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You ever think about maybe doing something else?

Changing your job?

I like the independence.

Strict Anglican orphanage.

Dartmouth Naval College, The Royal Navy,

Ravensbrook House.

Your history is a chain of dependence.

You said you often detested the work.

You tire of seeing detestable people

doing detestable things to each other.

You see no good, ever?

Some marriages should break up.

Some wives deserve a break, a lover.

Some husbands deserve to get screwed, sometimes.

And some husbands deserve to get screwed, sometimes.

They're still detestable, though.

People's behavior.

It affects yours?

Jesus, how I resent paying a babysitter five quid an hour

to sit watching TV.

What about you, Rachel?

Are you and John ever going to have children?

We...

We don't... Well...

We don't want to get married.

Excuse me.

I'm late. Sorry.

The case was... climaxing.

Mmm. Lucky case.

Been spying on anyone interesting lately, John?

You know, the usual.

Flagged many outrageously priced two-up two-downs.

The Navy's old family quarters down at Seaview.

But I've just taken instructions

on an entire estate near Winchester.

Vacant tied cottages, too.

That's... great, Henry.

That was good, Rach. Thank you.

Boys food.

How boys like everything.

Hot and wet, and on a plate.

- You okay? - You'll think I'm silly.

Henry thinks I'm completely mad, but...

Anyway.

I found an old answer phone machine

when I was cleaning out stuff from under the stairs.

Must've been left by the person who owned the house before us.

This tape was left in it.

What's on it?

Well, nothing, really. It's just...

A feeling.

A feeling I had.

I sense that something happened.

In our house.

Would you listen to it?

- Tell me what you think. - What sort of thing?

Well, let's see what you think, first.

150 a day plus expenses.

Joke.

Hello, old man.

How's the boat coming?

You'd love her, old man.

Almost sea worthy.

I'll have a look at this.

See something you fancy?

No.

Yes.

No.

Something I saw in a movie.

Oh... What sort of movies have you been watching, exactly?

Home movies, what else?

My favorite kind.

What are you doing?

- I have to go. - Now?

Got another job on.

What about me?

Job done.

Bastard.

I'm not in just now.

Leave your name and number and a message after the tone.

And I'll call you back. Thanks. Bye.

I'm not in just now.

Leave your name and number and a message after the tone.

And I'll call you back. Thanks. Bye.

Do you think the voyeuristic nature

of what you do, what you see,

affects your own behavior?

- My sexual behavior? - Yes.

Your sexual fantasies.

The greater part of our lives is spent with ourselves.

Alone with what's in here.

No matter with whom we may share or lives,

our imagination is the only companion chained to us

for the whole of our existence.

And that constant companion

feeds on what it sees.

You follow people, you watch them.

Watch them alone.

With others.

You wait.

Silently.

Invisibly.

Observing their indiscretion.

Capturing their...

vulnerability.

For money.

- That's one way of seeing it. - How do you see it?

Clients pay me to see what they don't want to see.

To prove or disprove their suspicions.

Does what you see

ever become part of your own sexual fantasies?

Feed your constant companion?

My skipper?

I don't believe it.

He's fished for the family for years.

What the fuck will my old man say?

Sling your hook?

Tanner!

Your wife.

You were right, Mr. Bowles. She...

likes to dress up.

It's all in the tape.

Where?

A hotel?

Our home?

Your boat.

What do I owe you, Mr. Duval?

Cash or check?

Who's the picture, Mr. Bowles?

It's my son.

From my first marriage.

Cash.

John Duval.

To see Commander Calthorpe, HMS Eminence.

Yeah.

- Thank you, sir. - Cheers.

Come in.

- John. - Bill.

Thanks for coming. Have a seat.

Drink?

Thanks.

Let me see, you have a little problem?

Presumably, private. Otherwise, you wouldn't be talking to me.

It's a...

delicate little problem?

It needs to be handed sensitively by someone.

An ex sneaky beaky would be good,

who understands that, even in the Silent Service,

tongues wag.

You suspect your wife is having an affair.

Bad enough.

Worse. You think she's having it

not with a ranking officer, but with a rating.

You're due to sit a promotion board to become captain.

Be on a list for a destroyer?

Carrier, perhaps? This carrier?

And this embarrassment would scuttle your chances.

Can't even handle a little wifey.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear.

And with a rating.

Not captain material.

You want me to gather the intel,

persuade the couple in question

that a secession of their activities

would be everybody's best interest,

without revealing your involvement in the operation.

Anything else?

The fucker's name.

How did you...?

It's not uncommon, believe me.

I'll need a recent photo of your wife.

Home address and a key.

Find an excuse to stay on board for the next few days.

And the nights.

Why did you leave the Navy?

You never leave the Navy.

You may not be in her anymore, but she's always in you.

That's a curious way to put it.

Sexual, controlling.

Is that why you left?

You didn't like being controlled

by a woman?

No.

Do you like being controlled by women?

No.

But I am.

Men inevitably are.

Are they?

A river has but one direction.

Towards the sea.

You made Lieutenant Commander.

Why did you take early retirement?

It'll be in my notes.

I resigned to my commission because I was no longer fit

to carry out my duties.

Mr. Duval?

Detective Inspector Ambrose.

- How nice. - Isn't it?

This is Detective Sergeant Pinker.

Any copies?

VHS are enough for the client.

- Mr. Bowles, Sr.? - Yeah.

We can take this?

If you're into that sort of thing.

Graphic, are they?

Nice.

We'll need to isolate your print from the crime scene.

Nice place you have here, John.

Very distinct.

Unusual.

What's down below?

A boat house.

What's in it?

A boat.

Yours?

I'm rebuilding an old Nelson.

- You can see her, if you'd like. - No, thanks.

Not very keen on boats, today.

You mind telling me where you were

at around 3:30 this morning?

- Do I need a lawyer, Inspector? - If you'd like.

If you're guilty.

Guilty of being asleep in bed, alone.

A water-tight alibi.

I like that.

We haven't been able to make

a positive ID on the victim, as yet.

Her face was...

We're checking dental records.

Mrs. Bowles has disappeared,

as has Mr. Bowles' son.

Her mouth was stuffed with a hand towel to silence her.

She was then beaten, tied down and raped.

Decapitation,

the severance of the carotid artery, to be precise,

was the cause of death.

The limbs were then amputated.

And your videotapes depict the exact same sexual position.

Albeit, physiologically correctly orientated.

Could anyone have watched the DVD

or saw the VHS copy you gave Mr. Bowles

other than Mr. Bowles himself?

No, I don't think so.

And I only gave Bowles the VHS this morning.

I see.

Do you recognize her?

If that had been done to me,

I don't think I'd recognize myself.

Ladies and gentlemen. for your gaming pleasure,

I give you the amazing Balloon Buster!

Sorry.

Dark green Range Rover.

License Papa, 8, 9, 8, Moscow, Delta, Alpha.

Thanks.

Yes?

Registered to Andrew Harrison.

Marshbank, North Shore Road, Hayling Island.

Thanks. I owe you, mate.

North Shore Road.

Hayling Ferry.

Clarence Pier Arcade.

Seemed the best way to talk in private.

That's okay.

Makes a change from flabby, pasty old women.

Lie down.

Face up.

So, according to the Land Registry Office,

the previous owner of your house was a Mary Woodward.

Lived there for seven years.

Council tax records show she vacated

six months before you moved in.

I listened to that answer machine tape you gave me.

There're no incoming messages, just the outgoing.

Which means it's been wiped.

- Wiped? - Analog tape.

Once you've listened to your messages, the tape rewinds.

The next message records over. There'd be something there.

Unless Woodward never turned the machine on

or never received a caller who left a message.

Unlikely. So, it's been wiped.

So...

So...

You're going tight.

- So? - So, I don't understand.

What gave you cause for...

concern?

A feeling.

As in a feminine intuition-type feeling?

Watch it, Duval.

I've got you in my power, in case you hadn't noticed.

I hadn't.

But...

You have, now.

That's sexual harassment.

That's sexual harassment.

Why did we break up? I forget.

You started sleeping with my best friend.

Oh, yeah.

And then you married mine.

Oh, yeah.

Perhaps you should stop.

Perhaps I should.

Come on.

You better turn over.

Okay, so, what sort of feeling?

Sometimes, recently, I...

see things.

Flashes of...

images.

Something releases an energy and I feel it. See it.

It can be a person I touch, or an object.

An answering machine.

Yeah. And something happens.

Transcendental fucking energy. Wow.

Fuck off, John. It's true.

Okay.

So, what happened in this case?

Henry wants us to have a baby.

I'm not sure, yet. Not ready, I guess.

We've been rowing quite a lot.

Nothing major. Just... wanting different things.

One night, we had a huge fight.

A slump in the housing market.

He was fed up, depressed.

I was hormonal, feeling fat and frumpy.

Hell to be around.

I didn't want to discuss getting pregnant

or anything to do with sex.

He stormed out.

I was very upset.

I was making toast.

Comfort food.

I spilled coffee on the toaster. Blew the trip switch.

I was under the stairs, with a candle,

moving stuff to get to the electricity box.

And...

I touched that old answering machine and...

And what?

I saw a woman

lying in the bath.

White, like a ghost.

Just for a second.

Naked.

No water in the bath, but...

- she was dead. - Dead.

Was there any blood?

Not really.

There was a red tide mark around the bath, but...

they were lying in the bath with her.

Her arms and legs...

They'd been cut off.

And her head.

A switch.

Did you touch anything,

other than her pulse?

Would you touch anything down there you don't have to?

Why did you take her pulse?

To see if she was dead.

- You thought she might be alive? - No.

But it was possible.

We'll need your clothes for the lab boys.

Ma'am.

Clothes, keys.

Interesting, your gaffe.

You noticed that before, Detective Inspector.

You are withholding evidence

from a police murder investigation,

Mr. Private Peeping Tom Detective?

Evidence?

Did you have a search warrant?

I gave you the originals.

Don't play your hard cop bollocks with me, Jane.

Calm down, John.

Did you know the Hayling Island victim?

I don't know. I couldn't tell from...

I don't know.

Her hair appeared to be light brunette.

About 5'8", mid-thirties.

I've been following a woman of that description.

When did you last see this woman?

Yesterday, 2:49 p.m.

2:49 p.m.

- Where? - The Amusement Arcade.

On Clarence Pier. She gave me the slip.

She gave you the slip? Or you lost her?

Possible. But I think she gave me the slip.

- What was her name? - She got in a Range Rover,

registered on North Shore Rd., Hayling Island.

- What was her name? - Rosemary Calthorpe.

Why were you following her?

Her husband asked me to.

Fucking somebody else, was she?

Maybe, but you don't even know if it's her.

- If she's dead. - No.

But I do know who is.

We've identified the boat victim.

Does the name...

Rachel Garvie...

mean anything to you,

Mr. Duval?

How do you feel about her death?

Do you feel anything at the death?

Yes!

Of course I fucking do! Jesus!

I'd prefer you not to smoke in here.

You said you liked the smell.

It's a prop.

Something you hide behind.

You use it to burn away the time.

But you do like it. The smell.

How do you feel about her death?

Guilty.

That should increase circulation.

Hey! Yeah, I bet.

First decent psycho killer I've had

since I was a young buck on the Plymouth Herald.

When was that?

Mid-1960s.

Some sadistic bastard got tied up

and dissected in front of his kid.

Probably by his battered, fucked-up wife.

Never found her. Kid put into care.

Nice. Don't you want a pint?

Thanks, the mild.

And, what's the story? I've not read it.

We have a brutal and sadistic

psychopathic serial killer in town.

And my editor is jumping for fucking joy.

Serial killer? Police are saying they're linked?

They aren't. We are.

They aren't saying anything.

Just that there've been two female bodies found.

And they both died from savage attacks.

And what do you know that they don't?

Nothing.

I just know what they suspect and ain't saying.

Police informer.

You got it.

It's a symbiotic relationship. You know what I mean?

You fuck them, they get fucked by you.

Keep it.

Come on.

Do you know the identities of the victims?

One, the marina.

We haven't printed it, yet.

Sensitivity to the victim's family.

Responsibility to the community, all that shit.

It'll be in tomorrow.

Rachel Garvie.

40 years old.

- Architect. - Yeah.

How did you know that?

She was my girlfriend.

You're joking.

Fuck me! You're not.

I need a favor.

Sure, whatever.

Can you give me a list of female missing persons

from the Portsmouth era going back, say, ten years?

And a list of female murders.

Missing persons turned up dead

reported from the same period.

It's all computerized, now. Yeah.

By some time tomorrow afternoon?

- Okay. - Thanks. I'll call you.

I'll need that sensitive, responsible bit from you,

for the time being.

Keep me out of it, if you can.

If I come up with anything, you get the exclusive. Deal?

Deal.

Excuse me, ma'am.

They're taking our darling's things.

They'll return them soon.

All set.

Two days at the most, Mrs. Garvie.

We've gone through her place already.

Why take them at all?

They hope to find evidence to suggest a motive.

That Rachel's death wasn't random.

Mr. and Mrs. Garvie,

did your daughter have a pierced tummy button? Do you know?

Uh, yes.

She wore a silver stud in it.

Was she...

wearing it when you...?

After her dinner party, that night?

Yes.

- When you left her? - Yes.

Right.

Well, I think we're done here, for now.

Um, when will you be able to return our daughter to us,

Inspector, for... burial?

Tomorrow, sir. The coroner's findings

would've been completed by the end of today.

I thought to have her resting on me for eternity.

Not the other way around.

What about Duval, ma'am?

Are we going to bring him in again?

No, I want a positive ID

on the Hayling Island victim first.

You do realize I'm their prime suspect, don't you, sir?

They asked about you.

About your relationship with our daughter.

What did you say?

That it was volatile on occasion.

The way most are.

One way or another.

Some time or another.

That you...

hurt her quite badly, once.

I see.

They're coming! Quick! Quick!

My ship was fatally hit during the engagement.

In San Carlos water.

She rolled.

Turned upside down.

Flooding fast.

Disorientated.

Water rising up or down, left and right.

Abstract concepts. Just...

flooding blackness.

There was air, for a while.

You couldn't breathe it in.

The South Atlantic sucked it from you.

Drove it from your screaming lungs.

Screaming lungs, all around.

Blind, freezing, panic.

Titanic groaning metal.

The most stark of human emotions...

the terror of death.

Time was...

silent.

I found myself with Sparks and Rafter.

We fought our way through an open bulkhead door.

A gangway.

But... which way?

Upside down, dark, water rising.

I thought to port, they, to starboard.

They went one way, I, the other. I survived.

They were never seen again.

I was repatriated to England. Recovered, reassigned.

But I never wanted to go to sea again.

Not very useful, that, in the Navy.

The Navy moved you into intelligence?

Or did you chose it?

I was selected.

Naval intelligence is one of the best postings open to you

as a non-seagoing sailor.

Where you in any way qualified for the job?

I could salute pretty well, read and write,

know how to ask

if any of the local whores spoke a little Russian,

if that's what you mean.

All of the qualifications you need

to be a run-of-the-mill sneaky beaky, believe me.

But I was a lifer.

Had to do something.

And I suppose I was good.

Then why do only eight years?

Why not go your full term?

It'll be in my notes, the answer you're looking for.

The answers I'm looking for can't be read.

At least, not from words on a page.

The news and weather

coming up at the top of the hour.

Before that, I'll be going through

the great kids events organized around the region

for Easter weekend.

You're listening to Solent 106 FM.

Come in, John.

Hi.

That's the tape?

Yeah.

I need to know the message

that was on there before it got wiped.

You think it's possible to retrieve something?

These days seems anything's possible.

I'll give it to one of our teenage geeks.

It's urgent, right?

Yesterday.

David Frampton, News Desk, please.

David? John Duval.

Did you get those lists?

Perfect. Bridge Tavern, one o'clock?

Thanks.

Mrs. Calthorpe?

No, she's not here right now.

Can I help?

My name is John Duval.

I'm a private detective, Mrs. Calthorpe.

Can we talk?

Come in.

But my sister is not here, as I said.

- Your sister? - Rosie.

Rosemary Calthorpe.

My twin sister.

- And you are...? - Sorrel Green.

Is that your married or your maiden name?

What is it that you do?

I'm a private detect...

I'm new to the case.

The case?

When was the last time you saw your sister, Mrs. Green?

Sorrel. And it's miss.

Why?

I made some coffee. Do you want some?

White, no sugar. Thanks.

Sorrel and Rosemary. Huh.

What was your dad? A chef? Herb gardener?

A hippie.

He wanted to call us after his favorite herbs,

tobacco and marihuana.

Mom wouldn't let him.

Sorrel and Rosemary were her favorites.

So, what was your dad, John?

Or would that be impertinent of me to ask?

I never knew my parents.

Lucky you.

Next question?

Have you seen your sister since 3 o'clock in the afternoon

the day before yesterday?

- No. - Where were you last night?

Why?

You've seen the news.

Two women are dead.

I was out.

I came back about 11:30 and I went to bed.

You drank some wine, white.

Undressed upstairs, took a shower.

Yes. How did...?

Very cute.

Very cute, all over.

You were outside.

You watched me.

Your sister got one of those, there.

Behind her left knee.

Then, yes. Sorry about that.

You sister wears a silver ankle bracelet

on her right ankle, too?

Identical.

Identical.

Thanks for the coffee.

What about my sister?

I'll come back tonight.

If that's okay.

Copies of everything on file.

I put in that piece I mentioned, too.

My first front page?

It could be a connection.

Thanks.

They identified number two?

- No. You? - No.

See you around, mate.

Cheers.

Fish market pressing charges.

Relieved me of my position.

Do you have a boat? Might have a day's work.

Cash, for a good sailor with a rib.

There's one at the yard,

where I'm picking up beer money scrapping old ship.

- Marine yard? - Yeah.

How much does a good sailor make for a day's work?

A hundred.

When it's on, I'll find you.

Okay.

We'll do a DNA check against the twin sister.

Speak to the husband again.

Was she wearing a silver ankle bracelet?

- No, why? - According to the sister,

she wore an identical one to her own.

Rachel's silver tummy stud was missing.

He keeps a souvenir.

A trophy.

If you've got a motive for me,

by any chance, Mr. Private Detective...

Not yet,

Detective Inspector.

Except...

Something to do...

with me.

By the way, we've located Mrs. Bowles.

Shacked up with her stepson.

- One piece of the puzzle solved. - Great!

Everything's falling into place, then.

This missing landlady,

Mary Woodward... Was her body ever found?

- The Gazette didn't report it? - No.

Even I'd recall a case of murder

involving amputation and decapitation.

Have you traced a relative, anyone who knew her,

something with silver body jewelry?

Tenuous link.

Other than amputation and decapitation?

Well, the second body was not dismembered.

He was disturbed before he was done.

Have you had somebody following me?

And I'd tell you if I had?

Lieutenant Charles Carter, please.

Chuck, it's Johnny. I need a favor.

A blurb on someone who's serving jack, I think.

Andrew Harrison.

It's no big deal, a divorce case.

He may have been banging the wife.

I'd like to try and keep the Navy out of it, if I can.

Fax it to me. Thanks.

How did you work the switch?

What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in?

My client gave me the code.

- Rosie? - Commander Calthorpe.

Bill?

Why is Bill a client?

I'm beginning to wonder that myself.

Where's the dibs?

- The what? - The money. The pesetas.

What you're talking about?

Are you always that cautious?

One twin enters a crowded public place,

the other takes over, the first slips back out.

Whose money was it?

- Do you want to let go of me? - Sure.

Tell me what's going on first.

Or what?

Are you going to hurt me?

You look the type.

Or are you just the type who likes to look...

from the shadows?

- Your sister... - Fuck my sister.

Fuck me.

Did you rape Chief Petty Officer Diane Waters?

Or having been reported as having sex with you

as serving officer, did she cry "rape"

to avoid a court-martial and dismissal from the Navy?

That was the evidence.

The answers you're looking can't be read.

At least, not from words on a page.

I was investigating a fairly lowkey case

down on the rock. Gib, the rock of Gibraltar.

It involved around-the-clock surveillance.

Chief Petty Officer Waters was assigned

to assist during the silent hours.

Silent hours?

Navy's language.

The night period on a warship

between pipe down and call the hands.

During which time, watch bells are not struck

and only emergency pipes can be made.

- The ship runs silent. - I see.

Do you mind?

Go on.

I don't remember.

Her face was pretty battered.

Bruising on her arms and around her throat.

Around the back of her thighs where her underwear

had been pulled down and ripped off.

The semen she apparently discharged

matched my blood type.

Did I rape her?

I don't remember.

The blackout.

Third night on, we've been getting...

closer.

She was cute, young, flirtatious.

I remember kissing her, undoing her top.

Then feeling sick.

Spinning.

Disorientated, panic.

Flooding...

blackness.

Time was silent?

Yeah, we're on our way. Okay, bye.

Ma'am, looks like we got another one.

Cleaning discovered the body when she went to get

the laundry basket from the top floor bathroom.

Where in Old Portsmouth?

Bath Square. The old harbormaster's house.

What? I cannot fucking believe it!

That's where we're headed anyway.

Ma'am.

John Duval's machine,

please leave me a message

and I'll get back to you.

Thanks.

Tanner!

Didn't flush away.

Still got sperm inside and a similar bruising pattern

on her buttocks and hips to Rachel Garvie.

- Time of death? - So much blood loss,

lying in the water, hard to say.

Somewhere between midnight and four.

- So the same as the others. - Yeah.

Why go through all the trouble of slicing them up like that?

And then playing Mr. Slice and Dice

with the offcuts.

Well, thank you for that, Detective.

Satanic ritual or...

some deranged religious nut?

And why... Why kill her in the bath

and then fill it up with water?

Cleanses away any forensics.

- Or less mess for everybody. - Mm.

How very fucking thoughtful.

The rib's fully fueled.

What time do you want it out?

Tonight. High tide's around midnight.

You get the other 50 when we get back.

Meet me here at midnight.

Henry?

Hello, old man.

What the hell are you doing here?

I thought that was your Jeep I saw.

I came just say farewell to an old mistress.

I went to the Gulf on Dorset in '91. My last posting.

Are you going to the funeral this afternoon?

I won't be able to stay for the bash afterwards, sorry.

Oh, sure.

I have to go. Are you coming?

I'll... I'll stay for a bit. See you later.

John?

You have one message.

John, it's Harriet Blakeney.

The geeks retrieved bits of a message.

Some bloke asking if there are any vacant rooms.

Do you want me to hang on to the tape

to pick up or send it back to you?

Give us a call at Solent. See you.

End of messages.

- Solent? - FM. The radio station.

- Check it. - Okay.

Ma'am?

That message was from a radio producer

with Solent FM.

Well, what are you waiting for? Go get the tape.

I hope that's all fish bait.

Get it to the lab boys. Poor bastards.

I have three bodies.

Three brutal murders in four days.

And I have you, Mr. Duval.

I have your fingerprints all over Mr. Bowles' boat cabin,

deck hatch, deck rails.

Traces of semen, your DNA match

in the first victim, Rachel Garvie.

Finger mark bruising on her buttocks and hips

consistent with your hand size.

A similar bruising pattern in the same places

on the third victim, Sorrel Green.

I have a used condom in her bathroom.

I have traces of blood on the jeans

and the boxer shorts you wore last night.

And this morning, I have traces of blood

under your fingernails. I have your fingerprints

at the scene on Hayling Island.

And the second victim, Rosemary Calthorpe's blood

on your clothing.

And I have you conveniently at the crime scene

when the body's discovered to account for this.

You begin to see the problem, don't you?

I had sex with Rachel earlier on the night she was killed.

I was rough with her, she enjoyed that sometimes.

- Did you? - Yes, sometimes.

- That night? - Yes.

Is that what happened when you put her in hospital?

For the record, the witness has nodded

as confirmation to my last question.

What happened on that occasion?

Rachel had been told by her gynecologist she was...

That she couldn't have children. She wanted children desperately.

She was...

violently upset, screaming,

thrashing at me in a violent frenzy.

So you had violent sex.

Emotions ran high, passions ran higher.

- More violent than usual. - Wasn't usual, but yes.

I have here a copy of a medical report

from Queen Alexandra Hospital Portsmouth

sent to Rachel Garvie's GP in May, 2000.

On that occasion, did you tie her hands and feet

to the bed posts with her stockings,

pulling their strings so tight as to cause

bruising and silk burns to her wrists and ankles?

Did you put your hands around her throat

to restrict her ability to breathe

to simulate strangulation?

Penetrate her so forcefully as to cause

severe bruising and blood loss?

Well, Mr. Duval?

Sorry, could you speak up, for the record?

Yes, but it wasn't like that.

- We're still together, right? - Are you?

Did you rape her?

- No. - No?

She wanted it that way, needed it,

wanted me to hurt her.

Really hurt her. I don't fucking know.

You think I understood? It scared me.

Did you rape her that night?

- No! - Then how, later that night,

did she come to find herself sexually abused

and violently dead in a boat

in a marina, with your fingerprints all over

and your semen in her bruised vagina?

I told you already, I was

on a surveillance operation where her body was found.

For the owner, he thought his wife saw someone else.

How Rachel's body got there and why, I don't know.

- And Rosemary Calthorpe? - I checked her pulse

on the off chance that she wasn't dead!

I didn't know the body, that it was

Mrs. Calthorpe, a woman who connected

with another case of mine.

I was tailing Mrs. Calthorpe the day before. I lost her.

I was looking for her when...

I found her.

I went to the old harbor master's house that night,

looking for evidence to support her husband's suspicion

that she was having an affair.

And if so, if that affair might explain her death.

I saw Mrs. Calthorpe's twin sister at the house

and believed her to be Mrs. Calthorpe.

I went back there to see Mrs. Calthorpe yesterday.

I saw Sorrel, and realized the woman I'd seen

the night before was her and not Rosemary.

From information Sorrel gave me about Rosemary

I presumed the worst and went with you to the morgue.

My suspicions were confirmed.

The body was that of Rosemary Calthorpe,

the wife of my client, Commander Calthorpe.

I went back to the old harbor master's house

to see her sister.

Did you have sex with Sorrel Green last night?

Yes! I used a condom, which she supplied.

I was a little rough, she wanted that.

I see.

Did you tell Sorrel about her twin sister being dead

before or after you had sex with her?

Before.

She took it well, then.

Not too upset to have sex with you,

a comparative stranger.

On the contrary, she needed...

She was very upset. Devastated.

She wanted to suffer, she wanted to hurt.

Wow. You're a handy man to have around

at times of emotional crises.

Did you cause her to bleed when you were a little rough?

- No. - Then how do you account

for her blood under your fingernails

- and on your clothing? - She was menstruating.

What about the rope?

- The rope? - The rope used to tie

the wrists and ankles of Rachel Garvie and Sorrel Green

was cut from a spinnaker sheet.

The coils from which those lengths were cut

we found in a locker

in the Nelson in your boatshed.

Do you still want to waive your right

to a solicitor being present, John?

Why would I keep a spinnaker sheet

on a motorboat, then leave it for you to find?

I'm being set up.

Why?

Was Sorrel wearing a silver bracelet chain

on her right ankle when you found her body?

No.

Interview suspended, 12:10.

Check with the pathologist

whether Sorrel Green was on the rag.

The heads on those old machines will crack.

They only really erase the high frequency waves,

leaves a sort of sound shadow.

You'd need to record over to fully lose what was there.

Thanks.

You have one message.

John, it's Harriet Blakely.

The geeks retrieved bits of a message,

Some bloke asking if there are any vacant rooms.

Do you want me to hang on to the tape

to pick up or send it back to you?

Give us a call at Solent. See you.

End of message.

To return the call, press 3.

Harriet, it's John.

I got your message. Do you still got the tape?

No, you did right. Thanks.

Okay, bye.

We have but a short time to live.

Like a flower, we blossom and then wither,

like a shadow we flee and never stay.

In the midst of life we are in death.

To whom can we turn for help but to you, Lord?

You are justly angered by our sins.

Yes, Lord God, most holy, Lord most mighty.

Oh, holy and most merciful savior,

deliver us from the bitter pain of eternal death.

Lord, you know the secrets of our hearts.

Hear our prayer, oh God most mighty.

Spare us, most worthy Judge eternal,

at our last hour let us not fall from you.

And so, we have entrusted our sister Rachel

to God's mercy.

And now, we commit her body to the ground.

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Ensure a certain hope with a resurrection

to eternal life through Our Lord Jesus Christ,

who will transform our frail bodies

that they may be conformed to His glorious body,

who died, was buried and rose again for us.

To Him be glory, for ever and ever. Amen.

Would you excuse me?

Excuse me.

Where's Henry rushed off to?

Near Winchester. Measuring up an entire estate.

He's just taking instructions.

That'll take him the best part of a week.

- He's staying down there? - He'll stay.

Gets him out of my hair.

You'll not be pregnant yet, then?

Yeah, right.

- Beer? - Who do you think?

You okay?

Uh, yeah. A little cold.

- I'm fine. - Thanks for coming back.

- I needed company. - Can I use your shower?

- It's been a long day. - Sure.

- Can I watch you undress? - Sure. Why not?

You've been staring at my tits all afternoon.

- Isn't that what you wanted? - What do you think?

Did I hurt you?

It's okay.

The police spoke to you and Henry about Rachel?

They came to the house, asked all sorts of questions.

Such as?

Such as what happened at dinner that night,

what your relationship with Rachel was like.

Did she have any stalkers?

Any unwanted attention from anyone?

That sort of thing.

Had she any other lovers who in any way

were violent towards her?

And had she?

Not that I know of.

Did you tell them about us?

They already knew from Rachel's parents

that we used to go out.

Until you started seeing Rachel.

Asked if I was jealous of Rachel.

Was I still holding a torch for you?

And what did you say?

No! Jesus. In front of Henry?

He's already convinced that I am.

That I still want you back, that I'm seeing you on the side.

But you are.

But Henry doesn't know I'm here, does he?

I don't know. Does he?

No! Please, John.

- What did they ask Henry? - Shit!

How long you've known each other?

Been mates? About...

his time in the Navy, why did Henry leave?

Why did you leave? Was Henry jealous of you?

Fuck! You know?

Please, babe, I need you now.

You always were the best sex.

Dangerous.

You found peace.

Isn't that what you wanted?

Was it?

I could have killed Rachel for taking you from me.

Peace is only peace when there's

a little violence, now and then.

I could surprise you some night. I still have a key, somewhere.

You could wake up to find me kissing you,

sucking you.

You would like that, wouldn't you?

Go on, get out of here.

Sorry about busting you to Johnson.

Not the same as he was, anyway.

Back in the old days, we used to wear it

for days at a time.

It was fish then, had to ice them in the boat to keep them fresh.

Nice and easy till we clear the point.

Don't want to be stopped by the harbor police.

Come up 30 degrees. The abandoned Fort.

- Who actually owns that one? - Ministry of Defense.

Use channel 1.

If any boats come near, click once.

Wait until you hear two back.

Don't show any lights once I'm inside.

Boat coming. A rib coming out.

- Has the tide turned yet? - Yes.

Slip your lines, drift out to see, lie low.

I'll contact you to pick me up. Out.

Harrison!

Psychopaths... tell me what you know about them.

Not the common old garden. The killer variety.

As in the Portsmouth ripper? Mr. Slice and Dice?

Jesus! Is that what they're calling him?

Sensational shorthand sells news.

A psychopath is someone

suffering from a severe mental disorder

which typically manifests

in aggressive antisocial behavior.

I can read that in a dictionary.

I mean, where does the mental disorder come from?

Why are they like that? Who are they?

What do they want? Why do they become murderers?

The murderer is different from other human beings

in degree, not in kind.

They want what you and I want.

- And what's that? - Someone to love.

Something to do. Something to look forward to.

To feel fulfilment.

And they get that by killing?

They are you and me.

Except, somewhere along the line,

usually very early, in childhood, they get isolated.

Victimized. Perhaps bullied.

Sexually abused.

A violent home, an alcoholic parent

who beats them.

Some trauma.

A catalyst which pushes them into isolation.

Their isolation leads them to feel inadequate.

Rejected.

They mature into rejected adults,

separated from normal society.

Loners.

They have desires.

Sexual desires.

Frustration. Sexual frustrations.

They have no one to confide in.

They're ashamed of their perceived inadequacy.

Isolated in their frustration,

their desires become confused obsessions.

Their constant companion gets to work.

Starts to feed on their obsessions. Coveting.

Coveting what it can't get

through normal social interaction.

Struggling to straighten the confusion.

Eventually, the chain snaps.

The constant companion takes control, takes power.

And power over others, over the chosen victims,

the object of their obsession,

supplies the ultimate fulfilment.

The power over life and death.

Order out of chaos.

Fancy dinner one night?

Order after chaos.

I don't get involved with my patients.

How do you help if you don't get involved?

I mean, I don't get involved personally.

That would be breaking my rules.

You've already broken one, why not another?

- Such as? - You're not smoking

during your sessions.

Isn't that one of your personal rules?

The car park in Suffolk on the top of Portsdown Hill?

Thanks, Chuck.

The Ministry of Defense have it up for sale.

Are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on?

A frigate, a destroyer, a carrier, whatever.

On exercises, patrol in the Med

or the Indian Ocean, the Pacific.

Everywhere in the world through sewers comes into Gib.

Fills to the gunnels with cheap fuel,

takes on provisions, literally tons of meat,

tons of potatoes, vegetables, fresh food, canned, frozen,

booze, water, confectionery, tobacco, the lot.

And that for hundreds of men and women

for up to a month or more. Now that is a fucking big order.

Local Spanish supplier is keen for the business.

Someone at the base takes a big kickback from the supplier.

He always goes with, in cash, pesetas.

Splits it with the XO, say, for organizing things on board

in such a way to make birthing in Gibraltar necessary.

Three or four patrols a year, six to eight stops at Gib,

and your officer is making

maybe the equivalent of 250 grand a year.

Jesus Christ.

He stashes it in his private safe.

On return to Portsmouth, if customs come aboard,

no problem, safe's untouchable. Top secret material.

Operational codes, strategic NATO orders.

He slips the cash ashore.

Is this somehow linked

to Leading Seaman Harrison's disappearance?

- He's still a no-show, then? - Yeah.

Twelve years ago, I was investigating

this loophole in the Navy's procedures.

I never completed my investigation.

Chief Petty Officer Diane Waters.

I read your service record.

- Yeah, I was set up. - I know she disappeared.

And that's why no charges were against you

once you were sent back, no witness.

- Did she ever turn up? - Never seen again.

Handy.

And over the 12 years since,

our officer has made three million quid

to add to his pension.

So what? It's not like he's been ripping off

the Navy or the government.

Ship's got to eat. The Spanish supplies

the one who's paying, and glad to.

Profiteering is a court-martial offence.

HMS Dorset?

D-93.

It was decommissioned last year awaiting sale or scrap.

Did you really think I wouldn't find out?

Welcome aboard, John.

Pull up a chair, have a drink.

Join me in my compassionate leave.

My old ship and I have been expecting you.

Why tell me the story of you wife

having an affair with a rating?

I didn't. You told me.

All I wanted was the name of the ship blackmailing me.

Harrison.

Maybe.

Not clever enough for a solo op.

Clerical liaison with a NAAFI here.

Sorts out the paperwork when required for a bung.

Just another petty scam among many.

Then who?

Someone Rosie was fucking.

Someone who knew about Gib.

Someone who told Rosie what I'd been up to

all these years.

Used her to get to my money.

I was doing it for her.

For us. I loved her.

But she couldn't keep a secret from Rosie.

I had to tell her everything.

There's nothing thicker than blood.

And that bitch.

Fucking around, being obvious, embarrassing me.

I fell in love with the wrong sister first.

Wait a minute, you and the twin? Sorrel.

Man, you like it dangerous.

Why keep this money in cash over the years?

Why not bank it?

Bank accounts can be traced.

Once I started putting payments in the system,

that would've been a trail back to me. Too risky.

Too many security checks.

The Euro screwed you big time.

All that cash being tucked away for you retirement

about to become, well...

just a shitload of Spanish bog paper.

Why not go to Spain? Quick, spend it buying

houses, boats, vineyards, whatever.

Before January 1st this year, then sell. Clean money.

No. September 11th.

All leave cancelled. Report to your ship.

Imminent sent to the Indian Ocean...

...for a war

in bloody Afghanistan, of all places.

Why do it in the first place?

Your family's loaded, why risk your career?

You're joking, aren't you?

Lloyd's wiped us out years ago.

Heatherington has been mortgaged and remortgaged

just to keep the place going.

A Navy pension, even an admiral's one,

wouldn't cover that.

Have a drink, old man.

I didn't know it was you, you know?

You would've found me.

You were persistent. Slow but sure.

Hooks a marlin ten-pound line

and plays it all day but brings it in.

You would've got me in the end.

That why you set me up?

Mm? Pulled the string.

Got some cute little petty officer

assigned to me, rubbing herself up against me

on the long, hot nights.

Beads of sweat trickling down her necklace.

Had her fuck me. Had her shout "rape."

That was not my idea!

Who's fucking idea was it, then?

I read the report. I saw what you did to her,

but who am I to judge? If that's the way you like it,

not my business.

Who helped you set me up, you fucking piece of shit?

Is that why you killed my wife and Sorrel?

- Revenge? - You think I did them

out of revenge?

Did you fuck Sorrel?

Did... you... fuck... Sorrel? The police say you did.

Did you rape her?

Kill her?

Yeah, I fucked her.

What are you going to do about it?

Shoot me?

You always were a pathetic, dumb son of a bitch.

How you ever got to be a Commander in the Navy,

fuck, no one knows.

John!

Well, you appear to have a specter on your shoulder.

Death.

Suicide note.

Bloody fool. The money was still good.

Hm. Pesetas are no longer legal tender.

Actually, that's not quite true, ma'am.

What do you mean?

You can still take the money to the bank.

They give you a receipt, send the money

to the Central Bank in Spain, who refund it to you

- in euros. - Three million quids' worth?

What bank would take that amount of cash

across the county without questions?

Ah, it's easy. All you need is paperwork

and a bank account in Switzerland.

That much? In cash?

They'll know it's drug money, no even the Swiss touch that.

No, you say it's tax evasion.

Switzerland is not part of the EU.

Tax evasion in other countries, it's not a crime there.

You say you sold a business

undervalued on paper, you took the balance in cash

to avoid paying the tax.

You provide the paperwork, it checks out,

and they'll take the money.

If it checks out.

Right contacts, well-forged papers.

It's easily done.

You're in the wrong bloody business, sergeant.

Before he shot himself, Inspector,

Commander Calthorpe said there was another body.

Leading Seaman Harrison.

- Northshore Road Harrison? - Yeah.

Right. I wondered when he was gonna show. Did he say where?

The derelict Fort in the Solent.

Right. Sergeant, get on to the harbor police,

see if they'll give us a ride.

Yes, ma'am.

I'll need to take a full statement from you

- at the station. - Today?

Ah... No. Tomorrow afternoon will be fine.

But tomorrow's Good Friday.

Bank holiday weekend or no, we're open for business.

Did you get it?

Ah, no. Tomorrow afternoon will be fin.

But tomorrow's Good Friday.

Right.

I'll go and get my feet wet. You take it

for voice comparison.

Jesus, Tobi, what the fuck?

I still have the key, remember?

I had another vision. Thought I'd surprise you.

What vision?

This.

- Surprise. - Jesus.

What time is it? Where's Henry?

Relax. He's still trying to measure up in Winchester.

Nice scarf.

Perfect to tie me up with.

- What is it? - Unusual scent.

A Christmas present.

Now, shut the fuck up and make me your slave.

Still surprisingly little is really known

about post-traumatic stress disorder.

Even less during the Falklands War

when you experienced the trauma which led to your blackouts.

Your illness.

But this diagnosis by the hospital

you checked yourself into after the Navy

was not certain.

And the doctors at Ravensbrook

did not know what I know

about Chief Petty Officer Diane Waters,

for example.

A lot more, however, is known about my own specialized field.

Traumatic amnesia.

It's a condition that's been recognized for decades.

You'd be surprised how many murderers

block what they've done from their memories.

Sometimes it's years before they recall their crimes.

You think I did it, that I killed them.

You spent years in a psychiatric hospital, voluntarily.

Who were you hiding from?

I wasn't well, I had blackouts,

sometimes for hours at a time.

I was never...

sure about Diane Waters. I was afraid.

Have you experienced blackouts since leaving?

In all that time, not a single person

came to visit you, not one.

No friends, no buddies from the Navy. Nobody.

I didn't tell anyone where I was.

Who would you have told?

After you left the hospital,

how long was it before you experienced

your first blackout?

A day? A week? A month?

How long before the outside world cornered you?

Before your old obsessions surfaced?

I know I didn't do it.

You didn't do what?

Why now, John?

Why today?

Good Friday.

It's time.

You have a good look.

Try it out for size.

Twenty-nine.

The room.

How many nights you're gonna pay?

One.

Cash.

You seem familiar.

You stayed here before?

I doubt it.

Bathroom's free.

I'll make dinner. Come down.

Is that extra?

Depends.

Bet you're starved.

Fancy a decent meal?

Not bad, am I?

For... 40.

Moonlight helps a woman of 40.

Cheeky bastard.

Another 20?

You don't mind using a forget-me-not?

You can't take no chances these days.

No.

You can't take no chances.

I'm not here just now.

Leave your name and number

and a message after the tone and I'll call you back.

Thanks, bye.

I'm phoning to see if you have any rooms

for tonight, Good Friday.

I'll call around later on the off chance that you do.

Delete.

Erased.

You remember nothing between having sex with her

and discovering her body?

I don't remember having sex with her.

Was her body completely naked in the bath?

Yes.

When you cleaned up the bed linen,

her underwear, the negligee...

what did you do with the choker with the silver pendant?

It wasn't there.

I would've seen it. It wasn't there.

Thank you for coming, Mr. Duval, to make your statement

on Commander Calthorpe's suicide and on Good Friday.

Saved me having to pick you up.

I'm phoning to see if you have any rooms

for tonight, Good Friday.

I'll call around later on the off chance that you do.

Ah, no. Tomorrow afternoon will be fin.

Tomorrow's Good Friday.

The voice computer at the lab

and a voice and speech specialist

both confirmed that the voices are one and the same.

John Duval, I'm arresting you for the murders

of Mary Woodward, Chief Petty Officer Diane Waters,

Rachel Garvie, Rosemary Calthorpe,

Sorrel Green and Leading Seaman Andrew Harrison.

You don't have to say anything, but it may harm your defense

if you don't mention when questioned

anything later in court.

Anything you do say, may be given in evidence.

Do you understand your rights as I've explained them to you?

- Yes. - You thought

you covered everything.

Always at the center of the investigation,

always a suspect, but always having an angle to deflect me.

Always where the bodies were, but so methodically

being a private fucking detective

coming up with the right questions

to assist us in our inquiries

when you'd already said the fucking answers.

In all my years, you are one calculating, clever,

sick motherfucker with no mistake.

But this time...

you crucified yourself.

The police have not found the knife

my client allegedly used on the victims.

The jewelry, the truth is,

as you call it, missing from the bodies.

The supposed three million pounds in pesetas,

nor do they have two of the bodies

my client is accused of murdering.

We have compelling forensic evidence

linking him to four of the crime scenes.

The Navy's evidence of rape against him from Gibraltar.

That was not proven. And the evidence of rape

- is debatable, to say the least. - She went missing.

A lot of people go missing.

We have a statement from a witness confirming

he ferried Duval to the Sea Fort on the night of the 27th.

Duval was on the Fort at the time of Harrison's death.

My client was responsible for losing him his job for theft.

Mr. Tanner has a grudge,

therefore, he's not a reliable witness.

Besides, in his statement, Mr. Tanner

also confirms the arrival of another boat

delivering someone else at the time of the murder.

Have the police found him?

No. They believe that to have been Commander Calthorpe.

Who later blew his brains out. Handy.

The custody sergeant refused conditional bail,

as will the magistrate.

My client hasn't requested bail.

No, that's correct.

Given the notoriety of this case,

the need to reassure the public,

the CPS will be moving quickly on this one.

The nature of the crimes

under section 2 of the Mental Health Act 1983,

dictate that your client undergo an immediate

and extensive psychiatric evaluation

to assess whether or not he is legally sane

and therefore, fit to plead.

The defense stipulates the psychiatrist selected

to act for the Crown should have no prior association

- with Mr. Duval. - Naturally.

A psychiatrist will be appointed today.

Good.

Mr. Duval will be moved under guard

to and from remand at Kingston Prison Portsmouth

for evaluation.

That's complete. An arraignment date will be set.

Excellent.

Why does an ex naval officer

engage this Mr. Tanner to ferry him to the Sea Fort?

Why not go alone? Why take a witness?

Perhaps because my client is not guilty.

He also happens, with good reason,

to be terrified of the sea.

Come in.

Good morning, Dr. Benson.

Mrs. Wilson, Mr. Barton.

Would you have the restrains removed,

please, Mrs. Wilson?

Thank you. Please wait outside.

Remember, John, that you do have the right

to remain silent.

Have a seat, please, Mr. Duval.

John.

Dr. Catherine Benson.

Do you understand why you're here?

Because somebody out there wants to get away with murder.

- That's not what I meant. - Nevertheless...

your knowledge is going to help me to understand who.

I don't permit smoking in here.

- Is it the smell? - No.

I happen to like the smell of a cigar.

Then what? Don't you want me to be comfortable?

You're not here, Mr. Duval, to be comfortable.

Then how are you going to persuade me to give up

my right to silence, Dr. Benson,

if I'm not comfortable to talk?

Why ask to have my restraints removed?

Nothing personal, mate.

But after six days of that shit, my guts have rebelled.

My ship was fatally hit during the engagement,

in San Carlos waters.

She rolled, turned upside down, flooding fast.

Disorientated, water rising. Up or down. Left and right.

Abstract concepts, just...

flooding blackness.

The most stark of human emotions.

Terror of death.

Time was silent.

Clever.

Ma'am. We've just had a missing person's report.

She's already been interviewed in the ripper case.

Knew Duval and Rachel Garvie.

What? Where's Sergeant Pinker?

He's not back with the warrant for the Woodward place?

Yes, ma'am. And they're the same address.

The missing person, Tobi Wright, and Mary Woodward.

It's the same address.

Why didn't someone notice that before?

Who reported Tobi Wright missing?

Her work. She's a therapist,

very reliable. Hasn't been in for three days

since Easter weekend, and no message from her,

no answer on her home or mobile.

Yeah, but we've had Duval locked up for a week.

Ugh, fucking brilliant, Sergeant.

Do you think I'm guilty?

That is what the last six days in this room have been about.

Whether you think I'm capable of killing all...

That's for a jury to decide.

My job is to determine whether or not

you're legally sane and able to enter a plea.

But what you think, feel about me matters.

Does it? To whom?

To me.

Do you think you can manipulate me?

"I'm an attractive man, she's a woman first,

a psychiatrist second. Work a trade."

I'm not for sale.

I didn't think you would be for sale.

What was it the husband, Henry Wright, does?

He's a estate agent.

Why doesn't he report her missing?

Hello?

Mrs. Wright? Mr. Wright?

The place had a for sale sign up.

It was empty for six months before they moved.

He must have let himself in that night

to see his cheap hooker, not know I was there,

fucked in the next room, killed her,

got rid of the body, then bought the house himself cheap.

Harrison's house in Northshore Road was for sale.

At Rachel's that night,

he said he'd sold some of the Navy's family quarters.

He's ex-Navy, got connections.

He's selling the Sea Fort for the MOD.

The estate near Winchester,

I bet it's Calthorpe's place, Heatherington Hall.

He has access to any number of vacant properties,

and can be anywhere, anytime.

He has the means to kill.

Anything?

She has a thing for naughty underwear.

XXX

Bugger me.

Ma'am!

He was running the scam on Gib with Calthorpe all along.

He set me up on the rape charge to discredit me.

Hold my investigation when I was getting too close.

Once I'm out of the way, she conveniently disappears.

Her body was never found.

He knew them all.

That's why they let him in.

He married my ex-girlfriend, was always jealous

of what we had together.

Christ, Tobi still had a key to the boat house.

That's how he knew the sexual position

to tie Rachel in before killing her on the boat.

He saw the tape of Bowles' wife. I smelled his aftershave.

It was his scarf Tobi had.

He knows where the bloody money is.

Hold on, what money?

Three million quid in Spanish pesetas.

He set me up for the whole fucking lot.

Oh, shit. Tobi. I have to use your phone.

That's against the rules, John.

Let me do it.

Get a list of vacant properties on the estate agency's books.

Find out where they think Henry Wright is.

What type of car did Dr. Benson say?

A dark one, probably green.

Forget the last bit, he just turned up.

What the hell is going on?

I didn't call Tobi because I knew

she didn't want to talk to me.

We haven't been getting on well, lately.

Where have you been staying in Winchester?

Heatherington Hall Estate, an empty tied cottage.

Why pay a hefty hotel bill?

Why, indeed.

Ma'am.

You were having an affair

with Commander Calthorpe's wife, Rosemary, weren't you?

Using her, blackmailing him to get to the money.

Held Harrison captive on the Fort

and killed him later.

Knew about the sexual details

of Rachel Garvie's hospitalization

on the hands of Duval, that we'd find out,

killed her in a similar fashion so that we'd suspect him.

Been following Duval.

How close was he getting to you?

The money?

Your wife?

Again.

Chief Petty Officer Diane Waters.

Your wife's?

Yes.

Tell me where she is.

You know it's the right move.

Sarge! That message from Dr. Benson,

Harrison's place, the Marshbank, Northshore Road,

it's on the list.

Ma'am!

The injuries appear pretty much the same as the others

- and the cause of death. - Time of death?

Body's been underwater for a while.

- Approximate. - Uh...

- Three to four days. - Not possible it could be seven?

Not a chance, unless he stuck her in a freezer

- for a few days first. - Doc.

Duval's been inside for a week.

Perfect alibi.

And Mr. Wright has nobody to confirm

he was Heatherington during the nights this last week.

He's been pretty clever so far.

Why not provide himself with an alibi?

Why, indeed.

He didn't know we had that answering machine cassette

from his own house,

that he feared had his own voice on it.

Because he was never a suspect, that's why.

Duval was always the mark.

Message one.

John! David Frampton.

Thanks for your contribution to my exclusive.

I owe you.

Solent 106 FM.

The sound of the south.

The remains of a body believed

to be that of Mary Woodward,

who disappeared seven years ag,

have been found by police forensics officers

buried in the garden

of the house where she formally lived,

now owned by a local estate agent

who the police are holding in custody

and believed to be the serial killer

known as the Portsmouth Ripper,

Mr. Slice and Dice.

You ready to break a second rule?

I told you.

I don't get involved...

personally involved with my patients.

I'm no longer a patient.

Never really was.

Am I your constant companion fantasized?

Enough, doctor.

You're not messing with my head anymore.

Why do I feel it was the other way around?

Case closed.

For an ex-sailor who's terrified of the sea,

why live right on it?

In an old boathouse,

a freezer full of fishing baits.

The tide floating up beneath your feet twice a day.

And where is the money? That's what I want to know.

Where Andrew Right knows.

By the time he gets out, it will be worthless.

It's a curious thing, though.

That book Duval was reading about Jack the Ripper...

I noticed that the last murder,

that of the prostitute, Mary Kelly,

it took place in Miller's Court, off Dorset Street.

And that street was later renamed

"Duval Street."

It's funny, that.

What's funny about it?

HMS Dorset. John Duval.

What's that got to do with anything?

Nothing, it's just...

It's just curious.

Fuck's sake.

You had it in for Duval from the start,

didn't you, ma'am?

Why? What's the beef?

I hate private detectives.

A few years back, before your time,

Duval buried some prat local councilor,

head of the planning committee,

for taking brown envelopes from developers.

So, what's new about that?

True, but turns out this proc was fucking around too.

His wife suspects, hires Duval,

that's why Duval was onto him in the first place.

Turns out she was right, he was fucking around

with some dumb bitch on the make.

Found this on Duval's computer when we searched his place.

Seems brown envelope syndrome is contagious.

I thought it best to keep it back.

I cleared the evidence.

Well, I was wrong about you.

You are in the right bloody business, sergeant.

You'll go far.

Specially with that cast iron stomach of yours.

Case closed.

How's that coffee coming, number one?

Ah, well, Skipper, it's hot and wet.

It's how we boys like everything.

And on a plate.

I was getting a little seasick down there.

So... where're we heading?

I thought lunch in the Channel Islands.

I have to pick up some paperwork from a lawyer in Jersey, so...

- How about Jersey? - And then where?

Couple of weeks spring skiing in the Swiss Alps?

Swap this for a sailboat anywhere in the world.

I thought you were afraid of going to sea.

A river has but one direction.

And I've been seeing this terrific shrink.

Perhaps she's helped me overcome my fears,

brought comfort to my silent hours.

I rigged the fuel line while I was making coffee.

My stepfather was always messing on boats.

That is, when he wasn't abusing me.

Disorientated.

Turned upside-down.

Water rising up...

down...

left...

right.

Abstract concepts.

It's a flooding blackness.

The most stark of human emotions tear it down.

Time is silent.

Extreme trauma.

Nobody understands.

Make them.

Turn their order into chaos.

You played me like a...

- Marlin on a ten-pound lie. - Clever.

Years spent in a mental hospital gives one a certain knowledge.

Capitalizing on Mr. Slice and Dice. Very clever.

Often enough grounds for a plea of insanity

if the killer wasn't caught...

if things didn't work out...

And now that they have, what do you want?

Three million pounds?

Takes a lifetime to earn.

Two lifetimes.

To stick to your plan.

And in the meantime...

Let's see what you can do

for my silent hours.

Where's the money?

On board.

I have searched.

I rebuilt this boat, remember?

Wait!

You're good, doctor.

But not that good.

Read it.

"Brutally murdered Warrant Officer Thomas Kelly,

from HM Naval Base Plymouth,

whose mutilated body was discovered

at his home on Easter Sunday

where it had lain since Good Friday.

Wrists and ankles tied to the bed corners,

limbs amputated, mouth stuffed with a flannel,

head decapitated...

wedding finger sliced off

to remove his silver wedding ring.

He's now thought to have been a victim

of a savage revenge attack by his young wife Mary Kelly.

Police believe the missing Mary killed her husband,

a heavy drinker, after being subjected by him

to regular and prolonged bouts

of violence and sexual abuse.

The horrific killing was witnessed

by the couple's only child, their four-year-old son

from the dark bedroom's connecting bathroom

while he hid in the bath.

After several hours in silent terror...

watching the bloodbath unfold."

You... your father...

My God...

You...

You killed them all.

Not quite.

Henry sliced Harrison, but...

One murder, two, seven,

sill gets life.

How? Toby Wright?

Kept her in ice and fresh for a few days.

What happened to your... mother?

Try it out for size.

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