(ballroom music plays) (thunder rumbling, wind whooshing) (woman wails) MAN: We live in a world of information, where cyberspace is chock-a-block with the stuff.

Half of it is accurate but boring.

The other half is just plain wrong and useless.

But one percent of it is of great value, and one percent of that one percent is lethal.

ALL: Cheers!

To Jo.

(indistinct banter) Happy Birthday, Jo.

Just what I wanted.

I got a pony for my 21st.

She's already got a pony.

I was a sneak thief.

I hacked into the Pentagon, the Ministry of Defense, City of London and other places, and I had a good look at their dirty underwear.

Tell you, it's not a good way to make friends.

I wouldn't blame them for wanting me dead.

Yes.

Yes, I see it.

Well, I suppose one should be grateful if the apostrophe's in the right place.

Of course.

I have taken remedial action.

Have you picked your first victim yet?

How long a list do you want?

RADIO PRESENTER: I'm speaking to ex-criminal turned best-selling author, Nicky Turnbull.

Mr. Turnbull... TURNBULL: Nicky.

Sorry.

Nicky, on the cover of your paperback you're called "The First of the Rock and Roll Hackers."

Would you like to elaborate?

TURNBULL: We live in a world of information.

Cyberspace is chock-a-block with the stuff.

Tosser.

(Mozart's "Voi Che Sapete" plays) Hi, pet, it's your dad.

I got your message.

Um, I'll try again this evening.

Let's try and have a conversation one of these old days or one of these weeks.

Love you.

'Morning, sir.

Guv'nor wants a word.

It's all right.

I've scrubbed my fingernails.

Does the name Nicky Turnbull mean anything to you?

Celebrity criminal?

I happened to catch him on the radio on the way in.

Any conclusions?

I wasn't really paying much attention.

He's been getting death threats.

His agent telephoned.

"Could we keep an eye on him while he's in Oxford?"

Babysitting?

I'm not utterly convinced about these death threats.

but on the other hand, I made a discreet call to Whitehall.

Mr. Turnbull's not without enemies.

I don't suppose you've read his book.

No, it passed me by.

Just out in paperback.

"The astonishing story of how a boy "from the wrong side of the tracks on Tyneside uncovered the deadliest secrets of MI5 and the Pentagon."

"The first Rock and Roll Hacker."

Ah, you were paying attention.

Well, a bit sort of sunk in.

He also stole a few million quid from various corporate piggy banks, including a couple of Oxford colleges, ending up in prison where he learnt to be a writer and found redemption.

Warms your heart, doesn't it?

I can think of better ways to warm my heart.

There's the book and there's a copy of his Oxford itinerary.

Try and keep him alive till 4:00 tomorrow.

And maybe check whether he's really retired.

Noted.

(distant bells tolling) I remember this place when it was a prison.

I suppose it's a compliment to our cleanup rate that it isn't needed anymore.

Yeah, that must be it.

Finish that already?

I sort of speed-read it.

I see.

Any good?

It's exploiting the public's fascination with crime and criminals.

Are we being exploited?

I wonder if this police protection is just a publicity stunt.

HATHAWAY: I wouldn't bet against it, sir.

LEWIS: What is it about people that wear dark glasses even when the sun isn't shining?

Wow, a formidable police presence, eh?

Your agent says you've had death threats.

We've been ordered to give you protection.

I could have done with yous two when I was in prison.

The old lags give you a hard time?

It's all in the book.

Don't suppose you've read it yet.

No, I've read it.

Oh, he's a good lad, your sergeant.

I know.

I haven't read your book, so you'll need to tell me who might like to kill you.

I certainly upset people in the Pentagon, and in Whitehall, I caused one or two early retirements on full pension, like.

Then I took a few million from a couple of chaps in the City of London.

They do it to each other all the time, like, but they don't like it when it's a lad like me.

"Robin Hood "of the '90s.

I stole from the rich and I kept it for myself."

That's very good.

I'm quoting your book.

As I said, very good.

Why would any of these people want to kill you now?

This is all years ago.

You say you've retired.

Or is just publicity for your paperback?

Probably the publication of the paperback has reminded them that I know where some of the bodies are buried.

Hotel security, James.

So do you get back home much?

Every night, unless there's a major incident.

No...

I mean up North.

Last proper visit, 15 years ago, my Uncle Harry's funeral.

Don't you miss it?

If I did, I'd go up more often.

Howay, man.

You can take the lad out of Tyneside, you cannot take Tyneside out of the lad.

Sorry.

I've never been much of a professional Northerner.

How can I help you, sir?

I was wondering if you could tell me about hotel security.

Security?

As in people coming in and going out.

I see evidence of CCTV.

Yes, I suppose that's the security.

Covering what, the main entrance and the exit to the car park?

Well... yes.

Does it run 24 hours?

I expect so.

I go off at 5:00.

Handing over to...?

His name's Paul.

He's a proper hotel person.

I'm only part-time.

Okay, well, thanks, Chloe.

Oh, what are you reading?

PPE: politics, philosophy, economics.

Well, good luck.

Have a nice life.

Hi.

Mr. Turnbull?

Nicky.

Nicky.

We are your reception committee.

Caroline Morton, reading English and union president.

David Harvey... union secretary.

I wrote the groveling invitation.

Which I dictated because I do long words, and I schmooze well.

Jo Gilchrist, student journalist.

I'm a rugby player; I mainly do muscle.

Hi.

Didn't I see you play for England?

You were there?

No.

On the box, like.

So you probably saw the giant Aussie who jumped on my leg and knackered my knee.

I haven't played since.

But we help him with his therapy.

I'll bet you do.

Stephen Gilchrist, Jo's brother.

I'm not on any committees, I just like to hang around for the free suppers; try to keep my sister out of trouble.

Totally without success.

Ah, now, there's a surprise.

But we let Stephen do the money.

He'll be dealing with your expenses.

Well, that's easy.

There aren't any.

The check will be in the post tomorrow.

(chuckling): Great.

I'm an old family friend from Tyneside.

Just passing through.

Shall we sit down and relax?

Anybody object to champagne?

How do you want to organize this, sir?

Well, for a start, it's not a two-man job.

LEWIS: In fact, I don't think it's a proper job at all.

Afternoon shift or evening shift?

Take your pick.

Well, afternoon would be fine.

I'm meant to be doing something this evening, but I can change it if you've got plans.

I very rarely have plans.

Oh, he signed your book.

I shall no doubt treasure it.

LEWIS: "To Tom, my favuorite copper."

Tom?

Tom.

James.

Not even close, are they?

Look how he's spelt favourite.

The O and the U the wrong way around, and he's supposed to be a writer.

Yeah, they've got computer spelling machines to do that for you nowadays.

Keep an eye on me, Tom.

I might end up killing the bugger myself.

Cheers!

Cheers!

Cheers!

(glasses clinking) See you later.

TURNBULL: Oi!

Gan canny.

Who is he-- special branch?

Now I could tell you, but, uh, I'd have to shoot you.

(Caroline laughs) JO: We've got a present for you.

TURNBULL: Good.

I like presents.

My newspaper.

Jo wants to be a tabloid editor when she grows up.

I told her she can't do both, but she ignores me.

So who's Sam?

An eminent professor of English Literature.

But Sam isn't his real name.

And he's got a scam?

Examination cheating.

Computer assisted.

Sounds good.

And next week we hang him out to dry.

We're also hoping you might give us an in-depth interview while you're here.

"We"?

Caroline and I work together on these assignments.

TURNBULL: Well, you might find my depths a bit shallow, but if you don't mind taking the chance...?

We all believe in taking chances.

(glasses clinking) (Caroline chuckles) He's everything I hate.

Everything?

Celebrity criminal and professional Geordie.

That's only two things.

It's enough to keep me going.

Our speaker tonight is described by his publishers as "the first of the rock and roll hackers."

His book bears the mouth-watering promise: "soon to be a major feature film," and I know many would-be Oscar winners in this room would like to follow in those footsteps, preferably without the intervening prison sentence.

(audience chuckling) So, we will be listening with more than usual interest to... Nicky Turnbull.

Thank you, bonny lass.

If you'd told me, when I was a little lad growing up in Byker, that one day I'd be speaking to the Oxford Union, I'd have said, "Don't be daft, man."

(light laughter) And Caroline's right.

Stay out of prison.

The food's terrible, room service was lousy, and it's full of Chelsea supporters.

(laughter) I escaped by writing a book.

Let me tell you about it.

We live in an age of information.

Cyberspace is chock-a-block with the stuff.

Half of it is accurate but boring; the other half just plain wrong and useless.

Just one per cent is of great value.

And one per cent of that one per cent is lethal.

That's where the gold's hidden, and that's where I went prospecting with my little pick and shovel.

Well, my dad's a coal miner, so I was just keeping up the family tradition, like.

(laughter) (Gregorio Allegri's "Miserere Mei" playing) LEWIS: Were you really brought up in Byker?

TURNBULL: No, I was born in Jesmond... but you know how it is-- humble beginnings, go down a treat in places like this.

Like being a miner's son?

Why, aye.

They love all that crap.

And I did have an Auntie Bella in Byker.

Everybody had an Auntie Bella in Byker.

PEDESTRIAN: Hey!

Stop!

Hey, look out!

(tires screeching) Are you all right?

Aye, I'm all right.

Thanks, bonny lad.

Are you all right?

Aye, aye, aye.

Don't worry, pet.

Worse things happen in prison.

Try sharing a cell with a serial killer.

(car approaching) (indistinct conversations) I think you should go home now.

I'm under orders to protect you.

Bollocks man.

Somebody just tried to run you down!

Some little boy passed his driving test, celebrating with his first half of shandy.

Ah, I'm safely gathered in, man.

You call in to headquarters.

Tell them I'm standing you down.

I take full responsibility.

TURNBULL: Besides....

I think I'm on a promise.

Maybe two.

Okay.

First thing in the morning.

Try second.

(laughing) TURNBULL: Come on now, girls.

(Caroline and Jo laughing) (knocking) Housekeeping.

(swipes key card, door opens) (gasps): Ooh, I'm sorry!

Miss?

(gasps in horror) (phone buzzing) Hello?

Lewis.

What?

Any identification?

Okay, yeah, I'm on my way.

(elevator bell dings) AUTOMATED VOICE: Doors closing.

(elevator doors close) In there?

Yeah.

Jo Gilchrist.

HATHAWAY: Yeah.

She said she dictated the invitation for Turnbull to come and talk at the union... and he gets death threats; LEWIS: she ends up dead.

What's that revolver doing there?

My daughter would say this is seriously weird.

Dr. Hobson?

On her way.

LEWIS: Were all these other rooms occupied?

HATHAWAY: That'll be my next job, I suppose.

LEWIS: With special reference to room 123.

I'll start the house to house.

(door closes) Oh.

Hi.

Hi.

You're Nicky's old friend from Tyneside.

And you're Caroline Morton; you're the union president.

What's happening?

I'm here in my official capacity.

Uh... sorry.

Don't understand.

What capacity are you here in?

I, uh... spent the night with Nicky.

What, in there?

Yes.

Look, I've got a 10:00 tutorial.

We may need to speak to you again later.

Where do you normally live?

I'm at Penville.

Good.

HOBSON: Excuse me.

'Morning.

'Morning.

Where is it?

Where's what?

So these are all the people that were booked in last night?

Yes.

The names highlighted in red have already checked out.

And this one in blue?

Room 123?

It was booked, but the guy didn't show up.

It says here his name is Lewis.

Yes.

A copper, apparently.

Stephen?

It's Caroline.

Call me.

Strangled.

With?

Can't be certain, but it could be bare hands.

Time of death?

Best guess-- between 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning.

Right.

Any joy?

I'm not sure joy is the word.

Explain.

The room was booked in your name.

Some people are playing games.

My money's on the Central Committee.

Start with the brother, Stephen Gilchrist.

We'll need him to identify the body.

At the very least.

I'm going to call on Turnbull while the sheets are still warm.

Canny room, yes?

Very pleasant.

My favorite word in the language.

"Upgrade."

Cup of instant with added nondairy whitener?

I'll give it a miss.

Uh-huh.

You're very early.

Early?

Aye.

Well, I know you're my officially designated bodyguard, but the next gig's not till 11:00.

Book signing.

I'm not here in my bodyguard capacity.

Are you not?

Is it something I said?

What time did you come to bed?

About 2:00.

Any witnesses?

Aye.

Caroline Morton, President of the Oxford Union.

Was she with you all night?

Unless she sneaked out while I was asleep.

Oh, you did sleep?

Quite a lot of the time, actually.

Stamina is not what it was.

Did Caroline sleep?

You'd have to ask her.

Could you have sneaked out while she was asleep?

Hang on a minute.

This is alibi talk.

I'd know it anywheres.

What's it all about?

It's about a dead body in the next room, Mr. Turnbull.

Is it true?

Is it Jo?

We're going to need your help, Mr. Gilchrist.

Would you go with Sergeant Hathaway?

You want me to identify the...?

I could come with you.

No, you stay here.

But you be around for him later, yeah?

Sure.

Okay, Mike.

He's good, isn't he?

I know.

It's scary in one so young.

So you'll call me when you have any answers?

Of course.

Is there really nothing I can do?

Just stay in Oxford.

Of course.

It's where I live.

Yes.

That's Jo.

She didn't deserve this.

Nobody does.

Uh...

I think my bike's at the hotel.

Let's go and get it.

Mm.

So you'd never met Jo Gilchrist before yesterday?

No.

You were with me at the time.

But it was her idea that you should come to Oxford?

So she said, like.

I mean, they probably have committees and democracy and stuff, but all I know is, they wrote to my agent and said would I like to speak at the Oxford Union.

Well, it looks good on a CV.

So we said throw in a book signing, and you're in business.

So your agent fixed everything?

Aye, she winds me up and sets me going.

Did she book me a hotel room?

It only seemed right, you know.

Round-the-clock protection.

She thought you might need somewhere to rest your weary head.

"Round-the-clock protection" means staying awake.

And circumstances change.

Yeah, like beautiful young union presidents?

Howay, man, it's only rock and roll.

(indistinct conversations) All right.

Thank you.

TURNBULL: There you go, bonny lad.

MAN: Thank you very much.

TURNBULL: Hello.

WOMAN: Hi.

Who's it for?

It's not for me, it's for my son.

Mm-hmm, does he have a name?

He's called Darren.

Darren.

He's in computers.

Well, it's better than being in prison.

And I've tried both.

(crowd screaming) (alarm blaring) Why did you do that?

If it wasn't for him, Jo would still be alive!

You'll have to explain that.

I'm sorry.

I can't.

(alarm continues blaring) Anything making sense yet?

The CCTV footage shows us that there were lots of students in the hotel last night, some of them drunk.

Oh, and I've clarified the link between Turnbull and the fine city of Oxford.

Go on, make my day.

Two of the colleges, Trevelyan and St. Jude's, Turnbull hacked into their investment portfolios and relieved them of a lot of money.

Well, what's this got to do with Jo Gilchrist?

Absolutely nothing.

TURNBULL: So I nicked a few quid off a couple of colleges.

I became an Oxford University stakeholder.

Howay, man, they should take better care of their money.

Nobody got hurt.

I mean, look around you.

Are the walls tumbling down?

Robin Hood strikes again, eh?

Exactly.

How come all these pretty young woman, 20 year olds, want to leap into bed with... What, with a middle-aged fart like me?

You wouldn't say that to Mick Jagger.

Well, you're not Mick Jagger.

True.

I'm strictly B-list.

And not a word to the missus, mind, but you'd be surprised how many women fall for the old loveable rogue routine.

And there's no lack of enthusiasm on her part.

On the other hand... What?

It might have been a honey trap, with a stitch-up for afters.

They were into all that stuff.

What's this all about?

Some professor they were going to hang out to dry, or so they said.

Maybe I was next up for a public hanging.

But you didn't mind?

To be honest, I was half expecting a three-in-a-bed sex romp.

And you'd have to be a real killjoy to object to that.

Obviously, there'd be questions in the house when I got home.

Trust me, love rats sell a lot of books.

Well, I appreciate your honesty.

So tell me the truth about these death threats, before the honesty wears off.

TURNBULL: All right.

Well, my agent did have a couple of anonymous emails.

But it was pathetic stuff really.

You know, from the sort of sad bastards who probably use green ink and have name tags in their underpants.

But we thought, the hell with it.

Paperback's just out.

Make it official.

Get a bit of publicity.

"Nicky defies death threats."

Oh, you read that in the paper?

We have eyes everywhere.

It sells tickets for the circus, man.

But, yes, it's a guilty plea.

Publicity stunt, wasting police time.

I throw myself at the mercy of the court... (gunshot) (sirens blaring) The bullet went straight into the heart.

Death would have been pretty instant.

Highly professional.

Yep.

Sure it came from up there?

Well, either from the hotel roof or the council buildings next door.

Grassy knoll or the book depository.

What?

Well, we'll check everything.

Yeah, well, don't forget the stuff in his hotel room.

We need to go snooping in his laptop.

Watch out for green ink.

"Green ink"?

(elevator bell dings) I'm taking various items from Mr. Turnbull's room.

There's the list.

Is that... allowed?

Civil liberties and so on?

I'm not sure civil liberties are uppermost in the late Mr. Turnbull's mind at the moment.

The story so far: Jo Gilchrist, age 21, third-year student, found dead early this morning at the hotel.

Apparently strangled, although there's bruising indicating she might have been bumped on the head first.

She'd drunk a little champagne, maybe a couple of glasses, but no trace of drugs, no sign of recent sexual activity.

Nicky Turnbull, reformed criminal, best-selling author.

Shot and killed at 2:10 this afternoon outside the hotel; a single bullet wound.

More details once Ballistics have, uh, done their homework.

Where are we on identification of his body?

His agent's coming up from London this afternoon.

Sir, his wife.

Oh, I thought it was his agent.

Well, they're one and the same person; it's all on the laptop.

Is there anything else on the laptop?

Not yet.

He's quite eccentric with his access codes, but we'll get there.

Right, moving on.

Possible links between the two victims.

Jo Gilchrist, a key member of the committee that invited Turnbull up to speak to the union.

Turnbull spent the night with Caroline Morton, the union president.

But he actually told me that he thought it might be a honey trap with a view to selling the story to the tabloids.

Jo Gilchrist was very much into exposing people in print.

She apparently also had her sights set on an Oxford don.

Now we need to identify him, find out what he was up to, if anything, and whether it relates to the killings.

Jo Gilchrist also has a brother Stephen who is currently roaming the streets of Oxford throwing bicycles through shop windows.

He isn't.

No?

He's downstairs.

He's come here to confess.

Confess to what?

He didn't say.

Right, there'll be a press conference at 5:00.

Probably a bromide statement-- "We're keenly pursuing several lines of inquiry..." et cetera.

Appeals to the public, the usual bag of tricks.

Including the grieving widow, if she's here in time?

I actually hate all that stuff, but I'll be guided by the grieving widow.

We're told you want to confess.

Yes.

Confess to what, precisely?

Well, you know.

You were there.

The stupid business with the bicycle.

Is that all?

Well, what else is there?

I ran away, but that's because I panicked and I didn't know what else to do.

I-I couldn't think straight.

I was... All right, all right.

Relax.

Deep breaths.

Tell him about the bicycle.

You can be charged with criminal damage in the fullness of time, but we know this is your first offense.

We're not overly worried about the shop window.

I see.

Who is Sam?

Sam?

I'm told your sister was about to, quote, "hang him out to dry."

Uh, he's an eminent professor of English literature.

His name's Weller.

Hence the Sam... Sam Weller.

Pickwick Papers.

I know.

I did it for O level.

Which I failed, to save you checking.

So was your sister planning to do the same sort of thing with Turnbull?

A honey trap and then public exposure?

It could have been that.

So why do you blame Turnbull for Jo's death?

I just know, if he hadn't come to Oxford she'd still be alive.

(sighs) I'm-I'm sure that Jo and Caroline were planning something, but I don't know what.

They-they didn't tell me their secrets.

But you're her brother.

The thing is, there's really two kinds of student here at Oxford.

There's the dedicated scholars and the chancers.

And you are...?

I'm a scholar.

I'd be happy to spend my life writing books that only 37 people in the world want to read.

And Jo?

Was ambitious.

I mean, you know what Shelley said.

Remind me.

That poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.

And Jo said that Shelley was wrong and these days it's the, uh... the newspaper editors.

What, she wanted to rule the world?

Yeah, I suppose.

And what about her close friends?

She didn't have any.

You, Caroline Morton, David Harvey?

People like Jo hang out with whoever they think can be useful to them.

They'd get together when their agendas overlap.

But don't confuse it with friendship.

They're all too competitive to have friends.

(cell phone rings) Hathaway.

Two minutes.

You go.

Tell me about the gun.

The gun?

Your sister was found with a revolver.

It was a birthday present.

From?

David Harvey.

The rugby player?

It wasn't his idea.

She said she'd like a gun for her birthday.

Where did he get it from?

No idea.

Maybe from one of his rugby mates.

Some of them have military tendencies.

And why did she want it?

Was she frightened something might happen to her?

No, she was never frightened of anything.

The gun was just something to show off with.

It was a design accessory.

She only wanted one because nobody else had a gun.

(sighs) She was my sister and because she was my sister, I loved her.

But I didn't really like her very much.

It's a short walk.

Is my driver okay here?

Yeah, he'll be fine.

You can't blame me, can you?

I'm sorry?

For falling in love with him.

Thank you.

Tell me about this press conference, then.

It'll be a short statement by D.I.

Lewis, the officer in charge of the investigation, followed by some questions and probably very few answers.

Because you don't know any?

Because it's very early on in the investigation.

Right, well, I'm at your service.

Well, I never!

What?

A long time ago, Sergeant, when the world was very, very young, Mrs. Turnbull and I went to school together.

Aye, not only that.

He was my first boyfriend.

We're dealing with two murders within a 12-hour period.

It goes without saying that the police would like to hear from any member of the public who saw anything unusual or suspicious in the area of the hotel, either last night or this morning.

I'll be taking some questions later, but first Mrs. Turnbull wishes to make a short statement.

Thank you.

Um... (clears throat) First, I'd like to add my support to that appeal.

If you can help, please do so.

As I look around, I see one or two familiar faces from the tabloid press, and I have no doubt that over the days ahead we'll be reading many stories about my late husband.

I could help you write them.

The tale of a reformed criminal who, even when he was going straight, was still a bit of a rogue, a bit of a lad.

Yes, he was.

He liked a drink, and he liked a pretty face.

So he may have been a bit of a lad... but he was my bit of a lad.

(clamoring) Mrs. Turnbull, I wonder if... Mrs. Turnbull isn't taking questions.

I'll have a couple, but as long as they're short.

Do the police think there's a connection between the two murders?

Yep.

The officer in charge.

Mr. Turnbull was apparently killed by a sniper.

We know he had enemies in Whitehall and the Pentagon.

Will you be looking for a link to the security services?

We'll be looking for a link to somebody that can shoot a rifle with great accuracy.

You were with Turnbull at the time.

Is it possible you were the real target?

Yeah.

No more questions.

Thank you all.

(reporters clamoring) That was fine.

Thank you both.

Good.

Mr. Lewis.

Yeah.

Uh, excuse me.

We know that was mostly (blip), but if anything juicy comes along, I get first whack, don't I, before the hooligans from Wapping?

Oh, definitely.

In fact, you could do me a favor, Norman.

What?

Apparently, Turnbull filched a lot of money from a couple of the colleges, Trevelyan and St. Jude's, during the '90s.

Were there any repercussions?

Well, nothing public.

Conspiracy of silence.

Oxford has to be seen to be immune from that sort of thing.

Leave it with me.

Thanks, Norman.

You're a star.

Sorry about that.

So, what are the plans now?

What a question.

Oh, I'm sorry.

It's all right.

Well, I was planning to overnight here with Nicky for a spot of R and R, you know, but... Would it help if I stayed around?

"Assist with inquiries," is that the phrase?

Well, it would, if you feel you're up to it.

Yeah.

Let's talk, eh?

It's supposed to help, isn't it?

The talking cure, that's what Sigmund Freud said.

I'm-I'm suddenly hungry.

Is that awful?

It's a normal symptom of shock.

We'll find somewhere quiet to feed you, have a talk.

Just give us five minutes to make a phone call.

Aye.

HATHAWAY: Where is the wisdom we have lost in the information?

LEWIS: What?

T.S.

Eliot.

Don't know the fella.

Listen, I want you to talk to Caroline Morton and David Harvey-- in either order.

Ask them about honey traps and guns.

Was Jo going to shoot Turnbull?

If so, why?

And what was she going to use for bullets?

We'll save Professor Weller for tomorrow morning.

And you'll be...?

Friends reunited.

(knocks at door) I'd like to see Caroline Morton.

I'm sure you would, but you damn well can't.

I think I damn well can.

Just this once.

You've been raided by the police.

How thrilling.

I'll call you later.

I hope they're being generous with their pieces of silver.

You must know the golden rule of whoring.

Give good value and insist on the going rate.

When did you first meet him?

In prison, eight... or nine years ago.

What were you doing in prison?

I used to go in twice a week, would you believe, to do drama therapy.

You'll have to explain.

The theory is, it helps the guys with their problems by acting them out.

I was a liberal-minded do-gooder.

Did you do any good?

Yeah.

Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.

No need to sound apologetic.

Well, I know what people like you think of do-gooders.

What makes you think I'm a people like me?

Okay.

We'll assume you're an exception.

Either way, prison officers are worse.

Villains are villains and no arty-farty bollocks is gonna change it.

Yeah, I imagine.

Anyway, Nicky, he was in my drama group.

One of the things I had them do was tell their stories, and he told very good stories.

Mind, I'm not sure they were all strictly true, but... Well, anyway, I encouraged him to write them down.

When he came out, we put them in a book and the rest you know.

So what were you and Jo Gilchrist up to last night?

Obviously, you were going to stitch up Nicky Turnbull, but what was the game plan?

A three-in-a-bed sex romp?

I'm told that goes down well in the tabloids.

We were going to sort of... play it by ear.

But she never turned up?

Obviously.

Was she going to bring her gun with her?

Just as a theatrical prop.

She hadn't got any bullets.

We were going to play that by ear as well.

So what did you do?

Basically... we had sex and went to sleep.

And the next morning you wake up, and your friend's dead in the next room.

I didn't know that, did I?

And we weren't exactly friends.

Jo and I were.... useful to each other.

Useful?

That's what Oxford is for.

Get to know the right people, it'll stand you in good stead the rest of your life.

Well, like being union president is the first step to being prime minister?

Place your bets now.

All that being so... Jo Gilchrist had no friends?

I guess not.

Mummy and Daddy love her?

Mom's an alcoholic and Dad's living in Dubai with the au pair.

Happy families, then.

There's a lot of them about.

Will there be anything else?

Yeah.

Tell me where I can find David Harvey.

Pumping iron.

Thank you.

(elegant music plays) Last night, in the bar at the hotel, your husband was buying champagne all around.

Nicky loved showing off.

Apparently, he was celebrating some film deal?

Yeah, we'd sold the film rights to the Americans.

I assume that's good.

The money's amazing.

They'll screw up the story of course, set it in Los Angeles starring a pretty 20-year-old who gets the girl and finds God, but... that's the business.

Tell me about the business.

You're an agent, so you take a percentage of what your clients earn?

Yeah.

How many clients?

Hmm, about half a dozen.

All different kinds of writers?

No.

All much the same.

Oh!

I thought that was the whole point about artists, that they were all different.

Like with music.

Mozart sounds like Mozart.

Beethoven sounds like Beethoven...

I'm sorry, pet, this isn't about art.

This is about the marketplace.

Do you know the biggest growth area in publishing?

Books on slimming?

No.

True crime.

So your clients are all ex-cons?

Well, a couple are back inside, but yeah.

And Nicky was the first.

He attracted a lot of attention.

We had old lags queuing 'round the block with their stories.

"I was a drug baron, a gangland enforcer, a safe breaker, until I saw the light."

All different, but the same.

Murderers?

Hit men?

Inevitably.

Nicky told me that he'd-he'd made some enemies before he went into prison, and then some more while he was inside.

Then maybe even more once he'd gone straight.

You met him.

He was a chancer.

But yes, prison would be a good place to start.

David Harvey?

Yes.

Detective Sergeant Hathaway.

I know.

You do?

You used to be our Head Boy.

I was only in the second year when you left, but I remember your nickname.

Didn't know I had one.

You were called W.C.

I am scared to ask.

It was short for "Wolfgang Christ."

The theory was, you couldn't decide whether you wanted to be Mozart or Jesus.

And now you're a policeman.

I compromised.

Tell me about the Turnbull lecture.

Not sure what I can tell you.

You were on the committee.

That's just words.

It was basically Jo's gang.

She called the shots, told us what to do.

What was your job in Jo's gang?

I didn't really have one anymore.

Would you care to elaborate?

Jo and I used to be an item.

Until she dumped me.

When did she dump you?

When I stopped being useful.

I would welcome a little more in the way of an explanation.

Three months ago, I was a star.

Rugby International.

Big clubs waving fat contracts under my nose.

Hanging out with the rich and famous.

Then 20 stone of Australian landed on my knee.

There's nobody more irrelevant than an injured sportsman.

Why'd you get her the gun?

It's what she wanted.

She always got what she wanted.

Until now.

I guess.

Where did you get it?

It was kicking about the house.

Got a lot of guns kicking about the house?

It was a sort of family heirloom.

Probably my grandfather's.

He was in the war.

I cleaned it up, polished it, wrapped it in pink ribbon.

Those things kill people, you know.

It's all right.

I didn't give her any bullets.

She wouldn't have been safe with bullets.

She was as hard as nails, but she would never kill anybody.

Just hang them out to dry.

Do you mean Professor Weller?

No, I mean generally.

All right.

She made a lot of enemies, but she didn't want to kill any of them, and they didn't want to kill her.

And yet she ended up dead.

I know.

It's stupid and unfair.

Got anyone else in your life at the moment?

Are we talking women?

We're talking women.

The international cap still works its magic.

Jo aside, it's any prize on the stall.

(chuckles) This is good stuff.

Another gift from a grateful hack.

To Jo... May she rest in peace.

Not possible.

Let's hope she got the going rate.

"My Night of Passion With Doomed Best-Seller."

I imagine the grieving widow is not best pleased.

Is she grieving?

I'd say she was... in shock.

The tears will come later.

Is it true, sir, the old boyfriend bit?

Not that it's any of my business.

When I was in the sixth form and she was in the fifth, I took her to a disco, and then I took her to a football match.

And then I bought a couple of tickets to a concert, but she didn't want to go because she didn't like Barry Manilow.

End of story.

Do you like Barry Manilow?

Not much.

But I thought she might.

It was a lousy match, as well.

Lost 2-1 to Blackburn Rovers.

Professor Weller, we're told the "Sam" in the headline refers to you.

It does indeed.

It's a literary allusion.

Dickensian, yeah, we know about that, too.

Is it true?

What is truth?

Men have been debating that in this place for hundreds of years.

Are you involved in an examination scam?

"Scam."

Could you define the word?

A confidence trick.

A cheat.

A swindle.

Is that precise enough for you?

Could you give me an example?

Well, imagine my daughter is at school, and she wants to come to your college.

I give the school a large sum of money.

The school gives your college a large sum of money.

Now, these sums of money are given fancy names like "endowments," though I think they should be called bribes.

Either way, lo and behold, my daughter gets her place at your college.

Well, that isn't my view of the situation.

Give us your view of the situation.

My view of the world is dominated by books.

Books are my life and my work.

But if I look out of the window, I see a world dominated not by books but by information.

My students use words like blog and iPod and Googlewhack and cyberspace.

Well, I try to understand.

I even attended the late Mr. Turnbull's lecture, hoping to gain some sort of insight.

Yes, I saw you there.

Of course.

The immediate consequence is that instead of recommending particular books that applicants might read, one tends to direct them to Web sites.

Is that the word?

That's the word.

Where they might find enlightenment.

Or where my daughter, who wants to come to your college, might find the right answers to questions which you might ask her if, for example, she was sitting your special entrance exams or coming for an interview?

No... don't tell me, professor.

There are no right answers.

Quite so.

This was Jo Gilchrist's college?

It was.

So one of your own students was running a vicious campaign against you.

What were you proposing to do about that?

I cannot tell a lie, I was considering various options.

But they did not include homicide.

And I shall make two more points before you leave.

It was not my idea to run university education according to the principles of a Middle Eastern market place.

And since my area of expertise begins with the work of Aeschylus over 2,500 years ago, your concerns seem to me but brief and impermanent ripples on a vast ocean.

Oh, I'd like to nick that professor.

On what charge?

Being a pompous sod.

I'd burn this place down.

I'm going to prison.

I'll feel more at home in prison.

LEWIS: Did you know Nicky Turnbull?

Yeah, I knew him.

Any thoughts?

Observations?

Once a thief... Dr. Patterson might disagree.

Doctor?

PhD in criminology.

She believes in rehabilitation.

Tell me about Diane Turnbull.

Not much to tell.

She came to us with a slender CV at a time when we'd take anyone who could read or write.

Slender?

Failed actress or should I say actor?

She'd buggered about in fringe theatre, a couple of bit parts in the bill.

How did she get on here?

Surprisingly well.

Oh, being a woman helps.

Someone for the guys to lust after.

And she did a halfway decent production of Julius Caesar.

I've got a present for you.

The souvenir program.

LEWIS: Turnbull played Caesar?

Yes.

Any good?

Well, I've never met a Roman who spoke with a Geordie accent, but then again, I've never met one who sounded like John Gielgud either.

Diane played his wife?

Calphurnia, Caesar's wife, who must be above suspicion.

She wasn't Mrs. Turnbull then, of course.

I know.

Diane Fraser.

I went to school with her.

Oh, in which case, she too must be above suspicion.

Well, I don't see her as a serial killer with a high-velocity rifle.

Yes.

That's more of a male speciality.

Turnbull told me that he might have made some enemies while he was here.

Obviously.

The man was a thief!

Your officer said that.

What did he steal?

Have you read his book?

No.

I delegated that job to my sergeant.

He's done a speed-reading course.

Well, the bones of it are true about the computer fraud and so on, but he dressed it up with a lot of stuff of what he'd heard from the other inmates.

He may have changed their names, but it was obvious what he was up to.

So he stole their stories?

These days it's called intellectual property.

But is it enough for anyone to want to murder him?

Come on, Mr. Lewis, you've been around these people as long as I have.

Men have been killed for a packet of cigarettes or a bar of chocolate.

And it's not stealing a story.

It's stealing someone's dignity.

PATTERSON: Something else you should know; it's a technical term.

When Turnbull first arrived here, he was functionally illiterate.

What, he couldn't read or write?

He could fool the system, and he was obviously brilliant with numbers.

We knew he had problem with spelling.

It should have been spotted at school, but it wasn't.

The man was a great talker, but... Mrs. Turnbull wrote the book?

Pass.

Medical and Ballistics think that's where our killer shot Nicky Turnbull from.

Have they found anything useful?

No.

How did he get up there?

Lift to the fourth floor; fire escape out on to the roof.

So he went straight past the main reception?

Yeah.

He went past Chloe who's a PPE student working her way through college.

CCTV?

Inconclusive.

Can you imagine David Harvey doing this?

Harvey?

Well, he gets the brush-off from Jo Gilchrist.

She's going off doing unspeakable things with the ex-con.

He's been drinking, he follows her.

He's a big lad, his knee's hurting, loses his temper.

Why would he kill Turnbull?

Well... classic situation.

The old favorite.

Turnbull sees him do it, so Harvey has to kill the witness.

I don't buy it, sir.

Why not?

Well, amongst other things, he, uh, well, he went to my old school.

I assume we're talking a posh public school for boys?

Yeah.

And they go from there to places like Oxford; end up running the country?

With all due respect, sir, this is beginning to sound like a chip on your shoulder.

My school motto was "a healthy body, a healthy mind."

We were given the choice.

Let's go and talk to Mrs. Turnbull about Julius Caesar.

Where are all those actors now?

Did he steal their stories?

Well, Caesar was killed by a group of conspirators.

We got to check Brutus, Cassius, Casca.

This is Oxford, not ancient Rome.

They're easily confused, sir.

Jim Winston, sad story, schizophrenic.

He threw himself under a train last month.

Charlie Read, yeah, he was stage manager, strong as a horse, bit of a nutter.

Oh, I remember him.

Local man.

Morse and I put him away.

GBH with knobs on.

He might be worth checking.

He's the only one who really scared me.

Put an asterisk next to Charlie.

Stuart Malcolm-- he's probably in London.

Keep your distance; he's beyond redemption.

Even Shakespeare couldn't help.

Oh, Ray Hanson-- he's my success story.

He runs a little car hire company.

He brought me here yesterday actually.

Oh, in the flash limo with the tinted windows?

Yeah.

Where's he based?

About halfway between here and London.

Oh, I've got his card somewhere.

Here.

I think those are the only ones I know about.

More slaving over a hot computer.

Looking for wisdom.

Well, thank you for that.

There's something else actually.

Um... it's sort of personal.

See you back at the station.

What's the problem?

This place.

I wish I could afford to stay here.

The-the staff have been lovely and so on; it's... it's just that I'm sleep... well, I'm-I'm not sleeping along the corridor from where the girl was murdered and I look out the window and I can see Nicky's bloodstains.

You could go home.

Yeah, I know, but... ...but the house is going to seem very empty without Nicky.

And when I do go, I want to take all of his things with me and the police have still got them, so...

The wheels of forensic examination grind exceedingly slowly.

It's just a few of his bits and pieces, you know, for company.

It's probably hard for you to understand.

It's very easy for me to understand.

Sorry?

My wife died three years ago.

I'm sorry.

I'll see what we can do.

Are you allowed to stop for a moment?

Five minutes.

Is this part of your rehab?

Five miles per day plus five hours in the gym.

Plus the occasional game of tennis as my designated fun.

I thought rugby was only a game.

Games aren't games anymore.

You were with Jo and Caroline at the hotel after that lecture.

What time did you leave?

I was so drunk, I couldn't put a time to it.

What about yesterday afternoon, say around 2:00?

What were you doing?

This.

What, here?

More or less.

I can't be accurate to the exact yard.

Any witnesses?

Yes.

Her.

Good afternoon, Mr. Lewis.

What's he been telling you?

What should he have been telling me?

That Jo chose to live dangerously and lost.

So who won?

We won't know until the game's over, and somebody sings.

You're suggesting Mrs. Turnbull should stay at your house tonight?

Why?

She's in a state of shock.

She hates that hotel.

There's been one murder on the premises and her husband was killed on the doorstep.

She doesn't want to go home alone, and... And you two were at school together.

Therefore she trusts me.

She might be a key witness.

Or even, at this stage, a possible suspect.

I don't see her as an assassin.

I'm thinking like a lawyer in court looking to discredit the police.

And I'm thinking like an old friend who always behaves strictly by the book.

All right.

But with backup.

(knocking on door) INNOCENT: Come in.

Yeah, what is it?

I think I might have stumbled across some wisdom.

Better share it with us.

Charlie Read works as a bouncer at The Lower Depths.

LEWIS: That's Charlie.

From Julius Caesar to The Lower Depths.

Mr. Lewis.

How are you doing?

Ah, too many murders.

Otherwise fine.

(loud music playing) I was sorry to hear about Morse.

He was a bastard, but... a straight bastard, you know what I mean?

Is this about my landlord?

Your landlord?

He thinks I killed his dog.

Did you?

This young man's trying to get me into trouble.

Well, I'll speak to him later.

So, uh, it must be about the nutty professor, then.

Now you're getting warmer.

(glass breaking, people shouting) Come back in the morning, Mr. Lewis?

(shouting continues) We've got a martial arts team from Liverpool in tonight.

I think I'm needed.

Shall we call the police?

These people are pretty good at sorting out their own problems.

♪ On this summer day ♪ What happens next?

Well, you go to bed for a good night's sleep, and I'll be in here with a good book.

♪ When our love was new... ♪ It's not bad.

Dr. Patterson at the prison told me that you helped him write it.

She said Nicky was, quote, "functionally illiterate."

That's the jargon.

Just means he couldn't spell.

But he told a good story.

That's what people buy, good stories.

I just helped him with the long words.

(song fades) (water burbling) I'll be off.

Thank you for looking after me.

Just doing my job, ma'am.

No Barry Manilow, then?

Nah, I never liked him much.

Mind, when I was 18, I thought you would.

(laughs softly) Oh.

(clears throat) We never know anything, do we?

Did you have a good marriage?

Oh, it's just I couldn't help noticing the photographs.

Yeah, very good.

The best.

I'm glad about that.

Yeah, so did I. I mean, people wouldn't believe me, but...

I did.

(laughs softly) It was living dangerously, but... yeah, it was very good indeed.

Ah, well, see, that's the difference.

I believe in living safely.

I daresay that's why I'm a cop.

I want to look after the people that believe in living safely.

Do police regulations permit you to give me a good-night hug?

You might have to sign for it.

You're a good man.

I daresay.

(door buzzer sounds) Don't worry, I'm not an assassin.

I detected that.

Come in.

HATHAWAY: We traced all the calls on Turnbull's mobile.

Turns out one of them was to a London-based lawyer who refused to tell us what the call was about.

Client confidentiality.

That old thing.

Yeah.

But I've got a mate who's a barrister, someone I...

Went to school with?

Yeah.

And?

And, according to him, the man Turnbull was talking to was a divorce lawyer.

And according to the lady, it was a very good marriage.

(whispering): Obviously, someone didn't think so.

Good morning.

Hello.

I was expecting to see Robbie.

Has he gone?

The master of the house?

Yeah.

Oh.

I was all geared up to make him some breakfast.

Would you like some?

Uh, no, thanks, I'm sorted.

But you're to make yourself at home, and when you're ready, I am to drive you to the office.

He'd like to ask you a couple of questions if you feel up to it.

Yeah.

Do you think he'll mind if I tidy up first?

Doubt it.

READ: This, uh, nutty professor, he comes up to me and he says, "Forgive me, "this isn't my natural habitat, but I am informed you are a renowned practitioner of enforcing."

His exact words.

I'll never forget them.

So I tell him it's my chosen specialist subject.

And he says, "Some student's making trouble and needs a bit of a slap."

And did you give this student a bit of a slap?

He didn't say it was a woman, did he?

I mean, I'll smack anyone if the money's right, but never a woman.

Even Mr. Morse gave me credit for that.

Check your records.

What about Turnbull?

Have you got an alibi?

I can soon get one.

Serious answer, Charlie.

Yeah, all right.

Here's your serious answer.

You're looking for a professional hit man.

Firing rifles off rooftops ain't my style, you know that.

Can't stand heights for one thing.

Can't stand guns.

And I don't kill people.

I hurt people; don't kill them.

Were there any professional hit men in the nick?

There's usually one or two.

I think the lad who played Brutus used to be in that line of business.

I read Turnbull's book last night.

Slowly.

He writes about a hit man called Roy... HATHAWAY: Alias Ray Hanson.

He was Brutus in the play.

Her success story; the one with the executive limo and the tinted windows.

LEWIS: The Roman formerly known as Roy Hardwick, ex-British Army and S.A.S.

Served in Northern Ireland.

Suspected of selling guns to anyone who would meet his price.

Now, he disappears, and three years later, Ray Hanson turns up in the city of London selling non-existent shares.

Do you want me to have a word with him?

I want you to get him up here for elevenses.

With discretion.

It's the better part of my valor, sir.

HANSON: Yes, I took them to Oxford, Nicky and Diane both.

HATHAWAY: You picked them up from home?

Nicky from their big house in Wandsworth.

Diane was already here when we got the call about the shooting.

That's her car there.

What was she doing here?

I'm writing a book.

Isn't everybody?

Where were you at the time of the murders?

That all depends on when they were exactly.

I only know what the newspapers tell me.

The student, Jo Gilchrist, was killed at around 2:00 in the morning.

When I was fast asleep in my bed, all alone, unless you'll accept Arthur C. Clarke as a witness.

Nicky Turnbull was shot at ten past two in the afternoon.

When I was out somewhere on the road.

Let me check.

Um, do you have one of these?

Yeah, I'm a bit of a nerd, but I find that accurate information helps convince the revenue that I really am fully rehabilitated.

Now you should know all that I know.

(bleeping) HATHAWAY: Thank you.

I wonder whether you could spare an hour of your time.

There's one or two things we'd like you to look at down at the station.

It's always a pleasure to be of service to the state.

In fact, I have to pick up Diane anyway so...

I'll follow you in the limo, if that's okay.

(ringing) LEWIS: Where is he?

Interview room with a cup of coffee.

Here are his work records.

Here is an alibi I prepared earlier.

Quite so.

But why would he want to kill Turnbull?

If he's a professional hit man because somebody paid him to.

Who, for example?

Mrs. Turnbull for example.

What?

Well, I know you went to the same school, sir, but... That's got nothing to do with it.

They sold the film rights for, what, a million quid?

As his agent she gets, what, ten per cent?

As his divorced wife she might get half, but as his widow, she gets the lot.

Excuse me.

Have you any idea what's going on?

Very rarely.

Are you a policewoman?

Policeperson?

Sorry, I don't know what they're called.

No, I'm just an itinerant doctor delivering a file.

Ah, right.

You're Mrs. Turnbull, aren't you?

Yeah.

Tough time you're having.

Aye, you could say.

Simple question.

Are you and Roy Hardwick one and the same person?

This might help.

Let's assume, for the sake of argument, that you're right.

One of the things you learn in the S.A.S.

is how to withstand interrogation, including torture, by much nastier people than you, Mr. Lewis.

If I've got this right, you think I'm involved in the murder of a student and a criminal turned best-selling author.

Now, I've provided you with two perfect alibis.

It's over to you.

I've nothing more to say.

KENNEDY: We installed it as a disincentive to the parish vandals.

Some of them seem to have a deep dislike of our stained glass.

Is it important?

It may be the answer to our prayers.

Which proves they do work.

Let's see if I can remember where I left that instruction book.

Sorry to have kept you hanging around.

It's all right.

I had a nice talk with Dr. Hobson.

I think she fancies you.

Why was... your late husband making telephone calls to divorce lawyers?

Because we were getting a divorce.

You told me last night you had a very good marriage.

And so we did, for a while.

But there's a time limit on rock-and-roll marriages.

You can go off living dangerously.

How would you describe your relationship with Ray Hanson?

Professional.

Did you spend the night there?

Yes.

And I spent last night at your place, too, but... we're only good friends.

He is writing a book for God's sake.

Well, confessions of a hit man?

And you're helping him with the long words?

There's no need.

He's very good with the long words.

He did an open university degree in English when he was inside.

Rehabilitation, wherever you look.

(knocking at door) Sir.

I've a confession to make.

I don't need a confession from you.

I play music.

That doesn't sound like a criminal offense.

Well, some people think so.

Strictly speaking, it's world music with a combination of jazz and mediaeval madrigals.

Does it have tunes?

I'll give it to you, and you can decide for yourself.

Anyway, on Thursday night, we were rehearsing at All Saints, and when I walked out, this car goes past a bit too fast.

I went to check if they had any CCTV this morning, and... look.

Well, that's the car that tried to run us down after the lecture.

HATHAWAY: When Hanson claimed he was safely tucked up in bed.

It was just a wheeze Ray and Nicky dreamed up to add credibility to the death-threat scam.

Trust me, Ray was aiming to miss.

He's very good.

He's had experience as a getaway driver.

We checked with the bank.

Last week, you paid Hanson 5,000 pounds.

That was a publishers' advance, and it wasn't exactly 5,000 pounds.

It was minus my commission and plus V.A.T.

All right.

Let's go right back to the beginning.

Jo Gilchrist approached you to get Nicky to... No, she didn't.

She didn't?

No, Jo Gilchrist had nothing to do with it.

It was, um... uh, that rugby player guy.

He... he made the initial phone call.

He-he confirmed everything by e-mail, confirmed the e-mails by letters.

The guy bored us into submission.

But we were told that Jo was the one that called the shots.

You might choose your words more carefully.

(phone ringing) Yeah, Norman, did you find something for me?

We're looking for David Harvey.

He's playing tennis with his girlfriend.

Where?

I know.

Girlfriend?

It's called "real" tennis.

What's that they play at Wimbledon?

Digital?

I'm in the middle of a game.

I'm sorry.

The game, you might say, is up.

Oh, bugger.

I suppose you've got the building surrounded.

And the airports sealed off.

We know you've got an iffy leg, but even so.

I can jog, but I can't run.

And I've got nothing to hide.

You're invited, too, Chloe.

"It's often said computer crime leaves no victims.

"I wish it were true.

"I never thought I'd feel remorse for an accountant, "but I am still sorry about the man "in one of our older universities "who committed suicide as a result of my activities..." End quote.

I checked with an old mate of mine who works for the Oxford mail.

The man who took his own life was financial adviser to Trevelyan College and St. Judes.

They lost millions.

He lost his career, killed himself.

And he was your father.

Yes.

It was a spineless thing to do, and he left the family in a mess.

Ah, bit of a wimp, eh?

Not a proper rugby playing man like his son.

No, you're made of sterner stuff.

You invited Turnbull to Oxford.

What was the plan?

Get him up here, teach him a lesson.

I mean, he was only a Geordie upstart.

Didn't even go to a posh school.

Don't look now, but your inverted snobbery is showing, Mr. Lewis.

Yeah, it's an old weakness of mine.

I thought it might be amusing to give Turnbull a fright.

That's all.

So how come two people are dead?

You're the ace detective.

What's that old saying about rugby union?

Gentlemen acting like hooligans?

It's a man's game.

Yeah, but you're hooligan through and through, aren't you?

Hooligan to the last slice.

I was talking to a hooligan this morning, a real-life hooligan, not a gilded amateur.

It's his career, his calling, you might say.

He was asked to teach Jo Gilchrist a lesson, offered money for it, but he refused.

You know why?

He said he couldn't do that to a woman.

A hooligan, but a man of principle.

You wouldn't know a principle if it smacked you on the nose.

We phoned your old school this morning, talked to your housemaster.

You've got a bit of form, haven't you?

Suspended twice for hitting younger boys.

Did you shop me?

Don't be ridiculous.

And suspended again last rugby season for breaking an opponent's jaw.

I was getting in first with the revenge.

It's standard procedure.

Hitting a woman?

That's not standard procedure.

Not in civilized society.

Not when you've just given her a lovely birthday present.

One word, Mr. Lewis: evidence.

Evidence.

Found?

In a jacket in Mr. Harvey's room, your room.

The one you were wearing the night of the lecture.

So what was the deal?

Jo would bring the revolver, you'd bring the bullets?

Only she chickened out, is that it?

You see, that's the problem with women.

You can't rely on them, can you?

Not like proper, well-educated hooligan chaps.

She thought it was a great idea at first.

A murder plot.

"Wow," she said, "How cool is that?"

Then she met Turnbull and he charmed the hell out of her.

"We can't kill him," she said, "He's kind of cute."

That was the moment, when she said those words-- "Kind of cute."

I don't do business with kind of cute.

LEWIS: And Chloe?

Does she have a different attitude to cuteness?

Maybe she thinks you're kind of cute?

Maybe she does.

Cute enough to give you access to the hotel roof?

Cute enough to look after your rifle for you?

I see no rifle.

We found one in her locker at the hotel.

She's told us the whole story.

Women don't seem to have much luck where you're concerned, do they?

Any prize on the stall.

Now, do you believe me?

I may not be above suspicion, but I'm not Lady Macbeth.

I believe you.

Imagine if I had liked Barry Manilow.

No, I can't imagine that.

(chuckles) This way, madam.

Do you ever go back to your school?

No.

I'm probably a great disappointment to them.

Do you, yours?

Nah, never.

The job of a school is to teach you how to manage without it.

It's a bit like being a parent.

Use one of these?

What is it?

Stick it in your ear and you'll hear.

What?

It's that music that I do.

Oh, thanks.

(phone rings) Yeah.

Oh, hi, pet.

Yeah, sorry I haven't phoned you back.

Ah, you've been watching your old dad on the telly, eh?

Wow.

Well, would you believe I went to school with her?

What?

Ah, well, you see my sergeant's in a group.

Apparently, it's world music with elements of jazz, rock and mediaeval madrigals.

Oh, I'm fine, except someone's tidied up my kitchen, and now I can't find my sugar bowl.