All language subtitles for A Touch of Cloth - 01x01 - Episode 1.BiA.English.C.orig.Addic7ed.com

Hey, you men watch QI last night?
Yeah, bro, that Stephen Fry's a bad
man.

Nah, I studied
for my harpsichord lesson, innit?

Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Go away.

I said go away.

Nobody home.

All right! I'm coming!

'This is Maniac FM, the
number one station for psychopaths

'tenderly stroking potential murder
weapons in dimly lit lairs,
nationwide.'

'And now to get you in the mood,

'here's the new single from JLS.'

All right, Grandad?
What's in the bag?

Hey, what's in the bag, Grandad?

Come on, battyboy,
tell us about World War II.

What would you know
about World War II?

Hey, bruv, I seen the film.

Tom Hanks done more than you, bruv.
He'd shank you in your eye.

And he done Forrest Gump.
Hanks makes you look like a pussy.

An old pussy. Two old pussies.

- Nah, nah, I got it.
- Three old pussies!

Three old pussies
with a shopping bag.

Pussy. I'm gonna call the police
when I get in.

You do that and you're dead, yeah?
Dead, you stupid old man!

Dead... like this...

Grandad.

Heh-heh.

You're dead, Granddad!

The silly old man got a cat!

Yes, King, I... I've got your dinner.

Now, don't you worry.

Come on. Come on, there's a good boy.

Who's there?

Oh, God. God, no.

No!

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Inspector Jack Cloth?

Who wants to know?
Anne Oldman.

So, where is he?

Anne Oldman, your new DC.

My new DC's not an old man.

It's some top-of-her-class
Hendon graduate,

all tits and ambition,

from what I've heard.
I'm DC Anne Oldman.

Here's a close-up of my credentials.

Boys down the station
gave me your address.

Come in.

Why are you here, Oldman?

Old-man, sir.
What?

It's pronounced, "Old man".
Why are you here, Oldman?

Murder on the Rundowne Estate.
Victim was a decorated war hero.

Dunkirk, apparently.

An old man? Yes.

Why didn't you just ring?

We did, but your phone must have
been...

off.

So, the ACC sent you?

ACC and the DAC, SO's OS
so they need us ASAP.

CCTV? DNA?

N-O. VSU's gone AWOL.

OMFG.

SH1T.

I hear our beloved
Assistant Chief Constable Tom Boss

has been grooming you for some time.

Never trust anyone
you meet on the Internet.

He sounded impatient.
Said he'd meet us at the scene.

Then let's just cut
to you driving a car.

Preventable killing, over.
Repeat, preventable killing, over.

This guy looks
uncompromising, innit?

Yeah, troubled, yeah.
All haunted and shit.

Looks like the type of guy
don't trust his new partner yet.

Bet he does a little skip in a
minute. Yeah!

Victim's an Albert Thomas Stafford,
World War II veteran.

85 years old. Not been seen all
week. Lived alone. One cat.

Liked On Golden Pond. Partial to
Soreen malt loaf, lightly toasted
with butter.

Collected autographed photos

of former Daily Mirror editor
and CNN irritant Piers Morgan.

Rarely used public transport.

Preferred to get around by walking,
which he did by placing one foot on
the ground

before transferring his weight
to the opposing leg.

Kept himself to himself. Never been
found dead before, so this is
out of character.

Eurgh. Oh, God.

Useful tip,
keep your hands in your pockets.

Reduces the temptation
to touch things.

Glove, sir.

Someone turn that off!

He'd been out shopping.

Receipts indicate several purchases
at the local pet shop.

Any leads?
No.

Just catnip and a flea collar.

And several... of these. Ten for
the price of five at Ryman's.

Where's the body?

In the living room.

Sir?

You'll need a strong stomach.

It's like a crime scene in there.

Oh! Mary, mother-of-pearl.

- Over here, Oldmun.
- Oldman.

Not any more.

What happened to you,
Albert Stafford?

He can't tell you. He's dead, sir.

ARGH!

Oh! Oh! Oh!

What have we got, Natasha?

Between us? Yeah.

An implied but never openly
referenced sexual history

and the suggestion of unfinished
business.

And him?

Not my type.
I like my men like my coffee.

Bitter.

And not half-eaten by cats.

Albert's had been feasting on him
for at least a week.

A hungry pussy with an insatiable
appetite for the older man.

You've come across one of those
before, haven't you, Jack?

Boys down the station just rang.
Chief's on his way.

Who's the talking shape?

DC Oldmun. Oldman.

Natasha Sachet, Forensics and Hair.
Hi.

Thanks, but I don't shake.

I'll be out here if you need me,
Jack.

First name terms?

I remember when you used
to call me Jack, Jack.

Did Albert Stafford die quickly?

Eventually, yeah.
By the looks of those streaks,

it was a sustained and
frenzied attack
without mercy or toilet breaks.

Weapon? ..Yes. But you'll know more
when you get him to the mortuary.

Of course. But I can tell you
one thing right away.

Only a maniac could carry this out.

Let's find a maniac
to carry this out!

Any prints?

Only Purple Rain and Lovesexy.

That the girl who found him?
Granddaughter.

Attractive, but devastated.

Hairihan? Go check the neighbours,
see if they heard anything.

Yes, guv.

Albert would have
put up one hell of a fight.

He was quite the soldier,
by the looks of it.

He did his bit during World War II.
It's a tragedy how it ended.

The Nuremberg trials.

Eking out his final days
as a prisoner in his own home,

just cat litter and memories
for company.

And that singing fish.

Well, let's hope its song
brought him solace in his final days.

Touching, Cloth.

Don't you have a pen to push, Boss?
Assistant Chief Constable Tom Boss.

And while we're talking numbers,
congratulations.

This is the 100th murder this year
on the Rundowne Estate.

♪ For he's a jolly good fellow... ♪
That's enough!

The stats match your attitude.
Negative.

Or what the Danish call "negativ".

Thanks to you, the entire department
is losing face, Cloth.

If you want neat results,
get a Ladyshave for Christmas.

If you want police work,
let me do my job.

What I don't want is words.

I've heard all the words there are
to hear, from dyspepsia to lemonade,

and they're just sounds you make
with your lips, inconsequential
mouth farts.

I need results, Cloth.

What the French call resulte.
Is that the granddaughter?

Yes, sir.

I'm sorry for your loss, Miss.

If it's any consolation,
you really are extremely attractive.

Guv, got a witness statement.

Woman next door saw some lads
giving Albert shit-mouth

the night he was last seen.

Says the ringleader's
a right bum-rat.

Does this bum-rat
have a name?

Darren Crossway.
Goes by the street name Crossbo.

We'd better catch this Crossbo
before he bolts.

It's all about targets for you, huh?

I want Crossway's arrest report
on my table by 2pm.

But... On my table, Cloth.

Hey. We're looking for Crossbo.
You know him?

A'ight?

Where does he hang out?

Datdere Yute Club.

Right.

Crossbo?
Me no Crossbo. You dreamin'?

Where can we find him?

That's some chung gyal
you got with you, man.

You ever go nup on that ting?

Bare peng!

You feelin' me?

Your feedback is noted.
Now, where is Crossbo?

You making a friend? Dizzy wasteman!

Fix sumting I done a bit?

Crossbo bloodren tight.

Me no chat to no roz clat
bomb clat beesfed gel dem!

What?

Guv?

You Crossbo?

No, not me.

Why look when I call his name?
You in love with him or something?

Watch your mouth, bruv.

Why don't you watch it for me?
Down the station?

Oi!

Oi!

Oi!

You're nicked.

All right, all right.
Flippin' hell, man.

Ough!

Interview Room B4.
Friday 22nd June, 12.20 pm.

Present are myself, DI Jack Cloth,
DC Anne Oldman, WPC Cardboard Cutout.

Suspect Darren Crossway.

And Noodles P Hound.

Later we'll have music
from Jessie J and The Wanted.

But we start by asking Darren
Crossway why he murdered
a defenceless old man.

No comment. For the benefit of the
tape, the suspect has confessed all.

I'm innocent.

Does The Guildford Four mean anything
to you? Because that's what he said.

I never even saw no Albert Stafford,
man.

Then let me refresh your memory.

That is Albert Stafford
on his 85th birthday last year.

Here's a picture from this morning.

Jesus.
I don't need to see that, man.

That's one of the last things
Albert Stafford saw before he died.

And here's what we saw of Albert
Stafford.

That's disgusting.

You think so? Have another.

Huh? Not a pretty sight, is it?

Take him away, please! Do you not
want to have a closer look?

Huh? There you go!

Here's a jar of Albert Stafford's
blood.

Go on, smell it! Smell it!
Sir!

For the purposes of the tape, he
is sniffing blood like a jackal!

You're crazy, man!
Do you wanna drink some?

Here, have a drink.

What about dunking
one of his fingers into it?

Sir, that's enough!

You disgust me!

You taunted Albert Stafford,
he said he'd call the police!

So you got rid of him, hacked him
to bits like a marmalade bus!

I dunno what you're talking about!
Neither do I! That's enough!

For the benefit of the tape,
Noodles P Hound is licking blood
off his bollocks.

Impressive fireworks, Cloth.

But why haven't we charged him yet?
The boy's not our man.

He's just a kid.

Even a burn-out like you knows
he's as guilty as Derek Bentley.

Supposing he did do it.
What if he didn't?

Well, charge him anyway.

You know it'll never stand up
in court.

I said charge him, Cloth.

And then I walked out of the room.

Hello.

Hello.

Hello.

Hello.

Boys down the station
said I'd find you here.

Yeah, I always come here
when we lock up an innocent man.

Helps me forget everything.

You're in here a lot, then?

No idea. Your post, Jack.

Don't just stand there.
Get the lady a drink, Gerry.

The lady's on duty. An orange juice.

Sorry.

'Hey, hon, great news.'

The meeting with the adoption
agency's been confirmed.

We'd better start
decorating that spare room.

Great. That's great.

Oh, and the wedding invites

are ready to go. They look fab.

Brilliant,

fantastic.

Tell me you love me.

'Come on, just say it, Oldman.'
I do.

'Just say it. Say, "I love you."
Nobody's listening.'

Me too.

Fiancee.
Good luck holding on to him.

I'm doing my best.

This job doesn't respect
relationships. It vandalises them.

We're the thin blue line helping the
public sleep soundly in their beds.

We wind up sleeping alone.

Public gets a good-night kiss
from their beloved.

We sit bathed
in the cold light of a laptop,

masturbating to online pornography
and wiping our hands...

You had a wife, didn't you, guv?
Says who?

Boys down the station. They say
she was your life... I mean wife.

They say she was your wife.
Do they?

Jack? Don't "Jack" me.

You don't know me.
Eat your orange juice.

OK! I did it!
Ow! I did it!

No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o...!

They want to fix that mirror.

What is it? Message from Boss.
There's been another murder.

Wants us to head over there
during the ad break.

What?
Nah, I didn't understand it either.

'Establishing shot confirmed.'

Victim's name
is Aiden Matthew Hawkchurch.

Successful chef. 39 years old.

Six foot, 180 pounds.

Got his own TV show
now in its fourth season.

Been married for 13 years -
all in a row.

Lives in this house.
Estimated resale value 1.9 million.

Desirable catchment area.

Would suit professional couple
or recently murdered man.

Black front door. Entrance hallway.

Orla Kiely stem-print doormat,
recommended retail price 29.99.

Six-peg coat at price unknown.

Walnut frame mirror, purchased 2006.

Grieving widow Clare Hawkchurch.

37. GSOH.

Sagittarius. 34C.

Where's the body?

Upstairs in the bedroom.

Christ and Londis!

From high-flying chef
to bed-bound human casserole.

What happened to you,
Aiden Hawkchurch?

He can't hear you, Jack.
His eardrums are full of blood.

They handcuffed him to the bed
and hacked him to bits.

Some kind of sex game?

Maybe later
when I finish pointing at blood.

The quantity of spray suggests
his heart was still pumping

when his carotid was severed.

What, he was alive
when they cut him up?

Until he died, yeah.

You see those spatters?
He was moving.

Lying there, horrified,
writhing on the bed

watching his own life fluids
splash against the wall.

Usually best to try
and catch it in a sock.

What kind of animal would do this?

Wielding the weapon required
opposable thumbs, so almost
certainly Homo sapiens.

An athletic one, too.

Those streaks show our killer
has one hell of a back swing.

And no respect for plasterwork.

Anything else?

Well, it's not relevant
but it's interesting.

A bloodstain resembling
Ross Kemp in silhouette.

I'd say Ian Hislop.

And I'd say Kemp. Guv?

I think you might want to see this.

Keep looking.

Let's talk to the wife,
see if she can... light some shed.

I can't believe it.

Aiden is...

was...

everything to me.

Can you tell us what happened?

We are... were...

having roast lamb tonight.

Aiden was preparing it, naturally.

He asked me to pop out to the shops
to buy some herbs.

Time? Coriander.

When did you return?
Just before one, I think.

'Aiden, I'm back.

'It's just before one, I think.

'Aiden?'

He didn't respond when I said Aiden,
which struck me as odd, because...

that is... was...

his name.

I climbed the stairs saying...

'Aiden?'

a few more times...

'Aiden?'

Like that.

Then I asked if he was
playing a trick on me.

'Are you playing a joke on me?'

My mistake.

I said joke.

Then I pushed open the bedroom door.

There's a knack to it. You have to
lift the handle as you turn it.

'There you go. Thanks.'

'Aiden! Aiden!

'Aiden! Aiden!'

Oh, Aiden! Oh!

Oh, no!

Would you like a cup of tea,
Mrs Hawkchurch?

Clare, can you think of anyone

who might have wanted your husband
to come to harm?

Have you seen his TV show?

It's easier to list the people
who didn't.

Go on.

Henry Kelly.

The DJ? Yes.

That's it.

Sorry. Er...

Where are the mugs?
They are...

were in the corner cupboard.

So, Aiden wasn't a popular man, then?

You can't build a restaurant empire
without breaking a few eggs,
Inspector.

Aiden is...

was driven

in everything he does. Done. Did.

Here we are.

We will need to ask you
a few more questions

when you think you're up to it,
Clare.

I understand.

Something's not right there. I know.
Coriander doesn't go with lamb.

Tell me you've got a lead.

Aiden Hawkchurch made friends
like a dog flies a helicopter...

badly and not for long.

He's half as popular as
piss-flavoured birthday cake with
Mussolini icing.

The world hated him. It could have
been anyone! Checked his contacts?

Anyone he stiffed on a deal,
snubbed with a recipe?

Don't you need to be somewhere -
teaching your granny to suck eggs?

Mock me if you must,
but the bodies keep washing up.

Whatever. Washing up, Cloth!

Oldman.

Keep an eye on him for me,

tell me if he bends any corners,
cuts any rules.

You want me to tell tales on him,
Boss?

I'm just saying Cloth is
frayed around the edges.

Hm? You've got the makings
of a good DI, Anne Oldman.

Don't let an old man jeopardise
that. Yeah?

I want you to keep me in the loop.

What the Germans call Das
Loopenclampf. I'm counting on you.

"Hello, Tom?"

Yes, hello, Grandma. Yeah.

Yeah, I won't be long.
About half an hour.

Don't let them hard-boil.

A man as unpopular as Aiden
Hawkchurch,

must be a million suspects.

'Now I'm delighted to say

'we've just heard that the celebrity
chef Aiden Hawkchurch

'has been murdered!'

A million and one.

Go the back way. Guv.

'Day 306 in the Pan
Academy, and Aiden isn't happy

'when Amy drops a spatula.'

'Pick it up... with your
teeth. Put it in your mouth!

'(BEEP) stand up! That's it!'

Whatever happened to chivalry?
She got voted out in week three.

'Do you want some?
Do you want some?

'(BEEP) Come here! Come here!'

Wait, the best bit's coming up.

He blinds a pregnant woman
with a corkscrew.

'I do not forgive!
I do not (BEEP) forgive!'

We won't find our motive in there.
He's frightening people.

Exactly. Fear isn't a motive.

Sex. That's a motive.

Put a corpse in front of me,
the first thing I do is consider sex.

This job's damaged you, hasn't it?

Guv? Natasha rang from the mortuary.
Says it's big.

I know it is. I've been there.
Well, she wants us there again.

When? Now.

Natasha?

Cloth?

I see your trainee's still with you.
How sweet.

How professional.

Kemp. Hislop. Cow. Bitch.

What have you found out?

It's worse than I thought, Jack.

Hawkchurch didn't die of blood loss.
He died of fright.

And blood loss.

You've reassembled him.

Simplest way
to find out what's missing.

I've been disappointed in the past,

finding out a man hasn't quite got
everything you'd hoped.

Like a penis? Hell, yeah.

Hawkchurch had one? Yes.

Where is it? Being analysed.

Analysed where? In a place.

The way he was handcuffed,
any sign of sexual activity?

According to facial swabs,
he'd recently performed cunnilingus.

Where's the tongue?
Yeah, it does. Doesn't it, Jack?

Anything else of note? Mm, yeah.

His stomach contained
a laminated pear.

There's only one restaurant
that serves laminated pear,

and Adrian Hawkchurch owns it.

I'll call them.

Well, surely with him in this state,
it's closed.

I mean, look,
he couldn't hold a ladle.

Guv?

I think you might want to see this.

Get a sketch drawn up.

What did the restaurant say?
Nothing. It's a building. No larynx.

But the staff were helpful.

They biked the last 48 hours
of CCTV over to the tech lab.

Qureshi's running it through the
computer.

Ah, I don't believe in computers.
They do exist.

Did you read that on the Internet,
whatever that is?

You're a relic, do you know that?

An antique of a bygone era like
MySpace or The News Of The World.

I've got a MySpace page
like everybody else.

No-one's had a MySpace page
since '78.

You live in the past, guv.
It's affecting your work.

Answer that. They're irritating!

Hello?

The adoption woman's here. 'Shit.'

Can you talk to her on your own?

We're meant to be a couple,
like any other couple.

We are.

Slightly more interesting
than a standard couple, granted,
but a couple.

But there's three of us,
aren't there?

Me, you and that bloody job.

Gemma, I'm sorry.
It's not good enough, Oldman!

Aiden?

Back for more, like a bad boy?

Honestly, Aiden, if Clare finds out,
she'll kill us.

First you, and then me in this
bath, when I least suspect it.

The water's getting cold.

Aiden?

You're not Aiden.

'Segue FM with a news update.

'The body of a woman has been
discovered in St Pope's Forest.

'Police have appealed for witnesses

'and asked the public
not to turn up at the scene,

'and stand around staring
like ghoulish meerkats

'hoping for a glimpse of a dead leg.'

Victim's a Gavina Duntish,
female, 32.

Body was found near a quickset
hedgerow by an elderly couple
walking their dog.

Distinguishing features? Four legs,
tail, mottled hindquarters.

Plays well with children.
Vaccinations up to date.

Answers to the name Poppy.

Where's the crime scene?
Through here.

Time of death
has yet to be firmly established.

She was found unclothed.

Natasha's had her team working
on the body for the past hour.

Great Susan of Nazareth!

Natasha?

Jack.

If I'd known you were coming,
I'd have dressed for the occasion.

That's enough for now.

Brought your pet, then?

This is the body
that you wanted us to see?

Clear signs of neglect. Funny.

I'd heard you appreciate
the female form.

Prick. Shithead.

Where's Gavina? Over here.

She was snatched from her bath,
attacked with a bladed weapon,
probably a sword, and dumped here.

Thrown away like so much rubbish.

Even sorted for recycling. Torso.

Extremities. Mushy bits.

Found this in her stomach.

It's a bill from the restaurant
of Aiden Hawkchurch.

First laminated pear and now this.

What sort of mad crap
did they serve there?

That's great, Des, thanks.

Hairihan rang in some exposition.

They're bringing in Clare
Hawkchurch.

OK, great. Excuse me! Can I help you?

They said something
had happened to Gavina.

I'm her father.
I came as soon as I heard.

It's a condition I've got.
Sudden shock induces orgasm.

I mopped myself down and drove
straight over. Is she all right?

I'm afraid your daughter is dead.

Ooh... Ah... Mmm...

Come again? Yeah.

Let's get a sock over here!
Clean him up, take him to
the mortuary.

He's not dead, guv.

To identify the body!

Come on. Sock, quick!

Couple of 999s. Sure.

Can I have a little nap now?
Of course you can.

I've seen every reaction in the
book, and that was my favourite.

We don't have time
to congratulate the grieving,

not when there's
a Clare Hawkchurch to question.

I've been thinking. No, you haven't.
I think I should question her alone.

An arsehole says what?

The last time you questioned
a suspect, you lost control, Jack.

I can't trust you in there.
You might do something crazy.

Like rip her eye out and eat it?

Like raise your voice.

Let me handle her, Jack, please.

Come on, Clare, stop playing games.

Cutout, step out for a minute,
will you?

Aiden and Gavina were having an
affair.

You suspected as much
and, by God, it made you angry.

Ridiculous.

This is a bill from the opening
night of Aiden's restaurant,

stuffed in Gavina's mouth. You fed
it to her and then killed her.

I didn't.

All those nights
he stayed late at the restaurant

while you sat alone
imagining them together.

No. Her unbuttoning his shirt.

His strong hand hitching up her
skirt, revealing a vulnerable thigh.

A flurry of undressing,
and he's naked on his back.

Her topless astride him,

grinding her silk-clad sex
against his stiffening manhood.

She leans forward,
her breasts teasing him,

his tongue greedily circling
the nipple.

Go away.

His hand down her back,
slipping his fingertips into the hem
of her knickers,

pulling them down
as he turns her onto her back,
easing open her soft...

Sorry, guv. Can I have a word?

Go on.

CCTV showing Clare leaving Gavina's
place four days ago.

Yes!

I could kiss you, Asap.
You're all right, sir.

And in and out and in and out.

And in and out and in and out!

And in and out, and in and out.

And in and out!
And in and out, and in and out.

You made a good fist of it
but you can't pull this off.

Something's up, and everyone
in this room can see what it is.

What are you talking about?

What were you doing at Gavina's
house?

I was always going round there.
She was my friend too.

We all met at the same time.

All 12 of us.

All 12?

On the jury.

What jury? When was this?

Well, it was years ago.

But I still remember the details
as if it were yesterday.

'It was 1996.

'- 1996?
- 'Yes.

'You're absolutely sure it
was... It was 1996.

'Those TV nostalgia programmes
were all the rage.

'I spent all my time at home
watching them.

'Until the letter arrived.

'Jury service.

'A murder trial.'

Because of the condition of the
body...

'Aiden and I hit it off
straight away.'

The victim had been
repeatedly stabbed with a jagged
blade,

possibly a hunting knife,

causing extensive serration trauma
to the kidneys and what was left of
the spleen.

Brain matter was also retrieved
from the stomach of the Alsatian,

which was found shot next to the
victim.

And both bodies... both bodies
exhibited advanced putrefaction.

The eyeballs were entirely liquefied
and had been consumed by maggots.

That doesn't sound very...
appropriate, Mrs Hawkchurch.

Yes, well, we had to put up with
plenty of disapproval in the jury
room too.

'I mean, Davina didn't care.

'But there was this old guy always
tutting.

'Even when we weren't having full
sex.'

But the point is he'd been shot.

People in courtrooms can be so
judgmental.

But the killer...

What's his name, that old man?

Let's get back to where you were...
Albert.

That's it.

Albert Stafford.

Albert Stafford.

Our martyred war hero.

Albert Stafford.

Davina.

Aiden Hawkchurch.

All members of the same jury.

Murdered.

Who was the defendant?
What? In the trial in '96.

Oh.

Um...

Bradstock!

That was his surname.
His first name was, um...

Burton! Burton and Bradstock.

Burton Bradstock.

Guv... you might want to see this.

Burton Bradstock was the fall guy.
Lee Majors was the Fall Guy.

All teams, go, go, go! Pick him up!

I'm recommending him for suspension.

No! No!

Aaaagh!

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