- Ooh. - Oh, yeah.
- A job well done, wouldn't you say?
- Look at that!
- You can't argue with 90 grand, can you?
- But I do think Stacie's a little bit frustrated.
- I did not fancy him.
- Yeah, right.
- He was a mark. - You did say he was cute.
- Very cute, as I recall.
- Yeah, cute for a record collector.
- Shouldn't knock record collectors, Stacie.
They have very deep pockets.
- I'm not knocking him.
I just didn't fancy him, all right?
- Don't go on about it, Stace.
- I'm not.
- You know, I've a mind to get into record collecting.
- Really?
- Yeah, you get five grand a shot for some Beatles albums.
- Charming young gentlemen. - Hello?
- Have you met them, Albert?
- Oh, yes, yes.
I got all their autographs.
- Really?
They must be worth a fortune, ain't they?
- Yes.
And every time I sell them, they're worth even more.
Okay.
- Yeah.
- Stacie?
- So, who's the bird then?
- Emily Shaw.
She and Stacie grew up together.
- What, the one with the charity?
- Yeah.
- Oh, right.
So what happened to her, do we know?
- You said the Weekend World
had printed an apology.
- A paragraph on page nine.
Who's gonna read that?
Not after a front-page banner
saying she defrauded the charity and stole from the children
she's been helping for years.
- Will she recover?
- I don't know, she's still unconscious.
If she doesn't, it'll be the Weekend World's fault.
I'm gonna get those bastards.
- Stacie, I know you're upset.
- No, I mean it, Mickey.
If I was a man, I would beat the crap out of them.
If I was a lawyer, I'd sue them, but I'm neither.
I'm a grifter.
So I'll use that.
- Okay, we'll find a way.
- Tabloids are powerful, Mickey.
They can destroy people.
I don't see why you should all take that risk.
- No, no, no, Stacie, come on.
We will all find a way.
- The Weekend World ran a sensational story,
accusing Emily Shaw of embezzling funds
from her own charity, Educate Africa.
- Emily had withdrawn a substantial cash sum,
but it was to pay for the building of a new school.
Tribal leaders in the Sudan don't take credit cards.
When this was pointed out to the World,
they printed a retraction.
A paragraph on page nine.
- The editor, Francis Owen.
It was Owen and this man, Timothy Millen,
who ran the story on Emily.
Danny?
- Yeah, I went to a couple of journo bars.
The word is that Owen gives scum bag a whole new meaning.
Millen's just a sniveling creep, but he is ambitious.
- So Millen's probably easier to target,
and we can use him to get to Owen.
Ash?
- Yeah, well, research has been difficult.
The one thing these people
don't seem to write about is themselves.
However, most of them have huge egos,
so we used the who's who of journalists.
- I didn't know there was one.
- There isn't.
Yet.
- What?
I don't care if you have to wait there all week,
you sit on that doorstep.
Listen, when no one's looking,
try scraping a key down the side of his flash convertible.
That should get a bloody reaction out of him.
Look, I'll make it simple.
You get me a quote, or find a new job.
Tosser.
- I see you got one of those questionnaires as well, boss.
- They sent you one?
- Must have been a piece I did about Camilla's cellulite.
- Well, what do you want?
- Got a bit of bad news, chief.
That Emily Shaw bird we did a story on
just jumped off a bridge.
Looks like attempted suicide.
- You prat, Millen.
Bad news, that's the best news I've had all week.
- You've lost me, chief.
We've only just run the apology...
- Well, that's just it, you muppet.
If we run the attempted suicide,
it implies that we were telling the truth all along.
- Yeah, but we weren't.
- Who cares?
Innocent people don't commit suicide.
- They do if they're depressed.
- You've been watching too many episodes of Trisha, mate.
Get out of here and write it up.
Send her some flowers to sweeten her up.
Show her we care.
- All right.
- Hey, heavy on the suggestion, the insinuation.
- Okay.
What if, what if she dies?
- Then she can't answer back, can she?
- "Reason for choosing journalism as a career.
"Quest for the truth, to fight injustice."
- Oh, please!
- And I got a favorite restaurant, wife's name, children.
Oh, here we are.
Story you'd most like to break.
"Edward declares he's gay, marriage to Sophie is a sham."
- What about Millen?
- "Prince William in coke-fueled orgy with Kate Moss."
- What nice men.
- Bit of an obsession with the royal family,
don't you think?
- Well, I ain't nicking the crown jewels again.
- What?
- Francis Owen lists favorite food
as Martin Townsend's heart grilled on toast.
- Who's Martin Townsend?
- He's the editor of the Sunday Express.
They're locked in a circulation battle.
Hate each others' guts.
What we need to do is come up with the royal scoop
of the century.
- What about Ash and Camilla?
- Why me?
- Well, I ain't being funny, mate.
She's more your age than mine.
- I don't believe it, Danny's getting choosy.
- Don't get me wrong, love.
I love the older bird, much more grateful,
know their way around the sack,
but Ash would be perfect with it.
- Now hold up, hold up, hold up.
There was a story my mum told me.
One of those, sort of, royal urban legends, you know.
Now, I don't know if we could make it work,
but this legend has it that the Queen Mum, right,
God bless her, wasn't the Queen Mum.
Hello.
Yeah, Regal Resemblance?
Yeah, how are you for young Queen Mums?
- What a load of bollocks.
Lovely mate.
Got anything for me?
- Yep, there you go.
- Nice one, Cyril.
- You on the job?
- Yeah, you?
- Yeah, Weekend World.
- Wow, I'd love to be in a national.
- Who you with then?
- Me, I've been at the Reading Courier five or so years now.
Local news, Mayor's new parking initiative,
that sort of thing.
- Hold the front page, eh?
- Exactly.
- I'm Chris Carey.
- Tim Millen.
- What?
Sorry.
You're the Tim Millen?
- What, you heard of me?
- Heard of you?
You're my bloody hero.
No, really.
Prince Harry Dressed as a Hooker,
Sophie Wessex, Fat or Pregnant,
Posh Finds Becks in the Loos.
- Sure, you know your stuff.
- Believe me, Tim, it's time I moved up to the top table.
What do you reckon on this?
- It's not a writ, is it?
- No, no, no, research.
Fast food restaurants.
What do you reckon they do with all that fat
they cook the food in?
- Surprise me.
- They dump it in London's Victorian sewers.
All that grease getting clogged up in the sewers
in great disgusting lumps.
It's like a brilliant metaphor
for the arteries of the city being clogged by all that fat.
- How's about this for a metaphor?
Your story is about as much use
as a one-legged man at an arse-kicking competition.
- That's a simile.
You're leaving?
- Places to be, matey.
- Tim, Tim.
Tim, there is something else I'm working on.
It's, uh, it's sensational.
I haven't quite nailed all the facts yet.
But I think it's worth listening to.
- Okay, you've got five seconds to interest me.
One, two.
- Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon.
- Hey? - The Queen Mum?
- Yeah, I know who she is, you muppet.
What about her?
- I was doing some research in a hospice,
residents, you know, complaining of ill-treatment.
- Not interested.
- No, no, no, wait, wait, wait.
One of the old dears grabbed me.
She'd been a maid at Buckingham Palace.
She had some incredible gossip
about the Queen Mum during the war.
- Well, let's hear it.
- Mr. Carey? - Oh, Murphy.
This is Tim Millen.
The Tim Millen from the Weekend World.
- Hello, how do you do?
- Mr. Millen.
Chris, I hope you haven't been discussing our investigation?
- You're not a journalist as well, are you, Murphy?
- No, I'm not.
- I didn't think so.
You don't look like the bunch of slappers
we've got at the World.
- Chris, I've made some real progress with the case.
Now it's your call, but maybe we could go somewhere else
and discuss it?
- Yeah, okay.
Let's head over to Eddie's Bar.
She's right.
Better not say anything till I can stand all the facts up.
Still great to meet you, Tim, and big fan.
See you again, read you again, all right.
- Where the hell have you been?
- Chief, I've been I've been researching this feature
on fast food restaurants
and their impact on the London sewage system.
The fat that's getting flushed down there
is actually congealing.
It's almost as if the arteries of London
are getting blocked up, It's a very powerful simile.
I'm very excited about it.
- That's it?
That's what you been working on?
Crap in the sewers shocker.
Tim, you are meant to be my top reporter.
I need a front page.
Get out there, get me a great bloody story.
- Will do, sorry.
Get me a coffee.
- You what?
- I read your Robbie piece, it's cack, do it again.
- What do you mean, "It's cack"?
- Just do it again.
- Hello, mate.
The Blitz exhibition, please.
- Yeah.
Sequel to the big blitz.
Visitors, their majesties the King and Queen,
to districts in East London, which suffered very severely.
The royal visitors were whole-heartedly welcomed
everywhere they went.
And everywhere they went,
their majesties saw and admired the spirit of the people.
- How do we look?
- That'll do fine.
Now, let's get you in the frame, yeah?
Okay, rolling.
Here she comes, here she comes, here she comes.
She's there.
She's in front of you, there.
Curtsy, lovely, right,
and she's moving back along down the line.
Yeah, hello, mate.
Listen, can you transfer DVD to 16 mil?
- Who's the bird?
- Eh?
- Over there in the corner,
I'm sure I know her from somewhere.
- That's Diane Murphy.
She's a private investigator, I think.
- That's it.
- Maybe that bloke with her is her client,
and his missus is playing away from home.
- Maybe.
I think I'll go and say hello.
Ta.
Good afternoon.
- Tim, what are you doing here?
- Don't tell me, it's a happy coincidence.
- Well, thing is, you got me going, mate.
If you think you've got something on the royals,
I might be able to help you.
- What have you told him, Chris?
- Nothing, really.
- Oh, there she is, the Queen Mum.
God bless her.
- If you don't mind.
- So what's your angle?
It's got to be good if it's about the Queen Mum.
'Cause here's a little tip for ya,
on the big papers, we tend to write about the royals
who are still alive.
- Diana?
- She's a, she's a special case.
Harold Felgate.
- This is a special case.
- Seriously, mate, if you decide to flog your story
to one of your provincial rags,
no one's gonna take a blind bit of notice.
You'll still be a nobody, Chris.
If you wanna make a splash with a royal story,
you've got to break it with a national.
- I think we're gonna be fine on our own, Chris.
- Look, no offense, but you two are amateur hour.
I know more about the royal family than you two ever will.
You need me.
- Really?
Know it all, do you, Tim?
- Lot more than you do, matey, that's for sure.
- Well, let me ask you this.
- Chris. - No, no, no, no-no.
Where's the Queen Mother buried?
- Well, that's a toughie.
St. George's Chapel, Windsor Castle.
- Really, you reckon?
Because her son says something very different.
- Her son?
She never had a son.
- Please, Chris.
I think we need to leave now.
- Yeah, I'll see you, Tim.
- Weekend World, mate.
- Was Millen outside?
- Yeah, he was.
- I need a couple of hours.
Emily's conscious.
- That's good news.
- Well, we'll just sit tight here.
I'm sure it won't be long before Millen bites.
- See ya later, babe.
- Hello.
- Hi, Stacie.
- How are you feeling?
We've been so worried about you.
- I was an idiot to let it get to me.
I wasn't thinking straight.
- But you're all right now?
And that's the main thing.
Wow, it's like a florist's in here.
Who bought you those carnations?
- Would you believe it?
That monstrosity is from the World.
- You're joking.
There's a get well card, too.
- "Perhaps you'd like the opportunity
"to tell your side of the story."
They want an interview?
- Yeah, like that's gonna happen.
- How can people do things like that?
They're unbelievable.
- To make things up with no foundation?
- Well, maybe those bastards will get what's coming to them.
- Nothing.
- Where's your story, Millen?
- Chief, something cooking, got a big lead.
The Queen Mother, possible love child angle.
- You what?
- Could be a biggie.
Does the name Harold Felgate mean anything to you?
- No.
- Well, I'm piecing it all together now.
So, I'll bring you something as soon as it's all in place.
- This better lead to something, Millen.
I want a story on my desk today,
or you might find yourself writing obits.
- Hello.
- Tony, how's life below stairs, mate?
You got anything for me?
- Nothing at the moment, Tim.
The shutters have come down big time
since you ran that story about Charles
flogging off the silver.
- Yeah, that was a cracker, wasn't it?
Listen, Queen Mother, war years.
Any rumors I should know about?
Secret trysts?
Could be nothing,
but I keep hearing the name Harold Felgate.
- Felgate?
No, I haven't heard that name round here.
- Listen, Tim, I've got to go.
- Chris.
- Tim. - You all right?
- Yeah.
So what are you doing here?
- How would you like a job on the Weekend World?
You let me help you with this story, Chris,
and everything will be negotiated in good faith,
down the line.
What do you say?
- Who's that?
- It's the young Queen Mum.
- No, that's a lady called Cynthia Felgate.
- You're winding me up.
- No, no, no, I told you before.
The old dear at the hospice,
she told me the Queen Mum died of TB, in '41.
If it got out,
it would have been disastrous for British morale.
A commoner was found in the East End
who looked exactly like the Queen Mum.
This woman, Cynthia Felgate, was put in her place.
That's the story.
I followed it up, journalist's instinct, yeah?
- I deal in facts, not instinct.
- Yeah, well, me too.
That's why, out of my own pocket,
I hired Diane Murphy to do a bit of digging around,
check the old girl's story out.
- And?
- She found Cynthia Felgate's son.
- The geezer you've got in the room upstairs?
- How do you know that?
- I've got my sources.
So what's the plan?
- He's the only living relative.
He's the key to blowing this whole thing wide open.
- I wanna meet him.
I want to meet the son, that's the deal.
Take it or leave it.
- I thought you were an independent.
- No, no, no.
I'm at the Weekend World now.
Tim and I are covering the story together.
That's not a problem, is it?
- Well, it might be.
My client still has the right to take this story
to the highest bidder.
- And who are you?
- Bob Sawgreen.
Managing Director of Sawgreen Management, New York City.
- You a lawyer?
- No, I'm Mr. Felgate's publicist.
And as such, I decide who he talks to.
And since we haven't been paid a dime to cover our expenses,
I may well advise my client to say nothing.
- Hang on, Bob.
Your client would still be Joe Shmoe from Poughkeepsie
if I had not dug this story...
- Okay, let's just all chill out, shall we?
I'm on board now, Mr. Felgate,
and I can tell you that my editor,
Francis Owen, will make you a very attractive offer.
Of that you have my word, okay?
- You're telling me the Queen Mother
is actually an imposter called Cynthia Felgate?
- Exactly, chief.
This man is her son.
- What's that?
- My client received this anonymously
through the mail about, oh, a few years ago.
- And if you see, chief,
it's actually postmarked February 2002,
a month before the Queen Mum died.
- So, Cynthia decided, on her deathbed,
to reach out to her long lost son?
What you got in there?
- Proof.
We have Cynthia Felgate's birth certificate,
pictures of her and Harold here and herself.
Oh, and this.
Look, as you can see, the resemblance is uncanny.
Cynthia was actually a few years younger than the Queen,
and that's why they say the Queen Mum
lived so long, apparently.
- I was told that my mother was killed
in the London bombing,
and that I was evacuated to the US as an orphan.
- Do you mind if I hold on to these?
- Yeah, I don't see why not.
- And this?
- This is an old piece of film,
but I don't have any machine to run it on.
- I'm sure we can sort that out for you.
- Look, this is an interesting yarn,
but none of this amounts to proof.
- Well, if you don't want it, I'm sure another paper will.
- Don't play hardball with me.
If you want me to go to print with this,
I'll need something concrete.
- Okay, let's say Let's say we get you that.
What would a story like this be worth?
- If I got all the rights? - Mm-hm.
- Maybe quarter of a million?
- We've got the birth certificate, chief.
She was born, she existed.
Must be a paper trail of documents somewhere.
Public records, library cards, all that crap.
- We can piece her life together, chief.
This has got to be worth a punt.
- You got till Saturday.
If it checks out, you got the front page.
- Yes.
Before we go any further, is anyone else worried?
- Problem, Danny? - Uh, yeah.
This is a risky con, Mick.
It's a newspaper.
If this blows up, all of us, faces in the tabloids.
Knackered.
- Do you all want to pull out?
- No, no, no, we agreed.
We can do this.
Can't we, Danny?
- It's Millen.
Chris Carey.
Hi, Tim.
Yeah, lovely, yeah, I'll get there.
Bye.
He wants to meet at Eddie's in an hour.
He's obviously buying it.
- Maybe, but Owen isn't.
We've still got a long way to go.
- All right, let's do it.
- Okay, Ash, you set up? - Yeah, mate.
- Good, then I will meet you two at Eddie's Bar in an hour.
- Got the time, mate?
- Michael Stone?
I work for Her Majesty's Government.
We've been monitoring Francis Owen for some time.
The libelous stories his paper continues to print
about the royal family have become a matter of concern.
- So why am I here?
- Normally, we wouldn't bother ourselves
with your petty criminal activities.
But we are concerned about the lies you're constructing
about the late Queen Mother.
- You're telling me that the Queen Mother
was actually an imposter called Cynthia Felgate?
- This man is her son.
- Be under no illusions.
Your lives won't be worth living if you proceed.
Understand?
- Yes? - Hello.
You seen any of these?
Yeah, only next door
was riddled with them.
Can you clear out for a couple of hours?
- You got a mobile I can get you on?
- Yeah.
- Yeah, well, I'll bell you when we're through, all right?
- You'd better come in a minute.
- So, questions.
The house where your mum lived,
do you remember where it was?
- I'm trying to think.
It was in the East End, yeah.
- East End.
- And the number was something 20, something, I think.
I've lived in so many houses over so many years,
it's just.
- Sorry, I... - Hi.
Where were you, we were worried.
- So many streets, it's very confusing.
I got lost.
- Invest in an A to Zed mate.
We ain't got time for you to take the scenic route.
- Okay.
So let's just focus on this place.
The East End.
Anything else you remember?
- Yes.
There was a row of terraced houses.
- Terraced?
- Terraced houses?
Well, that narrows it down to about 4,000 streets.
- Diane, thanks for coming.
- Mr. Millen.
- New arrangement in place, darling.
I'm on the team.
So now there's a pro running things,
you can take a backseat.
- Hang on a minute, Millen.
- You're firing me?
I haven't even been paid yet.
- You're not fired.
Little bit out of order that, Tim.
No, it's not quite like that.
I just thought we'd get a better deal at the World.
- Calm down, love.
What is it, time of the month?
- Excuse me?
- Oh, blimey, she's getting upset.
That's no good.
The last bird I upset
ended up throwing herself in the Thames.
I'm not joking.
- I've got that address that you wanted,
by the way.
- What address?
- The Felgate house.
Cynthia's name is on the deeds of a house in the East End.
Number 23, Paradise Street.
- Yeah! - E2.
- That's it!
- I'm impressed.
- That's the Queen Mum in the East End.
- Hold it there.
That's Felgate all right.
There's the birth mark.
Can you move in any closer?
Can you get me some stills of this?
- No problem.
- Anybody in?
Hello?
- You're wasting your time.
The yuppies are on holiday, again.
Bloody property developers.
There'll be no locals left before long.
- Good afternoon.
Can I just ask you, have you lived here long?
- All me life, son.
- Can we ask you some questions?
- If you're from the Council,
the dog's gone back to the kennel.
- We're not from the council, mate.
We're from the Weekend World.
- You from the Revenue, ain't you, eh?
- No, no, he's just told you, we're from the Weekend World.
- I read the Mirror.
- Can you read this?
- I'll put the kettle on.
I was only eight then,
but I remember the Felgates, Harry and Cynthia.
Oh, she was lovely, she was, yeah.
We used to call her Queenie,
on account of her resemblance to, uh.
- How well did you know them?
- Well, I used to play with Harry, yeah.
But then one day they was, they was just gone.
- What happened to Cynthia?
- Well, I, I don't know, son.
- We were told she died, in the Blitz.
- Yeah, maybe, maybe.
There was many killed, you know, night after night there.
- Your name is Sean, isn't it?
- How do you know?
Harry?
Oh, well, would you believe it, Harry Felgate, yeah?
You're all grown up an American.
Here, here, you haven't still got that bag of marbles
I lent you, have you?
- No, I traded them for a skyscraper in New York.
How about you, eh?
I say, how about you?
- Hold on.
Christ almighty.
- Yeah, that's right. - It is.
Chief.
- Millen?
What's going on?
- Well, it's like a bloody family reunion here.
Seems our Harry was a big hit with the neighbors.
- He's checking out here as well.
Get everyone over, now.
- Will do.
- This is gonna be the scoop of the century.
- It's not quite enough.
- You've got to be kidding me, chief.
- It's my mother's brooch for certain.
- They could've just had the same taste in brooches.
That doesn't prove she was a stand-in
for the Queen Mum, does it?
That whole side of the story is still circumstantial.
- Didn't think that bothered people like you.
- It's a question of degree, my love.
Saying that Posh Spice had a boob job
isn't quite the same as saying the dear old Queen Mum
was an imposter called Cynthia Felgate.
No, there's only one thing that's gonna clinch this,
I'm afraid.
- What's that?
- You mean DNA?
- Yes.
- Chief, how are we gonna get the Queen Mother's DNA?
- I know they've got her dressing table
as part of the royal collection, chief.
- I'll do it.
I'll go in.
- No need.
I've got good connections at the Palace, chief.
- Get the DNA back to the lab
by eight o'clock Saturday night.
If it matches, we've got a story.
If it doesn't, I'll have a lovely photo of you two
on my front page, instead.
The Men Who Tried to Frame Francis Owen.
I like it.
- That brooch was supposed to be the clincher.
- There's no way that my DNA
is going to match the Queen Mother's.
- Well, there is a simple way around this.
- Yeah, well, we ain't gonna dig up the Queen Mum, are we?
- No, of course not, sorry, Albie.
- That hurt.
- We'll have to plant Albert's DNA first.
- You are joking.
Millen's got an inside man.
We're never gonna get in there.
- No, no, no, Stacie's right.
We can do this, Danny, we have to.
- Wow, where did you get all this stuff, Ash?
- Probably best you don't ask.
Now, time's everything.
Albert will be in contact with Danny,
and I'll pass it down the line to you.
- Got it.
What about the surveillance cameras?
- Yeah, that was tricky with the short notice,
but I'll hack into the CCTV, but I can't shut them down.
All I can do is track where you are
and see if Stacie's got enough time to plant Albert's hair.
Apart from that, you're on your own, all right?
- You're late, you idiot.
Put this on.
- You ever tried running without looking suspicious?
- All the Queen Mum's stuff is on display
in the Queen Anne room.
It's marked on that map. - Right.
- What are we actually looking for?
- There's a cabinet containing all her personal stuff.
Her hairbrush should be covered in DNA.
- Hairbrush in the Queen Anne Room.
- These passes will get you inside and out.
The keys will open the display cases.
If anything goes wrong, I don't know you.
I've never met you, and you didn't get this stuff from me.
- All right, relax, mate.
You'll give yourself an ulcer.
There you go, three grand, easy money.
- Are you getting all this, Albert?
- Yes.
Now, see if you can hold him up
until Stacie and Michael get to the Queen Anne room.
- Yeah, yeah. - Aren't you ready yet?
- Just got a bit of a wedgie.
- Just come on, will you, take that.
Listen, the only reason you're here is if I go down,
you go down with me.
- Tim, Tim, I just want to say,
before we You know, thank you for letting me in.
- Yeah, all right.
- And I just also want to say that...
- Shut up.
Stop arsing around and let's get on with it.
Hello, mate.
- Two tickets, please.
- You going away this year?
- Mm.
- Where you going?
- Portugal.
- Oh, very nice.
- God, it's massive.
- Good afternoon. - Afternoon.
- So is this the servants' quarters then?
- Keep it down, Chris.
- Sorry.
- You work here, remember?
- Yeah, that's right.
- Regency Corridor is first floor.
- Regency Corridor, first floor.
- They're heading to the Regency Corridor
on the first floor.
- Ash, we're in.
Are you hooked up?
- Yeah, I can see you.
You need to head to the Queen Anne room.
Millen's in the servants' quarters
making his way up to the Regency Corridor.
As soon as we pick him up, we'll go.
Oh, shit.
What's up with it?
Come on.
Oh, what a pile of crap.
- We're just entering the Regency Corridor.
- So this is the Regency Corridor?
- Is it, I don't know.
- How long before Millen gets here?
- Come on, yes.
Mickey, he's right on top of you.
- I could use a little help here.
- Danny, Michael needs a diversion.
- Millen, is it me or does Her Maj
look like one of the corgis
has done a little bit of a whoopsie under her nose?
- What are you talking about?
- No, just, she doesn't look happy, does she?
- Just stop pissing about,
and help me work out where the hell we are.
- Not like she does in the stamps, when you see the smile.
- What?
- I think this is, oh, here we are.
It's right, it's fine.
- Is this through... - Yeah.
Yeah, there it is.
- Are you sure this is the right way?
- Definitely, definitely, it's just straight down here.
- Okay, Ash, we're here.
- You're looking for the Queen Mum's hairbrush
in the main cabinet.
The cabinet's in the middle of the room.
There are three cameras in total.
One on the door, two on the balcony,
each doing 180-degree rotation.
There's only a three-second window
when the cabinet isn't covered by one of the cameras.
No, she'll never do it, Mick.
Danny can't hold Millen forever.
Stacie'll never beat the cameras.
The three-second clearance just isn't enough.
I think you should get out now.
- No, no, wait, I may have a blind spot.
- Blind spot?
I can't see it, mate.
- Trust me.
- In 30 seconds, on my cue.
- I don't see this blind spot, Mick.
She's in full view.
- Excuse me.
Could you tell me
where the Prince Philip Collection is, please?
- What the hell's going on? - Ash, what's happening?
- I don't know, mate.
It's just gone, isn't it?
Come on.
- If you carry on down this corridor here.
- Mm-hm.
- Come on!
All right, come on.
- It's the second door on the left.
- Come on, come on, come on.
- I'm sorry, I got completely confused.
- Jesus, where the hell are we?
- I'm sure I saw some display cases over there.
- We're back here again, you tosser.
It's this way.
- Danny can't stall Millen anymore.
- Work you bastard!
Yes!
I don't see them.
Where are they?
Mickey, Stace?
- Well, I hope they've planted it, because Millen's here.
- There's a guard.
Do you want me to distract him
with a fake heart attack or something?
- All you need is balls, Chris.
Just watch and learn, son.
All right, mate, we got called in to fix a wonky latch.
Shouldn't take a minute.
All looks fine to me.
Don't know what the problem was.
- Jesus.
Well, what happened, did you do it?
- I told you we'd found a blind spot.
- Well done, you two.
- Did Millen take the hair, Albie?
- Oh, yeah.
He's been bragging about it
for the last five minutes, listen.
- There's only about three journalists in the country
that would have had the balls to do that, Chris.
You just wait till that gets round the city.
I'll never have to buy another drink again.
- Okay, then, let's go see Owen and pick up our check.
- Millen's gone down to the lab
with the DNA sample.
I'm expecting a call from him any minute.
- Great.
- So, can we talk about our 250 grand?
- Why don't we wait to hear what the lab has to say?
Owen here.
- It's an exact match, chief.
- Are you sure?
- Positive.
Yep, only ever see it with maternal DNA.
- Thank you very much.
We have a deal.
- Yes. - Excellent.
- I knew it.
I knew this story was a killer.
- I guess it's that time.
- Yes, it certainly is, 250,000 pounds, as agreed.
- Have you seen Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?
- What, the game show?
- Where he writes the check and then he goes,
but I don't want to give you that.
- Sure. - I love that bit.
- Hey, now, what are you doing?
- Get out of my office.
- What?
- Put yourself in my place.
Quarter of a million is a lot of money.
- But this is my story.
- I'm not going to give you an interview,
or the photos, or the film.
- I don't need it.
I've got a DNA match.
I can just say I uncovered the whole scandal
by using my diligent research and my incredible nose
for a story.
Which is why I'm a Fleet Street editor
and you are just a couple of punks on the make.
- I want my hair back.
- We'll take this story somewhere else.
- Too late, mate, the presses are running.
- I'm gonna sue you.
I'll sue you for every penny you've got.
- Be my guest.
Are you familiar with the British legal system?
My lawyers will tie you up for the rest of your life.
Get out of here, I've got a paper to run.
- Harry.
- Chief, have I still got my job?
- Piss off.
- So he stiffed us? - I'm afraid so.
- Given Owen's reputation,
I thought that might be the case,
so I came up with plan B.
I'd like to see the editor, Martin Townsend.
- Do you have an appointment?
- I called this morning.
- So, what can I do for you?
- How much would you pay me to take down the editor
of the Weekend World?
- 100,000 pounds, as agreed.
- Scum!
- You and your bleeding plan Bs, Mickey.
- Well, I can't take all the credit.
It appears that we weren't the only people
interested in the World.
- Normally, we wouldn't bother ourselves
with your petty criminal activities.
But we are concerned about the lies you're constructing
about the late Queen Mother.
Be under no illusions.
Your lives won't be worth living if you proceed.
- What if my intention was to bring down the editor
of the Weekend World?
- My employers might have some sympathy with that cause.
- So, we can proceed?
- On the condition that you tell no one,
whatsoever, about this meeting.
- Perhaps you may be willing to help?
- What blind spot?
I can't see it.
- Trust me.
We're here, Stacie's in position.
- Okay, we're on it.
- Now.
What?
- Oh, shit.
What the hell's going on?
- Could you tell me
where the Prince Philip Collection is, please?
- Come on.
- Hang on, they're back on.
- Mickey, I tell you what, son.
You completely excelled yourself on this one.
- Great.
- I really thought we had completely wasted our time,
but check it out.
100,000 smackaroonies.
- Sorry.
- Hey.
- Ah, I knew we should've mentioned it.
- Well, I thought it'd be a nice gesture
to donate this to Emily's charity.
- Hold up, hold up, hold up.
I thought we were ruthless con artists?
When did we turn into Robin Hood and his merry bleedin' men?
- Just this one.
- Yeah, well think Maid Marian is taking a piss.
- Listen, she is a really good friend
who's been through a really tough time.
- Yeah, well, so have I.
- It's on the wire services.
Owen's resigned.
- Hey. - Yeah!
- Millen? - Sacked.
Had to clear his desk and marched out of his office
by security.
- Poor thing.
Still, Millen's got that story you gave him
about the fat in the sewers, hasn't he, Danny?
- Did I say fat?
Slip of the tongue.
I meant to say raw sewage.
All that work for no return.
- Come on, Danny, we're hardly out of pockets.
What about the score from the record collector?
- Yeah, well, what's wrong with having two scores?
- Thank you so much.
- You know, Mick, at first I was a bit surprised
those MI-5 boys were so keen to bring down Owen.
- Yeah? - Mm.
But then I thought, what if our story was true?
- Oh, come on, Ash.
- Come on, now, let's go.