All language subtitles for Endeavour.S08E01.Striker.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DDP2.0.H.264-TEPES

'You join us here
at The Barracks

'for this fifth-round FA Cup
tie between minnows Cowley Town

'and local rivals
Oxford Wanderers.

'The build-up around Cowley's home
ground is already quite something,

'not at all the sort of
crowd they're used to seeing

'at this end of the league.'

'Won't Get Fooled
Again' by The Who

Hello, Alf. Who's your pal?

To the new constitution

'One minute of
injury time remaining

'and Oxford Wanderers are
trailing the minnows Cowley Town

'by a goal to nil in this
fifth-round cup tie.'

'A free kick just outside
the penalty area.'

That's all

'Swift is lining up
to take the kick.'

To the new constitution

'Swift has snatched
if not victory

'from the jaws of defeat, then
at least something that'll...'

And pray

This is a message from
the Provisional IRA.

If Jack Swift plays in the game
on Wednesday against Cowley,

he'll be shot.

'The nationwide postal
strike enters its fourth week

'with no sign of
movement on either side.

'D-Day, and we turn
our old pennies...'

Traffic, I expect.

I'm sure he'll be here soon.

To change the money round

You have to understand, Master,
that funding a department

with money from a company
with blood on its hands is...

..with blood on its hands
can no longer be tolerated.

Be wary of judging the past
by modern morals, Mr Sarson,

lest your own enlightened virtues
one day fall from fashion.

It's not about the past, Master.

Oh! Good morning, Miss
Widdowson. Morning, Miss Newell.

You're in early.

But it's all right,
I've got the kettle on.

Morse.

What's the, er...?

One dead and one injured.

The deceased is a Miss
Margaret Widdowson.

22, from Headington.

Junior secretary in
the Master's office.

She wouldn't have known anything
about it. Small mercies.

And the, er, survivor?

A Miss Newell.
Also secretarial.

And where was the bomb?

In the post, it looks like.

A parcel, I should imagine,
by the size of the blast.

Forensics will identify
the package, hopefully.

What's left of it.

But I expect it will be
a very lengthy process.

Cause of death should speak
for itself, in this instance,

But shall we say two o'clock?

Thanks, Doctor.

Oh, hello, Sergeant.

Very nice to have
you back. Doctor.

So, what do we think?

Angry Brigade?

Word out of Barnet is they
charged a bloke Saturday

with bombing the Employment
Minister's place.

The Brigade would suggest that

more than one person's
involved, wouldn't you think?

Didn't they put something
in one of their communiques?

"We attack properties,
not people."

Wouldn't be their style,
I shouldn't have thought.

Well, whoever sent it
and whatever it came in,

we can assume it was
meant for the Master.

You've had no personal

or professional disagreements
with colleagues?

I had nothing to warrant
such a terrible, wicked...

That poor, poor girl.

I noticed some placards concerning
the Buchanan affair in the quad.

Feelings are still
running high, I take it.

Just undergraduate misbehaviour.

What's this? Tobias
Buchanan, sir.

He made a fortune in arms
during the American Civil War

and later invested a
science chair here.

Some say as a way
to expiate his sins.

So, the issue is? The
company that bears his name

also manufactures napalm and a
defoliant called Agent Orange,

both of which have been used,
to lethal effect, in Vietnam.

The more militantly minded
might see it as just cause.

A bomb, though! What are you
thinking, that it's Angry Brigade?

We're keeping an open mind.

But to be on the safe
side, we'd like to put

a uniformed constable on
the gate as a deterrent.

Well, if you think so.

Just for the time being.

Until we get to the
bottom of things.

Post delivered during
a postal strike.

It's unlikely, don't you think?

A lot of private firms
have taken up the slack.

Well, I'll get on
to anyone local,

see if they've made
deliveries today.

Strange can do that.
I'm quite capable.

I'm not saying you're not.

It's just there's something else
Mr Bright wants you to look at.

Do you know much about football?

Yes, sir.

Understood.

Just a moment, sir.

Mr Bright said to let you know
he's running late at Division.

But, er... Miss Frazil's here.

He, er, put her in your office.

Miss Frazil. Chief
Inspector. Morse.

Bad moment?

It never rains.

Well, anything I can do
to help the boys in blue.

But I've got to tell you,
sitting on a scoop this big

goes against every instinct.

As you can see, we've kept
it out of the paper for now.

But if the threat is on the level,
and God forbid they make good on it,

then it's gonna be all over the
front page, let alone the back.

What's this? There was
an anonymous phone call

to the Oxford Mail on
Saturday evening, was it?

Man's voice. Irish.

Said, "This is a message
from the Provisional IRA.

"If Jack Swift plays in the game
on Wednesday against Cowley,

"he'll be shot."

Old or young, from the voice?

Somewhere between 18 and 80.

Ulster accent, like Paisley.

Have you found out
where the call was made?

It was a public phone in the
foyer of the Plaza Hotel.

Well, that could just be a
crank, then, couldn't it?

Someone who doesn't want
Swift playing against, er...

Cowley Town, cup tie replay.

The Plaza Hotel's a stone's
throw from Cowley's ground.

It could've been someone on
the way back from the match.

There was an issue when he first
joined the club, wasn't there?

Hate mail, death threats.

Well, we certainly got letters
saying people like Swift

shouldn't be playing
for an English club.

People like Swift? Why,
don't Irish footballers...

play for English sides? Sorry, I
don't know much about the game.

There are many Northern Irish
players in the English league.

But as one correspondent put it,

"None with the touch
of the tar brush".

Ah...

It's a race issue, then.

When he first started, maybe.

But Swift's long since
proved himself to the fans.

I mean, he won them promotion
from the Second Division

more or less single-handed.
Could there be any connection

with the threat against Swift
and this bomb at Lonsdale?

The Irish, on this
side of the water?

I don't think they'd make a play
as bold as that, Miss Frazil.

Well, what's threatening the
life of a leading footballer?

Seems pretty bold to
me, Chief Inspector.

Well, that's assuming that
the threat is genuine.

Aren't you?

Well, I think that's rather
the conundrum, don't you?

Jack Swift is to have
round-the-clock local protection

until the match is
over. Division's order.

Football's hardly my
area of expertise, sir.

I've very little
interest in the game.

Which is exactly why
you've been chosen.

The last thing we need is
someone with stars in their eyes

who's going to be overwhelmed
by the whole soccer razzamatazz.

Better by far to
have someone in place

who's going to keep
their eye on the ball.

As it were.

You're all right, are you?

Well, it's a case of
having to be, isn't it?

I just think my time will
be better spent on the bomb,

rather than playing wet nurse
to some overpaid football star.

"Our is not to reason why."
And look how that turned out.

If it's a real threat...

But that's the point,
isn't it? "If".

I just don't want to be
on a dead-end assignment

when I could be helping you find

which lunatic blew
up my old college.

But Division knows best.

Right, simple passing
drill, boys. Give and go.

Don't let Jack do all
the work, come on!

Hey, work harder than that.

Last one.

'Ah, come on.'

We're not taking any
notice of that, are we?

It's just some wee buck eejit

trying to put me
off my game, is all.

Well, I'm sure there's
nothing to it, Mr Swift.

But I am under strict instructions
to make sure that it stays that way.

How's that? Kind of like
a bodyguard, do you mean?

Well, something like
that. Either myself

or one of my colleagues will
be with you at all times.

Do I have a say? No.

You don't. It's come down
from Mr Fenner himself.

He's not taking a gamble with
his star striker, is he, Jack?

Well, I'm just about to
see him. What's that?

I've a fitting for some clobber
for this fashion thing tonight.

I'll talk to him, Dan. I'm
not afraid of these people.

Nobody's thinking that.

Not for a minute. We just...

want to be sensible,
that's all. Mm.

Is there no way that Mr Swift
can just miss the match?

It's a cup tie.

Do you know what that means
for the club financially?

Besides, if I don't play this
game, what about the next?

When does it stop?

Your son's posted
there, isn't he?

Northern Ireland?
Yes, sir. Yes, he is.

Getting on all right?

Hard to tell with, Sam, sir.

He writes home to his mother
once a week. But, er...

with the postal strike.

And Morse... how's
he these days?

Morse is Morse, sir.

You know more than anyone what
last year took out of a soul.

He walks a step slower maybe.

Lost some of his
bounce, you mean?

A bit less full of himself.
A bit less cocksure.

That's not always a bad thing.

A bit of uncertainty, a
bit of doubt makes a man

more careful in his
work. More thorough.

Perhaps time does that to
all of us, sooner or later.

There are some blows from
which one never quite recovers.

Not fully, at least.

One thing's for sure.

He's no more the kid that got off
the coach from Carshall New Town.

So, you've not noticed
anything out of the ordinary?

Nobody following you.
Outside of the press?

No.

I mean, nothing like that.

Like what, then?
Look, it's daft.

Last week, Thursday
or Friday maybe,

I was in a taxi
coming through town,

and I thought I
saw someone I knew.

From home. Who?

A fella I used to play football
with when we were kids.

George Sellars.

He married our neighbour's girl.

Only, I was caught in
the one-way, right,

and I had the driver go around,
but by the time we'd got back,

there was no sign.

But do you think it was him?

Aye, he had the look
of George, sure.

But I can't think he'd
be in town and not call.

It's probably my mistake.

But you said anything
out of the ordinary.

I just had a chat with
the Forensics boys.

They think the bomb was
inside a plain cardboard box

wrapped in brown paper
and string on a timer.

No distinguishing features.

Well, that narrows
it down a bit.

I've spoken to all the major private
services delivering mail in Oxford.

From Friday until today

none of them had any parcels
like that for the college.

The bomber must have dropped
it off himself, then.

Anything from intelligence on
the usual two-bob radicals?

This is Oxford.

Roll a ball down Carfax, you'll
hit half-a-dozen agitators.

Ban the bomb. Make
love, not war.

AmnOx. Vegetarians.

They might make a noise,

but I can't see any of
that lot blowing people up.

Back to the Angry Brigade, then?
Else it's something personal.

Come on, get your coat.

Cecily, get Solly to cut a new
pattern for a different model.

I just found out Suki's
in the pudding club.

Marta, darling, you make sure you
put a bit more into it tonight.

This isn't any old schmutter,

this is the Robert Fenner
Spring Collection. That's it!

Jackie!

Take five, girls. Take five.

Jackie, darling, all right?

Who's your friend? Police.

Oh. Er, Robert Fenner.
Fenner Fashions.

Couturier to the stars and
them that'd like to be.

I also happen to be Chairman
of Oxford Wanderers.

So I understand.

Mr Swift tells me he is to attend
some, er... fashion show tonight.

Tonight's the launch
of Fenner Fashions.

Very important Jackie's here.

More important he doesn't
get killed, don't you think?

Now, I'll need a list of
all that are attending.

Nobody's going to do anything
to him in public, are they?

My good lady wife.

Nothing's going to happen
to him with you here, is it?

Tell you what, Cecily,

why don't you take Jackie to
try his outfit for tonight on?

Any alterations, Solly can
take care of. Of course.

If you'd like to come
this way, Jackie.

Let's take a look at that
famous inside leg, shall we?

Aye, but I can't be
too long about it.

Ray wants me back at the
ground for a photoshoot.

I had a doctor's
appointment at30 on Friday,

so I came in a little earlier
this morning to make up the time.

Maggie was already in.
She had the kettle on.

Morning, Miss Newell.
You're in early.

I noticed she had a parcel
wrapped in brown paper.

Did you see who it
was addressed to?

I noticed it was for the Master.

Only, they'd written Stanfield,

rather than Stamfield.

'Stanfield? With an N?'

'Yes. GW Stanfield.'

I turned away to do something
and there was a bright light.

That's all I remember.

Was everything well between you?

Oh, yes.

We got on like a house on fire.

How about Professor Stamfield,
with his colleagues and so forth?

No fall-outs there or...?

He had words with Maggie
about her timekeeping.

Sometimes she'd only put
her nose around the door

at a quarter or 20 past nine.

It seems silly now...

..the things we fret over.

Something like
this happens and...

..you wonder why you worry.

Miss Widdowson has a sister,
a Mrs Frida O'Rourke.

I wonder if she knows something.

See if you can run her
down, find out what's what.

And meet me back
at the ranch. Sir.

Despite playing
for opposing teams,

both Jack Swift and
John-Paul Martinelli

are delighted to be associated
with the launch of...

the Striker from
Grenville Cycles.

So, any questions?

Yes, I've a question
for Mr Martinelli.

How does it feel to be described
as "the next Jack Swift"?

Oh, there's only one Jack Swift.

He's been my hero
since I was at school.

And now you're up
against him on Wednesday.

Any predictions?

Wanderers will have the home
advantage here at The Field.

But Cowley's ready to
give it all we've got.

You know, that's the
magic of a cup tie.

Anything can happen.

All right, folks.

The boys have got to get
back to their training, so...

Well, thank you very much.

Come on, then, lads.

You drew the short
straw, then. Urgh...

So, what's the plan with Swift?

Well, keep him alive, I suppose.
If the threat's genuine.

Are you all right?
You look a bit peaky.

Oh, I'm fine. Sure?

Yeah.

Do you know him, Swift?

Yeah, I've interviewed him once
or twice. He seems nice enough.

Which isn't something you can
say for Ray Jubba, their agent.

Their agent?

Yeah, Swift and
John-Paul Martinelli.

Ray Jubba manages them both.

But they play for different
sides. Not for much longer.

Word is, Martinelli's looking
to transfer from Cowley,

and Wanderers are interested.

"The next Jack Swift"?

But the Wanderers have
already got a Jack Swift.

Why do they need another?

"And slowly answered
Arthur from the barge,

"'The old order changeth,
yielding place to new.'"

Every god has his day, Morse.

I'd better go.

Don't you think you
should tell him?

I thought he might take
it better coming from you.

You're the manager,
Dan. I'm just his agent.

It's what they pay you for.

Just let him get the game
tomorrow night out of the way.

And you're keeping in touch
with your family back home now.

Cos... that's important
when you're over here.

Oh, sure.

Duke Ward said to send
his best, by the way.

When did you see
Duke? I didn't.

I spoke to him.

You know, on the phone.

OK.

Well...

if you've any problems,
you just let me know.

All right? Sure thing.

I'll see you tonight.

I mean, tomorrow at the game.

Here, you couldn't get me that
Cheryl's number, could you?

Fancy her, do you?

I can introduce you.

But some things a man's
got to do himself, 'ey?

It's OK. This is Jim.
He's a policeman.

Aye-aye, Joanie.

Back on the horse, then?

Dad said you had a
time of it. Oh, did he?

What's the story here?

Just something I got involved
with through Welfare.

I'm looking for Frida O'Rourke.

Uniform thought she
might've come here.

Is she one of yours?
What's it about?

A family matter.

Her sister's been killed.

Maggie? You know her?

Yeah, I know her.

She visited Frida
a couple of times.

What happened, an
accident, or...?

Not exactly.

Oi! Hope you're
looking after my boy.

He means a lot to me. I'd
hate to see anything happen.

You manage them both, I understand.
Their commercial interests,

endorsements, personal
appearances, that sort of thing.

Is it lucrative?
Put it this way...

..when Jack lent his name to
a range of signature boots,

they sold more than half a
million in the first season alone.

59 and 11 a pair for the boys.

149 shillings for men's.

Decent screw in any
money, old or new.

Joan said she'd
been by to see you.

Last week.

She just came by to drop some
bits off for the kiddies.

When I left their dad,
I had to go quick,

and their toys got left behind.

How was she?

Did she seem all right? Nothing
bothering her? No troubles?

I was going to be maid
of honour and she...

I'm sorry. It's OK.
You're all right.

Poor Maggie!

I don't suppose
you can get me out

of this thing tonight
with Fenner, can you?

Sorry, Jackie, no can do.

It's, you know, all set up and
we've got the papers there.

Sure, Ray. Sure.

Right, can you, er, just look after
him? I've got to make a phone call.

He's all right, really.

He's got my best interests
at heart. Fashion shows?

Photoshoots? Endorsements?

It's a wonder you get time
to play any football at all.

Who's that?

No idea.

He's not ground staff.

Press maybe?

If her old man shows
up, you know where I am.

And if anything ever comes to
her her sister might've said.

Of course.

Well, then.

Mind how you go.

Oh, here...

I've got a do coming up.

A ladies' do, in the spring.

A charity evening.
Dinner dance.

I was wondering...

..I don't suppose it'd
be up your street?

Somebody let you down? No.
No, no, no, nothing like that.

You're the first
person I've asked.

I'll believe you. No, honest.

We're expected to bring someone.

"James Strange and guest."

What about your girlfriend?

I'm between at the minute.

You'd be doing me a favour.

And it's all for a good cause.

What time? Seven for
drinks and canopies.

Sit down's at eight. Pick you
up and drop you back, of course.

Nice, private hire
car. Home by midnight.

Before I turn into a pumpkin?

All right, go on, then.

Really?

Oh, right.

I'll phone you through with the
date. It's not until May, but...

Ta.

'Everyone thought the mini-skirt

'really couldn't go any higher.

'But maybe it could.

'Because it seems the thigh's
the limit for lovely Louise,

'as she models a pair of the hottest
of hot pants in striped satin.

'These are guaranteed to
turn the most everyday behind

'into a delectable derriere.

Would you keep an eye
on him for two minutes

while I go see
where my support is?

Yeah, on him.

I've got everything in place.

Don't worry. I'll get him
at the end of the show.

Well, I've a list of
guests from the hotel,

but no names stick out as Irish.

'Did they say Swift's name?'

No, "I'll get him at
the end of the show."

Who else could they
be talking about?

'They don't even know if
he's gonna play in the match.

'Sure you haven't got
your wires crossed?'

Saturday's warning call came
from the Plaza Hotel, didn't it?

So, they're here.
I know they are.

'All right, stand to.'

Thank you! Thank you!

Thank you for attending Fenner
Fashion's Spring Collection,

sponsored by Tressell's
Building Contractors.

Now, if I could just ask our
style ambassador, Jack Swift,

Mr Goldenboots himself,

up on to the stage
for a few photos.

Come on, Jackie, don't be shy.

Here we go.

That's it, ladies.
Come on, get a slice.

That's right.
Straight down there.

There we go.

That's right.

Now!

Thank you.

Hello. How are you?

Jack, sorry to interrupt
such a great show,

but we have another
show for you as well.

Because tonight, Jack
Swift, Oxford Wanderers

and Northern Ireland
international football striker,

this is your life!

So, Jack, this is your life.

Eamonn Andrews! Well, I don't
really watch television.

But you must have
heard of him! Well...

No harm done. Better
safe than sorry.

Though, I expect you'll
get it from uniform

when you get back to the nick.

Aye-aye.

What's the latest on
the bombing at Lonsdale?

Outside of the Angry Brigade,
we're coming up short

on whether anybody has much
against Stamfield or the college.

Well, what about the
victim? Blameless.

She has a sister whose husband
knocks her about a bit.

But other than that,
the family seems decent.

Her fiance's
broken-hearted over it.

'..has a special
message for you now.'

Hello, Jack. Sarah.

I remember when you were
practising your football

and you looked up and saw me
and gave me that cheeky grin.

But even with all the good luck
you've had, you're still the same...

And her colleague? Miss Newell
didn't have much to say.

Stamfield had had a bit of a go
at the girl over her timekeeping.

But otherwise, all
was hunky-dory.

So, have a wonderful night
with your family and friends.

And I hope to see you soon.

And she'll be seeing you
sooner than you both thought.

You last saw her eight years ago

when you were her
husband's best man.

But she's here tonight.
Sarah Coyle then.

Now, Sarah Sellars!

APPLAUSE

Yes, as Sarah said,

you were never that
keen on school work.

And as our next
witness will testify,

your eagerness to play football
often got you into trouble.

It was only a
kick-about after school.

But when he got home, Jack
was really in hot water.

Yes, you've not seen him
for a while, your school pal

and fellow footballing
hopeful from Londonderry,

you were best man at his
wedding, George Sellars!

So, tell us, George, what sort of
trouble did Jack used to get in?

Well, down the rec, we
didn't have a proper goal,

so we'd use our jumpers
to mark the posts, like.

This one game, he gets his
jumper absolutely wrecked.

He knew he'd catch it off
his mam, so he borrowed mine.

Did the deception work, Mrs
Swift? No, Eamonn, it didn't!

It wasn't Jackie's name tag that was
sewn into the collar of his sweater,

it was George's, so I knew they'd
been out and up to no good.

I said to him, "You'll get a clatter
off your daddy when he gets home!"

Rest his soul.

Thank you, George Sellars!

And before long, your
name reached the ears

of someone who was to change
the course of your life.

A docker friend of your late
father who, in his spare time,

acted as part-time
coach and talent scout

for football clubs
here in England.

Duke Ward. Yes.

That's right, it's the man who
spotted all that young potential,

a legendary football scout in
Northern Ireland, Marmaduke Ward!

Good to see you, Jackie.

Duke, tell me, what was your
reaction when you first saw Jack?

Well, Eamonn, to tell you
the truth, it was terrible.

Five feet, four, and less
meat on him than a whippet.

But I knew, the moment
I saw this fella,

that he could be something
very, very special

if he put the hard work in

and had somebody to
take him in hand.

We got him up to the mark,

and then I had no hesitation

in recommending him
to the Wanderers.

And I think you'll agree, he
hasn't done too bad so far.

Indeed, he hasn't.

Thank you, Duke Ward.

Now, to close tonight,
we have someone else

who's here to pay
tribute to you.

A young man to whom you
were a schoolboy hero,

and who may himself be
facing the kind of adulation

you've gotten used to.

That's right, Eamonn. But
there's only one Jack Swift.

Yes, that's right.
It's the young striker

who's being hailed as
"the next Jack Swift".

Cowley Town centre-forward

and Northern Ireland international,
John-Paul Martinelli!

I saw him this morning
and he never let on.

So, John-Paul, what is it
you'd like to say to Jack?

Jack, you've been a
hero, not just to me,

but to thousands of
other schoolboys.

And I know everyone back home

and here in the UK is
just so proud of you,

and what you've
achieved in your career.

Well, hopefully,
it's not over yet!

Indeed not.

But for now, at least, Jack
Swift, this is your life.

My playing days are
mostly behind me.

Oh, look, here
he is. It's Duke.

The unluckiest man
in showbusiness.

Now, what was it you made
for discovering Jack?

15 quid finder's fee, wasn't it?

On top of the £2.10 a week
retainer, of course. No.

No, you should come
and work for me.

Well, for some of us,
it's not about the money.

But then, I wouldn't
expect a man like you

to know anything about that.

What man like me? A parasite.

Where were you on the
freezing, cold winter mornings

I had him out training?

Nowhere. That's
where you were.

And yet, you've bled
Jack near enough dry.

And now you've got your
claws into John-Paul.

So, you're all set
to ruin him, too.

You're a grasper.

You make me sick to my stomach.

Hm...

All that stamina.

I think that when you come
and play for the Wanderers

that we're going to
be very good friends.

Oh, it's you.

Be a darling and go and
fetch me a little drinkie.

I'm a detective sergeant at
Thames Valley, Mrs Fenner.

I'm not a wine waiter.

I'm sure your husband
can freshen your glass.

Er, vodka martini,
wasn't it, Mrs Fenner?

Cecily. Please.

No mistaking you
for Cupid, is there?

Sweetheart... You might
have mentioned this.

Oh, well, we were all sworn
to secrecy, weren't we?

But you knew it was gonna happen

when there was a threat
against his life.

Er, what can I say? I
don't know what this

threat business is about
any more than you do.

I'm grateful you're
looking out for him.

But by this time tomorrow,
it'll all be over.

Well, no, the threat
was if he played.

He hasn't played yet.

Mr Lofthouse...

The Doncaster Dynamo.

I saw you play against Millwall
in, er, '54, was it? A cup tie.

I used to take my boy Sam
there when he was smaller.

Before we moved to
Oxford, of course.

Come on, let's split.

But what about your
family? It's...

It's your party.

They're not here for me.

Right, OK.

Hey, Jack, can I
get you a drink?

Not right at the
minute, Georgie.

Are you sure? Cos I know
Sarah'd love to catch up.

She must've just nipped
out to powder her nose.

She'll be back in
a minute, I'm sure.

I can't have a
late night, George.

I've got a match tomorrow.

Are you staying on for
it? Yeah, of course.

We're all put up at the Plaza.

Your mum and sisters
and everyone.

Great.

Great, we'll do something
after, then. OK?

Home!

You're late, Dad!

Work went on.

You missed Sam on the telephone.

I gave him your best.

All right over there, is it...

..with the locals?

Behaving themselves?

He didn't say.

I asked if he was looking
after himself. He said he was.

I'll put the kettle on.
Nothing for me this late.

Fair dos. Here...

you'll never guess
who I met tonight.

Who? Someone we know?

Eamonn Andrews.

Eamonn Andrews?

Fancy!

What's he like?

Very nice.

But not as tall as he
looks on the telly.

Sorry to drag you away.

I just had to get out.

You know, get away.

Sometimes, it
takes me like that.

I get tired of it. Of what?

Being Jack Swift.

What, the adulation,
women, money?

My commiserations! Aye.

It looks great from the outside.

But everyone wants something.

A signed photo. A
cut of your wages.

To be your friend.

To take them to bed so they
can run to the papers about it.

And what do you want?

The love of a good woman.

I had one, too.

And I let her go.

It was put to me
I had to choose.

It was her...

..or success at the football.

There's not a day goes by...

And now they want
to kill me for it.

Have you got a girl?

Er, no. No, not at the moment.

I could get some company
over. Make a call.

Well, erm, I mean, I'm on duty.

And, er...

And you've got a big game tomorrow.
You should probably get some rest.

To those about to die.
Well, hopefully not!

No, no, I'll, er...

I'll just stick
to the crossword.

Yeah.

Get your clothes on and
get out, you little bitch!

How dare you! I'll kill you!

You said it was over!
You walked out! You left!

I thought you'd come after me.

Instead, I spend three weeks

bored out of my mind
at the George V.

you're paying for!

I'm paying for?

And now I come back
to find the place

filled with your
stupid, bloody tarts!

Don't walk away from me!

Yes? Morse. I'm your relief.

Bill Shaw, Special Branch.

You'd better get home, get
some kip. You must be beat.

Is, er...?

Is that his piece, is
it, the blondie one?

Yeah, apparently. Nice
work if you can get it.

And if anyone can
get it, he can.

You won't have seen the
paper. It's all over.

If there was no threat to him
before, a headline like that

will drag every lunatic
out of the woodwork.

And take your bloody
rubbish with you!

Let the girl get
her knickers on.

Jesus...

Sorry, love. First time
for everything, hey?

Detective Sergeant Bill
Shaw, Special Branch.

He'll be looking after
you this afternoon.

I'll be back this evening.

"The love of a good woman..."
When did she arrive?

First thing.

I did get an early night,
like you said, but...

Well...

breakfast of champions.

I have already
addressed the concerns

of John Sarson
with him directly.

And as far as the
college is concerned...

..no further action
need be taken.

My apologies.

I'm afraid, if I don't follow my
train of thought to its terminus,

I find it difficult
to pick up the thread.

What can I do for you?

We've spoken to Miss Newell
at the hospital yesterday.

She's recovering, I trust?

Seems to be.

She says you and Miss Widdowson
had words about her timekeeping.

I had to take her to task.

But it wasn't about
her timekeeping.

Rather, her poor and
haphazard filing.

To be honest, her spelling
was not all one might wish.

But, really, that was nothing.

Not nothing to the girl.

She was in tears, apparently.

I perfectly accept I
can be a little brusque.

But, truly, I'm not in the habit
of reducing my staff to tears.

Whatever upset her
that afternoon...

..it wasn't me.

Aye-aye, matey.

What's the latest? We had
another go at the Master.

And another word
with his colleagues

to see if anyone might want
to blow him to kingdom come.

Not an enemy in the
world, apparently.

The Master of an Oxford
college without an enemy?

That would be a miracle.

And what about the bomb?
Regular cardboard box.

Wrapped in brown paper.

Tied with string.

Handwritten address.

Well, what's left of
it. Meant for Stamfield.

Looks to have been a time bomb,
according to the Forensics boys.

Dynamite wired up
to an alarm clock.

Simple, but effective.

And is that consistent with the
Angry Brigade's other devices?

I've put a request in to the
Yard for furthers and betters,

but things are moving fast since
the Barnet arrest on Saturday

and they're playing
their cards close.

What do you make to that?

The bomb lads couldn't say.

Most likely it happened
in the explosion.

Residue traces of wax, clay
and some sort of colourant.

You're cutting it fine, aren't
you? What time's kick-off?

Oh, not till-30, but I'm
relieving the Branch man at-00.

Right.

Well, see you there, then.

Oh, there you are! Where the
bloody hell have you been?

Oh, sorry, we got caught
in the crowd. Yeah?

Never mind the Micks
taking a crack at him.

I'll give him the full treatment

if he's late for
the team talk again.

Ball in the back of the net,
isn't it, boss? Same as last week.

I'll be grand from here.

Morse, I hear you, er...

enjoyed a night with the stars.

This Is Your Life,
wasn't it? Oh...!

DCI Thursday said
he's very nice.

Eamonn Andrews.

Though less tall than he
appears on the television.

Oh, well, I couldn't say, sir.

Well, your charge
should be in safe hands.

Division have permitted an
additional 200 officers,

besides those who normally
cover such a game.

'A very warm welcome to you

'on this chilly
February evening.

'If you're just joining us,
we're here at The Field,

'Oxford Wanderers' home ground,

'for this fifth-round cup tie reply
against neighbours Cowley Town.

'It promises to be a thriller.'

'With a strike by Jack Swift,

'Oxford Wanderers came
from a goal behind.'

Ah, good evening.

'Can he work his particular
brand of magic again tonight?

'Cowley Town,
despite the presence

'of the fabulous young
striker John-Paul Martinelli,

'are very much the underdogs.'

Come on, ref!

'Swift's tackle was not as
clean as it might have been.'

'And we're deep into injury
time in this second half.

'According to my watch, there is
less than one minute left to play.

'Swift steps up to take

'the most important
free kick of his career.

'This must surely be the
last kick of the match.'

Yes!

'And Oxford Wanderers are through
to the sixth round of the FA Cup.

'And some supporters
are on the pitch now.

'We are witnessing scenes
here...' Bright to all units.

Protect the target.
All eyes on Swift.

Have you seen Swift?
Dressing room, I think.

We need him out of there.
Get him out of there!

You're sure he got off the
pitch? He was ahead of me.

He'll be in the bath by now
if you want to scrub his back.

Look, I'll keep an eye on him

and bring him up to the
clubroom after, yeah?

All right.

Well done, lads!

The club moved to The Field
here at Potter's Lane in 1897.

It'd been church land up
until the Reformation.

Then, after that, one
of the colleges here

got ahold of it and they
leased it back to the town

as somewhere to
bury their paupers.

So, from Potter's Field to
The Field, Potter's Lane.

I told you, we had
nothing to worry about.

I thought he'd have
been here by now.

Oh, they'll be having a
few drinks, a few laughs.

Getting warm in the bath.

Just young men enjoying a
bit of male camaraderie.

Taking bets as to which one
of these lovely, young ladies

is going to be a notch on
their bedpost by morning.

I'm guessing you
weren't the sporty type.

More of a bookworm. Am I right?

Are you in need of a
refill there, Graham?

This is my very dear
friend Mr Tressell.

This is Jackie's
bodyguard, Morse.

Oh, you sponsored the
fashion show last night.

Sorry, Robert.

Erm, Graham, may I introduce
you to our Lady Mayoress?

Of course.

The warp and weft of civic life.

Commerce, too, I should think.

An evening at the football as
guest of the club chairman,

it must be an atmosphere
convivial for business.

Oh, well, what can I tell
you? It's good to be king.

Are you looking for
Jackie, Mr Ward?

I'd leave him be a wee while.

It's not a good
time, I don't reckon.

Come on, Jack'll
see us in the bar.

Where's Jack? I thought you said
you were going to bring him up.

I thought he'd come ahead. No.

What is it? He's...

Oh, my God!

Why weren't you watching him?

Oh...

Dead less than two hours.

I don't want to jump the gun
ahead of the post-mortem,

but death would appear
to be by drowning.

However, there is also a sizeable
wound to the back of cranium.

Could it have been
accidental, Doctor?

He's slipped, fallen,
hit his head perhaps?

It's possible.

But more likely the blow
knocked him unconscious

and he pitched forward
into the water.

A blow from what? I
recovered that from the bath.

Forensics haven't
had a go at it yet,

but it's the right size
and weight to fit the bill.

Number 10.

That's Swift's jersey, isn't it?

His girlfriend thought
it was Swift, sir.

Easy mistake to make, I suppose,
if you're face-down in the water.

Then, whoever did this,

and presumably we advance from a
position of suspecting foul play,

must have made the same error.

Hell of a thing to get wrong.

Well, a room full of steam.

If they came upon
him from behind,

one could see how such
a mistake might be made.

The threat was that Swift
would be shot, wasn't it, sir?

Uniform searched everyone

coming into the ground
for concealed weapons.

Perhaps he had to improvise
with whatever was to hand.

Of all things, what was Martinelli
doing wearing another man's jersey?

It's not unknown for
players to swap shirts, sir,

as a souvenir of
their encounter.

A mark of respect,
sort of thing.

A fan, perhaps, angry
about the result.

According to uniform
and the ground staff,

none of the punters
managed to get down here.

The tunnel gate was locked

once all the players and officials
were safely off the pitch.

Then whoever did for him was
already inside the stadium.

What about his team-mates,
where are they?

The manager and most of the
rest have gone their own way.

Those that stuck
around for the booze-up

are still in the directors' box.

Easy for anyone to slip
out for five minutes.

And Swift, what does
he say about all this?

We haven't managed to
speak to him yet, sir.

I'd have thought he'd
be first on your list.

He doesn't appear to be
in the building, sir.

So, we have one
dead footballer...

and one whose life has been
threatened now missing!

What do you think, Thursday?
Could Swift have done this?

He had a pretty nasty set-to
with Martinelli on the pitch.

If they swapped
shirts, though, sir,

it suggests any differences
have been forgotten.

Very well, I'll make
my report to Division.

You can brief me on any
developments in the morning.

Carry on.

Make a start with
statements and particulars

from all interested
parties, Jim.

Set aside any without an alibi
since the end of the match.

Sir.

When Jack didn't come back with
the rest of the boys to the party,

I came down here
to look for him.

And you didn't see
anyone else down there,

didn't pass anyone
on the stairs?

No.

I just saw him lying there
in the water and thought...

You thought that it was Jack.

If somebody wanted
to kill Martinelli,

there's plenty of
other places to do it.

Why here? Why now?

Well, perhaps it wasn't planned.

Maybe it was a
spur of the moment.

Martinelli was wearing
Jack Swift's jersey, yes.

But only someone who'd
never seen Jack before

could mistake the one for
the other. Even from behind?

Well, I think, if
I were an assassin,

I'd want to be pretty sure
of my target. Wouldn't you?

I just can't believe it.

That lovely, young boy.

I was only talking to him
after Jack's This Is Your Life.

You've been here in this
clubroom all evening, have you?

Yes. So has Robert.
Haven't you? What's this?

You haven't left the
clubroom or the box tonight.

Well, I did have
to wash my hands.

But I bumped into Ray,
Mr Jubba, in the gents.

He was attending to his hair. We
got talking. Made our way back here.

So you've been with
somebody all evening.

That's right. And even if I
hadn't been, I'm in the rag trade.

I'm not given to going round
murdering young footballers.

Especially ones
I'm about to sign.

I'd just come down to tell Jackie
well done on the win, you know.

But he was having a bit of a
row with his man Jubba, so...

I just went back to the do.

George Sellars will tell
you. He came back up with me.

You saw Jack Swift?

Well, he had his back to me,

but I recognised
his shirt, you know.

That wasn't Jack. That
was John-Paul Martinelli.

What are you saying?

Is it John-Paul something's
happened to and not Jack?

Oh, God, no!

Say that's not true.
I don't believe you.

All that talent.

All that skill.

He could've been ten
times the player Jack is.

What a waste!

I came down to say
well done to Jackie.

Only, I could see he
was having a set-to

with the bloke that
handles his business.

So, me and Duke just
came back up again.

Except what you're saying now...

it wasn't Jack?

No, that's right.

So, you came straight
back up here after?

Aye. Well, Duke...

Er, Mr Ward stopped off
at the gents for a Jimmy.

I had Jack's mum and that to see
to, so I just left him to it.

It was you, you bastard!

What did you do to
him? That wee boy!

What do you mean, what have I
done? I haven't done anything.

I saw you with him!

I thought it was Jackie you were
talking to. But it was John-Paul.

Would he not go along with
your wee scheme, is that it?

All right now,
Duke, that's enough.

What scheme would that
be? Well, he knows!

They're all in on it. I'll
kill you, you rotten...!

Get him out! Get him out!
I'll bloody kill you!!

All right, I'm sorry,
I just saw red.

All right, what
was that all about?

John-Paul phoned me
up before the match.

He wanted to ask my
advice. About what?

That Jubba, his agent, or
whatever the hell he is...

..told him that if a chance
came up to score tonight,

he was to stick it over
the top or put it wide.

He should throw the match?

If he wanted to come to
the Wanderers, that is.

There's some sort of
betting syndicate behind it.

Absolute tripe.

Duke Ward, he's a bitter,
washed-up, old has-been.

The boys he discovered, Jack,
John-Paul, rest his soul,

made small fortunes,
living the high life,

and he's cycling round
Ulster in all weathers

still panning for gold.

The other morning,
after the photoshoot,

I overheard you and Ray Jubba

discussing telling someone
something after the match.

Who was it? What were
you gonna tell them?

That? It...

Well, it's got no bearing on what
might have happened to John-Paul.

It can't have.

We'll be the judge of that.

We were talking about...

putting Jack out on loan to
Fulchester. That was all.

Look, there... There's
no shame in it.

He's had a good run.

12 years.

He's just... not what he was.

Which of us is, Mr Lofthouse?

I suppose the day that the next
man's just that half a yard faster

comes to all of us
sooner or later.

I suppose, for Swift,
Martinelli was that man.

Nobody can outrun time.
Not even Jack Swift.

Do you think he
could've done it?

Morse! Here he is.

Who's this?

This is Detective Chief
Inspector Thursday.

Mr Swift.

So, what happened to
you? I couldn't face it.

Come on, don't be mad.

Have a drink.

We can't protect you if you
just disappear, Mr Swift.

That's done with, isn't
it? We played the match.

Nothing happened. Well,
you might have told

Miss Eriksson you were leaving.

Sure, you know what
she's like. I couldn't.

Is she upset?

Where did you go?
I came back here.

Alone? Of course, alone.

That looked like a nasty set-to
with John-Paul Martinelli.

The cheeky wee sh...

That's just the game, you know.

I shook his hand when the whistle
went and we swapped shirts.

Then the fans started pouring onto
the pitch and we just legged it.

Did you see him when
you got off? No.

I looked for him, just to make
sure he was all right, like.

Make sure the fans hadn't got
to him, missing that free kick.

Why? He's dead.

He was found earlier this evening.
In the home team changing room...

wearing your shirt. Jesus...

Oh, my God.

They didn't think that
he was me, did they?

What happened, is he shot?

We can't be sure it was a
case of mistaken identity.

But we do believe that
foul play was involved.

Your friend Mr Ward
seemed to think

he'd got caught up in
some kind of racket.

How do you mean?
Fixing the game.

He got it into his head
your agent was involved.

No, man.

That's just Duke. You don't...

You don't want to put
anything into what he says.

That's just his way.

What the hell are
you playing at?

I've been going out of my mind!

There was no need.
I'm perfectly fine.

Mr Swift...

Come on...

Will you be all right minding the
shop till the relief gets here?

Right-ho.

You had some excitement
last night, didn't you?

Word is, whoever they sent
after him got the wrong man.

Well, that presumes it was
who they sent after him.

If you ask me, I think the whole
thing's a bloody wild-goose chase.

Perhaps. The coffee's on.

I think, if I hated
someone enough

to kill them, I'd know
how to spell their name.

Don't you?

Someone smart playing the fool?

Smart enough to
know that Stamfield

wouldn't open his
own post, certainly.

There was a Valentine's card.

At her bedsit. From
her fiance, I took it.

Noel Baxter.

No, in the wreckage
of her office.

It's possible a girl could
have two unknown admirers.

True.

But it'd be handy
to know who he was,

this other man, don't you think?

Further to your
letter the 3rd inst,

as mentioned in my
previous correspondence,

the college's position
on entertaining...

You still do The Pools? Yeah.

I've been at the old eight
from ten for 35 years

and never won so much
as a thruppenny bit.

Why do you still do it?

I'm an optimist.

I used to do it with Sam
when he was small, you know.

We'd study the league results in
the paper, who'd won, who'd lost

and who was due for a draw.

I used to take him down Potter's
Lane when we first came to Oxford.

The Field, you know,
the Wanderers' ground,

watch the home game
from the terraces.

Did you ever...?

No.

It'll be useful to know who

Miss Widdowson's other
admirer was, don't you think?

Well, we're going to be
tied up with Martinelli.

And if you're gonna be fit for
keeping an eye on Swift all night,

if I was you, I'd get some kip.
Oh, I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Did you give your fiancee
a Valentine's card?

I was working in Hastings
over the weekend, and...

what with the post
being what it is,

I dropped it round her flat Monday
afternoon on my lunch break.

Dropped it round her flat, yeah?

How did she seem, the
last time you saw her?

Excited.

She'd just come into some
money, or was about to.

A great aunt was very ill,

and Maggie said she'd always
been her favourite, so...

So she had expectations?

Enough for a deposit on a
flat for us, she thought.

Did she? Yeah.

It was a relief, as her
bedsit had been burgled

the week before last.

Not that there was much to take.
She reported it, presumably?

To the police?

I told her to, but...

she couldn't see the point.

A special service to commemorate

the loss of Miss Widdowson

will be held on the second
Sunday after Septuagesima...

and all the academic faculty
will be expected to attend.

Thank you for
waiting. No problem.

You were here on
Monday? That's right.

Is there news? I'm afraid not.

I'm just following a
few avenues of inquiry.

I wonder, did Miss
Widdowson ever talk to you

about her personal life?

To me? Mm-hm.

No. Not particularly,
I don't recall.

But you knew she was
engaged, presumably?

Miss Newell may
have mentioned it.

I wonder, did she have any
admirers here at college?

If there were, it's not something
she ever vouchsafed to me.

Mm.

I understand, in the
general scheme of things,

she wouldn't ordinarily
have been in the office

at the time of the explosion.

There isn't an hour goes by I
don't reproach myself, believe me.

One can't conduct
business with others

as if they might be about
to die at any moment, but...

God knows how many times
these past few days

I've wished I'd never given
Miss Widdowson a ticking off.

Forensics came back with a set
of dabs on the champagne bottle.

It's a match for one of the
sets we took last night.

Not leaving us, Mr Sellars?

No. Just seeing Jack's
family to the station.

Fair enough.

We're gonna need a further
statement from you about last night.

Marmaduke Ward?

I'm arresting you on suspicion

of the murder of
John-Paul Martinelli.

Mr Sarson?

Thank you.

She was typing up a
paper for you? My thesis.

Mm.

There was a Valentine's card
recovered from the office.

One-four-three.

She liked to do the crossword
on her way into work...

on the 33.

One-four-three.

I love you.

Did she know how you
felt about her? No.

Were you aware she was
engaged to be married?

I'd seen her engagement
ring, of course.

But...

a fella can hope.

When did you leave the card?
Before it got light on Monday.

And how did you
get into college?

In through here,
the fellows' garden.

There's a gate that
gives on to the lane.

It's kept shut overnight,

but you can snick the lock
if you have the knack.

It was already open
when I got here.

As a matter of fact,
I almost got caught.

It was the Master?

I didn't see his face, but the
lights were on in his rooms

and he was coming
out of the office.

So, I assumed he was
just in early to work.

And when you left
the Valentine's card,

did you notice a brown paper
package on Maggie's desk?

I'm sorry, I...

I was so rattled by almost
running into old Stammers,

my heart was in my mouth.

I just dropped the
card off and ran.

Right.

I've stood on the sidelines of
football pitches in all weathers.

This playing field,
that youth club.

Nights so freezing cold

I couldn't feel my hands
or feet cycling back home.

All for the game.

All those boys whose early
promise never came to anything.

The ones who lacked the nerve.

The ones who would get some
girl in the family way...

and then grind all the hopes that
you had for them into the dirt.

Year in, year out.

You wonder what the hell
you've done with your life.

And then, one day...

you see a boy...

..with talent so out
of the ordinary...

..that it could only have
come from the Almighty.

Jack Swift.

You do what you can to
take them under your wing.

You know...

train them up.

And then watch them throw it
all away on trivial things.

Fast living.

Women. Cars.

Frivolities.

You were afraid history would
repeat itself with Martinelli.

I found that boy.

I gave him the world.

I tried to warn him
about Ray Jubba.

But...

..he just turned away from me,

like I was some... beggarman.

Is that when you hit him?

We've got your fingerprints
on the champagne bottle.

I took the bottle off him.

He was about to open it.

I said to him, "Is
this what you want?

"Is this all it means to you?"

I took the bottle off him,

but I set it down on the bench
by the door on my way out.

Harm a hair on that
wee boy's head?

I'd sooner have
cut my own throat.

Morse.

Miss Thursday.

I'm, er... I'm looking
for a Mrs O'Rourke.

Maggie's sister.

Jim came by. Strange. Erm...

She's taken her little girl to
the park, but she'll be back soon.

If you want to wait.

Do you want a drink?

Bit early for me.

And to be honest, I'd
sooner you didn't...

if you're gonna
talk to the kids.

It's just most of them
have experience of...

men who reek of booze.

Well... waste not, want not.

Thanks.

You never used to
be so censorious.

Well, you never used to put it away
in the middle of the afternoon.

"Put it away in the middle
of the afternoon"? Come on.

What will be next? "I'm
going back to mother"?

I feel like I missed something.

No.

Are you sure?

Well, if you did, then
it was nothing much.

The mess you mentioned
when you wrote,

did you manage to
put it right, or...?

Oh, yes, that all... That
all ended as it should.

Morse...

What is this place?

Some kind of halfway house?

I don't know it from
the council list.

It's not council, just...

somewhere they can get away to.

If they need help.
Somewhere they can be safe.

You're saving the world.

One woman at a time.

What's she like, Mrs O'Rourke?

Jim didn't say?

Well, I think Detective Sergeant
Strange has many qualities,

but I wouldn't rank sensitivity
paramount amongst them.

Oh, I don't know.
In my experience,

he can be quite thoughtful
when the occasion demands it.

In your experience? You
want to try living with him.

I heard he ended up in hospital.

Dad said you saved him.

No.

No, you shouldn't believe
everything that you hear.

And poor Mr Bright.

Yeah, it was a bad year.

How was, erm...?

Stevenage. Mm.

I thought it might
be a new start.

But it turns out... children
can be just as miserable

and neglected there
as they can in Oxford.

And with Sam away, I
didn't like to leave Mum.

So...

..I came back.

Hm.

Did Mrs O'Rourke ever
mention a great aunt

of whom she had
expectations? TOY RATTLES

Not to me.

I really think
she should be here

if you're gonna go
through her things.

I'm not going through her
things. I'm just looking.

What was it Miss Widdowson
brought for the children?

Just a box of toys
and the doll's house.

Why?

Well, I think she thought...

someone intended her harm.

Her bedsit was broken
into last week.

She was burgled? No,
that's not what I said.

I think someone was
looking for something.

Only, they didn't
find it because...

..she's hidden it
somewhere safe.

Professor Stamfield...

Can we have a word?

Yes, of course.

You'll have to excuse me.

We're still in a state
of some disarray after...

..after the tragedy.

Still managing to keep up with
your correspondence, though.

I should think that thing's
a godsend, isn't it?

Oh, yes. I don't know what
I ever did without it.

I'm partial to a gadget, myself.

These, er, cassette tapes
they have now, is it?

That's right.

My sergeant played me a cassette
tape he came by this afternoon.

I'd be glad of your
opinion of it. Morse...

'It has come to my attention
that undergraduates

'have been using the fellows'
garden entrance after curfew.'

Not only is this...
Mr Fenner, Master.

Robert! Come in, do.

Thank you, Maggie.
Thank you, Maggie.

Sherry, or something stronger?

Er, Scotch, if
we're celebrating.

I say, this is smart. I
must get me one of these.

Testing, testing... I
wouldn't be without it.

Of course, it's no substitute for a
pert little secretary on one's lap.

Absolutely!

So...

The Field.

The Field that Fenner mentions
is the Wanderers' home turf.

Now, the team is so-called because,
originally, they shared a ground

with any football or rugby
club who'd have them.

But in 1897, they were
granted a 75-year lease

on a field at Potter's Lane by
the college that owned the land.

This college. 1897.

Which means the lease
expires next year.

Worth a bob or two, I should think,
the land the stadium sits on.

I can explain. Let's hope so.

Because, as the tape goes on,

it sounds like you're conniving
with Fenner to make sure the college

refuses to renew the
Wanderers' lease.

Then, presumably after
a decent interval,

Fenner acquires the
land for redevelopment

and you get a fee for
services rendered.

'The college must
never find out.'

'I've got as much
to lose as you.'

If the Wanderers got wind that
their chairman had conspired

to steal their home ground
out from under them,

the fans would string me up.

So, don't worry.
No-one will find out.

It's just between you and me.

But unfortunately, it didn't stay
just between you and Fenner, did it?

As she does every afternoon,

Maggie Widdowson came in to
collect the cassette tape

and type up your correspondence.

'Is that altogether
legal, Robert?'

'Well, if it was, you
wouldn't be in line

'for 15% kickback on
the deal, would you?'

She told her fiance that
she was expecting a bequest

from a great aunt.

We spoke to her family.

There was no great aunt.

Nor was there any windfall due.

So, how much did she ask for?

5,000.

Is that what she
died for, £5,000?

Against all that you and
Fenner stood to make?

No. I wanted to pay her
off. So, why didn't you?

Swift not training today?

No, the manager's given him
the day off after everything.

We've just come from Lonsdale.

Presumably it was Mr Tressell,

the building contractor who
sponsored your fashion show,

that provided you with
the dynamite. What's this?

Though I don't suppose he
knew it was meant for the bomb

you used to kill
Maggie Widdowson.

The country reeling from a spate
of bombings by the Angry Brigade,

yours might have been
taken for the same.

Only, this time, with
fatal consequences.

You can't prove a word of this.

Actually, we can.

The fragments that
remain of the brown paper

that the bomb was wrapped in
show that it had been marked

with a substance containing
wax, clay and colourant.

Dressmaker's chalk.

On the same brown paper, I'd
seen used by your pattern cutter

ahead of your fashion show.

You're gonna need
more than that.

We've also got the alarm
clock you used as a timer.

What's left of it, at least.

Forensics have put
it back together.

So there's that.

I've never owned an alarm clock.

Really? No.

Only, it matches one in a
photograph of Mrs Fenner

taken in your bedroom that
appeared in the colour supplement.

You must think I'm a fool.

What sort of a man would
use materials from work

and his wife's own alarm
clock to make a bomb?

A very arrogant man.

The kind who thinks an explosion
would destroy all evidence

that could trace the
bomb back to him.

We also have a confession from
your accomplice, of course.

Now, Professor Stamfield
told us that you'd told him

you'd leave the hush money

that Maggie Widdowson
demanded on her desk.

But instead, you
left an explosive.

He's a liar. You were seen

leaving the Master's office in
the early hours of the morning

by a young man intent on
leaving a Valentine's card

to the woman you murdered.

The gown and mortarboard
was a nice touch.

But no don would be abroad

in full academic rig
at that time of night.

What was it?

You thought she'd ask for more?

That's usually the
way with blackmailers.

Or did you just want to make
sure her mouth was shut?

Robert Fenner, I am arresting you
for the murder of Maggie Widdowson.

They've admitted it?

Both declining to answer on the
advice of their lawyers, sir.

Much good that will do when they've
already condemned themselves

out of their own mouths
on the recording.

Taken together with
the forensic evidence,

I can't see any jury giving
them the benefit of the doubt.

Well...

..excellent work.

Carry on. Sir.

Sir, are you sure Ward wasn't
at the Plaza Hotel on Saturday?

We checked. The call
was made on Saturday,

but none of the guests
for This Is Your Life

were booked into the
Plaza till Monday.

No, that's not entirely correct.

Swift said he saw one of
them in town last week.

Detective Sergeant
Morse, Mrs Sellars.

Chief Inspector Thursday. Thames
Valley. Is your husband here?

No, not at the minute.
Perhaps you can help us.

It's not very convenient.
We shan't take long.

Oh, could you
leave that, please?

I've a bad headache.

When did you get to Oxford for
the This Is Your Life programme?

Monday.

You flew in, or...?

Yes, the programme sent the...

They took care of all that.

And your husband? When
did he get in to Oxford?

He came with me. Really?

Only, he was seen
here last week.

Is yours a happy
marriage, Mrs Sellars?

I'm as happy as
I've always been.

Your husband? Why?

At the party after the show the
other night, he was jealous.

Of you and Jack
Swift? Me and Jack?

God, no.

You wore a ring on a
chain in the message

that you made for him.

I saw that ring this
morning at Mr Swift's house.

Mrs Sellers?

We bunked off school
and went to Portrush.

This beautiful blue day.

Barry's Amusement Park.

Down the arcade there were these
gumball lucky dip machines.

You put your money in and turn
the handle and it's a surprise,

cos you don't know
what you're gonna get.

Out pops this little
plastic egg thing.

We opened it up and there
it was, a heart-shaped ring.

He closed it on my finger
and said he loved me.

I could probably have
been Mrs Swift, too.

We might've had a
regular life together.

Only, Duke Ward put
the finish to it.

How's that?

He told Jack he wouldn't recommend
him for trials over here.

He made it plain.

It was me or football.

So, Jack Swift got fame and fortune,
and you got his best friend.

I don't know if it's just he
wanted something Jack had had

or if he felt something
for me, but...

..George asked
and, by that stage,

I didn't much care
one way or another.

Right, so, why was your
ring in Mr Swift's house?

He came to see me
after the match.

When he saw what
George had done.

Why?

I'll kill him.

Stop, now. Stop.

You were always my girl, Sarah.

I never stopped loving you.

I love you still.

Come on Jack, stop. Erm...

It's half a lifetime ago.

You're in love with a girl
dead and gone these 15 years.

I'm not her any more.
And she's not me.

Here...

I've held on to it long enough.

Some things you have to let be.

You should go.

If Jack Swift wasn't the cause

of your husband's
jealousy, then who was it?

John-Paul Martinelli.

It was him that your
husband was looking for

when he ran into
Duke Ward, not Jack.

He was a good-looking
boy. But it was nothing.

Five minutes in a laundry
closet. Just... fun.

A bit of life.

How did your husband find out?
Oh, he smelt his aftershave on me.

So, what was he doing
in Oxford last week?

I don't know.

But he has a gun in the case.
I saw it when he was packing.

Why would your husband have a gun?
He doesn't tell me the half of it.

Out with the lads after dark
playing soldiers with the boyos.

So, you're saying, what, he's
part of some Loyalist militia?

You think it's just the other
side deals in guns and bombs?

You people, you get what
you see in the papers,

but you've really no
idea how things are.

The Order, the 12th,
the pipes and drums.

Them hating us, us hating them.

Where is he, Mrs Sellars?
Where's your husband?

Are you expecting anyone?

Christ!

What have you done? Is
he dead? He'd better be.

Shut up!

Bridge, be quiet,
love. George...

Whatever this is,
she's no part of it.

Have you gone mad? By
order of the Brigade Staff.

The Brigade? The
bloody Blacknecks?

Tried in absentia and found
guilty of providing funds...

Georgie... ..providing funds

to the Provisional
Irish Republican Army.

What? Where?

You played in a charity exhibition
five-a-side game last year.

Some of the proceeds went
to enemies of the Crown.

Jesus, George! I must do
50 charity things a year!

I don't know what it's for
or where the money goes.

Ray organises my time.
I just turn up and play!

That's too bad. W-W-Wait
a minute, please...!

Five-a-side was for, er...

was for youth clubs.

It was for kids who
like football, George.

Same as we did. It was for kids.

Catholic kids.

And some part of the money
you raised found its way

into the Taigs' war chest.

The sentence is death, Jackie.

You tell them I wasn't afraid.

I'll tell them you begged.

Then you'll be a liar
as well as a killer.

The mission's over, Mr Sellars.

You...

Jesus, God!

Do I have to have a massacre
here?! No, nobody dies here.

If you kill Jack, all sympathy
for your cause will be gone.

It would be an
own goal. Drop it!

Down on your knees. Put
the gun on the floor.

On your knees!

A plot to murder
one of their own

for which their enemy
would be held culpable.

Hell of a coup if
they'd pulled it off.

Is this what it's
come to, Thursday,

gunmen roaming the streets,
political violence?

It's war.

Undeclared, perhaps.
But war all the same.

A one-off, surely?

Swift's crossed these people,
upset them in some particular.

I hope you're right, sir.

But it feels more like the
start of something than the end.

Pray God you're wrong, Thursday.

I pray God you're wrong.

Are you all right?

Would you be?

We grew up together.

Is that it? Are we safe?

Well, at least we know
what the plan is now.

If they were to do it again,
then they'd have to own it.

And I don't think they
have the stomach for that.

I won't live in fear.

Hopefully, you won't have to.

But Special Branch will keep a
watching brief, just to be sure.

How's your man?

Oh, he's in with a
chance, they tell me.

Well...

Er, good luck with the,
erm... the football cup.

Thanks.

Morse...

Thank you.

Can we make it stick, do
you think, for Martinelli?

Well, we've motive
and opportunity,

but the evidence is
circumstantial at best.

Taken together with an attempted on
Swift, his girl and the Branch man,

it might carry some weight.

I can understand Martinelli.
That was jealousy.

Something personal.

But this?

Sectarianism.

Maybe we're as much what
we hate as what we love.

In the end, we all pick a team.

Or a team picks you.

Not if you're no good at sports. I
was always the last to be chosen.

The one neither side
wanted in the team.

I chose you.