All language subtitles for This.Is.Not.A.Murder.Mystery.S01E03.The.Lobster.Telephone.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DUAL.DDP2.0.H.264-YAGAMi_Subtítulos01.ENG

This is horrible.

It's your fault, René.
Look at what you have done!

You have three days to sort out this mess.
No ifs or buts.

A problem?
Tell me everything, my sweetheart. René?

What are we dealing with then?

A killer with an artistic flair?
Or... an artist with a flair for killing?

It's easy to see it's one of us, right?

They're nothing, are they?

You're saying
that he was shot through the nose?

I am. But that's impossible.
There's no bullet in the brain.

No sign of your glass gun anywhere?
- Feel free to search, but...

We know the cause of death, Quant.

Nash and Sheila is what happened.
A marriage made in hell, those two.

I'm sorry, René. I can't talk about it.

Ms Legge died by manual strangulation.

Sheila owned millions.
Isn't that your million-dollar question?

The father of Sebastian could be the key.

Someone at West Dean got done for what?

Jay Poots.

With every goodbye, I salute you, Mother.

I've never seen this one.
- It's a present.

Can we afford such a present?

We're the golden couple, aren't we?

You deserve a nice watch.

Come.

Let's say goodbye.

Jay Poots.

What?

A kitchen porter who works here.

He assaulted his wife twelve years ago,
confessed and went to jail for it.

The office in London just found out.
- And I thought I had the big scoop.

Oh yeah? What's yours, sir?

Do you hear that?

You knew about this?
- No, My Lord.

I thought you knew everything.

What are they up to?

Come on.

Thou my everlasting portion

More than friend or life to me

All along my pilgrim journey

Saviour, let me walk with Thee

Close to Thee

Close to Thee

Close to Thee

Close to Thee

All along my pilgrim journey

Saviour, let me walk with Thee

I have been talking
to Sheila Legge's lawyer.

Apparently, she left
almost a million in cash.

What?

Plus a country pile, a bit like this one,
but in Canterbury.

She was Duchess of Canterbury.

The estate is worth
no less than two million.

That's on top.
- So she...

She left three million pounds?

To who?

Take your wildest guess.

Nash?

Lord James? She was her cousin, after all.

Sorry to disappoint you, Quant.

May I enter, Lord, with Thee

The answer is...

Mr Salvador Dalí.

What?

Really?

Why Dalí, in Heaven's name?
- Why indeed, Quant.

Why would the one man at the bottom of
our suspect list inherit from the victim?

That's great motive. No?

What are the connections
between Dalí and Ms Legge?

I uhm... found something in Dalí's studio.

He bought sketch paper
near Sheila Legge's old estate.

Some people think they had a thing once.

Beautiful, my friend.

Thank you, brother.

Could he be the mysterious father?

I'll look into it.

This kitchen porter of yours, Jay Poots.

What did he do exactly?

Assaulted his wife.

Nearly strangled her to death.
- Sounds like a lovely fellow.

Why are we only getting
this information now?

And how did he get a job on this estate?

Remember when I did
some background checks at HQ

regarding the personnel on the estate?
Well, there was...

Happy voyage, my dearest friends.

Our beloved...

Sheila and Nash.

We love you both so much.
You will be missed.

When our time comes,
we will meet again in Nirvana.

Amen, dear.

I need champagne.

I think we all do.

They certainly know
how to create an atmosphere, this...

gang of lunatics.

Cheers.
- Cheers.

And perhaps not one of them is the killer.

I can still see the balloon.

Here we go. Right, first things first.

I desperately need
to talk to this Jay Poots.

You figure out Dalí.

Yes, sir.
- No small task.

Yes, sir.

Clock is ticking, detectives.
- My Lord.

Sebastian Excelsior...

Ray.

Hi, Magritte.
- Hi.

What do you have for me?

Excuse me, sir.

Sebastian Excelsior... Ray.

In memoriam eternae.

Ray?

Man Ray is the father of Sheila's son?
- That's motive, no?

At the start, we had no suspects and
now all of a sudden, they're everywhere.

Let me have it.

All evidence belongs in the murder room.
- I know, I understand.

But I was thinking maybe
I could have a chat with Man Ray.

Confront him with this
and see if he denies his paternity?

You're becoming
a true detective, Magritte.

Go for it. I'm late anyway.

Hey, Sal.

You're up early.

Intrusive thoughts?
- The only thoughts I know.

What was his name again?

Da Vinci.
- Da Vinci?

I like it.

Do you miss him?

Yeah.

I know it sounds silly, but...

We were always talking.

Manny?

Would you like Da Vinci...

to be eternal?

Sorry, sir.

The delinquent kitchen porter, Jay Poots,
is currently downstairs churning butter.

Care to come with me
while I chat with the butter boy?

I thought I might speak
to our new millionaire.

You reckon he'll be pleased?

There's a copy of the will over there.

Good acceleration
in the investigation, Quant.

These are the moments we live for.

I wasn't going to mention it, but...

Nash is the 364th murder case
of my career.

That's quite a tally.

I totted it up last night.
I couldn't sleep.

Years ago on New Year's Eve,
I promised myself

that when I reached
a year of murders, 365 cases...

I would quit the Yard.

And now...

because of you...

that is becoming a possibility.

How do you mean?

My second New Year's resolution
was that I would only stop

if I found the right successor.

You remind me of my younger self.

In fact, you're a lot like me.

Work-wise, at least.

Sir.

Well, look on the bright side, Quant.

I will be hiking up Mount Kilimanjaro

whilst you'll be up to your elbows
in mud, blood and gristle

for the next thirty years or so. Enjoy.

And when amongst ourselves...

do call me Thistle.

Thank you, sir... Uh, Thistle.

You looked quite excited when you came in.
Have you discovered something?

Yes.

Man Ray...

is the father of Sebastian,

Sheila Legge's little son,
who died before.

How did you discover that?

Uh... I have my sources.

So...

One big unhappy family.

Good. Add him to the list.

I'll go and see
what Mr Poots has to say for himself.

One of the richest estates in England,
they can't even fix a bloody doorknob.

Jay Poots?

Turn around.

I am Detective Chief Inspector
Thistlethwaite, Scotland Yard,

and you are under arrest.

Down here. Here he is.
- Gentlemen...

Handcuff that bastard.

Yes, sir.

Pigs.
- Is that right?

We got our killer, sir.
- Looks like it, doesn't it?

I'm one of the roughs, sir.

I admit to it.

I'm a harum-scarum
sort of good-for-naught.

But I am not your killer.

I catch you in flagrante
while you're trying to rob a corpse

and you've got previous for battering
your wife within an inch of her life?

How do you think it looks?

She had it coming.

My Sinead.

But this poor thing here...

You've got it all wrong, guv.

I was only trying
to pry out her gold teeth, is all.

Have you no shame?

Trying to steal from a co...

Take him to the murder room.
- Come on.

Steady.

How dare he...

This is the will of Sheila Legge.

Sent by her law firm,
Messrs Watts, Watts & Cushman.

And I need to see this because...?

You are to inherit
one million pounds in cash.

You didn't know this?

Salva?

Plus, Ms Legge's whole estate
in Canterbury, not unlike this one,

currently valued at...

1,952,999 pounds.

Mr Dalí?

Were you and Ms Legge
ever in a romantic relationship?

Me and her?

No.

What an insane thought.

Sheila hated me.

You visited her though, right?
Back in Canterbury?

Yeah. Of course I did.

We were friends.

Good friends.

But sometimes friends
can't take the truth, so...

what is left is not...

let's say...

real.

You understand?

Thank you.

Right.

You received a phone call yesterday.

What was said seemed to have shocked you.

Did it have something to do with this?

Look... Your inheritance is real.

And now we have to wonder... why?

I would never accept that woman's money.

Sweet mother of Jesus!

You're not happy with all that money?

Mr Dalí?

Sir? Are you alright?

What's so funny?

Sorry, sir,
but this is really weird stuff.

It's not pretty either.

Call me a simple-minded idiot
all you want, sir, but I don't get this.

Those artists are oddballs, aren't they?

You want to know something

about these...

oddballs?

Look.

It's not as simple as it seems.

In surrealist art, they constantly
want to play with the question:

is it a dream? Or real?

A joke or a tragedy?

Is the object just an object?
Or do we give it meaning?

And if so... Which one?

Too difficult for me, sir.
- No, it's not.

Do you know what a pipe is to Magritte?

No?

A dick.

Really? A dick?
- Yeah.

Now I get it. He's shagging his pipe!

Yeah. All sex maniacs, eh? Every last one.

Just like you, but worse.
- Yes, sir.

Back to work, I need you over there.

Okay, gents. Laughs over.
Let's get this hung up. Come on.

You take that side. One, two, three, go.

I'm busy.

We need to talk, Man.

What? Now?

That's right. I'm a lip model.

Say what you've got to say, pal.

Never mind. I'll be back.

Think I can't take it, my friend?
- Talk, dammit.

I really...
- You're starting to piss me off.

Come on, pal.
What's on your mind? Spit it out.

Okay.

I found this.

You bastard.

What is it?

How did you find it?

Is there nothing sacred to you?
- She was the mother of your son.

Son? What son?

What?

No.

Anyone but him. He isn't father material.

Lee, I... I'm so sorry. I uhm...

If only you knew how...

how complicated this is.

You...

are little Seb's father?

No, no, no.

Yeah, look, in a way...
- What? No.

No.

No, no, no. Please, no.

This is insane. This isn't happening.

Tell me this isn't happening.
This is insane.

This can't be happening.
- Lee? Lee?

Lee, I'm so sorry.

You're going to pay for this,
you little fake detective.

You think you know it all, don't you?

And you know nothing!

Will you quit the fucking hammering!

I said, stop the fucking hammering!

Stop it! Stop it!
- We're finished, sir.

I'm so sorry, sir. Sit down.

I was just asked
to hang up the work, that's all.

It's alright, sir.

I'm so sorry, Lee. Really.

When he fucked Sheila,
our relationship was at its height.

Every day, the bastard would lick the
dust of Paris off the soles of my shoes.

You don't believe me?

The guy is nuts.

Complete goner.

And there I was believing him.

Stupid girl.

All the while,
his majesty was banging Lady Legge.

Fucking making a child with the duchess.

I don't believe it.

I'm so sorry, Lee.

You didn't hurt me.

The truth did.

You just happened to find it.

Darling, will you ever leave that bath?

You look like a peanut.

Aren't you getting cold at all?

My tears keep the water hot.

Come on.

By the way...

I almost forgot.

Today, I won three million pounds.

What?

Our friend Sheila.

Duchess of Canterbury.

I'm in her will.

But why?

You didn't know?

Of course not.

Are you sure?

Liar.

Pardon?
- You heard what I said.

You're a liar.

And you stole my soul too.

What?
- And for what?

Money.

From a whore.

Signed...

by Gala Dalí!

I spit on the day you took my name.

Okay, yes, I accepted her money.
Why not? She wanted you to have it.

For what, Gala? For what?

To buy away her guilt!

And she should have kept the guilt.
She should have kept the guilt!

Why do you hate her so much
if your heart is so big?

You slept with her?

Don't be ridiculous. I'm not like you.

It's because of Spain.

Of course it's because of Spain.

I lied to those doctors, Gala.

I lied about the death
of an innocent child.

Wake up!

Wake up, Sheila!

I lied to protect two drug addicts

not able to even care
for the most helpless of beings.

She's been trying
to pay me off for a year.

And now the sneaky bitch found a way
and I can't give it back.

The only thing I could do was to say no.

To not accept it.

But thanks to you...

You need some time.
- Time...

What is time?

What is money?

It has no real value at all.

Millions in the bank...

will not bring back my conscience.

Every pound spent...

will be a reminder...

of the lowest point of my life.

I understand, but you are wrong.

Bitch.

Get out.

Get out!

You get your things, Salvador,

and see that I don't find you here
when I come back.

I put this couple first. Always.

Not you. Me.

Maybe you should stop then.

Out for a walk, my friend?

Still on a hunt?
- Uhm... Yeah.

I saw an interesting building
yesterday night.

I would love to see it in daylight.

I don't believe Man murdered Sheila
just because he's the father of Sebastian.

So I think
I'm going to keep investigating.

Normally I joke about being careful
out there. But in this case...

Be careful, alright?

Okay.

Whoops-a-daisy.

The suspect slipped, sir.
- Of course he did.

Must be all that butter.

Thank you, constable.

For the preliminary interrogation.

You going to start talking?

Alright, then.

I will.

Have you seen this?
- Never.

Don't know. Don't care.

Fancy foreign stuff.

These perverts around here.

Who?
- These so-called artists.

Harsh judge of others
for a wife-beating corpse robber.

What a piece of crap.
- Don't hold back.

So you've never seen this painting?
- I wish you'd kept it that way.

Back in the good old days
of our Lord Denver,

all of this cack would not happen here.

And now we have to do
as we're told by his little sister

and we get nutters staying here.

The inmates are running the asylum,
and you...

are surprised that the bodies drop?

What were you really doing
with that body down there?

I wanted her gold teeth.

To sell. To have money.
To eat something decent for once.

Hold on. Aren't you paid?

That's the big advantage
of being in service, isn't it?

That you're well fed and watered?

Lord James is listed
in the Sunday Times Rich List

as one of the wealthiest people
in the Kingdom.

Surely...
- I might have tried to rob a corpse,

but I am no traitor.

You can beat me all you want.
I say nothing more.

Except this...

I am not your man.

But you are
a convicted criminal without an alibi.

Lord Denver took me in.

Gave me a second chance
when nobody else would.

So...

So I was bloody saved.
- By this family?

And where are they now? Your family...

What is it that you're not telling me?

Do you remember jail, Poots?

Are you being serious, mate?
- Yeah.

Of course you do.

You want to go back there?

Maybe this time for the rest of your life?

You can't tell her.

Who?

Her Lordship.

Not a word.

Hello?

I clean dishes.

At the pub.
Every night after my shift here.

Then I... clean the bar.

I've got a new girl there too.

Sweet thing she is.

But I'm always back
by morning for my work.

Her Ladyship doesn't know.

And you do this...
- I've got to eat now, don't I?

So you were washing dishes
and sleeping with your girlfriend

on the night that Ms Legge died?
- Yeah, every night.

So if I go down to that pub,
which I will...

there are witnesses to corroborate?
- About two dozen.

Unshackle him.

Let him go.

Good day to you, Mr Poots.

Stay away
from the cold storage room, will you?

Yes, sir.

What exactly am I to you, Manny?

The love of your life?

Your inspiration?

Your one and only?

That's what you said.

Liar.

A liar and a prime suspect.

Okay. You want to hurt me?

I... I get that. Do your worst.
- No, I want this to stop, Manny.

Look at us.
- I know, it's all so... complicated.

I promise you, some day soon
I will tell you everything.

Someday soon? Are you joking, Man?

Do you love me?

Because that's all that matters.

Look, I love you
more than anything or anyone else.

I don't know why I love you.

What did I ever see in you?

Was I too young?

Perhaps.

Anyway.

It's pointless to revisit the past.

Especially when you don't know
what was true and what false.

Everything was true.

What about your son then?

Not even recognising him properly.

A son, Manny.
A goddamn child with another woman!

And you hide that from me
whilst being with me?

Oh, my baby.

Don't you understand
that nothing can repair this?

What kind of man are you?

I wanted to protect us.

From the most important event in our life?

Seb was more important than me or you. No.

You knew that
if this thing came out, we would end

and these things always come out.

And the fact that you made
another woman pregnant

whilst I was asking for a child from you.

I did not...

Among all this mess...

what hurts the most is
that you hid your emotion from me.

Your grief.

Your pain.

I'm asking myself
what kind of a person is capable of that.

And I have no answer.

But I do know that I don't want
a person like that in my life.

Detective?

DC Quant?

Huh.

A dinner not eaten.

I wonder why.

And all these guns.

But there's one missing.

A Liège 1891.

Is that special?

It's just about
one of the best rifles in the world.

It costs a fortune.

It's strange, isn't it?

What is, detective?

A family of game hunters.

Each with their own rifle
going back to Napoleonic times. And yet...

only this particular rifle is gone.

The best of the lot.

The killer would've taken it, right?
- If so...

If so, then our killer is not only
an artist, but a professional.

So, when is this professional
ever going to make a mistake?

They always do, as the pressure rises.

No.

Please.

No.

Before the exhibition is my guess.

How would you know?

I don't know. That's why it's a guess.

You felt that too, right?
- Felt what?

That place.

Yes, as if someone was watching us.

If you must.

You as well?

Love sucks.

Yes?

Bloody hell.

Sir, please, open the gates.
It was a very long journey for us.

I have a lady waiting in the car.
It's raining, it's...

Sorry, sir, we can't.
- Please.

It's sealed off. It's all locked up.

Georgette? Georgette?
I think he's here.

What's going on?

Who are you?
- I am Georgette Berger.

Who?

Mrs Magritte.

My name is Edouard Léon Théodore Mesens.

But please call me ELT.
I am Magritte's agent.

How do you do?

Why are you here?

I'm very worried about my husband.

And I've decided
that I can't be without him.

Yes, it's true. It's like Dalí and Gala.

You can't imagine them separated, can you?

Mr Mesens, is that you?
- Please call me ELT, Your Lordship.

Lord James, an honour.
How do you do, madam?

We were supposed to arrive
on Friday for the exhibition, but...

Georgette was just too anxious
to see her husband.

I hope you don't mind we jumped the gun.

Don't be ridiculous,
West Dean is always open.

Although it's mostly very closed
at the moment.

Mrs Magritte, I am thrilled.
You are most welcome to my humble abode.

You're so cute.

Open the gates, boys.
- But, My Lord, I thought we agreed...

No buts. Listen, once and for all,

I agreed that nobody can leave
my property until you get your man.

But do not believe for one second

that you can tell me who is
and who is not welcome on my estate.

Got that?

Now get out of my way
and stay out of my way.

Quick, before you catch pneumonia.

Oh, thank you.
- Wait, we have some...

What's going on back there?
- We've got a bit of a situation.

We have the best detectives working on it.
Sorry you had to arrive at such a time.

I'll tell you all in the van. After you.
- Thank you.

You may as well get
in the back with us. Come on.

I hope you have a wonderful stay
despite the unpleasantness of it all.

I'll see you at breakfast.

The weather should be glorious. Some
sunshine is sorely needed for the soul.

Thank you, My Lord.
- Don't mention it.

Look after her.
- My pleasure.

Well, uhm...

I need to see René immediately.
He's such a delicate flower, so...

So sensitive.

Where is he now?

Follow me.
- Hold on a moment, Jukes.

Mrs Magritte.

I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news,

but I feel it's my duty to tell you

that your husband is
one of the chief suspects.

Especially in the first case.

The strangulation of the beautiful
young heiress, Ms Sheila Legge.

Did you know her?

Uhm... No.

It's impossible.

It's madness.

Well, your husband wakes up
next to a corpse

after spending all night in bed with her.
What would you call it?

Please. Mrs Magritte?

Nothing has been proven. Nothing at all.

Everything will turn out fine
as it always does at West Dean.

Allow me to escort you to your husband.

Thank you, Mr Jukes.
- Just Jukes will be fine, madam.

Well, that was rather harsh.

You just wanted to see her reaction.

Not as much as I want to see his
when she catches up with him.

I thought we agreed
that Magritte was innocent.

Well, you surely did.

Yes, you're right.
I want to stir things up.

You put pressure on these people
and the one with something to hide

will surely make a mistake.
- If you say so.

We're here to catch a killer, Quant.

Not to make friends.

Sir.

The bit...

that drives you mad.

The best bit.

For you.
- No. After you.

No, after you.
- No, after you.

At one, for the good times.

At two, for the pain.

At three, to ease the worries.

And at four...

to disappear.
- Yeah.

Manny?
- Yeah?

I'm taking the right side of the bed.

Sure.

It's not my fault, is it?

What isn't?

The murders?

I certainly hope so.

But what bed did you choose to sleep in?
- I was drugged.

I can imagine that was the exciting part.

To sleep with a woman
ten years younger than you.

Pretty, intelligent, adventurous...
- And dead.

Can you believe it's the first time
I left you alone in all those years?

And look what happens.

Forgive me.

Even though I did nothing wrong,
I'm asking you to forgive me.

Ah... Hi, lovebirds.

René?

What's going on?
- What's going on?

Dalí and Gala have split up.

And so have Man Ray and Lee Miller.

So much for eternal love.

Go figure. We'll pass.

Don't get any ideas, you two.

So Dalí took
the last available guest room.

He's shagging Manny Ray as we speak.
These artists...

Anything I can get you
in terms of refreshments, sir?

Yes. Jukes, I'm sorry.

Can we get this man a room?
Cause I need some time with my wife.

Well, of course, Magritte.
I understand. I'll find a solution.

No. No, no, no. It's not necessary.

It's just for one night.

It's too late.
We Belgians, we stick together.

No, I need some time alone with my wife.

Oh, no, no, no. You don't.
- My love?

Thank you, Mr Jukes. Have a nice evening.

If I might suggest...
- Thank you. Bye-bye.

What's this?
Where did you get this picture?

No, no, no. That's not for you,

but for the snobs who are going
to make you rich on Friday.

Do not ruin perfection
with your dirty painter hands.

The dirty hands that made
the paintings you are trying to sell?

Exactly. You've understood.
You paint, I sell. We both get paid.

My life is ruined
and you're talking about money.

Okay. I'm sorry. Forget the catalogues,
I was just curious.

Yes, really curious. That's what I heard.

My love, please?

Come on, friends. Let us breathe.

Let us rest.

We need to be at our best at West Dean.

Everything seems scary at night. But
at sunrise, you'll talk about it again.

Agreed?
- No.

I have nothing to say to this man.
- George...

I'm putting on my pyjamas
and going to bed.

Operator.
- Brighton.

2948.

Hello?