Teatime, Lillian.
It's that Lime Whip you like.
Shake a leg, love.
You want to make your train.
This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner and the girl next door.
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from the girl and the boy...
Cedric?
Cedric!
Supper, dear.
I don't want any supper.
I told you, I'm going out.
What's going on?
Get off...
Get off me... I mean, please!
Let's go.
Miss Thursday.
It's, uh, early for you.
I'm taking Mum out for the day.
She's spoiling me.
We're going to pick out a new lamp for the flat
and have some lunch-- at Burridges.
Oh.
That will be nice. Mm-hmm.
I'm having a flat-warming Wednesday.
8:00, if you're free.
Thanks.
I'll, uh...
Oh, only if you're... Oh, well...
Got nothing on.
I know you're busy with work.
We're off, then, Fred.
Bye, Dad.
He can't hear over the taps.
He won't be a minute-- do go on through.
Is there anything you need?
For the flat?
Uh, just bring a bottle... if you're coming.
They've gone, have they?
Oh, yes.
Just.
They did call up.
Much in?
Good morning. Good morning.
Okay, um...
Build?
Average.
Right, we're on our way.
Where is he?
He's with Mr. Bright, why?
Lorry hijack,
Waddington Junction.
Driver sounds to be in a pretty bad way.
Whistle up the old man
once he's done with Morning Prayers.
See you out there. Mm-hmm.
I cycle on a Sunday, up into the Chilterns.
I set off about 7:00,
usually home by 6:00 or half past.
Frances does bell-ringing,
but is normally back by then.
And where's this?
The bell-ringing?
At All Souls' on Southmore Road.
And when she still wasn't home by 11:00,
I called Jilly to see if she'd seen her.
I haven't spoken to Fran since, uh,
well, um, last week.
What's all this?
Missing person.
Mr. Porter's wife.
Frances.
Mr. Porter and his sister-in-law, Miss...
Conway-- Jilly.
When did you see her last?
Yesterday morning.
No note,
and she hadn't taken anything with her.
No suitcase, no nothing.
All was well with you?
You hadn't had a row, or...
No, nothing like that.
And where should she be today?
Fran works at Alice's Marmalade Cat.
It's a boutique.
Right.
Well, leave it with us.
The detective constable will see you out.
Try not to worry.
Nine times out of ten,
these cases are resolved quite happily.
Oh, thank you.
Oh, do you have a photograph?
No, I'm sorry.
I didn't think.
Um, I can drop one by later, if that would help.
Thank you.
And still no word on the Flynn murder?
Not yet, sir, no.
Tied in to Eddie Nero, you think?
Liam Flynn was a strong-arm man and collector
for Nero's protection racket.
It's hard to see there isn't some connection.
Just taken a payoff from a cafe in the covered market,
hadn't he?
Yes, sir, that's right.
Only when his body was found, the wallet was empty.
No chance it was just an opportunistic robbery?
No.
Very well.
But a breakthrough
before the quarterly figures are submitted
would be to the general weal,
so far as our standing with Division is concerned.
No news on the future of the station?
None that has yet been confided to me.
The survival of the fittest, Thursday.
If we are useful, we will endure.
If not...
Thames Valley was always going to mean changes.
Sir.
I'll give you a copy of my notes.
Mrs. Porter.
I suppose you want to take it.
No, no, missing person.
Work for a detective constable-- you can deal.
Really? Hm.
All right.
Okay.
I'd start at All Souls', if I were you.
See if she made the bell-ringing.
But as you think best.
I won't miss anything.
I know.
Missing person, didn't even ask for a photograph.
You can't do it all yourself.
Hmm.
Something's come in.
Excuse me, sir, guv is here.
Righto.
Touch and go, according to the ambulance boys.
Plenty of tire tracks.
There would be-- they'd've been a team,
manned with half a dozen blokes at least.
Make sure we get photos and casts.
What was he carrying?
Mixed load.
Whisky mostly-- smokes, tinned goods.
Come down from Scotland via Birmingham.
Regular run?
Every other Sunday.
He arrived at the yard around 9:00,
went to the pub whilst the goods fellas got him loaded.
Whoever it was must've been waiting for him
when he got back.
Where were the porters?
Gone home.
His was the last load of the night.
Most of it was bound for Richardson's Depot at Bicester
and some other shops and stores around Oxford.
Hammond and Sons, isn't that in Abingdon?
I've spoken to the governor there.
Driver's Burt Hobbs, been with the firm 15 years.
Oh, Christ.
I'll notify his next of kin.
Bastards.
That could've been my old man, or yours.
It won't do, Morse.
It won't bloody do.
His missus is breaking her heart.
Had their ruby wedding coming up in September.
Big do planned.
Do we have a value
on the load?
Thousands worth of whisky.
Some are tobacco and tinned goods.
A proper gang'd have it coopered across
to another vehicle
inside two hours.
A decent, working man
going about his lawful business
cut down in as callous a manner
as you please.
We leave no stone unturned.
Ah, perfect timing.
Cowley will be coordinating the investigation
with Detective Inspector Ronnie Box
and Detective Sergeant Dawson from Robbery.
DCI Thursday will, of course,
remain in overall operational command.
Sir.
Your promotion to detective chief inspector
inevitably means a more managerial role.
I'm not a manager, sir, I'm a doer.
No disrespect, I just think I should have been told,
that's all.
I've just found out myself.
It's come down from Division.
D.I. Box...
How did you get on at All Souls'?
Mrs. Porter hasn't come to practice for about two months.
She telephoned to say she was unwell,
but she hasn't been back since.
What's this?
Oh, missing person.
Frances Porter.
Robbery Squad.
How's that, then?
Because it's our business.
There was a lorry hijack at Waddington Junction.
Who do you fancy for it, then?
Eddie Nero, like as not.
Well, Nero's heists don't usually involve murder.
Desperate times, desperate measures.
All right, stand to.
Action this day.
A rolling observation is to be made of Nero
and known associates.
That will be conducted by D.I. Box's robbery team.
Fancy, you're assigned.
Meantime, Strange and me'll look into the haulage side.
All right, as you were.
Right, fetch your coat.
You might learn something.
Fetch the car round, Jim.
Sir.
You don't want me on it?
Division wanna make it Robbery's show,
good luck to 'em.
But they're not having my best man.
Besides you've a missing person,
haven't you?
It's an occupational hazard for haulage, but this...
No drivers you let go lately?
Nobody with a grudge, anything like that?
Well, the only thing out of the ordinary was,
I had a colored come in looking for a job about a month back.
West Indian.
Wanted to know the ins and outs
of the cat's proverbial.
He got a name?
Not that I remember.
He had a scar, though.
Right side.
He just felt like a wrong'un.
All right, Mr. Hammond,
if it should come back to you.
I'll have a turn through the picture gallery, but...
It doesn't sound like
any of Eddie Nero's known associates.
If this had been him, Hobbs would still be alive.
Nero's not afraid of violence,
but as a means to an end.
Nah.
This little bit of business
goes hand-in-glove with Liam Flynn.
Somebody making a move against Nero?
There's no firm in Oxford with that kind of muscle.
Until now, maybe.
Actually it's an astrological symbol.
Leo.
That's a fire sign. Mm-hmm.
It means I'm very passionate.
Afternoon, squire.
After something in particular?
Yes, as a matter of fact.
Frances Porter. Oh, yeah?
Who're you, then, her old man?
I'm Detective Sergeant Morse, Thames Valley.
Mr....?
Bedlo.
Marty Bedlo-- this is my place.
All right.
When d'you see her last?
Saturday, when we closed.
Did she mention any plans for the weekend?
Not to me.
Anoushka.
Did Frances say anything to you
about what she was doing this weekend?
Oh, excuse me. Of course.
Alice's Marmalade Cat.
Oh, hello.
Hello.
Miss...? Nolan.
Did Mrs. Porter tell you
what she was doing this weekend?
Miss Nolan?
Don't mention anything to Marty.
She borrowed a couple of things from the shop.
Nothing expensive.
Just a hat and a pair of red shoes.
She was going to get them back first thing.
She's got this guy she's seeing, Don.
Don what?
I don't know.
Just Don.
Did she tell you where she was meeting him?
Detective Sergeant Morse, Thames Valley.
I'm trying to find a woman who was here last night.
Her name's Frances Porter.
She's... early 20s, medium height.
Wearing a hat, possibly,
and some red shoes.
Well, the only person we had in like that
was with a guest at the bar.
A Mr. Smith, in chalet nine.
I'd like to see his room, please.
Yes, I don't see why not.
What a tumble!
I'm so sorry, it should have been cleaned.
I'll have to give Mrs. T. a piece of my mind.
I'll need to take these glasses and champagne bottles with me.
Has she done something wrong?
Her family have reported her missing.
Heavens.
What time did he check out, Mr. Smith?
I don't know-- I came on at 7:00 in the morning,
and by then, he'd already gone,
so he must have left early.
Or late.
Guests provide a car registration, presumably.
It's a beige, four-door saloon.
Possibly a Rover P6.
Index Mother-Delta-Papa- six-six-eight-Foxtrot.
Soon as you can.
Yes, sir.
Still here? Mm.
A Miss Conway dropped this by the front desk
earlier this evening.
Thanks.
Who is she?
Miss Conway's sister.
Frances Porter.
Any sign of her?
George mentioned.
George?
Yes and no.
Did Fancy-- sorry, George--
say anything about the Hobbs murder?
Only that if I heard of any Kilorran whisky going cheap,
I should let you know.
Morse.
That index came back.
It's a fleet vehicle registered to Gidbury's Desserts.
Thank you, what's the address?
Ajax House, Solihull.
So...
What's this all about then?
I was wondering if you can give me an account
of your whereabouts on Sunday.
I, uh...
I was at home, mostly.
Played nine holes in the morning.
Afternoon, I...
took the kids to the park.
It's just, your car registration
was noted at a motel just outside Birmingham on Sunday.
And a man answering your description
was seen in the company of a woman
called Frances Porter.
Yeah.
All right.
You know how it is.
It was me, but I don't know
any Frances... what was it?
Porter.
No, I was with Jilly Conway.
Yeah, that's her, that's Jilly.
No, that's Frances Porter.
Jilly Conway's her sister.
Trust me, I've met her.
Why would she lie about her name?
For the same reason you checked into the hotel
under the name of Smith, perhaps?
Because she's married.
Now, how long have you been seeing her?
Two-and-a-half months.
And what did you do Sunday?
We had lunch. Mm-hmm.
Went back to the room.
I dropped her at Kings Oak station.
She was going to catch the train back to Oxford.
No, Sorry.
Didn't see her alight.
I clocked off.
Is that usual?
To leave the station unmanned?
Well, it wasn't, strictly speaking.
We live above the shop.
My wife's expecting, see.
Thought the baby was coming.
The ticket office at Kings Oak
said there are no direct trains through to Oxford
at that time of a Sunday.
So she'd've had to change here.
That's right, ordinarily.
Only last Sunday there was nothing due
after the Kings Oak train.
Down was cancelled.
Blockage on the line.
Would the passengers have known that?
Don't get that many passengers out here.
Not that time of the night.
Well, if anyone was stuck,
there's a cab number in the booking hall
and a telephone outside.
With you in a moment.
Anoushka.
Anoushka, customer, love.
Here now, what's this?
Two days, Marty.
Something must have happened.
Come on.
Don't take on.
You don't know that.
She'll turn up.
Probably just had a row with her old man.
Yeah. Mm-hmm.
Maybe.
Listen, I've been having a go
through the weekend till receipts,
and there's a hat and a pair of shoes
not accounted for.
Uh, excuse me.
I couldn't help but overhear you talking
to the station master.
What he told you wasn't strictly accurate.
No?
About nothing running here Sunday night.
No, actually, there would have been the Parly.
Some people call them ghost trains.
It's a service run by the railway
once a week, unannounced,
as a way of avoiding closing the line altogether.
And one ran here Sunday night?
That's right, the 22:15 special.
Calling at Chadwick, Hamingwell Halt, Pudham,
Whimperley, East Pitherbury,
and Waddington Junction.
You're a trainspotter? Railway enthusiast.
And what do you do
when you're not enthusing about railways, Mr....?
Naughton, Cedric.
I'm with the Ministry of Education. Ah.
Schools inspector, for my sins.
Mother wanted me to be a...
...concert pianist,
but you've either got a feeling for it,
or you haven't.
And those stations that you just mentioned.
Would any of those have been good for Oxford?
East Pitherbury'd get you nearest,
but there's no... direct service anymore.
They're all... closed now.
Hello, sir.
Detective Sergeant Morse, Thames Valley.
I was wondering if you've seen this lady.
Sunday, perhaps.
Doesn't ring a bell with me.
Never get many through here on Sundays.
I suppose she could have alighted here
if she was trying to get to Oxford.
Hm. What's she done?
I passed a stretch of overgrown track
on the way from Norborough.
Where does that lead?
Nowhere, these days.
The old Marsdon Branch Line.
No trains on that track for a few years now.
Right.
Thank you.
Rigor has completely passed.
Dead somewhere between 24 and 48 hours.
Hands bound.
Bruises to the neck and throat
consistent with manual strangulation.
What about her feet?
No sign of her shoes.
No.
Well, she walked some way unshod,
by the looks of things.
Interfered with?
Her underclothes have been removed,
and there would appear to be some evidence of coitus.
She spent Sunday afternoon
in a motel with her lover.
Well, that might complicate matters.
Be able to tell you more after the postmortem.
Shall we say 1:00?
Gentlemen. Doctor.
Place this is.
Private.
She could've screamed the place down,
and nobody'd've heard her.
If Scene of Crime are done,
let's get her out of here.
Of course.
Just needed some fresh air.
When did this close?
'64.
Along with the rest of the branch line.
There's a few houses about two miles west,
but the rest's just farmland.
Must have been driven here.
Yeah, hard to see
how she would have stumbled on it by herself.
So somebody picks her up
and brings her out to this godforsaken hole.
You'd better notify the husband.
There's the sister, too.
Mrs. Porter took her name
when she met the dessert salesman,
Don Mercer.
Is he married?
Figures.
Excuse me, sir.
Thank you.
You're a ways out.
Have car, will travel.
What can you tell me?
Not much.
Well, give me a name, at least.
Frances Porter, went missing Sunday.
But that's not for publication.
Not till we've notified the next of kin.
Any connection to the Gresham girl?
County case, '64.
Linda Gresham.
Teenager from Headington.
Body was found out near Slepe Bridge station.
County thought it must be somebody who worked the railway
or knew it, at least.
Why? Is it unsolved?
I spoke to the parents.
Nice people, decent.
I can let you have sight of the transcript,
if you think there's any connection.
I wouldn't want to speculate at this stage.
We'd be glad
of any information you might have.
Well, I'm sure you've got it all on file...
But my contact at County said
they nicknamed the killer Prince Charming.
Because he took her shoes as a souvenir.
Is that right?
Christ, who's this soppy tart?
Constable Trewlove.
Get her out of here, Pat,
before she blows our cover
and makes a bollocks of the whole observation.
She knows what she's doing.
Information Room, from Dawson.
Receiving.
We've got some plonk in imminent danger
of queering our obs, on Tobacco Street.
Put her off, will you? And make it sharpish.
Now what's she doing?
On your way, girlie.
Robbery, D.I. Box.
Don't make me flash my warrant.
Trewlove from Information Room.
Receiving.
Obs in progress
at your location.
Move on.
Received.
You might want to tell the occupants
of LML-Four-Nine-Nine-C
that their Nondy's parked on a double yellow.
If I'm seen to not move them on by any likely lads,
it'll make the vehicle concerned,
and its occupants
stand out like spare pricks.
Received.
Using the radio's a bit of a giveaway, too.
There's a clear spot just there.
Afternoon, gentlemen.
The beach is a literal stone's throw,
and facilities are first-rate.
From the hotel,
there's excursions to all the sights and local markets.
And, of course, being Acapulco,
there's the casinos and the nightlife.
I've got a break there myself coming up.
Yes.
Yes, that's her.
That's my wife.
Frances Porter.
Come on, Mr. Porter.
This way, sir.
Alcohol levels in her blood
suggest she'd had quite a lot to drink.
Enough to impair her judgment.
Cause of death was as first appeared,
manual strangulation.
Coitus took place within a few hours of decease,
but there are no obvious signs
of sexual assault.
Which isn't the same as to say
there may not have been
some sexual element to the crime.
Indeed not.
The act of murder itself
is often sufficient stimulus
for the sexual psychopath to achieve release.
Otherwise, she was a fit, healthy young woman.
Roughly eight weeks pregnant.
I know you have already been asked this question,
but I am afraid I must put it to you again.
Was all well between you and your wife?
She was my life.
Then I am sorry to have to tell you
that she had lately become involved with someone else.
What?
No, that's, er...
She was with him Sunday evening.
I don't believe it, not Frances.
She never gave you any indication?
What about your married life,
were you... taking precautions?
What?
I don't see our private life's any bearing.
My wife's been murdered.
If you must know...
No.
There was no need-- we couldn't.
There is no easy way to put this, Mr. Porter,
but at the time of her decease,
your wife was carrying a child.
About two months gone,
according to the postmortem.
I am very sorry.
You got a platform ticket?
I'm not doing any harm.
I'm not saying you are,
but the railway's got rules.
If you're going to...
...be like that about it...
This other man.
Don Mercer, sir.
Strange is bringing him in now.
Presumably we only have his word
he put her on a train at...
Where is it? Kings Oak.
We're pulling the old County files
from the Linda Gresham case in '64.
Her body was found at Slepe Bridge,
another disused station further along the line.
There may be other similarities.
Such as?
Their shoes were missing in each case.
County thought the killer
may have taken them as a memento.
I'm very sorry, Miss Conway.
Poor Frances.
Did your sister...
confide in you?
How do you mean? Confide what?
Did she ever mention any other men?
It can't hurt her now.
She never said as much.
Not in so many words.
I just had a feeling.
Well, it appears she'd become involved
with a man called Don Mercer.
She spent Sunday with him
at a motel out by Birmingham.
It appears she was using your name.
My name? Mm.
Why would she?
Well, I can think of a few reasons.
Is there anybody else you'd like us to notify?
Your parents?
No.
Dad died last year.
Mum's in...
in a home.
Can't really communicate anymore.
Maybe it's a blessing.
At least I don't have to tell her...
...about Frances.
Yes, hello-- Cowley police station, please.
What do you make to Porter?
Bit of a wet week.
Not to know your wife
was involved with someone else.
Wouldn't be the first.
You wonder what goes on in a marriage.
I know what goes on in yours.
Luncheon meat.
Ah, Miss Frazil.
My notes.
And a transcript
of the interview I conducted
with Linda Gresham's parents.
Just in case.
What do you remember of them?
Father was a merchant seaman.
Mother in nursing. She was their only.
Went to Headington Town Secondary, prefect.
Excelled in home ec, music, and sport.
A well-liked girl.
Too much by someone.
Well, we'll talk to the parents.
I've already tried to reach them.
Did you?
Bit premature, don't you think?
You said, "Tried."
They moved away.
No forwarding address.
Well, I'm sure we can track them down.
Thanks for the...
Look, I know you've got your job,
but I've got mine, too.
We both want to see whoever did it caught.
Morse.
Yeah, thank you.
Hm, you smell nice.
What is it we're hoping to see?
Nero's men are hardly going to be carting boxes of Kilorran
in and out of the gym, are they?
Softly, softly, son.
Right, opening time.
Off you piss.
You're all right back to Cowley from here, are you?
Find your way?
I should think so.
Be here for 9:00.
Pick up a couple of bacon sarnies on the way.
And two teas.
Mine's three sugars.
Go on.
You can go home early tonight.
You don't want me to close up?
No, you're all right, love.
I'll give you a lift home in the car.
Oh, no, it's all right.
I'll take the bus.
Thanks, Marty.
Sure.
Looking for anything in particular, officer?
No, just looking.
Thank you.
Wait, wait, stop!
Stop, stop, stop, stop!
Mr. Mercer.
Detective Chief Inspector Thursday.
Yeah, about bloody time.
Two hours, I've been waiting.
I've a good mind to make a formal complaint.
Two hours.
What am I supposed to tell my wife?
What did you tell her Sunday? "Work," was it?
I think I'm owed an explanation.
The woman you knew as Jilly Conway
was found murdered.
Strangled, to be precise.
That enough of an explanation for you?
Christ.
He's nothing to do with it, but you are.
Now, wait a minute...
We've a witness says they saw you car
parked in a slip-road by the roundabout
on Sunday night, a quarter of a mile from the motel.
What witness? They said you were standing on the verge
arguing with a woman
who answers the description of Frances Porter.
Well, it wasn't me.
We can put you in a line-up, get them to pick you out.
Is that what you want?
No?
So what were you arguing about?
It was a tiff, that's all.
The staff at Kings Oak Station have no recollection
of Mrs. Porter being dropped off by you,
or of her boarding a train.
Well, I can't help that.
Well, you'd better hope someone can,
because right now, you're the last person to see her alive.
And in my book, that means you're halfway to the dock.
Just so you know, I won't be diving in after you.
Don't tempt me.
As bad as that?
Try sitting in a motor
for half a day with two sarky Charlies
who'd sooner you weren't there
and aren't too polite to let you know it.
They treat me like I'm bloody invisible.
Imagine.
I guess you get that a bit,
being in uniform.
Uniform.
Of course, I wondered what it was.
You might want to take a look at Lloyd Collins.
West Indian-- Jamaican, possibly.
He's got a record stall in Brennan Street Market.
Running an M.O.T. failure of a van
registered to 43B Hartford Road.
And?
You asked me to be on the lookout
for Kilorran whisky.
He's using a bit of cardboard
from a case of the same on his stall.
His prices are written on the back.
But...
I can't put that to Robbery.
He's also not above dealing in stolen goods.
There's an LP on his stall from Morse's flat.
He was burgled last autumn.
Collar like that, you could make a name for yourself.
So...
Why tell me?
Because I'm all heart.
You're the detective.
I'm just a uniform, remember?
I don't know, we just hit it off.
There was a... connection.
I gave her a lift back to the station.
It just started.
Nothing just starts, Mr. Mercer,
unless someone wants it to.
Did she tell you she was pregnant?
Two months gone.
About the same time you started seeing her, wasn't it?
I imagine that might put you in the soup at home.
Marriage, kids-- work, as like as not.
All of it up in smoke.
A man might take it upon himself
to do something about it.
Not meaning to, of course, but...
No.
...put on the spot like that.
Is that how it went? No, there's...
I'd never...
Well, it could've been her husband's, couldn't it?
You didn't know she had a husband.
So you claim.
So any child would be down to you.
It was only meant to be a bit of fun.
I, I didn't sign on for all that.
I told her,
if she was keeping the damn thing,
to stick it up for adoption.
Either way, I wasn't going to be around.
Gallant to the last.
So you didn't take her to Kings Oak station?
It wasn't even half a mile.
I told her she could walk it.
And was she wearing her shoes?
Far as I remember-- why?
Just a line of inquiry.
Right, twist it how you like,
but there's no way I'd've laid a finger on her.
Not for that.
When I left her at the roundabout,
she was safe and well.
Do you believe him?
"She was lonely, I was lonely.
One thing led to another."
I might buy it from a lovesick teenager,
but not from a man who sells Lime Whip
to earn his crust.
Right, I best be off.
Joan.
Best not keep your mum waiting.
Hello. Oh, hello.
Can I give you a lift anywhere?
No, thanks all the same.
I'm meeting someone. Right.
But don't forget, tomorrow night.
Flat-warming.
Oh, yes.
I stopped by the Chinese. So I see.
There's plenty if you want a bowlful.
Sweet and sour pork, chicken chop suey,
beef in black bean, spring rolls.
Egg fried rice.
I'll be fine with a drink, thanks.
I had a bottle of Radford's.
In the fridge.
In the fridge?
It's bitter, not lager.
How d'you make out with Mercer?
There's nothing to hold him on.
Not yet, leastways.
Got back on Sunday around 10:00, so he says.
You'll have to talk to the wife, then.
How you getting on with the hijack?
There might be a connection
to a fella on the market.
Lloyd Collins, Jamaican.
But it's early days.
I don't want to jump the gun.
...is sure to delight
even the most discerning of dinner guests
Gidbury's lime dessert.
It's not just good...
Joan come by, then?
That lamp that we picked up from Burridges.
There's something wrong with the fitting.
You know, where you put the bulb in?
Want me to take a look at it?
No, no.
She just wants me to change it
next time I'm passing.
All right, then, is she?
I just seem to put her back up lately.
It's not you.
She's just getting back on her feet again,
that's all.
Still with that Public Advice thing?
Part-time.
She said something about school.
Free School, whatever that is.
Oh, and Charlie rang.
What Charlie? My Charlie?
How many Charlies do you know?
Funny.
You don't hear from him
for the best part of ten years...
Well, that's family, isn't it?
I'll call him tomorrow.
What time are The Minstrels on?
Late, Cal.
That's branch meetings for you.
Everybody wants to say their piece.
Lot of stuff about the line being closed down.
You all right, are you?
My back's playing up.
I'll just go and wash up.
You've hurt yourself.
What? That?
Oh, bugger.
No, I caught some old Tommy Brock.
Had to finish him off with the jack.
Oh, Cal.
I couldn't leave him like that, love.
Would've been cruel.
Rexy!
Rex!
Come on.
Come on, boy.
What's your business with my van?
Lloyd?
Who wants to know?
I heard you might be the man to talk to.
About what now?
Well...
where a man could get his hands on some decent Scotch.
And where you hear that?
Just... up the market.
Rarse, man.
Me got nothing for you.
Come on, help a fellow out.
I've... I've got a party
at college,
and I've got to get the bar stocked.
The college, you say?
Yeah, yeah, that's right.
Leave me your number.
Me see what me can do.
Gentlemen
Doctor.
I'm afraid we don't have a name
for her yet. It's Anoushka Nolan.
So which station is it we're by here?
Slepe Bridge.
Same as where Linda Gresham was found.
Oh, yes.
I thought it felt familiar.
Any similarities?
To this?
Well, by dint of location.
And her hands were tied.
It was kept out of the papers, but
Linda Gresham's strangulation involved a ligature.
Her own bra.
This was manual.
Hands bound, mind.
Same type of sash-cord.
Same type of knot.
Just like Frances Porter.
But he hasn't taken her shoes.
No.
It's got to be more than some sex killer
targeting women at random, hasn't it?
Maybe that's what we're meant to think.
Maybe this whole railway connection is...
just window dressing.
Copycat, you mean?
Mm-hmm.
Based on newspaper accounts of Linda Gresham.
But whoever's behind it got it wrong.
He didn't know Linda Gresham
had been strangled with her own bra.
Or that her shoes had been taken.
What about Frances Porter's shoes?
They'd been taken.
Yes, but that was before, not after, her murder.
It looked like she'd been walking for miles.
The soles of her feet
were all scratched and filthy.
So what connects Frances Porter
to Anoushka Nolan?
Mr. Bedlo.
This about Frances?
In a manner of speaking.
No Miss Nolan today?
You're telling me.
I had to open up myself.
She was in a pretty bad way over Frances.
I let her go home early last night.
You want to talk to her,
maybe try again this afternoon.
What were your movements last night, Mr. Bedlo?
After you'd closed up.
Last night?
I was at home.
Anyone vouch for you?
Do they need to?
You drive a car, Mr. Bedlo?
Yeah, I have a car.
What's this about?
Anoushka Nolan was found
just after 7:00 this morning by a dog walker.
How do you mean "found"?
Dead, Mr. Bedlo.
Strangled.
Same as Frances Porter.
Coloreds?
You're dreaming, son.
Lorry load of Scotch and fags?
That's white man's mischief.
They haven't got it up here for that kind of caper.
Too much like hard work.
Where's this come from?
Where were you
in 1964, Mr. Bedlo?
All over.
I was flogging miniskirts out the back of a van.
Mary Quant.
Markets.
Here. Midlands, mainly.
Headington?
Yeah.
I said all over.
Did you ever know a girl called Linda Gresham?
Her.
She's a school kid.
Popular with teenagers,
I'd've thought.
Miniskirts.
So?
Who is she?
She was murdered in 1964.
Her body was left out
by Slepe Bridge station, the same place as Anoushka Nolan.
Wait, whoa, whoa, wait.
What is this?
When it comes to crumpet, I'm not a guy that has to try.
You know what I mean?
It's been reported to us that you tried it on
with both Frances Porter and Anoushka Nolan.
I don't care what anyone says.
I never laid a finger.
On either of 'em.
Or this Linda girl.
Never.
Not once.
A man would have to be mad, wouldn't he?
Murdering two members of his own staff?
It doesn't add up. It might.
It starts with Frances Porter.
She's the original crime.
And if Anoushka Nolan found something out about that...
stumbled on some piece of evidence
which would give the game away.
Then we have a motive.
So maybe the child isn't Don Mercer's.
Maybe it's Marty Bedlo's.
Mrs. Porter was sleeping with two men now
besides her husband?
Oh, it's just speculation, sir.
I don't know what the world's come to.
Truly, I don't.
A man would come by greater moral instruction
in a monkey house.
Results through on the vehicle tracks
from the Waddington Junction hijack.
Said you were to be on the lookout
for a van with a one odd tire on the rear off side.
Ah.
Cheers, Shirl.
There you are.
Sir?
Don't bloody "sir" me.
I want a word with you, girlie.
What's this?
As you were, Tubby.
This is the one I want.
Who do you think you are?
Some sort of detective?
Throwing out your little theories.
I'll tell you what you are.
A woodentop.
A plonk.
A Person of Limited or No Knowledge.
I know enough not to park on double yellows.
Keep your tits out of my operation.
Got it?
There.
You can run along now and have a little cry.
I'm not the crying sort.
Oh, I know your sort.
Good for two things.
One of them typing.
I believe you're unfit for duty through drink, sir.
Go home and sleep it off.
You mouthy little...
Woah!
Right!
Try that again.
What's the meaning of this?
Just giving the WPC a few words of advice, sir.
It was a bit more than that.
I may have expressed myself harshly.
So be it.
We're a bit rough around the edges,
but that's Robbery.
I don't care who you are.
Robbery? I've shit 'em.
All right, Thursday.
Reprimand is one thing.
Humiliating junior ranks in front of senior officers
is quite another.
I was putting her straight.
Indeed, then let me put you straight.
I will be making express request to Division
the Hobbs case be taken back
solely into Cowley's hands, and you will not oppose it.
Am I understood? She was asking for it.
Don't ever let me hear you talk to one of my officers
like that again.
Well...
we all know you've got
a bit of a soft spot for her, sir.
I beg your pardon.
Proper little Chief Super's pet.
Maybe that spot's not so soft, eh?
One phone call from me to Division,
and you will find yourself facing a disciplinary board.
Extension 388.
Ask for the Chief Constable.
It's a new world out there.
By the book's all well and good,
but it's "fire with fire" that gets results.
Division knows it, even if you don't.
Get out.
Go on, get out before I forget myself.
Get back...
to whatever disgusting sewer you crawled out from,
don't ever dare to show your face in my station again,
or I promise you,
you'll have cause to regret it.
Excuse me.
You made it!
I wasn't sure if you liked red or white,
so I brought one of each.
Oh, great.
What can I get you?
Just a beer, please.
There you go.
Here, come
You've got to see this.
It's the view I fell in love with.
Yes.
You can't see from there.
Come closer.
This is as close as I get.
You come here.
I'm not gonna jump.
There's someone I want you to meet.
Her name's Claudine.
She's a photographer.
Well, a photojournalist.
Something interesting, anyway.
You'll like her.
She's pretty.
I'm sure.
And French.
No matchmaking.
You need looking after.
I'm really not on the market right now.
Thank you, though.
Actually, I should probably go.
You just got here.
Yeah, work.
I just wanted
to wish you well.
Hope it's a happy place for you.
A fresh start.
Stupid cow!
Do you have a light?
Thank you.
Good night?
Hello.
It's George.
The lorry hijack.
That market trader came through.
He's gonna let me have four cases of Kilorran whisky
for 20 nicker.
Where're you picking it up?
Lock-up on Pike Street.
Ten minutes.
Okay.
Lloyd?
Lloyd, it's George.
Ambulance!
Easy, Lloyd, Lloyd, Lloyd, Lloyd.
Ambulance is on its way, all right.
Lloyd, Lloyd, Lloyd, stay with me.
Who did this?
Cromwell Ames...
Somebody probably saw him talking to you,
took him for a narc.
Anything on this Cromwell Ames?
Nothing on file according to the Information Room.
But the deceased's a fair bit of form.
Receiving, mostly.
Doctor.
Multiple wounds.
A ferocious attack.
Won't know which was the killer blow
until I've opened him up.
Anything out of the ordinary?
Beside the headless cockerel?
Well, it wasn't a knife, I can tell you that.
The only thing I've seen comparable of late
is Liam Flynn.
Shall we say 2:00?
There's no Kilorran on board.
But the rear off-side tire's a mismatch.
Which puts it at the Waddington Junction hijack.
What do you think the bird's about?
I know what it looks like,
but I hope I'm wrong.
The black cockerel's
a pretty potent voodoo symbol.
That rules out Eddie Nero.
Didn't we have a consignment of toasters
take a walk off Burridges' loading bay last month?
It's like Ali Baba's cave.
Kilorran.
Someone's got a sweet tooth.
There was a case of that on Hobbs' manifest.
Bound for Richardson's.
They can't be Frances Porter's shoes, can they?
Oh, I think they could be, sir.
Mercer left her at the roundabout, didn't he?
Maybe she thumbed a lift
to Kings Oak station from Hobbs.
Why would she leave her shoes behind?
Clearly you've never worn heels.
They were new, weren't they?
Maybe they were rubbing.
So, half-cut.
Upset from her row with Mercer,
she gets out of Hobbs' lorry,
and he's on his way before she realizes
she's left them behind. So, what,
after they knock the lorry off,
Lloyd does a sweep of the cab for any bunce?
Maybe he had them in mind for his market stall.
Is there any possibility
the hijack gang could have killed her?
These are professionals, sir.
A detour to mess her about and leave her dead at Gibbet's End...
I can't see it. No, well,
keep me apprised of any developments.
Carry on.
Right, Fancy and Trewlove,
get the contents of the lockup booked in.
Me and Strange'll
take the Shabeen on Kingston Street.
Can you keep the railway ticking over?
Sir.
Did you get that address for me?
There you go.
Thanks.
Afternoon.
Ferdy.
Mr. Thursday.
What can I get you gentlemen?
A couple of Scotches.
Kilorran if you've got it.
We don't stock it.
We gave Highland, Glen Ross,
and The Old Pretender.
Two Highlands, straight, no chaser.
Anybody been by
offering any cases of Kilorran on the cheap?
Them know better.
This is a straight joint.
We don't get no trouble round here.
You know that.
I know you're still paying protection
to Eddie Nero's mob
to make sure things stay that way.
That is management.
I'm just a barman.
Someone does come round, you'd be sure to let us know.
Sure.
So what's new, Ferdy?
Nothing new.
This is Oxford.
Nobody fresh on the scene?
From out of town, maybe?
Fella with a scar.
No.
Nobody like that.
We heard the name Cromwell Ames.
Mean anything to you?
Cromwell Ames?
No.
Do you want another?
No.
Thanks.
Keep the change.
It's Ferdy.
Him there?
And nobody notified you?
I can't say I'm surprised, though.
Mrs. Conway wasn't on the best of terms
with the older daughter.
Nor the husband.
When did she move in?
Last year.
Just after her husband died.
She had a number of strokes.
And this is a private home?
That's right.
So who pays for it?
Miss Conway has power of attorney
and has control of the family finances.
I believe it's quite a considerable fortune.
Here we are.
Nice young man to see you, Lillian.
Hello, Mrs. Conway.
Lillian?
I wouldn't get your hopes up.
You'll be all right for five minutes?
Oh, yes, yes.
Mrs. Conway.
My name's Morse.
I'm a police officer.
Mrs. Conway, I'm afraid
I've got some very bad news for you.
It's, um...
It's about your daughter,
Frances.
Mrs. Conway, do you remember Frances?
Jilly.
Um... no, Mrs. Conway.
That's Frances.
She's married to Noel.
Jilly.
I'm afraid, um...
It doesn't matter.
Any luck?
No.
I did say.
Yes, you did.
Well, thank you anyway, Miss, er...?
Misses.
Gresham.
She was a good girl, Linda.
She'd do anything for anybody.
Bright too.
Everybody said so.
Good at sport.
And music too, I believe.
Oh, yes.
Yes, she had all her certificates.
Grade four, she was.
Mrs. Naughton said she was a natural.
Her piano teacher.
She took it very bad.
You wouldn't think, would you?
A stranger taking on like that.
And how long have you been down here?
Two years, more or less.
We thought it would be better for my husband.
He hasn't worked since.
He just pines for her.
He's there and not there.
A bit like these.
I lost one child and got another.
I'm sorry you've had a wasted trip.
Oh, no, no.
Maybe it's for the best.
At least Mrs. Conway's been spared what you haven't.
Still, it's a pretty sad pass
when you can't recognize your own daughter.
Would you excuse me?
Yes, sir.
No, I think it is about the money.
Oh, you made me jump.
Yes?
What do you want?
I'm sorry.
I've been to see your mother.
Oh, yes.
I understand she wasn't on the best of terms
with your sister and Mr. Porter.
No.
Well, Mum always liked to play favorites.
See, what I can't understand is this.
Why would a mother be surrounded by photographs
of a daughter she couldn't stand?
You see, I think
Frances Porter is very much alive.
Then whose body was found?
Jilly Conway's.
Falsely identified by you at the mortuary
as your wife. To what end?
Financial gain.
After your mother-in-law went into a home,
Jilly-- the real Jilly Conway--
was granted power of attorney.
And more importantly,
control over the family finances.
I think you wanted that money
and drew up an elaborate plan to get your hands on it.
Rubbish.
How's the travel business doing?
All right, is it?
Because rest assured, Mr. Porter,
we will be taking a very close look at your accounts.
It's audacious, I'll grant you that.
Murder Jilly, say it was Frances who'd died,
and have your wife assume the identity
of your dead sister-in-law.
Here we are.
Tell me everything.
Never suspecting her own flesh and blood
intended ill toward her,
Jilly confided and shared things
only one sister might share with another.
How and where she'd met a nice man called Don Mercer.
How their affair had begun.
Right down to where she would be
on the Sunday she disappeared.
All the while unaware
that every intimate detail and disclosure
was being considered
as to how best it could be used against her
by you and your husband.
You were just looking for the right opportunity.
And Sunday night presented you with that.
A blockage on the line, a change to the timetable,
and the arrival of the once-a-week train
delivered your sister to her death.
Lost, miles from home.
Who should Jilly call
to help her get back to Oxford...
...but her sister?
I imagine you took her to some private,
out-of-the-way spot close to Gibbet's End.
And Gibbet's End was chosen so we might assume her death
was in some way connected to the Linda Gresham case.
That her killer had taken up his old ways again.
Perhaps you met Linda Gresham's mother at the care home.
That's what first put the idea into your head.
This is crazy.
As if I'd harm my own sister.
You acquainted yourselves with the case
from the newspapers.
So you wouldn't know
that Linda Gresham was strangled with a ligature.
And you made
the same mistake twice,
the second time with Anoushka Nolan.
Fran, could you hang these?
Course... listen, do you think
I could borrow these shoes and that hat
for the weekend? Sure.
That is great.
It is beautiful, isn't it?
Oh, wow, look at the flower.
And they match.
I think she must have seen a woman she thought to be dead.
Frances?
Just go through.
This is the maddest story I've ever heard.
You've no proof of it.
Who dropped the torch at Gibbet's End?
You or Noel?
There were no fingerprints, of course.
I imagine you both wore gloves
on the night in question.
But did you wear gloves when you put the batteries in?
Did you really think
there wouldn't be a photo of Jilly in the papers
sooner or later,
and that Marty Bedlo wouldn't see it
and realize she wasn't you?
Or maybe you had plans for Marty, too.
Actually...
we planned to be a long way away by then.
Ah.
Somewhere without an extradition treaty.
Well, your husband is certainly well placed
to make the travel arrangements.
Jilly was always the favorite.
Right from when we were small.
You know, youngest, I suppose.
It was only a few years between us,
but when she came along, that was it.
It was like Mum had no time for me.
It was all, "The baby this," "the baby that."
There was nothing too good for her.
There was ballet lessons, ice skating,
horse riding. You were jealous.
Of the love.
Of the attention.
Up until then, it'd been just me and my mum.
It was like someone had...
...just turned off the sun.
She should've put me in charge of the money.
I was the eldest.
She was your sister.
Oh, some sister.
She knew Noel's business wasn't doing well.
She could've given us an advance against the inheritance
to get us out of a hole,
but no, "This is Mum's money, Frances.
I'm just looking after it."
Looking after herself, more like.
New car, clothes, foreign holidays,
and she didn't even book those through us.
I just thought, "Why should she have it all?"
Even now.
What about me?
Heather?!
Heather!
So Frances Porter's
been passing herself off as her own sister
for the past four days.
- Yes, sir. - Morse.
Bold as brass. So it's got nothing to do
with the killing of Linda Gresham?
No, sir.
They just crept into her killer's shadow for cover.
To kill her sister for money, though, it's...
People have done far worse
for much less, Constable.
What is it?
She got him.
Morse!
"This is the Night Mail..."
What is it about men and trains?
How's his mother taking it?
You really think he killed Linda Gresham?
Certainly looks that way.
You'd better take her back to the station.
We'll be along to take a statement from her shortly.
Sir.
What do you think it's worth?
Good few quid, I should think.
Turn it off.
Still doesn't get us any closer to this Cromwell Ames.
If he is making a move on Eddie Nero's territory,
then it'll be all-out gang warfare.
It's who gets caught in the crossfire.
That's what keeps me up at night.
Just through, Mrs. Paterson.
She had a girl.
Wants to know what the name
of the nice young officer who first arrived was?
Morse.
Morse?
For a girl?
Tell her it's George.
You sure?
Right-o.
Georgina it is.
Well, that's something decent out of all this.
You've got to look for the silver lining.
Let me know when you find it.
I'd hate to miss that.
...following his shooting at a Los Angeles hotel
in the early hours of yesterday morning,
Senator Robert Kennedy died
shortly before 9:45 Greenwich Mean Time.
The younger brother of John F. Kennedy,
the late American president...