All language subtitles for Endeavour.2012.Pilot.HDTVRip_eng

Good morning, everybody

It's six o'clock on Sunday morning

and the BBC Light Programme
is beginning another day's broadcast

Fierce fighting between North
and South Vietnamese troops

in Phuoc Long Province...

Double?

I'd sooner cash, Emile.

But I suppose I can trust you.

Endeavour
Season1 - Episode 01

ITFC Subtitle
Sync: Marocas62

Pint, Morse?

Morse.

Pint?

I don't drink.

- You know that.
- Have a squash.

- Sally's serving. The one with the charlies.
- I'd like to, McLeash.

Really. But...

On a Sunday?
All work, old son...

Well, it's good of you to ask,
but anothertime.

That's what you said last time.

"I hereby tender my resignation,

"effective immediatly."

- Lisa Bainwright?
- Yes, miss.

- Jenny Crisp?
- Yes, miss.

- Pauline Edmonds?
- Yes, miss.

- Valerie Quillen?
- Yes, miss.

- Anne Porter?
- Yes, miss.

Mary Tremlett?

Mary Tremlett?

Is Mary not in today?

Has anybody seen her?

- Crisp's daughter goes here, I heard.
- I wouldn't know.

Any word on those extra bodies?

Request has gone in for
reinforcements from Carshall.

Due first thing tomorrow.

"Mary Tremlett, aged 15,

"left home on Saturday

"at approximately four
o'clock in the afternoon

"for a trip to the cinema.

"Last seen wearing an orange top,

"green three-quarter-length trousers
in a fashionable Capri pants style,

"She has not been seen since.

"Anyone with information
pertaining to her disappearance

"should contact
Detective Inspector Fred Thursday

"at Cowley Police Station, Oxford.

"It is believed extra officers
from Carshall Newtown

"are been drafted to
assistant to search

Well, they are us.

'Ere, what's this I heard

you tried to get yourself
taken off the inquiry?

Morse?

Wilcox, Duffle, Ellis, Wood,
you're assigned to Banbury.

DS McBain.
He's waiting for you in the canteen.

Cullen, Boyle, Madden,
Mitchell, Kidlington.

DS Anthony.
Transport's through the yard.

Hurry it up.
Finger out of your arse.

You two, follow me.

I suppose you're feeling
very pleased with yourselves.

Dreaming of cracking
a great big juicy murder case, eh?

- Get your name in the papers?
- Yes, sarge.

Well, you can forget it.

There's only two
detectives in this nick, me...

and the guv'nor.

And that's Mr. Thursday to you.

Or "sir".

Get in. Go on.

You're here to take up slack.

Any questions?
No? Good.

I thought this was a
missing persons case.

You said murder.

It's murder, all right.

Sex case, like as not.

The way they go round
with all on show these days.

Just not found her body yet.

So, duties.

McLeash,
office, duty log,

telephone calls, any and
all information received.

- Sarge.
- E. Morse.

Your guv'nor says you know the area.

College boy.

That right?

Right, door to door.
Get that lot circulated.

You can't tell from those
but she's a redhead,

well-developed for her age.

Someone would have seen her.

Shops, offices,
railways, commuters...

Commuters?

If she left Oxford by
train on Saturday afternoon,

it's unlikely she'd have been
seen by the weekday crowd,

- wouldn't you think?
- Well, I don't think.

I follow orders.

Anyone want me,
I'm with the guv'nor.

Kept that under your hat,
didn't you?

Bloody Oxford.

His verse notwithstanding,

Ibycus is perhaps most famous
for the manner of his death

at the hands of robbers.

Wounded and dying,

Ibycus looked up to
see a flight of crane...

A flight of cranes
passing overhead.

At which he cried out,

"Those birds will
be my avengers."

His murderers
repaired to Corinth,

where, Plutarch tells us,

spying a flock
of the same birds,

one of their number
exclaimed in jest,

"Behold,

"the avengers of lbycus."

Bathroom's on the frst landing
for proper washing.

But you've a sink
up here for shaving

and the necessary's
where it should be.

- First time in Oxford?
- Not exactly.

Well, that's nice,
dear, isn't it?

This was Mr. Bleaney's room.

He stayed here the whole time
he was at the Bodleian.

Do you know how long
you'll be in residence?

- I'm afraid not.
- No, well,

it's just yourself and two
other gentlemen at the minute.

Mr. Goldberg and Mr, McCann.

Very nice, they are.
Tea's at 6.30 as a rule.

But I can do you a boiled egg.

That's very kind of you,
Mrs. Crabbin,

but I'll get something out.

Then I'll let you get settled.

There's no overtime.

I realise that.

So what is it, brown-nosing
or sucker for punishment?

There's no other
kind of bloody fool

still in the office
at this time of night.

Just us.

I thought I should take a look
at the Tremlett case files.

- Which one are you?
- Morse, sir.

Carshall Newtown.

So?

Mary Tremlett,

15 years old,

last seen by her parents
Saturday four o'clock

when she left, supposedly,

to go to the pictures
with another girl, Valerie.

- Valerie...
- Quillen.

Who denies any such arrangement.

No boyfriend.

No troubles at home.

So it's unlikely
she's a runaway.

That's it.

Not much to go on.

There rarely is,
this kind of case.

But we keep looking.

Good night, then.

There is one thing, sir.

Going through this list
of her belongings at home...

She's a copy of "The Oxford
Book Of English Verse"

by her bed, together with
"A Shropshire Lad"

and a Betjeman Collected.

Young girls like poetry.

Young girls like Mary Tremlett?

Too highbrow for a
girl whose father works

on the GMC assembly line?
That your point?

No, my point is that
they're hardbacks.

Beyond the pocket of a
schoolgirl, I'd have thought.

Just struck me as odd, that's all.

Maybe they were a present.

Her parents,
a school prize even.

There's official lines of
inquiry we're following, Morse.

Poetry books isn't one of them.

Is Mary fond of poetry,
Mr. Tremlett?

She's nice handwriting.

The teachers commended heron it.

A plus last report.

Sharon, my eldest,
she's visiting.

Police.

How do you do,
Miss Tremlett?

Missis.

Veelie.

They read out some of
her essays to the class.

The house isn't the same.

Find her, will you, please?

Find our Mary.

What is it you're looking for?

Just filling in some
of the background.

So you weren't here Saturday?

I dropped by the afternoon
to see to Dad's tea

but I went straight home after.

About five.

- Where's home?
- Droitwich.

We had a stock-take
Sunday, see.

Freeman, Hardy and Willis.

I'm Deputy Under-Manageress.

And your husband?

He's in carpets.

Travelling.

We're not together any more.

Are you close to your sister,
Mrs. Veelie?

Not really.

All this fuss...

It'll just be some stunt.

Attention-seeking.

What makes you say that?

Cos she's always been the same.

When Mum was alive,
she spoilt her rotten.

Dad too.

Whatever she wanted.

Their blue-eyed girl.

Silly little cow.

The police were here.

Nobody's seen her.

Do you think she
knows something?

I don't know.
How would she know?

Extension 255.

Yes, I'll hold.

Morning.

Aye aye.
What you got there, then?

Mary Tremlett's poetry books.

Well, what's all that about?

I don't know yet.
Nothing, probably.

Where the bloody
hell have you been?

Got a suicide in Thrupp.
Unidentified male.

- You're on.
- How am I meant to get there?

Want me to wipe your
arse for you an' all?

Use your initiative.

- Morning.
- Not for this poor sod.

You are whom?

Morse.
Detective Constable.

On attachment from Newtown.

You're the pathologist,
I presume?

Better hope so, hadn't you?

Otherwise I'm making
one hell of a mess

of your scene of crime.

Max DeBryn.

Is it a scene of crime?

Initial report
suggested suicide.

Looks to be. Single entry
wound on the right temple.

Typical starburst gunpowder pattern
on the skin surrounding the wound

together with contact scorching

would suggest the weapon was
discharged at point-blank range.

As you can see.

I'll take your word for it.

Squeamish, are we?

You won't make
much of a detective

if you're not prepared
to look death in the eye.

Find me when you're done.

- Finished?
- The hors d'oeuvres.

Entr�e this afternoon.
Three o'clock sharp.

You can give me your findings
over the telephone, can't you?

You know, there's a word
for people like you, Morse.

- Is there?
- Necrophobic.

A word for people like you too,
I imagine.

Anglo-Saxon, though,
rather than Greek.

Weapon's a Webley, Mark VI,
if you're interested.

Point 455,
standard army issue?

- Not entirely a fool, then?
- Not entirely.

- Time of death?
- Yesterday,

between eight and midnight.

- Did he leave anything behind?
- Beside his grey matter upon the greensward?

- I was thinking more of a note.
- Not that I've come across.

You might have better
luck at his lodgings.

This was in his pocket.
Miles Percival.

Address is in Jericho.

I don't suppose there's
any chance of a lift?

Detective Constable Morse.

Oxford City Police.

- Mister...?
- Lomax.

Brian Lomax.

Would I be right in thinking
Miles Percival lives here?

When?

- I mean, where?
- Last night.

His body was found down by the
river at Thrupp this morning.

- Had you known him long?
- Two years.

We sang together on
the choir for a bit.

When did you see him last?

Yesterday, at college.

How did he seem?

Anything worrying him?

No.

What about recently?

Anything out of the ordinary?
Money problems?

College?
Girl trouble?

Nothing he told me about.

- You're Australian, Mr Lomax.
- That's right.

- From where?
- Sidney.

And you weren't concerned
that he didn't come home last night?

Well, I was in the
Bird till closing.

When I got back,
I thought he'd already turned in.

Did you know he owned a gun?

His grandfather's.

I'll need to speak to his tutor.

Sure.
He teaches over at Lonsdale.

Morse...

Morse.

Good God.

- Hello, Alex.
- I don't believe it.

What the hell are
you doing here?

I'm looking for a colleague of yours.
Dr. Stromming.

What's your business with him?

Police business.
I'm a policeman.

Police?

The last I heard, you'd run
off to join the Foreign Legion.

What happened?
Didn't take?

It was the Royal Signals.
But, no, "didn't take".

- You're still...
- Climbing the ladder of academe?

Yes. All the way to
the top-most rung.

Master, one day, I suppose.

- Well, you always were ambitious.
- Genius does what it must.

Walk with me. I'm
late for lunch.

- I can't.
- You won't find Stromming in today.

Home, probably.
Porter'll give you the address.

One must marry well,
you see?

More than the half of it here
if you want to get on.

You taken the plunge?

- Not yet.
- No.

What was the name of
that girl we were keen on?

Lived on St John Street.

- Wendy, was it?
- Susan. She preferred Susan.

Did she?
Did she.

And you to me,
as I recall.

Still, all's fair...

Well,

I oughtn't keep you from your...

But good to see you, Morse.
Very good.

A word of advice.
As an old friend.

Whatever it is you're
about in college,

mind how you go.

They won't take kindly
to an interloper.

Particularly one of their own.

I'm not sure
I was ever that.

No.

Well, dig me out.

We'll have supper.
Proper catch-up.

Good afternoon.
I'm looking for Dr. Stromming.

I'm sorry.
He's out at present.

Is it college business?

In a manner of speaking.

- Do you have any idea what time he'll be back?
- No, I'm afraid not.

Can I take a message?

It's probably best if
I speak to him directly.

I see.

- Well...
- Yes... I'll...

Sorry to have troubled you.

Not at all.

Forgive me but it is Miss Calloway,
isn't it?

Miss Rosalind Calloway?

It was.
It's Mrs. Stromming now.

Well, I can't say I've all

but I've very many of
your recordings, certainly.

Good heavens.

Yeah, your Butterfly in '54.

If I had to save one disc on my
desert island from the waves,

- that would...
- You are very kind.

- Well...
- Look, I'm sure Rowan won't be long.

Would you...

Would you care to wait?

You don't miss it,
performing?

Not for a moment.

You see, I've got Rowan.

My husband.

It seemed like more
than a fair exchange.

The one didn't preclude
the other, surely?

Well, not for Rowan's part.

For mine, it's not the kind
of marriage that I wanted.

Touring.
Oceans apart.

Forsaking all others,
certainly, but...music.

No, I still have music.

I help outwith the college choir
on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

And,

I have agreed to appear in a
charity gala at the New next Monday.

To be honest,
I think I'm more nervous about this

than any other performance
I have ever given.

Are tickets still available?

- All gone, I'm told.
- Of course.

Rowan.

- This is Mr...
- Morse.

He's come to talk with you.

- College business.
- Yes, of course.

Are you sure you won't have one?

No, thank you.

Please.

So, what can I do
for you, Mr. Morse?

Actually, Doctor,
it's Detective Constable Morse.

Oxford City Police.

I'm here about a student of yours.

Miles Percival.

Yes?

I'm sorry to have
to tell you, sir,

but I'm afraid he was
found dead this morning.

Dead?

Oh, my God.

How awful.

What was it,
a car accident or something?

We believe he killed himself.

Have you any idea
why he may wish to take his own life?

None.

His work had fallen off
quite badly of late.

Missed tutorials.
Drinking.

There was some talk of
him being rusticated.

He was quite highly-strung.

But I had no idea he
was in that kind of...

My God, the poor boy.

I need a name and address for
your Saturday puzzle-setter.

- Oz.
- Out of luck, then, aren't you?

He's anonymous.
Like most of them.

Well, you send his fee
somewhere, presumably.

Fee?
This is Oxford.

They do it for the honour.

Look, I really
am fearfully busy.

I've got the stars to do by
lunch. I'm only at Taurus.

People don't really
believe such guff, do they?

You'd be surprised.
The chaplain at Christ's

has just declared
for reincarnation.

When's it usually delivered?

The Saturday grid.

First post Wednesday as a rule.

We go to press Thursday.

And last week?

Funny you should ask.

Came in late.
Caused quite a flap.

In the end a young
chap dropped it round...

Well, what did he look like?

Like a young chap.

Undergrad, I suppose.

Gave it to one of the subs.
I caught a glimpse.

Well, perhaps I could
speak to this sub.

You'll have to scour the
Cairngorms, I'm afraid.

Walking holiday as of Monday.

Very well.

Well, if you remember
anything else...

- Of course.
- Thank you.

What did you say your name was?

Morse.

- Why?
- Have we met?

I don't think so.

Another life, then.

Oi, Lott's rung in sick.

You're to fetch the guv'nor.

How am I supposed to get there?

- No DS Lott today?
- Unwell, sir.

You don't say.

Now, Friday,
must be corned beef.

What did I tell you?
When it comes to reliability,

the fixed motion of the
heavens has nothing on my woman.

- Anything overnight?
- Actually,

there is something I wanted
to talk to you about, sir.

Mary Tremlett's poetry book.

- I thought we'd been through that.
- I know, but...

they're not just hardbacks,
sir, they're first editions.

- Quite valuable.
- How do you... you've been there.

Right, tell me on the way.

- Morning, sir.
- Morning.

Just bringing Mr. Crisp
up to date, sir.

You were, were you?
I thought you were sick.

- A bit liverish first thing.
- Fancy.

OK, Morse, back to your desk.

Wait a minute, Arthur.

See what you make of this, sir.

The lad's been having a bit of
a dig round the Tremlett case.

Tell him.

Mary Tremlett keeps a few
poetry books by her bed.

First editions.

And she's bookmarked certain poems
with crosswords cut from the Oxford Mail.

The Saturday edition.

All set by someone called Oz.

Oz?
As in the Wizard of?

Well, the same spelling, yes.

But the thing is,
there's only ever two clues

she's filled in any puzzle.

The same two. The first
across and the last down.

The down's invariably a number.

Five gold rings,
six geese a-laying, so on.

But the across clue always refers
to somewhere in or around Oxford

mentioned in the poems.

Fyfield,

Cumnor,
Godstow.

- That it?
- No, sir, not quite.

The crossword that came out
the day she disappeared

refers to a poem by Matthew Arnold,

The Scholar Gipsy",

which mentions Bagley Wood.

Bagley Wood?

The down clue gives
the number eight.

I just thought it could be a time.

And place.

Possibly.

You think someone's making
secret assignations with her?

Through crossword clues
in the Oxford Mail?

- Extraordinary, isn't it?
- That's one word for it.

Begging your pardon, sir,
but I've never heard so much codswallop.

It does seem a bit fanciful,
far-fetched even.

Bagley Wood!
Have you signed off

on that Thrupp shooting yet?

Then I suggest you
see to your duties

before you start gallivanting.

Bloody crosswords!

Just come through from
the information room, sir.

A body's been found by ramblers.

A young girl, redhead.
Looks to be Mary Tremlett.

Where's this?

Kennington,
out by Bagley Wood.

Make sure the
photographer gets this.

Back of her right hand.

It's already smudged.

It looks to be FLA17...

something.

Letter B, possibly.

Car registration?

Or flat, maybe?
Flat 17B?

Then what?
Postmortem?

Formal identification first.
Morse can run me.

You'd better keep
an eye on the search.

Organise a few snaps of her outfit
before it goes for forensics.

Get them out there.

- It might jog a few memories.
- Very good, sir.

Who's a clever boy, then?

Sarge.

Over here.

The subject is a
well-nourished female.

Approximately 15 years of age.

Five foot two.

Nine stone six pounds.

So, we begin with
a lateral incision...

..across the cranium.

Peel the scalp forward,

- thus to expose the skull.
- Morse...

Morse!

You'll be all right.

Actually, sir,
I don't drink.

Very commendable.
Now, get that down you.

If you're going to
apologise, don't.

- Your first?
- Well, like that.

North Africa was mine.

Long Stop Hill.

A lad by the name of Mills.

Gunner Mills.

Not a mark on him.

I thought he was asleep.

Till I turned him over.

Mortar.

- What did I miss?
- Strangled. Her own brassiere.

Struck on the back
of the head first.

Hadn't been interfered with
according to Dr. DeBryn.

Then why take off her clothes?

Maybe the spirit was willing...

Saturday night, he'd had a skinful,
tried to have his way.

When he couldn't manage it...

She'd been pregnant at some point
within the last six months.

Very professional job
was the doctor's opinion.

- So there was a boyfriend?
- Our man Oz?

The search turned up
a gent's wrist watch

near where her body was found.

The face is smashed,
which gives us a time of death.

8.16 Saturday night.

And her stomach contents
turned up half a pint of whelks.

Talk to her mate Valerie.

See if she's been holding back.

She might open up more
to someone nearer her own age.

Right.

Mary Tremlett told her father

she was going to
the cinema with you

Saturday afternoon.

Any idea why she'd say that?

I can understand if
you've been wanting to...

protect her.
Maybe her reputation.

But as of this morning,
things have changed.

For the worse, I'm afraid.

Are you saying she's dead?

So it's important
you tell me the truth.

Now.
Do you understand?

Where was she going
Saturday night?

Who was she seeing?

I don't know.

Look, I want to go home.

I'm upset.
I've had a shock.

You can't talk to
me when I'm upset.

Are you here about Mary?

We were best friends before she
fell in with Valerie's crowd.

- You're not part of that?
- No fear. Little tarts.

They used to rag on us
when we first started.

Only, last year Mary
and Val got really pally.

And then a couple of weeks ago
they had a big bust-up.

Do you know what it was about?

Mary thought Valerie
was trying to steal her bloke.

They had a fight over it.

Did Mary ever mention
anyone called Oz?

A nickname, maybe.

Not to me.

And who's Mary's boyfriend?

Johnny Franks.

He's a car mechanic.

Works at a garage
over at Park Town.

All Valerie's gang go there.

She's an absolute beauty,
isn't she?

Nine months old, three thousand on the clock
and does she go.

- Mr. Samuels?
- Yeah. Call me Teddy.

- Please. Mr...
- Detective Constable Morse,

City Police.

Yeah?
What can I do for you?

I'd like to speak with
one of your mechanics.

Johnny Franks.

He's not in any trouble, is he?

I know a lot of your boys.

They'll tell you,
I run a straight go

and I make sure my
lads do the same.

Right, you'd better come through.

Have you seen Johnny?

Where were you Saturday night,
Mr. Franks?

Railway Arms in Didcot.

- Anyone vouch for you?
- Yeah. The rest of the team.

Darts. I play in the league.

We were away to
Didcot on Saturday.

What time did that finish?

11-ish.

I suppose I got
home around midnight.

Right, then?

Not quite.

I understand you
knew Mary Tremlett?

Yeah, slightly.

It was more than slightly,
wasn't it?

You were her boyfriend.

I don't know where you got that.
Look, I've a few birds

on the go but Mary
weren't one of them.

I mean, I might have
given her some old chat

but that's as far as it went.

What about Valerie Quillen?

What about her?

Well, she had a fight with Mary.

Over you.
The other week.

I wouldn't know about that.

A lot of young girls
hang around the garages.

You know what they're like at that age.
Lad-mad.

They get an idea in their head,
what can you do?

Mary did have a boyfriend as it goes
but it weren't me.

Miles something.

College sort,
beginning with a P.

- Miles Percival?
- That's it. Miles Percival.

You want to know about Mary,
you should go talk to him.

Mary broke it off with
Miles six months ago.

- Was he sleeping with her?
- What sort of a question is that?

She was 15.

He wanted to marry her,
for God's sake.

Said he was saving himself.

Was Miles Percival keen on crosswords,
Mr. Lomax?

- Miles?
- Yeah.

God, no.
No, couldn't stick a crossie at any price.

Didn't have that kind of mind.

I used to drive him nuts.

You did?

Hey, look, you've no
idea what he was like.

It was awful.

After she left him,
he was either drunk or...

In the end,
he got it into his head...

that she was
seeing someone else.

Did he say who?

He thought that I...?

It's absurd.

You did know her,
though?

Miles brought her to a drinks party.
She seemed very personable.

Very quick-witted.

Really, it was just one
of those stupid things.

One of the younger
dons mentioned

it was a pity we didn't see more
people like that coming to Oxford.

Like what?

Well, of her class.

The wine was in,
I suppose, but...

Reece hit upon a
wheeze to see if,

with a bit of coaching,

we couldn't convince the bursar
that she was an undergrad.

At Lady Matilda's.
Do you see?

- Alexander Reece?
- Why? Do you know him?

Yes.

Would have scared the
bursar half to death

to hear the finer points of
Pindar's monostrophic odes

discussed in an accent
rather more town than gown.

And was he?

Scared half to death.

No, in the event the
opportunity never arose.

You couldn't
inveigle Mary Tremlett

to join your subterfuge.

On the contrary,
she was all for it.

Someone taking an interest in her.
I imagine she was flattered.

I imagine she was.

Now, if you've any
more questions, Morse

you'll have to put
them to me on the hoof.

When did you last see Mary?

Sometime early in the year.

And when you were tutoring her?

Once a week, once a fortnight,
something like that.

After lectures, at home.

A case of when one
could fit her in.

Since you knew Mary,
I'm bound to ask

where you were Saturday night.

- I was at home.
- Anyone confirm that?

- My wife.
- Your wife has choir practise

on a Saturday evening,
doesn't she?

Look, whatever Miles Percival
may have thought,

my relationship
with Mary Tremlett

was based wholly on
an academic experiment.

Did she prove an apt pupil,
Dr. Stromming?

She had a facility
for conning by rote.

But I'm afraid, after a while, what
had in one's cups seemed amusing

no longer felt,

well, quite right.

Alex?

I say, full marks.

You timed that one
rather well, didn't you?

Scoff, and a bloody good claret or two,
of course.

Free and gratis.

If its all the same...

On duty, I suppose?

There's something I need
to talk to you about.

Mary Tremlett.

This bet that you've
got with Rowan Stromming.

I see.

Donald.

Yes, I was wondering why you
were creeping about in college.

Anything more to
their relationship?

- Aside from this bet.
- I wouldn't have thought so.

Filled a sweater well
enough but a mite...

odalisque to my taste.

"Tout avec frites",
I suppose.

Take the girl out of Cowley...

You didn't use to be so cruel.

Poor old Morse.

You were never Oxford material.

Too bloody decent, by half.

Abingdon 4185.

Yes.

Yes, I have.

Shocking.

"Missing Oxford Girl
BODY FOUND"

No.

Well, I think that's wise.

Listen, I'm just about
to leave for London.

You can reach me there if there's
anything you think I should know.

FLAxman 17 double 8.

All right?

..that the involvement
of British forces

in the crisis remained unlikely.

Meanwhile, there are
reports of fighting

between South and North
Vietnamese troops in Dong Xoai.

In other news, an early
handwritten draft of Ozymandias

by the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley

is to go on show
at the Bodleian Library in Oxford

Gifted to the library in 18...

"..boundless and bare,

"The lone and level
sands stretch faraway."

Detective Constable Morse.

What brings you here?

"I met a traveller
from an antique land.

"Who said:
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

"Stand in the desert...

"And on the pedestal
these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias,
king of kings:

"Look on my works,
ye Mighty, and despair!"

- I'm afraid I don't...
- I think you do.

Dr. Stromming.

Or would you prefer "Oz"?

Ozymandias.

"Look on my works,
ye Mighty, and despair!"

But then crossword-setters
aren't exactly famed

for a lack of self-regard.

The gentle teacher

bestowing wisdom upon
the young and eager pupil.

It may even have
started out that way.

But it's not how it ended up.
Is it?

What happened, Dr. Stromming?

Did you tire of her just as quickly
once the shine was off it?

- Or was your wife getting suspicious?
- Rosalind had no idea...

Did Mary threaten to tell
her, then, is that it?

She wouldnt go quietly.

Is that why you lured
her to Bagley Wood?

- What?
- It's here, Doctor, in black and white.

First across:

"Where most the Gypsies
by the turf-edg'd way

"pitch their smok'd tents."

Answer, six and four:
Bagley Wood.

Last down,
how many cowgirls?

Five letters.
Answer: eight.

- I don't understand.
- You understand all too well, Doctor.

You were to meet Mary Tremlett
Saturday night

at eight o'clock at Bagley Wood

while your wife was safely out
of the way at choir practice.

I didn't say Bagley Wood.
Not last Saturday anyway.

I said Hinksey.

And it was six oclock,
not eight.

This is next weeks puzzle.

Next weeks?

Any setter worth the name...

..will keep a few
grids ahead of himself.

Just in case hes taken ill...

- Here.
- You see?

Hinksey.
Six oclock.

This is the grid
I meant to send.

So that's why she didnt turn up.

I submitted the wrong puzzle.

Rowan handed me the envelope to post,
as usual.

But what with rehearsals,
it completely went out of my mind.

So what happened?

Come Wednesday,
it was still on the mantelpiece.

And I was about to
run it into town myself

when one of Rowan's students
knocked on the door.

A boy called Miles.

Miles Percival?

That's right.

I know him slightly through choir.

Rowan wasn't in
and so to save myself the trip,

I asked him if he wouldn't mind
dropping the envelope off.

Did he say what he
wanted with your husband?

I assumed it was
college business.

But ask him.
I'm sure he'll tell you.

Miles Percival is dead.

He shot himself.

That's what I came to
tell your husband the other day.

Can you account for Dr. Stromming's
whereabouts on Saturday evening?

His whereabouts?

- He was here.
- Are you sure?

You have choir practice
every Saturday evening, don't you?

Well, he was in his study
when I left at six.

He was still there
when I returned later.

- Detective...
- What time was that?

Around 11.

After practice, when I came out
to the car, I had a puncture.

And...

I had to wait an
age for assistance.

But, please,
what is this all about?

This is a delicate question,
Mrs. Stromming...

but one I must ask.

Yours...
is a happy marriage?

- I beg your pardon?
- I mean...

You've never had cause
to doubt your husband?

Never!

Never have I had cause to
doubt my husband as you put it.

Not for one moment.

I have rehearsals to attend.

Just tell DCS Crisp what you told me,
all right?

You got a minute, sir?

Stromming planned
the whole thing,

even down to the last detail.

I believe he even went so far
as to spike his wife's tyre

just to make sure that he got home
before she did.

So far as she's aware,
he'd been there the whole time.

- Sorry to interrupt, sir.
- So...

Saturday night he lures Mary Tremlett
to Bagley Wood,

and kills her.

To stop the truth about
their affair getting out.

And his alibi is what,
for the time in question?

- That he's in Hinksey.
- What's he doing in Hinksey?

Waiting for Mary.

He said that was the intended
rendezvous point for the 12th,

only he accidentally submitted
the crossword puzzle for the 19th

to the Oxford Mail.

- Anyone see him in Hinksey?
- Well, no.

He's lying.
I know he is.

What do you think, sir?

If Stromming is
this Oz character,

it stacks up.
Bring him in.

Saturday night he killed her,
you say?

Then I think you probably
want to hang fire, sir.

I've got a vet
downstairs who swears

he saw Mary Tremlett alive
and well, six oclock...

Sunday morning.

I got to Cherriot's Farm
round about two.

Breech presentation,

which isn't too much
of a problem as a rule.

But the calf managed to get the
umbilical cord around its neck.

Hard go of it,
I should imagine.

I doubt I should be bowling
leg spin again for awhile.

But all safely delivered
round about five.

I collected my things and
headed home about half past.

Anyway,

I'd just past the
left turn to Glympton,

and there she was,
waiting at the bus stop.

- What time was this?
- Six o'clock.

The Home Service had
just come on the news.

What did she look like,
this girl?

Redhead,
like it says in the paper.

She was wearing some
kind of get-up with a...

I don't know what you call it.
A chevrony-type motif.

Green and white, I think.

You were 12 hours out.

It wasn't 8.16 Saturday night.

Mary Tremlett was killed,
it was 8.16 Sunday morning.

This vet saw her waiting on
the first bus to Woodstock.

- Do you believe him?
- No reason not to.

He's identified the dress.

Ive just spoken to
Mrs. Stromming, sir.

8.16, they're in church.

Her and her husband both.

Saint Saviour's.
Vicar confirmed.

Which puts Stromming in the clear.

He might have had an affair with her
but the rest of it, no-go, I'm afraid.

But she was found
in Bagley Wood.

He's put in the wrong puzzle,
like he said.

Mary Tremlett goes there,
Stromming never turns up.

Then why doesn't she go home?

Where does she go?

Saturday night, until this vet

finds her at the bus
stop Sunday morning.

I didn't say I had it pat.

Maybe she met someone.

However you look at it, the long and
the short's we're back to square one.

Maybe not, sir.

This watch we
found by the body...

It was engraved on the back,8th October 1964.

Now, a wristwatch is often given as
a coming-of-age present.

I checked on that suicide

that Morse is supposed to be
dealing with. Miles Percival.

Yeah?

Mary Tremlett's ex-boyfriend.

Her what?

Don't you think thats something
you might have mentioned?

I ruled it out.

You did, did you?

Percival's date of birth,
8th October 1943.

I spoke to his parents,
they confirm they gave him

a watch last year
matching the one we found.

Anything else you
left off telling me?

Well, Miles Percival
was the one who delivered

Dr. Stromming's clue
set to the Oxford Mail.

Say he took a butcher's
at it, sir.

Maybe he tumbled onto how

Stromming is making his
contacts with Mary Tremlett.

No, Miles Percival didn't know
the first thing about crosswords.

His flatmate told me.

Maybe his flatmate doesn't know
Percival as well as he thinks he does.

So, what,

he's waiting in Bagley Wood
when Mary turns up...

It could be he was planning
on doing them both, sir,

except Stromming didn't show.

- They argue, come to blows, even.
- That's how he loses his watch.

She gets away from him,
hopes up till first light

when she tries to get
the first bus home.

Only Percival finds her again,
takes her back to Bagley Wood.

Miles Percival was still
in love with her, sir.

I mean, there's no way that
he could harm Mary Tremlett.

Unless it slipped your notice
Percival blew his brains out.

Yeah, of course he did,
when he found out she was dead.

- It was more than he could stand.
- Very poetic.

Except he'd done for himself
before we'd found her body.

Couldn't have known
she was dead, sir.

Unless he killed her.

Mrs. Stromming.

I feel I should apologise for...

You should.

It's a young girl.

I suppose you were
doing your job.

A fine mess I made of that.

Well, that was all.

Morse?

What you asked me about Rowan,

- should I have...
- Mrs. Stromming.

Look, you owe me that at least.

- Have I been stupid?
- Any stupidity was mine.

It's a policeman's lot to hypothesise.
And sometimes...

Is this your way of saying
that you were wrong?

I suppose it is.

Sorry, I just...

I have been going out of my mind
after what you said.

Well, think no more of it.

Any man with such a wife as you

would have to be mad to
seek happiness elsewhere.

I don't think Dr, Stromming's mad.

- Look, can I get you a drink?
- That's very kind.

A brandy, then.

Someone told Rowan
that you took Greats at Lonsdale.

Is that true?

More or less.

And how on earth does a Greats man
end up a detective?

I wonder myself.

I thought perhaps it might be
your father was a policeman.

No, no.
He was a taxi driver...

before he lost his licence.

And your mother?

She was raised a Quaker.

Good heavens.

I hope any child of mine might
have more to say about me than

"She was an Anglican".

She...

- I...
- She died

when I was 12.

- I shouldn't have asked.
- No, not at all.

I'm just afraid that each
year, one's memories, they...

But...

Well, let's see, my abiding
impression of her is...

someone soft.

The scent of her hair.

Tenderness.

Well,

I'd better be getting home.

- Thank you for the...
- No...

Thank you for...
Well, just thank you.

- Good night, then.
- Good night.

Please dont tell my dad.

- Please.
- I won't.

- He'd kill me if he found out.
- I won't say anything. I promise.

Where were you, Jenny?

Mary introduced me
to this man she knew.

He had...
these parties.

A big house at Wolvercote.

We thought at first
it would be a giggle.

But it wasn't.

Last Saturday,
Mary was there?

There was a few of us went.

Me, Val.

Mary left early, though.

Around seven.

There was a row over it.

He didn't want her to go.

Who?
Who didn't?

Who threw these parties?

Wait till you get in it.
You've got the leather seats

and the walnut dash.
She's a real beauty.

Hello.
Change your mind about the car?

You aware of the age of consent
in this country, Mr. Samuels?

How the law stands in
relation to procuring, say?

Len, could you see to
this lady and gentleman for me?

Please, sir?
Madam?

That's a bloody good
sale you've cost me.

I hope by the time I'm finished
I'll have cost you a great deal more.

Mary Tremlett was a regular
attendee at your parties,

along with other girls
from Cowley Road School.

I want the names and addresses
of the men you pimped them to.

Listen, Sonny Jim,
you want to watch your mouth.

Who do you think you are,
coming in here

with talk like that?
I won't have it.

I'm a respectable member
of the business community

and I'll be treated as such or you will
find yourself back on point duty quick as.

Now, get out of my office

before I have someone break
your legs, you little bastard.

Go on, get.

You went to see Teddy Samuels.

Yes, he's...

running parties out of
some big pile by Wolvercote.

Underage girls.
Mary was there Saturday night.

I don't care where
she was Saturday night.

She was fit and well Sunday morning.
Miles Percival picked her up.

Yes, well, he would have been
hard-pressed to do that, wouldn't he?

Seeing as he didn't own a car.

What the hell do you
think you're about?

Pursuing inquiries.

- And who gave you leave to do that?
- I did.

On your way.

Something you want to say, Arthur?

You know the kind of
people Teddy's tight with?

I know he's got you in his pocket.

A pony on the first of the
month for turning a blind eye t

o hooky MOTs is bad enough

but this is the
murder of a young girl.

- It's not just me.
- I know.

Teddy Samuels has got half the
brass in town dancing to his tune.

In the county.

Judges, churchmen,
councillors, peers.

You really think you've got a chance
going toe-to-toe with that lot, Fred?

I think you should take a
couple of weeks' furlough.

Run Irene down to the
caravan and have a long,

hard think about
early retirement.

- You off your nut?
- It's that or put in for a transfer.

Your choice.
Either way,

don't show
you face in here again.

I'd hate to have to pinch you,
Arthur.

You wouldn't dare!

- Who owns it?
- It's a murky area.

So far as I've been able to
make out from the land registry,

the land was owned by the De Veres...
the Earls of Oxford...

until the title fell dormant.

It's vaguely Crown Estate now.

Crown Estate?
That's Treasury, isn't it?

Do you want a brew?

I'm just warming the pot.

There's no milk, I'm afraid.
There's lemon, though.

Who the hell are you?

Dempsey.

Inspector Thursday, isn't it?

And Constable Morse.

That was you putting
the windows in, was it?

What's your business here?

Presently,
a bit of light housework.

Defence of the realm is my
bailiwick.

National interest.
Pax Britannica and all that.

- What are you, special branch?
- More or less.

- Yes, why not?
- Get bloody cute

and I'll run you in.

Home Office extension 255.

Have the duty man put you
through to Colonel Doleman.

He'll vouch for my bona fides.

No.

- You're here about the girl.
- What do you know about it?

All you need to know is she left
here alive and well

about seven o'clock on Saturday
evening.

Trust me, whoever's killed her is
nothing to do with this.

- What is this exactly?
- Tarts in high places.

HMG won't wear another scandal.

We're still going round with a
dustpan and brush after Cliveden.

This is a murder enquiry.

And I hope you catch him.

But if you keep digging here,
you'll be taken off the case.

I wonder what the
papers would say

about the Department of State
obstructing a murder enquiry.

- Concealing evidence.
- Never see light of day.

We'd stick a D notice on it

and you'd be looking at a nice long
stretch for breaching official secrets.

Who are you protecting?

I wouldn't be doing my job very well
if I told you, would I?

Are you sure you won't have a brew?

Bastards like these,
it's business as usual.

So some leg-breaker guards the
stumps and we just walk away?

Is that it?

I want a list of who else
was at this little shindig of yours.

Look, Inspector,
I happen to count

a good number of
your superior officers

amongst my close circle.
Yeah?

Or should I say,
Square?

I would hate for any of
them to be embarrassed.

Know what I mean?

Bugger.

I left my tobacco in the car.
Have a shufti, Morse, would you?

Now?

He's a bit keen,
your boy, isn't he?

A bit wet behind the ears,
though.

- Want a drink?
- Scotch if you've got it.

With soda?

As it comes.

I've scraped better than you
off the soles of my boots.

So get this and get it straight.

I don't care who you pimp to
or whos pal you are down the Lodge.

You try and come it with me,
I'll break you.

Was in my pocket all along.

Mr. Samuels has come
over with a nosebleed.

I told him to
keep his head back.

- We all done, then, Teddy?
- You've made a big mistake.

Then that makes two of us.
You can keep the hanky.

- Sir...
- Save your breath.

I didn't march halfway
across the world

to put Jerry back in his box
for jumped-up spivs

to end up running
the show at home.

What about the law?

There's right and there's wrong.

I know which side I'm on.

Do you?

I don't care how much.
I'm not interested.

I think you will be.

I wondered for a while
why no-one was willing

to go after a
crook like Samuels.

Especially Crisp.

Well, you might have told me.

I didn't know who I could
trust in my own nick,

never mind a stranger.

You think Teddy Samuels
killed Mary Tremlett?

Or knows who did.

- Inspector Thursday in yet?
- Gone to seethe Tremletts.

Do you know much
about women's clothes?

Besides they look
better off than on?

Why?

Something someone said.

I was trying to remember.

Morse?

Detective Chief
Superintendent Crisp wants you.

Morse.

Odalisque.

Oda what?

- Whats that mean, then?
- Someone like Jenkins there.

What, Welsh?

Fed.
For pleasure.

Is it true?

I'd advise you to consider

very carefully
before you answer.

This is a very serious complaint.

Did Inspector Thursday
hit Teddy Samuels?

No, sir.

Right, clear your desk.

I want you on the next train
to Carshall bloody Newtown

or wherever it is you came from.

I've no use for troublemakers.

My letter of resignation.

It's been burning a hole in
my pocket this past week.

Perhaps you'll see it reaches
the appropriate channels.

Get out!

Flunk out again, have you...
college?

I read your file, boy.

Three years Lonsdale.

Threw the towel in before your
finals.

That's the trouble
with you poshos.

No gumption.

First sign of bother,

it's off back home to
Mummy, tail between.

No hard feelings!

You've done me a favour.

Pastures new.

Vice in the smoke.

And you on the slow boat to China.

What will you do?

Praise the God of all.
Drink the wine, and beer.

And let the world be the world.

- Another?
- No, got to mind the shop.

Did you ever make any headway
with what was on the back of her hand?

What was it, FLA...?

17B.
Or 178.

We tried it as a vehicle registration,
FLA 178, but nothing doing.

And if it was Flat 17B...

There was something
missing off the end, though.

- Another letter or number, I think.
- Maybe.

It's hard to say.

- Why?
- What? Just, well...

Nothing.
Doesn't matter.

- Well...
- It's no longer my concern.

Can you tell Thursday,

if he wants to know who
killed Mary Tremlett,

find out where her
clothes came from.

Did Mary ever mention
a Teddy Samuels?

Runs a garage round
the back of Park Town.

It's not a name I've
heard her mention.

Say you, Sharon?

She's got herself caught up
with this bloke, then, has she?

It's just we're interested in anyone
she may have known through him.

She ever go to Wolvercote,
so far as you know?

I'm afraid Rowan's not in.

It's you I came to see.

I wanted to say goodbye.
Before I push off.

You're leaving Oxford?

Oxford.
The police.

All of it.

You'd better come in.

I took the liberty...

It seemed too good an
opportunity to let pass.

It's seldom one gets
to meet one's heroines.

Heroine?
Surely not?

Yeah, more than you could know.

You saved my life.

What an extraordinary
thing to say.

Its true, nevertheless.

The place that I grew
up was a grey,

unfeeling nothing.

Then one day I heard your voice.

And...

And I knew for the first time
that there was...

..beauty in the world.

Would you sign it?

It would mean a great deal.

Yes.

Heavens, look at me.

I have.

Often.

Are you flirting with me?

A little.

Perhaps.

You mustn't.

I love my husband.

Very much.

I know.

What shall I put?

Samuels' insurance
against police interest.

Wicked thing,
blackmail.

God knows I'd have done the same
if it had been my daughter.

I burnt the negatives.
All of them.

Jenny doesn't have
to worry any more.

And nor do you.
Sir.

Who else knows?

Between you, me and Morse.

You can rely on his discretion.
He's a good lad.

We wouldnt be where we are now
if he hadn't kept pushing.

Sharon!

Sharon.

Well,
thank you for the coffee and...

You know,
you should find yourself a girl.

I did once.

- We were engaged.
- What happened?

Someone she'd left behind.

They'd been something in their first
year and after then she took up with me.

But not to be.

I'm sorry.

Truly.

Perhaps better to have loved
and lost.

So I'm told.

Well, goodbye, Mrs. Stromming.

"My office, 08.00 sharp.
Fred Thursday (Inspector)"

Yours, I believe.

There's been a development.

He had to pay.

For Mary.

I mean,
I knew he was bad but...

I never thought...

His own daughter.

Our daughter.

You and Teddy Samuels?

Summer, '49.

Mum and Dad said I
shouldn't have my life ruined

with a kiddie so young.

So they took heron.

Teddy didnt want
anything to do with it.

Threatened me if I told anyone.

And then you come round.

Just hearing his name,

something went in me.

All these years.

The thought of him
having anything to do with Mary.

I'm not sorry.

It's a rum go, Morse, and no
mistake.

Families, shame...

How is it any fault of a kiddie
whatsoever the sheets it's born?

Her flesh and blood and yet all
this,

as if we didn't all get here the
same way.

It won't do, I know that much.
It won't bloody do.

What's all this business
with Mary Tremlett's outfit?

Well, Mary Tremlett
took a size 36C in a bra

but the dress found with her body
was a size small.

She couldn't have squeezed into that outfit
if her life depended on it.

- Bought by an admirer?
- That was my thinking.

When it comes to women's
dress sizes, I mean...

Have McLeash run down a
list of local stockists.

Meantime, we'd better have
a word with friend Teddy.

He might be in more of a mood
to make himself useful this morning.

It's Morse.

I'm in hospital with
Inspector Thursday.

Any luck with the outfitters?

Bell, keep trying.

The pips have gone.
I'm out of change.

Can you call me back?
The number's Otmoor double 270.

Otmoor.
O-T-M...

Yes, straight away.
There's something I need to check.

She's done a proper job on him.

If he pulls through,
the doctor says he's likely a vegetable.

- How did you make out?
- Percival's in the clear.

Not only did he not have
access to a vehicle but,

according to Lomax,
he couldn't even drive.

- That's not all.
- What?

You remember what was written
on the back of Mary Tremlett's hand?

- FLA178.
- A car reg, yeah. Nothing doing.

It wasn't a car reg or part of an
address or anything of the sort.

FLA is an abbreviation
of FLAxman,

which is a London telephone exchange
covering the Chelsea area.

FLA178?
You're a digit short.

I got McLeash to check
all 10 possibilities.

FLAxman 17 double 8 is the number of
the London home of Sir Richard Lovell,

Minister for Overseas Affairs
and constituency MP for Oxford North.

- You talk to him?
- His housekeeper.

Lovell was in Oxford last weekend
from Friday to Sunday.

He has a house by Woodstock
called Applegate.

Detective Inspector Thursday, sir.

Detective Constable Morse.

Wonder if we might
speak to you a moment?

With me?

Certainly.

Please.

So,
what can I do for you?

I'm hoping you'll be able to tell us
how your London telephone number

came to be found
written on the hand of a schoolgirl

murdered last Sunday
in Bagley Wood.

- My telephone number?
- FLAxman 17 double 8.

- That is your phone number?
- Yes, it is. But...

how this young girl
came to have it,

I'm afraid I haven't
the foggiest.

Her name was Mary Tremlett.

A redhead.

One of the young girls you'll
have met at Teddy Samuels' parties.

You attended one last
Saturday at Wolvercote.

I don't think so.

It sounds most unsavoury.

- Dear, dear.
- "Dear, dear"?

A young girl strangled
and left naked in the woods

and all you can say is
"Dear, dear"?

Morse.

Do you deny you were there,
Minister?

Naturally.

And unless you have
evidence to the contrary,

I'm afraid this
meeting is at an end.

I think we can say who Dempsey's
looking out for, don't you?

A minister of the Crown?

Need more than a phone
number to make it stick.

Unless...
Her outfit.

If Lovell was
this secret admirer

and we can find who
sold it to him...

We can tie him to Mary Tremlett.

McLeash come through
with that list of stockists?

Yeah, should have.

You get onto that,
I'll put Crisp in the picture.

You tried the outfit girl?

Then we've got him.

What?

Whelks.

Mary Tremlett's last meal.

Eaten an hour or
so before she died.

That's not my idea of breakfast.

Is it yours?

What are you saying?
She didn't die Sunday morning?

But the vet saw her
at the bus stop.

Well, yes.
And no.

Either way,
it wasn't Lovell who killed her.

The awful thing is,
it all started as a joke.

A wager between two fools
who should have known better.

- How much?
- Five pounds.

You're on.

Flattered by
Stromming's attentions,

perhaps even believing
herself to be in love with him,

Mary Tremlett threw
herself into their affair,

abandoning the young man
with whom she had hitherto been close.

Distraught Miles Percival
confided his fears

to the one person he thought

might be able to
bring Stromming to heel.

Mrs. Stromming,
can we have a word?

I doubt that she believed him.

But gradually she came
to realise the truth.

Rather than confront her husband
and risk losing him forever,

another idea took
hold of her mind.

So she began.

Have a wonderful day.

The substitution of the puzzle
was the easiest part.

What she really needed was...

someone to take the blame.

She already had the
perfect candidate.

Drop that in for me,
will you?

- Sure.
- Thank you.

The rest fell out
exacty as she planned

On Saturday evening,

Mary Tremlett left Samuels' party
for Bagley Wood,

expecting to meet her lover.

Only it wasn't Dr. Stromming
she found waiting.

Mary.

Mary!

I believe Rosalind Stromming was

waiting for her with
some kind of crowbar.

She stripped Mary Tremlett

and left a green and
white party dress by her body

a dress rather than the dress.

There were two.

The following morning
anyone passing the bus stop

would have seen exactly what
Rosalind Stromming wanted them to see,

a redhead in a green, black
and white chevron print dress.

To betaken from Mary Tremlett.

The wig and dress l doubt
we'll ever find.

The stage was set
for the final act.

All that remained

was to provide the police

with Mary's murderer.

It was the perfect crime,
in all respects.

Bar one.

It was essential to her plan

that the two dresses
appear identical.

But what she failed
to take into account

was the fact that she is
two sizes smaller than Mary.

The shop girl
remembered at once.

The beautiful woman with
the diamond earrings.

"To Morse

"Un bel di
Rosalind Calloway"

Bravo.

Bravissimo.

Divina.

So, what's this about?

Your decision to retire
from Her Majesty's Government

and retire from public life.

My what?

We thought grounds of ill health.
Spare everyone's blushes.

She was 15...
Dickie.

- It was just a bit of harmless...
- Fun?

A schoolgirl coerced into bed

round from one dirty
old sod to another

like the Sunday sprouts,
"fun"?

For you and your mates,
maybe.

- This is ridiculous.
- Ridiculous.

A Government Minister
at a sex party.

Writing his telephone number
on the hand of a teenage girl.

Now, that's ridiculous.

We've kept your name out of it.
So far.

But there's a young
copper chasing this

and he's not so willing
to play the game.

Morse?

- Explain to him.
- I've tried.

Not for sale.

You do the decent thing,

his guv'nor might be
able to rein him in.

We'll see what Harold
has to say about it.

This is what he
has to say about it.

There's two ways out.

This one...

or do I have to get
blood on my shoes?

What times your train?

It's quarter past.

Sleep?

If I'd have worked
things through sooner...

- If I'd have realised...
- Stop.

The "if" game's no
good to any bugger.

You keep on
it'll drive you round the twist.

I know.

Rosalind Stromming was
dead from the moment

she decided to kill
an innocent girl.

Or dying, at least, inside,

whatever was good of her.

Come on, then.

If you're going to
make that train...

Mind if I drive?

Carshall Newtown,
that really what you want?

I don't know.

I was thinking I might
pack it all in.

Pick up my degree.

The worlds long on
academics, Morse,

but woeful short
of good detectives.

Things as they are,

I could use a
permanent back man.

I mean,
we did pretty well this time out.

Give or take.

I'd see you right,
of course,

make sure we get you through
your sergeants exam, eh?

With the proper encouragement,

who knows?

What you've got to ask is,

where do you see
yourself in 20 years?

Morse?

Endeavour.

ITFC Subtitle
Sync: Marocas62