Original subtitles

Please!

No. No!

Please! Don't do it!

Jill!

- Good evening, George. - Frank.

Yoo-hoo, Jill!

Are you there?

Where is she?

Hello? Jill, it's Eleanor!

Are you all right? Are you there?

Jill?

It's Eleanor!

Please open the door!

I'm really getting worried!

Yesterday he saw her.

- Oh. - Move back here.

Sorry.

When did you last see Jill?

Yesterday morning. She was fine then, normal.

We were making arrangements. I was going to book tickets for a concert next month.

Is it suicide? Does it look like that?

- Had she been depressed? - Yes...

- Lights off. - She had suffered from depression.

She'd been prescribed pills, but she stopped taking them. It was six months ago.

- She said she was feeling fine. - It can come back. Something triggers it off.

It happened after 11 a.m. yesterday,

because I'm certain she wasn't contemplating suicide then.

- Is there a note? - Would you feel up to formally identifying her?

Well, if I must.

Mm. It's Jill Craig.

Any middle names?

Never really came up.

Strange, really, considering we were quite good friends.

There'll be some papers about. Passport or whatever.

She's lost an earring.

- DCI around, Chris? - Out all day. Can I help?

Just wanted to run this past him. Pathologist's report on a suicide.

He's got overdose as a cause of death,

but pointed out one or two things that don't look right. Thought we should take a look.

Lady, 62, died from an overdose of parabarbanol, used in an antidepressant she was prescribed.

There was packaging for two dozen by the bed

but no partly digested tablets found in the stomach.

It's what you'd expect if they'd dissolved in liquid.

- No sign of her doing that? - Doesn't seem to be, but...

The other thing is that the backs of her heels are grazed and her tights were torn.

- As if she'd been dragged? - I didn't notice it then. She was on her back.

There was no note and her friend saw no reason for her to top herself.

Mrs. Bailey? DC Hewson.

This is DC Rhys.

Sorry. May I? Hm.

- Can we talk to you about Jill Craig? - Yes, of course. Please come in.

Thank you.

I've racked my brains and I can't think that Jill ever mentioned any family.

- What about friends? - Apart from me?

Well, there was this chap. Sort of a handyman she used to get round.

Do sit down.

Not exactly what you'd call a friend, I suppose,

but they did use to sit and chat.

When you say handyman...

They had a card in the newsagent's window.

Gardening, decorating. That sort of thing.

Jack of all trades and master of none.

Thank you.

Strictly cash.

I don't suppose he paid any tax.

- D'you know his name? - I do.

Scott. Scott Martin.

Scott Martin used to go round to Jill's?

Oh, you do know him, then. Huh!

Would you come with us to Jill's?

I wonder why she chose to lie on this side. She always slept on that side.

Well, the pills and the wine were on that side.

Jill had stopped taking her antidepressant pills?

Ages ago. Six months. She said she didn't need them any more.

The pills we found were almost a year out of date. Any idea why she didn't throw them away?

Maybe she was just hanging on to them as a precaution.

- Is there anything else that you notice? - I suppose that's odd.

Jill was a very tidy person.

If she was going to take her shoes off and put them anywhere, she'd put them in here.

What about Jill's jewellery? Would you notice if anything was missing?

- I've seen everything she's got. It's in here. - It's all right. It's been fingerprinted.

I can tell you one thing that isn't there. Jill's favourite brooch.

It was antique silver with a beautiful green stone. Her husband gave it to her.

- How much would that be worth? - I wouldn't know.

- But, I mean, what? A couple of hundred? More? - At least 500, I'd have thought.

- When was the last time you saw it? - She showed it to me. She never wore it.

And there were...

...two diamond rings.

She said they were too tight for her. They're missing, too.

Might she have sold them?

I can't tell you about the rings, but I'd be amazed if she got rid of the brooch.

It meant too much to her.

- Hey, Mel. Scott in? - No.

Where's he drink these days? Tanner's?

Bradley! Bradley.

- Come on, get back in. - Still behaving like a gentleman to you, is he?

- We're all right. - Glad to hear it.

- Have you ever heard of a lady called Jill Craig? - Scott does some work for her. Gardening.

- How often is he round there? - Ask him. I don't know what he does.

Make it snappy. The filth are in again.

That was funny.

Hello, Scott. Sorry to... disturb you.

Any chance of a quick word, outside?

Hey, Scott, what you done this time?

Yes?

- When did you last see Jill Craig? - Oh, what's this about?

Come on, you know you don't answer a question with a question. When did you last see Jill Craig?

I'm not saying nothing.

- Something to hide? - I know what you lot are like.

- What's happened? She been burgled? - So you admit you know her.

You must know I know her or you wouldn't be asking me about her.

When did you last see her?

Jill's dead. Committed suicide Monday night.

You were friendly with her. We just thought you might be able to help us with why she did it.

Christ.

- Sorry, Scott. - Monday night? How did she do it?

Overdose. Had you any idea she was depressed?

Uh, well...

Yeah, I think she was pretty down. She told me that night she was fed up.

- She told you she was depressed? - I didn't think she was as depressed as that.

But you can never tell, can you?

I suppose if she kept drinking after I'd gone...

- How much did the two of you drink? - She was into her second bottle of wine.

Thanks, Scott.

- What do you reckon? - Mm.

How did you get on with the first batch? Scott Martin? I suppose that they would.

That's good news. Thanks, Claire.

Interesting. That was Claire.

They've recovered fibres from Jill's cardigan that don't match anything of hers.

They've pulled Scott's fingerprints from the file. Apart from Jill's, all the prints are his.

But he did odd jobs around the house.

But... they also found his prints on, wait for it,

the jewellery box and Jill's earring, the one that they found underneath the body.

Good.

Mrs. Craig came to see us in January 19th.

She isn't a regular client of ours.

We had never worked for her before.

She just wanted a will drawn up, which I did.

She asked me to be the executor

and paid a fee in advance.

Basically, there's payments to four charities of �4,000 each

and a few specified effects to Mrs. Eleanor Bailey

and the rest, including her property at number 12 Fernside Close,

to Mr. Scott Martin.

Come on, he's being taken away again!

What's he done this time?

- What are you looking at? - Nothing, mate.

Oh, for God's sake!

All right?

Mummy!

Mummy!

Mike? Mike. Have you checked the shed?

- Not yet. - OK.

You keep telling us that Jill said she was depressed and miserable,

but her friend Eleanor said she was cheerful and optimistic

and had come off the antidepressants months ago.

Jill's GP, incidentally, confirms that.

So... who are we to believe?

As I keep saying, I'm just telling you what she told me.

But it doesn't add up, Scott.

Jill had engagements in her diary for months ahead.

Only the day before she died, she arranged with Mrs. Bailey to go to a concert in April.

Are these the actions of someone who's suicidally depressed?

I don't know. I know nothing about it, all right?

This is crazy. There is no way I would've killed Jill. You're trying to stitch me up.

What about the drinking? You've told us Jill was much more of a drinker than Mrs. Bailey says.

She's got her down as moderate. What's that about?

It's almost as if you want us to believe

that Jill was more depressed and more of a drinker than she really was.

Why, though? Why would I want that?

So that no one would question that she'd commit suicide.

- This is bloody ridiculous. - All right, Scott.

You told us you've known Jill for about a year.

She answered your card in the newsagent's.

Since then, you've been going round at least once a week to do various jobs

like gardening, decorating,

fixing the gutter, whatever, yeah?

Mr. Martin nodded.

Why d'you think she found so much work for you to do?

Oh, come on. It's a simple enough question.

That's a tiny bungalow. What was there to do 52 weeks of the year?

I told you. She invented stuff to keep me going round.

She was lonely. She liked to sit and chat.

What were these cosy chats about?

I talked about myself.

About the problems I've got. My girlfriend. Kids.

You know. She listened.

It's... It's hard to imagine, though.

Isn't it, Scott?

Tough character like yourself.

With, what, a record for robbery, assault, handling, possession.

You've virtually got the full set here, right down to unpaid parking fines.

You don't even have a TV licence. I mean, I just can't see it.

You hanging out with this middle-class widow in her sixties

and taking her advice.

Why not? She was a nice woman.

It's about the only person who's ever taken an interest in me, more than my mum ever did.

Aw!

Come on. Spare us the self-psychoanalysis. We've got experts that can do that.

So, Scott...

...tough childhood, eh?

What, wrong side of the tracks?

Never had a chance?

The eternal victim?

Parents mistreated you?

Starved of love?

And what? Bullied at school, were you, Scott?

Or... were you the bully?

Come on, give it me!

I'll be back for more. Say anything and you're dead.

- Oh, Scott! - What d'you say?

Wa-hey! Go on, get him!

Yeah!

I say, look who it is!

Back off to Mummy and Daddy? They don't want to see you. They're ashamed of you.

Goodnight, Scott.

- Wanker! - Go home to Mummy. Tosser.

- Why? Because... - Andrew, it's me.

- ...every little breeze seems to... - You all right?

- No sign of Mum? - Could you put me up?

- All I ask is a floor to lie on... - Andrew?

Yeah, he's gone up to bed. Yes, a frozen pizza.

Same as before. Scott Martin keeps picking on him. Little bastard threw paint at him today.

He'd have liked you to be here.

Yes, I know you are. You always are. When d'you think you'll be back?

Yes, I know it's important that you finalise your spring collection.

No, I didn't sigh! Look, take as long as...

Bitch.

- I'm home. - In here.

- How was today? - Scott Martin bunked off, so...

- I wish he'd bunk off permanently. - Yeah.

I spoke to your headmaster.

I went to see him...

...and I told him this has got to stop.

- You didn't, did you? - This can't go on, Andrew.

So... he said he's gonna sort it out, OK?

It's going to be all right.

Did Mum go, too?

No.

She wanted to, but she couldn't get away. She's working late.

She'll probably be back by ten.

- Is she depressed again? - Only about what's happening to you.

Hey, look, the grass is here.

All right, come on, let's go.

I got called in Beak's office this morning. Told to keep away from you. Been grassing?

Bad mistake, 'cause now I'm gonna hurt you, to show you what happens to grasses.

And I'm gonna hurt you every day so you don't forget.

Scott, don't!

All right, grass? You're getting out of your depth.

Andrew, I'm home!

Andrew?

Andrew?

You up there?

Andrew?

Oh, Christ!

Hm.

Would've been his 40th birthday today.

27 years ago. I was just leaving school.

Yeah, I was so annoyed by that report. Says he took an overdose of his father's antidepressants.

They weren't mine. I didn't take them.

They were hers.

I wonder whatever happened to that bastard who bullied him into it.

I'm saying nothing else.

I'm showing Mr. Martin exhibit R1763. Seen those before, Scott?

Two diamond engagement rings.

You sold these to Donald Reid, a jeweller on Abbey Street three months ago.

He's identified you and we've got a copy of the receipt.

They were missing from Jill Craig's jewellery box.

Hold on. So, as well as murdering her, I nicked her jewellery. Is that it?

You tell us.

She gave me those rings and asked me to sell 'em for her.

She did. I was doing some decorating for her. The bill came to 250.

She said she was strapped for cash and asked if I knew anyone who would give her a fair price.

I sold them to Donald Reid, I kept my 250 and I gave her the rest.

Mr. Reid says he paid you �400, which is considerably less than they're worth.

- I was ripped off. It's not a crime, is it? - Jill Craig was ripped off.

Why didn't she take 'em in?

She hated haggling over money. She thought I'd be better.

It's a bit far-fetched, that a lady like Jill would ask someone like you to sell her jewellery for her.

It's what happened. She did trust me.

Mm. Perhaps too much.

I'm showing Mr. Martin exhibit R1765. Seen that before, Scott?

It's Jill's brooch. She showed it to me when she gave me the rings.

Can you explain how it came to be in your shed?

During a search, it was found in the drawer of a workbench in your garden shed

inside this tobacco pouch, exhibit R1766.

- They both have your fingerprints on them. - This is a fit-up.

You planted those. I never nicked that.

Scott. Don't waste our time.

We don't need to plant evidence on you. You're awash with it. You've been clumsy.

- No, that is a plant. - Take it easy.

No one goes into that shed apart from you. Anyway, we can't plant a motive on you, can we?

- What motive? - Not a bad one for wanting Jill dead.

She left her bungalow to you in her will.

- Good God! - What?

- It's from Sarah. - Sarah?

Yes, Sarah. My first wife.

She's never contacted you before, has she?

No, not for...

Well, 25 years.

How about this? The fibres from Jill's cardigan match a jumper found at Scott's house.

They're on the back and under the arms and across the chest.

Put his arms around her, to drag her?

That's not all. They checked Scott's toolbox and found a powdery residue on the hammer.

Tests show it to be parabarbanol.

I don't care what you tell the governor. I'll talk to you about it later. How's it going?

Scott Martin,

I put it to you that you murdered Jill Craig.

In the course of the year that you worked for her you gained her trust and exploited her loneliness.

You stole jewellery, you sweet-talked her

and fed her sob stories about how hard-done-by you were.

Now, either prompted by you or just out of pity,

she made a will and left her home and a considerable amount of money to you.

But you couldn't wait. You wanted it straightaway.

So you planned to murder her and make it look like suicide.

No, this is lies.

On the night of Jill's death,

you used your hammer to crush up at least two dozen of her antidepressants.

You dissolved the powder in a bottle of red wine.

You stuck to beer, kept filling her glass.

When she finally passed out, around 9.20, you dragged her from the kitchen to the bedroom,

scraping her heels and tearing her tights in the process.

You lay her on the bed.

One of her earrings fell off and you replaced it.

It subsequently fell off again and rolled under Jill's head.

That earring has your fingerprints on it.

You then threw her shoes on the floor, after wiping your prints off them.

Then you placed an uncontaminated wine bottle on the bedside table,

along with the packaging from the tablets, which you must've handled with gloves,

'cause they don't have your prints on them either.

Then you left the bungalow around ten o'clock.

To back up the suicide story, you told us Jill was depressed and a heavy drinker.

Her GP and her best friend say she was neither.

You told us a tissue of lies, Scott, to cover up the murder of Jill Craig!

Get off me! Bastard!

No! No!

In you go.

Not a day has passed since Andrew's death that I have not grieved for him,

that I have not been tormented with guilt.

If I hadn't been so busy with my career, I would have been there when he needed me.

- I could have been a proper mother to him. - You can say that again.

But I wasn't, and I can't bear to think of how little attention I paid to Andrew's suffering.

I know what you're thinking, Graham, and I don't expect or deserve your pity.

I just want you to know that it's been hard for me, too.

After his suicide and our divorce, I had a complete nervous breakdown.

I went to India, where I met a Frenchman who seemed to be able to tolerate me.

We had 17 happy years,

during which I managed to erase all trace of my former self.

He died four years ago,

so I sold up and returned to England with my new name,

Jill Craig.

Have you ever wondered what happened to that vicious little boy who bullied Andrew to death,

Scott Martin?

Mrs. Craig? Scott Martin.

Yes. Come in.

Please, call me Jill.

This is the room I want decorating.

Yeah, could do with it.

I haven't done anything to the place since I moved in six months ago.

- The garden needs sorting, too. - I can do that for you as well.

Yes,

I read that on your card in the newsagent's.

- You get most of your work that way, do you? - Word of mouth mostly. I get as much as I want.

Keeps me out of trouble.

Took a while to find Scott.

He'd moved away from London and existed on the fringes of society,

achieving nothing,

but someone with that many convictions leaves a trail.

It's gonna be expensive.

All right, then. I'll be in touch with a quote.

- And thanks for coming. - It's all right.

Once I tracked him down, I bought a bungalow in a quiet cul-de-sac nearby,

the sort of place where neighbours leave you alone but know exactly what you're doing.

I spent a depressing couple of months

observing the comings and goings of Scott's pointless, dreary existence.

He'd latched himself on to a girl who had two children from a previous relationship.

- Don't you call me that! Yeah, you... - You don't even know how to be a mother!

Once a bully, always a bully.

The urge to stick a knife in him was overwhelming.

- Yeah, what? - Every bloody time!

I acquired one, just one, local friend. Eleanor Bailey.

She was perfect. Unsophisticated, nosy.

And with an eye for detail.

- How's it getting on, Scott? - Ceiling's the worst bit.

I'm sure you'll manage. He always does.

Shit.

Irritating as Eleanor was, I actually grew quite fond of her.

- Must've walked for miles! - Long way to that bus stop.

Are you sure you're happy about leaving him alone in this house?

Oh, yes. He's perfectly trustworthy.

And if he wasn't, he'd be very disappointed. There's nothing worth stealing in this house.

Apart from these, maybe.

Beautiful.

My fingers are too fat for them these days.

Are they both engagement rings?

Somehow, I don't want to part with them.

Nor with this.

Look at that.

My late husband gave it to me on our tenth wedding anniversary.

Oh, it suits you. He made a good choice.

- You must miss him. - I do.

I got terribly depressed after he died.

I was on tablets and everything.

But moving here, it's like a fresh start. I don't need them any more, so I've stopped.

Feeling much more optimistic. Let's have a cup of tea.

I knew she would remember and repeat everything I fed her.

- One more won't hurt. - You've worked very hard. Cheers.

Cheers.

Well, we're getting there, but it's not the easiest of jobs, this one.

Your walls and ceiling are in a terrible state. They need a lot of filling, but...

Sorry. Must've been a bore. Still, gets you out of the house.

Thank God. I'd go crazy if I was in there all day.

Oh, a bit of a madhouse, is it? You got any kids?

Nah, girlfriend's got a couple. But it gets a bit much.

But it's her place, so all I can do is make myself scarce.

It doesn't sound like the ideal arrangement.

About as humiliating as you can get.

I'd get my own place, but what am I gonna be able to afford?

All comes down to money, and if you ain't got any...

Money can't buy you happiness. It certainly can't buy you out of depression.

I know all about depression. I've suffered from it for years.

I know it's a clinical illness.

Once you get it, it can recur throughout your life.

Tablets are the only answer. I'm on them at the moment.

- Maybe that's the answer for me. - Finish your drink.

A whinging, self-pitying sponger with a chip on his shoulder.

That's what our school bully had grown into.

If I wasn't depressed to start with, I certainly was after half an hour in his company.

Nevertheless, over the next few months,

I suffered his presence time and again to do little jobs for me.

Some needed to be done. Some I invented.

Oh, shit! Shit!

He carried out each job with the same ineptitude and carelessness.

I didn't pay him much, little more than beer money,

but it was cash, so he could keep on claiming the social security.

Soon he was coming every week to do the gardening.

Each time I engineered, and endured, a little chat,

either over coffee or drinks at the end of the day.

I made him believe that I was lonely and kept inventing jobs for him.

It was a measure of Scott's arrogance to actually think that I'd choose to spend time with him.

But he could never have guessed my true purpose.

All the while, I was making preparations.

Can you see it? It's just there.

Yeah, I've got it. I think I can reach.

- There you go. - Thanks, Scott.

What would I do without you?

Ha-ha! So I got drummed out of the lacrosse team for that.

I hated sports. I got my own back.

What about you? Did you... enjoy your schooldays?

Nah, I went to a crappy comprehensive in London. I didn't learn anything. I don't think anyone did.

Tough, was it?

You had all sorts of kids there.

Do the honours, will you?

You had kids from all sorts of families there.

It was a jungle, man. Taught you about life, though.

How to survive. Taught you that it's never gonna be easy, so don't expect too much.

And what about... bullying?

Was there a lot of bullying?

Quite a lot. I never really came up against it myself.

They tended to leave me alone. I think they were quite wary of me.

Don't!

Even then I was physically quite powerful.

So I could look after myself.

Tended to leave me alone! Bastard!

I'm sure you remember how well I can hold my drink, Graham.

Years of practice.

I could appear to be getting drunk while remaining reasonably sober.

Scott! We're off into town.

I left your money on the side. Make yourself a cup of tea. You know where everything is.

And don't forget to lock up.

Yeah.

- You've given him a set of keys? - It's convenient.

Eleanor, I know you don't like him, but he's a good lad, really.

He's had a hard life. No one's given him a break.

Break-in's more likely. And where did he get that black eye, for heaven's sake?

A length of timber he was sawing flipped up.

Oh, sure!

More like a pub brawl.

Honestly!

If more people, well, anyone other than me...

...had bothered to listen to him or tried to understand him,

he might have made something...

Scott was so wonderfully predictable that it was easy to manipulate him into doing things like...

...leaving fingerprints exactly where I wanted them.

Oh.

I stopped taking my antidepressants shortly after meeting Scott.

In reality, I should have doubled the dose.

So all the time I knew him, I was sinking deeper and deeper into depression,

whilst pretending to Eleanor I no longer needed to take them.

I did, however, keep the tablets.

Having made a will leaving the bungalow to Scott, I was ready for the final phase,

timed to coincide with what would have been Andrew's 40th birthday.

I'd asked Scott to redecorate the spare room.

Makes a big difference.

Soon have the whole place done up, bit by bit.

Scott, do you mind coming in here just for a minute?

I'm sorry, Scott, but...

- Here I am. - I'm a bit strapped for cash this week.

I've just had a lot of bills recently. Anyway, it's not your problem.

But what I've decided to do is to sell a couple of pieces of jewellery.

I never wear them and there's no point in them just lying there. They're worth quite a bit.

- I don't care where the money comes from. - Fine.

Pass me that box, will you?

The crown jewels.

See what you think.

There's this.

- It's a bit... - Old-fashioned?

Yes, I can't see myself wearing that again.

Or there's these two rings.

- They might fetch a better price. - They might.

Do you know of a jeweller who'd give us a fair deal? I wouldn't know where to start.

And to be honest, I'd rather not do it myself.

There's a couple of places. A shop on Abbey Street. He buys stuff.

It's more of an antique shop. So it might be better to try the jeweller's by the station.

I'll leave it to you.

I convinced Scott to sell the rings on my behalf.

Anyone else would have been dubious, but I was banking on his stupidity and greed.

I knew he'd try to cheat me.

I chose a plain, rather sombre cardigan

and then transferred fibres from Scott's jumper onto it

to make it appear he'd dragged me across the floor.

I destroyed the few remaining documents that could identify me as Sarah Brody,

your ex-wife.

That wasn't hard. I'd already spent years erasing that part of my life.

But what was unbearably painful was the final denial.

By the time you read this letter, I shall be dead,

an apparent suicide.

But certain aspects won't quite add up.

The police will suspect that I was murdered

and it was disguised to look like suicide.

If I've got it right, by now they'll have arrested Scott Martin for my murder.

Filthy weather!

Long letter. What's she say?

Oh, it's...

...crazy stuff! She's completely lost it.

It's just, you know, gibberish.

Shit!

Let's do that. I'll book the tickets.

We could have something to eat beforehand. There's that nice little restaurant opposite.

- Hang on. Just going to get my brolly. - Fine.

- You're going for it tonight, ain't you? - Yeah, well.

- I feel like it. Help yourself to another beer.

Nah, I should get going. I said I'd meet somebody down the Tanner's.

Go on. Have another beer.

- So, what's the matter? - I don't know.

Now we've finished this place, I'm not sure I want to live here.

I know I wanted quiet,

but this is like living in a cemetery, surrounded by old people just waiting to die.

Trouble is, I'm getting on myself,

so I might just as well accept the slow decline into decay.

Life's a bitch.

And then you die.

I've told you all this

because if my plan works, Scott Martin will spend the rest of his life in prison.

He deserves to be punished for what he did.

However, I realise that I am emotional and suicidally depressed.

So I may be wrong to do this to him.

I'm afraid, Graham, I'm giving you the responsibility of deciding.

You choose.

If you want, take this letter to the police and Scott will go free.

I've thought many, many times over the years

that I would like to kill that bastard for what he did to our son,

but I'm no murderer.

Like Andrew and so many others,

I am a victim.

So it's appropriate

that my revenge is as a victim,

not a murderer.

Leave it out, will you?

Martin. You've got a visitor.

- Wanker. - Piss off.

Are you here to see me?

Scott Martin.

Graham Brody, the journalist who wrote to you about your appeal.

Yeah. Course.

Sorry.

I could do with a bit of publicity.

I don't know how much more of this I can take.

No. I don't envy you.

Uh, Scott,

I have to tell you something up front.

Please, don't say anything until I've explained.

I'm... not a journalist.

I made that up to get in to see you.

Actually, I... I'm a chartered surveyor and I'm not here about your case.

I need to talk to you about something else.

Are you... prepared to hear me out?

Well...

...you were at school with a boy called Andrew Brody.

1975. You were 13. Do you remember him?

He committed suicide.

Oh, yeah.

Yeah, I do remember that.

He was my son.

Scott, I'm... here to ask if you can tell me anything about that.

At the time we didn't get any answers.

The school kept us at arm's length, Andrew didn't have any friends,

so we never got to talk to any of his schoolmates to find out what drove him to it.

We moved out of the area, tried to put it all behind us, but we never could, somehow.

Then, when we read about you in the newspapers,

well, your name rang a bell.

One of the articles mentioned where you'd gone to school.

Scott... I'm very sorry to impose on you like this,

but it really would help me if you could... shed some light on it all.

It would have been Andrew's 40th this year.

Yeah. I celebrated mine in here.

Yes. Um...

I'm sorry. It... it must be awful.

- I know you're maintaining your innocence. - I was set up.

The filth wanted someone for it and I was the easiest person to dump on.

Maybe something will come up to help your appeal, some new information.

Unless someone can prove the police planted that evidence,

I'm banged up for years for something I didn't do.

Hm.

Scott, look, I don't have much time here.

D'you think you could help me, about Andrew?

I don't know what I can tell you.

I didn't really know him.

I mean...

...well, what I can remember,

he was very quiet.

He didn't want to get to know the rest of us, like he thought he was better than us.

No offence, but that's what some of the kids thought.

He didn't fit in. He didn't try to.

You actually remember him quite well, then. Was he bullied?

Well, bullying went on.

It was a rough school. You just had to survive it as best you could.

Fact of life, innit?

Remember who the bullies were?

Nah. I mean...

...things went on all the time.

I don't think you'd call any of the kids the bullies. Things just went on day to day.

Doesn't sound so bad when you explain it.

I got through it. Most of us did. Like I've got through everything else that's been thrown at me.

Not least this.

You know something, Scott?

If you were able to help me

with who bullied Andrew

and I could find that person and talk to him and...

...and if he were just to say sorry...

...for what they'd done,

it really would help me...

...and my wife... a lot.

It would help us...

...come to terms with what happened all those years ago.

Bring us some...

...peace in our old age.

Like I said,

I can't really help you.

Andrew?

You up there?

Get back in your cell, Martin!

All right! Leave off, will you?

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