Original subtitles

See you in a minute.

Celia.

Ceel.

Celia?

Come on, Celia, rise and shine.

Come on, up you get.

History calls, my dear.

You were quick. This way.

Never had this before. Shot in the head.

Not an everyday occurrence for us either.

You called the ambulance, Mr Redman?

What's Celia's second name?

Dawe.

D-A-W-E.

She's an archaeology student. We both are.

Lane! We found a hall for the incident room. Down the bottom.

Right.

We'll talk there, Mr Redman. More comfortable.

Wycliffe here.

"Sir, it's Lane. Girl's in a medevac chopper now, off to Plymouth."

How bad is she?

It's all under control here.

Doug's getting a door-to-door under way and I'll be doing the dig.

Yes, sir.

Ah. Who's in charge here?

And who are you, sir?

David Cleeve. I own the cottage the... girl was staying in.

Ah, right. Follow me.

Thank you.

Right, sir. See you later.

David Cleeve, ma'am. Ah, right.

Detective Inspector Lane.

Please. Thank you.

How can I help you, Mr Cleeve?

I came to ask the same question, Inspector.

I don't know whether I'll be able to contribute,

but I do know that when the police investigate a murder,

they need all the background information they can get.

So... here I am.

Very good of you, Mr Cleeve,

but what makes you think we're investigating a murder?

I heard. A young woman's been shot, hasn't she?

But not killed. She's in surgery now.

Well, thank heavens for that.

Did you know her? Celia Dawe?

Not personally. I only knew them en masse, the students.

How did you come to be involved in the dig?

Aerial photography.

They saw the outline of a settlement on my land and Professor... Faber...

..wrote asking to investigate. Then we were invaded.

We're quite private, my wife and I.

So it was a shock to have them setting up camp so near the house.

You offered them the accommodation?

Living under canvas seemed too primitive.

Plus I have holiday properties and it's out of season.

Do you know how Celia Dawe came to have the cottage by herself?

No. I assume they...tossed for it, or something.

Doctor. Detective Superintendent Wycliffe.

She won't be much help to you, I'm afraid.

Will she live?

60-40. But if she comes round, I'll be amazed. Brain's badly damaged.

LANE: What's she like?

Really nice.

Serious, you know. Really into archaeology.

Often went back to study when we went down the pub.

Boyfriend?

Go on.

I thought we might...

..get something together.

And Celia?

Playing it cool.

But you still woke her every day?

She had trouble getting up.

Can you think of any reason why anyone should want to kill her?

It doesn't make sense.

A very interesting dig - typical Iron Age settlement.

But how old? That's the question.

And Celia Dawe, was she a good student?

Professor?

Hm? Oh! Erm...

Yes, yes. Excellent.

Poor girl, eh?

She got on with the others? Well enough, I believe.

They're a small bunch and the incident hit them very hard.

Hm. Our benefactor.

Yes, we've met.

Does he show much interest in the dig?

When it suits him.

A mixed blessing is our Mr Cleeve - or Stride, or whatever.

Sorry?

Peter Stride.

Author of Medicus, Xanadu.

Magistra. Yes, indeed.

Pretentious nonsense to me, but... Not like I imagined him.

Never are, are they? Writers.

No-one's supposed to know who he is. Hates publicity.

Well?

Not really. No.

It WAS one of the students.

Celia... Dawe.

She's not dead and they've no idea who did it.

And have you?

Me?! What's it got to do with me?

Oh, I couldn't possibly imagine (!)

KNOCK ON DOOR

Carl phoned about the proofs.

And these need signing.

(SIGHS) Right.

You all right?

What? Oh, I don't know, Milli. They always want everything yesterday -

First draft, second draft, proofs.

Poor David. You need a holiday.

So, MMO - means, motive, opportunity.

Well, the means was obviously a gun.

Probably a handgun, judging by the wound.

And probably using a silencer, since no-one seems to have heard a shot.

Forensic should be able to tell us more in due course.

The motive is trickier.

Traces on the bedding suggest sex had taken place recently.

But how soon before the shooting, we don't know.

That's the way to go, eh, Luce?

So, whoever was there...

..is, for now, either a prime suspect or at least a key witness.

So it's a crime of passion, sir?

We have to keep an open mind.

What have you found out about her, Lucy?

Not a great deal. She was a quiet, well-liked, studious... student.

By day. That's right, by day.

If she had a double life, we need to dig deeper. More to do, Lucy.

Opportunity. All we've got is this light, Metro-type vehicle...

..seen leaving the village around 3am.

The gunman?

Maybe, maybe not.

But from past experience, the probability is

that whoever tried to kill Celia Dawe lives locally.

So, we start...

by tracing that car.

The Cleeves have got one -

..a Metro.

What I don't get is,

Redman says he found Celia on her back under the covers.

Which means her front was to the door.

So why did the bullet hit her near the back of her head,

above her left ear, the side that was to the wall?

She was hit that way, then moved.

By whom? Whom?!

It's grammar, Douglas. Don't worry.

There's only two possibilities, realistic ones, that is.

She was either moved by whoever was with her, or whoever shot her.

Assuming they're two different people.

Lover boy's top of my list of people to bring in for a chat.

Excuse me.

That interview with Cleeve.

Something about it didn't feel... I don't know.

It was when he came in.

He didn't ask what had happened, who'd been shot, which cottage.

He just offered to help.

Perhaps he'd already been told. Perhaps.

I'll ask tomorrow. Right now I'm knackered.

See you later.

Actually, I think I'll hit the hay.

At least let him brush his teeth. What?

Oh. Ha, ha (!)

Saturday? No, love. No, no.

Not at the rate this inquiry's going.

What? No! No, no, I hadn't forgotten her birthday, no.

We can take her out to dinner some other time. Yeah.

Sure. Well, look, tell Emma I'm very sorry, will you?

And are YOU all right?

Me too, yes.

See you in a few days.

OK. Bye, love.

Detective Superintendent Wycliffe. I'm here to see Mr Cleeve.

Come in. Thank you.

Superintendent Wycliffe? That's right.

David Cleeve. My wife, Patricia.

To what do we owe this pleasure?

I told all we know to your very charming Inspector Lane.

Well, you know policemen, have to tell them everything

half a dozen times before it finally sinks in.

Like the sergeant in your stories.

My secret is out. You know my books.

Some of them.

I believe you own a light-coloured Metro.

Yes, it's mine.

A car like that was seen leaving the village at the time of the shooting.

Ours is having its annual service in Falmouth.

Right.

Cross you off the wanted list, then.

One last thing. Could I see where the great man works?

Certainly.

Only I know my wife is going to pump me

for every scrap of information. Of course.

Thank you very much.

Sorry to have bothered you, Mrs Cleeve.

Not at all.

Do come in.

Drink? No, thank you.

Peter Stride's supposed to be notoriously reclusive.

Aren't you?

Lose your anonymity, and you lose your freedom.

Is that why there are no photos of you on your books? Yes.

Then why agree to all these students digging up your land?

Well, they only know me as Peter Stride,

only as David Cleeve.

And besides, I find the past fascinating.

Were you sleeping with Celia Dawe? What?!

We believe she was with a man the night she was shot.

She was in your cottage, alone.

Do you have a key? Well, yes, of course.

But I'm sorry, Superintendent, you've got the wrong fellow.

So we can have the clothes you wore that night?

Clothes?

And a blood sample for a DNA test - if it came to that, of course.

You don't think I shot her, do you?

Just trying to eliminate you from the enquiries, Mr Cleeve.

GUN IS COCKED

GUNSHOT

Morning.

Morning, sir.

Franks.

Roger Kitson, according to his credit cards.

Shot in the back of the head - a rifle, to go by the exit wound.

When? Not long. Since high tide if he was walking his dog.

I'll be more exact after the PM.

Was he walking his dog? The dog led that guy to the body.

Him over there? Yeah, he's just a beachcomber.

Well, if he was a local man out with his dog,

information should be easy to dig up.

OK, thanks.

About four o'clock, hopefully.

All right.

Bye.

Thank you very much.

Right.

Coincidence - two shootings in two days?

Don't like coincidences.

But it looks like two different weapons.

Oh?

Ballistics say Celia was shot with a handgun, 9mm.

So for now, we treat these shootings as separate.

You're in charge until I get back from HQ.

I try and find another SIO to look after Celia Dawe,

but I can't promise. OK.

In that case, can I have DC Potter and a mobile unit down here?

Fine.

Potter's wasted at the hospital if Celia won't come through.

I'll put in one of the uniform lads. Keep me posted.

I'll try and get back tonight

but you know how these departmental battles can go on.

Well, actually, I don't. Well, one day, no doubt, you will.

Worse luck.

The way some people live.

I wouldn't keep a dog like this.

Kitson did.

Ma'am.

Bus passes. Credit cards.

Driver's licences.

Company ID cards.

Passports.

Arthur Mitchell, Ronald Clark, Francis Collins.

Edward Zennon.

Roger Kitson...

Roger Kitson.

So who was he?

Some kind of card player?

Thanks very much for your time.

No problem.

What's this? Metro drivers' convention?

Response to the radio announcement, sir.

Did you win, sir? No, I didn't.

We're losing six officers and I'm heading up both these jobs.

They're bloody mad, sir.

I said something like that. Anything happening?

Kitson murder. Franks puts time of death at 10am. High-velocity rifle.

That's interesting.

And you have a visitor in your interview room, sir.

Right.

Celia wasn't the prettiest, but there was something about her.

I found her attractive and made sure she got the single cottage.

How? Faber.

He arranged it? They used my land for nothing.

He understood. Go on.

Then it just meant dropping by one evening and, well...

..playing the famous novelist card.

It's stood me in rather good stead over the years.

I can't seem to help it, Superintendent.

Some men - I'm ashamed to say I'm one -

who seem compelled to sleep with virtually every woman they meet.

Proving something, I suppose.

Deeply insecure, afraid of death.

Anyway, there it is. Do you understand what I'm saying?

Does your wife know?

She has the grace to regard it as... the price of my genius, I suppose.

From my wife I get comfort, security, a sense of continuity.

From the others, you name it... Celia Dawe?

Did your wife know about her too?

She spares herself the details.

You were with Celia two nights ago?

What happened?

It was utterly bizarre.

She was - she is - a young woman full of energy...

..and erm... we were in bed.

She suddenly rolled on top of me...

..and gave this great jerk and went limp.

Well, I thought I'd done my stuff, you know...

..and lay there holding her.

But when she didn't move or say anything, I began to be alarmed.

And then the pillow seemed wet.

So I turned on the lamp...

..and there was blood everywhere. I couldn't understand it.

You hadn't heard anything? A shot?

No. She was really quite passionate when roused.

What time was this? Just after three.

Why didn't you call an ambulance?

I know you don't think much of me.

I don't think much of myself.

It's just the way I react to crises. I don't know why.

Who do you think might have done it? I've no idea.

Unless... Unless they were aiming at me.

So um, how many women have you slept with

since you moved down here, Mr Cleeve?

It's been over 20 years!

Uh-huh.

Well...

..three hundred?

We're going to need a list.

Be sensible, Mr Wycliffe!

If an enraged husband or brother or lover is after you,

we've got to start somewhere.

I'll do my best. I can't guarantee it'll be exhaustive.

I understand.

In the meantime - the protection?

Oh, yes. Not really sure we can spare the manpower.

I'm a sitting duck up there! I've no way to protect myself.

I'm not sure your life is under threat.

So much for helping the police with their enquiries (!)

I'll have a formal statement taken.

By the way, do you know a Roger Kitson?

About your age. Tall. Might've been in the Army.

No. What's this about?

It's not important.

'Ronald Clark.'

No.

AH Watkins.

No first name? No.

Ever feel you're barking up the wrong tree?

OK, Doug. You're Cleeve.

I've just eaten, sir. Go on.

Suppose you want me to be Celia?

Get on with it.

Right, now, we know the shot came from here.

And that Celia was hit behind the left ear.

According to Cleeve, she was above him.

Then he turned her on her back and covered her up.

So...

You OK? Yeah.

Bang.

So, Doug, what do you do? Get dressed and leg it.

Which means?

I'm certain to have blood on my clothes.

That's right.

But if you'd shot me?

I'd get dressed first. No bloodstains at all.

Forensic's going to make interesting reading.

Morning, all. ALL: Morning, sir.

Sir...

..forensic.

Thank you.

"Garments revealed significant traces of the victim's blood."

So Cleeve's out of the frame. Not necessarily.

Well, unless he went outside in the nude, shot her...

..came back in, rolled about in her blood, then got dressed -

All right, all right. What about the boyfriend?

Redman? Too impulsive. You said so yourself. This was planned.

He's a better bet than Cleeve, sir. Anyone is.

Find out everything you can about David Cleeve.

Where he was born, his school, the colour of his first bike.

See if the Metro-being-serviced story checks out.

But the evidence backs his story.

"Story", yes. Bear that in mind.

Pearce. Come on. Sir.

Now, how can I help you, Mr Wycliffe?

Just one or two things, Mrs Cleeve.

Did your husband go out yesterday morning after I left?

Yes. Do you know where?

No. But whatever you suspect him of,

all I can say is, the night before, he was the worse for drink.

He often is.

I expect he was walking it off.

And you, Mrs Cleeve.

I'm sorry to ask you this...

..but what were you doing Monday night?

The night of the shooting?

Mr Wycliffe, if I were cursed with a jealous nature,

I'd be guilty of mass murder by now.

I was here, in bed, probably asleep.

And no, I don't have anyone to confirm that.

Well, thanks anyway.

Discretion - the sine qua non of these arrangements.

And the blind eye.

David seems to think that being famous and creative

means he doesn't have to live by other people's rules.

Why do you stay?

Oh, the heart, Mr Wycliffe.

The heart.

Well?

Milli's been his secretary for two years.

Works 9 to 6. No weekends. Monday was no exception.

Right. For as long as you're here, find out all you can.

You're not so much Cleeve's protection as his personal jailer.

Yes, sir.

Mr Wycliffe. The list you wanted.

Plus approximate dates.

Thank you.

Is Milli on it?

I forgot.

It's easily done.

I read in the paper this morning...

..chap found dead on the beach near Newquay. Roger Kitson?

Why do you ask?

You asked about him. You said he was my age?

Yes.

What did he look like, exactly?

I'll be in touch, Mr Cleeve.

Hello.

All the bridge clubs in a 30-mile radius, OK?

Ma'am, I think we've got something.

A bird-watcher was parked near the beach.

He remembers a yellow Metro just before the murder.

Did he get the number? Yep.

He'd heard about it on the radio. The owner is Mrs Barbara Prout.

We've already interviewed the driver, Gerald Prout.

Have we indeed?

Coincidence?

The Super doesn't believe in coincidences.

Yes?

DS Wycliffe, madam. And this is my colleague DI Lane.

We're investigating a car. A yellow Metro has been traced here.

Thank you.

Where's your husband, Mrs Prout?

He's away on business.

What sort of business?

He's a salesman. Has he been in touch?

He rang me yesterday. Why?

We need to talk to him urgently, Mrs Prout.

His car was seen at the scene of a crime. If we could -

My husband has never been in trouble. Perhaps not.

If we can talk to him, we could drop him from our enquiries.

Oh, yeah? I've heard that before.

I'm sorry?

Going to get the right man, are you?

We certainly hope so, Mrs Prout.

When your husband telephoned...

..did he say where he was? Staying in a farmhouse.

He left no address.

Do you have a number where you could contact him?

No.

He rang from a call box.

The car's registered in your name, Mrs Prout.

What of it?

Well, just for the record, you haven't used it yourself recently?

I'm not allowed to drive. Oh?

They took my licence away six months ago. I've not been well, you see.

When your husband calls again, Mrs Prout, please contact me.

I'll not be here.

I beg your pardon?

They've tried to put me off again, but I'll not be stopped!

I'm going to London! I don't understand.

I had a letter this morning from some office nobody.

Here.

Have a look.

"The Home Secretary regrets he will be unable to see you at this time."

I'll camp outside his bloody house all night if I have to, ill or not!

I've rung the press and the telly people. They'll be there.

He's got to see me!

Jonathan Welsh?

Was he your brother? Yes!

Shotton House killings, 1960.

Jonathan Welsh was hanged for shooting a policeman.

Murdered by the state on 15th April 1961!

They said in court the gun had two sets of fingerprints. He had a gun.

But my brother never pulled the trigger! He couldn't!

If you'd known what he was like.

Larkin did that. John Larkin!

The other two lied to save their skins.

But you're not interested - just like the rest of them.

Too busy protecting your precious legal system.

Cross. Jack of Hearts.

Roger John Cross!

He let my innocent brother hang, while he got off with a few years.

You call that justice?! Do you?

Roger Cross is dead, Mrs Prout.

Shot and killed two days ago.

Call HQ. Have a chopper sweep a 20-mile radius

looking for a yellow Metro near a farmhouse.

Nothing more precise? No. Four Jacks...

Welsh was murdered. Cross is dead.

Jack Shirley and John Larkin?

Let's hope we find them before Prout does.

Going somewhere, Mr Cleeve?

For a walk, if that's all right.

I'll get my coat.

I don't want company, thanks very much.

Superintendent Wycliffe's orders, sir.

I'm not to let you out of the house unaccompanied.

We're still concerned for your safety.

Forget it!

They all had Jack or John in their name somewhere.

Roger John Cross, John Larkin.

Thank you. Jack Shirley.

Jonathan Welsh.

Sir!

Jack Shirley's dead as well.

He had a heart attack in prison eight years ago.

And then there was one.

Larkin.

Sir!

They've found it! By the old engine house at Borlase Mine.

That's near here, isn't it? About ten mile.

Come on, Lucy.

Pass that on to Firearms, Dixon.

Doug, wait for that info on Cleeve, if that's who he is.

We'll soon have two bodies tucked up.

OK, I'll tell him.

The Metro's still there, but nothing going on inside.

Reckon he's there?

Let's wait for Firearms to find out.

Bad news. They're on another shout.

So we either play the hero, or wait.

We'll wait.

Darling, relax.

That's something I don't think I've managed in my entire life.

What you need is a holiday.

Why don't we? Three weeks, a month - once the new book is published.

We could go to the Bahamas.

Sir. Hm?

So, what have we got, sir?

Hope you don't mind, helping meself.

I'm going crazy, cooped up like this.

How long is this going to go on?

As long as necessary, sir.

Oh, God.

Until someone's caught for shooting Celia Dawe,

you're safer to stay put.

Sir, they've got a suspect.

Holed up in a cottage near Borlase clay pits.

Who?

Bloke called Prout.

Officers are surrounding the place.

Soon be under control, but best to stay tight.

Yes. Yes, of course.

I'll tell you when it's over. Constable?

Next time, would you knock?

Sorry.

Sir!

Stay here.

Nobody home.

Could be anywhere. But he's not out shooting rabbits.

9 millimetre.

Come on. All of you, follow me!

FAX RINGS

Get that, Andy, would you?

Stuff about Cleeve, by the look of it. Eh?

Well, guess what?

"David Paul Cleeve, born September 5th, Bristol, 1931.

"Died, October 12, 1944, Exeter General Hospital,

"multiple injuries sustained in road traffic accident same day."

Sir! It's Doug, he says David Cleeve is -

John Larkin. Yes, I know.

9 millimetre, same as killed Celia Dawe.

I know.

Bali.

Well, why not?

The world's our oyster.

Hm?

I'll go and get an atlas.

"Pearce?" Pearce receiving. Over.

Pearce, Lane here. "Receiving. Go ahead."

Go and see Cleeve.

RADIO STATIC

Sorry. Can you say that again?

"Pearce, can you hear me?"

Come on, give it to me.

Hello, Wycliffe here.

Keep Cleeve safe. Don't let him out of the house.

Understood.

One moment.

Yes?

Where is he? Well, he's in the study.

Hello, Larkin.

Prout?

BANGING ON DOOR

David! Round the back!

Stay where you are, Gerald.

Keep the gun pointing at the ground. Whatever you do, don't lift the gun!

It's over, Gerald. It's over.

We're police, you don't want to shoot us.

That's it. Drop the gun.

Let your fingers go. Drop it.

That's right.

I didn't get a chance... I couldn't...

Save it for the inquiry.

(SOBBING)

It took a long time to find him.

He covered his tracks real well.

Cleeve. Stride. Who'd have thought it?

Why now?

Larkin should have hanged 30 years ago.

So you wanted to see justice done?

Are you married, Mr Wycliffe?

They didn't just kill that young policeman and Jonny.

They killed us, too.

Our marriage! Our life together!

They finally killed Barbs for real.

Mrs Prout?

She's dying, Mr Wycliffe. Cancer.

Only got a few months left.

Hearing that was the last straw.

So what about Celia Dawe?

Where's the justice for her?

Yeah, I'm sorry about that.

They moved, didn't they?

I shouldn't have done that! Didn't mean it.

It's always the innocent who suffer, isn't it?

MONITOR BEEPS

CONTINUOUS TONE

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