All language subtitles for Endeavour - 02x01 - Trove.river.English.orig

♪ Denn Alles Fleisch

It gives me great pleasure
to launch Burridges.

Spring Into Summer fashion collection.

Diana! Diana, this way, please!

The simple fact that King Harold

had to straightway hurry South
from Stamford Bridge

to repel the Norman invasion

is perhaps the decisive factor
in William's victory.

D...A...

F...

T...N...

U...P.

I have received a heartfelt appeal for

Frida Yelland, of
Wantage in Oxfordshire,

to get in touch with her dad,
Bernard.

Dad says he loves you
and misses you very much

and just wants to know you're all right.

When my late colleague, Tom Duggan,
took this seat in March,

it may have only been by 18 votes,

but let me assure you

this constituency is more to me
than just a swing seat.

- It's my home.
- Well said!

In...

Out...

In...

Out...

Smoking? No.

Drink?

The odd glass.
Are you sleeping all right?

Diana?

Diana? Dinner, dear.

Yes, Mrs Todd.

Don't want too late of a night,
dear, do we? Not with tomorrow.

Five minutes, Mrs Todd.

Don't fret yourself, Mu.

It's a woman's prerogative.

♪ Denn alles Fleisch

♪ Es ist wie Gras

♪ Und alle Herrlichkeit...

Now some traffic news just in.

Drivers travelling to Oxford are

advised to avoid the centre of town,

where a pageant marking 900 years...

Someone's got a spring in his step.

Have they?
Starts back again today, doesn't he?

Properly, I mean. At the station.

Well, if the medic's passed him A1.

Fred. Remember what you said after
that drink?

I'll get it!

Don't expect too much. Come in.

You've lost weight.

What have they been feeding you
out at Witney?

Mockery and humiliation, mostly.

Morse. Sir.

How's the leg?

Oh, fine. Fine.

We'd have kept you on at the station,
if I'd had my way. It was erm...

The budget. I know.

Something about carrying dead wood,
wasn't it, Mr Bright said?

You might want to avoid The Broad...

cos of the parade..

Today this city celebrates
900 years of history.

900 years since these islands
fell beneath the Norman yoke.

It says something, perhaps,
for the bulldog spirit,

that we've never been conquered
again - though many have tried.

Ah!

I would also like to welcome
back to the station DC Morse...

who, after four months
counting paperclips at County,

returns to us - the FME assures me -
much restored.

Very well, carry on.

You'll be pleased to be off light
duties

and returned to your more general
responsibilities, no doubt.

Sir.
Well, eventful year for you -

one way or another.

Mm? Shot. The opera lunatic.

And then, to top it all, your
father.

Damned bad luck.

But back on the horse, yes?

Carry on.

When you have a minute, Thursday.

I'll leave you to get settled in.

How is he?

I ask with no side.

He's young.

He'll mend.

The ABC said that she handed in her
cards the previous Friday.

I know my daughter. Frida wouldn't
just go away and not tell me.

It was planned, then, not like she
just disappeared off the street?

Look...

Leave it with us.

Any news, we'll let you know.

My colleague will see you out.
Morse?

It's Mr Yelland, isn't it?
From Wantage?

You came into Witney last week.

I've been all over.

What makes you think
that Frida's come to Oxford?

Well... I don't know she has.

I'm just trying everywhere.

She'd have called or wrote sooner'n

fret me like this if she was going off.

Oh, damn. Uh...

I meant to give this to the other fella.

Can you help me? Please.

Yeah, of course.

Try not to worry.

Anything in it? Two weeks?

Girl's free, white, single and over 21.

Probably run off with the milkman.

Get off me!

It's just a bit of paint, that's all.

Stay calm.

Come along, miss.

Morse.

Hello, matey.

You're a sight for sore eyes and no
mistake. Back full time?

Looks like it. What did I miss?

You heard about my Sergeants',
I suppose?

Three lousy points.
If at first...

Yeah. Give up.

Right. Brace yourself.

It's a bit uh...

All right.

Wait a minute.

Name? Oh, take your pick.

Has about two dozen different business cards.

Witnesses?

The traffic warden was writing a ticket
when he hit, but nobody saw him jump.

The porter says access to the roof
is easy enough

if people are of a mind to go up there.

Off heights, are we?

Lately. Funnily enough.

Mmm.

Not how I'd "my own quietus make", but

he wouldn't have known much about it.

Instantaneous.

Dead before his mind had a chance

to catch up with the rest of him.

What do you make to these?
Commonly removed in suicides.

Automatic gesture. And, of course,
the added benefit in this instance,

is that he wouldn't have seen
what was coming towards him.

Cause?

Something of a salmagundi.

"Multiple catastrophic injuries" do
you to be going on with?

Chapter and verse once I've had a
rummage.

Nothing suspicious? Only you.

Morse.

They're just jealous.

Now, what have I told you, hm?

When people say or do nasty things,
what do you do?

Stare back and smile.

Any word as to what was behind it?

Someone said perhaps a falling
out over a boyfriend?

Diana doesn't have a boyfriend.
She's waiting for Mr Right.

But, listen, what I can tell you

is that she's shooting a commercial
for the television on Friday

with the racing driver, Danny Griffon?

Oh? What's it for, Tone?

Sunlight Soap powder. Formula 1.

Big new campaign. It's very "now", it's very
"with it" and Diana's very excited about it.

As to anything else, we're just
here to run a competition.

The Oxford heat's still going ahead?
Absolutely.

Otherwise there would be dozens of
disappointed young beautiful ladies.

So the show must go on and it will
do at Cowley Lido, on Monday night.

Thanks ever so much. Thank you.

How is she?

I'd like five minutes
with those stupid little bitches.

We're thinking suicide currently,
sir.

But, obviously, more news to follow.

What's the word on Icarus, then?

Um... multiple catastrophic injuries,
according to Dr DeBryn.

But we'll know more once he's
completed the post mortem.

You're... up to that? Wouldn't want
to overface you first day back.

I'm fine, sir.
Once more unto the breach, eh?

Excellent.

Well, splendid you're settling back
in.

Splendid.

Absence makes...

There should be a notebook.

There was a notebook at the scene.

What's there's what came back, mate.

Receipts?

For petrol and motor oil
from a garage out towards Shotover.

Another for breakfast
at Lyons on Carfax this morning.

Why would a man planning on killing
himself want receipts?

Force of habit? He'd also tied a
bit of string around his finger.

A reminder to do something,
wouldn't you think?

Maybe he'd done it. Either way,
we need to know who he was.

All right. Stick with it.
See what you can dig up.

Thank you, sir. Not back off
light duties five minutes

and already it's foul play.

Just like old times.

All right? Hello, sir.

Uh... Oxford Police.

Much trade?

Not since the bypass.

Holiday camp round the back
had it worse. Closed now.

Sold three cans of oil yesterday.

A youngster round lunch,
a woman after tea

and Mr Meeker about eight.

How old would he be, Mr Meeker?

Reckon he was about early forties.

Biggish fella.

What was he driving?

Lincoln... Continental.

Did he make any mention
of where he was headed...

ask for directions or...?
No. No.

Didn't need to.
Stopped here, didn't he?

How long had he checked in for?
Last night and tonight.

Did he give a home address?
In the register.

He's stayed once or twice, I think,
last few weeks.

Dentist.

Thanks.

900 years of history... and the best
that they can come up with

to represent the contribution my sex made
to this nation is Miss Great Britain?

Have you got a daughter?

What I might or might not have
isn't at issue, miss.

So you'd be happy to see her on the back
of a float with everybody staring at her?

You letting off your starter pistol put
a lot of folk in fear of their lives.

Fear?

Do you know how many women are beaten
or die in this country each week,

at the hands of their boyfriends,
or husbands or fathers?

As a matter of fact, miss, I do.
Probably better than you.

Fractured skull.

Lacerated aorta.

Any of which would've done for him.

Stomach contents?

The full English.

About an hour before he put Sir Isaac's
Law of Universal Gravitation to the test.

Any word as to who he was?

Name's Meeker.

Dentist, apparently.

With teeth like that? I've seen
better gnashers running at Uttoxeter.

You didn't have a notebook come in,
did you?

There was a notebook at the scene of
the crime,

on the roof of the car,
amongst his personal effects.

I'm a pathologist, not a road
sweeper.

If something's been pinched,
I should call the police.

Good afternoon. This is Detective
Constable Morse, Oxford City Police.

Would I be right in thinking this is
the dental practice of a Mr Meeker?

It was?

I see.

What age was Mr Meeker
at the time of his decease?

The Jeremiahs say to me, "Barbara,
three elections in two years."

The voters have had enough."

We're sitting there in Parliament
on a 90-odd majority.

I think you know exactly what the
danger is.

We give an inch of ground back to the
Tories and they'll thieve a yard!

Here, here.

Ah, Thursday. Come in.

May I present Captain and Mrs
Batten.

Detective Inspector Thursday.
How do you do?

Mr Batten owns the paint factory
on the Botley Road.

The Saucies? What?

The Worcestershire Regiment,
Chief Superintendent.

My tie. Burma?

You? North Africa.

Italy.

Well, unfortunately, it appears
Mr and Mrs Batten's daughter

is amongst the group we're holding in
connection with that incident this morning.

Kitty.

She attends Lady Matilda's, but
Captain and Mrs Batten have brought

a letter from her tutor
in Medieval Studies at Beaufort.

He assures me she's a person
of previous good character.

I think he says "exemplary".

"A Running Blue, Cupper, and likely
prospect for Mexico in the 800."

If she's done something wrong...
Barb...

she should face the consequences,
Archie, the same as anyone else.

Admirably expressed, Mrs Batten.

However, not everyone else's mother has
been selected to stand for Parliament.

They've been released? All of 'em?

"The quality of mercy," Mr Bright
says.

The quality of Captain Batten's
backhand, more like.

Assistant Chief Constable's doubles
partner in the Seniors' Round Robin.

His paint firm sponsors the Annual
Police Widows and Orphans.

Yeah, well, there you go.

Same as I was telling Strange.
It's not what you know. Morse.

Pint of?
No, I'm not stopping, thanks.

I just wanted to report on
the garage at Shotover.

How'd you make out?

Well, according to the owner, Meeker's
stayed there three times this last month.

Meeker amongst his business cards,
wasn't there? Dentist. Swiss Cottage.

He died - two years ago.

Some sort of con artist?
Possibly.

I found this on his bedside table.

98018. What's that? A telephone
number?

It's unobtainable, if it is. I've
tried it.

D-Day? Friday?

Well, you've got that wrong.
D-Day was on a Tuesday.

What's with the Friday, then?

Something he had to do tomorrow,
perhaps?

I wondered if it mightn't be Friday
at all.

Well, there's a young girl's gone
missing from Wantage.

Frida Yelland. I thought, rather than
Friday, it could be...

"FRIDA Y", couldn't it?

Or it could just be Friday.

You're keen to get back in the
swing, and that's to be commended...

But?

Tying in a suicide to a missing girl
off the back of a single word?

Got to admit that's a bit of a
stretch - even by your standards.

"Suspected" suicide, isn't it?

In any event, we'd be
better placed to know if

certain of his possessions
hadn't taken a walk.

What's that?

Meeker's notebook's gone missing.

Somewhere between the scene
and the Exhibits desk.

Could be the Coroner's men swept it
up with the rest of the detritus

when they bagged the body.
Who was in charge there?

Strange. Although I am not saying...

Well, I'll have a word with Mr
Bright in any case.

Can't have uniform falling down on
their duty.

Right, then.

Let's see...

Thursday. Must be...?

Ham and tomato.

Kitty! Kitty! What?

Didn't you think what this might
mean?

For you? For the family?
I thought you might understand.

Approve even.
Don't you want things to change?

Of course I do. What the hell do you
think I'm standing for?

My God. You think you'd be standing
at all if some old man hadn't died?

If the party really gave a damn, they'd
have selected you for the general,

not in some bloody "also ran"
by-election.

Kitty... It doesn't matter
whether you win or lose.

It's just a game.
Yes, it's their game!

And you're playing it.

It's 1966, Mother. You don't have to
wait to be asked to dance any more.

Wait with the car. I'll see her into
her tutorial.

I'd sooner you didn't come in.
I'm a big girl.

Did Frida ever mention a man called
Meeker, Mr Yelland?

Raymond Meeker?

About 45 years old.

Might have described himself as a
dentist.

Drove a Lincoln Continental.

One of the girls she worked with
at Aerated Bread

said that she thought she saw Frida
in Oxford with an older man.

When was this? Since she's been
missing?

Few weeks before. I told 'em at
Kidlington.

I thought I'd told 'em at Witney.

It's got that I've told so many,

I don't know what I've said,
and what I haven't, and to who.

Why? Do you think you've got
something?

With this Meeker fella?

For a moment... It's just something
I'm looking at.

It's probably nothing.

Diana?

Diana?

Shh.

Ah, Thursday!

Town Hall have made a request of Division
for additional security at this...

girl competition - whatever it is.

I'd like someone from CID on it.
Sir?

Just a few hours of an evening. Making
sure the contestants go unmolested.

You're taking a chance.

Don't let Muriel catch you.

Hark who's talking.

Oh...

Hi. Hello.

I'm Monica.

With the moped.

From across the way.

Morse.

Sorry to knock, but... you haven't
got a tanner, have you?

I've something on the stove to warm,
and the gas has gone.

Come in.

I'll let you have it back.

Call it quits if you've a tin opener
I can borrow.

Just moved in, haven't you?

Weekend before last.

I'll fetch the opener.

You wouldn't have an iron, would you?

Mine's given up the ghost.

Stretching that sixpence, aren't
you?

How is he?

Bit ring-rusty maybe.

Soon work that off.

Fred, when you came back from that
drink with him, you were worried sick.

I don't know I'd go that far.
Yes, you were.

What was it you said?

"The light's gone out of him."

Has it?

So... What do you do?

What do you think I do?

A teacher, maybe.

In the colleges.

All these books.

Are you? I'm a policeman.

You don't look like a policeman.
Hm. What do policemen look like?

Not like you.

Thanks for the opener.

Welcome. I'll, erm...

Night.

Good night.

Someone get the police!
There's been a robbery!

Theft was discovered shortly after
seven this morning by one of the porters.

When were they last seen? Before the
college was locked. Around eleven.

Nobody in or out in between.
Inside job, then.

If the place was shut tight.

Since you're wearing a hat, might
one assume that you're in charge?

DI Thursday, sir. City Police.

Might we assume the same of you,
Mr...? Doctor.

Copley-Barnes. I'm the Macullen
Chair.

Medieval Studies.

And this isn't a hat. It's a bonnet.

My colleague, Dr Speight. Senior Research
Fellow in AngloSaxon Antiquities.

How do you do?
What's been stolen exactly?

Speight?

Come on, man. This is you.
Ah. Yes, well, erm...

We... We've an excellent photographic
record of the exhibits, as you can see.

Uh...

The quality of the objects, together
with certain runic inscriptions,

suggests they belonged to a thegn

or high-ranking housecarl in the
retinue of King Harold Godwinson.

King Harold that got it in the eye?

And people decry the merits
of the Secondary Modern!

Yes, Constable, even he.

The centrepiece is a golden helmet,

known - by dint of the chief archaeologist's
taste for Wagner - as the Tarnhelm.

A spearhead.

A Dane axe. Various arm-torcs.

What Speight's trying to say, in his
scenic way, is that the swag constitutes

all the major finds
from the Second Wolvercote Trove.

Yes? The which, sir?

You're familiar, presumably, with
the dig of '31,

which unearthed a late-Saxon belt
buckle now in the Ashmolean?

I can't imagine a working knowledge
of the Historia ecclesiastica

looms large in the Hendon
curriculum.

I can't imagine it would do us very
much good if it did.

I beg your pardon? The Historia
ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum -

to give it its full title -

appeared 335 years before
the events with which

this exhibition is
concerned took place.

Venerable the Bede may have been,
but not clairvoyant.

Please, Dr Speight, do go on.

Get uniform cracking on the movement
of everyone in college

between the time the place was locked
up and when the loot was missed.

Sir.

Sir. That uh... suicide
that went off the Rates Office roof.

There was an exhibition guide
in his personal effects.

Half of Oxford's got one, I
shouldn't wonder.

I spoke to Mr Yelland.

The father of the missing girl -
Frida.

He said that one of her colleagues at work
had seen her in Oxford with an older man.

What if that older man
was the body that we found?

What if?

We've got three cases.
Three separate cases.

A suicide, a missing girl,
and now a robbery.

You want to lump all three together
because he had an exhibition guide

and wrote "Friday" on a piece of
paper?

Well...

It could be today, couldn't it?

Friday.

The day of the robbery.

Two minutes ago you said it was this
missing girl, Frida Yelland. Which is it?

I... I don't know.

You don't have to prove anything.

Just having you back in one piece
is enough to be going on with.

All right?

I'm gonna have a word with the
porter.

Oh, hello, stranger.
They let you out, then?

Good behaviour.

You? How are you?

Operational.

There's been a robbery, hasn't there?
To do with the Wolvercote Trove.

The college wouldn't want us
to go into details, Miss Frazil.

Any chance there's a connection
to yesterday's larks in The Broad?

One of the girls has a connection to
Beaufort but no-one's naming names.

What do you hear?
I hear very little.

And divulge even less. It really
doesn't matter what you tell me.

We've had orders from on high
that it's a non-story.

Miss Batten?

Detective Constable Morse, City
Police.

I wondered if I might ask you a few
questions. About last night.

Last night?

Someone stole a sizeable portion
of the Wolvercote Trove.

Did they?

Well, there's one in the eye
for Copley-Barnes.

Quite literally.

My tutor. Yes, I know.

You don't care for him?

Not as much as he'd like.

My God, you don't think
I'm something to do with it?

Well, I think you made quite a spectacle
of yourself on The Broad yesterday.

Feel you didn't make your point
strongly enough?

That was different. Was it?

In 1913, Mary Richardson
walked into the

National Gallery and
slashed the Rokeby Venus.

All in a good cause.

Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts
yesterday evening?

No.

Oh, actually, I called home at about
half-past ten to speak to Mother,

but Father said she was out.

Campaigning or... I don't know.

I just wanted people to see the
truth.

There's more to women than an
empty head and a Colgate smile.

But it's futile.
Nothing's going to change.

I'll walk away from Oxford with a
degree - and for what?

An occupation...

Housewife.

Am I selfish, Archie?

Have I been?

With all this?

I know it's been hard on you and
Kitty.

It's my fault.
She's her mother's daughter.

Headstrong, brave... smart as they
come.

Not much of a fault where I'm
standing.

Any other circumstance and I would
have been cheering her on.

She does know that?

It's just...

When you believe in something...

I had to try for it.

Know what I believe in?

You...

Kitty.

The three of us.

According to the neighbours, it's been
parked here since yesterday morning.

Fishing waders.

But no rod or tackle.

Switchblade.

Risky old game, dentistry.

According to the logbook, the car's
registered to a Mr John Pettifer.

11 Drexel Court, London.

That's Soho. Pass it on to London,
then.

He died on our ground. I thought I
might take a look.

Did you?

Listen, Morse. Mr Bright's looking for
a volunteer on this beauty contest.

I've put your name down.

To do what? Keep an eye.

They're expecting you
at Chipperfield Studios at midday.

Ask for a Tony Frisco.

I'm meant to be off light duties.

It came from the top.

After all the hoopla with the
pageant.

What if it wasn't a suicide?

What if his death is somehow connected
to this missing girl? Frida Yelland.

You're looking to keep your mind
occupied,

it's this theft at Beaufort
we could use a lead on.

You saw her, didn't you? Kitty
Batten?

What do you make to her?

Confused.

Sincere.

Angry.

Any chance the theft of the Trove
could be part of the same stunt?

Well, anything's possible but...

No, it's all right. Morse?
It was just a car backfiring.

I wasn't... I wasn't expecting it,
that's all.

I know. Well, it... took you by
surprise, that's all.

It was very close.
Made me jump.

You really think there could be
something to London?

I can get the train. After I've been
to see Tony Frisco, of course.

All right.

Set up for a take, please, people.

Diana, take five. Thanks.

How we looking with the
back-projection?

That was smashing, Diana. You're a
natural.

Hello, there. Tony Frisco.
Mr Todd's assistant.

Uh, Detective Constable Morse.

Please, come on over.
I'll introduce you to Val - Mr Todd.

You been with him long?
Ah, yeah. A few years.

Started out as his driver.

Worked my way up.
Is it interesting work?

Beats pest control.

That's my former vocation.

Vermin. Pigeons, rats, wasps.

That's how I first met Val.
Squirrels in the loft.

Next, I'm wearing a chauffeur's cap,
sitting behind the wheel of the Roller.

It sounds...
Fabulous? Oh, it is.

I mean, take Saturday gone. Diana
opens a boutique in Marylebone.

They were all there. Simon Dee asks
me if I like his shirt.

You can't put a price on that.

Where are the cars? I
don't know how I'm meant

to do it right if
there aren't no cars.

"Any cars."
They will put them in later.

Val? Detective Constable Morse.

Thanks very much indeed for coming.

This is my good lady wife,
and the partner of my labours.

This is Muriel. Mrs Todd.

This is one of the nice young gentlemen
who will be looking after us tomorrow.

Can we find him an evening suit?
He has an evening suit.

Don't worry about Muriel.

She's like a cat on a hot tin roof
before a competition.

No smoking on the floor, please!

Sorry, that's me. Let's go.

So... what's the form
with this kind of thing?

Traditionally, there's three rounds.
Daywear, evening wear and swimwear.

But this is not all about looks.

These girls are judged on personality
as much as anything else.

Do you get many applicants?

Are you joking?

For the right girl, this competition
is the chance at fame and fortune.

This is personal appearances, endorsements.
All of which we take care of.

For a percentage, presumably.

As the man says, "showbusiness not
show friendship".

Hm.
Val, they're ready to go again.

Diana's playing up. And Mr White's
on the phone from Play-Tone.

Right, thanks so much for coming.
I really appreciate it.

You're gonna have to excuse me
but Tony will see you out.

Someone's beat us to it.

Right, get him up and cuff him.

What are you doing?
Look sharp, Mr Pettifer.

Wakey-wakey.

Don't talk. Listen.

You recognise Mr Mallory here?

You know what we want.
What's the numbers?

I'm not Pettifer.

You are gonna tell me those numbers.

Come here!

Bring her in here!

Who are you?
Lydia... Lydia Martin.

Please. I'm just a secretary.

Give the combination for the safe
and save yourself a beating.

I don't know it. I've only been here
three weeks.

You'd have to ask Mr Pettifer.
What do you think we're doing?

That's not Pettifer.

I'm a police officer.

Check him.

He's right. Let's get out of here
quick!

Thursday.
Is this the Oxford City Police?

I'm Lydia Martin.

The bigger of the two's Mallory.

He's an Inspector. Vine Street.

Mallory's wife thought he had a bit
on the side.

Mr Pettifer's main line was divorce.

So somehow Mallory's got wind of it.

Any idea what Pettifer was doing in
Oxford?

He didn't tell me much.

Well, whatever Mallory was after is
in here.

You sure you don't know the
combination?

No.

Let's try 98018.

Try 15...58...16...03.

Or some variation thereof.

The combination.
The string around his finger.

He had a bad memory.

Yeah. He was always forgetting to
pay his bills.

He kept everything important
written in his little black book.

15... What is it?

58...16...03.

How'd you know that?

He hung the portrait
to remind him of the combination.

The years of Elizabeth Tudor's reign.

Mallory?

Who wants to know?

Fred Thursday. Oxford City Police.

What can I do for you?

Soho this afternoon.

You and your pal had a rare old time
at the expense of one of mine.

Suppose you tell me what that was
all about.

Suppose we don't.

Then I'll have to take off my hat.

How long have I been out?
Nearly back.

While you were having a doze,
I dug out Mallory.

Turns out Pettifer was a shake-down
artist.

Mallory's wife hired him to find out if
her husband was seeing another woman.

He was.

Only, sooner than come clean to his
client, Pettifer put the squeeze on.

Only, Mallory wouldn't roll over.

About the size of it.

Still doesn't explain who was waiting for
me behind the door of Pettifer's office.

You sure it wasn't Mallory?
According to Miss Martin, no.

They didn't turn up till after.

Well, I fetched you this out in any
case.

Souvenir of London.

Do you need any help?

No, we're all right for the minute, miss.
Thanks for asking. I've got him. That's it.

Let's get you sat down.

Still think Pettifer was a suicide?

Some other husband
had the same idea as

Mallory, only this one
threw him off the roof.

If whoever hit me was after the same
thing as Mallory,

then the answer's got to be
somewhere in that lot.

You're in no state for bookwork.
Get some sleep.

And I don't expect to see you
at work in the morning. All right?

Is he all right?

Touch of concussion.

Could you... look in on him now and
then?

Oh, I don't want to... I know.

In case he needs anything.

Oh.

And if he takes a turn for the worse, call
an ambulance and then call that number.

Any time.

Are you family?

Colleague.

Goodnight, miss.

Wotcher. You walk into a door or
something?

Your idea of a day off, is it?

You're meant to be laid up
with a bag of ice on your head.

There's something you should see.

That is your signature, Mrs Todd.

30 guineas to be drawn against the
account of ValMu Promotions.

We know Mr Pettifer's bread and
butter was divorce work, Mrs Todd.

It was silly. But can you blame me?

Surrounded by beautiful young women,
who he is...

I thought maybe she'd got her claws
into him. Who?

Diana. They'd been spending a lot of
time together. Promotional tours.

Val had become a little distant.

I was wrong.

Mr Pettifer told you that? Yes.

I had no reason to doubt him.

She's worth a million of those.

When I first met Muriel,
I didn't have a pot to piss in.

Do you know what I was? I was Entertainments
Officer at some two-bob holiday camp.

But she saw something in me...

I'd be nothing without that woman.

Cos she's the brains. Oh, yes, she's
the real business acumen.

That's not how the world sees it.

The world sees what we want it to
see.

But I tell you what, believe me,

she's the punch line
and I'm just the boom-tschh.

Just as a matter of interest,
where were you yesterday afternoon?

You know where I was. I was at
Chipperfield Studios.

And the morning of the pageant? In
The Broad, keeping an eye on Diana.

Mu and Tony'll vouch for me.

Look, do you really think I would risk
everything that we've built up together?

For what?

For some here today, gone tomorrow
bit of skirt

who's only interested in what I can
do for 'em?

He makes a convincing show.

I'll say a water-tight alibi
for the time both you

and Pettifer copped it
is a bit more than show.

All we've got to go on
is the wife's suspicions.

She wouldn't be the first
to put two and two, and make five.

I thought I might talk to Diana Day.

Well, D-Day.

Stretching a point, aren't you?

Besides, she's hardly likely to
admit they were carrying on.

If Pettifer had had anything on
Todd,

we'd have found more in his file
than just a cheque. Don't you think?

Miss Day?

Oh. If you want a signed picture,
you'll have to write in.

Detective Constable Morse. City
Police. Oh.

Thank God. I thought you were a fan.

You ain't got a ciggie? I'm gasping.
I'm afraid not.

Do you mind if I sit? Please.

So... what's this about, then?

What happened at the parade?

No, it's about another matter.

I wondered...

Have you ever met a man called
Pettifer?

Not that I know of.

What about a girl called Frida
Yelland?

Do you know how many names
I hear in my line of work?

Who is she? She's a young girl gone
missing from Wantage.

She may have known this Pettifer
character.

Well, like I say, I don't know
either of them.

How would you describe
your relationship with Val Todd?

Professional.

He's my manager.

Look, three years ago,
I was just plain Betty Jones,

working in a shoe shop in Croydon,

with no prospects beyond a couple of
kids and a maisonette in Purley.

And everyone would've said,
"Ain't she done well?"

Val saw something more in me.

"A smile to build a dream on" he
called it.

And he sent me to deportment classes

and elocution lessons,

and gave me new hair and clothes.

Even a new name.

D Day. It's my birthday.

It's June 6th.

Simple as that. Simple as that.

Can I redeem this? Yes, sir.

Trill Mill Stream.

Runs underneath the city.

At least we know why he needed
waders.

TE Lawrence explored it by canoe
when he was up.

The point is it surfaces again
inside Beaufort College.

How far does this thing go?

Oh. About a quarter of a mile.

It ran on the surface originally.

Only enclosed during a cholera
outbreak in the 19th century.

What the hell was Pettifer doing
taking a photograph of it?

I don't know. Casing the location?
Planning?

This must be the way the robbers got
into the college.

Maybe Pettifer... Hold on.

What's that?

Look, there, up ahead.

♪ Qui la voce sua soave

♪ Mi chiamava

♪ E poi spari

♪ Qui giurava

♪ Esser fedele...

Who was she?
We're not sure yet, sir.

But her outfit matches that of a girl
reported missing out of Wantage.

Frida Yelland. Age?

Early twenties - if it's her.
It's her.

Was she interfered with?

Know more once Dr DeBryn's completed his
post mortem, but first impression says not.

Her underclothes are still in place.

How was it you happened to find the
body?

A line of inquiry Morse was
following, sir.

To do with this suicide off the
Rates Office.

Cause of death would appear to be a
head wound.

Would have bled quite profusely
if she were alive when it happened.

Right parietal. Between the superior
and inferior temporal lines.

Someone hit her, yeah?

One might reasonably draw such a
conclusion.

Pettifer had a fractured skull, didn't he?
He had a fractured everything.

But that was also on the right.

Between the superior and inferior
temporal lines.

If memory serves.

Whoever killed Frida Yelland also
killed Pettifer.

It would appear they are both
connected to the theft of the Trove.

But what's behind it?
A falling-out of thieves?

Perhaps. But the girl was killed two
weeks ago at least.

Maybe she's not part of it? Maybe she's
heard or seen something she shouldn't,

and they can't rely on on her
to keep her mouth shut.

So what's with the photographs? And why
leave the negs in the pawnbrokers?

Maybe he didn't trust his partner.

Or partners.

Maybe it was his insurance
against a double-cross.

Didn't work out too well for him,
then, did it?

After Elspeth died, me and Frida moved
here to be closer to my family.

From where?

London. I'd gone there after the war
to look for work.

That's how I met Elspeth.

She was a widow with a young girl.

What happened to Frida's father?

Oh... The Japs.

Frida took to me from the off.

My little button, she was.

This older man... Does the name
Pettifer ring any bells?

No. Not to my knowledge.

What about Beaufort College?
Did she know anyone from there?

We never had anything to do with
anywhere like that.

Would you have a key for this, Mr
Yelland?

No. That's Frida's bits box.
It belonged to my Elspeth.

I let Frida have it after Elspeth
passed away.

You'd have no objection if we took it
away with us and had a look inside?

No. Take what you want.

Just catch whoever did it.

These could be anywhere.

Find wherever this is
and we might get some answers.

It's Pettifer's notebook we need.

Same again?

I'll have a large one.
He'll have a pint of Radfords.

I'm all for a beer at lunchtime.
There's nothing wrong with that.

But when you're on duty with me,
you lay off the spirits.

I've seen too many go that way.
What way?

You think I missed all the bottles
round your flat?

Six months, you'll have enough off the
empties to put down for a second-hand car.

Booze can be a good servant, Morse,
but it's a lousy master.

What's going on?

You all right?

Perfectly. Why?
I'm just saying.

Sometimes... with a shooting...

there can be a delayed reaction.

Shock after the event.

Here, try this.

The FME's rated me fit.
In body.

Seen enough of it in the war.

Men passed A1
and returned to the front line.

Too soon for some of them.

I'm fine.

Thomas shot a couple of rolls with
her earlier this year.

I sent the ten by eights off to
ValMu.

ValMu Promotions?

The organiser of this beauty contest?
That's right.

They put her in the local heats at
Henley, but she only came runner-up.

Which was about her mark, to be
fair.

Did she have a boyfriend?
Not that I know of.

What about a man called Pettifer? She
ever mention anyone by that name?

Not to me. That's it.

What was she like?
Not bad from a distance,

you put her in the right clobber -
good legs, decent bust.

She was all right till she opened
her mouth.

Did you tell her that?

Did she know anyone at Beaufort College?
That's lovely, Thomas. Lovely.

No. Uh-uh. That wasn't her scene.

When did you see her last?
I couldn't tell you.

Try. Or do you want us
to take this place apart

and find out what's got
her as high as a kite?

Babe, why don't you go
and fix us a rum and coke, eh?

There's a good girl.

Couple of months, maybe.
Dropped me, didn't she.

How'd you feel about that?
That's the game, man.

Easy come. Really? She could've been
your meal ticket.

I did all right out of it.

I sold her on.

I transferred my interest to ValMu.

What could ValMu do for her?

You'd have to ask them.

We get hundreds of those through
each week.

One pretty girl is very much like
another.

This one took part in one of your
local heats for Miss Oxfordshire.

Really?

What's your interest,
if you don't mind me asking?

Our interest, Mr Todd,
is she was found murdered.

Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, that's...

that's terrible. That's a tragedy.
Val?

It's Lane at SCDP.

The East Coast.

Would you mind excusing me
just for a moment?

Muriel can help you with anything
else. What's this?

More about that nonsense at the
parade?

No, no. Some young kid's got herself
killed.

What did you say her name was?
Frida Yelland.

We spoke to a Mr Delfarge. He said
he sold her on to you to manage.

Oh, yes, I remember.

We negotiated a percentage
but nothing was signed.

But she worked for you?
She did a couple of exhibitions.

The boat show. Motor show.

She wasn't really cut out for it.

She ever talk about a boyfriend?

What about Pettifer?

It's possible she may have known him.

Her father was killed in the war.
Yelland said as much.

He took on Frida and raised her as
if she were his own.

It's not the official telegram, sir.

There's a letter there, sent by his
C/O after the war.

"Dear Mrs Spurling,

You will by now have received notice
of your terrible loss..."

So? I've seen enough like it.
What's your point?

Lack of punctuation notwithstanding,
it's the signature that caught my eye.

"Captain Archibald Batten."

My father was a miner,
in the Valleys of South Wales.

He'd known poverty. But it hadn't
made him bitter.

He used to say to me, "Barbara",

when the world shows you its worst,
that's when people show you their best."

Here, here!

That was a very good speech.

Last chance to convince any
undecideds.

At least nobody told me
to get back in the kitchen.

I thought it was very passionate.
Mm.

I can count on your vote, then.
I don't. Vote.

People died so you could.

It's your birthright, paid for in
sweat and blood.

All right, my dear? Who's this?
Captain Batten?

I wonder if I might have a moment of
your time. City Police. DC Morse.

Police? Is this about Kitty?

No, it's about another matter.
It won't take a moment.

I wrote many such letters. Too many.

I've a vague recollection of Private
Spurling, but sadly, I'm afraid...

faces do start to blur.

We wondered if Miss Yelland
had been in contact with you?

With me? No. To what end?

Some connection with her father,
perhaps?

Something brought her to Oxford.
I see.

Then, I'm afraid I'm sorry to
disappoint. I never met her.

I doubt I've thought about her name from the
moment I wrote that letter until today.

You've never met, or been contacted
by, a man called Pettifer?

He's a private inquiry agent from
London.

No. Good heavens, no.

The guttersnipes in the press

are always looking to do Barbara
down,

but I can't see even them
stooping so low as that.

Where were you on the morning of the
pageant?

Campaigning - with Barb.

A speech to nurses at the Radcliffe
Infirmary.

And yesterday afternoon?

Canvassing... door to door.

As my feet will bear testament.

I can slip my sock off, if you like.
No.

That won't be... Thank you for your
assistance.

And the best of luck to Mrs Batten
tomorrow.

Pint?

No. I won't, if it's all the same.

Night, then. Good night.

You should've stayed.
You'd have been proud.

I am.

Sir!

This is indeed the stolen spearhead.

Where did you find it?
In the tunnel, sir.

Close by Frida Yelland's body.

Looks like the thief stumbled over
the corpse in the dark and lost it.

He was already inside the college.

He steals the goods, then makes his getaway
under cover of darkness through the stream.

One of your uniformed associates
mentioned in passing

that you were an Oxford man.

Is that right?

I've always rather despised that
phrase.

Oh... Chippy, are we?

What? Poor Third?

You're tutor to Kitty Batten, aren't
you?

What do you make to her?

Daddy issues. Well, Mummy and Daddy
issues to be precise.

Hence all this "Look at me!" of
late.

Nothing a good spanking wouldn't
cure, I'm sure.

Oh, I see.

Turned your head, has she?
Touch of the barley fever.

Got you yearning for bouts of erotic
gymnastics

punctuated by Thomas Mann
and the New Left Review?

Yum yum.

You know, the flesh is weak, I
suppose.

I've seen all I need to. Thank you.

There you go, sir.

Thanks. Thanks, mate.

I hear it's off ration these days.

I've had enough advice for one day.

How do you feel about giving some?

I've been invited to
a meet and greet this evening.

With a view to being initiated into
a certain ancient fraternity.

We haven't all got your brain,
matey. Never will have.

Some of us need a leg-up.

A man can't serve two masters.

Sooner or later, you'll have to
choose.

Just don't lose your way.

It's easily done.

♪ Ardon gl'incensi

♪ Splendon le sacre faci

♪ Splendon intorno

♪ Ecco il ministro

♪ Porgime la destra

♪ Oh, lieto giorno...

The Trill Mill is out of bounds to undergrads
and staff, Dr Speight. Is that right?

Yes. Yes, indeed.

Students once used it
to get in and out after curfew.

The less murophobic at least.

But after the rat infestation of
'63, we had it sealed.

Dreadful, pestilential pit of a
place.

You wouldn't catch me down there
for love nor money.

Sir? Was there something else?

You again? Don't you people ever rest?
I've already told your colleagues,

the night the Trove was stolen,
I was in my rooms at college.

Was that usual?

My wife had taken a pupil up to London for
her Grade-something at the Royal College.

You don't expect a man to cook for
himself?

Im! Try cartwheels.

But there's no-one can vouch for you
at college?

Actually, I had Imogen on a
put-you-up. But she slept through.

Something wrong? 8...1086.

What? Are you quite well?
August 1086.

The date of the first draft
of the Domesday Book.

That's right. We have some pages from the
original Oxfordshire returns on display.

Stop there! Everybody, freeze!
What are you doing?

What the hell is going on?
City Police.

What are you doing? Open it up.

Is it all there?

Sir, it's Delfrage!
Get after him!

Where were you
on the morning of the pageant?

In my rooms at college. Alone?

And Friday afternoon?

What is this?

Keep on him, Jakes!

You think I'm somehow involved in
the theft?

Or worse.

Much worse.

Frida Yelland. Who?

The young woman we fished out of the
Trill Mill.

You killed her, didn't you?

We've got you now, Justin!

Give it up! It's over.

You're delusional.

Or drunk.

I think you should go now!

Excellent, Thursday.
Thank you, sir.

It was Copley-Barnes.

What was Copley-Barnes?

That stole the Trove from Beaufort and
murdered Frida Yelland and Pettifer.

Morse... He was the older man. It's
not 98018.

It's 8-1086.

The month and year in which
the Domesday Book was completed.

Pettifer was blackmailing him.

He found out somehow that Copley-Barnes
was involved with Frida Yelland.

That's why Copley-Barnes stole the
Trove. To pay off Pettifer.

Pettifer? Who was already dead?

What? We've got the thieves in
custody.

It's nothing to do with Copley-Barnes,
or Domesday, or the rest of it.

It was Justin Delfarge and his
photographer mate, Thomas.

Thomas, it turns out, is the Right Honourable
Gideon Bartholomew Thomas Fyffe-Drummond,

youngest son of the Marquis of
Stanhope.

He was also a graduate of Beaufort
two years since.

Which is how he got to photograph
the Wolvercote Trove.

His name's on the blow-ups
and in the exhibition guide.

There's got to be more to it than
that. It's just circumstantial.

You remember the model he was taking
photographs of when we visited?

Yes.
The bracelets she was wearing?

That's lovely, Thomas. Lovely.
The torcs from the exhibition.

Well, what about Frida Yelland and
Pettifer?

Justin and Thomas both knew Frida.

Pettifer, early days.

You're not actually serious?

Unless they've confessed.

Have they confessed?
Remember who you're speaking to.

Have they confessed? Morse!

A man should be big enough
to admit when he's wrong.

The Trove has been recovered.

It won't do, Thursday. It simply won't do.
Who the hell does he think he is?

Be this blow on the head
he got in London, sir.

A slight concussion, that's all.

Put him out of sorts.

Yes.

Yes, a slight concussion. That'll be
it.

A few days off?

I just got back.

Does it sound like a request?
You're not right. Go home.

Your friend asked me to look in.

You shouldn't have gone to all that
trouble.

No trouble. I'm used to it.

You're a nurse.

Is it the uniform?

I just wanted to leave you something
before I went on shift.

I tried the other morning,
but you gave me the slip.

Try and eat it while it's hot.

You need feeding up.

Hey, now.

You're shaking.

What's so bad it's got you this way?
Huh?

A father's lost his daughter.

That has to be put right.

If I can't do that...

there's nothing.

There. See? You can add cowardice
to my list of of fences.

When your friend brought you home
the other night,

I didn't see a coward.

Just a man... beat up too often
and for too long, maybe.

You're not yellow.

You're just blue.

Morse?

You know your moped?
I need to ask a favour.

Hello? Anyone here?

Vote for Barbara Batten,
your Labour candidate!

This way, please.

Lovely.

Can we have one of you as a couple,
please?

That's it. Big smile.

It's you.
Who did you think it was?

Some couple of bastards
from a few weeks since.

What bastards?

Never got a good enough look.

Two of 'em, though.

Big saloon car parked up back by the
cabin.

It's all right. It's licensed.

You're licensed to own it, Mr Fisher,
not to take pot-shots at strangers.

Trespassers.

My old man bought the land
when the camp closed.

Not that it's worth anything.

But I like to come fishing.

When was it, these two trespassers?

Uh...

Fortnight last Friday.

One of 'em was down by here.

He lobbed something into the water.

I give him a warning shot.

Should've seen the bugger run.

Would you recognise them,
if you saw them again?

The one by the water... probably.

Oh...

What you got there, then?

A hearty round of applause for our
lovely ladies.

And as the competitors
make their way around the pool,

let me introduce you to tonight's
judges.

Star of radio and television,

its What's My Line's Lady Isobel
Barnett.

Racing Driver Danny Griffon.

Who do you fancy to win? Hm?

The competition.

Miss Great Britain... Diana Day!

When I was a child,
my father took me to a county show.

The stockmen led beeves around a
field.

The winner got a rosette.

The loser got a bolt through the
skull.

It's just a bit of fun, Morse.

First up... Number One...

Oh, yes, it's all fun.

Till the music stops.

Mr Todd.

Take care. I'll see you later.

Morse.

Any news on Justin
and his photographer friend?

Mr Thursday's still sweating them,
far as I know.

What was all that about?

With Todd. You seem very pally.

Val? Yeah.

Yeah, he's all right.

I probably shouldn't say, but uh...

That social event we were talking
about.

The meet and greet.

Todd was there?
All right. Keep it down.

It wasn't anything like you said.

It was no different to a sort of
rugby club do, really.

It was all very relaxed.

Where was this?
Pub out at Thame.

Yeah, the Lodge meets above the
saloon, apparently. Every Wednesday.

Domesday Arms. It's very
picturesque.

We should take a run out there
sometime.

I think the returning officer is
ready.

OK, just one moment.
Just give me one moment.

Captain Batten.

I wonder if I might have a moment of
your time.

I'm afraid I didn't know her name.

So far as I'm aware, she was... just
a contestant.

How was it you were on the judging
panel? I was invited.

They sometimes ask local businessmen
to take part.

And counsellors. That sort of thing.

So, you've no private or personal
association with Val Todd?

I might have run into him here or
there.

When might that have been?
The last time, say.

Oh.

Not for some while.

A recount. 38 votes in it.

Everything all right?
Oh, perfectly.

Well, thank you for your time.

Domesday. Right?

If I can ever be of service.

♪ La Traviata,
The Drinking Song

So here we are! The moment we have
all been waiting for.

The Returning Officer
for the Oxford South Constituency,

hereby give notice that the total
number of votes...

Number 7, Cheryl Atkinson from
Gagingwell! Well done, Cheryl.

The total number of votes recorded
for each candidate is as follows...

Operations Room?

Can you put me through
to MoD Lydd Barracks, please?

Greville Horatio, Conservative -
26,326 votes.

Yolande Barton from Cuxham!
Well done, Yolande!

And, finally, your winner is...

And I hereby declare that Barbara
Batten is duly elected.

Member of Parliament for the
constituency.

Thank you.

Well done, Georgia!
Well done, Georgia!

They say behind every great man
there is a woman.

I would just like to take this
opportunity to thank my husband, Archie,

and our daughter, Kitty.

Without them, I would not be
standing here today.

Evening, sir.

Morse, what is this? Telling us to
park up out of sight?

Thursday, are you in on this?
More or less, sir.

It's the Frida Yelland killing. And the
man off the Rates Office roof. Pettifer.

I thought we were holding this
Beaufort robbery pair for that?

In the clear, sir - of the killings
at least.

Delfarge and his mate knocked off the
Trove by themselves, purely for gain.

Frida Yelland passed
through their hands, but

that's their only connection
to all this. Morse.

You were right, sir. Yesterday.
I was wrong. Spectacularly so.

Worse still, I was disrespectful to
you,

to Inspector Thursday
and to Sergeant Jakes.

And for that, I apologise
unreservedly. You were not yourself.

Thank you for saying so, sir,

but the truth is I was myself all too
much. It won't happen again.

So, what's the caper, dragging us
out of our kip at sparrows?

Like I said, I was wrong.
About most all of it.

It wasn't Pettifer had it upside down.
It was me.

81086 wasn't 8-1086, but I couldn't
see past the theft at Beaufort.

I over-thought it. It was 98018 all
along.

It's a Lodge number.

Captain Archie Batten and Val Todd
are members of Lodge No.98018, sir.

Also known as the Domesday Lodge.

D-Day. You had that right.

By luck, not by judgment.
I misread the context.

Val Todd and Captain Batten?

Conspired to murder Frida Yelland
and John Pettifer, sir,

though I doubt either of
them committed the act.

That fell to another.

But Frida Yelland was killed right
here - in this cabin.

Val Todd knew the place from his days
as an Entertainments Officer.

Morse, are you sure about this? These
men are pillars of Oxford society.

Proof of the pudding, sir.
Best get out of sight.

Well? What's so important?

You wanted to see me. Eh?

You're the one who called this one.

"'We must meet up. 0400.
You know where. Don't call me."

That's the message you sent me.

Actually, it's the same message
that I sent both of you.

One signed with an A, and one with a
V.

What is this?

This, Mr Todd, is conspiracy to
murder.

The three of you plotted and executed the
killing of Frida Yelland and John Pettifer.

This is madness.

That's what I thought at first, but we spoke
tonight to the maitre d' at the hotel

where the Henley heat of
the contest was held.

He confirmed a record of a dinner
reservation for two,

in your name, on the night of the
competition.

We showed him a photograph of Frida. He
confirmed she was your dinner companion.

It... It was just supper.

I felt sorry for her. She'd taken not
winning the competition quite hard.

There was more to it than that.

She'd remembered your name
from the letter you'd written,

offering your condolences
upon the death of her father.

When did she bring it up? Before? Or
after?

You knew my dad.

In the war.

Private Spurling.

You sent my mum ever such a nice
letter.

I don't doubt you denied it.

But Frida wasn't the kind of woman
to leave it at that.

She wrote to the regiment,

seeing if they had photographs
of you and her father together.

They've kept her letter on file.

Of course, having taken her
step-father's name,

you'd no way of knowing
before you slept with her

that Frida Yelland was in fact Frida
Spurling.

Your own daughter.

You couldn't risk her finding that
out.

See, it wasn't Private Spurling
who'd died in the war,

but Captain Archibald Batten.

You'd got Frida's mother pregnant
and done the decent thing,

but you didn't love her.

So when Captain Batten died
on long range patrol...

you saw an opportunity.

You took his identity, his rank...
created a new life for yourself.

Married - bigamously.

You even wrote home as Captain
Batten

to offer your condolences to Elspeth
Spurling.

Your own widow, still mourning for
you.

If Frida had discovered the truth,
it would have brought ruin

not only upon yourself, but also
upon your new wife and family.

You couldn't let that happen, so you
approached Mr Todd to get you out of a hole.

And why not? By introducing you to
Frida Yelland,

it could be argued he'd got you into
that hole.

Wait a minute.
You needed someone you could trust.

Someone you could rely on
to keep their mouth shut.

Who better than a member of a society who
relies upon secrecy for its very existence?

Your Brother Mason - Val Todd.

You misunderstand the nature of our
fellowship.

But not the nature of business.

If Mrs Batten were elected, she'd be
well placed to further your interests.

You might've got away with it too.
But murder will out.

We've got your wife to thank for
that.

She thought you were having an
affair with Diana Day,

so she hired Pettifer to keep tabs
on you.

He saw you collect Frida from the
station and followed you here.

You go in, darling. I'll be with you
in a second. OK.

I imagine she thought you were giving
her another shot at fame and fortune,

but she was walking to her death.

Don't bring me into this.

You are in this - up to your neck.

You'd planned to dump her body in the
river,

only you were disturbed.

So you had to think of somewhere
else,

somewhere with strictly controlled
access,

known only to a few academics at
Beaufort...

and, of course, yourself,

the pest control officer hired in '63
to rid the college of its rat problem.

Evening coming on, light fading,

a flashbulb would have
betrayed Pettifer's presence.

But this was an opportunity too good
to miss.

So he came back in the daytime
to make his record.

He took just enough photographs

to make you think he had more
he was keeping back.

So you arranged to meet for the
payoff.

With all eyes on the pageant on The
Broad, it was the perfect opportunity.

Go on.

If the roof of the Rates Office
seemed an odd rendezvous,

Pettifer wasn't concerned. He'd already
left his evidence in a secret place.

In exchange for the money, he'd hand over the
pawn ticket but he never got the chance.

So you sent someone to his office
to see if there were any copies.

Luckily for me, Mr Batten isn't quite so
well versed in wielding a cosh as Mr Frisco,

else I might not be here.

I didn't want... Shut up!

They'd have nicked us if they had
any proof. Proof?

Beyond the fact
that you came here this morning?

Morse's message made no mention of a
rendezvous beyond "You know where."

Decent brief will rip that to
shreds. Perhaps.

But he'll have a harder time with
your cigar.

You didn't think we'd come looking
for a scene of crime.

But I doubt anyone else in the past two
weeks has smoked a Romeo y Julieta here.

It wasn't meant to happen like this.
He was just meant to scare her off.

Maybe. But that's not how it went.

What...?

You think I'd...

My own daughter?

My daughter.

All right. Take them in.

All this over some little nobody
from nowhere.

Everybody's somebody.

Frida Yelland had people who loved
her.

That cigar butt could go missing,
couldn't it?

Evidence disappears all the time.
Right?

What I'm trying to say is...
it's still not too late for you.

It just depends.

On what?

On whether you want powerful
friends, or powerful enemies.

A bunch of overgrown schoolboys
playing with the dressing-up box?

You really don't have a clue, do
you?

You cross these people,
they will bring you down.

But not before they've destroyed
everything you hold dear.

Colleagues... friends... family.

Every action has its consequence.

♪ Denn Alles Fleisch

And it would be inopportune
not to thank Oxford City Police

for their vital role in restoring
the Trove to its rightful place.

Copley-Barnes gave me an earful.

Said he'd remember you.

Vainglorious fool like that?

I doubt it. Too self-obsessed by
half.

I can't help feeling like
I've missed something.

You have. Your round. And it
wouldn't be the first time.

You don't want to let a little
tripehound like Todd bother you.

I'm not.

Good.

Cos his sort's nowt a pound - and
shit's tuppence.

As my grandma used to say.

Northerner.

Right...

Luncheon meat.