All language subtitles for Endeavour.S05E05.720p.HDTV.x264-ORGANiC

'Now entertain conjecture of a time,

When creeping murmur and the poring dark,

Fills the wide vessel of the universe,

From camp to camp, through
the foul womb of night,

The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fixed sentinels almost receive,

The secret whispers of each other's watch,

Fire answers fire,

and through their paly flames,

Each battle sees the
other's umber'd face...

.. sechs, zwei, vier...

.. acht, sechs, zwei...

Room service.

Come in.

Oh, just put it over there, please.

♪ Zadok the Priest

- ♪ And Nathan the Prophet...
- 'Please take your seats.

The recording of Jeux Sans
Frontieres will commence shortly.

- VT roll to record.
- Recording.

- Right, good luck, everyone.
- Ten, nine...

- Julian set?
- .. eight, seven,

six, five, four,

three, two...

- one.
- Cue Julian.

Bienvenue, willkommen,

benvenuto and welcome

to this British Heat
of Jeux Sans Frontieres!

This week we are coming to
you from Oxford, England --

the famous city of dreaming spires,

and a renowned seat of learning
for nigh on a thousand years.

See you tomorrow.

- Expecting rain, Mr Mullion?
- You know me, sir.

- Never without my brolly --
rain or shine. - How's Winston?

Slowing up a bit, sir.
Getting old, I expect.

I know how he feels.

♪ Rejoiced!

♪ Rejoiced!

♪ Rejoiced!

♪ Rejoiced! ♪

'And here come the teams.

The French team from Saint-Josse-des-Bois.
A little ville in the Pas-de-Calais.

Great Britain, represented
by Oxford, of course.

Competitors from all walks of life.

We even have a British
Bobby amongst their number.

- Oh!
- Oh, dear!

One of the British team is down!

Looks like he sprained an ankle.
What a time to get an injury!

Just before the fun is about to start.

All the way from Maienfeld,
we have the Swiss --

CH there.

And last, but by no means
least, Deutschland --

the Germans -- bringing up the rear.

Well, there we have it, all the teams
ready and under starter's orders.

And they're off!

There they go, the giants
racing along the track,

over the hurdles and to the far end

to collect the bones of an Englishman
from one of their teammates.

And Great Britain already
surging ahead there.

He's already got his bone and he's off.

Oh, he's collided with the Belgian!

The Belgian is down!

And Great Britain isn't
even pausing for breath.

He has got the finish
line surely in his sights.

Ow!

[Steven.]

Help!

But it's our late substitution from
Great Britain who has come in first!

Well done, Great Britain!

Well done, everyone!

How about that, then, matey?

Well done.

- I owe you one.
- You owe me more than one.

- How's the ankle?
- I'll live.

Well, that was all rather
marvellous, I must say.

- What's wrong with the German?
- Passed out, probably.

- It gets hot in those suits.
- You're telling me!

Help! Help me! Help!

- Why don't you see what that is?
- Phone a doctor!

Please!

- Steven!
- Let me through! Thank you.

- It's all right, I'm a doctor.
- Help me, please.

- Stand back, give him room.
- Right...

What's happening with him?
What's the matter with him?

Please help me.

Ambulance -- now!

Police!

Thursday household. Fred!

Entry just below the sternum -- no exit.

There is a considerable loss of blood.

Should be two units of O Neg on standby.

And Mr Urquhart's on his way from the JR.

No debate. He's the best
P/T man in the country.

Be in theatre four minutes. Go!

Go!

Ladies and gentlemen,

I'm afraid one of the competitors
has unfortunately been taken ill.

I am sorry to say that
today's tournament has...

Sir.

- Do we know who he is?
- One of the West German team.

I've got Fancy and Trewlove talking
to the coach for furthers and betters.

Four shots. Three to the
back, one to the side.

I'm no expert, but it looks to
have been at pretty close range.

- Somebody wasn't messing.
- There was a fifth round.

Looks to have struck a
little boy in the crowd.

Dr DeBryn's gone with
him to Cowley General.

Must have passed right
through the giant's costume.

- We'd have heard it, wouldn't we?
- Not if the weapon was silenced.

This is just a bit of silly fun.

Why on earth would people have guns?

Did he collide with anyone before he fell?

Everyone was running into
everyone else, it looked like.

The plucky Belgian is down
and the Briton pulls in front.

And there goes the German.

- Goodness gracious...
- There. Take it back.

VT back to 05:21:30.

And play.

.. and the Briton pulls in front.

And there goes the German.
Goodness gracious...

Who's the Swiss?

Chap called Werfeli -- Matthias
Werfeli -- cried off this morning.

Feeling unwell, apparently.

Looks like they played a
sub for the Giants Race.

- Who's the sub?
- Nobody seems to know.

But that's hardly surprising,
given the size of the team.

Everyone took him for a bona fide
as he had the right tracksuit.

Only, nobody's seen him since the race.

Dead man's a Karl Pfuscher,
sir, according to the team coach.

Some sort of postal
clerk in Werfen, Bavaria.

Only moved there about
-- what, three months ago?

- From where?
- Strasbourg.

He'd been working as a translator
for the Council of Europe.

- Next of kin?
- We're looking into it, sir.

I'll dig out this Werfeli,
see what his story is.

- Where are the Swiss team staying?
- The Amber Lodge. Think he's in on it?

I think it's a long way to come
and not take part in the Games.

I'll take it from here, thank you.

- So this is Werfeli?
- Mm-hm.

A Swiss national. Whoever shot
the West German and the little boy

was masquerading as this man.

Strangled. Last six hours.

Taken from behind.

Some kind of wire garrotte
would be my best opinion.

Know more once I've got him unzipped.

Shall we say three o'clock?

So, someone killed him to take
his place in the Giant Race?

Seems a lot of trouble to go to.

Why not just do the German at his hotel
-- the same as he's done this fella?

Perhaps Pfuscher knew his killer?

Maybe he was already in fear
of his life, and on guard.

Somebody comes all the way
to Oxford to bump him off?

In front of a couple of thousand people?

And the telly? It doesn't make sense.

Well, maybe it was the only way that
the killer could get to Pfuscher.

You'd better go over to Pfuscher's
hotel now to get some real leads.

- Girlfriend?
- My guess.

I've asked for a list of
everyone staying in the hotel.

- Danulka's not a German name.
- From where, then?

I think the church in the background
is St Vitus Cathedral, Prague.

- Czech, then?
- Mm.

I've been through Pfuscher's
hotel telephone records.

He made two calls when he got here
-- one at 11:45 the night he arrived.

Oxford code. Just rings and rings.

And the other?

Twenty-past four yesterday afternoon,
to the Porter's Lodge at Beaufort.

Division have been notified.
They are liaising with Interpol.

One foreign national shot dead by another.

The last thing we need is
an international incident.

I'd say we've got one, sir,
whether we like it or not.

This is a family game show in
Oxford, not the Mexico Olympics.

What's the news on the child?

Open order.

The next 48 hours should tell.

Mrs McLean. Detective
Chief Inspector Thursday.

- Detective Sergeant Morse.
- Zoe.

How is he?

They said he wouldn't have made
it if he hadn't been seen to

- by the doctor in the ambulance.
- Dr DeBryn.

- Have you got who did it?
- No. Not yet.

It wasn't intentional, as far as we know.

But how could this happen to my boy?

We don't know. Yet.

But we'll get to the bottom
of this. You have my word.

Hello?

Whose number is this?

Yes?

May I help you?

About this little boy, is it? I don't
know what the world's coming to.

Rack and ruin, like as not.

I mean, and on a Sunday, too.

We had ballroom practice booked for three.

- Crime waits for no man.
- That's something I won't miss.

We'd best be off.

- No sandwich today?
- Sunday?

We'll have a roast at the Lamb And Flag.

Come home safe.

Righto.

It's gone. All of it.

Special Branch came in the early hours.

Whatever it is, it's out of our
hands. Perhaps it's for the best.

- Best for whom?
- All right, Morse.

I don't care for it any more than
you, but such are our orders,

and it behoves us to follow them.

All of us.

Two men are murdered on
our ground, and that's it?

That's it.

And what about the little boy?

Go home.

It's Sunday.

See you tomorrow.

Morse.

A D-notice if you please.

I haven't had one of those
slapped on me since the war.

- What's going on?
- Your guess is as good as mine.

We're out of the picture. Truly.

Special Branch. National security, then.

Oh, the greater good, I don't doubt.

Did your photographer
take any photographs?

- Some. What are you looking for?
- The teams.

I'll drop them by the office first thing.

Could you mark it just for me?

Also, if there's anything in the
archive on a Karl Pfuscher -- German.

- Should there be?
- Oh, I don't know.

Isn't your girl a photographer?

- Hm. - She asked me
to sign a book for her.

Seems nice.

- Which book?
- My time in Korea.

Which I can only say shows
excellent taste and discernment.

You're not gonna let this go, are you?

Thank you for coming in.

Any news on the boy, McLean?

I just spoke to the cutter.

We were at Bart's together.

Best paediatric-thoracic
man in the country.

He's hopeful, but the boy's
not out of the woods yet.

I spoke to his mother. She
said you saved his life.

- Oh, I don't know about that.
- She does. So does the surgeon.

Well... made a change to work
on a live patient, I suppose.

But I wouldn't want to make a habit of it.

Each to their own. So...

So, Pfuscher.

I was working on him when they rolled in.

Credentials and paperwork all in order.

They've taken both bodies.

And my notes.

But not my brain.

- Same weapon?
- The bullets I dug out of Pfuscher

were a match for those that the surgeon
removed from little Steven McLean.

Right... And the Swiss? Werfeli?

Whoever killed him knew
exactly what they were about.

Right... Anything else?

It looks as if Pfuscher did a bit
of shopping when he got here.

Amongst his personal effects there was
a receipt for a picture and a clock.

There was nothing like that in his digs.

- Any idea where he bought them?
- Afraid not.

Fiver for the picture.
Tenner on the carriage clock.

No furthers and betters on either.

But his teeth I do recall.

He wore an upper denture.

Nothing unusual in that, is there?

No. But you said he was
Bavarian, didn't you?

- Mm-hm. - Well, last time I
looked, Bavaria was in West Germany.

The workmanship on the dentures
suggests they were made

on the other side of the Wall.

- In the Russian sector?
- Yes.

"East Germany" to you and me.

I thought you had to work.

Clearly.

- Are you going somewhere?
- Just tidying.

Isn't it a little late for a spring clean?

Well, you don't have to be
a policeman all the time.

Sometimes things are
just what they look like.

- I thought we could get lunch.
- Mm.

A pub lunch, maybe.

Uh, why, what would you like to do?

Something I've never done before.

- It's pretty.
- Prettier in summer.

Sun's gone already. The year's turned.

Pretty soon it will be
bonfires and hoar frost.

Mist'll rise... Winter's on its way.

Hey.

- I wasn't ready.
- That's the point.

- You ran into Dorothea.
- She signed my book.

- So she said.
- Have you read it?

- No.
- You should. It's a classic.

Is that what you want?

Something like that?

I'm not that good a writer.

That's why I've got this.

- A picture is worth a
thousand words. - Right?

Well, it depends on the words.

(No. All right.)

(All right.)

(I'd just need it back in the
account this side of Christmas.)

Anyway, Charlie, I mustn't
dawdle. Morse has just turned up.

- Morning, Morse.
- Mrs Thursday.

Yep.

Yep. Cheerio, then.

Give my best to Paulette and Carol.

What was all that about?

Oh, he just rang for a chat, that's all.

You remember my brother?

Carol sent her best, apparently.

- Oh.
- Ta.

- Come home safe.
- Righto.

See you tomorrow.

There. Good boy. That's
a good boy. Come on.

- Usual?
- Yeah, and a quarter of navy too.

Been in the wars, Elsie?

Walked into a door, silly moo.

Is that right?

I told her to go more careful.

This is everything we have
on file for Karl Pfuscher.

If you have any information for the
press, please let me know first.

'University Of Oxford.

Good morning, this is Detective
Sergeant Morse, Thames Valley.

I'm trying to reach a Dr Schneider.

I'm shocked.

Shocked.

That's simply terrible.
I can't believe it.

Had you heard from Herr Pfuscher recently?

Not in a few months.

He was in Strasbourg, you know
-- at the Council Of Europe --

working as a senior translator.

He didn't call you Friday afternoon?

Around 4:30?

No. No, he didn't.

How had he seemed in his letters?
Was there anything troubling him?

No. No, he was happy.

He had met a young woman
and was very much in love.

- Was this Danulka?
- That's right.

You wouldn't know her surname?

I'm afraid not.

- But she was Czech,
though? Right? - Yes.

They met when she came to Strasbourg
as part of a trade delegation.

Karl wrote to me that they
hoped to marry in the summer.

I know he'd recently moved to Bavaria,
but where was he from originally?

Prenzlauer Berg -- Berlin.

It's on the other side
of the Wall now, alas.

Was there anyone else in Oxford
he was close to at the time?

He had a girl in Headington.

On Sebastopol Terrace.

What number?

I'm afraid I never met her.

"Samantha" was her name.

Smith or... Samantha Jones
or Brown or something.

And he was good friends with
Professor Richmond, of course.

- Alexander Richmond?
- That's right.

You know him?

Excuse me, sir. I'm looking for
Professor Richmond's rooms.

- Stair J, sir.
- Thank you.

Somebody called the gatehouse
Friday afternoon. A Karl Pfuscher.

- I'd like to know who he was calling.
- What time, sir?

It was about twenty-past four.

- I'll check the duty log, sir.
- Perfect, thank you.

Come.

Professor Richmond?

Er, it's erm...

- Morse.
- Of course.

Good heavens.

Didn't you partner me
at the Traveller's once?

- Once, yes.
- Yes -- not a bad "dummy".

Lost the grand slam in the
final rubber, I remember.

The bid was four no trump, and
you answered aces, wasn't it?

I... couldn't say.

Yes. Your mistake, you see.

Four no trump is not always Blackwood.

Well, this is a pleasant surprise.

- Sherry?
- I won't.

Actually, I'm here on official business.

I'm with Thames Valley
Police. A Detective Sergeant.

Oh, I see.

I wanted to ask you about Karl
Pfuscher. A German student.

- He came up in '58.
- Oh, you flatter me.

I'm lucky if I can remember last term,

never mind the best part of ten years ago.

Well, you remembered me.

Uh, I remembered the game.

Well, I can show you a photograph.
Perhaps that would help.

No. I'm afraid not.

Why? What is all this about?

Well, if you don't remember,
it doesn't much matter.

I'm sorry to have troubled you.

I've checked the duty log for Friday, sir.

No messages that afternoon.

Oh.

Oh, thank you. Thank you for checking.

Not at all, sir. Anything we
can do to help the boys in blue.

Morse. Hello?

'You've been asking about Karl Pfuscher.

- Who's this?
- 'I might be able to help you

- if you fancy a trip to London.
- Help me how?

'Museum Tube. Six o'clock.

'You got that?

Yes, I've got that.

'Oh, and... and wear an evening suit.

What?

Hello?

Hello?

Tickets! Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you.

It's Morse, isn't it?

Singleton.

- Who are you?
- I told you. I'm Singleton.

Is that your real name?

If you were important enough to lie
to, you'd probably be dead already.

- Where are you going?
- You like music, don't you?

- What's with all the pantomime?
- Pantomime?

Bringing me down to London. All this.

Two old friends going to see a concert?

- But we're not old friends.
- And we're not going to see a concert.

Are we being followed?

Spot of supper, don't you think?

With Special Branch having taken the
international business off our hands,

we can turn our attention
back upon this Ames character.

What's the latest development?

Nothing much to add since
the last briefing, sir. Jim?

We've braced all potential associates
and regular informants, sir --

particularly amongst the
coloured community --

but... so far there hasn't been a peep.

Where's Morse? He generally
has something to contribute.

Pursuing inquiries, sir.

Good God!

It's a machete-wielding West Indian

with a distinctive facial
scar we're trying to find.

In Oxford! It's not the Scarlet Pimpernel!

- No, sir.
- We must redouble our efforts.

All of us. Division want him
found. And sooner rather than later.

Certainly not before another
piece of his bloody handiwork

ends up on Dr DeBryn's mortuary table!

Very well. Carry on!

I bear grave news. The chicken pie is off.

I call that a very bad show.

Morse. Louis. Louis. Morse.

You've 30 seconds to tell me who you
are and what you want, or I'm leaving.

We're Wardens in Ordinary
attached to St Peter ad Vincula.

St Peter in Chains?

That's a chapel at the Tower.

- Thomas More is buried there.
- Oh, yes.

Thomas Cromwell. Anne Boleyn.

Lady Jane Grey.

The lopped heads of old England.

Traitors all.

If you know that much, you
know it's a Royal Peculiar.

Please.

So you answer only to the Crown.

That's right.

- So what do you want?
- To help. What else?

With what?

Pfuscher.

And what's in it for you?

You should take a look at Sebastian Fenix.

The perfumier?

The world-famous multi-millionaire
perfumier, playboy and philanthropist.

- Why don't you take a look at him?
- You're the policeman.

Every game must be played
according to its rules.

Is what happened to Pfuscher
in some way connected to Fenix?

He acted as interpreter
to Fenix for a while.

Fenix has a factory, north of Oxford.

We'd be very interested in
anything you might pick up.

Particularly anything
being made in Laboratory 4.

- Why don't you take a look? - You love
your country? - You still beat your wife?

We're on the side of the
angels. Quite literally.

- I'm not a spy.
- Neither are we.

- Then, what are you?
- Keepers of the secret flame.

Guardians of the realm.

Britain's last line of defence.

- So, why me?
- You're a policeman.

You can legitimately look into matters
beyond our sphere of influence.

And you can just as legitimately wipe
your hands of it if anything goes wrong.

Something like that.

Enjoy your potted shrimp.

It's entirely your decision,
but this may prove instructive.

Our perfumier is quite photogenic.

Burn it when you're done.

We have copies.

Early for you, Mr Thursday.

Early bird, Else. Catches the worm.

Your eye's on the mend.

Pound of best rump that cost me.

Money well spent. You want to watch
where you're going in the future.

What I told her. Kettle!

Not the first time, is it?

She's clumsy. What can you do?

I'd hate for it to be anything else, Joe.

Any man who'd raise a hand to a woman
is about as low as it gets in my book.

Goes on between a husband
and wife's their business.

Till it becomes mine.

Sir.

Anything in?

Pretty quiet, as it goes.

Couple of car thefts.

Indecent exposure on Catte Street.

Oh... and a Dr Schneider called.

It slipped my mind -- Karl did ask
something which I thought a little strange.

In one of his last letters, he
asked if I had any information

about our old language tutor.

- Your language tutor?
- Yes.

When we came to Oxford
we both took lessons

to improve our English
with a Miss Bagshot.

It was recommended by the
college, for all foreign students.

Did he say why he wanted
to speak with her?

No. Only that she had
been on his mind lately.

I found her address and telephone
number and sent it to Karl.

Did he ever mention Sebastian Fenix?

- The perfumier?
- Mm-hm.

No. Never. Not to me, at least.

- Miss Bagshot?
- Yes?

- So, what do you want,
Detective... - Morse.

I believe you knew Karl Pfuscher.

I'd be interested in anything
you could tell me about him.

Pfuscher? Pfuscher? That's what? German?

Mm. He came up in '58. To Beaufort.

Well, I've had a lot of
pupils over the years.

He's the one on the right.

Oh, yes! I believe he
came to me for a while.

- Why?
- He was killed.

In Oxford. Saturday. Murdered.

Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.

But I hadn't seen him
in... seven, eight years.

Do you recognise anyone
in this photograph?

- Am I likely to?
- You tell me.

No. There's no-one there I know.

Really?

I don't know what you could
possibly expect me to tell you.

Tell me why he called you the
evening he came to England.

- I wasn't aware he had.
- I have his hotel bill.

He was on the line for three minutes.

A long time to listen
to a ringing telephone.

You're either incredibly
brave or incredibly stupid.

You look like a decent enough young
man, so perhaps it's the former.

You really are involving yourself
in matters way above your pay grade.

- What matters?
- Leave it to Special Branch.

How do you know about that?

You can't be that naive.

The world is divided in two.

Freedom on one side, the
Russians on the other,

and a bloody great wall down the
middle, separating the two of them.

There's a war of shadows.

There's a little boy --
Steve McLean. Six years old.

He's been caught in the
crossfire of whatever this is.

He's in Cowley General,
recovering from gunshot wounds.

I will get to the bottom
of this. For his sake.

You've wandered into
no-man's-land, Mr Morse.

Take my advice.

Retrace your steps. Go
back while you still can.

What if I'm already too far in?

Then I'll light a candle for you.

I don't want to have to raise
my voice in front of the men,

but this station is
currently under review.

They wouldn't simply shut Cowley
down, though, would they, sir?

Results, Thursday. Results.

We shall live or die by our
achievements... or the lack of them.

To be honest, sir...

.. I'm not sure I've got the miles
left in me to start over at a new nick.

Particularly if it meant a new guv'nor.

Sorry to interrupt, sir, but
there's a report just through

that the Hope And Anchor on Shadforth
Street has been turned over.

- Mob-handed, according to initial reports.
- That's Eddie Nero's boozer.

Trewlove.

A number of cars arrived
at about one o'clock.

We've got a partial
index from a passer-by.

Good work, Constable.

Well, this is a right mess.

Looks like a proper carve-up.

Nobody saw anything, I suppose.

Not according to the landlord, sir.

I can put the squeeze on.

Forget it, Sergeant. It's Summertown.

Welcome to Fenix Industries.

Thank you, sir.

Thank you.

Remarkable creatures.

Erpetoichthys horrida.

Commonly known as the estuarine snakefish.

They secrete a lethal toxin from
glands on the base of the spines

on their dorsal fin which
stick up when disturbed...

or threatened.

Goes by the name of Tiddles, presumably?

That's an unusual pet.

I'm attracted to unusual things.

Can I ask Miss Borgia to fix you a drink?

- She mixes a Martini to die for.
- I'm sure. But, no. Thank you.

What is it you do here? I'm curious.

A fatal flaw in cats, Mr Morse.

We make perfume...

.. and an awful lot of money.

Mm. Dollars and scents.

It's easy to mock, but to
make great perfume takes genius

and a nose that would shame the
greatest sommelier in the world.

- Thankfully, I possess both.
- And no end of modesty.

A much over-prized virtue.

Come, let me show you.

Fenix Industries has many interests.

The company began as a Venetian
perfume house in the 13th century.

Our world-famous fragrances
remain a source of great pride,

and no little income,

but since the war Fenix has
diversified into many fields.

- Such as?
- One half of this facility

is a pharmaceutical research laboratory

specialising in bacteriological
and virological research.

Tuberculosis bovina.

Foot and mouth.

But that you could have ascertained
with a phone call to the ministry.

So... what do you really want to know?

What you were doing with
Karl Pfuscher in Geneva.

Business.

Our usual translator was indisposed

and we had a narrow window of
opportunity to conduct our dealings.

Karl was free, came highly recommended,

and was well rewarded for his time.

- And when was this?
- A couple of days last autumn.

- Have you seen him since?
- No. Why? What's your interest?

Someone pumped four rounds
of ammunition into him

at close range with a
silenced automatic pistol.

Ah, not now, thank you.

I see.

And you imagine, somehow,

that Fenix Industries had
something to do with that?

Oh, alas! I fear I must
disappoint your expectations.

I'm a... I'm a scientist,
yes, but not a mad one.

- We shall have to take your word for that.
- Mm. For the moment, at least.

I'd be delighted to give
you a tour of the facility,

just to show you we
have no secrets to hide,

no dark agenda for world domination.

But... I'm pressed for
time. It'll have to wait.

Make an appointment with Miss Borgia.

I'd be more than happy to oblige.

Until then...

a bottle of my latest creation...

Vespertine...

.. by way of a souvenir of your visit.

Give it to your girlfriend
-- or someone you love.

I'm sure I could find room
for it in the evidence store.

- Evidence of what?
- Your genius. What else?

Life is not a paperback, Mr Morse.

For a policeman with an overdeveloped
sense of right and wrong,

it's a bad film with an unhappy ending.

One in which the villain gets the girl,
and the money, and the world entire.

And the hero?

There's your mistake.

Conscience is a negotiable commodity.

There are no heroes. No
white hats, no black hats.

Just shades of green.

Money.

That's the true universal panacea.

Good for anything that ails you.

Wiedersehen.

This way, Mr Morse.

Thought you might be
in the mood to talk --

now you've had a clear-up.

To you? Think on.

The bookie's last week? Now your boozer?

All I hear since that lorry load of
Killoran was knocked off the summer,

arse has fallen out of
the hijack business too.

Someone's beating you to the
punch, week-in, week-out.

- Know a lot, don't you?
- Who's putting the squeeze on, Eddie?

You think if I knew that, I'd be here?

I'd hope you'd come and have a quiet word
with us before you did anything rash.

You don't want to be taking the
law into your own hands, Eddie.

That's "Mr Nero" to you, boy.

Or do I have to teach you some manners?

- You want some n'all?
- Any time, any place.

All right. All right.

We're here after doing
you a favour, Eddie.

But things can always change.

What favour?

This turns into a proper
Watney Street knees-up,

it's only a matter of time before
an innocent bystander cops it.

I can't have that on the street.

You want whoever's at it out of
your hair, we want them banged up.

- I'm no grass.
- I know.

Honour amongst.

But this ain't grassing.

Whatever you've got. The smallest thing.

Some bastard's got the
nerve to call me chicken?

Here!

Whoever it is had better pray
it's you that finds 'em first.

A black cockerel?

- We've seen that before.
- The Lloyd Collins killing, sir.

Part of this hijack gang, wasn't he?

That made off with a lorry-load of
whisky from Waddington Junction, sir.

Suspicion was he'd been murdered
by one of his accomplices.

- Some voodoo connection.
- Ames?

You think he's behind this
turf war with Eddie Nero?

- Certainly looks that way, sir.
- Does Nero know?

There'd be a lot more blood
on the streets if he did.

Anything for me?

Some mob smashed up the Hope And Anchor.

- Eddie Nero's place?
- Jim and the old man's in with Mr Bright now.

Oh, a Dr Schneider dropped off
a sketchbook of Karl Pfuscher's

that he held onto from
their undergrad days.

Said some Samantha girl could be in there.

Thanks.

- Where'd you get to?
- I was at the break-ins in the Oxpens.

- What break-ins?
- It's in the log book.

Shirl...

- Sir, do you have a moment?
- Of course, Constable.

Come through. Don't go disappearing off.

I could do with the benefit
of your wisdom on Eddie Nero.

He had a girl in Headington...
On Sebastopol Terrace.

I've just come from
Dozier's newsagents, sir.

Mrs Dozier has been taken by
ambulance to Cowley General.

She's pretty badly hurt.

Both Mr and Mrs Dozier say she
had a fall down the stairs.

You believe them?

It's possible. The carpet's worn
through to the floorboards at the top.

But to fall on both sides
of her face at once?

I just thought you should know.

All right, Constable. Good work. Carry on.

- Where's Morse?
- He's just gone out.

- Out where?
- Overnight break-ins, he said.

He was on that Swiss Team
photograph I showed you.

- Who is he?
- Not a Swiss.

Pavel Mikhailovich Zorkin. KGB.

- What is this place? Who lives here?
- Nobody. It's a safe house.

You could have fooled me.

I did warn you not to get involved.

Listen, if I fill you in on some
of it, will you leave it all alone?

Well, I think I've got some of it already.

Pfuscher was a British asset,
recruited by Alexander Richmond.

- Is that right?
- Mm. Alex always had a good nose.

Good eye too. Fancied you for a while.

I was Pfuscher's handler
for several years.

Ran him in and out of East Germany.

Four years ago, he was betrayed.

- By whom?
- Your guess is as good as mine.

The other side rolled up half our network.

I barely got out alive.

We lost a lot of good
people. Locals, in the main.

Liquidated. We took Karl Pfuscher
to have been amongst them.

Only, he wasn't dead.

No. Perhaps it would have
been better if he had been.

- Because the Russians got him?
- Mm.

Turned him. Double agent.

I dread to think what secrets he gave up.

He disappeared for a while,

during which time, he fell
in love with a Czech girl.

- Danulka.
- Mm. She died two months ago.

When the Red tanks rolled into Prague.

Pfuscher got in contact again.

Said he wanted to come in and,
moreover, he said he had treasure.

What treasure?

Since '51, all eyes
have been on Cambridge,

but Pfuscher came into
information that the Soviets

were running an active cell out of Oxford

since the early '30s...

Codename "NEWS".

- Pfuscher knew who was
in this cell? - Mm.

He was going to tell me the list of
names on Saturday night after the Games.

- That's why he got onto the team?
- God knows how many they've recruited.

But there have been
rumours for some time...

that HMG has been penetrated.

To Cabinet level. Maybe even beyond.

- No. I don't believe that.
- You may not,

but our friends on the
Continent seriously think so.

Why do you think de
Gaulle is so determined

to keep us out of the European Community?

Buy British...

get Boris.

So where does Fenix fit into this?

- Fenix?
- Mm. Fenix Industries.

Pfuscher worked as a translator for
him on some deal out of Geneva.

No. He's got nothing to do
with it as far as I know.

Right.

Well, would he have known
who was in this Oxford cell?

If I'd thought that, it
wouldn't have been him I shot.

No, he's just a killer.

No, Karl was the only one who knew.

So, what now?

Perhaps you'll realise why you
really ought to stay out of it.

I have a duty to report
what's happened here.

Yes. We all have a duty.

Your duty was to mind your Ps and Qs
and report back to Special Branch.

That was your duty.

- Yes, but a little boy has been shot.
- Recompense will be made.

He'll recover, he'll get over it.

Just as I'm sure you will.

You don't want to go back to jail, do you?

Or worse.

Look, by the time your colleagues
get here, they won't find anything.

Not him, not me.

Do you think they're going to believe

that a retired civil servant
who takes in language students

goes around shooting Russian thugs?

We're closed.

You've been asking after me.

How's that?

You have some bad luck, Mister.

Your boy... Flynn, was it?

You've got some neck, I'll give you that.

- What's your name?
- Ames.

Cromwell Ames.

What do you want, Mr Ames?

Everything.

Protection, girls...

numbers, the gym.

All of it.

You can keep the car ringing.

- That's very generous.
- Every dog has his day.

- Is that right?
- You think too small.

This is my town now.

I'm serving you notice of eviction.

You walk into my place, alone...

No... Never alone.

The devil walks with me.

My name is Cromwell Ames.

And I am come to set a fire upon the cane.

What are you doing here?

I tripped.

The lino rucked up at
the top of the stairs.

Sure.

And the next time?

He has to kill you before I
do something? Is that right?

Is there anyone you can go
to? Family? You can't go home.

I can't leave him.

We've been together nearly 40 years.

He wouldn't know how to boil an egg.

Morse.

What happened to you?

Karl Pfuscher was not friends, exactly,
but he was certainly well acquainted

with Alexander Richmond,
a professor at Beaufort.

- Who's he?
- He's just an English don.

I attended one or two of his lectures.

He asked me to partner him at Bridge.

And afterwards we had a very odd supper.

- Odd in what way?
- Well, there was just the two of us.

He asked me about my
feelings about the country.

Whether I'd considered working
for the Foreign Office.

The gossip was he was some
sort of talent-spotter.

For who?

It's not our case.

Look... Say it's on the level.

The Russian killed the
Swiss to get to Pfuscher,

your guardian angel kills the Russian.

The circle's closed.

And what about the little
boy? Does he not matter?

Of course he matters!

You want to do right by
him, make sure he's safe...

you keep him as far away
from all this as you can.

There are still two murders on our ground.

Pfuscher was killed for what he knew.

Chasing down Communist spies?

We're meat-and-two-veg
coppers, not Danger Man.

Leave the "do or die" to Special Branch.

We're not paid to risk our
necks the way you've been.

Got a girl now, haven't you?

Win was saying. Joan mentioned it.

You're no use to her a dead hero.

Join you?

Yes, of course. Can I get you a drink?

Uh... I'm fine.

Sure?

Thought I might find you here.

Claudine rang.

Did she?

She told me to tell you Vietnam.

Ah... Right.

- You didn't know. I'm sorry.
- Was she?

You liked her?

You know me.

Easy come, easy go.

Have you eaten?

- Of course.
- Today?

When did you last eat?

I'd planned to get something
with Claudine but...

It doesn't matter.

You shouldn't drink on an empty stomach.

That's exactly when you should drink.

Drown your sorrows?

Just marinade them a little.

That's what they're
for, isn't it? Sorrows.

All right.

Goodnight.

- I thought you were keeping me company.
- Not like this.

- Want me to call Jim Strange,
make sure you get home? - No.

No.

Right.

Time! Time, gentlemen, please!

How's it going with you and Jim?

It's hardly the Yellow House.

But it means we can
both put something aside.

I should have enough for a
deposit this time next year.

A man of property.

Yeah, I suppose.

Didn't Jane Austen have something to say

about a single man in
possession of a good fortune?

I doubt it will be um... Netherfield Park.

You didn't need to walk me back, you know.

Old habits.

Do you want to come in?

For coffee?

Yeah.

I don't go much for coffee.

- Besides...
- Besides?

I've got things to do.

OK.

Well, goodnight, then.

- What?
- Is that Vespertine?

Mum got me a bottle for my birthday.

What about it?

Hop in.

- Well? - You wanted to
know what was in Lab 4.

Ambergris. It's secreted in
the guts of sperm whales.

- It's used in perfume?
- As a fixative, that's right.

Traps aroma on the skin for long periods.

Rare as hens' teeth -- and
worth its weight in gold.

Quite literally. However...

fresh stuff is virtually
useless to perfumiers.

It takes 20 years of immersion in the sea

to produce the white, high-end stuff.

So he's curing his own, so what?

We had thought as much, but
couldn't prove it. Until now.

Right.

So how's he coming by
so much raw ambergris?

That's where Pfuscher came in.

He was the translator for
the deal that Fenix struck

with Russian Baltic whalers in Geneva.

As you know, that sort of trade with
the Soviets is strictly verboten.

He couldn't keep a financial
contract like that under wraps.

Indeed not. The factory also did work for
the chemical warfare boys at Porton Down.

Always something new coming out of Porton.

So... what you're saying
is he's buying raw ambergris

with confidential scientific information?

- How do you know that?
- Because Pfuscher told us so.

We were as doubtful as you.

He visited Fenix's factory on the Friday
night before the Games... to prove his story.

- Only, he wasn't as lucky
as you, though. - No.

Came up empty-handed, and
had to make a run for it.

But now you've proved he was telling
the truth, we can do something about it.

- Arrest him, presumably.
- Oh... nothing so heavy-handed.

Well, I suppose you
deserve your quid pro quo.

For services rendered.

What is it?

.. sechs, zwei, vier.

Eins, sieben, zwei, funf, acht.

Neun, sechs, zwei...

.. vier, zwei, sechs.

Creepy.

- It's a Numbers Station.
- A which?

A Numbers Station. A device
used to send coded information

to intelligence officers
in foreign countries.

The sort of thing we used to broadcast
to Resistance during the War.

"The geese fly South tonight.
Uncle Pierre has a blue hat."

Rubbish mostly, but in amongst the dross

would be key phrases that meant
something to specific groups.

An instruction to blow a railway...
or bring down telegraph poles.

Mm. It's the same idea. We used
to listen in on them in Signals.

I suppose none of it means anything,
unless you've got the key?

- About the size of it.
- So what's it doing here?

It's a hotline -- presumably --
for the spy cell codenamed "NEWS".

- Did you speak to the council?
- Yeah.

They weren't best pleased
to be got out of bed.

Right, but who is it down to?

Most of it's given over
to Beaufort College dons.

This particular strip is
held in the name of...

"Ranunculus." Is it Alexander Richmond?

Alexander Richmond. That's right.

- Want me to notify Special Branch?
- You'd better.

Wait, wait, wait. Special Branch?

We can hand him over to
them, by all means, but...

he still has two murders and
a wounded boy to answer for.

It's us that should arrest
him. Not Special Branch.

Is Professor Richmond in his rooms?

I couldn't say, sir.

- Professor Richmond.
- Morse.

My colleague -- Detective
Chief Inspector Thursday.

- Oh, yes. This about that German still?
- Karl Pfuscher. That's right.

The man you recruited to
the intelligence services

while he was an undergraduate.

- I heard stories.
- We had it confirmed.

- By whom?
- Millie Bagshot.

Not like Millie to be er... so indiscreet.

Well, I... I may have done my little
bit before and just after the war,

but it was only spotting useful
prospects. No harm in that.

There wouldn't have been,
if that was all it was.

Some years earlier you'd been
recruited yourself by the Soviets.

Every undergrad that you recruited,
you sold out to the Russians.

There's no point denying it to us.
Special Branch are on their way.

We know you didn't do it
alone. Who else was in on it?

If you'll excuse me?

Hello.

Hello?

- What are you doing here?
- There's a body at Dozier's newsagents.

Strange has already gone over there.

- Has anyone come past you?
- No.

Only the old bloke with
the bowler and the brolly.

Guard Richmond's stairwell!

- No-one out or in.
- Sir.

Mr Mullion!

Mr Mullion!

Call an ambulance for Professor Richmond.

- He's been shot in the shoulder.
- The shoulder?

I'll take that, if you don't mind. Morse?

Canny.

Single shot?

All you need, if you
know what you're doing.

And, of course, you knew
exactly what you were doing.

- Yes, I did.
- I don't doubt it.

The gentlemen are all well and good,
but if you want something doing...

- It's the little
people every time. - Mm.

The meek shall inherit the Earth. That it?

That's right, sir. And
you won't even notice.

That's the thing about us.

Nobody pays us any attention,
because we don't matter.

Alex was a good comrade, but
he couldn't be allowed to talk.

He knew that. He knew when
he picked up that telephone.

Who are you trying to protect?

They'll get it out of you.

Expect they will, sir.

In time.

But by then it won't matter.

Dasvidanya, tovarishch.

You finish up here.

I'll get over to Strange at the newsagent.

I saw that one coming, tried to warn her.

I'll make sure the bastard
gets what he deserves.

Broken neck.

What's with the trousers?

Belt's about halfway up the stairs.

He'd taken it off for some reason.

- Where is she?
- Parlour.

No, no. You're all right.
Don't get up. You sit there.

Has she said anything?

No, sir.

- I...
- Wait a minute.

You've had a shock.

You don't need to say anything.

"Not obliged" is the form of words.

But, then... I haven't
asked you anything yet.

Do you mind?

- I like the smell.
- Me too.

My father used to enjoy a quiet pipe.

After tea.

Outside, is it? Your..."necessary"?

- Up the yard.
- Yeah, thought as much.

Same as when I was a boy.

Only, then it was... one
for every eight houses.

20 families.

Lodgers. Callers.

A soul was lucky to get a look in.

See...

This is how it is,
Elsie. The way I read it.

Joe gets taken short --

a martyr to his innards,
as he used to tell me.

So, he's got taken short...

and in his rush to get downstairs

he unfastens his belt
and goes arse over tit.

You said yourself that lino
at the top was worn through.

That sound about right to you?

Not how he'd like to have gone, I'm
sure, but nobody gets to choose.

Same with husbands and wives.

Some get lucky. Some don't.

But what happened was an accident.

You understand me?

- I thought this was Special Branch now.
- It is. I'm just tying up loose ends.

Karl Pfuscher booked a second room,
under the name "Samantha Smith".

- I found it in the
hotel guest list. - So?

So, Dr Schneider thought
Samantha Smith was a girlfriend

from Sebastopol Terrace,

but the only connection he had
to that place was as a safe house.

Why would he book two rooms?

Because he knew somebody
was trying to kill him,

and he didn't want what
he knew to die with him.

What he knew about what?

It'll be in here.

Not in his own room.

But what?

Something that couldn't
be moved by the cleaners.

"Earth has not anything
to show more fair."

"Composed upon Westminster
Bridge, September 3, 1802."

Pfuscher had it bookmarked in his
room with a picture of his girlfriend.

9-3-0-2...

He had a receipt for a picture
in his personal effects.

- What time do you make it?
- What?

Just gone ten. Why?

The clock's stopped.

Hm.

Well done.

- What?
- It's not stopped.

It's exactly the right
time it's supposed to be.

The same time as Big Ben in the picture.

W... Operation NEWS.

That means there's four of them.

- Four of what?
- Four agents in the cell.

Richmond was obsessed with bridge.

It's a game for four players,
each consisting of two pairs

playing in partners, sat at
North, South, East and West.

N-S-E-W.

Or, in this case, N-E-W-S.

News?

Ah.

So, if Richmond and Mullion
are North and South...

.. who is East and West?

Why would you do that? You're not God.

God was out. He left me in charge.

- And what about justice?
- Maybe that's what Joe Dozier got?

- What, rough justice?
- Natural justice.

- And the law?
- He'd have killed her.

- No, you don't know that.
- Yes, I do. And so do you.

Maybe. But it's not your decision to make.

- This isn't the way.
- Well, it's my way.

I'm too set in my ways to change now.

I'm calling time.

Putting my papers in.

I wanted you to be the first.

All this with the cloak-and-dagger
mob? It's not my idea of coppering.

This is my bread and butter.

Least I did this right.

Ah, buy you a drink?

No, I'll just erm...

I'll just make sure she's all right first.

All right.

That's the last of us.

- How long were you married for?
- 36 years.

So, that would have been what? '32?

'31.

- Where did you meet?
- Soup kitchen.

- The Depression.
- Hard times.

And when did you get the shop?

A few years later.

And would you and Mr Dozier
consider yourselves...

tobacconists or... newsagents?

Oh, tobacconists.

Really?

Not NEWS... agents?

They must have laughed about that one.

No more dead drops and
lonely park benches.

Mullion would come in here
every day and buy a paper,

pass across the latest
from Richmond to Moscow.

See you tomorrow.

Richmond's dead.

Special Branch have Mullion.

Pfuscher came over with a microfilm.

Classified personnel files.

Communist Party cards.

Richmond's name was on it.

Mullion's.

Yours. Your late husband.

How long have you been
a member of the Party?

Joe was already a member when I met him.

The local CP was the only
place you could get a hot meal.

You had empty stomachs and
they fed you revolution.

You've no idea. You've never gone without.

People were dying.

Families thrown out on the street
cos they couldn't pay their rent.

Men and women doing for
themselves and their kiddies

on account of they couldn't
afford to feed 'em.

It wasn't about revolution.

Well, not at the start.

- Then what was it about?
- Fairness.

An equal share.

CP did more for the likes
of us than any rich bastard.

Ruling class? "Rule" is right.

And with an iron fist.

I remember Churchill turning
the troops on the miners.

We believed -- me and Joe
-- in a better world.

But it didn't come fast enough?

Yeah.

When did the violence start?

With the drink.

- A liability for a spy, I suppose.
- He lost his way.

- But you didn't.
- No.

I still believe.

Mullion said, "If you
want something doing,

you have to leave it
to the little people."

Each according to their gifts.

I don't doubt it.

You may have just been a
small cog in a big wheel,

but because of your
actions... people died.

Innocent people, just like you --

Germans, Czechs, Russians --

who didn't agree with your principles.

It's war.

I'd do it again...
without a second thought.

Well, that's why you'll lose.

Nurse.

Nurse!

- I got you a pint.
- I can see. Cheers.

What you were saying earlier...

- You're not really thinking of...
- What, turning in the tin star?

Hanging the Winchester over the fireplace?

Win'd like me to.

While I can still take a
turn or two around the floor.

We've got a bit put by.
Not a lot but enough.

Sam's in the army.
Joan's... making her way.

I'd sooner she was settled,
but I won't hold my breath.

I've had my go. It's your time now.

I'm not ready.

You've always been ready.

You just needed someone to tell you.

When will you leave?

End of the year seems about right.
See what's what with the station.

Get the new man in, whoever he might be.

New year, new leaf.

Chin up. These are the good
days. The ones to look back on.

You got some good mates.
Strange, Mr Bright.

Fancy.

Trewlove's promising.

- A woman in CID. Imagine that!
- Mm. Imagine.

Trust me. People come and go.

Go, mostly. Slip away and
go their own separate.

You need to make the most
of them while they're here.

That reminds me, Win's expecting me.

We're tripping the light
this evening. Semis.

- One for the road?
- I can't.

- No. Of course.
- Next time.

Take my advice, you'll get
back to that girl of yours.