All language subtitles for New Tricks 1x02 Painting on Loan. 576p.dvd

There you go.
Look, registered with the Stag owners' club.

British steel,

British upholstery,

British craftsmanship.

It's the last of the great British cars, this.

Look, look... Smell that leather.

Go on, smell it.

- Morning.
- Where are you?

On my way. I won't be long.

- What are you wearing?
- Pardon?

What are you wearing?

Well, today I'm wearing boxers. Blue cotton.

They're quite clingy. When I move, they ride...

- Have you got a tie?
- You want to tie me up?

You want to restrain...

Just the boss.

♪ Well, it's all right

♪ Even if you're old and grey, yeah

♪ Well, it's all right

♪ Still you got something to say

♪ Well, it's all right

♪ Even if they say you're wrong

♪ Well, it's all right

♪ Sometimes you gotta be strong ♪

Hmm. What else have you got?

- How about a red one to match his eyes?
- Is that all right?

No.

Brian, have a look at this.

"When I became a man,
I put away childish things.”

Looks like Gerry's got a new car.

OK, retired maybe,
but we're still officers of the law.

- Investigating officers.
- Professionals.

I don't care how posh someone is,

there's nobody warrants us
getting done up like this.

It shouldn't matter. No one's that important.

Will you lot shut up?

We are more than what we wear.

- Oh, Gawd!
- Should have worn your cashmere.

I can't believe this.
The first day I don't wear a suit.

- Do you like the tie?
- No!

- I don't get it.
- What? Art?

Naked women. The naked female body.

It's everywhere - art galleries,
advertising, films, magazines...

It's all just naked women's bodies.

- Yeah?
- I've never understood the appeal.

It's fundamental, innit?
It's sort of evolutionary.

I just see a wild animal with no fur.

Well, here we go. Posh alert.

My wife and I really enjoyed...
- Prat alert.

...Sir Timothy.

What made you suspect
that this painting might be a fake?

I can't take the glory myself.
No, sadly, I'd make a hopeless detective.

It was one of my hawk-eyed,
conscientious restorers.

Part of my crack team.

Let me introduce you. Jack Halford.

- How do you do?
- Gerry Standing.

- Hiya.
- Hello.

...Brian Lane.
- Hi.

- Hello.
- Your crack team.

I see you're looking
at Draper's "Gates Of Dawn".

- Do you enjoy?
- Oh, lovely.

...Yeah, it's nice.
- Different.

It's such a tease.

The subject invites one
to be academic, to be grandiose,

but the paint... the flesh,
the naked, erotic sensuality

stirs sensations far from the intellect.

When one looks at it, one is aroused,

and yet one feels guilty.

It's supposed
to be intellectually stimulating.

It's all very Catholic, I'm afraid.

Sex, the great leveller.

Shall we? Lead on
to our vaults of treasures. Gentlemen.

Um... pardon me for being forward,

but you have a speck of something
on your cheek.

- OK?
- All gone. Perfect.

Thank you.

So you weren't aware
that a copy was being auctioned?

No, if we had been, we would have assumed
the auctioned painting was a copy...

- - Which it was.
- ..thinking we had the original.

Which you don't.
- No. So it would seem.

This is a fake.

So we need to trace the original
and return it to the Palace.

- That's where UCOS comes in.
- Sir, this is Art Fraud Squad territory.

...We have no expertise in this field.
- Never underestimate your skills.

There are two main reasons
why this is a UCOS inquiry.

The first is the hypersensitive nature
of the inquiry...

Because Art Fraud are all yap, yap, yap.

- And the second reason...
- "I'm a self-serving, arse-kissing creep.”

- Did you say something?
- It's by De Creep.

And the second reason...

The second reason is somewhat embarrassing.
I share it with you in confidence.

My predecessor, Sir Stephen, was a trusted
and loyal servant of Her Majesty,

a brilliant art historian
and, for me, something of a mentor...

...but unfortunately he was also...
- As bent as a box of bedsprings,

flogging off national treasures
and replacing them with fakes.

...How many are gone?
- Officially, only this one.

...Do we believe them?
- Do we care?

...How much is it worth?
- Auction estimate 1.5 million.

...Cor!
- So, we've got two fakes

and no sign of the original.

- Could run DNA tests on the fakes.
- DNA?

See if we can get a match, find the forger.

- No, but this is paint, not blood.
- Spittle.

On the fine detail work,
they lick the brushes.

It's worth a try.
- The auction house who handled the fake.

- Thank you.
- I'll put them through.

Hello?
- Forensics? Brian Lane, UCOS...

I don't supposed you noticed eyeshadow
plastered across my face?

Can you squeeze in a DNA test?

Look, this isn't for us,
this is for Art Fraud and all the Fenellas

and the double-barrelled old school brigade.

Don't worry. We'll check available evidence
and see if we can identify the forger.

If it's all dead ends, we'll move on.

Good. I'd like a proper case.

So you wouldn't fancy meeting
a Mrs Christine Hardy?

45, living in Primrose Hill,

sitting on a priceless art collection
belonging to her late husband, Duncan Hardy.

Her late husband?

- I'll come with you, Gerry.
- No, that's all right.

Come on.

- Your car or mine?
- Ah, we... Yeah, yours.

I thought being driven by a woman
made you feel “like a proper nonce...

- It's never too late to change your ways.
- Where's the Stag?

...Garage.
- Getting work done?

- Sort of, yeah.
- Panda just on loan, then?

- I don't know yet.
- Don't know?

Are you going to unlock it or what?

Duncan was like a squirrel
with a pile of nuts. He doesn't need them,

but he can't have
another squirrel getting them.

So he hides them secretively.
It's a man thing.

...We don't do it, do we?
- I don't think so.

Do you collect anything?

- Lame dogs.
- It's all about acquisition and power.

That little squirrel likes to check his nuts
now and again and have a gloat.

What happens if the squirrel suddenly dies?

Well, he can't take them with him.

You didn't realise your husband's painting
was a fake when you put it up for auction,

- but do you know where he got it from?
- He was always buying, auction or galleries.

...Did he know it was a fake?
- I doubt it. God, I'd love to tell him!

Had you seen the painting before?

He'd hung it in one of his offices.

- He had more than one office?
- He had many things he didn't share with me.

- Like?
- Two apartments in Barcelona and Nice,

a £12,000 engagement ring,
recently commissioned

for a finger much, much slimmer than mine,

and even four batches of frozen sperm
in a clinic in Gibraltar.

That'd be his nuts.

A cloak of secrecy. I want it lowered down
over this whole thing like a blanket.

A secrecy blanket.

Tucked in round the edges
so that nothing escapes.

Hospital corners.

I want none of your leads
or evidence leaking out.

That won't be a problem...
- No one...

- ...because we haven't got any.
- The fine art world can be famously opaque.

I'm sorry, but this falls a fair way
outside our field of expertise.

All right. Don't apologise.

Expecting you just to take this on was a big ask,

a very big ask.

Oh, well. No harm done.

Which is why I've arranged
to import expertise.

It's part of a new model
of the interdepartmental asset mobility.

Sorry?
- So... you get Totty.

...Totty?
- Totty.

- Totty Vogel-Downing.
- - Totty's not your real name?

...Charlotte, but I've been Totty for ever.
- I'll bet.

Totty's been seconded to UCOS from Art Fraud,

which means that the investigation
is continuing, only with expert help.

- Hi!
- So, rounding up all your expert knowledge,

what can you tell us about these?

His mother had just died.
He moved away from the family estate

into a sort of self-inflicted exile,
choosing the Lake District,

mainly because of its topographical drama,
but he wasn't happy.

- Who?
- Stratfold, the artist. He was depressed.

- - Here.
- Hold on. I'm being a bit thick here.

You're looking
at two Sexton Blakes and you're telling us

how the original artist, who didn't paint
these because they're fakes, was feeling?

- Very depressed.
- How does that help?

- - Not exactly relevant.
- Oh, yes, potentially...

And these are not very good.

- And?
- Well, you don't copy an artist's worst work.

Unless...

- Unless?
- You're told to. Paid to.

Unless the work is conveniently available
to study in intimate detail,

- not in a public gallery.
- So the forger was...?

Someone who had access.
Probably someone Sir Stephen knew well.

Obviously you've ordered ultrasound
and radiographic testing.

- - - We are running some DNA tests.
- - Spittle.

- Very good. What about fingerprints?
- Um...

Well, normally, we try to be more innovative.

- This is a thumbprint.
- Ah, yes.

This smudge, and... so is this.

Identical position, identical size.

The original had a smudge like this,
so it's part of the faking process.

And?

Well, how would an artist make a thumbprint
look like a thumbprint?

Use his thumb?

Is that the dry-cleaner's you want?

I didn't really want a lift
to the dry-cleaner's.

- But you said...
- I'm not really a dry-cleaning person.

I'm more your machine-wash type, really.

It's more economical,
less chemicals, better for the environment.

- What are you talking about?
- Well, I thought

if I asked for a lift somewhere
in your new car,

you might, somewhere along the way,
be tempted to tell me why you've got a new car,

and, ergo, what's happened to the old one.

I sold it.

Yes?

Well... well, what with me
about to become a grandfather,

and Paula about to become a single mum,
there's gonna be things she needs,

so I've got a bit of cash-flow problem.

Those three-wheeled buggies,
do you know what they cost?

Isn't that
what they invented credit cards for?

...Yeah, well, I'm not allowed one. I was...
- Declared bankrupt. You're not allowed...

Not allowed one, yeah, yeah.

Go on, then.

My car's back at the office.

Simply Red, The Corrs, The Corrs...

Ah!

What are you reading?

Oh, very nice.

Nice to see you reading something
that's not an autopsy report

or some evidence
of how somebody died some horrible death.

Van Gogh chopped his ear off...
with a bread knife.

Chopped it off and took it to a brothel
to give to a prostitute.

Oh.

And Robert Haydon shot himself in the throat

in front of his final unfinished work
because he'd failed to become famous enough.

Ah...

Rothko slit his wrists.

I've never been a passionate man, have 1?

Not passionate, no.

No, you're a thinker.
You think most of the time.

- Not very physical?
- No.

- Does that bother you?
- Not really.

Not any more.

I might as well have parked in Watford.

Ooh, look at you all cosmopolitan.

Yep, mochaccino and pain aux raisins.

Totty's shout.
- Don't worry.

- We knew you needed your grease quota.
- Thank you.

A cup of Rosie and bacon sarnies
with brown rocking horse.

- Lovely.
- I'm very jealous. You're so lucky,

I wish I could eat fried bacon every day.
Just the smell of it - mmm!

So, why are we here?

Got DNA samples from both pictures.
Perfect match to each other.

The same artist painted both fakes.

- Does the DNA give us any names or records?
- No. No identification available.

What about radiology and... that other thing?

Gave us paint dating.
Approximate year of manufacture, 1978.

- Nothing else? I thought you had a name?
- I do. Fingerprints.

Oh! Ha-ha-ha!

Yeah, fingerprints.

Good call, Totty.
Thumbprints, to be precise.

...Name.
- Ciaran Risk, artist, born 1951, Wimbledon.

St Peter's Grammar School, '62-"69.
Royal College of Art, '72-'75.

Graduated with a diploma
in fine art and painting.

- What's his form?
- Arrested for staging an art protest

in the National Gallery in 1974,

when he threw red paint
over 14 priceless works.

So, we've got a trained painter,
an amateur terrorist

and a defiler of public works of art.

And, finally, died 1979.

Died?

Committed suicide. A year after painting
the fakes, drank half a litre of paraquat.

So what are we doing here?
- His mum.

Some people are born survivors.
They're programmed to fight, not to feel.

Ciaran felt everything. Thought too much
about things that didn't matter.

Made him weak.
AIL his emotions were on the outside.

- Wore his heart on his sleeve kind of thing?
- He had no protection from his feelings?

Everything affected him deeply.

- That's why he was an artist.
- Yes. That's it.

- What pushed him over the edge?
- A fire in his studio.

Destroyed his work and it melted the flesh
on his chest and hands.

He tried to beat the flames out
with his hands.

- The fire didn't kill him, though?
- Oh, yes, it did.

He was dead long before he killed himself.

Cheer me up, Jack. There is
absolutely nothing I like about today.

We have some good news.
we've found the location of this fire.

A dilapidated warehouse in Shoreditch.

Half artists' studios,
half rag trade sweatshops.

We have victims, a fire officer's report
and hospital records.

We even have suspects,
motives and accusations of arson.

- Excellent.
- Almost like a proper case.

...Fantastic.
- I hope that cheers you up.

Yes, thank you.
- Good. Here's the bad news.

Bevan wants to see you now.

If this is about his bloody blanket...
- Blanket?

Ah, Sandra, we were waiting
for you in my office,

but thought we'd catch you down here.

Trying to keep Sir Timothy
within the circle of knowledge.

- Not a good moment?
- Er... Sorry, it's fine.

- Lovely to see you.
- Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Sticky.

Raspberry, mmm.

Mind if I leave you in Superintendent
Pullman's capable hands while I...?

Please go, I'll be fine.

Capable and sticky.

...Do you want to...?
- I've got something to show you.

Right.

Oh, God! Not another fake?

No.

- What's wrong with this one, then?
- Nothing that I know of.

So?

So... Do you like it?

Um... Yeah, I suppose. Yeah, it's nice.

Um...

Right. OK, come and stand here.

It's not the best light,
but... focus on the centre of the painting,

then slowly, slowly,
let your eyes move outwards,

taking in the canvas to the very edge.

Now, let it go back again to the centre...

.slowly...

And breathe.

Now... do you like it?

It's beautiful.

Good.

- And would you like it?
- What?

Mr Bevan's um... idea.

Part and parcel of the Queen's collection

is that we loan out works to public places,

so the collection can be more widely enjoyed.

No one's ever thought
of loaning to Scotland Yard before.

Oh.

Mr Bevan has chosen a very charming
Alfred Cox for his office.

I just thought...

Yeah. Thank you. It's lovely.

Good. I'll.. I'll leave you two
to get to know each other.

Ooh, Sir Timothy?

Tim.
- Do you know, or have you heard of,

an artist called Ciaran Risk?

- Risk?
- Yeah.

No.

...Sorry.
- OK.

- Enjoy.
- Thank you.

The intense heat caused the tissue
on his arms, neck and chest to bubble up.

...He never painted again?
- His hands were useless.

- His lung tissue was permanently scorched.
- You said arson.

Accusations of arson.
Next door to Risk's studio was a sweatshop

run by a Kurdish entrepreneur,
basically illegal.

Three teenage Bengali girls were admitted
to the Royal London Hospital the same night,

all with burns to the upper body and hands.

Same fire?
- Almost definitely.

...Almost?
- They discharged themselves the same night.

...Have we names?
- Sort of.

From the spelling in the file,
I'd say it was guesswork.

How does this explain the arson theory?

The fire officer's report was inconclusive
to say the least.

Inflammable substances
were found at the scene.

All normally found in an artist's studio.
Oil-based paints, white spirit, turpentine.

Which all contributed to the intensity of the blaze,
but no actual cause was determined.

Although, according to local police reports,

prior to the blaze there were six racially
motivated disturbances in the area. Now...

Hold on, Jack. Hold on. Are you saying
the fire that injured the forger

could be the result of a racist attack
on the sweatshop next door?

Maybe somebody just wanted the forger dead.

...It's a bit far-fetched, isn't it?
- Arson-murder...

Make for a more interesting case
than art fraud. No offence meant.

What racist gangs were operating
in the East End during the 1970s?

- Take your pick. Clark?
- National Front were busy,

but small-scale bombing wasn't their style.

The Halt Immigration Now campaign
leased premises in Commercial Street.

Page 9, column 88 -
they raided a bakery in Hackney.

Even the Ku Klux Klan met in Hoxton Square.

You're having a laugh, aren't you?

No. I studied British neo-fascists at university.
It's a very interesting subject.

Yeah, but the Ku Klux Klan!

First Klan visits from America
took place in the '60s.

- Really?
- Set up klaverns all around the Midlands.

Klan even held a rally in Cable Street,
half a mile from the warehouse.

Well, we've got our Neo-Nazi expert.
Now all we need is a racist.

The property of yellow affects us
like the shrill sound of a trumpet

or the sound of a high-pitched fanfare.

Don't go on about the car, all right?

Although Kandinsky claimed that yellow
carries with it the nature of brightness,

with a serene,
gay and softly exciting character.

Oi! Are you coming?

Odd choice for a car, though.

Three pound of banana only a pound!
'Ere y'are, sweetheart.

- Three for cash. Lovely.
- Hello, Tubby.

- What do you want?
- I thought you hated foreigners?

- Only the ones round here.
- Hardly local produce, is it?

I'll still sell 'em veg. Oi...

Tubby's been involved
in racist groups since the year dot.

Family tradition. My grandfather marched
with Mosley's blackshirts.

You must be so proud.

Listen, in the late '70s,
who was throwing petrol bombs at sweatshops?

Hardly anyone, sadly. Column 88,
White Defence League - load of skinheads.

Couldn't tie their own shoelaces.

There was a warehouse in Bacon Street,
next to the railway arches.

...Full of artists?
- Yeah.

There was a big fire in '78,
claimed to be a racial attack.

Three Bengali seamstresses
were injured in the fire.

I never knew about it.
Who claimed responsibility?

...No one.
- Wasn't a racial attack, then.

...How come?
- If a group set a fire then,

they'd be bloody sure to claim responsibility,
get membership, get support.

It was all about profile.
Christ, a successful firebombing?

If we'd have known about it,
we'd have claimed it. What do you want?

You're a repulsive little shit, you know.

Three pound of banana only a pound.
Three pound for a pound. Let's have ya.

How did Clark find the address?
The ghetto theory principle.

...Which is?
- Half a mile or half a world.

92% of non-English-speaking Asians
live in an Asian community,

usually within half a mile
of where they first settled,

secure in their mono-cultural society.

- The ghetto.
- Precisely.

...So, what's the half a world?
- Stay within half a mile or go home.

Not much in between.

Whoa-ho! I've always wanted to do that!

Here. Come here.

- Whoa!
- Vive la révolution!

Can I chuck another one in a minute?

That's the trouble with petrol bombs.
They're very showy, very exciting...

But?
- Totally crap at starting a decent fire.

The petrol's too refined. It burns off too quickly.
You get no surface penetration.

- Yeah, but you could start a fire.
- Sure, if you hit combustible material,

like paper or dry timber.

- Or cloth?
- Cloth would be good,

but really to get a big blaze in a warehouse,
you'd want your ignition site deep inside.

How much evidence
would you keep from such a fire?

I can go and check.
- Yeah, cheers.

My mother
says she and her sisters were frightened.

They thought people
would come into the hospital and hurt them.

- What people?
- White men.

Did she hear any disturbance
outside in the street?

Any noise, shouting, breaking glass?

The fire wasn't from the side to the street.
It was where the cloth was.

The windows had metal bars and the door
was bolted in case of men trying to steal.

- What happened to her sisters?
- My aunt died many years ago.

She was always sick after the fire.

Could we see your mother's face,
to see where the fire hurt her?

- If it's too...
- You can see her face... but he can't.

Only my father is allowed.

There is a bag of stuff in Enfield.

Like?
- Sifted remains from the flash site.

All the usual -
melted plastic, melted rubber,

rodent remains, charred asbestos...

- Rodent remains?
- Yeah, rats and mice always get killed.

They try and run,
but not always in the right direction.

...What sort of rat?
- A dead rat.

We don't see much beauty in our job.

I don't know. Eye of the beholder.

If we worked as farmers or gardeners,

Christ, even hairdressers,
part of our job would be beautiful.

Every day, or most days, we would see
something that was... just beautiful.

I didn't join for the view.

No, but doesn't it worry you?

Too late.

You'd think that being exposed to ugliness
would make us appreciate beautiful things.

We'd go to exhibitions or concerts
or grow amazing wild orchids.

Write poetry and collect butterflies.
- Yeah, but we don't, do we?

We don't balance ugly with beautiful.
We just accept ugly.

Ugly's safe.
You know where you are with ugly.

We're investigating the fire and trying
to trace the gallery owner who sold the fake.

- Excellent.
- But we're no nearer finding the original.

I appreciate the update.
You're working so hard.

I wondered if you're doing anything
tomorrow evening.

Yeah, yeah... So how does the Jeep
compare to the McLaren price-wise?

- Is he buying another new car?
- Baby buggy.

- Is this like the initiative thing?
- Initiative?

Loaning paintings? Good PR.

Oh, absolutely not. No. This is me asking you
if you'd like to go the opera tomorrow night.

For cash?

- The opera?
- Gawd help the single mums, eh?

Yeah, you're doing everyone a favour.
Thanks a lot. This is unbelievable.

They haven't even got an engine.

...Christ!
- Don't worry, it's stuffed.

Rattus Norvegicus - the common brown rat.

Estimated population in London - 12 million.

Blamed for everything
from bubonic plague to Weil's disease

and a 24-hour power cut in Hammersmith.

- Brian, how many times...?
- Also Rattus Norvegicus,

but genetically
and physiologically different.

You see, your white rat is line-bred,

the albino quality the result
of a homozygous recessive gene.

They are the same, but different...
like a dog is the same but different from a wolf.

So?

An educated guesstimate of albino rats
in London would be 200,000 tops.

All of which,
or nearly all of which, are in captivity.

Laboratories, pet shops,
small boys' bedrooms.

The chances of finding a white rat in
a warehouse fire in East London are very small.

So what sort was in the evidence bag?

- White rat?
- Yes.

Really?
- No doubt.

- Amazing.
- Wow

Brian, what does the white rat tell us?

...Pat.
- Pat?

Pat.

...Pat!
- Pat the Rat.

- I blame Edward Heath.
- He made you dip rats in petrol

and set fire to them?

The three-day week, the Common Market,

the economic downturn -
opened the floodgates.

Just another victim of the recession, eh?

Bent bosses were queuing up
to hire my services.

Dipping rats in petrol, torching warehouses,
so owners could claim on insurance.

No way. Dip a rat in petrol,
it burns too quick. Big mistake.

Petroleum jelly, that's the key.

Smear it all over,
rub it into the fur. Burns for ages.

...There was a fire in Bacon Street...
- I should have patented my invention.

After the fire,
there's no evidence, just rat bones.

So, the Bacon Street warehouse in 1978?

- Soft toilet paper.
- What?

You're gonna offer me something
if I cooperate.

Yeah.
- Every copper offers me a deal

to grass up my clients.

Always telling me what they can do for me.

Soft toilet paper should be simple enough.

They always offer the same deal,
and I always say the same thing.

- Which is?
- Go screw yourself...

and shut the door on your way out.

Pat's old school, see. Code of ethics.

Keep shtum and all coppers are bastards.
Isn't that right, Pat?

You said it.
- Four people were seriously injured.

Two died because of their injuries.

Wasn't one of my fires, then.

White rat, electrical conduit, ailing business.

...Certainly looks like one of your jobs.
- Bacon Street? Nah, not me. Promise.

That's a promise I'll really cherish.

Ask about a job I've done, I'll say nothing.

Ask about a job I didn't do,
Ill tell you whatever I can.

- Reckon somebody copied your MO, then?
- Should've patented it.

Imitation is theft
of my intellectual property.

...We need a list of all your clients.
- There's no way I can give that information

without the gallery owner's permission.

- Can you contact her?
- Only in an emergency.

We really need your list.

We're investigating a series of forgeries,
trying to establish galleries

which dealt with one particular collector.

How about I call the Inland Revenue
for an emergency tax audit,

Customs and Excise
for an emergency VAT inspection,

or, I don't know, the RSPCA
for an endangered species check?

Would that be emergency enough for you?

We're trying
to track down a particular collector,

so we need a comprehensive list
of all your clients going back over 30 years.

It'll take a few minutes
to print out the complete list. but...

Have I missed something?

Or was there a day
when all art became so... grotesque?

It's supposed to be soothing.
- Art has a duty to be provocative.

I don't want to be provoked.
Ordinary life is provoking enough, thank you.

You'd never think
she was a big art collector.

Hidden depths, eh?

- What about Duncan Hardy?
- He's on practically all of them.

He was once a busy buyer.
Doesn't tell us anything, really, does it?

What about this?

If you want a dodgy businessman
who knew Pat the Rat, he'd fit the bill.

- The late George Wilson.
- May God barbeque his soul.

...Who's Wilson?
- Has er... Gerry seen this?

What's it got to do with Gerry?

I think you'd better talk to Bevan.

...Bevan?
- I want Standing off this investigation.

- Off?
- Don't advise him of this development.

- I want him out of the loop.
- Why?

He can't be trusted. Not on anything
connected with George Wilson. Send him home.

There we go. Abstract expressionists.

Well?

I don't get what it's meant to be.
Well... I can't see anything.

Brian, remember. Less head, more heart.
It's not what you see, it's what you feel.

- Hungry.
- No!

Despair.

Terrible, awful despair.

Good. Very good.

Totty, out.

Brian, don't make me ask.

George Wilson.
A career criminal with an IQ of 144.

...Bevan?
- Well, in the early '90s,

Wilson was the closest thing
we had to a trophy.

Everyone wanted to nail his head above their
desk and bask in the glory, especially Bevan.

- Bevan thought he had him?
- He did have him.

Two lock-up garages in Stratford
full of funny money from Holland.

For four weeks they staked out these lock-ups
without anyone coming near.

Four weeks, three shifts a day,
Gerry in charge of B shift.

In charge the day they collected the money.

This is rubbish. There was no collar!

Bevan had us staked out in a ground floor
council flat, opposite the garages.

Bloody stupid position. Everyone knew what we
were doing. Wilson knew every move we made.

Anyway, we heard this screaming -
I mean really horrible screaming...

from the flat next door, so we broke in.

We found a girl - couldn't have been
more than 14 - bruised, cut,

claimed she'd been raped.

Blood was coming out of her ear, so I...

I took her home and waited for the ambulance.

- You left the garage unwatched?
- No.

Bailey was supposed to be covering,
but he snuck off and the money went AWOL.

- Bevan blamed you?
- Well...

- I knew Wilson.
- What do you mean, you knew him?

I had a greyhound -
actually, a couple at that time.

They were with a trainer in Epping. Wilson
kept some dogs there as well... so I met him.

Every now and again, owners' day
at the track or something, but that was it.

That arsehole Bevan accused me
of taking a bung off of Wilson.

Then he accused me of setting the girl up
and slapping her around myself.

So I hit him.

Of course, he charged me.

I was scheduled for disciplinary proceedings.

Why didn't you fight if you were innocent?

I wasn't innocent.
I'd punched a senior officer.

Bevan's jaw was wired for weeks.

But you didn't take Wilson's bung?

You think I would?

No.

- Look, Bevan wants you off this case.
- Bevan wants me off UCOS. What do you want?

Just... stay away until it's all sorted.

What, and come back
when the case is done and do what?

...A bit of filing? Make the tea?
- I am sticking my neck out.

If Bevan knows I'm here,
there won't even be any UCOS.

- Now I'm supposed to be grateful!
- No, you're supposed take your macho pride,

stick it in a box and shut up!

What am I gonna do?

Well, you're just suspended,
you're still on salary.

So, do whatever it is you used to do,

only now you get paid for it.

♪ He said, "Put down your troubles

♪ "And take these keys I'm offering you

♪ "Unlock the door and finally be free”

♪ You hear my words
but you don't heed them ♪

So, the dealer who sold the fake paintings

and the artist who painted them
had fatal accidents within days of each other?

The man who borrowed the painting,
Sir Stephen, is dead.

The artist is dead.
The dealer who sold the fakes is dead.

One buyer, Hardy, is dead.
George Wilson is dead.

Do you ever have cases
where the suspects are still alive?

The fire wasn't racist,
it was meant for Risk.

I wouldn't worry about him.
No, he'll be having a great time.

...Down the boozer.
- In the bookie's.

Getting paid.

He isn't pining
for some crappy case of forged paintings.

Stolen paintings
are great business for forgers.

It's the thrill of owning something famous.

If someone buys a known stolen painting
and it turns out to be fake,

they can hardly complain to the police.

So they get a sick little thrill
and all they've got is a fake.

What are they going to do?
These aren't scary tough guys.

George Wilson was.

- Thank you. You not having one?
- No.

- Do you paint?
- No.

- Why would a young guy paint pictures?
- It was his father.

- He was a painter?
- No. Just a complete bastard.

I see. And that made Ciaran...

- What do you want?
- I just wanted to see some of Ciaran's art,

- get some feel of who he was, soak up...
- No, you don't.

No, I don't.

I think someone tried to hurt him.
I want to catch them.

Why? Because you care about Ciaran?

Because you care about art? Because you want
to help a mother through her grief?

No, none of those.

It's what I do. I catch villains.

I like catching villains.
It makes me feel good.

This was his graduation show
from the Royal College of Art.

...Oh, I see.
- We had drinks by the Albert Memorial.

- Very classy.
- Yes, interesting.

So everybody in this book was...

...in the same year?

It's one of my palace perks.

These rooms are kept for visiting dignitaries,
to entertain after the opera.

And this cognac is older than America.

Just... let it breathe first.

Then you breathe in its aroma.

That sip has waited patiently
for hundreds of years,

maturing, improving...

waiting just to meet your tongue...
and dazzle it.

It's dazzled.

Look here.

This was kept in a monastery near Florence.

Pilgrims would travel hundreds of miles...

...just to gaze on the face of the Madonna.

Often they would faint
at the sight of her beauty.

To be so afflicted by the sight of beauty,
to die in its presence...

...is a great honour.

You are so lucky to live a life
that revolves around such beautiful things.

Yes, I am.

But I don't just see beauty in art.

Why did you lie... about knowing Ciaran Risk?

You shared a diploma show with him.
You studied together for four years.

There are tiny moments... in everyone's life,

precise, poignant moments,

when... everything crystallises...

...crackles with tension...

When you know
that the next words out of your mouth

will determine... all manner of things.

The future.

This is one of those moments, isn't it?

What I did was harmless,
just creative counterfeits.

It's only art.

Just... bits of canvas, splashes of paint.

It's just ego, convention, snobbery.

It's a silly game.

Not to George Wilson.

He was a thug.

He didn't understand the game.
He took it way too seriously.

And people died.

Yes, they did.

...But...
- I really enjoyed tonight.

...Oh, so did I. You are...
- The opera was wonderful.

I was lost, away, transported
to another time, another place, even.

Excellent. You deserve...

Now, I'm sorry...

Oh, please.
Please don't say you're going home.

No, I'm not going.

Good.

I'm going to arrest you.

- So, softly, softly.
- Exactly. We talked about a blanket.

- Tucking in the corners.
- No dirty laundry hanging out to dry.

Sir Timothy claimed that Sir Stephen had been
borrowing the Queen's pictures, faking them

and then flogging the fakes as stolen art.

But Sir Stephen didn't fake the pictures.

- Good.
- Sir Timothy did.

The fakes were painted
by a known activist and sold to collectors

through an exceedingly reputable
and thoroughly bent gallery in Mayfair.

- Ah.
- The borrowing soon stopped.

- Yes.
- Because Sir Timothy had to steal one,

being terrified that one of the duped clients
was going to chop him into tiny pieces.

George Wilson. Ring a bell?

Wilson, realising his painting was dodgy,
had the gallery owner mowed down

and burned the hands off the artist
who painted the fakes.

Sir Timothy was the next,
unless he replaced the fake stolen painting

with the real stolen painting,
which of course, he eagerly did.

So, so far, we've got theft, fraud, arson,
attempted murder...

Twice.
- Then there's lying to the police.

Attempting to pervert the course of justice.

Misappropriation of funds.

...Theft of national assets.
- Tampering with evidence.

Treason?

Oh, and George Wilson's widow
still has a few million quid's worth

of Her Majesty's art collection
hanging over her fireplace.

It's all in there.

Painting looks nice.

- That's the thing about art, it's so...
- Restful.

- Refreshing.
- Emotional.

Uplifting.

Well, I've got to go. Bye-bye.

See you around.

Bye, love.

Thank you.
I learnt such a lot working with you.

Come here.

Look, I'm really sorry about,
you know, at first, being so negative...

...No, you were great.
- It's just art is like...

No, seriously, really. I'm your biggest fan.

- Take care, Totty.
- Bye-bye.

...Bye.
- Ta-ta, Tots. You look after yourself.

- Take care. Bye.
- Bye.

Good bird, eh? Same again?

- Wouldn't say no.
- Same again.

I 'am so proud of you.

- For finding the link between Risk and...?
- No, for what you've done.

Growing up a bit and selling your car.

- Jack told me about the money and the buggy.
- Oh, did he?

It's terrific that you sacrificed something
you care a lot about for your grandchild.

- I didn't spend it all on the buggy.
- It's still a very mature...

No, I put most of it on the 12 horse.
Bit of an outsider, but if it comes in...

You've done what?!

...He's only gone and stuck it all on a horse.
- He's what? What, now?

- The yellow one's coming home.
- There's a chance here.

...Come on!
- Go on, my son!

♪ Well, it's all right

♪ Even if you're old and grey, yeah

♪ Well, it's all right

♪ Still you got something to say

♪ Well, it's all right

♪ Even if they say you're wrong

♪ Well, it's all right

♪ Sometimes you gotta be strong

♪ Maybe somewhere down the road a way

♪ At the end of the line

♪ You'll think of me and wonder where I am

♪ At the end of the line

♪ Maybe somewhere down the road... ♪