This programme contains scenes which some viewers may find disturbing.
This programme contains some violent scenes.
It's New Year's Eve, come on.
Oh, all right, all right, all right.
Look at that, up the duff and still on the game.
What chance does the kid have?
'To say goodbye to the '50s and taking us up to midnight and the new decade, it's Elvis.'
Give us a pull, Heathy. Medicinal.
Dull the pain.
It's wild out there tonight.
Craddock. Hang about.
Happy New Year, Heathy.
Yeah. Piss off. Hop it.
All coppers are queer!
All coppers are fat ugly queer bastards!
You queer bastards!
You going to have that, Heathy? I'll sort him out.
We'll sort him out. Open up.
Peter, knowing you as we do, we're not going to soft-soap you, beat around the bush.
We want you to finish up at the Cold Case Unit at the end of next month.
The good news is, we're promoting you to Chief Super.
Hendon are starting a new detective training programme in September and,
well, we're looking for someone to steer the ship.
I take it Detective Superintendent Cavendish will be replacing me?
No, she's not on the list. But we'd welcome your thoughts, in confidence, of course.
Why? The Cold Case Unit needs new blood at the top. Why now?
Come on, you're lucky to have lasted this long the way you carry on. I'm not having a pop.
I was the same. Get the collar and the "how" doesn't matter.
Now we're under a bloody microscope and the "how" is everything.
That's nice, empathising with me.
Are you teaching next door or are you keeping your job?
With respect, we know how much you've sacrificed.
With respect, you have no idea what I have sacrificed!
And I will contest this all the way.
Exhibit one being my conviction rate!
Searching residents without warrants, intimidating suspects, planting evidence.
You contest this and three things happen.
It gets bloody, you lose, and Spencer Jordan goes down with you.
So you'll blackmail me if I don't go quietly? That's your Plan B?
We just want you to accept our decision with good grace, Chief Superintendent.
Screw your teaching job.
Dad.
Hello, stranger.
Dennis.
Did you find your son?
Yes.
But then I lost him again.
I'm sorry.
Tea? Coffee? No, thank you.
No, I'm not stopping, Dennis, thanks.
Are you still running the soup kitchen?
Didn't you hear?
Westminster Council have cured homelessness.
A cynic might say they displaced it.
A cynic might say they outlawed it.
But who am I to judge?
World authority, I'd say.
I'm going to have a crack at it.
Is there some new evidence?
No, not yet. There isn't.
I don't understand. I'm leaving the force in six weeks, well, five and a half weeks, actually.
I want this to be my last case.
Why? Because it's meant to be.
I'm going to find out what happened to those boys.
Is that everything? Yes.
Between 1979 and 1982, 16 homeless boys went missing from the West End area.
Their absence was noticed by the Reverend Dennis Samuels who ran a soup kitchen on the Embankment
and kept an eye out for the younger ones. Did you work on the case?
No, there was no case. I first became aware of the disappearances when I had...
dealings with Dennis in the '90s.
Dealings?
I was looking for my son.
At the time, Dennis kept a record of the boys he thought
had been abducted from the streets and that's all we've got to go on.
We're taking this on?
Yeah. Half of these boys' names aren't their real names so it's not easy.
There are no bodies, no crime scenes. We may not even have a killer.
Who's to say these kids didn't just leave the area or OD'd in a gutter somewhere?
If it turns out we're chasing a phantom, so much the better.
Is there some new evidence?
No. Then why are we taking it on?
Because I want to find out what happened to these boys.
And this is my last chance to do that. Last chance?
Yeah. I've been asked, well, told to step down by the end of next month. What?
Why? I'm a liability, apparently.
New blood is required. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter?
The world gave up on these boys before their lives had even begun.
The best send off you can give me is your heart and lungs on this. PHONE RINGS
Excuse me. Yes?
Thank you. Reverend Dennis Samuels is here.
We called him Pele.
He wouldn't say what his real name was.
Thought if he told us, his stepdad could trace him,
and that was his biggest fear.
Abuse?
He only married Pele's mum to have a kid on tap.
Pele was full of stories, but I never doubted that one.
I'd got him off the drugs and into a hostel.
He was still drinking
but he was doing better, much better.
He was the last boy to disappear.
And you've no idea who was responsible?
But you're sure someone was?
All the boys went missing at three-month intervals.
To the day. Four a year for four years, then it stopped.
Serial killers don't stop. They can't.
They either die, go to prison or find pastures new.
Why haven't we looked at this before? It was the first case I reviewed when I opened the unit.
I couldn't make any headway.
You think you can now? I've got you lot now, haven't I?
Sarah, have I got you? Hmm?
Yes, yeah.
Did you get anywhere with the police?
One officer took it seriously.
Filed a report.
But none of the detectives at Piccadilly Central would touch it.
They were just kids. There's kids and there's kids.
Once they've sold their arse, got a habit, couple of theft convictions, it's over.
Society washes its hands, nobody gives a shit that they're still only 14 years of age.
And this? This one?
Birthday card from Jamie. Jamie.
Admitted he nicked it from Woolies on the Strand.
He filled this in when I was trying to get him seen at Great Ormond Street.
What about this one?
A Christmas present from Max.
Max.
He could see it from his spot under the bridge.
Shy, quiet kid.
Always making things.
Whittling away with his penknife.
One day someone stole the knife. He wasn't so quiet then.
Max! What's going on? It's mine!
Almost got himself killed.
Why did you keep all of these things? Why?
There were all these kids left behind.
The only trace they ever existed.
All incident reports pertaining to murder, actual, attempted or
suspected going back to '75 should have been entered onto the database.
So nothing doing? Fortunately, Dennis made a note of the PC's name.
One Anthony Nicholson, who now is...
Assistant Chief Commissioner Nicholson? Correct.
If we get an audience before my leaving drinks we'll be lucky.
On that note... We're going to talk, we are. When?
When we're off the blocks with this one. Which could be never.
We deserve to know what's going on.
Yeah. I deserve to know. And you will.
What do you think? About the case!
I don't want to talk about anything else.
Well, the boys disappeared at strikingly regular intervals.
If they were murdered, it suggests exceptional self control and the
possibility the killer kept them alive. Obviously somewhere isolated.
He kept coming back to the same place, the West End, so location?
Mmm... Home Counties is a possibility.
Doesn't narrow it down. But we could
cross-reference the missing boys with the Home Counties forces.
Any turn up unidentified on a slab...
Yeah, or any go in telling tales about attempted kidnapping.
Hmm.
I'm going to miss this.
It seems very sudden.
Where are you?
I'm OK. Erm...
Waiting for it to sink in, I suppose.
John Singer Sargent said, "Every time I paint a portrait, I lose a friend."
I'm not as good a psychologist as he was an artist, but...
Go on, Grace. Paint me a picture.
I don't want to lose a friend.
When they told you to stop, your first thought wasn't "why is this happening"
and "I really love this work and I'm really going to miss it." Your first thought was Luke.
How your retirement years were always going to be the time when you'd make it up to him, when...
Dad!
You'd do all the things you should've done when he was a kid.
You haven't forgiven yourself for Luke's death.
Not even slightly.
The pain's as ferocious today as it was the day he died, and the only way you deal with it,
the only way you stop it engulfing your life, is work.
So, what do you do?
You cast a shadow on the wall.
You unleash a phantom who you know you won't catch in six weeks, six months or six years, because trudging
your way to an early grave looking for a mythical serial killer
beats facing up to the guilt.
You couldn't save Luke, but getting justice for those boys is the next best thing.
How am I doing? He's not mythical.
Someone took those boys. Nine out of ten, then.
Assistant Chief Commissioner Nicholson's office called. We have an audience.
They've, erm, offered you another job, right?
Teaching post.
Knowing full well what I'd say to that.
I'm sorry. Please, come in. Take a seat.
Thanks for seeing us at short notice. Not at all. Appreciate it.
No, no, I'm glad,
so glad you're having another look at it.
More than glad.
Difficult one to shake. Yeah, well,
my beat was Soho down to the river. I knew those kids.
Not like Dennis knew them, of course. But I knew them.
And Dennis says hello, by the way. Yeah, how is he?
Is he still running St Stephen's? Very much so. I don't think he'll ever retire.
Dennis mentioned that you filed a report about the disappearance.
That's right.
We can't find it in the archives. Of course you can't.
When people decide to dismiss something...
The world's round, there's a serial killer loose in the heart of London.
They need to make sure they're not proved wrong later. But you took it seriously?
I trusted my source. Dennis? Dennis.
Dennis knew those kids.
Which ones were salvageable, which ones were touch and go,
even which ones we'd find face-down in Embankment Gardens.
So, if he took it seriously, you took it seriously? Absolutely.
And you did put all that in that report? I walked it up to the detectives' room myself.
To the hallowed second floor.
I promised Dennis I'd put it in the DS's hand. I did.
For what good it did us.
Yes, I got your list of John Does. Thanks.
There is one of particular interest.
The kid who was run over on the M11 in '82...
Yeah, it'd be great to read the full autopsy report.
Could you scan it and e-mail it over, please?
Cheers. Thank you.
Why isn't he fighting it?
I mean, it's just not him, taking it lying down. I don't know.
Maybe he's relieved. Relieved?
That the only thing that means anything to him has been taken away?
I'm not buying it.
Remember, best send-off we could give him.
Grace?
Essex? He ran out in front of a truck on the M11.
Two weeks after you reported him missing. There was no police investigation?
A kid's found barefoot on the motorway in the middle of the night,
and no-one asks what he's doing?
He had track marks on his arms, Dennis.
Most coppers see that, they stop asking questions.
The truck hits Pele here, so which direction was he running in and for how long?
Had he escaped from a vehicle or a residence?
If you jump out of a car at 70 mph, you're not running anywhere. OK, a residence.
Which direction? South. Truck driver saw him coming towards him before he stepped into his path.
Are we thinking suicide?
Well, his escape attempt would argue against that.
Most likely fear and captivity would've diminished his faculties, but his adrenaline would be pumping.
Someone help me!
You've got a malnourished ex-drug addict running barefoot in the dark.
I'd say the most he'd be able to get is two miles, and most of that would be on the hard shoulder.
How d'you work the last bit out? Well, the verge gradient is 3:4,
that's 75%, that's way too steep to access the motorway, except at these maintenance points here and here.
Assuming he escaped from a building, not a car, we focus our search on...?
We should focus our search on this area.
Council records, land registry office, electoral rolls. Target every building and go...
knocking on doors.
I am trying to determine who owned the freehold on Hempstead Cement Works before
your company acquired it in '85, and, frankly, I'm bloody sick of being passed from pillar to post...
No, five minutes!
Sarah?
It's all my fault.
What is?
Boyd. Well, what makes you think that?
I don't think it, I know it.
I told Deputy Chief Commissioner Maureen Smith he wasn't fit to run this unit.
Why?
Because he gambled your life to follow a lead, Grace!
And, Jesus Christ, he almost lost!
And what's that got to do with you, again?!
You have to tell him.
I can't. Well, if you don't, I will.
All these buildings are part of the Bishop's Farm Estate. The current owner's been there since '89.
His predecessor, Guy Simon Pritchard, retired to Eastbourne and died in June 1995 of colon cancer.
There's no criminal records, but I'll keep digging. Yeah.
What about the place at the bottom? What, this one here?
This is a former pub that closed down when they built the motorway in 1975.
Department of Transport chucked the brewery some compensation
and council records shows it was purchased at an auction in 1978 by a Henry Holmes.
The pub's due for demolition, but due to the close proximity to the motorway, it's logistically tricky.
Henry Holmes? Yeah. Dr Henry Holmes? Mm-hm.
That's him. That's the killer's house.
How do you know that?
It must be his private little joke.
Dr Henry Holmes was a Chicago serial killer in the 1870s.
He killed 27 people.
Here we are. This was his house.
Outwardly a hotel, inwardly an elaborate torture chamber,
complete with trap doors,
secret passageways, quicklime pits
and a hidden crematory.
We'd better get down there.
There's blood, hair...
People died down here.
A methodically-sequenced torture chamber.
Sequenced? How?
Spence...
Is there a platform in that tank?
Yeah.
How did you know? Because Henry Holmes devised something similar.
Can you raise it up?
Yeah.
So, you see, if you were strapped inside this,
and then lowered into the tank - which would be full...
you'd think you were going to drown.
But the platform would stop you when you got here.
Please! Please don't do this! Argh!
Are you OK?
Yeah.
When my son went missing...
I'd think about the worst place he could possibly be.
And when my mind took me to somewhere like this...
I'd pray to God he was dead.
Look at this.
The calibrated handle brings death closer,
or keeps it at bay
with total precision.
My guess is this is the point beyond where the victims couldn't breathe.
Yeah, and if we're right and he kept the boys alive for three months, then that mark becomes very significant.
Eve, whatever you want, you've got it.
You might regret that. No, I'll be long gone.
Make your calls. Henry Holmes isn't his real name.
I saw no personal effects to tell me, so...
Check out the neighbourhood, yes. Canvas the neighbourhood.
This isn't about my council tax? 100%? 100%.
If it is, you've already approached me under false pretences
so, legally... Mr Symes, we're on a murder investigation
and we don't give a rat's arse about your council tax!
Why don't you peruse my ID to your satisfaction and answer the bloody question?
Yeah, all right, all right.
That place has been empty for decades. Thirty years, at least.
That's the period we're interested in - early '80s.
There was a guy used to come and go when the pub shut down.
I assumed he maintained it but it turned out he owned it.
Who told you that?
He did. What? You spoke to him?
What do you want?
My combine's broken down in the lane. I'm trying to repair it.
And? You may not be able to get out for a bit. How long?
Oh, an hour, two at the most.
You work for the brewery, right?
No.
I own this property.
And you're trespassing.
Who is he? A sexual sadist.
In this case, he's one whose psychopathy has mutated from a taste for auto-eroticism.
Auto-eroticism - so he started constricting his airwaves,
right, to get a bigger orgasm, and he leads to... Correct.
And there will be dead bodies.
Sexual sadists enjoy withholding death precisely because they know
the wild, crazy hope it inspires in their victims is a vain hope. Thank you!
Ultimately, they will kill them, because death is the ultimate control.
The FBI Crime Classification manual terms this psychopathy,
"The black hole at the end of the continuum."
That sounds about right, doesn't it? Hmm?
I've got six SOCOs working under me for the next 24 hours at least.
We're isolating fingerprints and DNA in the cellar
and we've got cadaver dogs looking for bodies.
All right, thanks, Eve.
Thank you. What are all these boxes?
This is Piccadilly Central incident reports from 1979 to '82.
Oh, strictly Smith Corona. Yeah, afraid so.
The guy in the farm said Holmes drove
a gold-coloured Capri or Escort.
Until Eve turns up with some forensics, this is the best lead we have.
It's our only lead. But it's no surprise DVLA's
got no cars registered to the pub's address, gold or otherwise.
Pele was the last kid to be taken.
Yeah. That we know of. Grace!
Yes? Stop me if this is bullshit! Right.
Pele was killed two weeks after he disappeared from the West End. Yes?
Yes. So how would the killer react to a successful escape?
Badly, very badly.
For a controlling psychopath to lose his captive and then see him die
in an arbitrary and unplanned way would be unbearable.
Paradoxically, it could have led him to lose control? Exactly.
So he'd throw caution to the wind
and want to replace Pele as quickly as possible?
That works, psychologically.
We've got to focus on the days after 7th December, 1982,
when Pele was killed, because the killer would be desperate,
so if he was ever going to get careless, it would be in those following days.
It's Eve. Yes, Eve?
The cadaver dogs have found human remains at the back of the pub.
The quantity of bones indicates multiple bodies.
The significant dispersal is not explained
by animals or soil migration.
Saw marks on the bones suggest the bodies were cut up,
before being put into the ground...
This mutilation, it's not about identities, is it? No.
It's about extending control beyond death to the annihilation of the body.
Pathologists made similar findings in the victims of Fred and Rosemary West.
Femur lengths are consistent with males, aged between 13 and 16 years.
Eve? Did you get any results from the cellar?
Isolating the killer's DNA from his victims and pub employees
will be tough. But if one profile comes up often enough...
Yeah, it'll suggest that he's our man, particularly if it's on the inside of his... contraptions.
Eve? Yeah? Sorry, I've just got to...
Fine. Yeah. Go on, go ahead.
What's going on with you and Sarah?
Nothing. OK, what else?
Someone to see you.
Ah, Assistant Chief Commissioner Nicholson, Dr Grace Foley. Hello.
Good to know you, Grace.
I came to offer my congratulations.
And my support. Thank you.
I've one question, do you want this?
I know you're off the Cold Case Unit at the end of next month.
Do you want this? Yes, sir, I do.
Good, it's yours. Thank you.
If, as seems likely, you're not through in six weeks,
then those eager young detectives at Hendon will have to wait.
Thank you, sir. Did you tell Dennis?
I didn't, sir. Not yet. This will hit him hard.
Look, I shan't stay. There's media gathering outside, it's your show.
There's one thing I ask. Yeah, I'll keep you in the loop. Please. About everything.
Not a problem.
Is this one of ours or one of theirs? Theirs.
Good luck. Thank you, sir.
Given the skeletalisation and extensive dismemberment of the bones,
I'd have expected cause of death to be near impossible to establish.
Then, at five o'clock this morning,
we discovered these
in a wall cavity in the cellar.
Look at the bullet hole.
Trophies.
There were ten more but I couldn't process them all here.
They're down at the body farm. 15.
After all that elaborate torture, he just... shoots them.
I must admit, I was surprised. What do you think, Grace?
After tormenting them with the threat of death, he wanted to see the look
on their faces when they actually realised they WERE going to die.
What better way to do that than stick a gun in their face?
But the bullet holes were clean, suggesting they were sedated.
No.
Not his style.
- No reaction, no fun. - Restrained, then.
That's more like it.
Yes. And, remember, there was the replica electric chair
down in the cellar with head, leg and arm restraints.
If they were shot in the cellar, there's a good chance that
ballistic evidence is still there.
Lab? The night after Pele's death, our killer might have got reckless under Hungerford Bridge.
The man forced a young homeless boy named Darren Hawes into his car.
Model? Gold Capri.
He was interrupted by two uniforms on the beat, PC Bill Knight and PC Anthony Nicholson.
Just get in the car! Come on!
Come on, you little bugger, get in the car!
He's tried to mug me, Officer!
Bollocks! Quick! After him!
I never bloody touched him.
That creep tried to get me in his car!
Well, let's see what he says.
Get off! Tony?
Tony!
Here, what happened?
What happened?
Why didn't Nicholson mention this before?
Professional embarrassment. He let a serial killer go free.
If it IS the killer. Of course it is. Date, car, MO, all fits.
What about Darren Hawes? Out of the frying pan, into the fire.
He turned up in the Thames.
His body was gummed up in the propellers of a speedboat.
His death wasn't treated as suspicious?
Not even by your friend, Dennis, who ID'd him for the police.
Steady. OK, here we are. That's it.
We all knew Tony was going places, even then.
He'd grown up in Soho, so he knew the turf, but his arrest rate was off the chart.
So, this was a rare off-night?
We're all allowed one, right?
Can you tell us what happened, please, Bill?
I never really got a look at the guy, cos I left Tony and went after the kid.
Surely, between yourself, Nicholson and the boy, you could've
drummed up an artist's impression, no? What's your point? The point is,
there's none in the file. Red hair, mid-20s.
It was 30 years ago! What? So 30 years ago,
abducting a minor, bludgeoning a copper and fleeing the scene was nothing?
We filed a report, actioned a search on the Capri, but with no plates, it was a waste of time.
Well, did PC Nicholson need hospital treatment? No.
We took Hawes back to Piccadilly Central to get his statement.
He said he'd seen the guy hanging around before.
Where is that statement? Look, the kid was high as a kite.
We were getting nowhere, so we said come back next morning.
Would you believe it? He didn't show!
Did you know that Darren Hawes's body was pulled out of the Thames
a week later, guaranteeing that he'd never be able to identify the man?
I dimly remember something. So what? So what?
Yeah. So what?
The West End was a cesspit back then. Crawling with low life.
The kid probably took some bad acid and fell in the river,
or decided to end his life before the drugs did.
That's how little the world meant to them.
Or they meant to the world.
So forgive me if I don't cry my eyes out.
Thanks very much for coming in, Bill.
OK, that's it, let's go. Hi.
I need five minutes. It's not a good time, actually. He's about to pop out.
Ah, Peter... I need to speak to you.
No, we're off to buy nursery shit. Promised her for weeks.
It can't wait. It'll have to. You've got my mobile.
We think the killer is the same man who tried to abduct Darren Hawes
and laid you out on the pavement in December, 1982.
Does that ring a bell?
The guy said the boy had tried to mug him. You believed that?
He was a street kid. Not implausible.
You still believed it after he'd knocked you out and fled the scene?
I assumed he was worried about a soliciting charge.
And not worried about attacking a police officer? What's your point?
You were looking for a serial killer who was abducting young boys.
You caught a guy who was trying to abduct a young boy.
Am I missing something?
I never made the connection.
Did you tell Dennis?
I never made the connection.
What did he hit you with?
A spanner, a jack.
Something metal.
Do you know what happened to Darren?
I never bloody touched him...
He died. Yeah. Yeah.
A week later, he never made a statement.
But there's no evidence he was murdered. Not after he was mashed up by a boat propeller.
Is this what "keep me in the loop" was all about? Peter, you're jumping the gun.
You're miles off proving this was the same guy.
The timing of the incident, the gold Capri, both could be coincidences.
But if you're right,
if I let a killer walk free at the ripe old age of 22, believe me,
I will stand up and be counted.
Yes, you will.
Do you have no regrets, Peter?
No shameful secrets?
No screw-ups only you know about?
Ones that keep you awake at night still in a sweat, thinking,
"Christ, that was close. What was I thinking?"
Do you ever have nights like that? I've had my share. Mmm.
Well, unless I am mistaken...
you have a murder investigation to lead.
Yes, sir. Thank you.
Peter, this case doesn't just exist in the past.
Better hold a press conference today, otherwise they'll eat you alive tomorrow.
Sir.
Eve? The bullets from the wall share a common striation flaw.
They all came from the same gun - a Walther P38.
That narrows it down a bit. It certainly does.
I had the bullets spun through the firearms database
and came back with a match - the shooting of retired police officer Stanley Heath
in 1969, which remains unsolved.
Stanley Heath?
What's the connection between the murder of an ex-cop in '69
and the serial killing of boys in the '80s?
How exactly, did the gun pass from the hands of Heath's killers to Holmes?
I don't know, but the bullets are a match - unequivocal proof that it did.
Hello? Superintendent Cavendish?
Speaking. I'm following up your allegations against Peter Boyd.
Erm, could I call you back in five minutes? I'm not at my desk.
Nobody likes a snitch.
Particularly not old-school coppers like Peter Boyd.
But your secret's safe with me.
But it won't be unless I do what?
Well, that's a glass is half-empty way of looking at things.
Forgive me. Particularly as we're actively seeking to replace Boyd
as head of the Cold Case Unit.
I'm listening.
It's nothing very demanding. I just want you to be my ears.
Report back to me on every aspect of the case, particularly anything to do with the Stanley Heath murder, 1969.
Why? There are almost no unsolved murders of coppers on our books.
Kudos, if you square it away.
Right. Meaning, yes, you'll co-operate?
If you're serious about giving me Boyd's job. Completely serious.
Then I have three conditions of my own.
Grace Foley, Eve Lockhart, Spencer Jordan.
They'd never work for me.
I'd like to start from scratch.
Pick my own team.
How come we've never met before, Sarah?
Heath worked as a custody sergeant at Piccadilly Central, Grace,
but he left the Met in January, 1961, after several warnings about his drinking.
Jump before he was pushed? What age? He was 35 at the time. That's young.
Be good to know why his drinking suddenly went out of control.
We should be looking at something that happened in '59, '60 for a flashpoint.
Where's Sarah? Heath was shot six times in what looks like a messy, unprofessional attack.
The first three bullets missed completely but the fatal shot
was close-range, execution-style.
They might've been toying with him.
Or maybe there were two killers. We haven't got a motive for one yet.
There's also evidence that the killer urinated at the scene.
Now, from this, the original enquiry made the startling leap that Heath's teenage son, Jason,
who has red hair, decided to do away with his alcoholic father. Anything else to support this theory?
Witnesses say Heath was always lashing out at Jason and his mum. Who found the body? Jason.
Even if he didn't kill his father, then that would've had a profound effect.
What kind of a man did Jason grow up to be?
Jason has some very old convictions for sex with underage boys.
Sex offenders learn by their mistakes?
Convicted paedophiles who don't re-offend have usually discovered caution rather than virtue.
What does he do now?
Teaches English as a foreign language in Oxford Street.
I bet he didn't tell the school about his criminal record. Address?
Same address in Epsom where his father was killed.
That's weird enough for a warrant on its own.
Where did you disappear to? I was summoned.
Assistant Chief Commissioner Nicholson.
He, erm... He asked me to report everything back to him on this case without telling you.
Probably not too keen on his near-miss with the killer coming to light.
He said he'd blackmail me if I didn't play ball. All right?
Blackmail you with what?
With the fact that I shopped you to the Met Review Board.
The fact that I'm...
the reason this is your last case.
Well, it sounds like Nicholson no longer has a hold over you.
I suggest you use your new-found freedom to get out of my sight.
My boss at counter terrorism was a maverick like you.
I'm not interested. One day, you'll get somebody hurt or killed.
Not any more. I am not trying to make excuses!
I'm telling you why... Just get out of my way.
I'm trying to tell you I'm sorry! MOVE!
We wait.
Sarah...
I can't believe it.
Whoa!
Jason grows his own.
And then some.
Jason?
DI Jordan. Cold Case Unit.
Boyd! Boyd, no!
No! Enough! Enough!
Enough!
Enough.
Some clowns flew in from Milan this morning.
Want me to build one over there exactly the same.
Identical.
Brick for brick.
They're looking at the Stanley Heath murder.
Connecting it to those dead boys in Essex.
It was the gun.
Ballistics.
You don't half know how to ruin the moment. Dad, I'm sorry.
Look, we have to put this out.
Now.
Keys!
Around the time I passed out as a PC, I started having this dream.
And in the dream, I'm walking down the street
in my uniform, walking the beat.
And without turning round, I realised
someone was following me.
A man, an ordinary man.
Nondescript. No-one I'd ever met or seen
in real life.
But by the look on his face, I knew
that I was no stranger to him.
No, no, no, he knew me, he knew everything about me.
He'd been on my trail for years,
maybe since childhood, maybe since the cradle.
And when I did look around, he didn't drop his eyes or cross the street
or look in a shop window. No, he just stood there staring at me, as if to say, "Yeah,
"here I am, and you'll never shake me off,
"no matter where you are or how high you climb."
I had that dream, or variations of that dream, for about 15 years.
And then one day, I walk into a pub in Leicester Square
and the man in my dreams serves me.
Looks me straight in the eye,
asks me what I'm having.
I couldn't answer him, I couldn't speak.
I left the pub, I crossed the street, waited till closing time.
And then I followed him home
to a room in Dulwich
and I beat him to death in his bed.
Never had the dream again.
As you were.
Subtitles by Red Bee Media Ltd
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