All language subtitles for Lewis - 03x04 - Counter.Culture.Blues.WS.DVDRip.XviD-HAGGiS

Mr Bell, sir.

Permission to suggest a game, sir.

You are playing a game, Declan.

One we can play with you, sir.

What did you have in mind, exactly?

Get the door, Lucas!

No. Please!

Declan, please!

You hide in here, Bell-End,
and we'll spring-clean your office.

What's up?

You visiting Bell some paedo website
to get him nicked?

No, I'm doing academic research,
on my behalf,

and, if I have time, baby boy,
yours.

Hey, Lucas, you've got family.

..likewise, after supper,
He took the cup.

And when He had given thanks
to Thee,

He gave it to them, saying, "Drink,
ye all, of this."

"For this is my blood of the new
covenant, which is shed for you."

Draw near with faith.

Receive the body
of our Lord Jesus Christ...

..which He gave for you and
His blood, which He shed for you.

Missed.

It's Sunday.

HATHAWAY: I'm sorry, sir.
Do I find you at prayer?

I'm not stirring on a Sunday
for anything less than murder.

Well, I've got a vicar,
who's a bit cross. Will that do?

It's all right.

It's not all right, Esme.

You're dead.

Yeah, I was, but...

I've come back, baby.

To you.

Esme.

Were you aware, sir,

that it's against the law
to shoot game on a Sunday?

Yeah.

Can I go to the pub now?

OK. Where's this stroppy vicar?

Behind you.

Are you the fellow in charge?

Round here, it's debatable.

One doesn't expect levity
from a policeman

where firearms are concerned.

I want to show you something.

13 separate incidents.

13 separate complaints.

And what's been done about it?

Sweet Felicity Arkwright.

Last week, at the very point of
Communion.

Just because
the man's a ruddy pop star.

Have you actually spoken to
Mr Mackay about this?

Maguire.

Richie Maguire.

No. I can't get anywhere
near the wretched man.

That's why I called you.

Bow down before
The Midnight Addiction.

Absolutely.

Well, I use the word "absolutely"
in a purely private sense,

meaning "I have no idea
what you're talking about."

Airplane.

The Dead. The Addiction.

Same breath.

The iconography of my youth.

Richie. Esme. Franco. Mack.

You're talking in tongues, sir.

The members of the band.

They were stars.

Huge stars. I can't believe you...

You're taking the mickey,
aren't you? Mm-hm.

I knew that.

I've always wanted to see someone
do that in real life.

Jo, this is Esme Ford.

Oh, my God!

Where do you fit into all this, Jo?
Are you Richie's daughter?

Oh, no, no, no, no. I'm staff.

I'm the butler.

Bone, get on the blower to Franco.

Jo, ten minutes,
then bring champagne.

Jacinta will clear it up.
More staff?

We're just one big happy family.

Ten minutes?

It's not a great deal of time

to explain what's been happening
to me for the last 35 years.

It's the only thing I kept.

Do you reckon
you could climb over them?

Not with you laughing at me, sir.

They must know you're a fan.

If you've let the paparazzi in,
I won't get my autograph.

Rock and roll.

Who are you?

I can't see that from here.

Who let you in? Are you press?

Worse than that. Police.

I'm not too sure who let us in.

A guy on a scooter, possibly,
with a remote.

We've come to see Mr Maguire.

May I hold that for you?
No.

I'm afraid he's very busy.
So are we.

But a complaint has been made
relating to firearms.

And the word "firearms" obliges us
to be here.

On our day off.

Jacinta, take this to Mr Richie

and tell him the police
would like to speak to him.

If... OK?
..it is convenient for him.

Look, I don't suppose
you've ever heard of Esme Ford?

Get here, man. Now.

There's some really weird shit
going down.

Hey.
Kitten. Dwell.

I've got a bit of news for you,
baby.

LAUGHTER

..still got it.

Hey, man.

I don't know who the hell you are,
but er...I believe you need a drink.

This is Inspector Lewis.
I'm Sergeant Hathaway.

Cool.

Not many people say "cool"

when we arrive uninvited
in their front room.

Well, it's not every day

the beautiful Esme Ford
comes back from the dead.

Yeah. I'm sorry, but...

This is amazing. Esme Ford.

God, I used to have your picture
on my wall.

I bet I know which one it was -
when I was wearing a top hat.

Yeah.

And no bra.

(SNORTS)
Yeah.

But it was your voice...

Ah, well, they couldn't take
a picture of my voice.

First instance, sir,
we have to address

an alleged misuse of firearms
on your property.

Yeah.

That bloody vicar.

Well, I'll tell you why.

He's just seriously pissed off,
because I refused

to buy him a new prong
for his pretty little church.

So why don't you take
a pile of these

and tell him to buy two of them?

And leave me alone,
so that I can shoot my pigeons.

The law says you can't shoot game
on a Sunday, sir.

Well, the law also says
that pigeons ain't game.

They're vermin
and I can kill them round the clock.

God hates pigeons.

Tell him.

Did you know I got married?
I saw the pictures in the paper.

A nice-looking girl.
Mm.

Where is she?
She ain't here.

Well... That's all right, then.

The Axeman Cometh.

Hello, Franco.

What key?

Come on. We used to do this.
And quicker.

That's not a note.

Everything's a note.

It's shaking about
somewhere between F sharp and G.

Yeah. But what key?

Twist the throttle a gnat's
and we'll settle for G.

The Bitch with the Pitch.

I preferred The Ditz with the Tits,
but I never complained.

So you did. So you did.

In every interview we ever gave,
you always labelled me something.

That's because I never got the shag
off you, did I?

The Tart with no Heart, Es.
That's you.

Everything for the band, Franco,
but, some things, you know...

A girl's got to keep
a little mystery.

You did that all right.

Don't tell me you faked your own
death just for tax purposes.

That really would be
too romantic for words.

I needed a break.

35 years? Yeah.

Yeah, that would constitute a break.

Now you want back in?

They're reforming the band.

Look at me, Franco. I'm old. I'm...

I'm nearly as old as you,
and you're seriously bloody old.

Look, I'm calm, I'm clean.

I can still sing.

I just want to do it again,
before it's too late.

Why not? Why not?

About this, your discretion
would be appreciated.

Which particular aspect of this?

The "Esme not being dead" aspect.

Excuse me. Why? What have you done,
you naughty boy?

Vernon Oxe.

Unto progressive rock,
the Godfather.

Slimmer than Marlon Brando
and with better hair.

Sorry, sir.
Do you have a reservation?

About this place?
Deep and longstanding,

but, somehow, one keeps coming back.

The bags are in the car.

They were huge.

Everything about them was huge.

The concerts went on for hours.

Richie on the drums and vocals,
harmonising with Esme.

Little brother Mack on the bass.

They fought like hell on stage.

Real fisticuffs, sometimes.

Then Mack went off his rocker,

his brain fried with acid.

Esme flew off to Grenada
and drowned herself.

Never did find her body.
Now we know why.

But she left this...

terrible letter,
apologising for everything,

begging Richie to forgive her.

They were lovers?
Who knows?

Kept us guessing.

There was certainly a fantastic
chemistry between them on stage.

Mind you, she was pretty
fantastic chemistry, all on her own,

especially in a top hat.

We could nick the lot of them,
you know.

Pigeon may be vermin, man, but
Richie's still disturbing the peace.

A shotgun's in an umbrella stand
which does not constitute

"a locked and fixed steel cabinet".

Recreational drugs everywhere.

Why would I want to nick them?
Give you an excuse to come back.

Someone's got to look after
your social life, sir.

It's not the prettiest corpse.

A young man. Caucasian. 15 or 16.

Just about every bone in his body
smashed.

Where was he killed?

Not here.
No.

Look at his neck.
Tyre marks.

On the body.
Not on the ground around it.

Where are you going?

Home.

Hathaway can sort SOCO.

Yeah! The only woman
who can sing a chord.

Bone! How did we sound, man?

Old times, man.

Old times.

Hey, there's Kitten.

Hey, honey. When did you get here?

Come on through, babes.

That's my baby daughter, Kitten.

You'll love her.
She's studying music at Oxford.

Music music.

Real music.

All right.

Hi. Sorry I'm late.

But, shock horror,
I've actually written you an essay.

Good heavens!

You've written me an essay?

Were this a more generously funded
faculty, I would send for champagne.

As it is, I shall invite you
to put the kettle on.

What's that you're listening to,
Dr Wheeler?

Er...

Great Gates Of Kiev?

Mussorgsky by way of ELP.

Ah.

That's Keith Emerson
on his wobble board.

That's not the sainted Keith.

That's a session man.

A tribute band?
Mm-hm.

They're good.
They're excellent.

But they ain't the real thing.

Now...

Let's hear what you've got to say
about Bach, JS.

Yes, madam, but, here in England,
it is ten o'clock in the morning.

Enter.

Just the man.

We are fast approaching
the cocktail hour, madam,

and here I stand, trouserless,

waiting for you to connect me
to your head of marketing.

I'm afraid
this is a non-smoking suite, sir.

That is precisely why
there is no ashtray.

Now look what you've done.

The silly Californian tart
has hung up on me.

Sit down.

Sit.

I would greatly value your opinion
on something.

Look, this has to stop.
I've dealt with you.

That was last week.

Are you following me?

Pete?

Answer me, you bloody creep!

Well, that's not very polite.

We have teeth,
we have records and we have a match.

His name is Lucas Emerton.

He died on Saturday night,
but don't ask me exactly when.

Exactly when?

Earlier rather than later.

What is that?

It looks like paint.

It is paint.
From a car?

Not unless they've started
painting cars with Hammerite.

Anything from the tyres?

The tyres are standard on
about 104 different cars.

So that narrows it down a bit.

Look at those piercings.

What sort of a parent
allows their kid to do that?

You're going to wish
you'd never asked that.

A grim place to put an orphanage.

It's not an orphanage. "Red Crest
Sanctuary is a unique environment

in which the dispossessed youth
of Oxford can rediscover

purpose and self-respect,"
it says on the website.

An orphanage has a website?

At what point did you actually
acknowledge that Lucas was missing?

I'd prefer not to comment.

That's very annoying of you,
Mr Bell. Why are you saying that?

Well, it's a litigious age.
I feel I should have...

Yeah, I feel you should have
as well, but it appears you didn't.

Look...

Everything that happens here,
good and bad, belongs to me.

If you've got Lucas and
he's been naughty, that's my fault.

Oh, we've got Lucas, Mr Bell.

Now all we need is his next of kin.

Lucas had a grandmother.

Maureen Little.

Dad unknown. Mother died a junkie.
Granny disappeared off the radar.

But as it happens,

Granny actually works
for a software giant in Slough.

She's never been told she's got a
grandson. It's dysfunction junction.

What did that bloke Bell
have to be so shifty about?

A boy who he was directly
responsible for went missing

and was found grotesquely murdered.

Doesn't look great on a CV, does it?

The effort of not telling us
something was making him sweat.

Hammerite.

Sir?

Get Hobson on the phone.

Someone's been scrubbing this.

It would have been helpful
if you'd called me in earlier.

I hadn't made a connection earlier.

Well, I can't be held accountable
for your professional deficiencies.

See that there?

I want Forensics all over that
with their little...hankies.

Hobson, you're taking forever, man.

It's blood, isn't it?

Is it human?

I'll bet you fifty quid
it's Lucas's.

How can you stand him
when he's like this?

Suffering and endurance, Doctor.
The bedrock of a happy marriage.

This is where he was killed.

He was climbing up there.

The vehicle rammed the gates,
knocked him off. He hit the floor.

The car drove over him,
again and again,

to make absolutely sure
that he was dead.

The murderer got out,
put the body in the car,

drove across town and dumped it.

Why?

What did you want here, Lucas?

What have these old rockers
got to do with a boy like you?

We may need to speak
to your security people, Mr Maguire,

run through the CCTV footage.

We don't do security.
There's no cameras there.

With respect, sir,
I counted 15 on the drive.

Empty boxes.
The insurance people put 'em up.

To your knowledge, sir,

was there any disturbance outside
the gates of the estate on Saturday?

Ah, jeez man.

I mean, the gates are there
and I'm here.

That's a mile and a half between us.

So, er...to my knowledge?

No.

We'd like to look in your garage,
please, sir.

You know what?

Like, er...man, I just don't
understand why you guys are here.

That's how they want it, man.

Richie has nothing to hide from you,
pig.

Then he probably won't object to us

admiring his collection of
classic vehicles, will he, sir?

What did you say your name was,
again, man?

Lewis.

Life's a bastard, Lewis.
Don't you think?

It can be tricky.

Tricky? Ooh!

Wait till my wife
walks in on all this,

when she gets back from New York.

Then we'll know tricky.

Hey!

Ah, Felipe.

It's cool, man. It's cool.

Now, stay calm.

These gentlemen -
OK to touch the cars.

OK to touch.

Cool.

Jacinta's husband. Felipe.

No speak the Inglese.

But he polishes the cars sweet

and does whatever else
needs to be done around here.

Fill your boots, guys.

Lewis.

An expensive murder weapon
for poor Lucas.

Felipe, are any of these vehicles
damaged?

You should say a prayer to St Zita.

The patron saint of finding things
down the back of the sofa.

I think it's Zita.
It is. I always do.

How fascinating. Does it work?

Sooner or later.

May I ask you something?

Do you have any idea
what's bothering Mr Maguire?

Apart from having his house
searched by the police?

I think he's a bit disappointed
with his daughter.

She's not particularly pleased
to see me.

And Richie always wants everybody
to love everybody, all the time.

He's close to her?

Very. Didn't you know that?

Last year, he made a whole album
of songs dedicated to her.

Just him and the piano.
Did it in a week.

The first work he'd done for
30 years. It just poured out of him.

I don't remember that.

Recorded. Not released.

Somebody, who won't own up,
wiped the tapes.

All those songs are lost.

Richie issued
a rather intemperate press release,

saying he was going to find
the culprit and kill him.

Would you mind telling me
where you were last night?

I was with Bone. We were screwing.

I wanted to prove to him
that he was not forgotten.

Before Richie, you see,
there was Bone.

It was how I joined the band.

The sex was never outstanding,
as you can imagine,

but it was obligatory.

And Richie knew about that?
I don't know. I expect so. Ask him.

So you were with Bone all night?

No. He fell asleep about midnight.

Then I went next door
and screwed Franco.

And that was...?

To prove to him that
he wasn't forgotten, either.

Have you ever come across
a Lucas Emerton?

Whoever he is, I did not screw him.

Or, if I did, I was not aware of it
at the time.

Anything else?

The cheerful promiscuity
of your generation, sir.

It quite takes one's breath away.

Do you believe this?

One quick question, sir.

The cubby box on your Land Rover.

Uh-huh.

Good grief.
What about it?

It contained approximately �20,000
in cash, sir.

Oh, yeah.

You seem unsurprised.

Pleasantly surprised.
I wondered what I'd done with it.

You know when you put a sandwich
down and you can't find it

and you know you haven't finished
the bastard?

Excellent.

Ah, there you are.
Yes, ma'am. You sent for us.

Warrant.

Needless to say, though,
in my experience of you,

the needless needs
announcing through a loudhailer,

this must be handled
with extreme delicacy.

If the press get it,

the Chief Constable is going to make
my life very disagreeable.

If my life is disagreeable,

your life is going to be
absolute screaming hell.

What am I saying here, Hathaway?

You're saying it's preferable
not to alert the press, ma'am.

Your job is to shout that
in the Inspector's ear,

whenever he seems to be
about to do something rash.

Richie Maguire contributes
half a million pounds each year

to an organisation which will
very probably look after you, Lewis,

in your declining years.

Now that does not protect him
from our scrutiny,

but it does afford him
a certain professional courtesy.

So the blood is a match?
Yes, ma'am.

Well, just remember that
this matching blood was found

outside Mr Maguire's front gates.

Therefore, not technically
on his property.

The body of this Lucas Emerton was
found on the other side of town.

Geography, Lewis. It is a factor.

Yes, ma'am.

How does Lucas fit into all this?

He doesn't fit.

Right. Off to Slough.
Who's off to Slough?

You are.
Oh, goody.

Grill Granny.

Find out if Lucas contacted her.

I'm going for a wander
in the University Parks.

Richie tells me that's the place
to find his little brother.

You still here?
Not as such.

Things that don't fit spoil my day.

Is it true you once set fire
to your brother Richie,

when he was unconscious?

Did I?

Bloody brilliant.

You don't remember?

No.

I don't remember nothing.

Look.

It's directions.

I've been working in this place
six years, man,

and I can't remember
how to get here.

I wake up in the morning...

..and there's a pile of
dirty clothes on the floor

and I think...

"What's that all about, man?
Whose are those?"

There's a note in the bog.

It says,
"You're a gardener, you loser."

Do you still play the bass, Mack?

I play bass?

Hi. I'm looking for Maureen Little.

And you will be representing...? Oh.

Erm...what extension is she?

I don't know.

Maureen Little, anyone?

Maureen don't work here no more.

She dismissed.
Why's that?

You don't show for work
two days running, no doctor note,

you get dismissed.

What about this guy?
Was he looking for Maureen, too?

His name's Lucas Emerton.

You can't park your car there, sir.

That's where you're wrong.

How was Mack?

Damaged.

Severely damaged.

Broke what's left of my heart.

Tell me about Granny.

Well, it turns out that she did
indeed work for the mighty JCNB,

until last month,

when she was sacked for
"consecutive non-attendance".

So, where is she now?
"We don't keep records on menials."

For God's sake, they must have got
her from somewhere.

A nice lady remembers a house in
Abingdon. So I proceed to Abingdon.

But no Granny. That's yours.

Yeah? Lewis.

Say that again.

Are you looking for me?
Samantha Wheeler.

Vernon Oxe.

A-ha!

I say, is that a swordstick?

One never knows, Dr Wheeler,

when one might be called upon
to prevent a wrongdoing.

How splendid.

Well, let's get this kettle on,
shall we?

I can think of nothing
more agreeable.

Unless it be martinis.

At The Randolph.

Seems like a nice place.

You must tell me why I have
the pleasure of meeting you,

after years, it must be,
of corresponding by cheque.

This commission is rather special.

It concerns The Addiction.

Again? That seems a bit odd.

I mean, I gave you my all
for "Best Of".

Specifically Esme Ford.

Aren't you better placed?

I just manage the product,
Dr Wheeler.

I thought, at the time,
that it might be prudent

not to acquaint myself too
intimately with the ingredients.

People were dying, going to prison.

My private life was quite exciting
enough without all of that.

Esme's life is
extremely well documented.

Your eye for the telling detail,
Doctor,

renders your sleeve notes
quite invaluable.

Here's something, you must take away

and listen to, very carefully,
in private.

Sleeve rolled up.
Inner tube round the bicep.

Puncture mark.

Syringe on the deck.
Heroin in the pocket.

What do you call that?
I call it highly suspect.

Yeah, so do I.

There weren't
any other needle marks.

This man no longer had the habit.

Besides, for God's sake,
you hide in a bog to shoot up.

What might you do first?
Lock the door.

Right. A bit of privacy.

No, he was murdered,
just like Lucas Emerton was murdered.

Right. Let's get agricultural.

Jagger came here once...

..a certain member of
the royal family on his arm.

Bone looked him straight in the eye.

"Today's cock, Michael,
tomorrow's feather duster."

Jagger went purple, screamed
for the limo and never came back.

Nah.

It didn't do to play the big star
when The Bone was around.

He made enemies?

Are you kidding?

Anyone who ever met him hated him.

I bloody hated him
and he was my best friend.

I need air.

Do you need air?

As a general rule...

Mr Bone, he is so much going
London, London, London.

Where? Whereabouts in London?

Soho.

Do we know
what he was doing in Soho?

Mm.

He is selling things.

Memory things of the band.

Photo. Autograph. Little things.

Bone was a nice man, you know.

That's a pretty incendiary
statement.

Well, everyone else is wrong.

He was kind.

I want to talk to you
about your mum.

She's in New York.

Actually, you want to ask me
what I think about Esme Ford.

Well, she's a threat.
That's pretty clear.

She comes back into
your father's life,

everything goes wrong,
people get killed.

What would your mum say?

About Bone?

Three cheers.

About Esme?

I've no idea.

You're not writing this down.

No, it's off the record.

Did you know that
Bone had �20,000 in cash

under the passenger seat
of his Land Rover?

You're kidding.
He was flogging memorabilia.

That's actually cheered me up.

What did he do that was so kind?

He baked me a cake.

Can I go now?

It's a sculpture?

It's a macerator.

My pride and joy.

All the crap comes out of the house
and the farm, down the soil pipes,

and this sweet little baby
chops it all up.

Liquefies it.

Pushes it back into Mother Earth.

I love this thing, man.

I could watch it for hours.

If I was still dropping acid,
I probably would.

Bone liked to drink. A lot.

But, otherwise, he was clean, man.

He's been clean for years.

I know.

What got stuck into his arm
may or may not be heroin.

We'll find out.

But it was designed to kill him.

I think Bone went to that bar

because someone said
he'd meet him there.

He had a few shandies.

He went for a pee
and, while he was standing there,

a bit unsteady, maybe,

the guy jumped him

and stuck the needle in his arm.

Then he bundled him
into the cubicle,

wrapped the band around his arm
and left him there to die.

Did you kill Bone?

Explain to me why I would do that.

Because he supervised
the recording of your solo album

and he cocked it up.

He wiped the tapes.

I have my ideas about
who was responsible.

It wasn't Bone.

But if it had have been,
I wouldn't have killed him for it.

What sort of man do you think I am?

I don't know, Mr Maguire.

It bothers me.

Hey!

You!

You! You little bastard!

Still making people welcome
down the farm?

15 minutes I've been waiting.

And now you come.

Sandwichless.

What happened to the other boy,
the pretty one?

I'm a police officer.

Oh.

You didn't happen to pass a
pretty boy bearing a club sandwich?

May I come in, Mr Oxe?

I know you.

Yeah, darling. You do.

You're not forgiven, Richie.

For what you did.

What was it I did, Mack?

I can't remember.

But you are not forgiven.

You managed the band
throughout its entire career.

Yes.

And now you...
And now I what?

What do you do now, sir,
to make a living?

I managed the third best-selling
group in British rock.

It'd be a pretty poor show, if
I was now obliged to make a living.

What do you want?

I want to know what went wrong
between the brothers Maguire.

Mack wrote a song
called Counter Culture Blues.

Surprised?
Well, it's credited to Richie.

Indeed it is.

Unfortunately for the luckless Mack,
at the time of composition,

he was out of his tiny mind
on mandies.

Mandrax. The relaxant du jour.
Popping them like Smarties.

A curious situation. He didn't
even know he'd written a song.

Richie did.

He copied it.

Put his name to it.
Royalties.

Forfeited "throughout the universe
in perpetuity".

Millions, my dear.

Millions.

The anthem of a generation.

Gone like smoke through the keyhole.

"Midnight Addiction. Night At
The Park.

Digitally remastered. Sleeve notes
by Sam Wheeler." Who's he?

She...

is the internationally
acknowledged expert

on 14th-century secular polyphony.

But she has a dirty little secret.

She's crazy about the band.

She knows every damn last detail
about everything they ever did.

Sad, for one of her standing,

but jolly useful.

Sharp.

That's still sharp, man.

Sharp.

Bloody hell, amigo.

It's the only thing about you
that is sharp.

I don't know what I'm doing here.
Where's Kitten?

Kitten, he remembers.

She's at her university, man.

A student. A music student, man.

I think I'm in tune now.

Let's play. Yeah?

OK.

This is the bit
where you tell me the truth.

If you lie to me now,
you'll regret it.

Have I lied to you?

You've been highly selective
with what you say and don't say.

You give the impression
you just materialised here.

What should I have said?

That you were delivered
to the farm gates by Vernon Oxe.

Materialising was good showbiz.

People were impressed.

35 years ago,
the band was in thrall to me.

I was the...

enchantment,

that held us together,
that made us stars.

Think of that girl in the top hat,
Lewis.

And look at what I am now.

If I'm going to do any enchanting
these days,

I'll need all the magic I can get.

Now, Vernon may be
a sad, fat, old letch,

but he's still got a bit
of fairy dust up his sleeve.

If it looked like the band
was gonna get back on its feet,

that everybody
was gonna be in the vibe,

then I'd trundle Vernon
out of the wings.

That was the plan.

I saw you play
in Newcastle City Hall

the night I met my wife.

Is that a trick question?
Did we play Newcastle?

You did.

Were we good?

Better than good.

We could be again.

Not if one of you is a murderer.

Dr Wheeler? The name's Hathaway.
I was wondering if...

If you want to talk to me,
you're going to have to wait,

because I'm going to be sick.

I'm Constance Frisch. You know that.
It's written on the door.

That poor girl.

She was close to Dr Wheeler?

We're all of us close
to our undergraduates here.

Music is an intimate discipline.

Quite.

If you don't mind me saying,

I think Kitten ought to be allowed
to return home.

I mean, surely she could be
interviewed there,

rather than have to sit in her room

next door to where
her tutor was asphyxiated?

I agree with you.

Would you escort this young lady
back to her room?

I'll be along to talk to you
shortly.

Can I borrow you a minute?

Are you all right?

Dr Wheeler's computer is as she left
it. Neither of us can touch it yet.

Could you tell,
just by looking at the screen,

what it is
she might have been listening to?

Is it rock?
No.

This doesn't fit
the sound of an amplified band.

That would be all over the place.

I'd say she was listening
to a single instrument.

A guitar?
No.

Something
altogether more constrained.

Somebody constraining themselves

to within a particular range
of an instrument's capability?

Say, sticking to
within a couple of octaves?

That would also fit the bill.

Did Dr Wheeler have
any unusual visitors recently?

Apart from Vernon Oxe?

We had a business arrangement,

but, until yesterday,
I had never actually met the lady.

Dreadful.

Dreadful.

Forgive me, can anybody confirm

that you spent the whole of
yesterday afternoon in the hotel?

Two people.

The barman
and the beauteous bellhop.

But I don't know
either of their names, alas.

And you came looking for Dr Wheeler
to offer her another job?

Yes.

Are you going to tell me what?

Do I have to?

On the whole, sir, yes, you do.

Can you keep a secret?

Possibly.

Maybe. I couldn't promise.

I wanted her to prepare
some materials on Esme Ford.

For God's sake,
tell me you've heard of Esme Ford.

I know the person you mean.

Then you may be astonished to learn
that she isn't dead.

My understanding was
she committed suicide.

A piece of theatre. I stage-managed
the whole bloody thing.

Esme didn't die in the Caribbean.

She wrote the famous letter,

dictated by me,
on the balcony of her hotel room,

overlooking the bay at St George.

She got into a private aeroplane
and she flew to Venezuela.

With me.

Now she's poised

to spring again, panther-like,
onto the world of rock and roll

and devour it.

And those who survived are set
to make a great deal of money.

Some of them.
Those who remained faithful.

May I ask
if you've recently come into contact

with a person
widely known as The Bone?

God! Is he still going?

No, sir. He, too, has been murdered.

Who did this?

That's what we're trying
to establish, ma'am.

The deaths...
I'm not talking about deaths.

I'm talking about the press.

The Chief Constable is endeavouring
to present rural Oxfordshire

as a haven
of respectability and safety,

and this, Lewis,
is not what is required.

What was that?
I didn't speak, ma'am.

You didn't,
and I heard you not doing it.

Who is that, Richie has got his arms
round? "Unknown family friend."

I think it's an unknown friend
of the family, ma'am.

Out, both of you.

I want frolicking bloody baa-lambs
on the front page of my newspaper.

See to it.
Ma'am.

I made a considerable effort
just now not to show how angry I am.

Yes, sir. It showed.

Three dead bodies and she gets
her gusset in a bind about PR.

Our rulers
live in a different country.

Why are we keeping Esme under wraps?
What's to be gained from that?

Time to think.

Space to work.

The press has a spasm
because some old techie

who worked with the band 30 years ago
expires on the bog.

Imagine what'll happen
when they find out about Esme.

Right.

Samantha Wheeler.

Closet aficionado of the band.

Garrotted with a length of wire.

Lucas, Bone and Samantha.

What's the connection?
The band.

Yeah, I think it is, but how?

Frolicking bloody baa-lambs!

Have you got a minute, Peter?

Actually, no, I haven't.

You're reading Classics.

So you'll appreciate the concept
of the rhetorical question.

Let's go to your place.

Do you play or do you just collect
this stuff?

OK. I have a lecture to go to,
actually.

No. You've been to a lecture
and you've just got back.

Let's not get off on the wrong foot

with you telling me things
that aren't true.

You're blackmailing Kitten Maguire.
Tell me about that.

Who?

She won't tell me what it is
you've got on her.

I think she's frightened of you.

OK. I want a lawyer.

I'm sure you do,
but I forgot to bring one.

All of this stuff is paid for
by Kitten.

She's lying.
Is she?

I haven't told you
what she said yet.

You're a policeman. You're not
allowed on College premises

without the permission
of the Master...

And you are dirty, Woodrow.

I want you to know that I know

and I want you to know that
I'm going to have you.

SOCO has found this, in a wheelie
bin down the road from the Faculty.

They're good boys. Very thorough.

What's on it?
Frisch's skin.

Which is what one might expect,

but there's also a very small
quantity of leather.

One doesn't play the lute
wearing gloves.

With garrottings,
one must expect gloves.

The garrotter doesn't want to cut
their hands on the weapon.

I have three killings, Doctor,
and they're all connected.

I think they are. I'll tell you
something else about your murderer.

He or she is very fastidious -

killed the first one with a car,
the second one with a needle

and strangled the third,
whilst wearing dinky little gloves.

Doesn't like the contact.

Doesn't shy away from the brutal
deed, but doesn't like to touch.

So, the killer silences Lucas,
but that's not enough.

Bone has to be got rid of, too.

Then the killer thinks,

"Blimey, is there someone else
I have to keep quiet?"

And there was.

Samantha Wheeler.

What's the secret here, Laura?

I mean, try and imagine
three more utterly different people.

What is it they all know
that's so threatening?

And who else knows?

There's a rat.

Yeah. Someone's been in contact
with the press,

and we must assume they still are.

Where's Esme?

Were you aware, sir,

that at the time Esme Ford joined
the band that she was Bone's lover?

Were you aware that The Bone had
two false teeth, right at the front?

That's because, when I found out,
in 1969, I punched him in the mouth.

We didn't discuss the matter
further. Not necessary.

Anything else, while we're gazing
into each other's eyes?

Just before she disappeared,
Esme Ford wrote you a letter.

You don't say.
Do you still have it?

Spider!

Spider, spider, spider, spider!

Don't! Don't touch it! It ran across
my hand. It was ginormous!

A tarantula?

It was in the box!

It ran under the dresser.
Oh, God! Oh, God!

Mygale.

It is mygale.

A spider. Like this.
It can eat birds.

God Almighty.

Felipe, he will catch. It is OK.

Precisely what is going on here?

Caroline.

Baby.

How was New York?

You've been to New York,
haven't you, Richie?

It was like that. Who's this?

This is the police.

Police, this is my wife.

It's all go since I've been away.

When did you arrive back, ma'am?

I don't know. Does it matter?

I'm afraid so.

Which flight? I might need to check.

I never went to New York.

I was staying at The Randolph.

Where, as you'll discover
when you check,

I was obliged to keep an even
lower profile than I'd planned,

because that cretin Oxe was there,
holding court.

Go on.

I wanted to give Richie...

the necessary space.

I can always tell
when he's building up to an affair.

I never know who,
but I always know when.

And I...just prefer not to be around
when it's actually happening.

It never lasts long.

He's like a dog, really.

Needs exercising.

Now, oh, dear.

You've gone all po-faced.

A tolerance of infidelity
isn't that shocking, is it?

Why tell him you'd gone
all the way to New York?

To make him feel safe.

That way, it might be over
even quicker.

And why did you decide that now
was the right time to come back?

The idea of reforming the band.

Richie flailing up and down
the motorway, in some stupid truck,

for the next five years.

That I really don't want.
No, the Ford woman will have to go.

MAN: I can get you more. Yes.

Ah, Felipe.

Is there anybody through there?

Anybody? There?

OK. Fine.

Whereabouts is the spider? The...

Oh, yes.

How big?

Oh, Jesus. I don't have to take it
into custody or anything, do I?

I hope it's not indigenous
to Oxfordshire.

The Chief Constable
wouldn't like that.

I want to know if this particular
creature comes from Venezuela.

I'll get someone to interview it
other than me.

Arachnophobe, Hathaway?
Card-carrying, sir.

So was Jo Race.

But who knew that?

Yet another thing
we need to find out.

Any news from the shop?

A nice email from
Reverend Armstrong, hoping that

whatever is going on down here

will put paid to the banging
on a Sunday morning.

Oh, and Kitten is being blackmailed.

What?
A fellow student. Peter Woodrow.

Blackmailed about what?

Not saying. But she's paying out
with money from her godfather.

Bone.

Selling the family silver
to bail her out.

What is that? Sculpture?

You know nothing about life
in the country, do you?

It's a macerator.

It stinks. What does it do?
You don't want to know.

So, what about this student?

Peter Woodrow. I felt his collar
and he squealed for Mummy.

Very distasteful piece of work.

Even the sound of his voice makes me
want to give him a dry slap.

Idiot!

Give me your mobile a minute,
Felipe.

I want to see
who you were talking to just then.

The News Of The Screws?
Filling them in about Esme?

Or was it somebody just checking
that their parcel had arrived safely?

Chauffeur. Electrician.

The ultimate odd-job man,
aren't you?

And always looking out for an angle.

But whatever else you've been up to,

Richie's going to take
a pretty dim view

when I tell him
it was you tipping off the press.

I just turned the power back on,
by the way.

This is your one chance
to be treated leniently.

I know nothing about the spider.

This is harassment.

No, this is my superior officer,
Inspector Lewis.

Hello, Peter.

Let's talk about
this Kitten business.

Oh, for God's sake.

She just wasn't coming over with
the cash quickly enough, was she?

So you decided to put
the frighteners on her.

This is outrageous.

I'll tell you what's outrageous,
son.

The fact that Kitten didn't send
The Bone round to you

with a bloody great hammer.

It's is in your best interests
to tell me, politely, what you did.

I can't hear you, Peter.

Kitten took me to the farm
one night.

She'd had some mushrooms.
OK? She had some mushrooms.

I didn't. I wanted to stay straight,
make sure she would be OK.

She took me to the studio.

Richie had been...
recording these songs for her.

He didn't think she knew.

She knew.

She was so stoned...

She...wiped the master.

The whole album was just gone.

Straight away, she erm... she wanted
to wake Richie up and tell him.

I admired her for that.
You're a hell of a guy.

But...

But I persuaded her not to.
You saw a business opportunity.

What I saw, OK, was Richie go
bloody postal the next morning.

Yeah? Terrifying.

Hey, look, I've done what you asked.

I've told you what happened.

This isn't school, Peter.

You can't put your hand up
for nicking sweets

and expect a pat on the back
for owning up.

So, off goes Lucas to Slough,
in search of his gran.

But, unfortunately,
she doesn't work for JCNB any more.

A dead end.

But there's a cleaner
who remembers Gran's address.

So, Lucas calls round.

What does he see?

Declan?

I don't know the answer to this bit.
You're going to have to help me.

He finds someone else.

Did Lucas describe
this other person, at all?

He opened the door a millimetre.

Tells Lucas he's got
the wrong place, no woman here.

But he's lying?

Lucas isn't stupid.

He thinks, "This man is hiding
my grandmother."

So, what does he do?

What would you do?

Say sorry and leave.

Then I'd stake him out and the
minute he left the house, I'd be in.

Or follow him, thinking
he's keeping Granny somewhere else.

Is that what Lucas was going to do?

We're going to nail the guy
who killed your friend.

OK?

I give you my word.

You know what I'm doing?

I'm trying to think like Morse.

Does that mean
we're going to the pub?

Lucas.

Bone.

Samantha.

Richie.

Could he have killed Lucas?

Yes.
Lucas might have been Richie's son.

Why would he have killed him?

I don't know.

Could he have killed Bone? Yes.

Why would he?

Every reason not to.

I doubt very much
whether he'd have killed Samantha.

He was still with us up at the farm.

I say he's still in the frame.

Me, too.

Franco.

Could he have killed Lucas?

Yes. Why?

I don't know.

Bone? Yes.

Why?

He hates Bone.
Franco hates everybody.

Felipe.

Mr Up For Grabs.

I suspect he was making
too much money out of people

to want them dead.

Jo.

You think she might have sent
the spider to herself?

It occurred to me. Yeah.

Let's come back to her.

Mack.

Now, this is a man carrying around
the most appalling secret,

but I don't know what it is.

Unfortunately,
I don't think he does, either.

Kitten. More secrets.

Who was that?

That was Vernon. Vernon's gone.

He'd better not have done.
I've yet to have the pleasure.

Gentlemen.

This is not an aid to my digestion.

The quicker you answer our
questions, sir, the sooner we leave.

What has Mack got to hide?

One really doesn't know.

It was the halcyon days of
rock-and-roll excess.

We were all at it
like scissors on heat.

Although some of us
did our scissoring elsewhere,

to maintain our authority.

Always?

Always.

Generally.

There was the once.

Franco?

A bit pruney-looking, nowadays,
isn't he?

And so bitter.

He was such a pretty boy.

Delicious.

Oh, come, come, come.

You can exchange silent looks of
disapproval to your hearts' content.

I couldn't care less.

The Addiction is mine.

I put the band together.

I named it. I bought the clothes.

I bought the deals.

The band was my creation

and it remains mine.

I'm the Baron and it's my monster.

At my touch,

it shall live again
and do my bidding.

Et bloody cetera.

And if anyone doesn't like
the idea...

..they'd be advised to stand
well aside.

Because I'm coming through.

You see that, to me,
does not sound like

face-meltingly-awesome, blues-based
prog rock.

It sounds more like Status Quo

whinging about the biscuits
in the old people's home.

One, two, three, four.

One, two, three, four.

That was...good, Mack.
You're getting there.

Richie, for God's sake,
go and get Franco back.

This is it. Tonight.

If this is as good as it gets,
well...

we all go our separate ways. Finish.

A solo career, here I come.

Caroline would have had me
halfway back to Venezuela,

if your lot hadn't asked me to stay.

If we told you you could leave now,
where would you go?

Lancaster.

That's a very definite
and rather unexpected answer.

I had the best time in Lancaster.
University.

I read sociology.

It was in a bar on the campus
that I was picked up by Bone.

What year was that?

'65. A lifetime ago.

Where's Kitten?

She's in her room. She's safe.

Good.

I want her to be safe.

Why, Mack? Why does Kitten
matter to you so much?

Because she's my daughter.

To allow oneself to be impregnated
by Mack Maguire

could be written off
as youthful indiscretion.

But to keep the child?

That speaks of a...

..deep-rooted confidence, I now...

..cannot recognise in myself,
at all.

The father's a junkie? That's OK.

Swap him for his big brother.

Raise the child with him instead.
It'll work out.

Does she know?

All this...

truth in circulation,
she'll probably find out.

Best if I let her know myself,
I think.

Poor Mack.

He never cared about
Counter Culture Blues.

But Richie relieving him
of his baby.

That was hard to take.

That's what...

..tipped him over the edge.

And Richie knows it.

That's why he's so crippled
with guilt.

Any idea who who sent that spider
to Jo Race?

I did.

I thought she was having an affair
with Richie.

Dr Frisch, she say yes.
To what?

The email I sent her asking whether
the pattern on Wheeler's computer

could have been made
by an unaccompanied female voice.

Now that is interesting.

Lancaster University. Ha!

Sir?

Look it up on that doo-dah of yours
now.

I'll bet you 50 quid...

Who's that?

You should have come in.

Complexion for the connection.
Might never get out.

We don't lock people up
for being black.

It's an idea, mind.

A funny man, yeah?

I have no sense of humour.

Everybody knows that.

Are these trainers for me?

Thank you, Declan.

Lucas's...erm...secret shit.

Some of this he's had
since he was a baby, yeah?

It came with him, as it were.

He didn't know what it meant,
but he hung on to it, just in case.

He'd have made a good policeman.

It's not your fault that he's dead,
Declan.

It's really important
that you understand that.

This...

You've helped me more than
anybody else.

Anybody.

I've just seen Esme Ford
talking to the Custody Sergeant.

Correct, ma'am. I asked Uniform
to bring her in for questioning.

In my world, not hers.

Nobody told me she was not dead.

No, ma'am.
It's all been a bit confusing.

The good news is
we've apprehended the man

that was in contact with the press.

The chauffeur, ma'am.

Esme Ford returning from the dead
is quite a big story, Hathaway.

Yes, ma'am, and, so far,

we've been successful
in keeping it from the media.

The New Notes.
What do you mean, New Notes?

What am I looking at? Show me.

The Isle of Wight Festival, ma'am.
1968. The backing singers.

These girls.

Why am I looking at two Esme Fords?

Exactly what I intend to ask her,
ma'am.

Will it be sometime soon,
do you think,

that you condescend
to interview your detainee?

Before the duty solicitor lodges
a formal complaint?

One moment, ma'am.

All she's done since I got her in
is make one phone call.

To The Randolph.

Who did she speak to?

If it is Esme's voice on that disk,

I want to hear it.

Sir.
By whatever means.

The hotel switchboard cannot divulge
that information.

They'll find they bloody well can,
if I go round there.

Not necessary.

I know who it was.

Oh, God.

I get so worried
when you do this inscrutable thing.

And I know why she made the call.

So, what are you actually
going to do, Lewis, now?

Now, ma'am?

I'm going to think.

You're going to think?

Yeah, ma'am.

As a means of solving crime,
it can prove useful.

Sorry. I er...forgot my...

Do carry on.

Gotcha.

Vern just handed it over?

Well, he might have done,
had he been there.

Let's hear it.

Hallelujah.

That's not Esme Ford.

Tell me about life on campus,
back in '65. I'm curious.

For the tape, please.

For the tape, I am not disposed
to talk about life on campus.

I'm not surprised.

Because, in 1965,
there was no campus.

They were still building it.

Until '66,
the only hall of residence

was the old Waring and Gillow
furniture factory.

For the tape, Ms Ford is exchanging
an anxious look with her solicitor.

But you yourself
never went to Lancaster, did you?

Because you were a New Note.

Let's stop there a minute.
No, let's not.

The New Notes were an all-girl
backing group, led by Esme Ford,

then an undergraduate at Lancaster,

but also in the outfit
was her little sister Maureen.

I'm afraid
I must insist that we stop.

You can have a whole bonanza
of insisting when I've finished.

Look.

Here you are.

Right there.

I needed a magnifying glass
to pick you out, Maureen,

but, take it from me, that is you.

Right next to Esme.

I just listened to that demo
that you made for Vernon.

And I heard the same thing

that Samantha Wheeler heard
when she listened to it.

The voice of someone working
very hard to sound like Esme Ford.

Now, for the first time,
I really am insulted.

Dr Wheeler told Vernon, she said,

"Either you're being conned, Mr Oxe,
or you're trying to con me."

Say something.

Which was not at all
what Vernon wanted to hear,

so he went round and he silenced her.

Just as he silenced The Bone,

because The Bone had also sussed you,
hadn't he?

He kissed you. He touched you.

But you just didn't feel
like your sister.

Eh, Maureen?

Isn't that right?

But the person who really worried
you was Franco. Oh, dear!

You had to phone Vernon and tell him
you'd really blundered.

Why hadn't he warned you?

And that's before we've even started
on the subject of Lucas.

Who? Now just listen to me,
will you, Lewis?

I haven't the faintest bloody idea
what you're talking about.

The notion of Vernon going round
slaughtering people

is just so unutterably stupid
as beggars belief.

Yes, we had...

a business plan.

And, yes, it was...a little bit
deceitful, but...

for Christ's sake,
what have I ever had in my life?

A daughter.

She died.

She was a junkie.

She left me. She lived on
the streets and she died.

She died in childbirth.

What?

She gave birth in a shop doorway.

The child was taken into care.

Lucas was your grandson, Maureen.

He came looking for you,
to tell you.

And Vernon killed him, too.

I'm sorry.

Interview terminated at 10:15.

Don't say it.

I won't, ma'am.

But he is a bloody genius.

Get us to the farm. Now.

The whole world, my dears.

You think The Addiction
was once a phenomenon.

This time round,

we're going to take the entire
planet and put it in our pocket.

Whose pocket, Vernon?

Ours.

For we shall all be wearing
the same coat.

Won't it get a bit sweaty in there?

Who's we?

The band.

And its deserving dependents,
those whom we love.

You are a funny bastard, Vern.

One strives to please.

Let's walk.

Walk?

Yeah, you remember walking, Vernon.

That's how ordinary people move
around the surface of the earth.

What's the matter? You're driving
like a little old woman.

No, thank you.

Time was you'd have crawled over
broken glass

to exchange a few fluids with me.

The snows of yesteryear, darling.

Where have they gone?
Yeah, yeah. Whatever.

A lifetime in the closet for me,
Vern.

That has required...

a bit of stamina.

The truth is I've given up on sex.

No, the truth is that
sex has given up on me.

The hydraulics are shot.

That's alcohol.

Cheers.

My dear.

What wretched news.

Which makes me
a non-functioning queer.

Your girl.

She got it seriously wrong,
trying to shag me.

You see, Esme tried it once.

The circumstances were memorable.

She would not have forgotten.

I could have blown the whistle
on you and I didn't.

I was...er...

Oh, what was I, Verny?
What's the word?

Intrigued?

What are we drinking to?

Impotence?

I drink to be convivial, Vern,
but this is shit.

I thought you were
this big-time connoisseur.

You were the one.

You know, when twittering girls
tell each other, "He's the one."

You were the one.

That's why I kept you secret,
all these years.

And now...this.

Such a waste.

Such a waste.

The rather off-note in the Armagnac
is Preludin. Do you remember that?

Preludin.

It's what would-be priapics
used to take before Viagra.

I thought it might be
rather nostalgic for you,

with the added bonus that you might
actually die with a hard-on.

Yes. The downside of Preludin

is that it does tend to make one
feel rather wobbly.

Now that is shit.

Vernon Oxe. Where is he?

Stay in the house.

Oh, thank God you're here.

Something awful.
Franco has fallen into the machine.

He's incredibly drunk
and he can't get out.

You're going to prison
for the rest of your life, Oxe.

But before you do, you're going to
buy me a new bloody suit!

Is that necessary?

You lost the right to have
an opinion about anything,

the moment you drove your car
over that boy.

No.

Agh!

At least I hit the bugger.

Whoa, whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa.

Easy, baby.

Gun on the deck.

Hands in the air.

Sorry, if you got some of that.

But it had to be done.

Right. That's enough.

Esme's dead?

Yeah.

She's been dead a long time, Richie.

Would you see this
gets to Richie Maguire?

He gave it to my sister.

She s...

She sent it to me
the night she killed herself.

How's the food?

The food?

You live in the...

Er...

You live in the...
In the college?

Yeah, I do.

So how's the food?

It's OK. Thanks.

How's...

How's things with you?

Mustn't grumble.

Do you know who I am?

Yes.

Oh, yes.

You're my Kitten.

Yes. I am.

I'm a simple soul, chaps.
Try not to blind me with science.

Vernon Oxe was grooming
Maureen Little

to become like her sister Esme,
to walk like her and talk like her.

And sing very like her,
but not quite.

Before he could get
the whole con rolling,

he had to get the endorsement
of one or two essential people:

Samantha Wheeler...

But she smelt a rat.

Mm. Vernon couldn't have her walking
around saying that Esme was a fake.

And Bone wasn't buying it, either.

What about the first murder?

The boy. Lucas.

Ah. Poor Lucas didn't fit in with
the plot, at all.

The whole scam is predicated on the
fact that Maureen's life was empty.

To have Vernon take control of it
might have been a bad thing,

but it had given her life
some purpose, some reason.

Not as much as finding out
she had a real grandchild.

Well...whatever Oxe was peddling,
by way of a fantasy,

it couldn't start
to compare with that.

Lucas had to go.

Still, at least Hathaway got a
glimpse of the rock-and- roll life.

That's educational.

Now I know what it feels like
to be Britney Spears.

Will it stop you dressing like her
on your days off?

Probably not. That's another thing
I shall need counselling for.

I've just spent all afternoon
in a lake of crap with knives in it,

saving your presence, Doctor,

and I haven't even begun
on the matter of compensation.

Would you settle out of court
for a pint?

What do you think I am?

Thirsty?

Two pints.

Done.

Excuse me.

Oh, pull yourself together, Lewis.

You're only young once
and that was a long time ago.

I'll buy you a drink.

You can bang on about how perfect
everything was in your day.

When I say, "Buy you a drink",

I should point out
that I don't actually have any cash.

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