wrong way round.

He's supposed to be a writer.

They've got computer spelling
machines to do that for you nowadays.

Keep an eye on me, Tom. I might end
up killing the bugger myself.

Cheers.
Cheers.

See you later.
Aye! Gan canny!

Who is he? Special Branch?

I could tell you, but er...I'd have
to shoot you.

We've got a present for you.
Good. I love presents.

My newspaper.

Jo wants to be a tabloid editor
when she grows up.

I've told her she can't do both,
but she ignores me.

So who's Sam?

An eminent professor of English
literature. But Sam isn't his real name.

And he's got a scam?

Examination cheating,
computer-assisted. Sounds good.

And next week we hang him out
to dry.

We're also hoping you might give us
an in-depth interview while you're here.

We?

Caroline and I work together
on these assignments.

Well, you might find my depths a bit
shallow, but if you don't mind taking the chance...

We all believe in taking chances.

He's everything I hate.
Everything?

Celebrity criminal and professional
Geordie.

That's only two things.
It's enough to keep me going.

Our speaker tonight
is described by his publishers as

"the first of the rock'n'roll
hackers".

His book bears the mouth-watering
promise, "soon to be a major feature film".

And I know many would-be Oscar
winners in this room would like to follow in those footsteps,

preferably without the intervening
prison sentence.

So...

we will be listening
with more than usual interest to...

..Nicky Turnbull!

Thank you, bonny lass.

If you'd told me when I was a little
lad growing up in Byker

that one day I'd be speaking to the
Oxford Union, I'd have said, "Don't be daft, man."

And Caroline's right. Stay out of
prison.

The food's terrible.

Room service was lousy,
and it's full of Chelsea supporters.

I escaped by writing a book.

Let me tell you about it.

We live in an age of information.

Cyberspace is choc-a-block
with the stuff.

Half of it is accurate, but boring.

The other half, just plain wrong and
useless.

Just one per cent is of great value.

And one per cent of that one per
cent is lethal.

That's where the gold's hidden.

And that's where I went prospecting
with my little pick and shovel.

Well, my dad's a coal miner, so...
I was just keeping up the family tradition, like.

Were you really brought up in Byker?
No. I was born in Jesmond.

But you know how it is. Humble
beginnings go down a treat in places like this.

Like being a miner's son?
Why aye.

They love all that crap.

Well, I did have an Auntie Beryl in
Byker. Everybody had an Auntie Beryl in Byker.

Hey, look out!

Are you all right? Aye, I'm all
right. Thanks, bonny lad.

Are you all right?
Aye, aye, aye.

Don't worry, pet. Worse things
happen in prison.

Try sharing a cell with a serial
killer.

I think you should go home now.
I'm under orders to protect you.

Bollocks, man.
Somebody just tried to run you down!

Some little boy passed his driving
test, celebrating with his first half of shandy?

Nah, I'm safely gathered in, man.

You call in to headquarters,
tell them I'm standing you down.

I'll take full responsibility.

Besides, I think I'm on a promise.
Maybe two.

OK. First thing in the morning.

Try second.

Come on, now, girls.

Housekeeping!

Oh! I'm sorry.

Miss?

Yeah, Lewis.

What?

Any identification?

OK. Yeah, I'm on my way.

Hello, pet.

Yeah, listen, can I call you back?

Yeah. Somebody's just found a body.

A girl about your age, apparently.

Yeah, I hate my job sometimes.

But I love you and I'll definitely
get back, OK? Bye-bye, love.

Doors closing.

In there?

Jo Gilchrist.
Yeah.

She said she dictated the invitation
for Turnbull to come and talk at the Union.

He gets death threats and...she ends
up dead.

What's that revolver doing there?

My daughter would say this is
seriously weird.

Dr Hobson?
On her way.

Were all these other rooms occupied?
That'll be my next job, I suppose.

With special reference to room 123.

I'll start my house-to-house.

Oh. Hi.
Hi.

You're Nicky's old friend from
Tyneside. And you're Caroline Morton.

You're the Union President.
What's happening?

I'm here in my official capacity.

Er... Sorry. Don't understand.

What capacity are you here in?

I er...spent the night with Nicky.

What, in there?

Yes.

Look, I've got a ten o'clock
tutorial.

We may need to speak to you again
later.

Where do you normally live?
I'm at Penville.

Good.
Excuse me.

Morning.
Morning.

Where is it?
Where's what?

These are all the people booked in
last night?

Yes. The names in red
have already checked out.

And this one in blue?
Room 123?

It was booked,
but the guy didn't show up.

It says here his name's Lewis.

Yes. A copper, apparently.

Stephen, it's Caroline.

Call me.

Strangled.
With?

I can't be certain, but it could be
bare hands.

Time of death?

Best guess...
between two or three in the morning.

Right.

Any joy?
Not sure joy is the word.

Explain.

The room was booked in your name.

Some people are playing games.

My money's on the Central Committee.

Start with the brother, Stephen
Gilchrist.

We'll need him to identify the body.
At the very least.

I'm gonna call on Turnbull
while the sheets are still warm.

Canny room, yes?
Very pleasant.

My favourite word in the language.

Upgrade.

Cup of instant
with added non-dairy whitener?

I'll give it a miss.
Mm-hm.

You're very early.

Early?
Aye.

I know you're my
officially-designated bodyguard...

..but the next gig's not till eleven
o'clock. Book signing.

I'm not here in my bodyguard
capacity. Are you not?

Is it something I said?

What time did you come to bed?

About two o'clock.

Any witnesses?

Aye. Caroline Morton.
President of the Oxford Union.

Was she with you all night? Unless
she sneaked out while I was asleep.

Oh, you did sleep?
Quite a lot of the time, actually.

Stamina's not what it was.

Did Caroline sleep?
You'd have to ask her.

Could you have sneaked out
while she was asleep?

Hang on a minute. This is alibi
talk. I'd know it anywhere.

What's it all about?

It's about a dead body in the next
room, Mr Turnbull.

The young woman whose body was found
upstairs was a non-resident.

I realise that.

What's the hotel's policy?
I'm not sure what you mean.

On residents taking non-residents
upstairs for, if you'll forgive the expression, a quick screw.

It's a bit of a grey area.

Describe the colour grey to me in
this context.

Well, last night, for example.

20 or 30 students pile into the bar
with that writer guy.

He's resident,

and he's buying champagne all around
cos he's celebrating some million-dollar film deal.

Now, I can't guarantee if some
non-resident didn't slip through the net.

OK, so if I, as a non-resident,
wanted to get into room 123, what would I need?

You'd need a pass key.
Which always lives in your pocket.

There are a couple in the drawer
behind the desk.

Anyone who'd worked here
would know where to look.

And a lot of students
have worked here.

Stephen Gilchrist? Caroline Morton?

David Harvey?

Any of them worked here?
They don't have to.

They've got rich daddies.

Is it true? Is it Jo?

We'll need your help.
Would you go with Sergeant Hathaway?

You want me to identify the...?
I could come with you.

No, you stay here.
But be around for later. Sure.

Mike.

He's good, isn't he?
I know.

Scary in one so young.

You'll call me when you've got any
answers? Of course.

Is there really nothing I can do?
Just stay in Oxford.

Of course. It's where I live.

The team are asking the obvious
questions.

What time did they go to bed last
night? Did they see anything, hear anything, murder anyone?

And who booked the room in your
name? Yeah, that too.

Also, what does anybody know about
this gun?

It wasn't loaded and, as far as we
can see, it hasn't been fired.

So is it just the latest design
accessory?

Also, we need to know the names of
all the students in the bar last night

drinking Nicky Turnbull's champagne.

I'll be back on the case as soon as
I've finished baby-sitting.

Yes, that's Jo.

She didn't deserve this.

Nobody does.

Er... I think my bike's
at the hotel.

Let's go and get it.

You'd never met Jo Gilchrist before
yesterday? No. You were with me at the time.

But it was her idea
that you should come to Oxford.

So she said, like.

I mean, probably committees
and democracy and stuff,

but all I know is, they wrote to my
agent and said would I like to speak at the Oxford Union?

Well, it looks good on the CV.

So, we said, "Throw in a book
signing and you're in business."

So your agent fixed everything?

Aye, she winds me up and sets me
going.

Did she book me a hotel room?

It only seemed right. You know...
round-the-clock protection.

She thought you might need somewhere
to rest your weary head.

Round-the-clock protection
means staying awake.

Circumstances change.

Yeah, like beautiful, young Union
presidents.

Howay man, it's only rock'n'roll.

All right.
Thanks.

There you go, bonny lad.

Hello.
Hi.

Who's it for?

It's not for me, it's for my son.
Mm-hm?

Does he have a name?
He's called Darren.

Darren?
He's in computers.

Well, it's better than being in
prison. And I've tried both.

Why did you do that?

If it wasn't for him, Jo would still
be alive!

You'll have to explain that.

I'm sorry, I can't.

There you go.

Give us a moment.
Sure.

Don't go away now.

Done this sort of stuff before?
Aye, many, many times.

How much longer have we got to go?

For this lot,
I'd say er...20 minutes.

So, if you fancy a pint or something
to eat...

Bodyguards don't eat.

But I would like to keep an eye on
the day job. I'll just be outside.

Watch out for students bearing
bicycles.

Now, then, bonny lass, what can I do
for you?

Anything making sense yet?

The CCTV footage shows us that there
were lots of students in the hotel last night,

some of them drunk.

Oh, and I've clarified the link
between Turnbull and the fine city of Oxford.

Go on, make my day.

Two of the colleges,
Trevelyan and St Jude's.

Turnbull hacked into their
investment portfolios and relieved them of a lot of money.

What's this got to do with
Jo Gilchrist?

Absolutely nothing.

So I nicked a few quid off a couple
of colleges.

Became an Oxford University
stakeholder.

Howay man, they should take better
care of their money.

Nobody got hurt. I mean, look around
you. Are the walls tumbling down?

Robin Hood strikes again, huh?
Exactly.

How come all these pretty young
women, 20-year-olds, want to leap into bed with...

What, with a middle-aged fart
like me?

You wouldn't say that to Mick
Jagger. You're not Mick Jagger!

True. I'm strictly B-list.

And not a word to the missus, mind,
but...

..you'd be surprised how many women
fall for the old lovable rogue routine.

And there's no lack of enthusiasm on
her part.

On the other hand...
What?

It might have been a honey trap,
a stitch-up for afters.

They were into all that stuff.

What's this all about?

Some professor they were going to
hang out to dry, so they said.

Maybe I was next up for a public
hanging. You didn't mind?

To be honest, I was half expecting
a three-in-a-bed sex romp.

You'd have to be a real killjoy to
object to that.

Obviously, there'd be questions in
the house when I go home,

but trust me...
love rats sell a lot of books.

Well, I appreciate your honesty.

So, tell me the truth about these
death threats, before the honesty wears off.

All right. Well, my agent did have
a couple of anonymous emails.

But it was pathetic stuff, really.

You know, from the sort of sad
bastards who probably use green ink

and have name tags in their
underpants.

We thought, to hell with it,
the paperback's just out,

make it official, get a bit of
publicity.

"Nicky defies death threats."
You read that in the paper.

We have eyes everywhere.
Trouble is, bullshit works.

It sells tickets for the circus,
man.

But yes, it's a guilty plea.

Publicity stunt.

Wasting police time. I'll throw
myself at the mercy of the court.

I'll make the front pages tomorrow,
bonny lad.

The bullet went straight into the
heart. Death would have been pretty instant.

Highly professional?
Yeah.

Sure it came from up there?

Well, either from the hotel roof
or the council buildings next door.

Grassy knoll or the book depository?

What?
Well, we'll check everything.

Yeah, well don't forget the stuff in
his hotel room.

We're gonna need to go snooping in
his laptop.

Watch out for green ink.

Green ink?

How's the baby-sitter?
Yeah, looks like I failed.

I didn't come to say I told you so,
I need to know you're all right.

Thank you, I'm fine.

Tell me what happened.

Well, that's the strange thing
about it.

He'd just owned up to the fact that
the whole death-threat thing was a scam,

a publicity stunt, when bang!

Then it all went quiet, and I
realised...

..I realised that I was safe,
and he was the one they were after.

I'm taking various items from Mr
Turnbull's room. There's the list.

Is that allowed?

Civil liberties, and so on.

I'm not sure civil liberties are
uppermost in the late Mr Turnbull's mind at the moment.

The story so far.

Jo Gilchrist, aged 21.

Third-year student.

Found dead early this morning
at the hotel.

Apparently strangled.

Although there's bruising indicating
she might have been bumped on the head first.

She'd drunk a little champagne,
maybe a couple of glasses.

But no trace of drugs,
no sign of recent sexual activity.

Nicky Turnbull.

Reformed criminal, best-selling
author.

Shot and killed at 2:10 this
afternoon.

Outside the hotel. A single bullet
wound.

More details once Ballistics have
er... done their homework.

Where are we on identification
of his body?

Well, his agent's coming up from
London this afternoon.

Sir, his wife.
Oh, I thought it was his agent.

Well, they're one and the same
person. It's all on the laptop.

Is there anything else on the laptop?
Not yet.

He's quite eccentric with his access
codes, but we'll get there.

Moving on.

Possible links between the two
victims.

Jo Gilchrist, a key member of the
committee that invited Turnbull up to speak to the Union.

Turnbull spent the night with
Caroline Morton, the Union President.

But he actually told me that he
thought it might be a...honey trap,

with a view to selling the story to
the tabloids.

Jo Gilchrist was very much into
exposing people in print.

She apparently also had her sights
set on an Oxford don.

We need to identify him, find out
what he was up to, if anything,

and whether it relates to the
killings.

Jo Gilchrist also has a brother,
Stephen.

He's currently roaming the streets of
Oxford throwing bicycles through shop windows.

He isn't.
No?

He's downstairs.

He's come here to confess.

Confess to what?
He didn't say.

All right, there'll be a press
conference at five.

Probably a bromide statement.

"We're keenly pursuing
several lines of inquiry", et cetera.

Appeals to the public. The usual bag
of tricks.

Including the grieving widow
if she's here in time?

Well, I actually hate all that stuff,
but er... I'll be guided by the grieving widow.

We're told you want to confess.
Yes.

Confess to what, precisely?

You know, you were there. The stupid
business with the bicycle.

Is that all?

What else is there?

I ran away, but I panicked
and didn't know what else to do.

I couldn't think straight. I was...
All right, all right.

Relax. Deep breaths.

Tell him about the bicycle.

You can be charged with criminal
damage in the fullness of time,

but we know this is your first
offence.

We're not overly worried about the
shop window.

I see.

Who is Sam?
Sam?

I'm told your sister was about to,
quote, "Hang him out to dry"?

He...er...he's an eminent professor
of English Literature. His name's Weller, hence the Sam.

Sam Weller, Pickwick Papers.

I know. I did it for O-Level.

Which I failed, to save you checking.

So, was your sister planning to do
the same sort of thing with Turnbull?

A honey trap and then public
exposure?

It could have been that.

So why do you blame Turnbull for Jo's
death?

I just know if he hadn't come to
Oxford she'd still be alive.

I'm...I'm sure that Jo and Caroline
were planning something, but I don't know what.

They didn't tell me their secrets.
But you're her brother.

The thing is, there's really two
kinds of student here at Oxford.

There's the dedicated scholars
and the chancers.

And you are?
I'm a scholar.

I'd be happy to spend my life
writing books that only 37 people in the world want to read.

And Jo?

Was ambitious.

I mean, you know what Shelley said.

Remind me.

That poets are the unacknowledged
legislators of the world.

Jo said that Shelley was wrong.
These days it's the er... newspaper editors.

So she wanted to rule the world?
I suppose.

And what about her close friends?
She didn't have any.

You, Caroline Morton, David Harvey.

People like Jo hang out with whoever
they think can be useful to them.

They get together when their agendas
overlap,

but don't confuse it
with friendship.

They're all too competitive to have
friends.

Hathaway.

Two minutes.

You go.

Tell me about the gun.

The gun? Your sister was found
with a revolver.

It was a birthday present.

From?
David Harvey.

The rugby player.
It wasn't his idea.

She said she'd like a gun for
her birthday.

Where did he get it from?
No idea.

Maybe from one of his rugby mates.

Some of them have military
tendencies.

Was she frightened
something might happen to her?

No, she was never frightened of
anything.

The gun was just something to show
off with. It was a design accessory.

She only wanted one
because nobody else had a gun.

She was my sister, and because she
was my sister I loved her.

But I didn't really like her very
much.

It's a short walk.

Is my driver OK here?
Yeah, he'll be fine.

You can't blame me, can you?
I'm sorry?

For falling in love with him.

Thank you.

Tell me about this press conference,
then.

It'll be a short statement by DI
Lewis, the officer in charge of the investigation,

followed by some questions
and probably very few answers.

Because you don't know any?

Because it's very early on in the
investigation.

Right, well, I'm at your service.

Well, I never!

What?

A long time ago, Sergeant,
when the world was very, very young,

Mrs Turnbull and I went to school
together.

Aye, not only that.

He was my first boyfriend.

We're dealing with two murders
within a 12-hour period.

It goes without saying that the
police would like to hear from any member of the public

who saw anything unusual or
suspicious in the area of the hotel,

either last night or this morning.

I'll be taking some questions later,

but first, Mrs Turnbull wishes
to make a short statement.

Thank you. Um...

First, I'd like to add my support to
that appeal.

If you can help, please do so.

As I look around, I see one or
two familiar faces from the tabloid press.

I have no doubt that over the days
ahead

we'll be reading many stories
about my late husband.

I could help you write them.

The tale of a reformed criminal who,
even when he was going straight,

was still a bit of a rogue, a bit of
a lad.

Yes...he was.

He liked a drink, and he liked a
pretty face.

So he may have been a bit
of a lad...

..but he was my bit of a lad.

Mrs Turnbull isn't taking
questions.

I'll have a couple, but as long as
they're short.

Do the police think there is a
connection

between the murders?
Yes. The officer in charge.

Mr Turnbull was apparently killed by
a sniper.

We know he had enemies in Whitehall
and the Pentagon.

Will you be looking for a link
to the security services?

We'll be looking for a link to
somebody that can shoot a rifle with great accuracy.

You were with Turnbull at the time.
Is it possible you were the real target?

No more questions. Thank you all.

That was fine. Thank you.
Good.

Mr Lewis.
Yeah. Er... Excuse me.

We know that was mostly bullshit,
but if anything juicy comes along, I get first whack, don't I?

Before the hooligans from Wapping?
Oh, definitely.

In fact, you could do me a favour,
Norman.

What?

Apparently, Turnbull filched a lot
of money from a couple of the colleges,

Trevelyan and St Jude's,
during the '90s.

Were there any repercussions?
Nothing public.

Conspiracy of silence.

Oxford has to be seen to be immune
from that sort of thing.

Leave it with me.
Thanks, Norman, you're a star.

Sorry about that.

So, what are the plans now?

What a question.

Oh, I'm sorry.

It's all right.

Well, I was planning to overnight
here with Nicky for a spot of R and R, you know, but...

Would it help if I stayed around?

Assist with inquiries.
Is that the phrase?

Well, it would, if you feel you're up
to it.

Yeah. Let's talk, eh?

It's supposed to help, isn't it? The
talking cure.

That's what Sigmund Freud said.

I'm...I'm suddenly hungry.

Is that awful?
It's a normal symptom of shock.

We'll find somewhere quiet to feed
you, have a talk.

Just give us five minutes to make a
phone call. Aye.

Where is the wisdom we've lost in
information?

What?
TS Eliot.

Don't know the fella.

Listen, I want you to talk to
Caroline Morton and David Harvey.

In either order.

Ask them about honey traps and guns.

Was Jo gonna shoot Turnbull?
If so, why?

What was she gonna use for bullets?

We'll save Professor Weller
for tomorrow morning.

And you'll be?
Friends Reunited.

Hello. I'd like to see Caroline
Morton.

I'm sorry, but she says she's not
talking to any journalists.

I'm too nice to be a journalist.

Oh. Sorry, sir.

She's in her room.
But I think she's with somebody.

Lucky her.

I'd like to see Caroline Morton.

I'm sure you would, but you damn well
can't. I think I damn well can.

Just this once.

You've been raided by the police.
How thrilling.

I'll call you later.

I hope they're being generous
with their pieces of silver.

You must know the golden rule
of whoring.

Give good value and insist on the
going rate.

When did you first meet him?

In prison, eight or nine years ago.

What were you doing in prison?

I used to go in twice a week, would
you believe, to do drama therapy.

You'll have to explain.

The theory is it helps the guys
with their problems by acting them out.

I was a liberal-minded do-gooder.

Did you do any good?

Yeah. Yes, I did,
as a matter of fact.

No need to sound apologetic.

I know what people like you think of
do-gooders.

What makes you think I'm a people
like me?

OK, we'll assume you're
an exception.

Either way, prison officers
are worse.

Villains are villains, and no
arty-farty bollocks will change it.

I can imagine.

Anyway, Nicky, he was in my drama
group.

One of the things I had them do
was tell us stories,

and he told very good stories.

Mind, I'm not sure they were all
strictly true, but...

Well, anyway,
I encouraged him to write them down.

When he came out, we put them in the
book, and the rest you know.

Where did marriage fit in all this?

Chronologically, it went...

..drama teacher, editor...

..lover, agent, wife.

Would you like to see the wine list?
Oh, ta.

I'm driving, I'll just have water,
but...

Would it be terrible of me?
Why, no.

It'll be our secret.

What were you and Jo Gilchrist up to
last night?

Obviously you were going to stitch
up Nicky Turnbull, but what was the game plan?

A three-in-a-bed sex romp?

I'm told that goes down well in the
tabloids.

We were going to sort of...
play it by ear.

But she never turned up.
Obviously.

Was she going to bring her gun with
her? Just as a theatrical prop.

She hadn't got any bullets.

We were gonna play that by ear,
as well.

Scare him shitless and see what
happened.

So what did you do?

Basically, we had sex
and went to sleep.

Next morning,
your friend's dead in the next room.

I didn't know that, did I?

And we weren't exactly friends.

Jo and I were...

..useful to each other.
Useful?

That's what Oxford is for.

Get to know the right people, it'll
stand you in good stead the rest of your life.

Like being Union President is the
first step to being prime minister?

Place your bets now.

All that being so,

Jo Gilchrist had no friends?

I guess not.

Mummy and Daddy love her?

Mum's an alcoholic and Dad's living
in Dubai with the au pair.

Happy families, then.
There's a lot of them about.

Will there be anything else?

Yeah.

Tell me
where I can find David Harvey.

Pumping iron.

Thank you.

Last night in the bar at the hotel,

your husband was buying champagne all
round.

Nicky loved showing off.

Apparently, he was celebrating some
film deal.

Yeah, we'd sold the film rights to
the Americans.

I assume that's good.

The money's amazing.

They'll screw up the story, of
course.

Set it in Los Angeles,

Starring a pretty 20-year-old who
gets the girl and finds God, but...

that's the business.

Tell me about the business.

You're an agent, so you take a
percentage of what your clients earn?

Yeah.

How many clients?

Hm... About half a dozen.

All different kinds of writers?
No, all much the same.

I thought that was the whole point
about artists, that they were all different.

Like with music. Mozart sounds like
Mozart and Beethoven sounds like Beethoven.

I'm sorry, pet, this isn't about
art, this is about the marketplace.

Do you know the biggest growth area
in publishing?

Books on slimming?

No. True crime.

So your clients are all ex-cons?

Well, a couple are back inside,
but...yeah.

Nicky was the first.

He attracted a lot of attention and
we had old lags queuing round the block with their stories.

"I was a drug baron, a gangland
enforcer, a safe-breaker, until I saw the light."

All different but the same.

Murderers? Hit men?

Inevitably.

He told me that he'd made some
enemies before he went into prison,

and then some more while he was
inside.

Then maybe even more once he'd gone
straight.

You met him. He was a chancer.

But yes, prison would be a good
place to start.

David Harvey?
Yes.

Detective Sergeant Hathaway.
I know.

You do?

You used to be our Head Boy.

I was only in second year when you
left, but I remember your nickname.

I didn't know I had one.

You were called WC.

I am scared to ask.

It was short for Wolfgang Christ.

The theory was, you couldn't decide
whether you wanted to be Mozart or Jesus.

And now you're a policeman.
I compromised.

Tell me about the Turnbull lecture.
Not sure what I can tell you.

You were on the committee.

That's just words. It was basically
Jo's gang.

She called the shots,
told us what to do.

What was your job in Jo's gang?
I didn't really have one any more.

Would you care to elaborate?

Jo and I used to be an item,
until she dumped me.

When did she dump you?
When I stopped being useful.

I would welcome a little more
in the way of an explanation.

Three months ago, I was a star.

Rugby international, big clubs waving
fat contracts under my nose,

hanging out with the rich and famous.

Then, 20 stone of Australian landed
on my knee.

There's nobody more irrelevant
than an injured sportsman.

Why did you get her the gun?

It's what she wanted.
She always got what she wanted.

Until now.
I guess.

Where did you get it?

It was kicking about the house.

Got a lot of guns kicking
about the house?

It was a family heirloom. Probably my
grandfather's. He was in the war.

I cleaned it up, polished it,
wrapped it in pink ribbon.

Those things kill people, you know.

It's all right, I didn't give her any
bullets. She wouldn't have been safe with bullets.

She was as hard as nails,
but she would never kill anybody.

Just hang them out to dry.

Do you mean Professor Weller?
I mean generally.

All right, she made a lot of enemies,

but she wouldn't kill any of them,
and they wouldn't kill her.

And yet she ended up dead.

I know. It's stupid and unfair.

Got anyone else in your life at the
moment? Are we talking women?

We're talking women.

The international cap still works
its magic.

Jo aside,
it's any prize on the stall.

Thanks for tonight.

It wasn't fun exactly, but er...

it was sort of canny.

Is that allowed?

Sort of canny is allowed.

Good night.

This is good stuff.

Another gift from a grateful hack.

To Jo.

May she rest in peace.

Not possible.

Let's hope she got the going rate.

"My night of passion with doomed
bestseller."

I imagine the grieving widow is not
best pleased.

Is she grieving?

I'd say she was...in shock.

The tears will come later.

True, sir, the old boyfriend bit?
Not that it's any of my business.

When I was in the sixth form
and she was in the fifth,

I took her to a disco.

And then I took her to a football
match.

And then I bought a couple of tickets
to a concert,

but she didn't want to go because
she didn't like Barry Manilow. End of story.

Did you like Barry Manilow?

No, not much. I thought she might.

It was a lousy match, as well.
Lost 2-1 to Blackburn Rovers.

He's expecting us?
Yep.

So these are the spires
where he does his dreaming.

Not much else he can do with them,
really.

Professor Weller, we're told
the Sam in the headline refers to you.

It does indeed. It's a literary
allusion.

Dickensian, yeah.
We know about that, too.

Is it true?
What is truth?

Men have been debating that in this
place for hundreds of years.

Are you involved
in an examination scam?

Scam. Could you define the word?

A confidence trick. A...cheat.

A swindle.

Is that precise enough for you?

Could you give me an example?

Well, imagine my daughter
is at school

and she wants to come to your
college.

I give the school a large sum of
money.

The school gives your college
a large sum of money.

Now, these sums of money are given
fancy names, like "endowments",

though I think they should be called
bribes.

Either way, lo and behold, my
daughter gets her place at your college.

Well, that isn't my view
of the situation.

Give us your view of the situation.

My view of the world is dominated by
books.

Books are my life and my work.

But if I look out of the window,

I see a world dominated not by books
but by information.

My students use words like "blog"
and "iPod"

and "Googlewhack" and "cyberspace".

Well, I try to understand. I even
attended the late Mr Turnbull's lecture,

hoping to gain some sort of insight.

Yes, I saw you there.

Of course.

The immediate consequence is that
instead of recommending particular books

that applicants might read,

one tends to direct them
to...websites.

Is that the word?
That's the word.

Where they might find enlightenment.

Or where my daughter,
who wants to come to your college,

might find the right answers
to questions which you might ask her,

if, for example,

she was sitting your special entrance
exams, or coming for an interview?

Don't tell me, Professor,
there are no right answers.

Quite so.

This was Jo Gilchrist's college?
It was.

So one of your own students was
running a vicious campaign against you?

What were you proposing to do about
that?

I cannot tell a lie,
I was considering various options.

But they did not include homicide.

And I shall make two more points
before you leave.

It was not my idea to run university
education

according to the principles
of a Middle Eastern marketplace.

And since my area of expertise
begins with the work of Aeschylus over 2,500 years ago...

..your concerns seem to me but brief
and impermanent ripples on a vast ocean.

Oh, I'd like to nick that professor.

On what charge?
Being a pompous sod.

And I'd burn this place down.

I'm going to prison.
I'll feel more at home in prison.

You have locks in an open prison?
One or two.

But we er...don't rattle the keys.

It upsets the inmates.

Mind you, this one's to stop
the teachers from escaping. Ha!

Did you know Nicky Turnbull?
Yeah, I knew him.

Any thoughts, observations?

Once a thief...

Dr Patterson might disagree.

Doctor?
PhD in Criminology.

She believes in rehabilitation. Hah!

Tell me about Diane Turnbull.

Not much to tell.

She came to us with a slender CV,

at a time when we'd take anyone
who could read or write.

Slender?

Failed actress -
or should I say actor?

She'd buggered about in fringe
theatre, a couple of bit parts in The Bill.

How did she get on here?
Surprisingly well.

Oh, being a woman helps.
Someone for the guys to lust after.

And she did a halfway decent
production of Julius Caesar.

I've got a present for you.

The souvenir programme.

Turnbull played Caesar?
Yes.

Any good?

Well, I've never met a Roman
who spoke with a Geordie accent,

but then again, I've never met one
who sounded like John Gielgud, either.

Diane played his wife.
Calpurnia.

Caesar's wife, who must be above
suspicion.

She wasn't Mrs Turnbull then,
of course.

I know. Diane Fraser. I went to
school with her.

Oh, in which case,
she too must be above suspicion.

Well, I don't see her as a serial
killer with a high-velocity rifle.

Yes, that's more of a male
speciality.

Turnbull told me that he might have
made some enemies while he was here.

Obviously. The man was a thief.

Your officer said that.
What did he steal?

Have you read his book?

No, I delegated that job to my
sergeant.

He's done a speed-reading course.

The bones of it are true,
about the computer fraud, and so on,

but he dressed it up with stuff he
heard from other inmates.

He may have changed their names, but
it was obvious what he was up to.

He stole their stories? These days,
it's called "intellectual property".

But is it enough
for anyone to want to murder him?

Come on, Mr Lewis. You've been
around these people as long as I have.

Men have been killed for a packet of
cigarettes or a bar of chocolate.

And it's not stealing a story,
it's stealing someone's dignity.

Something else you should know.

It's a technical term.

When Turnbull first arrived here,
he was functionally illiterate.

What, he couldn't read or write?

He could fool the system, and he was
obviously brilliant with numbers.

I knew he had a problem with
spelling.

Yeah, it should have been spotted at
school, but it wasn't.

The man was a great talker, but...

Mrs Turnbull wrote the book?
Pass.

Oh, there was a theory
that I might have been the target.

Well, that might easily be the case.

These are career criminals.

One copper less is a step nearer
to heaven.

Mind how you go.

Medical and Ballistics think that's
where our killer shot Nicky Turnbull from.

Did they find anything useful?
No.

How did he get up there?

Lift to the fourth floor,
fire escape out onto the roof.

So he went straight past the main
reception?

He went past Chloe, who's a PPE
student working her way through college.

CCTV?
Inconclusive.

Can you imagine David Harvey doing
this? Harvey?

He gets the brush off
from Joe Gilchrist.

She's going off, doing unspeakable
things with the ex-con. He's been drinking, he follows her.

He's a big lad, his knee's hurting,
loses his temper.

Why would he kill Turnbull?

Well, classic situation.
The old favourite.

Turnbull sees him do it,
so Harvey has to kill the witness.

I don't buy it, sir.
Why not?

Well, amongst other things, he er...

..well, he went to my old school.

I assume we're talking
a posh public school for boys.

Yeah.

You go from there to places like
Oxford, end up running the country.

With respect, this is beginning to
sound like a chip on your shoulder.

My school motto was
"A healthy body, a healthy mind."

We were given the choice.

Let's go and talk to Mrs Turnbull
about Julius Caesar.

Where are all those actors now?
Did he steal their stories?

Well, Caesar was killed
by a group of conspirators.

Got to check Brutus, Cassius,
Casca...

This is Oxford, not Ancient Rome.

They're easily confused, sir.

Jim Winston. Sad story.
Schizophrenic.

He threw himself
under a train last month.

Charlie Read.
Yeah, he was stage manager.

As strong as a horse.
Bit of a nutter.

I remember him. Local man.

Morse and I put him away for...
GBH with knobs on.

He might be worth checking.

He's the only one
who really scared me.

Put an asterisk next to Charlie.

Stuart Malcolm.
No, he's probably in London.

Keep your distance. He's beyond
redemption.

Even Shakespeare couldn't help.

Ray Hanson. He's my success story.

He runs a little car hire company.

He brought me here yesterday,
actually.

Oh, in the flash limo with tinted
windows. Yeah.

Where is he based?

About halfway between here and
London.

I've...I've got his card somewhere.

Here.

I think those are the only ones
I know about.

More slaving over a hot computer.
Looking for wisdom.

Well, thank you for that.

There's something else, actually.

Um... It's sort of personal.

See you back at the station.

I...er...hate to be a nuisance,

but my taxi still seems to be
conspicuous by its non-appearance.

I'm sorry, Mr Webster. I'll call
them again. Would you?

You're American?
Yes.

I blame my parents. Who else?

A detective?

Investigating a double murder?

And here I am,
an American leaving town.

Successful visit?
Mm.

Lecturing the British on the James
brothers.

William and Henry,
as opposed to Frank and Jesse.

Judging from the size of my
audience, I made the wrong choice.

My latest thin volume.

I see.

I read in one of your newspapers Mr
Turnbull might have been targeted by the Pentagon.

I give you my word, Detective,

I despise my elected government.

I can't even spell CIA.
Well, we knew about your lectures.

We had you checked out.

I hope you find that reassuring.

What's the problem?
This place.

I wish I could afford to stay here.

The staff have been lovely, and so
on. It's...

It's just that I'm sleep...

Well, I'm not sleeping along the
corridor from where the girl was murdered.

And I look out the window
and I can see Nicky's blood stains.

You could go home.

Yeah. I know, but...

Well, the house is gonna seem very
empty without Nicky, and...

..when I do go, I want to take all
of his things with me and the police have still got them.

The wheels of forensic examination
grind exceedingly slowly.

It's just a few of his bits
and pieces, you know, for company.

It's probably hard for you
to understand.

No, it's very easy for me to
understand.

Sorry?

My wife died three years ago.

I'm sorry.

I'll see what we can do.

BIRDSONG

Are you allowed to stop for a moment?
Five minutes.

Is this part of your rehab?

Five miles per day, plus five hours
in the gym,

plus the occasional game of tennis
as my designated fun.

I thought rugby was only a game.
Games aren't games any more.

You were with Jo and Caroline
at the hotel after that lecture.

What time did you leave?

I was so drunk,
I couldn't put a time to it.

What about yesterday afternoon,
say around two o'clock?

What were you doing?
This.

What, here?
More or less.

I can't be accurate to the exact
yard.

Any witnesses?

Yes. Her.

Good afternoon, Mr Lewis.

What's he been telling you?

What should he have been telling me?

That Jo chose to live dangerously
and lost.

So who won?

We won't know until the game's over
and somebody sings.

You're suggesting Mrs Turnbull
should stay at your house tonight?

Why?

She's in a state of shock.

She hates that hotel.

There's been one murder on the
premises and her husband was killed on the doorstep.

She doesn't want to go home alone,
and - You were at school together.

Therefore she trusts me.

She might be a key witness. Or even,
at this stage, a possible suspect.

I don't see her as an assassin.

I'm thinking like a lawyer, in
court, looking to discredit the police.

And I'm thinking like an old friend
who always behaves strictly by the book.

All right. But with back-up.

Come in!

Yeah, what is it?

I've stumbled across some wisdom.
Share it with us.

Charlie Read works as a bouncer
at The Lower Depths.

What, in God's name,
is The Lower Depths?

It's a basement club.
Loud music and booze.

Er... Town and Gown meet there.

The lads from the estate get together
with the athletes from the University there

every weekend for a punch-up.
Charlie will be in his element.

Charlie.
Mr Lewis.

How are you doing?

Too many murders. Otherwise, fine.

I was sorry to hear about Morse.

He was a bastard, but...a straight
bastard. Know what I mean?

Is this about my landlord?
Your landlord?

He thinks I killed his dog.
Did you?

This young man's trying to get me
into trouble.

I'll speak to him later.

So er...it must be about the nutty
professor, then.

Now you're getting warmer.

Can you come back in the morning,
Mr Lewis?

We've got a martial arts team from
Liverpool in tonight.

I think I'm needed.

Should we call the police?

These people are pretty good
at sorting out their own problems.

Besides, I'm running late.

My lodger will think -
You don't love her any more.

Sorry...sir.
That sort of slipped out.

I've had a long day.
And it isn't over yet.

What happens next?

Well, you go to bed for a good
night's sleep,

and I'll be in here with...
a good book.

It's not bad.

Dr Patterson at the prison told
me that you helped him write it.

She said Nicky was, quote,
"functionally illiterate".

That's the jargon.

It just means he couldn't spell.

But he told a good story.

That's what people buy,
good stories.

I just helped him with the long
words.

I'll be off.

Thank you for looking after me.
Just doing my job, ma'am.

No Barry Manilow, then.

Nah, I never liked him much.

But when I was 18,
I thought you would.

We never know anything, do we?

Did you have a good marriage?

It's just I couldn't help noticing
the photographs.

Yeah, very good.

The best.

I'm glad about that.

So did I.

People wouldn't believe me, but...

..I did.

It was living dangerously, but...

..yeah, it was very good indeed.

Ah, well see, that's the difference.

I believe in living safely.

I dare say that's why I'm a cop.

I want to look after the people
that believe in living safely.

Do police regulations permit you
to give me a good night hug?

I'd have to sign for it.

You're a good man.

I dare say.

Don't worry, I'm not an assassin.
I detected that. Come in.

We traced some of the calls
on Turnbull's mobile.

It turns out
one was to a London-based lawyer

who refused
to tell us what the call was about.

Client confidentiality.
That old thing.

Yeah. But I've got a mate
who's a barrister.

Someone I went -
Went to school with?

Yeah.
And?

And, according to him, the man
Turnbull was talking to was a divorce lawyer.

And, according to the lady,
it was a very good marriage.

(Obviously someone didn't think so.)

Norman?

You're a miserable sod.

Have you got a good memory for
suicides?

Exactly. Horses for courses.

Morning.

Hello.

I was expecting to see Robbie.
Has he gone?

The master of the house?
Yeah. Oh.

I was all geared up to making
some breakfast.

Would you like some?
Er...no, thanks, I'm sorted.

But you're to make yourself at home,

and when you're ready,
I am to drive you to the office.

He'd like to ask you a couple of
questions, if you feel up to it.

Yeah.

Do you think he'll mind if I tidy up
first? Doubt it.

This er...nutty professor,

he comes up to me and he says,
"Forgive me, this isn't my natural habitat,

but I'm informed you are a renowned
practitioner of enforcing."

His exact words.
I'll never forget 'em.

So I tell him...it's my chosen
specialist subject.

Then he says some student's making
trouble, needs a bit of a slap.

And did you give this student a bit
of a slap?

He didn't say it was a woman,
did he?

I mean, I'll smack anyone
if the money's right.

But never a woman.

Even Mr Morse give me credit
for that. Check your records.

What about Turnbull?
Have you got an alibi?

I can soon get one.
Serious answer, Charlie.

Yeah, all right.
Here's your serious answer.

You're looking
for a professional hit man.

Firing rifles off of rooftops?

Ain't my style. You know that.

I can't stand heights,
for one thing.

I can't stand guns.

And I don't kill people.

I hurt people, I don't kill 'em.

Were there any professional hit men
in the nick?

There's usually one or two.

I think the lad who played Brutus
used to be in that line of business.

I read Turnbull's book last night,
slowly.

He writes about a hitman...
called Roy.

Alias Ray Hanson.

He was Brutus in the play.

Her success story. The one with
the executive limo and the tinted windows.

The Roman formerly known as Roy
Hardwick.

Ex-British army and SAS.
Served in Northern Ireland.

Suspected of selling guns
to anyone who would meet his price.

Now, he disappears,

and three years later, Ray Hanson
turns up in the City of London,

selling non-existent shares.

Do you want me to have a word
with him?

I want you to get him up here for
elevenses, with discretion.

It's the better part of my valour,
sir.

Oh, where did you leave Mrs Turnbull?

With a Guardian crossword and a cup
of coffee.

Oh, and she tidied up your kitchen
before we left.

Oh, I bet she put everything back
in the wrong place.

Yes, I took them to Oxford.
Nicky and Diane both.

Did you pick them up from home?
Nicky from their big house in Wandsworth.

Diane was already here when we got
the call about the shooting.

That's her car there.

What was she doing here?

I'm writing a book.

Isn't everybody?

Where were you at the time
of the murders?

That all depends on when they were
exactly. I only know what the newspapers tell me.

The student was killed
at around two in the morning.

When I was fast asleep in my bed.

All alone.

Unless you'll accept Arthur C Clarke
as a witness.

Nicky Turnbull was shot
at ten past two in the afternoon.

When I was out somewhere
on the road. Let me check.

Um... Do you have one of these?

I'm a bit of a nerd,

but I find accurate information
helps convince

the Revenue that I really am fully
rehabilitated.

Now you should know all that I know.

Thank you.

Did you get on with Nicky Turnbull?
Yeah, he's a good mate.

Was a good mate, rest his soul.

He was er...like a sort of best
friend at school.

Enemies?

When Diane walked into the nick,
ooh, you can imagine.

And she picked Nicky Turnbull.

When we got to the scene
where everyone kills Julius Caesar,

it was just as well we only had
wooden daggers.

Well, you played Brutus.
Et tu, Brute?

Yes, I know. The best friend who
turns on him in the end.

Still, it's only a play, Sergeant.
Trust me, I am an honourable man.

Just ask the Inland Revenue.

I wonder if you could spare an hour
of your time.

There's one or two things we'd like
you to look at down at the station.

It's always a pleasure
to be of service to the state.

In fact,
I have to pick up Diane anyway,

so...I'll follow you in the limo.
If that's OK.

Where is he?

Interview room with a cup of coffee.

Here are his work records.

Here's an alibi I prepared earlier.

Quite so.

Why would he want to kill Turnbull?

If he's a professional hit man,
because somebody paid him to.

Who, for example?
Mrs Turnbull, for example.

What?

I know you went to the same school,
sir. That's got nothing to do with it.

They sold the film rights for what,
a million quid?

As his agent, she gets what, 10%?

As his divorced wife, she might get
half, but as his widow, she gets the lot.

Excuse me.

Have you any idea what's going on?

Very rarely.

Are you a policewoman, police
person? Sorry, I don't know what they're called.

I'm just an itinerant doctor
delivering a file. Ah, right.

You're Mrs Turnbull, aren't you?
Yeah.

Tough time you're having.
Aye, you could say.

Simple question. Are you and Roy
Hardwick one and the same person?

This might help.

Let's assume, for the sake of
argument, that you're right.

One of the things you learn in the
SAS is how to withstand interrogation,

including torture by much nastier
people than you, Mr Lewis.

If I've got this right, you think
I'm involved in the murder of a student

and a criminal turned best-selling
author.

Now, I've provided you with two
perfect alibis.

It's over to you.

I've nothing more to say.

We installed it as a disincentive
to the parish vandals.

Some of them seem to have a deep
dislike of our stained glass.

Is it important? It may be the
answer to our prayers.

Which proves they do work.

Let's see if I can remember
where I left that instruction book.

Sorry to have kept you hanging
around. That's all right.

I had a nice talk with Dr Hobson.

I think she fancies you.

Why was...your late husband

making telephone calls to divorce
lawyers?

Because we were getting a divorce.

You told me last night
you had a very good marriage.

And so we did, for a while.

There's a time limit on rock'n'roll
marriages.

You can go off living dangerously.

How would you describe your
relationship with Ray Hanson?

Professional.

Did you spend the night there?
Yes.

And I spent last night
at your place, too, but...

We're only good friends.

He is writing a book,
for God's sake.

What, Confessions Of A Hit Man?

And you're helping him with the long
words?

There's no need,
he's very good with long words.

He did an Open University degree in
English when he was inside.

Rehabilitation. Wherever you look.

Sir.

I've a confession to make.
I don't need a confession from you.

I play music. That doesn't
sound like a criminal offence.

Well, some people think so.

Strictly speaking, it's world music
with a combination of jazz and medieval madrigals.

Does it have tunes? I'll give it to
you. You can decide for yourself.

Anyway, on Thursday night,
we were rehearsing at All Saints,

and when I walked out,
this car goes past a bit too fast.

I went to check if they had any CCTV
this morning, and look.

That's the car that tried to run us
down after the lecture.

When Hanson claimed
he was safely tucked up in bed.

It was just a wheeze Ray and Nicky
dreamed up to add credibility to the death-threat scam.

Trust me, Ray was aiming to miss.
He's very good.

He's had experience as a getaway
driver.

We checked with the bank.
Last week, you paid Hanson �5,000.

That was a publisher's advance.
And it wasn't exactly �5,000.

It was minus my commission
and plus VAT.

All right, let's go right back
to the beginning.

Jo Gilchrist approached you to get
Nicky... No, she didn't.

She didn't?

No, Jo Gilchrist had nothing to do
with it. It was um...

Oh, that rugby player guy.

He...he made the initial phone call.

He confirmed everything by email,
confirmed the emails by letters.

The guy bored us into submission.

But we were told that Jo was the one
that called the shots.

You might choose your words more
carefully.

Yeah, Norman.
Did you find something for me?

We're looking for David Harvey.
He's playing tennis with his girlfriend.

Where?
I know.

Girlfriend?

It's called real tennis.

What's that they play at Wimbledon?
Digital?

I'm in the middle of a game.

I'm sorry.
The game, you might say, is up.

Oh, bugger. I suppose you've got the
building surrounded.

And the airports sealed off.

We know you've got an iffy leg,
but even so.

I can jog, but I can't run.

And I've got nothing to hide.

You're invited too, Chloe.

"It's often said computer crime
leaves no victims.

I wish it were true.

I never thought I'd feel remorse
for an accountant,

but I'm still sorry about the man
in one of our older universities

who committed suicide
as a result of my activities."

End quote.

I checked with an old mate of mine
who works for the Oxford Mail.

The man who took his own life

was financial adviser to Trevelyan
College and St Jude's.

They lost millions, he lost his
career and killed himself.

And he was your father.
Yes.

It was a spineless thing to do
and he left the family in a mess.

Ah. A bit of a wimp, eh?

Not a proper rugby-playing man like
his son.

No, you're made of sterner stuff.

You invited Turnbull to Oxford.

What was the plan?

Get him up here and teach him a
lesson?

I mean, he was only a Geordie
upstart.

He didn't even go to a posh school.

Don't look now, but your inverted
snobbery is showing, Mr Lewis.

Yeah, it's an old weakness of mine.

I thought it might be amusing to
give Turnbull a fright, that's all.

So how come two people are dead?

You're the ace detective.

What's that old saying about Rugby
Union?

Um... Gentlemen acting like
hooligans.

It's a man's game.

But you're hooligan through and
through, aren't you?

Hooligan to the last slice.

I was talking to a hooligan this
morning. A real-life hooligan.

Not a gilded amateur.

It's his career.
His calling, you might say.

He was asked to teach Jo Gilchrist a
lesson, offered money for it.

But he refused. Do you know why?

He said he couldn't do that
to a woman.

A hooligan, but a man of principle.

You wouldn't know a principle
if it smacked you on the nose.

We phoned your old school this
morning.

Talked to your house master.

You've had a bit of form,
haven't you?

Suspended twice for hitting younger
boys.

Did you shop me?

Don't be ridiculous.

And suspended again last rugby season
for breaking an opponent's jaw.

I was getting in first with the
revenge. It's standard procedure.

Hitting a woman?
That's not standard procedure.

Not in a civilised society.

Not when you've just given her
a lovely birthday present.

One word, Mr Lewis. Evidence.

Evidence. Found?

In a jacket in Mr Harvey's room.
Your room.

The one you were wearing
the night of the lecture.

So what was the deal?

Jo would bring the revolver,
you'd bring the bullets?

Only she chickened out. Is that it?

See, that's the problem with women.

You can't rely on them, can you?

Not like proper, well-educated,
hooligan chaps.

She thought it was a great idea at
first. A murder plot.

"Wow!" she said. "How cool is that!"

Then she met Turnbull
and he charmed the hell out of her.

"We can't kill him," she said.
"He's kind of cute."

That was the moment.

When she said those words.
"Kind of cute."

I don't do business with
"kind of cute".

And Chloe. Did she have a different
attitude to cuteness?

Maybe she thinks you're kind of cute.
Maybe she does.

Cute enough to give you access
to the hotel roof?

Cute enough to look after your rifle
for you?

I see no rifle.

We found one in her locker at the
hotel. She told us the whole story.

Women don't seem to have much luck
where you're concerned, do they?

Any prize on the stall.

Now do you believe me?

I may not be above suspicion,
but I'm not Lady Macbeth.

I believe you.

Imagine if I had liked Barry
Manilow.

No...I can't imagine that.

This way, madam.

Do you ever go back to your school?

No. I'm probably a great
disappointment to them.

You? Yours?
No, never.

The job of a school is to teach you
how to manage without it.

A bit like being a parent.

Have you used one of these?
What is it?

Stick it in your ear and you'll
hear.

What?
It's that music that I do.

Oh, thanks.

Yeah.

Oh, hi, pet.

Yeah, sorry I haven't phoned you
back.

Ah, you've been watching your old dad
on the telly, eh? Wow.

Well, would you believe
I went to school with her?

What?

Ah, well, you see,
my sergeant's in a group.

Apparently, it's world music
with elements of jazz, rock and medieval madrigals.

Oh, I'm fine.

Except someone's tidied the kitchen
and now I can't find my sugar bowl.

transcript:chocolate
sync:innuit

Repair and Synchronization by
Easy Subtitles Synchronizer 1.0.0.0