Tea time, Lilian.
It's that lime whip you like.
Shake a leg, love. If you want to make your train.
That's it.
Here's another one.
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!
- Hold him! - Please.
Argh! Argh!
Let's go.
Miss Thursday, it's early for you.
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.
That'll be nice.
Mm.
I'm having a flat-warming, Wednesday.
Eight o'clock, if you're free.
Right, I'll...
Only if you've got nothing on. I know you're busy with work.
- 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?
Just bring a bottle. If you're coming.
They've gone, have they?
Oh, yes, just. They did call up.
Much in?
Morning.
OK. Erm, build?
Average.
Right, on our way.
Where is he?
- He's with Mr Wright. - 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-hm.
I cycle on a Sunday up into the Chilterns.
I set off about seven, usually home by six 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.
When she still wasn't home by 11, I called Jilly to see if she'd seen her.
I haven't spoken to Fran since, well... erm, last week.
What's all this?
- Missing person. Mr Porter's wife. - Frances.
Mr Porter and his sister-in-law, Miss...?
Conway. Jilly.
- And 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.
Thank you.
- Oh, do you have a photograph? - No, I'm sorry, I didn't think.
Erm, I can drop one by later, if that would help.
Thank you.
There's still no word on the Flynn murder?
- Not yet, sir, no. - Tied in to Eddie Nero's?
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.
Any 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.
- Suppose you want to take it. - No, missing person.
Work for a detective constable. You can deal.
- Really? - Mm.
All right. OK.
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.
Can't do it all yourself.
Hmm.
Something's come in.
- It's not looking good. - At least he's responding.
- Excuse me, sir. Guvnor's here. - Righto.
Touch and go according to the ambulance boys.
- Plenty of tyre tracks. - There would be.
They'd have been team-handed. 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.
Arrived at the yard around nine. Went to the pub whilst the goods fellas got him loaded.
Whoever it was must have been waiting for him.
- 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 & Sons. Isn't that in Abingdon?
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 have 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 in tobacco and tinned goods.
Proper gang would have it coopered across
to another vehicle inside two hours.
Decent working man going about his lawful business
cut down in as callous a manner as you please.
We'll 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.
I just found out myself.
It's come down from Division.
DI Box.
How'd 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 hasn't been back since.
- What's this? - Oh, a missing person.
Frances Porter.
Robbery Squad.
- How's that, then? - Because it's our business.
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.
Right, stand to. Action this day.
A rolling observation is to be made of Nero and known associates.
That will be conducted by DI Box's Robbery team.
Fancy, you're assigned.
Meantime, Strange and me are looking at the haulage side.
All right, as you were.
Right, fetch your coat.
You might learn something.
Fetch the car around, Jim.
You don't want me on it?
Division want to 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've let go lately?
Nobody with a grudge, anything like that?
The only thing out of the ordinary was I had a coloured come in
looking for a job about a month back. West Indian.
Wanted to know the ins and outs of the cat's proverbial.
- Get 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...
doesn't sound like any of Eddie Nero's known associates.
If it 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-mm. - It means I'm very passionate.
Afternoon, squire. After something in particular?
Yes, as a matter of fact. Frances Porter.
Oh, yeah, who are you, then? Her old man?
I'm Detective Sergeant Morse, Thames Valley. Mr...?
Bedlo.
Marty Bedlo. This is my place. Right.
When did you see her last?
Saturday, when we closed.
Did she mention any plans for the weekend?
Not to me, no.
Anoushka, 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,
but she borrowed a couple of things from the shop.
Nothing expensive.
Just a hat and a pair of red shoes.
She was going to give 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.
Name's Frances Porter.
She's early twenties.
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? - Well, somebody reported her missing.
Heavens.
What time did he check out, Mr Smith?
I don't know. I came on at seven 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.
- As soon as you can. - 'Yes, sir.'
- Still here? - Mm.
Miss Conway dropped this by the front desk earlier this evening.
Thanks.
Who is she?
Miss Conway's sister, Frances Porter.
Oh. 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?
I was wondering if you can give me an account
of your whereabouts on Sunday.
I er...
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 is her sister. Trust me, I've met her.
Why would she lie about her name?
Same reason you checked into the hotel with 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-hm.
Went back to the room.
I dropped her at Kings Oak Station
and she was going to catch a 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 have had to change here.
Well, 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?
We don't get that many passengers out here. Not at that time of night.
If anyone's stuck, there's a cab number in the booking hall
and a telephone outside.
Be 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.
We don't know that.
She'll turn up. Probably just had a row with her old man.
Yeah. 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.
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, 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 would get you nearest,
but there's no direct service any more.
They're all closed now.
Hello, sir, Detective Sergeant Morse, Thames Valley.
I was wondering if you'd 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.
What's she done?
I passed overgrown track on the way from Norborough. Where does that lead?
Nowhere these days.
The old Marston branch line. No trains on that track for years now.
Right.
Thank you.
Rigor has completely passed.
It's somewhere between 24 and 48 hours.
Hands bound.
Bruises to the neck and throat
consistent with manual strangulation.
What about her feet?
And 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 one o'clock?
- Gentlemen. - Doctor.
A place this is.
Private.
She could have screamed the place down
and nobody would have heard her.
If Scene of Crime are done, let's get her out of here.
Go on, son.
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 is 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 always 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.
Until we've notified the next of kin.
Any connection to the Gresham girl? County case, '64.
Linda Gresham.
Teenager from Headington.
Body was found up near Sleetbridge 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 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.
Cos 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 is 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. DI 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 499C
that their nondy's parked on a double yellow.
So if I'm seen not to 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 is 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 judgement.
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've already been asked this question,
but I'm afraid I must put it to you again.
Was all well between you and your wife?
She was my life.
Then I'm sorry to have to tell you
that she'd lately become involved with someone else.
What?
- No, that's... - 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's 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'm very sorry.
You got a platform ticket?
I'm not doing any harm.
Not saying you are.
But the railway's got rules.
Well, 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 in the old county files
from the Linda Gresham case in '64.
Her body was found at Sleetbridge,
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.
God, 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.
It appears she'd become involved with a man called Don Mercer.
She spent Sunday with him at a motel up 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 a home.
Can't really communicate any more.
Well, 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 of 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?
A bit premature, don't you think?
You said "tried".
They moved away. No forwarding address.
Well, I'm sure we can track 'em 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.
Thank you.
Ooh, you smell nice.
What is it we're hoping to see?
Nero's men are hardly gonna be carting boxes of Kilorran in and out of the gym? Are they?
Softly, softly, son.
Right, opening time.
Off you piss.
You all right back to Cowley from here, are you? Find your way?
- I should think so. - Be here for nine.
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.
Ah, 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!
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 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 your car parked in a slip road
by the roundabout on Sunday night a quarter of a mile from the motel.
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 lineup. 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.
Right now you're the last person to see her alive.
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 don't want you 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 MOT 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.
Well, 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.
A collar like that, you can 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 dunno, 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, 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. This...
I'd never.
It could have been her husband.
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 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 gonna be around.
Gallant to the last.
So you didn't take her to Kings Oak Station?
Wasn't even half a mile. I told her she could walk it.
And was she wearing her shoes?
As far as I remember, why?
It's just a line of inquiry.
Right. Twist it how you like,
but there's no way I'd have 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'd 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.
'As they come into the final furlong.'
- I stopped by the Chinese. - So I see.
Plenty if you want a bowlful. Sweet and sour pork. Chicken chop suey.
Beef with black beans. 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?
Ah.
There's nothing to hold him on.
Not yet, leastways.
Got back on Sunday around 10 o'clock, so he says.
Come to talk to the wife, then.
How are 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.
'It's sure to delight even the most discerning of dinner guests.'
Gidbury's lime dessert. It's not just good...
Joan came 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, she just wants me to change it
next time I'm passing.
All right, then, is she?
Well, 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.
Don't hear from him for the best part of 10 years.
But that's family, isn't it?
I'll call him tomorrow.
What time are the Minstrels on?
Late, Carl.
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, Carl.
I couldn't leave him like that, love. Would have 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?
You know, where a man can get his hands on some decent Scotch.
And where'd you hear that?
Just... up the market.
Rarse, man. Me got nothing for you.
Come on, help a fella out.
I've... I've got a party.
At college. And I've got to get the bar stocked.
At 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?
Sleetbridge. Same as where Linda Gresham was found.
Oh, yes. 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, based on the newspaper accounts of Linda Gresham.
But whoever is 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?
Is it 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.
If you want to talk to her, maybe try again this afternoon.
What were your movements last night, Mr Bedlo, after you 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.
Look, what's this about?
Anoushka Nolan was found just after seven this morning by a dog walker.
How do you mean "found"?
Dead, Mr Bedlo. Strangled.
Same as Frances Porter.
College? 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 mini-skirts out of 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 schoolkid.
Popular with teenagers I'd have thought.
Mini-skirts.
So?
Who is she?
She was murdered in 1964. Her body was left out by Sleetbridge Station,
- the same place as Anoushka Nolan. - Wait. Wait, wait, wait.
What is this?
When it comes to crumpet, I'm not a guy that has to try. 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 them.
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. - Well, it might.
It starts with Frances Porter. She's the original crime.
Then if Anoushka Nolan found something out about that,
stumbled on some piece of evidence which'd give the game away, 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?
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 on the vehicle tracks from the Waddington Junction hijack.
Said you were to be on the lookout for a van
with one odd tyre on the rear offside.
Oh.
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 'em typing.
I believe you're unfit for duty through drink, sir.
- Go home and sleep it off. - You mouthy little...
Oi!
- 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.
A reprimand is one thing. Humiliating junior ranks
in front of senior officers is quite another.
- I was putting her straight. - Indeed, and let me put you straight.
I will be making express requests to Division
that 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.
Hm.
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 is not so soft, eh?
One phone call from me to Division,
you'll 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, before I forget myself!
Get back...
to whatever disgusting sewer you crawled out from!
And 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 photo journalist.
Something interesting anyway.
You'll like her.
She's pretty.
- I'm sure. - And French.
Not 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.
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 are you picking it up? - Lockup on Pike Street.
- '10 minutes.' - OK.
Oi!
Lloyd, it's George.
Ambulance! Ambulance!
Ambulance!
Easy. Lloyd, Lloyd, Lloyd. Ambulance is on its way.
Lloyd, Lloyd, Lloyd, stay with me.
Who did this? Who did this?
Cromwell Ames.
Somebody probably saw him talking to you. Took him for a nark.
Anything on this Cromwell Ames?
Nothing on file according to the Information Room.
But the deceased has 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 two o'clock?
There's no Kilorran on board. But the rear offside tyre is 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 is 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?
Well, 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 realises she's left them behind.
So, what, after they knocked the lorry off,
Lloyd does a sweep of the cab for any bunce?
Maybe he had them in mind for his market stall?
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 will take the shebeen on Kingston Street.
- Can you keep the railway ticking over? - Sir.
Did you get that address for me?
- Here you go. - Thanks.
Afternoon.
Ferdy.
Mr Thursday. What can I get you gentlemen?
Couple of Scotches. Kilorran if you got it.
We don't stock it. We have Highland, Glenross 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 around 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.
If someone does come round, do 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.
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, Lilian.
Hello, Mrs Conway.
Lilian.
I wouldn't get your hopes up.
- You 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...
It doesn't matter.
Any luck?
- No. - I did say.
Yes, you did.
- Well, thank you anyway, Miss... - Mrs.
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.
Yeah, 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 has been spared what you haven't.
Still, it's a pretty sad pass
when you can't recognise your own daughter.
Would you excuse me?
Yes, sir. No, I think it's 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 favourites.
See, what I can't understand's this.
Why would a mother be surrounded
by photographs of a daughter she couldn't stand?
See, I think Frances Porter is very much alive.
And 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.
You wanted that money and drew up an elaborate plan to get it.
Rubbish.
How's the travel business doing? All right, is it?
Because, rest assured, Mr Porter,
we'll be taking a very close look at your accounts.
It's audacious, I grant you that. Murder Jilly.
Say it was Frances who 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'd 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'd 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. Second time with Anoushka Nolan.
- Fran, can you hang these? - Of course.
Listen, think I could borrow these shoes and hat for the weekend?
Sure.
That is great.
It's beautiful, isn't it?
Oh, wow, look at that flower. Yeah.
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 are no fingerprints, of course.
I imagine you both wore gloves on the night in question, but er...
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 realise she wasn't you?
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's certainly well placed to make the travel arrangements.
She was always the favourite.
Right from when we were small. You know, the 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.
It was ballet lessons,
ice skating, horse riding.
- You were jealous. - Of the love.
Of the attention.
Up until then,
it had just been me
and my mum.
It was like someone had...
.. just turned off the sun.
She should have 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 have given us an advance against the inheritance to get us out of a hole, but no,
"This is Mum's money. I'm just looking after it for her."
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!
Heather!
So Frances Porter has been passing herself off
as her own sister for four days?
- Yes, sir. - Morse.
- Bold as brass. - So it's got nothing to do with 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?
A good few quid, I should think.
Turn it off.
Still doesn't get us any closer to Cromwell Ames.
If he is making a move on Eddie Nero's territory,
then it'll be all-out gang warfare.
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, sir.
Georgina, it is.
That's something decent out of all this.
Gotta look for the silver lining.
Let me know when you find it.
I'd hate to miss that.
'Following the shooting at the 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...'