Good morning, everybody.
It's 6:00 on Sunday morning,
and the BBC Light Programme
is beginning another day's
broadcast.
Fierce fighting between North
and South Vietnamese troops
in Phuoc Long Province
over recent days
has come to an end
following the arrival
of American forces.
A Foreign Office spokesman
has said
the involvement of British
soldiers in the growing crisis
in former French Indo-China
remained unlikely,
but that the government
was monitoring...
Double?
I'd sooner cash, Emil, but
suppose can trust you.
# Un bel di, vedremo #
# levarsi un fil DE fumo #
# sull'estremo
confin del mare. #
# E poi la nave appare... #
# Poi la nave bianca #
# entra nel porto #
# Romba it suo saluto #
# Vedi? E venuto! #
# lo non gli scendo incontro. #
# lo no. #
# Mi metto la sul ciglio
del colle e aspetto #
# E aspetto gran tempo
e non mi pesa #
# La lunga... #
#... punto
s'avviva per la... #
Pint, Morse?
Morse?
# Sara'? chi sara'..
Pint?
Don't drink.
You know that.
Have a squash.
Sally's serving... the one
with the charlies.
I'd like to, McLeash,
really, but...
On a Sunday?
All work, old son.
Well, it's good of you
to ask, but another time.
That's what you said last time.
# Chiamera Butterfly
dalla lontana. #
# lo senza dar risposta
me jen staro nascosta... #
Lisa Bainwright?
Yes, Miss.
Jenny Crisp?
Yes, Miss.
Pauline Edmunds?
Yes, Miss.
Valerie Quillen?
Yes, Miss.
Anne Porter?
Yes, Miss.
Mary Tremlett?
Mary Tremlett?
Is Mary not in today?
Has anybody seen her?
Crisp's daughter goes here,
heard.
Wouldn't know.
Any word on those extra bodies?
Request has gone in for
reinforcements from Carshall,
due first thing tomorrow.
"Mary Tremlett, age
15, left home on Saturday
"at approximately 4:00
in the afternoon
"for a trip to the cinema.
"Last seen wearing
an orange top,
"green three-quarter length
trousers
"in a fashionable
Capri pants style.
"She has not been seen since.
"Anyone with information
pertaining to her disappearance
"should contact Detective
Inspector Fred Thursday
"at Cowley Police Station,
Oxford.
"It is believed extra officers
from Carshall Newtown
are being drafted in to assist
in the search. "
Well, that's us, that is.
Here, what's this heard
you tried to get yourself
taken off the inquiry?
Morse?
Wilcox, Duffel, Ellis, Woods,
you're assigned to Banbury.
DS McBain.
He's waiting for you through
there in the canteen.
Cullen, Boyle, Madden, Mitchell,
Kidlingon... DS Anthony.
Transport's through the yard.
Hurry it up.
Finger out your ass.
You two follow me.
Suppose you're feeling
very pleased with yourselves,
dreaming of cracking a great
big juicy murder case, eh?
Get your name in the papers.
Yes, Sarge.
Well, you can forget it.
There's only two
detectives in this nick...
me and the governor.
And that's Mr. Thursday
to you, or "sir. "
Get in, go on.
You're here to take up slack.
Any questions?
No? Good.
Thought this was
a missing persons case.
You said murder.
Oh, it's murder all right.
Sex case, like as not,
the way they go around
with all on show these days.
Just not found her body yet.
So, duties.
McLeash, office...
duty log.
Telephone calls, any and all
information received.
Sarge...
E. Morse.
Your governor says
you know the area.
College boy.
That right?
Right, door to door.
Get that lot circulated.
You can't tell from those,
but she's a redhead,
well developed for her age.
Someone will have seen her.
Shops, offices,
railways, commuters...
Commuters?
If she left Oxford by train
on Saturday afternoon,
well, it's unlikely she'll have
been seen by the weekday crowd,
wouldn't you think?
Well, don't think.
Follow orders.
Anyone want me,
I'm with the governor.
Kept that under
your hat, didn't you?
Bloody Oxford.
His verse notwithstanding,
Ibycus is perhaps most famous
for the manner of his death,
at the hands of robbers.
Wounded and dying, Ibycus looked
up to see a flight of cranes...
a flight of cranes passing
overhead, at which he cried out,
"Those birds will be
my avengers. "
His murderers repaired
to Corinth,
where, Plutarch tells us, spying
a flock of the same birds,
one of their number
exclaimed in jest,
"Behold, the avengers
of Ibycus. "
The bathroom is on the
first landing for proper washing.
But you've a sink up here
for shaving,
and the necessary is
where it should be.
First time in Oxford?
Not exactly.
Well, that's nice, dear,
isn't it?
This was Mr. Bleaney's room.
He stayed here the whole time
he was at the Bodleian.
Do you know how long
you'll be in residence?
I'm afraid not.
No.
Well, it's just yourself
and two other gentlemen
at the minute...
Mr. Goldberg
and Mr. McCab.
Very nice, they are.
Tea's at 6:30 as a rule,
but can do you a boiled egg.
Oh, that's very kind of you,
Mrs. Crabbin, but I'll...
I'll get something out.
Then I'll let you get settled.
There's no overtime.
Realize that.
So what is it?
Brown nosing or sucker
for punishment?
There's no other kind of bloody
fool still in the office
at this time of night.
Just us?
Thought should take a look
at the Tremlett case files.
Which one are you?
Morse, sir.
Carshall Newtown.
$0?
Mary Tremlett, 15 years old.
Last seen by her parents
Saturday 4:00 when she left,
supposedly to go to the pictures
with another girl, Valerie.
Valerie...
Quillen.
Who denies any such arrangement.
No boyfriend,
no troubles at home,
so it's unlikely
she's a runaway.
That's it.
Not much to go on.
It really is this kind of case.
But we keep looking.
Good night, then.
There is one thing, sir.
Going through this list
of her belongings at home,
she has a copy of the Oxford
Book of English Verse
by her bed,
together with A Shropshire Lad
and the Betieman Collected.
Young girls like poetry.
Young girls like Mary Tremlett?
Too highbrow for a girl
whose father works
on the GMC assembly line?
That's your point?
No, my point is that
they're hardbacks.
Beyond the pocket
of a schoolgirl,
I'd have thought.
Just struck me as odd,
that's all.
Maybe they were a present.
Her parents, school prize even.
There's official lines of
inquiry we're following, Morse.
Poetry books isn't one of them.
Is Mary fond of poetry,
Mr. Tremlett?
She has nice handwriting.
Her teachers
commended her on it.
A-plus, last report.
Sharon, my eldest.
She's visiting.
Police.
How do you do,
Miss Tremlett?
Mrs.
Veelie.
They had her read out some
of her essays to the class.
The house isn't the same.
Find her, will you, please?
Find our Mary.
What is it you're looking for?
Oh.
Just filling in some
of the background.
So you weren't here
Saturday, then.
I'd dropped by the afternoon
to see to Dad's tea,
but went straight home after.
About 5:00.
Where's home?
Droitwich.
We had a stock take
Sunday, see.
Freeman, Hardy & Willis.
I'm deputy under manageress.
And your husband?
He's in carpets.
Traveling.
We're not together any more.
You're close to your sister,
Mrs. Veelie?
Not really.
All this fuss.
It'll just be some stunt.
Attention seeking.
What makes you say that?
'Cause she's always
been the same.
When Mum was alive,
she spoiled her rotten.
Dad, too.
Whatever she wanted.
Their blue-eyed girl.
Silly little cow.
It's definitely why
the police were here.
Nobody has seen her.
Do you think she knows
something?
Don't know, does she?
How would she know?
Extension two-double-five.
Yes, I'll hold.
Morning.
AVG, aye.
What you got there, then?
Mary Tremlett's poetry books.
Well, what's all that about?
Well, don't know yet.
Nothing, probably.
Bloody hell've you been?
Got a suicide in Thrupp.
Unidentified male.
You're on.
How am meant to get there?
Want me to wipe your ares
for you and all?
Use your initiative.
Morning.
Not for this poor sod.
You are whom?
Morse.
Detective Constable.
On attachment from Newtown.
You're the pathologist,
presume?
Better hope so, hadn't you?
Otherwise I'm making one hell of
a mess of your scene of crime.
Max DeBryn.
Is it a scene of crime?
Initial reports
suggested suicide.
Looks to be.
Single entry wound
on the right temple.
Typical starburst
gunpowder pattern
on the skin
surrounding the wound
together with contact scorching
would suggest the weapon
was discharged
at point blank range.
As you can see.
I'll take your word for it.
Squeamish, are we?
You won't make
much of a detective
if you're not prepared
to look death in the eye.
Find me when you're done.
Finished?
The hors d'oeuvres.
Entree this afternoon,
3:00 sharp.
You can give me your findings
over the telephone, can't you?
You know, there's a word
for people like you, Morse.
Is there?
Necrophobic.
A word for people
like you too, imagine.
Anglo-Saxon, though,
rather than Greek.
Weapon's a Webley.
Mark VI, if you're interested.
.455,
standard army issue.
Not entirely a fool, then.
Not entirely.
Time of death?
Yesterday.
Between 8:00 and midnight.
Did he leave anything behind?
Beside his gray matter
upon the greensward?
Was thinking
more of a note.
Not that I've come across.
You might have better luck
at his lodgings.
This was in his pocket.
Miles Percival.
Address is in Jericho.
Don't suppose there's
any chance of a lift?
Detective Constable Morse,
Oxford City Police.
Mister...
Lomax.
Brian Lomax.
Would be right in thinking
Miles Percival lives here?
When?
Mean, where?
Last night.
His body was found down by the
river at Thrupp this morning.
You known him long?
Two years.
We sang together
in the choir for a bit.
When did you see him last?
Yesterday, at college.
How did he seem?
Anything worrying him?
No.
What about recently?
Anything out of the ordinary?
Money problems?
College?
Girl trouble?
Nothing he told me about.
You're Australian, Mr. Lomax.
That's right.
From where?
Sydney
So you weren't concerned that
he didn't come home last night?
Was in The Bird till closing.
When got back, thought
he already turned in.
Did you know he owned a gun?
His grandfather's.
I'll need to speak to his tutor.
Sure.
He teaches over at Lonsdale.
Morse?
Morse!
Good God.
Hello, Alex.
Don't believe it.
What the hell
are you doing here?
I'm looking for a colleague
of yours... Dr. Stromming.
What's your business with him?
Police business.
I'm a policeman.
Police?
The last heard, you'd run off
to join the Foreign Legion.
What happened? Didn't take?
It was the Royal Signals.
But no, it didn't take.
You're still...
Climbing the ladder of academe?
Oh, yes.
All the way to the topmost rung.
Master one day, suppose.
You always were ambitious.
Well, genius does what it must.
Walk with me.
I'm late for lunch.
Can't,...
Oh, you won't find
Stromming in today.
Home, probably.
Porter'll give you the address.
One must marry well, you see.
More than the half of it here
if you want to get on.
You taken the plunge?
Not yet.
No.
What was the name of
that girl we were keen on?
Lived on St. John Street.
Wendy, was it?
Susan.
She preferred "Susan. "
Did She?
Did She?
And you to me, as recall.
Still, all's fair.
Well, oughtn't keep you
from your...
But good to see you, Morse.
Very good.
A word of advice,
as an old friend.
Whatever it is you're about
in College, mind how you go.
They won't take kindly
to an interloper.
Particularly one of their own.
I'm not sure was ever that.
No.
Well, dig me out.
We'll have supper.
Proper catch-up.
Good afternoon,
I'm looking for Dr. Stromming.
I'm sorry.
He's out at present.
Is it college business?
In a manner of speaking.
Do you have any idea
what time he'll be back?
No, I'm afraid not.
May take a message?
Probably best if speak
to him directly.
See.
Well...
Yes.
I'll, uh...
Sorry to have troubled you.
Not at all.
Forgive me, but it is
Miss Calloway, isn't it?
Miss Rosalind Calloway.
It was.
It's Mrs. Stromming now.
Ah.
Well, I've...
can't say all,
but I've very many of your
recordings, certainly.
Good heavens.
Yeah, your Butterfly in '54.
If had to save one disc on my
desert island from the waves,
that would...
You are very kind.
Look, I'm sure Rowan
won't be long.
Would you, um...
Would you care to wait?
You don't miss it, performing?
Not for a moment.
You see, got Rowan, my husband.
It seemed like more
than a fair exchange.
The one didn't preclude
the other, surely?
Not for Rowan's part.
But on mine,
it's not the kind of marriage
that wanted...
touring, oceans apart.
Forsaking all others,
certainly.
But music?
No, still have music.
Help out with the college
choir Wednesdays and Saturdays.
And, oh, I've agreed to appear
in a charity gala
at the New next Monday.
To be honest, think I'm
possibly more nervous about this
than any other performance
have ever given.
Are tickets still available?
All gone, I'm told.
Oh, of course.
Rowan, this is Mister...
Morse.
He's come to talk with you.
College business.
Yes, yes, of course.
Are you sure
you won't have one?
No, thank you.
Please.
So, what can do for you,
Mr. Morse?
Actually, Doctor,
it's Detective Constable Morse.
Oxford City Police.
I'm here about
a student of yours.
Miles Percival.
Oh, yes?
I'm sorry to have
to tell you, sir,
but I'm afraid he was
found dead this morning.
Dead?
Oh, my God.
Well, how awful.
What was it?
A car accident or something?
We believe he killed himself.
Have you any idea
why he may wish
to take his own life?
None.
His work had fallen off
quite badly of late.
Missed tutorials, drinking.
There was some talk of him
being rusticated.
He was quite highly strung.
But I'd no idea he was
in that kind of...
My God.
The poor boy.
# Signore, ascolta! #
# Ah, Signore, ascolta #
# Lui non regge piu #
# si spezza it cuor! #
# Ahime #
# quanta cammino #
# col tuo name nell'anima #
# col name tuo sulle labbra. #
need a name and address
for your Saturday
puzzle setter, Oz.
Out of luck, then, aren't you?
He's anonymous,
like most of them.
Well, you send his fee
somewhere, presumably?
Fee?
This is Oxford.
They do it for the honor.
Look, really am fearfully busy.
I've got the stars
to do by lunch,
and I'm only at Taurus.
People don't really believe
such guff, do they?
You'd be surprised.
The Chaplain at Christ's has
just declared for reincarnation.
When's it usually delivered,
the Saturday grid?
First post Wednesday, as a rule.
We go to press Thursday.
And last week?
Funny you should ask.
Came in late.
Caused quite a flap.
In the end, a young chap
dropped it round.
Well, what did he look like?
Like a young chap.
Undergrad, suppose.
He gave it to one of the subs.
Didn't...
caught a glimpse.
Well, perhaps could speak
to this sub.
You'll have to scour
the Cairngorms, I'm afraid.
A walking holiday as of Monday.
Very well.
Well, if you remember
anything else...
Of course.
Thank you.
What did you say your name was?
Morse.
Why?
Have we met?
Don't think so.
Another life, then.
Oi.
Lott's rung in sick.
You're to fetch the guv'nor.
How am supposed to get there?
Hmm.
Oh, no DS Lott today?
Unwell, sir.
You don't say.
Now, Friday.
Must be corned beef.
Ah, what did tell you?
It comes to reliability.
The fixed motion of the heavens
has nothing on my Win.
Anything overnight?
Actually, there is something...
wanted to talk to you about, sir...
Mary Tremlett's poetry books.
Thought we'd been through that.
Know, but they're
not just hardbacks, sir.
They're first editions.
Quite valuable.
How'd you...
You've been there.
Right.
Tell me on the way.
Morning, sir.
Morning.
Just bringing Mr. Crisp
up to date, sir.
You were, were you?
Thought you were sick.
A bit liverish first thing.
Fancy.
Okay, Morse.
Back to your desk.
Wait a minute, Arthur.
Want to see what
you make of this, sir.
The lad's been having
a bit of a dig
around the Tremlett case.
Tell him.
Mary Tremlett keeps a few
poetry books by her bed.
First editions.
And she's bookmarked
certain poems
with crosswords cut
from the Oxford Mail.
The Saturday edition,
all set by someone
called Oz.
Oz?
As in The Wizard of?
Same spelling, yes.
But the thing is,
there's only ever two clues
she's filled in any puzzle.
The same two...
the first across
and the last down.
The down's invariably a number.
Five gold rings.
Six geese a-laying.
So on.
But the across clue
always refers to somewhere
in or around Oxford,
mentioned in the poems...
Fyfield, Cumnor, Godstow.
That it?
Well, no, sir, not quite.
The crossword that came out
the day she disappeared
refers to a poem
by Matthew Arnold,
"The Scholar Gypsy,"
which mentions Bagley Wood.
Bagley Wood?
The down clue
gives the number eight.
Just thought it could be
a time and place.
Possibly.
You think someone's making
secret assignations with her
through crossword clues
in the Oxford Mail?
Extraordinary, isn't it?
That's one word for it.
Begging your pardon, sir,
but I've never heard
so much codswallop.
Does seem a bit fanciful, Fred.
Farfetched, even.
Bagley Wood.
Have you signed up on that
Thrupp shooting yet?
Then I'd suggest
you see to your duties
before you start galavanting.
Bloody crosswords!
Just come through from
the information room, sir.
A body's been found
by ramblers.
Young girl, redhead.
Looks to be Mary Tremlett.
Where's this?
Kennington.
Out by Bagley Wood.
Make sure the photographer
gets this.
Back of her right hand.
It's already smudged,
but it looks to be
"FLA 17... " something.
Letter B, possibly.
Car registration?
Or flat, maybe.
Flat Seventeen B.
Then, what?
Postmortem?
Formal identification first.
Morse can run me.
You'd better keep an eye
on the search.
Organize a few snaps
of her outfit
before it goes for forensics...
get them out there.
Might jog a few memories.
Very good, sir.
Who's a clever boy, then?
Sarge.
Something here.
Subject is a
well-nourished female.
Approximately 15 years of age.
Five-foot two.
Nine stone six pounds.
So we begin with a lateral
incision across the cranium.
Peel the scalp forward.
Thus to expose the skull.
Morse.
Morse!
You'll be all right.
Actually, sir,...
don't drink.
Very commendable.
Now get that down you.
If you're going
to apologize, don't.
Your first?
Well, like that.
North Africa was mine.
Longstop Hill.
Lad by the name of Mills.
Gunner Mills.
Not a mark on him.
Thought he was asleep,
until turned him over.
Mortar.
What did miss?
Strangled.
Her own brassiere.
Struck on the back
of the head first.
Hadn't been interfered with,
according to Dr. DeBryn.
Then why take off her clothes?
Maybe the spirit was willing.
Saturday night,
he'd had a skinful.
Tried to have his way.
When he couldn't manage it...
She'd been pregnant
at some point
within the last six months.
Very professional job,
was the doctor's opinion.
So there was a boyfriend.
Our man Oz?
The search turned up
a gent's wristwatch near
to where her body was found.
The face is smashed, which
gives us a time of death...
8:16 Saturday night.
Oh, and her stomach contents
turned up half a pint
of whelks.
Talk to her mate Valerie.
See if she's been holding back.
She might open up more to
someone nearer her own age.
Right.
Mary Tremlett told her father
she was going to the cinema
with you
Saturday afternoon.
Any idea why she'd say that?
Can understand if you've been
wanting to protect her, maybe.
Her reputation.
But as of this morning,
things have changed.
For the worse, I'm afraid.
Are you saying she's dead?
So it's important you tell me
the truth now.
Do you understand?
Where was she going
Saturday night?
Who was she seeing?
Don't know.
Look...
want to go home.
I'm upset.
I've had a shock.
You can't talk to me
when I'm upset.
Are you here about Mary?
We were best friends
before she fell in
with Valerie's crowd.
You're not part of that?
No fear.
Little tarts.
They used to rag on us
when we first started.
Only last year, Mary and Val
got really pally.
Then a couple of weeks ago,
they had a big bust-up.
Do you know what it was about?
Mary thought Valerie was
trying to steal her bloke.
They had a fight over it.
Did Mary ever mention
anyone called Oz?
A nickname maybe?
Not to me.
And who's Mary's boyfriend?
Johnny Franks.
He's a car mechanic.
Works at a garage
over Parktown.
All Valerie's gang go there.
She's an absolute beauty,
isn't she?
Nine months old,
3,000 on the clock,
and does she go?
Oh.
Mr. Samuels?
Yeah.
Call me Teddy, please.
Mister...
Detective Constable Morse.
City Police.
Oh, yeah?
What can do for you?
I'd like to speak
with one of your mechanics.
Johnny Franks.
He's not in any trouble, is he?
Know a lot of your boys.
They'll tell you
run a straight go,
and make sure
my lads do the same.
Right, you'd better
come through.
Have you seen Johnny?
Where were you
Saturday night, Mr. Franks?
Railway Arms, in Didcot.
Anyone vouch for you?
Yeah.
The rest of the team.
Darts.
Play in a league.
We were away to Didcot
on Saturday.
What time did that finish?
11:00-ish.
Suppose got home
around midnight.
Right, then?
Not quite.
Understand you knew
Mary Tremlett.
Yeah, slightly.
It was more than slightly,
wasn't it?
You were her boyfriend.
Don't know where you got that.
Look, I've got a few birds
on the go,
but Mary weren't one of them.
Mean, might've given her
some old chat,
but that's as far as it went.
What about Valerie Quillen?
What about her?
Well, she had a fight with Mary.
Over you.
The other week.
Wouldn't know about that.
A lot of young girls hang around
the garages, Constable.
You know what they're like
at that age... lad mad.
They get an idea
in their head, what can you do?
Mary did have a boyfriend,
as it goes, but it weren't me.
Miles something.
A college sort.
Begins with a P.
Miles Percival?
Yep, that's it... Miles Percival.
You want to know about Mary,
you should go talk to him.
Mary broke it off with Miles
six months ago.
Was he sleeping with her?
What sort
of a question is that?
She was 15.
He wanted to marry her,
for God's sake.
He said he was saving himself.
Was Miles Percival keen
on crosswords, Mr. Lomax?
Miles?
God, no!
No, couldn't stick
a crossie at any price.
Didn't have that kind of mind.
Used to drive him nuts.
You did?
Hey, look, you've no idea
what he was like.
It was awful.
After she left him,
he was either drunk or...
In the end he got it
into his head
that she was seeing
someone else.
Did he say who?
Uh...
He thought that...
That's absurd.
You did know her, though?
Miles brought her
to a drinks party.
She seemed very personable.
Very quick witted.
Really, it was just one
of those stupid things.
One of the younger dons
mentioned that it was a pity
we didn't see more people
like that coming to Oxford.
Like what?
Well, of her class.
The wine was in, suppose,
but Reece hit upon
a wheeze to see if,
with a bit of coaching,
we couldn't convince the Bursar
that she was an undergrad.
At Lady Matilda's, do you see?
Alexander Reece?
Why, do you know him?
Yes.
Would've scared the
Bursar half to death
to hear the finer points
of Pindar's monostrophic odes
discussed in an accent
rather more town than gown.
And was he?
Scared half to death.
In the event,
the opportunity never arose.
You couldn't inveigle
Mary Tremlett
to join your subterfuge?
On the contrary,
she was all for it.
Someone taking
an interest in her.
Imagine she was flattered.
Imagine she was.
Now, if you've any more
questions, Morse,
I'm afraid you'll have to put
them to me on the hoof.
When did you last see Mary?
Sometime earlier in the year.
And when you were tutoring her.
Once a week, once a fortnight.
Something like that.
After lectures.
At home.
A case of when
one could fit her in.
Since you knew Mary,
I'm bound to ask where
you were Saturday night.
Was at home.
Anyone confirm that?
My wife.
Your wife has choir practice
on a Saturday evening,
doesn't she?
Look, whatever Miles Percival
may have thought,
my relationship
with Mary Tremlett
was based wholly on
an academic experiment.
Did she prove
an apt pupil, Dr. Stromming?
She had a facility
for conning by rote.
But I'm afraid, after a while,
what had in one's cups
seemed amusing
no longer felt... quite right.
Alex?
Oh, say.
Full marks.
You timed that one rather well,
didn't you?
Scoff.
And a bloody good
claret or two, of course.
Free and gratis.
Oh, if it's all the same...
On duty, suppose.
There is something need
to talk to you about.
Mary Tremlett.
This bet that you have got
with Rowan Stromming...
Oh, see.
Donald.
Yes, was wondering why you
were creeping about in college.
Was there anything more
to their relationship?
Aside from this bet?
Well, wouldn't have thought so.
Filled a sweater well enough,
but a mite odalisque
to my taste.
Tout avec f rites, suppose.
Take the girl out of Cowley.
You didn't use to be so cruel.
Poor old Morse.
You were never Oxford material.
Too bloody decent by half.
Abingdon 4185.
Yes.
Yes, have.
Shocking.
No.
Well, think that's wise.
Listen, I'm just about
to leave for London.
You can reach me there
if there's anything
you think should know.
Flaxman one-seven-double eight.
All right?
...But that the
involvement of British forces
in the crisis
remained unlikely.
Meanwhile, there are reports
of fighting
between South and North
Vietnamese troops in Dong Xiao.
In other news,
an early hand-written draft
of Ozymandias
by the poet
Percy Bysshe Shelley
is to go on show at the
Bodleian Library in Oxford.
Gifted to the library
in 1893...
"Boundless and bare,
the lone and level sands
stretch far away. "
Detective Constable Morse.
What brings you here?
" Met a traveler
"from an antique land,
who said two vast
"and trunkless legs of stone
stand in the desert.
"And on the pedestal
these words appear:"
"'My name is Ozymandias,"
King of Kings
'Look on my works,
ye mighty, and despair!
I'm afraid don't...
Oh, think you do,
Dr. Stromming.
Or would you prefer Oz?
Ozymandias.
"Look on my works,
ye mighty, and despair. "
But then, crossword setters
aren't exactly famed
for a lack of self-regard.
The gentle teacher
bestowing wisdom
upon the young and eager pupil?
It may even have
started out that way.
But it's not how it ended up,
is it?
What happened,
Dr. Stromming?
Did you tire of her
just as quickly,
once the shine was off it?
Or was your wife
getting suspicious?
Rosalind had no idea.
Did Mary Tremlett threaten
to tell her, then?
Is that it?
She wouldn't go quietly?
Is that why you lured her
to Bagley Wood?
What?
It's here, Doctor.
In black and white.
First across,
"Where most the gypsies
"by the turf-edged way
pitch their
smoked tents. "
Answer, six and four.
Bagley Wood.
Last down,
"How many cowgirls?"
Five letters.
Answer, eight.
Don't understand.
Oh, you understand
all too well, Doctor.
You were to meet Mary Tremlett
Saturday night at 8:00
at Bagley Wood,
while your wife was safely out
of the way at choir practice.
Didn't set Bagley Wood.
Not last Saturday, anyway.
Set Hinksey.
And it was 6:00, not 8:00.
This is next week's puzzle.
Next week's?
Any setter worth the name
will keep a few grids
ahead of himself,
just in case he's taken ill.
Here.
You see?
Hinksey. 6:00.
This is the grid meant to send.
So that's why
she didn't turn up.
Submitted the wrong puzzle.
Rowan handed me the envelope
to post, as usual,
but what with rehearsals,
it completely went
out of my mind.
So what happened?
Come Wednesday, it was still
on the mantelpiece.
And was about to run it
into town myself
when one of Rowan's students
knocked on the door.
A boy called Miles.
Miles Percival?
That's right.
Know him slightly
through choir.
But Rowan wasn't in.
And so to save myself the trip,
asked him if he wouldn't mind
dropping the envelope off.
Did he say what he wanted
with your husband?
No, assumed
it was college business.
But ask him,
I'm sure he'll tell you.
Miles Percival is dead.
He shot himself.
That's what came to tell
your husband the other day.
Can you account
for Dr. Stromming's whereabouts
on Saturday evening?
His whereabouts?
He was here.
Are you sure?
You have choir practice
every Saturday evening,
don't you?
Well, he was in his study
when left at 6:00.
He was still there
when returned later.
Detective Constable...
Well, what time was that?
Around 11:00.
After practice,
when came out to the car,
had a puncture,
and had to wait
an age for assistance.
But please,
what is this all about?
This is a delicate question,
Mrs. Stromming,
but one must ask.
Yours... is a happy marriage?
Beg your pardon?
Mean...
You've never had cause
to doubt your husband?
Never!
Never have had cause to doubt
my husband, as you put it.
Not for one moment.
Have rehearsals to attend.
Just tell DCS Crisp what
you told me, all right?
You got a minute, sir?
Stromming planned
the whole thing.
Even down to the last detail.
Believe he even went so far
as to spike his wife's tire,
just to make sure that
he got home before she did.
So far as she's aware,
he'd been there the whole time.
Sorry to interrupt, sir.
So, Saturday night,
he lures Mary Tremlett
to Bagley Wood
and kills her to stop the truth
about their affair getting out.
And his alibi is what
for the time in question?
That he's in Hinksey.
What's he doing in Hinksey?
Waiting for Mary.
He said that was the intended
rendezvous point for the 12th,
only he accidentally
submitted the crossword
puzzle for the 19th
to the Oxford Mail.
Anyone see him in Hinksey?
Well, no.
He's lying.
Know he is.
What do you think, sir?
If Stromming is this Oz
character, it stacks up.
Bring him in.
Saturday night he
killed her, you say?
Then think you probably want
to hang fire, sir.
I've got a vet downstairs
who swears he saw Mary Tremlett
alive and well,
6:00 Sunday morning.
Got to Cherrits' Farm
around about 2:00.
A breech presentation,
which isn't too much
of a problem as a rule.
But the calf managed
to get the umbilicus caught
around its neck.
Hard go of it, should imagine.
Doubt shall be bowling
legspin again for a while.
But all safely delivered
around about 5:00.
Collected my things and headed
home about half past.
Anyway, just passed the left
turn to Glympton,
and there she was,
waiting at the bus stop.
What time was this?
6:00.
The Home Service
had just come on the news.
What did she look like,
this girl?
A redhead, like it says
in the paper.
She was wearing some kind
of get-up with a...
don't know what you'd call it.
A sort of chevron-y type motif.
Green and white, think.
You were 12 hours out.
It wasn't 8:16
Saturday night
Mary Tremlett was killed.
It was 8:16 Sunday morning.
This vet saw her waiting
on the first bus to Woodstock.
Do you believe him?
No reason not to.
He's identified the dress.
I've spoken
to Mrs. Stromming, sir.
8:16 they were in church.
Her and her husband both.
St. Xavier's.
Vicar confirmed.
Which puts
Stromming in the clear.
He might have had
an affair with her,
but the rest of it,
no go, I'm afraid.
But she was found
in Bagley Wood.
He's put in the wrong puzzle,
like he said.
Mary Tremlett goes there,
Stromming never turns up.
Then why doesn't she go home?
Where does she go Saturday night
until this vet finds her
at the bus stop Sunday morning?
Didn't say had it pat.
Maybe she met someone.
But however you look at it,
the long and the short's
we're back to square one.
Maybe not, sir.
This watch we found
by the body,
it's engraved on the back.
Eighth of October 1964.
A wristwatch is often given
as a coming-of-age present.
Checked on that suicide
that Morse was supposed
to be dealing with,
Miles Percival.
Who?
Mary Tremlett's ex-boyfriend.
Her what?
Don't you think that's something
you might have mentioned?
Ruled it out.
You did, did you?
Percival's date of birth,
eighth of October 1943.
Spoke to his parents.
They confirmed they gave him
a watch last year,
matching the one we found.
Anything else
you left off telling me?
Well, Miles Percival was the one
who delivered Dr. Stromming's
clue, sir,
to the Oxford Mail.
Well, say he took
a butcher's at it, sir.
Maybe he tumbled
into how Stromming
is making his contact
with Mary Tremlett.
No, Miles Percival didn't know
the first thing
about crosswords.
His flatmate told me so.
Well, maybe his flatmate
doesn't know Percival
as well as he thinks he does.
So what, he's waiting in
Bagley Wood when Mary turns up?
Mm-hmm, could be he was planning
on doing them both, sir.
Except Stromming didn't show.
They argue,
come to blows, even.
Yes, and he loses his watch.
She gets away from him,
holes up till first light,
when she tries to get
the first bus home.
Only Percival finds her again.
Takes her back to Bagley Wood.
Miles Percival was still
in love with her, sir.
Mean, there's no way that
he could harm Mary Tremlett.
Unless it's slipped your notice,
Miles Percival
blew his brains out.
Yeah, of course he did.
When he found out she was dead.
It was more than he could stand.
Very poetic.
Except he'd done for himself
before we'd found her body.
He couldn't have known
she was dead, sir.
Unless he'd killed her.
Mrs. Stromming?
Feel should apologize for...
You should.
It's a young girl.
Suppose you were
doing your job.
Yeah, a fine mess made of that.
Well, that was all.
Morse?
What you asked me about Rowan,
should have...
Mrs. Stromming...
Look, you owe me that,
at least.
Have been stupid?
Any stupidity was mine.
It's a policeman's lot
to hypothesize.
And sometimes you...
Is this your way of saying
that you were wrong?
Suppose it is.
All right, just...
have been going out of my mind
after what you said.
Well, think no more of it.
Any man with such a wife as you
would have to be mad
to seek happiness elsewhere.
Don't think
Dr. Stromming's mad.
Look, can get you a drink?
That's very kind.
A brandy, then.
Someone told Rowan
that you took Greats
at Lonsdale.
Is that true?
More or less.
And how on earth
does a Greats man
end up a detective?
Wonder myself.
Thought perhaps it might be
your father was a policeman.
No, no.
He was a taxi driver.
Before he lost his license.
And your mother?
She was raised a Quaker.
Good heavens.
Hope any child of mine
might have more to say about me
than, "She was an Anglican. "
Oh, I've...
She died when was 12.
Shouldn't have asked.
No, not at all.
I'm just afraid that
each year one's...
one's memories, they...
Well, um...
Well, let's see.
My abiding impression of her
is someone soft.
The scent of her hair.
Tenderness.
I'd better be getting home.
Thank you for the...
No, thank you for...
well, just thank you.
Good night, then.
Good night.
Please don't tell my dad.
Please?
Won't.
He'd kill me if he found out.
Won't say anything, promise.
Where were you, Jenny?
Mary introduced me
to this man she knew.
He had these parties.
Big house at Wolvercote.
We thought at first
it would be a giggle.
But it wasn't.
And last Saturday,
Mary was there?
There was a few of us went.
Me, Val.
Mary left early, though.
Around 7:00.
There was a row over it.
He didn't want her to go.
Who? Who didn't?
Who threw these parties?
Once you get in it,
you've got the leather seats
and the walnut dash.
She's a real beauty.
Oh, hello.
Changed your mind
about the car?
You're aware of
the age of consent
in this country,
are you, Mr. Samuels?
How the law stands
in relation to procuring, say?
Len, could you see
to this lady and
gentleman for me?
Please, sir, madam!
That's a bloody good sale
you've just cost me there.
Well, hope by the time
I'm finished,
I'll have cost you
a great deal more.
Mary Tremlett
was a regular attendee
at your parties.
Along with several other girls
from Cowley Road School.
Now, want
the names and addresses
of the men you pimped them to.
Listen, sonny Jim,
you want to watch your mouth.
Don't know
who you think you are
coming in here
with talk like that,
but won't have it.
I'm a respectable member
of the business community,
and I'll be treated as such,
or you will find yourself
back on point duty quick as.
Now get out of my office
before have someone
break your legs,
you little bastard.
Go on, get.
You went to see Teddy Samuels.
Yes, he's...
He's running parties
out of some big pile
by Wolvercote...
underage girls.
Mary Tremlett was there
Saturday night.
Don't care where she was
Saturday night.
She was fit and well
Sunday morning.
Miles Percival picked her up.
Yes, well, he would
have been hard pressed
to do that, wouldn't he?
Seeing as he didn't own a car.
What the bloody hell
do you think you're about?
Pursuing inquiries.
And who gave you leave
to do that?
Did.
On your way.
Something you want
to say, Arthur?
You know the kind of people
Teddy's tight with.
Know he's got
you in his pocket.
A pony on the first
of the month
for turning a blind eye
to hooky MOTs is bad enough.
But this is the murder
of a young girl.
It's not just me.
Oh, know.
Teddy Samuels's
got half the brass in town
dancing to his tune.
In the county.
Judges, churchmen,
counselors, peers.
You really think
you've got a chance
going toe-to-toe
with that lot, Fred?
Think you should take
a couple of weeks furlough.
Run Eileen down to the caravan
and have a long hard think
about early retirement.
Are you off your nut?
It's that or put in
for a transfer.
Your choice.
Either way, don't show your face
in here again.
I'd hate to have to pinch you,
Arthur.
You wouldn't dare.
Who owns it?
Murky area.
So far as I've been able to make
out from the land registry,
the land was owned
by the deVeres...
the Earls of Oxford.
Until the title fell dormant.
It's vaguely Crown Estate now.
Crown Estate?
That's Treasury, isn't it?
Do you want a brew?
I'm just warming the pot.
There's no milk, I'm afraid.
There's lemon, though.
Who the hell are you?
Dempsey...
Inspector Thursday, isn't it?
And Constable Morse.
That was you putting
the windows in, was it?
What's your business here?
Presently, a bit
of light housework.
The defense of the realm
is my bailiwick.
National Interest.
Pax Britannica, and all that.
What are you, Special Branch?
More or less.
Yes. Why not?
Get bloody cute,
I'll run you in.
Home Office, extension 255.
Have the duty man put you
through to Colonel Dolman.
He'll vouch for my bona fides.
No?
You're here about the girl.
What do you know about it?
All you need to know
is she left here alive and well
about 7:00 on Saturday evening.
Trust me.
Whoever's killed her has
nothing to do with this.
What is this, exactly?
Tarts in high places.
HMG won't wear another scandal.
We're still going round
with a dustpan and brush
after Cliveden.
This is a murder inquiry.
And hope you catch him.
But if you keep
digging around this spot,
you'll be taken off the case.
Wonder what the papers
would have to say
about a Department of State
obstructing a murder inquiry.
Concealing evidence...
Never see light of day.
We'd stick a D-notice on it,
and you'd be looking
at a nice long stretch
for breaching official secrets.
Who're you protecting?
Wouldn't be doing
my job very well
if told you, now, would?
You sure you won't have a brew?
Bastards like these,
it's business as usual.
So, what, some leg-breaker
in a Guards' tie calls stumps,
and we just walk away,
is that it?
Want a list of who else was at
this little shindig of yours.
Look, Inspector,
happen to count a good number
of your superior officers
amongst my close circle, yeah?
Or should say square?
Would hate for any of them
to be embarrassed.
Know what mean?
Oh, bugger.
Look to have left
my tobacco in the car.
Have a shufti, Morse,
would you?
Now?
God.
He's a bit keen,
your boy, isn't he?
A bit wet behind
the ears, though.
A drink?
Scotch, if you've got it.
With soda?
As it comes.
I've scraped better than you
off the soles of my boots.
So get this,
and get it straight.
Don't care who you pimp to,
or whose pal you are
down the lodge.
You try and come it
with me, I'll break you.
Was in my pocket all along.
Mr. Samuels has come over
with a nosebleed.
Told him to keep his head back.
We all done then, Teddy?
You've made a big mistake.
And that makes two of us.
You can keep the hankie.
Sir, what...
Save your breath.
Didn't march
halfway across the world
and put Jerry back in his box
for jumped-up spivs
to end up running
the show at home.
But what about the law?
There's right and there's wrong.
Know which side I'm on.
Do you?
Well, don't care
how much it is.
I'm not interested.
Think you will be.
I've wondered for a while
why no one was willing
to go after a crook
like Samuels.
Especially Crisp.
Well, you might have told me.
Didn't know who could trust
in my own nick,
never mind a stranger.
You think Teddy Samuels killed
Mary Tremlett?
Or knows who did.
Inspector Thursday in yet?
Gone to see the Tremletts.
Do you know much
about woman's clothes?
Besides they look
better off than on?
Why?
Something someone said.
Was trying to remember.
Morse?
Detective Chief Superintendent
Crisp wants you.
Morse?
Odalisque.
Eau-DE-what?
What's that mean, then?
Someone like Jenkins there.
What, Welsh?
Fed... for pleasure.
Is it true?
I'd advise you to consider very
carefully before you answer.
This is a very
serious complaint.
Did Inspector Thursday
hit Teddy Samuels?
No, sir.
Right. Clear your desk.
Want you on the next train
to Carshall bloody Newtown
or wherever it is
you came from.
I've no use for troublemakers.
My letter of resignation.
It's been burning a hole
in my pocket this past week.
Perhaps you'd see it reaches
the appropriate channels.
Get out!
Flunked out again,
have you, College?
Read your file, boy.
Three years Lonsdale.
Threw the towel in
before your finals.
That's the trouble
with you posh-ohs.
No gumption.
First sign of bother,
it's off back home to mummy,
tail between.
Mmm, no hard feelings.
You done me a favor.
Pastures new.
Vice.
In the Smoke.
And you on the slow boat
to China.
What will you do?
Praise the God of all,
drink the wine and beer,
and let the world be the world.
Another?
No, I've got to mind the shop.
Did you ever make any headway
with what was on
the back of her hand?
What was it?
F-L-A...
17B.
Or 178.
We tried it as a
vehicle registration,
FLA 178, but nothing doing.
And if it was flat 17B...
There was something
missing off the end,
though, wasn't there?
Another letter,
or number, thought.
Maybe. It's hard to say.
Why?
Oh, just... well, nothing.
It doesn't matter.
It's no longer my concern.
And tell Thursday
if he wants to know
who killed Mary Tremlett,
find out where
her clothes came from.
Did Mary ever mention
a Teddy Samuels?
Runs a garage round the back
of Park Town.
It's not a name I've
heard her mention.
Is it you, Shar?
She's got herself caught up
with this bloke, then, has she?
It's just we're interested
in anyone
she may have known through him.
Did she ever go to Wolvercote,
so far as you know?
Oh.
I'm afraid Rowan's not in.
It's you came to see.
Wanted to say goodbye
before push off.
Leaving Oxford?
Oxford, the police, all of it.
You'd better come in.
Took the liberty...
It seemed too good
an opportunity to let pass.
It's seldom one gets...
one gets to meet
one's heroines.
Heroine?
Surely not.
More than you could know.
You see, you saved my life.
What an extraordinary
thing to say.
It's true nevertheless.
The place that grew up
was a Grey, unfeeling nothing.
Then, one day heard your voice.
And... and knew
for the first time
that there was...
beauty in the world.
Would you sign it?
It would mean a great deal.
Yes.
Oh, heavens.
Look at me.
Have, often.
Are you flirting with me?
A little, perhaps.
You mustn't.
Love my husband.
Very much.
Know.
What shall put?
Samuels' insurance
against police interest.
Wicked thing, blackmail.
God knows I'd have
done the same
if it'd been my daughter.
Burnt the negatives.
All of them.
Jenny doesn't have
to worry any more.
And nor do you, sir.
Who else knows?
Between you, me and Morse.
You can rely on his discretion.
He's a good lad.
We wouldn't be where we are now
if he hadn't kept pushing.
Sharon?
Sharon?
Thank you for the coffee and...
You know, you should
find yourself a girl.
Did once.
We were engaged.
What happened?
Oh, someone she'd left behind.
They'd been something
in her first year.
After it ended,
she took up with me.
But not to be.
I'm sorry.
Truly.
Perhaps better
to have loved and lost.
So I'm told.
Goodbye, Mrs. Stromming
Yours, believe.
There's been a development.
He had to pay.
For Mary.
Mean, knew he was bad,
but never thought...
his own daughter.
Our daughter.
You and Teddy Samuels?
Summer '49.
Mum and Dad said shouldn't
have my life ruined
with a kiddie so young.
So they took her on.
Teddy didn't want
anything to do with it.
Threatened me if told anyone.
And then you come round.
Just hearing his name,
something went in me.
All these years.
The thought of him
having anything to do
with Mary...
I'm not sorry.
It's a rum old go, Morse,
and no mistake.
Families. Shame.
How is it any fault of a kiddie
what side of the sheets
it's born?
Her flesh and blood
and yet all this.
As if we didn't all
get here the same way.
It won't do...
know that much.
It won't bloody do.
What's all this business
with Mary Tremlett's outfit?
Oh.
Well, Mary Tremlett
took a size 36C in a bra.
But the dress
found with her body
was a size small.
She couldn't have squeezed
into that outfit
if her life depended on it.
Bought for her by an admirer?
Well, that was my thinking.
When it comes to woman's
dress sizes, mean...
Have McLeash run down a list
of local stockists.
Meantime, we'd better have
a word with friend Teddy.
He might be in more of a mood
to make himself useful
this morning.
It's Morse.
I'm in hospital
with Inspector Thursday.
Any luck with the outfitters?
Oh, well, keep trying.
Oh, damn.
The pips have gone
and I'm out of change.
Can you call me back?
The number's OTMoor double-2-70.
OTMoor.
- T-M...
Yes. Straightaway.
There's something
need you to check.
She's done a proper job on him.
He does pull through,
the doctor says
he's likely a vegetable.
How'd you make out?
Percival's in the clear.
Not only did he not have access
to a vehicle,
but according to Lomax,
he couldn't even drive.
That's not all.
What?
You remember what was written
on the back
of Mary Tremlett's hand?
FLA 178.
The car reg?
Yeah, nothing doing.
That's because
it wasn't a car reg,
or part of an address,
or anything of the sort.
FLA is an abbreviation
of FLAxman,
which is the name of
a London telephone exchange
covering the Chelsea area.
FLA 178.
You're a digit short,
aren't you?
Got McLeash to check
all ten possibilities.
FLAxman 1788 is the number
of the London home
of Sir Richard Lovell,
Minister for Overseas Affairs,
and constituency MP
for Oxford North.
You talked to him?
His housekeeper.
Lovell was in Oxford
last weekend
from Friday to Sunday.
He has a house by Woodstock
called Applegate.
Detective Inspector
Thursday, sir.
Detective Constable Morse.
Wonder if we might
speak to you a moment.
With me?
Certainly.
Please.
So, what can do for you?
I'm hoping you'll be able
to tell us how
your London telephone number
came to be found
written on the hand
of a schoolgirl murdered
last Sunday in Bagley Wood.
My telephone number?
Flaxman 1-7-double 8.
That is your phone number.
Yes, it is, but...
how this young girl came
to have it,
I'm... I'm afraid
haven't the foggiest.
Her name was Mary Tremlett.
A redhead.
She'd be one of the young girls
you'll have met
at Teddy Samuels' parties.
You attended one
last Saturday at Wolvercote.
Don't think so.
Sounds most unsavory.
Dear, dear.
"Dear, dear"?
A young girl is strangled
and left naked in the woods,
and all you can say
is, "Dear, dear?"
Morse...
Do you deny
you were there, Minister?
Naturally.
And unless you have
evidence to the contrary,
I'm afraid this meeting
is at an end.
Think we can say who
Dempsey's looking out for.
Don't you?
A Minister of the Crown.
We'll need more
than a telephone number
to make it stick.
Unless...
Her outfit.
If Lovell was this
secret admirer,
and we can find
who sold it to him...
Well, we can
tie him to Mary Tremlett.
McLeash come through with
that list of stockists yet?
Yeah, should have.
You get onto that.
I'll put Crisp in the picture.
You tracked the outfit down?
Then we've got him.
What?
Whelks.
Mary Tremlett's last meal.
Eaten an hour or so
before she died.
That's not my idea
of breakfast.
Is it yours?
Well, what are you saying?
That she didn't die
Sunday morning?
But the vet saw her
at the bus stop.
Well, yes.
And no.
Either way, it wasn't Lovell
who killed her.
The awful thing is
it all started as a joke.
A wager between two fools
who should've known better.
How much?
Five pounds.
You're on.
Flattered by
Stromming's attentions,
perhaps even believing herself
to be in love with him,
Mary Tremlett threw herself
into their affair,
abandoning the young man
with whom she had hitherto
been close.
Distraught, Miles Percival
confided his fears
to the one person he thought
might be able
to bring Stromming to heel.
Mrs. Stromming,
can we have a word?
Doubt that she believed him.
But gradually she came
to realize the truth.
Rather than
confront her husband
and risk losing him forever,
another idea took hold
of her mind.
So she began.
# Un be! di, vedremo #
# levarsi un fil DE fumo #
# Sull'estremo
confin del mare... #
Have a wonderful day.
# E poi... #
The substitution of the
puzzle was the easiest part.
What she really needed was
someone to take the blame.
Well, she already had
the perfect candidate.
Will you drop that in
for me when you go?
Thank you.
The rest fell out
exactly as she planned.
On Saturday evening, Mary
Tremlett left Samuels's party
for Bagley Wood,
expecting to meet her lover.
Only it wasn't Dr
. Stromming she found waiting.
Mary.
Mary!
Believe Rosalind Stromming was
waiting for her
with some kind of crowbar.
She stripped Mary Tremlett
and left the green and white
party dress by her body...
a dress, rather than the dress.
There were two.
The following morning,
anyone passing the bus stop
would have seen exactly
what Rosalind Stromming
wanted them to see...
a redhead in a green, black
and white chevron print dress.
To be taken for Mary Tremlett.
The wig and dress
doubt we'll ever find.
The stage was set
for the final act.
All that remained...
was to provide the police
with Mary's murderer.
# Chi sara, chi sara... #
It was the perfect crime
in all respects bar one.
It was essential to her plan
that the two dresses
appear identical.
But what she failed
to take into account
was that she is
two sizes smaller than Mary.
The shop girl
remembered at once.
The beautiful woman
with the diamond earrings.
# Per non morire
al primo incontro #
# Ed egli alcontro in pena
chiamera, chiamera #
# Piccina mogliettina
olezzo di verbena #
# nomi che mi dava
al suo venire #
# Tutto questo avvera,
te lo prometto #
# Tiente la tua paura #
# lo con sicura feds #
# I'aspetto. #
Brava.
Bravissima.
Divine.
So... what's this about?
Your decision to resign
from Her Majesty's government
and retire from public life.
My What?
We thought
"grounds of ill health. "
Spare everyone's blushes.
She was 15, Dickie.
It was just a bit of harmless...
Fun?
A schoolgirl coerced into bed.
'Round from one
dirty old sod to another
like the Sunday sprouts?
Fun?
For you and your mates, maybe.
This is ridiculous.
Ridiculous?
A government minister
at a sex party.
Writing his telephone number
on the hand of a teenage girl.
Now that's ridiculous.
We've kept your name out of it.
So far.
But there's a young
copper chasing this,
and he's not so willing
to play the game.
Morse?
Explain to him.
I've tried.
Not for sale.
You do the decent thing,
his governor might be able
to rein him in.
We'll see what Harold
has to say about it.
This is what he has
to say about it.
There's two ways out.
This one, don't have to get
blood on my shoes.
What time's your train?
It's quarter past.
Sleep?
I'd have worked things through
sooner if I'd have realized...
Stop.
The if game's
no good to any bugger.
You keep on, it'll drive you
round the twist.
Know.
Rosalind Stromming
was dead from the moment
she decided to kill
an innocent girl.
Or dying, at least.
Inside.
Whatever was good of her.
Come on, then.
If you're going
to make that train.
Mind if drive?
Carshall Newtown.
That really what you want?
Don't know.
Was thinking might pack it
all in.
Pick up my degree.
The world's long
on academics, Morse.
But woeful short
of good detectives.
Things as they are,
could use a permanent bagman.
Mean, we did pretty well
this time out.
Give or take.
I'd see you right, of course.
Make sure we get you through
your sergeant's exam, eh?
With the proper encouragement,
who knows?
What you've got to ask is,
where do you see
yourself in 20 years?
Morse?
Endeavour!