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Tea time, Lilian.

It's that lime whip you like.

Shake a leg, love. If you
want to make your train.

That's it.

Here's another one.

This is the night mail
crossing the border.

Bringing the cheque and the postal order.

Letters for the rich,

letters for the poor.

The shop at the corner
and the girl next door.

Letters of thanks.

Letters from banks.

Letters of joy from the girl and the boy.

Cedric.

Cedric! Supper, dear!

I don't want any supper.
I... told you I'm going out.

What's going on?

Get off, get off me!

- Hold him!
- Please.

Argh! Argh!

Let's go.

Miss Thursday, it's early for you.

Taking Mum out for the day.

She's spoiling me. We're going to
pick out a new lamp for the flat

and have some lunch. At Burridges.

That'll be nice.

Mm.

I'm having a flat-warming, Wednesday.

Eight o'clock, if you're free.

Right, I'll...

Only if you've got nothing on.
I know you're busy with work.

- Work.
- We're off, then, Fred.

Bye, Dad.

He can't hear over the taps.

He won't be a minute. Do go on through.

Is there anything you need?

For the flat?

Just bring a bottle. If you're coming.

They've gone, have they?

Oh, yes, just. They did call up.

Much in?

Morning.

OK. Erm, build?

Average.

Right, on our way.

Where is he?

- He's with Mr Wright.
- Why? Lorry hijack.

Waddington Junction. Driver
sounds to be in a pretty bad way.

Whistle up the old man once
he's done with morning prayers.

- See you out there.
- Mm-hm.

I cycle on a Sunday up into the Chilterns.

I set off about seven, usually
home by six or half-past.

Frances does bell ringing,
but is normally back by then.

And where's this, the bell ringing?

At All Souls on Southmore Road.

When she still wasn't home by 11, I
called Jilly to see if she'd seen her.

I haven't spoken to Fran
since, well... erm, last week.

What's all this?

- Missing person. Mr Porter's wife.
- Frances.

Mr Porter and his sister-in-law, Miss...?

Conway. Jilly.

- And when did you see her last?
- Yesterday morning.

No note and she hadn't
taken anything with her.

No suitcase, no nothing.

All was well with you? You
hadn't had a row or...?

No, nothing like that.

And where should she be today?

Fran works at Alice's Marmalade Cat.

It's a boutique.

Right, well, leave it with us.

The detective constable will
see you out. Try not to worry.

Nine times out of ten these
cases are resolved quite happily.

Thank you.

- Oh, do you have a photograph?
- No, I'm sorry, I didn't think.

Erm, I can drop one by
later, if that would help.

Thank you.

There's still no word on the Flynn murder?

- Not yet, sir, no.
- Tied in to Eddie Nero's?

Liam Flynn was a strong-arm man

and collector for Nero's
protection racket.

It's hard to see there
isn't some connection.

Just taken a payoff from a cafe
in the covered market, hadn't he?

Yes, sir, that's right.

Only, when his body was
found, the wallet was empty.

No chance it was just an
opportunistic robbery?

No.

Very well.

But a breakthrough before the
quarterly figures are submitted

would be to the general weal

so far as our standing
with Division is concerned.

Any news on the future of the station?

None that has yet been confided to me.

The survival of the fittest, Thursday.

If we are useful, we will endure.

If not...

Thames Valley was always
going to mean changes.

Sir.

I'll give you a copy of my notes.

Mrs Porter.

- Suppose you want to take it.
- No, missing person.

Work for a detective
constable. You can deal.

- Really?
- Mm.

All right. OK.

I'd start at All Souls, if I were you.

See if she made the bell
ringing. But as you think best.

- I won't miss anything.
- I know.

Missing person, didn't
even ask for a photograph.

Can't do it all yourself.

Hmm.

Something's come in.

- It's not looking good.
- At least he's responding.

- Excuse me, sir. Guvnor's here.
- Righto.

Touch and go according
to the ambulance boys.

- Plenty of tyre tracks.
- There would be.

They'd have been team-handed.
Half a dozen blokes at least.

Make sure we get photos and casts.

What was he carrying?

Mixed load. Whisky mostly.

Smokes, tinned goods.

- Come down from Scotland via
Birmingham. - Regular run?

Every other Sunday.

Arrived at the yard around nine. Went to the
pub whilst the goods fellas got him loaded.

Whoever it was must have
been waiting for him.

- Where were the porters?
- Gone home. His was the last load of the night.

Most of it was bound for
Richardson's depot at Bicester

and some other shops and
stores around Oxford.

Hammond & Sons. Isn't that in Abingdon?

Spoken to the governor
there. Driver's Burt Hobbs.

Been with the firm 15 years.

Oh, Christ.

I'll notify his next of kin.

Bastards.

That could have been my old man or yours.

It won't do, Morse.

It won't bloody do.

His missus is breaking her heart.

Had their ruby wedding
coming up in September.

Big do planned.

Do we have a value on the load?

Thousands' worth of whisky.

Some in tobacco and tinned goods.

Proper gang would have it coopered across

to another vehicle inside two hours.

Decent working man going
about his lawful business

cut down in as callous
a manner as you please.

We'll leave no stone unturned.

Ah, perfect timing.

Cowley will be coordinating
the investigation

with Detective Inspector Ronnie Box

and Detective Sergeant
Dawson from Robbery.

DCI Thursday will, of course, remain
in overall operational command.

Sir?

Your promotion to
Detective Chief Inspector

inevitably means a more managerial role.

I'm not a manager, sir, I'm a doer.

No disrespect, I just think
I should have been told.

I just found out myself.

It's come down from Division.

DI Box.

How'd you get on at All Souls?

Mrs Porter hasn't come to
practice for about two months.

She telephoned to say she was
unwell but hasn't been back since.

- What's this?
- Oh, a missing person.

Frances Porter.

Robbery Squad.

- How's that, then?
- Because it's our business.

A lorry hijack at Waddington Junction.

Who do you fancy for it, then?

Eddie Nero, like as not.

Well, Nero's heists don't
usually involve murder.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

Right, stand to. Action this day.

A rolling observation is to be
made of Nero and known associates.

That will be conducted
by DI Box's Robbery team.

Fancy, you're assigned.

Meantime, Strange and me are
looking at the haulage side.

All right, as you were.

Right, fetch your coat.

You might learn something.

Fetch the car around, Jim.

You don't want me on it?

Division want to make it
Robbery's show, good luck to 'em.

But they're not having my best man.

Besides, you've a missing
person, haven't you?

It's an occupational hazard
for haulage. But this...

No drivers you've let go lately?

Nobody with a grudge, anything like that?

The only thing out of the ordinary
was I had a coloured come in

looking for a job about a
month back. West Indian.

Wanted to know the ins and
outs of the cat's proverbial.

- Get a name?
- Not that I remember.

He had a scar, though.

Right side.

He just felt like a wrong 'un.

All right, Mr Hammond, if it
should come back to you...

I'll have a turn through
the picture gallery, but...

doesn't sound like any of
Eddie Nero's known associates.

If it had been him, Hobbs
would still be alive.

Nero's not afraid of violence,
but as a means to an end.

Nah.

This little bit of business goes
hand in glove with Liam Flynn.

Somebody making a move against Nero?

There's no firm in Oxford
with that kind of muscle.

Until now maybe.

Actually, it's an astrological symbol.

Leo, that's a fire sign.

- Mm-mm.
- It means I'm very passionate.

Afternoon, squire. After
something in particular?

Yes, as a matter of fact. Frances Porter.

Oh, yeah, who are you, then? Her old man?

I'm Detective Sergeant
Morse, Thames Valley. Mr...?

Bedlo.

Marty Bedlo. This is my place. Right.

When did you see her last?

Saturday, when we closed.

Did she mention any plans for the weekend?

Not to me, no.

Anoushka, Frances say anything to you

about what she was doing this weekend?

- Oh. Excuse me.
- Of course.

Alice's Marmalade Cat.

Oh, hello.

Hello.

- Miss...?
- Nolan.

Did Mrs Porter tell you what
she was doing this weekend?

Miss Nolan?

Don't mention anything to Marty,

but she borrowed a couple
of things from the shop.

Nothing expensive.

Just a hat and a pair of red shoes.

She was going to give
them back first thing.

She's got this guy she's seeing. Don.

Don what?

I don't know.

Just "Don".

Did she tell you where
she was meeting him?

Detective Sergeant Morse, Thames Valley.

I'm trying to find a woman
who was here last night.

Name's Frances Porter.

She's early twenties.

Medium height. Wearing a hat,
possibly, and some red shoes.

Well, the only person we had in like that

was with a guest at the bar,
a Mr Smith in Chalet Nine.

I'd like to see his room, please.

Yes, I don't see why not.

What a tumble.

I'm so sorry, it should have been cleaned.

I'll have to give Mrs
T a piece of my mind.

I'll need to take these glasses
and champagne bottles with me.

- Has she done something wrong?
- Well, somebody reported her missing.

Heavens.

What time did he check out, Mr Smith?

I don't know. I came on
at seven in the morning

and by then he'd already gone.

So he must have left early.

Or late.

Guests provide a car
registration presumably?

It's a beige four-door saloon,

possibly a Rover P6.

Index, Mother, Delta, Papa,
six, six, eight, Foxtrot.

- As soon as you can.
- 'Yes, sir.'

- Still here?
- Mm.

Miss Conway dropped this by the
front desk earlier this evening.

Thanks.

Who is she?

Miss Conway's sister, Frances Porter.

Oh. Any sign of her?

George mentioned.

George?

Yes, and no. Did Fancy, sorry, George,

say anything about the Hobbs murder?

Only that if I heard of any
Kilorran whisky going cheap

I should let you know.

- Morse.
- 'That index came back.

It's a fleet vehicle

registered to Gidbury's Desserts.'

Thank you. What's the address?

'Ajax House. Solihull.'

So, what's this all about?

I was wondering if you
can give me an account

of your whereabouts on Sunday.

I er...

I was at home mostly.

Played nine holes in the morning.

Afternoon, I... took the kids to the park.

It's just your car registration
was noted at a motel

just outside Birmingham on Sunday.

And a man answering your description

was seen in the company of a
woman called Frances Porter.

Yeah.

All right.

You know how it is.

It was me, but I don't know
any Frances... what was it?

- Porter.
- No, I was with Jilly Conway.

Yeah, that's her, that's Jilly.

No, that's Frances Porter.

Jilly Conway is her sister.
Trust me, I've met her.

Why would she lie about her name?

Same reason you checked into the
hotel with the name of Smith perhaps.

Because she's married.

Now, how long have you been seeing her?

Two and a half months.

And what did you do Sunday?

- We had lunch.
- Mm-hm.

Went back to the room.

I dropped her at Kings Oak Station

and she was going to catch
a train back to Oxford.

No. Sorry, didn't see her alight.

I clocked off.

Is that usual?

- To leave the station unmanned?
- Well, it wasn't, strictly speaking.

We live above the shop.
My wife's expecting, see?

Thought the baby was coming.

The ticket office at Kings Oak said there
are no direct trains through to Oxford

at that time of a Sunday, so
she'd have had to change here.

Well, that's right. Ordinarily.

Only, last Sunday, there was nothing
due after the Kings Oak train.

Down was cancelled. Blockage on the line.

Would the passengers have known that?

We don't get that many passengers
out here. Not at that time of night.

If anyone's stuck, there's a
cab number in the booking hall

and a telephone outside.

Be with you in a moment.

Anoushka.

Anoushka, customer, love.

Here, now, what's this?

Two days, Marty. Something
must have happened.

Come on. Don't take on.

We don't know that.

She'll turn up. Probably just
had a row with her old man.

Yeah. Maybe.

Listen, I've been having a go
through the weekend till receipts

and there's a hat and a pair
of shoes not accounted for.

Excuse me, I couldn't help

but overhear you talking
to the station master.

What he told you wasn't strictly accurate.

- No? - About nothing
running here Sunday night.

No, actually, there would
have been the Parly.

Some people call them ghost trains.

It's a service run by the
railway once a week unannounced

as a way of avoiding
closing the line altogether.

And one ran here Sunday night?

That's right, the 22.15 special.

Calling at Chadwick,
Hamingwell Halt, Pudham,

Whimperley, East Pitherbury
and Waddington Junction.

- You're a trainspotter?
- Railway enthusiast.

And what do you do when you're not
enthusing about railways, Mr...?

Naughton. Cedric.

I'm with the Ministry of
Education, schools inspector.

For my sins. Mother wanted
me to be a concert pianist.

But you've either got a
feeling for it or you haven't.

And those stations that
you just mentioned,

would any of those have
been good for Oxford?

East Pitherbury would get you nearest,

but there's no direct service any more.

They're all closed now.

Hello, sir, Detective
Sergeant Morse, Thames Valley.

I was wondering if you'd seen
this lady, Sunday perhaps?

Doesn't ring a bell with me. Never
get many through here on Sundays.

I suppose she could have alighted here

if she was trying to get to Oxford.

What's she done?

I passed overgrown track on the way
from Norborough. Where does that lead?

Nowhere these days.

The old Marston branch line. No
trains on that track for years now.

Right.

Thank you.

Rigor has completely passed.

It's somewhere between 24 and 48 hours.

Hands bound.

Bruises to the neck and throat

consistent with manual strangulation.

What about her feet?

And no sign of her shoes.

No. Well, she walked some way
unshod by the looks of things.

- Interfered with?
- Her underclothes have been removed.

And there would appear to
be some evidence of coitus.

She spent Sunday afternoon
in a motel with her lover.

Well, that might complicate matters.

Be able to tell you more
after the postmortem.

Shall we say one o'clock?

- Gentlemen.
- Doctor.

A place this is.

Private.

She could have screamed the place down

and nobody would have heard her.

If Scene of Crime are done,
let's get her out of here.

Go on, son.

Just needed some fresh air.

When did this close?

'64. Along with the
rest of the branch line.

There's a few houses about two miles
west but the rest is just farmland.

Must have been driven here.

Yeah. Hard to see how she would
have stumbled on it by herself.

So somebody picks her up and brings
her out to this godforsaken hole.

You'd better notify the husband.

There's the sister, too.

Mrs Porter took her name when she
met the dessert salesman Don Mercer.

Is he married?

- Figures.
- Excuse me, sir.

Thank you.

- You're always out.
- Have car, will travel.

What can you tell me?

- Not much.
- Well, give me a name at least.

Frances Porter. Went missing Sunday.

But that's not for publication.

Until we've notified the next of kin.

Any connection to the Gresham
girl? County case, '64.

Linda Gresham.

Teenager from Headington.

Body was found up near
Sleetbridge Station.

County thought it must be
somebody who worked the railway

- or knew it at least.
- Why? Is it unsolved?

I spoke to the parents.
Nice people, decent.

I can let you have the transcript
if you think there's any connection.

I wouldn't want to
speculate at this stage.

We'd be glad of any
information you might have.

Well, I'm sure you've got it all on file.

But my contact at County said...

.. they nicknamed the
killer Prince Charming.

Cos he took her shoes as a souvenir.

Is that right?

Christ, who's this soppy tart?

Constable Trewlove.

Get her out of here, Pat,
before she blows our cover

and makes a bollocks of
the whole observation.

- She knows what she is doing.
- Information Room from Dawson.

'Receiving.'

We've got some plonk in imminent danger

of queering our obs on Tobacco Street.

- Put her off, will you, and make it sharpish?
- Now what's she doing?

On your way, girlie.

Robbery. DI Box.

Don't make me flash my warrant.

'Trewlove from Information Room.'

Receiving.

'Obs in progress at
your location. Move on.'

Received.

You might want to tell
the occupants of LML 499C

that their nondy's
parked on a double yellow.

So if I'm seen not to move
them on by any likely lads,

it'll make the vehicle
concerned and its occupants

stand out like spare pricks.

'Received.'

Using the radio is a
bit of a giveaway, too.

There's a clear spot just there.

Afternoon, gentlemen.

The beach is a literal stone's throw
and facilities are first rate.

From the hotel, there's excursions
to all the sights and local markets

and of course being Acapulco there's
the casinos and the nightlife.

I've got a break there myself coming up.

Yes.

Yes, that's her.

That's my wife.

Frances Porter.

Come on, Mr Porter.

This way, sir.

Alcohol levels in her blood suggest
she'd had quite a lot to drink.

Enough to impair her judgement.

Cause of death was as first appeared,

manual strangulation.

Coitus took place within
a few hours of decease

but there are no obvious
signs of sexual assault.

Which isn't the same as to say

there may not have been some
sexual element to the crime.

Indeed not.

The act of murder itself
is often sufficient stimulus

for the sexual psychopath
to achieve release.

Otherwise, she was a
fit, healthy young woman.

Roughly eight weeks pregnant.

I know you've already
been asked this question,

but I'm afraid I must put it to you again.

Was all well between you and your wife?

She was my life.

Then I'm sorry to have to tell you

that she'd lately become
involved with someone else.

What?

- No, that's...
- She was with him Sunday evening.

I don't believe it, not Frances.

She never gave you any indication?

What about your married life?

Were you...

taking precautions?

What?

I don't see our private life's any
bearing. My wife's been murdered.

If you must know...

no.

There was no need.

We couldn't.

There's no easy way to
put this, Mr Porter.

But at the time of her decease,
your wife was carrying a child.

About two months gone
according to the postmortem.

I'm very sorry.

You got a platform ticket?

I'm not doing any harm.

Not saying you are.

But the railway's got rules.

Well, if you're going to
be like that about it...

- This other man?
- Don Mercer, sir.

Strange is bringing him in now.

Presumably we only have his word he
put her on a train at... Where is it?

Kings Oak.

We're pulling in the old county files

from the Linda Gresham case in '64.

Her body was found at Sleetbridge,

another disused station
further along the line.

- There may be other similarities.
- Such as?

Their shoes were missing in each case.

County thought the killer may
have taken them as a memento.

I'm very sorry, Miss Conway.

God, poor Frances.

Did your sister...

confide in you?

How do you mean? Confide what?

Did she ever mention any other men?

It can't hurt her now.

She never said as much.

Not in so many words. I
just had... a feeling.

It appears she'd become involved
with a man called Don Mercer.

She spent Sunday with him
at a motel up by Birmingham.

It appears she was using your name.

- My name?
- Mm.

Why would she?

Well, I can think of a few reasons.

Is there anybody else you'd
like us to notify? Your parents?

No. Dad died last year.

Mum's... in a home.

Can't really communicate any more.

Well, maybe it's a blessing.

At least I don't have to tell her.

About Frances.

Yes, hello, Cowley Police Station, please.

What do you make of Porter?

Bit of a wet week. Not to know your
wife was involved with someone else.

Wouldn't be the first.

You wonder what goes on in a marriage.

I know what goes on in yours.

Luncheon meat.

Ah, Miss Frazil.

My notes and a transcript of the interview

I conducted with Linda Gresham's
parents. Just in case.

What do you remember of them?

Father was a merchant
seaman. Mother in nursing.

She was their only. Went to
Headington Town Secondary. Prefect.

Excelled in home ec, music
and sport. A well-liked girl.

Too much by someone.

- Well, we'll talk to the parents.
- I've already tried to reach them.

Did you?

A bit premature, don't you think?

You said "tried".

They moved away. No forwarding address.

Well, I'm sure we can track
'em down. Thanks for the...

Look, I know you've got your job,

but I've got mine, too.

We both want to see whoever did it caught.

Morse.

Thank you.

Ooh, you smell nice.

What is it we're hoping to see?

Nero's men are hardly gonna be carting boxes
of Kilorran in and out of the gym? Are they?

Softly, softly, son.

Right, opening time.

Off you piss.

You all right back to Cowley from
here, are you? Find your way?

- I should think so.
- Be here for nine.

Pick up a couple of
bacon sarnies on the way.

And two teas. Mine's three sugars.

Go on.

You can go home early tonight.

- You don't want me to close up?
- No. You're all right, love.

I'll give you a lift home in the car.

Ah, no, it's all right.

I'll take the bus.

Thanks, Marty.

Sure.

Looking for anything in particular?

Officer?

No, just looking, thank you.

Wait, wait, stop!

Stop, stop!

Mr Mercer. Detective
Chief Inspector Thursday.

Yeah, about bloody time.

Two hours I've been waiting.

I've a good mind to make a
formal complaint. Two hours.

What am I supposed to tell my wife?

What did you tell her
Sunday? Work, was it?

I think I'm owed an explanation.

The woman you knew as Jilly
Conway was found murdered,

strangled to be precise.

- That enough explanation for you?
- Christ.

He's nothing to do with it, but you are.

Now, wait a minute.

We've a witness says they saw
your car parked in a slip road

by the roundabout on Sunday night
a quarter of a mile from the motel.

They said you were standing on
the verge arguing with a woman

- who answers the description of
Frances Porter. - Well, it wasn't me.

We can put you in a lineup.
Get them to pick you out.

Is that what you want?

- No. - So what were you arguing about?

It was a tiff, that's all.

The staff at Kings Oak
Station have no recollection

of Mrs Porter being dropped off
by you or of her boarding a train.

- Well, I can't help that.
- Well, you'd better hope someone can.

Right now you're the last
person to see her alive.

That means you're halfway to the dock.

Just so you know, I won't
be diving in after you.

Don't tempt me.

As bad as that?

Try sitting in a motor for half
a day with two sarky charlies

who don't want you there and aren't
too polite to let you know it.

They treat me like I'm bloody invisible.

Imagine.

I guess you get that a
bit being in uniform?

Uniform, of course. I
wondered what it was.

You might want to take a
look at Lloyd Collins.

West Indian, Jamaican possibly.

He's got a record stall
in Brennan Street Market.

Running an MOT failure of a van
registered to 43B Hartford Road.

And?

You asked me to be on the
lookout for Kilorran whisky.

He's using a bit of cardboard from
a case of the same on his stall.

His prices are written on the back.

Well, I can't put that to Robbery.

He's also not above
dealing in stolen goods.

There's an LP on his
stall from Morse's flat.

He was burgled last autumn.

A collar like that, you can
make a name for yourself.

So...

why tell me?

Because I'm all heart.

You're the detective. I'm
just a uniform, remember?

I dunno, we just hit it off.

There was a connection.

I gave her a lift back to the
station. It just started.

Nothing just starts, Mr Mercer,
unless someone wants it to.

- Did she tell you she was pregnant?
- Two months gone.

About the same time you
started seeing her, wasn't it?

I imagine that might put
you in the soup at home.

Marriage, kids, work, like as
not, all of it, up in smoke.

A man might take it upon himself
to do something about it.

- Not meaning to, of
course. But... - No.

- .. put on the spot like that.
Is that how it went? - No. This...

I'd never.

It could have been her husband.

You didn't know she had
a husband. So you claim.

So any child would be down to you.

It was only meant to be a bit of fun.

I didn't sign on for all that.

I told her if she was
keeping the damn thing

to stick it up for adoption.

Either way I wasn't gonna be around.

Gallant to the last.

So you didn't take her
to Kings Oak Station?

Wasn't even half a mile. I
told her she could walk it.

And was she wearing her shoes?

As far as I remember, why?

It's just a line of inquiry.

Right. Twist it how you like,

but there's no way I'd
have laid a finger on her.

Not for that. When I left her at the
roundabout she was safe and well.

Do you believe him?

"She was lonely, I was lonely,
one thing led to another."

I might buy it from a lovesick teenager

but not from a man who sells
lime whip to earn his crust.

Right, I'd best be off.

Joan.

Best not keep your mum waiting.

- Hello.
- Oh, hello.

Can I give you a lift anywhere?

No. Thanks all the same.
I'm meeting someone.

- Right. - But don't forget
tomorrow night. Flat warming.

Oh, yes.

'As they come into the final furlong.'

- I stopped by the Chinese.
- So I see.

Plenty if you want a bowlful. Sweet
and sour pork. Chicken chop suey.

Beef with black beans.
Spring rolls. Egg fried rice.

I'll be fine with a drink, thanks.

I had a bottle of Radford's.

In the fridge.

In the fridge? It's bitter, not lager.

How'd you make out with Mercer?

Ah.

There's nothing to hold him on.

Not yet, leastways.

Got back on Sunday around
10 o'clock, so he says.

Come to talk to the wife, then.

How are you getting on with the hijack?

There might be a connection to a fella
on the market. Lloyd Collins. Jamaican.

But it's early days. I
don't want to jump the gun.

'It's sure to delight even the
most discerning of dinner guests.'

Gidbury's lime dessert.
It's not just good...

Joan came by, then.

That lamp that we picked
up from Burridges,

there's something wrong with the fitting.

You know, where you put the bulb in.

- Want me to take a look at it?
- No, she just wants me to change it

next time I'm passing.

All right, then, is she?

Well, I just seem to
put her back up lately.

It's not you.

She's just getting back on
her feet again, that's all.

Still with that public advice thing?

Part-time.

She said something about school.

Free School, whatever that is.

Oh, and Charlie rang.

What Charlie, my Charlie?

How many Charlies do you know?

Funny.

Don't hear from him for
the best part of 10 years.

But that's family, isn't it?

I'll call him tomorrow.

What time are the Minstrels on?

Late, Carl.

That's branch meetings for you.

Everybody wants to say their piece.

Lot of stuff about the
line being closed down.

You all right, are you?

My back's playing up.

I'll just go and wash up.

You've hurt yourself.

What? That? Oh.

Bugger. No, I...

caught some old Tommy Brock. Had
to finish him off with the jack.

Oh, Carl.

I couldn't leave him like that,
love. Would have been cruel.

Rexy!

Rex! Come on!

Come on, boy.

What's your business with my van?

Lloyd?

Who wants to know?

I heard you might be the man to talk to.

About what, now?

You know, where a man can get
his hands on some decent Scotch.

And where'd you hear that?

Just... up the market.

Rarse, man. Me got nothing for you.

Come on, help a fella out.

I've... I've got a party.

At college. And I've got
to get the bar stocked.

At college, you say?

Yeah. Yeah, that's right.

Leave me your number.

Me see what me can do.

Gentlemen.

Doctor.

I'm afraid we don't
have a name for her yet.

It's Anoushka Nolan.

So which station is it we're by here?

Sleetbridge. Same as where
Linda Gresham was found.

Oh, yes. Thought it felt familiar.

- Any similarities?
- To this?

Well, by dint of location,

and her hands were tied.

It was kept out of the papers,

but Linda Gresham's strangulation
involved a ligature.

Her own bra.

This was manual. Hands bound, mind.

Same type of sash cord.

Same type of knot. Just
like Frances Porter.

- But he hasn't taken her shoes. - No.

It's got to be more than some sex killer

targeting women at random, hasn't it?

Maybe that's what we're meant to think.

Maybe this whole railway connection
is... just window dressing.

Copycat, you mean?

Mm, based on the newspaper
accounts of Linda Gresham.

But whoever is behind it got it wrong.

He didn't know Linda Gresham had
been strangled with her own bra.

Or that her shoes had been taken.

What about Frances Porter's
shoes? They'd been taken.

Yes, but that was before,
not after her murder.

It looked like she'd
been walking for miles.

The soles of her feet were
all scratched and filthy.

So what connects Frances
Porter to Anoushka Nolan?

Mr Bedlo?

Is it about Frances?

In a manner of speaking.

No Miss Nolan today?

You're telling me. I
had to open up myself.

She was in a pretty bad way over Frances.

I let her go home early last night.

If you want to talk to her,
maybe try again this afternoon.

What were your movements last night,
Mr Bedlo, after you closed up?

Last night? I was at home.

Anyone vouch for you?

- Do they need to?
- You drive a car, Mr Bedlo?

Yeah, I have a car.

Look, what's this about?

Anoushka Nolan was found just after
seven this morning by a dog walker.

How do you mean "found"?

Dead, Mr Bedlo. Strangled.

Same as Frances Porter.

College? You're dreaming, son.

Lorry load of Scotch and fags?

That's white man's mischief.

They haven't got it up here
for that kind of caper.

Too much like hard work.

Where's this come from?

Where were you in 1964, Mr Bedlo?

All over.

I was flogging mini-skirts out
of the back of a van. Mary Quant.

Markets. Here.

Midlands mainly.

Headington?

Yeah.

I said, all over.

Did you ever know a girl
called Linda Gresham?

Her.

She's a schoolkid.

Popular with teenagers I'd have thought.

Mini-skirts.

So?

Who is she?

She was murdered in 1964. Her body
was left out by Sleetbridge Station,

- the same place as Anoushka Nolan.
- Wait. Wait, wait, wait.

What is this?

When it comes to crumpet, I'm not a
guy that has to try. Know what I mean?

It's been reported to
us that you tried it on

with both Frances Porter
and Anoushka Nolan.

I don't care what anyone says.

I never laid a finger on either of them.

Or this... Linda girl.

Never.

Not once.

A man would have to be mad, wouldn't he,

murdering two members of his own staff?

- It doesn't add up.
- Well, it might.

It starts with Frances Porter.
She's the original crime.

Then if Anoushka Nolan found
something out about that,

stumbled on some piece of evidence which'd
give the game away, we have a motive.

So maybe the child isn't Don
Mercer's. Maybe it's Marty Bedlo's.

Mrs Porter was sleeping with
two men now besides her husband?

It's just speculation, sir.

I don't know what the world's
come to. Truly I don't.

A man would come by greater moral
instruction in a monkey house.

Results on the vehicle tracks from
the Waddington Junction hijack.

Said you were to be on
the lookout for a van

with one odd tyre on the rear offside.

Oh.

Cheers, Shirl.

There you are.

- Sir?
- Don't bloody "sir" me.

- I want a word with you, girlie.
- What's this?

As you were, tubby.
This is the one I want.

Who do you think you are?

Some sort of detective?

Throwing out your little theories.

I'll tell you what you are.

A woodentop.

A plonk.

A person of limited or no knowledge.

I know enough not to
park on double yellows.

Keep your tits out of my operation.

Got it?

There. You can run along
now and have a little cry.

- I'm not the crying sort.
- Oh, I know your sort.

Good for two things.

One of 'em typing.

I believe you're unfit for
duty through drink, sir.

- Go home and sleep it off.
- You mouthy little...

Oi!

- Try that again.
- What's the meaning of this?

Just giving the WPC a few
words of advice, sir.

It was a bit more than that.

I may have expressed myself harshly.

So be it.

We're a bit rough around the
edges, but that's Robbery.

I don't care who you are.
Robbery? I've shit 'em.

All right, Thursday.

A reprimand is one thing.
Humiliating junior ranks

in front of senior
officers is quite another.

- I was putting her straight.
- Indeed, and let me put you straight.

I will be making express
requests to Division

that the Hobbs case be taken
back solely into Cowley's hands

and you will not oppose it.

- Am I understood?
- She was asking for it.

Don't ever let me hear you talk to
one of my officers like that again.

Hm.

Well, we all know you've got a
bit of a soft spot for her, sir.

- I beg your pardon?
- Proper little Chief Super's pet.

Maybe that spot is not so soft, eh?

One phone call from me to Division,

you'll find yourself
facing a disciplinary board.

Extension 388.

Ask for the Chief Constable.

It's a new world out there.

By the book's all well and good.

But it's fire with fire that gets results.

Division knows it even if you don't.

Get out!

Go on, before I forget myself!

Get back...

to whatever disgusting
sewer you crawled out from!

And don't ever dare to show
your face in my station again.

Or I promise you, you'll
have cause to regret it.

Excuse me.

You made it.

I wasn't sure if you liked red or
white, so I brought one of each.

Oh, great.

What can I get you?

Just a beer, please.

There you go.

Here, come. You've got to see this.

It's the view I fell in love with.

Yes.

You can't see from there.

Come closer.

This is as close as I get.

You come here.

I'm not gonna jump.

There's someone I want you to meet.

Her name's Claudine.

She's a photographer.
Well, a photo journalist.

Something interesting anyway.

You'll like her.

She's pretty.

- I'm sure.
- And French.

Not matchmaking?

You need looking after.

I'm really not on the market right now.

Thank you, though.

Actually, I should probably go.

You just got here.

Yeah, work.

I just wanted to wish you well.

Hope it's a happy place for you.

Fresh start.

- Stupid cow.
- ~

Do you have a light?

Thank you.

Good night?

Hello.

It's George. The lorry hijack.

That market trader came through.

He's gonna let me have four cases
of Kilorran whisky for 20 nicker.

- Where are you picking it up?
- Lockup on Pike Street.

- '10 minutes.'
- OK.

Oi!

Lloyd, it's George.

Ambulance! Ambulance!

Ambulance!

Easy. Lloyd, Lloyd, Lloyd.
Ambulance is on its way.

Lloyd, Lloyd, Lloyd, stay with me.

Who did this? Who did this?

Cromwell Ames.

Somebody probably saw him talking
to you. Took him for a nark.

Anything on this Cromwell Ames?

Nothing on file according
to the Information Room.

But the deceased has a fair
bit of form. Receiving mostly.

- Doctor.
- Multiple wounds.

A ferocious attack.

Won't know which was the killer
blow until I've opened him up.

Anything out of the ordinary?

Beside the headless cockerel?

Well, it wasn't a knife,
I can tell you that.

The only thing I've
seen comparable of late

is Liam Flynn.

Shall we say two o'clock?

There's no Kilorran on board. But
the rear offside tyre is a mismatch.

Which puts it at the
Waddington Junction hijack.

What do you think the bird's about?

I know what it looks like,
but I hope I'm wrong.

The black cockerel is a
pretty potent voodoo symbol.

That rules out Eddie Nero.

Didn't we have a consignment of toasters take
a walk off Burridges' loading bay last month?

It's like Ali Baba's cave.

Kilorran.

Someone's got a sweet tooth.

There was a case of that on Hobbs'
manifest. Bound for Richardson's.

They can't be Frances
Porter's shoes? Can they?

Well, I think they could be, sir.

Mercer left her at the
roundabout, didn't he?

Maybe she thumbed a lift to
Kings Oak Station from Hobbs.

Why would she leave her shoes behind?

Clearly you've never worn heels.

They were new, weren't they?
Maybe they were rubbing.

So, half cut, upset
from her row with Mercer,

she gets out of Hobbs'
lorry and he's on his way

before she realises
she's left them behind.

So, what, after they
knocked the lorry off,

Lloyd does a sweep of
the cab for any bunce?

Maybe he had them in mind
for his market stall?

Any possibility the hijack
gang could have killed her?

These are professionals, sir.
A detour to mess her about

and leave her dead at
Gibbet's End, I can't see it.

No, well, keep me apprised
of any developments. Carry on.

Right, Fancy and Trewlove, get the
contents of the lockup booked in.

Me and Strange will take the
shebeen on Kingston Street.

- Can you keep the railway
ticking over? - Sir.

Did you get that address for me?

- Here you go.
- Thanks.

Afternoon.

Ferdy.

Mr Thursday. What can I get you gentlemen?

Couple of Scotches.
Kilorran if you got it.

We don't stock it. We have Highland,
Glenross and The Old Pretender.

Two Highlands, straight, no chaser.

Anybody been by offering any
cases of Kilorran on the cheap?

Them know better. This
is a straight joint.

We don't get no trouble
around here. You know that.

I know you're still paying
protection to Eddie Nero's mob

to make sure things stay that way.

That is management.

I'm just a barman.

If someone does come round,
do be sure to let us know.

Sure.

- So, what's new, Ferdy?
- Nothing new.

This is Oxford.

Nobody fresh on the scene
from out of town maybe?

Fella with a scar?

No, nobody like that.

We heard the name Cromwell Ames.

- Mean anything to you?
- Cromwell Ames?

No.

You want another?

No.

Thanks.

Keep the change.

It's Ferdy.

Him there?

And nobody notified you?

I can't say I'm surprised, though.

Mrs Conway wasn't on the best of
terms with the older daughter.

Nor the husband.

When did she move in?

Last year.

Just after her husband died.

She had a number of strokes.

- And this is a private home?
- That's right.

So who pays for it?

Miss Conway has power of attorney

and has control of the family finances.

I believe it's quite a
considerable fortune.

Here we are.

Nice young man to see you, Lilian.

Hello, Mrs Conway.

Lilian.

I wouldn't get your hopes up.

- You be all right for five minutes?
- Oh, yes. Yes.

Mrs Conway, my name's Morse.

I'm a police officer.

Mrs Conway, I'm afraid I've got
some very bad news for you.

It's um...

It's about your daughter Frances.

Mrs Conway, do you remember Frances?

Mrs Conway, do you remember Frances?

Jilly.

Um...

no, Mrs Conway, that's Frances.

She's married to Noel.

Jilly.

I'm afraid...

It doesn't matter.

Any luck?

- No.
- I did say.

Yes, you did.

- Well, thank you anyway, Miss... - Mrs.

Gresham.

She was a good girl, Linda.

She'd do anything for anybody.

Bright, too.

Everybody said so.

- Good at sport.
- And music, too, I believe.

Oh, yes.

Yeah, she had all her
certificates. Grade four, she was.

Mrs Naughton said she was a natural.

Her piano teacher.

She took it very bad.

You wouldn't think, would you?
A stranger taking on like that.

And how long have you been down here?

Two years, more or less.

We thought it would be
better for my husband.

He hasn't worked since.
He just pines for her.

He's there and not there.

A bit like these.

I lost one child

and got another.

I'm sorry you've had a wasted trip.

Oh, no, no. Maybe it's for the best.

At least Mrs Conway has
been spared what you haven't.

Still, it's a pretty sad pass

when you can't recognise
your own daughter.

Would you excuse me?

Yes, sir. No, I think
it's about the money.

Oh, you made me jump.

Yes?

What do you want?

I'm sorry.

I've been to see your mother.

Oh, yes?

I understand she wasn't
on the best of terms

with your sister and Mr Porter?

No. Well...

Mum always liked to play favourites.

See, what I can't understand's this.

Why would a mother be surrounded

by photographs of a
daughter she couldn't stand?

See, I think Frances
Porter is very much alive.

And whose body was found?

- Jilly Conway's.
- Falsely identified by you at the mortuary

- as your wife.
- To what end?

Financial gain.

After your mother-in-law went into a
home, Jilly, the real Jilly Conway,

was granted power of attorney.

And, more importantly, control
over the family finances.

You wanted that money and drew
up an elaborate plan to get it.

Rubbish.

How's the travel business
doing? All right, is it?

Because, rest assured, Mr Porter,

we'll be taking a very close
look at your accounts.

It's audacious, I grant
you that. Murder Jilly.

Say it was Frances who died.

And have your wife assume the
identity of your dead sister-in-law.

Here we are.

Tell me everything.

Never suspecting her own flesh
and blood intended ill toward her,

Jilly confided and shared things only
one sister might share with another.

How and where she'd met a
nice man called Don Mercer,

how their affair had begun.

Right down to where she'd be
on the Sunday she disappeared.

All the while unaware
that every intimate detail

and disclosure was being considered

as to how best it could be used
against her by you and your husband.

You were just looking for
the right opportunity

and Sunday night presented you with that.

A blockage on the line. A
change to the timetable.

And the arrival of the once-a-week train

delivered your sister to her death.

Lost miles from home,

who should Jilly call to
help her get back to Oxford

but her sister?

I imagine you took her to some
private out-of-the-way spot

close to Gibbet's End.

And Gibbet's End was chosen
so we might assume her death

was in some way connected
to the Linda Gresham case.

That her killer had taken
up his old ways again.

Perhaps you'd met Linda Gresham's
mother at the care home?

That's what first put
the idea into your head.

This is crazy.

As if I'd harm my own sister.

You acquainted yourselves with
the case from the newspapers,

so you wouldn't know that Linda
Gresham was strangled with a ligature.

And you made the same mistake twice.
Second time with Anoushka Nolan.

- Fran, can you hang these?
- Of course.

Listen, think I could borrow these
shoes and hat for the weekend?

Sure.

That is great.

It's beautiful, isn't it?

Oh, wow, look at that flower. Yeah.

And they match.

I think she must have seen a
woman she thought to be dead.

Frances.

Just go through.

This is the maddest story I've ever heard.

You've no proof of it.

Who dropped the torch at Gibbet's End?

You or Noel?

There are no fingerprints, of course.

I imagine you both wore gloves on
the night in question, but er...

did you wear gloves when
you put the batteries in?

Did you really think
there wouldn't be a photo

of Jilly in the papers sooner or later

and that Marty Bedlo wouldn't see
it and realise she wasn't you?

Maybe you had plans for Marty, too.

Actually,

we planned to be a long way away by then.

Ah.

Somewhere without an
extradition treaty? Well,

your husband's certainly well placed
to make the travel arrangements.

She was always the favourite.

Right from when we were small.
You know, the youngest, I suppose.

It was only a few years between us

but when she came along, that was it.

It was like Mum had no time for me.

It was all, "The baby
this, the baby that."

There was nothing too good for her.

It was ballet lessons,

ice skating, horse riding.

- You were jealous.
- Of the love.

Of the attention.

Up until then,

it had just been me

and my mum.

It was like someone had...

.. just turned off the sun.

She should have put me
in charge of the money.

- I was the eldest.
- She was your sister.

Oh, some sister!

She knew Noel's business
wasn't doing well.

She could have given us an advance against the
inheritance to get us out of a hole, but no,

"This is Mum's money. I'm
just looking after it for her."

Looking after herself more like.
New car, clothes. Foreign holidays.

And she didn't even book those through us.

I just thought, why
should she have it all?

Even now,

what...

about...

me?

Heather! Heather!

Heather!

So Frances Porter has
been passing herself off

as her own sister for four days?

- Yes, sir.
- Morse.

- Bold as brass. - So it's got
nothing to do with Linda Gresham?

No, sir. They just crept into
her killer's shadow for cover.

To kill her sister for
money, though, it's...

People have done far worse
for much less, Constable.

What is it?

She got him.

Morse!

This is the night mail...

What is it about men and trains?

How's his mother taking it?

You really think he killed Linda Gresham?

Certainly looks that way.

You'd better take her back to the station.

We'll be along to take a
statement from her shortly.

Sir.

What do you think it's worth?

A good few quid, I should think.

Turn it off.

Still doesn't get us any
closer to Cromwell Ames.

If he is making a move
on Eddie Nero's territory,

then it'll be all-out gang warfare.

Who gets caught in the crossfire?
That's what keeps me up at night.

Just through. Mrs Paterson.

She had a girl. Wants
to know what the name

- of the nice young officer who
first arrived was. - Morse.

Morse?

- For a girl?
- Tell her it's George.

You sure? Right, sir.

Georgina, it is.

That's something decent out of all this.

Gotta look for the silver lining.

Let me know when you find it.

I'd hate to miss that.

'Following the shooting
at the Los Angeles hotel

in the early hours of yesterday morning,

Senator Robert Kennedy died shortly
before 9.45 Greenwich Mean Time.

The younger brother of John F Kennedy...'

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