07x03 - Written in m*rder

[bunniefuu]

Chapter three. Jim Harvey was tired
of people trying to k*ll him...

Hmm...

To sh**t him -- no,
that's too on the nose.

To rub him out.

To whack him.

Sorry to interrupt you,
darling. He's here.

Oh. Haha!

- Don't worry.
- No, no.

- I can print out another.
- Oh, no.

I'm, I'm Larry, Larry South,
I'm the old sod's agent.

And you must be, erm...?
Yes, Gillian P White.

Um... Frank's told me so much about you.

All lies, I'm sure.

Oh! Talk of the devil!

There he is! Larry!

40 years!

For the life of me, I can't
think where they've gone.

But I do know how lucky I've been
to have your unswerving support.

My loyal agent.

My darling wife.

Without you, I would've long
since chucked in the towel.

So, here's to you both.

And here's to another 40!

- Another 40!
- 40 more!

Erm... I'd just like to say,
Frank, I've learned so much from you

and Valerie, I'm so grateful
to you for letting me stay here.

Shall I get coffee on?

No. Who wants coffee? More champagne!

Oh, Larry!

Whoa!

Have you seen Frank?

Won't he be in his office?

If he was, I wouldn't be asking, would I?

He left a note saying he'd
gone for a swim to cool off.

He should be back by now.

I'm going to go down,
see if he's still there.

What's going on?

Frank?

Dwayne! Wake up!

Hmm? What?

Made you a brew.

'Yes, listeners, are you feeling the heat,

are you ready to rumble?

Because it's that

time of year again when Saint
Marie becomes an island of love.

Erzulie time!

Great thing about being just
us fellas, you can have a

dirty big fry-up any day of the
week and there's no-one to stop you.

How many sausages would you like?

I don't think I could handle
anything this early, Chief.

Of course you can. Can't go
to work on an empty stomach.

Here! What's this Erzulie
business they're on about?

It's a festival. It honours
the voodoo Goddess of Love.

The whole island goes mad for it.

Which reminds me, it's tomorrow night!

We've got to get ourselves a date, Chief!

Not sure I'm ready to fish in
that particular river just yet.

Yeah. Of course.

Yeah, but you go on ahead. Did
you lose something, Dwayne?

Ah. My uniform trousers.
I've got to iron them!

Never saw the point in ironing myself.

A good shake works just as well.

Florence! What can I do for you?

There's been a m*rder.

Gotcha. OK. Be right there.

Dwayne! Better get those pants
on. There's been a m*rder.

Frank O'Toole. This is his estate.

The house is up there.

Not Frank O'Toole the novelist?

That's right, sir. He's lived
on the island for 20 years.

He went for a swim early this
morning and some fishermen

found his body floating
a couple of hours later.

Right. What time are we talking?

About seven. They were on their
way in with the morning catch.

That was some catch.

35 snapper and a dead novelist.

I'm really sorry about this, by the way.

Had to leave in a hurry,
couldn't bear to waste it.

Siobhan sends them over specially.

Whoa! Looks like she means business.

That's the voodoo goddess Erzulie Dantor.

She's the reason for the festival.

Jeepers! Wouldn't want to
meet her on a dark night.

What have we got so far, fellas?

Well, I just spoke to the fishermen,

and they said they saw Frank
wading into the water on their way

out, around five.

Five! That's an ungodly hour for a swim.

It would only just be getting light.

Did they see anyone go in after him?

Not that they mentioned.

Frank left his towel and his
shoes over there on the rocks.

And some time during the next two hours...

Someone stabbed him in
the heart out at sea.

Is that a diving Kn*fe?

Yes, Chief. Very common round here.

Be very difficult to trace.

There's a thousand ways to k*ll a man.

sh**t him, strangle him, run
him over, poison his tea.

They all get the job done.

So what the heck would possess you to s*ab

a man in the middle of the ocean?

Five o'clock this morning,
Frank went for a swim.

Was that out of character?

No, not the swimming, but the timing was.

I... I was usually awake before he was.

And this swim was unplanned?
Nobody knew he was going?

No. We were all asleep. He left me this.

"Too hot to sleep. Gone
for a quick dip. F."

Could he not just've switched
on the air conditioning?

It's given up the ghost.

And what time did you all
go to bed last night?

I went first, at about a quarter to 12.

And then I was asleep when he came to bed.

And I wasn't far behind
you. Ten minutes or so.

Frank and I stayed up, hitting
the cognac for a while.

No idea when we called it a night. Late.

So you were the last
person to see Frank alive?

I suppose... I must've been, yeah.

Apart from the k*ller.

And how was Frank the day before
he d*ed? Any unusual behaviour?

No. He finished work about midday,
when Larry turned up, and then...

Champagne stocks look perilously low.

I think I'll nip into
town and, er, replenish.

I'll come with you.

No, no, you're our guest, Larry.
You make yourself at home.

May I?

Whose work is this?

It's mine. Why?

It's absolutely top-notch.

Do I detect a hint of
coconut in that icing?

A little bit.

Ooh, forgive me, but we have to ask,

can anyone think of a reason
someone might want Frank dead?

No. Dear God, no.

He could be a belligerent old bugger,

but no-one had any reason to bump him off.

Oh, would you look at that?

You'd never go thirsty
around here, would you?

There's a good
case-and-a-half of champagne

and the dust tells me it's
been there for a while.

But Frank didn't think there'd
be enough for the four of you?

Well, he must've forgotten
that they were there.

So, besides "belligerent", how
would any of you describe Frank?

Well, if you want to
know who my husband was,

you should start by reading him.

With My Little Eye.

"Hard-bitten code-breaker Jim Harvey

"tracks a deadly assassin to Ecuador."

Thanks, I'll give it a read.
Sounds like a real page-turner.

Right. Well, if any of you think
of anything that might be relevant,

please be sure to drop me a line.

Detective Jack Money?

Ah. No. That's a typo.

I only got these done yesterday,
and wouldn't you know it,

they've misspelled my name.

Should say Mooney.

Still, close enough, eh? No
point wasting another tree.

You know what's niggling me?

How on earth did the k*ller know
that Frank'd be going for a swim?

Maybe they'd been keeping watch?

Yeah, but why would they be watching
the house at five in the morning?

On the off-chance? Which makes me

think it's more likely to
be someone inside the house.

Someone who just happened
to hear or see Frank leave

and seized their moment.

We know his wife was sleeping beside him.

If anyone was going to
notice him go for a swim...

True. But all the bedrooms face that way.

So the k*ller could've been
any one of those three people?

You would think. Hmm. Right.

Let's start by finding out who
this man was. Dwayne, JP...

I need you to turn the place inside out.

- Anything that could remotely
be of interest. - Yes, sir.

Here. Let me!

No. No, need, it's all right.

No, I insist.

It's Gilly, isn't it?
You're the housekeeper?

No. I'm, er, well, I was
Frank's research assistant.

And protege, I suppose.

I'm so sorry. A fellow scribe?

Yeah! Well, no! I aspire to be.

Not published anything. Yet.

Right. And what brought
you out to the island?

Frank. He invited me out.

I've always been a fan,
as long as I can remember.

Looks like it was quite a party.

Yeah. I'm afraid I made a
bit of a fool of myself.

Champagne!

It was a mistake to try and
keep up with Frank and Larry.

Earlier, when DS Cassell asked
if anyone could think of a reason

why someone might want Frank
dead, you didn't say anything.

But I couldn't help
noticing you looked at Larry.

I didn't. I mean, I wouldn't
read anything into that.

Well, I'm afraid that's what I
do. Read things into things.

Sort of goes along with being a detective.

I mean, I'm sure it's
probably nothing, but, I sat

in the garden after dinner last
night, I was trying to sober up...

Frank and Larry had gone
inside to drink cognac but,

after about 20 minutes,
they started arguing.

Like I said, it's, it's probably nothing.

I wasn't really operating
at full capacity.

Well, thanks all the same. It
all helps to paint a picture.

Lovely cake!

Just as I suspected.

Nobody forgets they've got
18 bottles of champagne.

This is the exact same stuff
that was in the house.

Even got the same dust on it.

So Frank didn't go into
town to buy champagne?

He may have gone into town, but it
wasn't to buy champagne, that's for sure.

Trouble is, he went alone.

So your guess is as good
as mine as to where he went.

Sir. See here. Tyre tracks.

They're fresh. Let's get
Dwayne and JP onto it.

See if anyone in the
house owns a motorbike

or had any deliveries this morning.

This Frank O'Toole was a pretty big deal.

11 awards.

But check the dates. Nothing since 1989.

- And take a look around.
- Hmmm.

Manual typewriter. Fax machine.

The man was stuck in a time warp!

Of course, this would be a lot quicker

if I had a bit more help, Dwayne!

Huh? Listen! It's all
right for you, you know!

You've already got a beautiful wife.

I've got less than a day to find someone.

And you know what they say.

Alone for Erzulie, alone all year long!

And I don't like being on my own.

What did you press?

"Last message received."

My castaway this week
is a prolific author,

writer of the bestselling
Jim Harvey spy thrillers.

Frank O'Toole. Welcome, Frank.

Pleasure to be here, Sue.

I love this show. It's a
real institution back home.

He has to choose eight records
to take to a desert island.

- They leave him on an island? Alone?
- Er, no, no, no, no, no.

It's not a real island. It's hypothetical.

- So, tell me about your first record?
- I've chosen The British Grenadiers

by the marching band
of the Blues and Royals.

A marching band? Really?

What's wrong with you?

You could've had Dylan or The
Beatles! And you chose this?

But if you're stranded on an island,
why do you care about music? You
just want to stay alive, no?

No, Florence, er, you're
still not getting it.

It's not a real island,

it's just a, a way to get the person
to reveal something of themselves.

I was hoping it might give
me some insight into Frank,

but all it's told me so far is...
he had woeful taste in music.

And what about his book?
What does that tell you?

Yeah, well, this Jim Harvey's a bit
of an idiot, to be honest with ya.

13 pages in, he's already slept with a woman
he's supposed to be spying on -- while drunk.

I assume Frank's ex-m*llitary?

- How did you...? - Only an old soldier
goes misty-eyed for a marching band.

Was Frank O'Toole his real
name or a nom de what's it?

Plume. Oh, no. He was born Francis Toole.

He just added the "O".

Wanted to sound like a real
Irishman. And who can blame him?

He wrote 40 novels, one a year.

Last night, they celebrated 40
years since his first publication.

Frank had two failed
marriages until he met

Valerie O'Toole. 54.

She was an actress but she gave it all up

when she married Frank 23
years ago. Then there's...

- The ten percenter.
- Larry South. Late 60s.

He discovered Frank when he
was just a local reporter.

Right. But we know from
Gilly there was tension.

They were arguing just last
night. And there she is.

The research assistant slash
protege slash cake baker.

Gilly White. Late 30s.

Worked in a bookshop until three
months ago, somewhere called Stoke?

Ah, yes, Stoke. A lovely spot.

So, how did she get from there to here?

I'm working on it.

All we know so far is Frank invited
her, we don't yet know how they met.

And now we come to your luxury.

What have you chosen to take with you?

Well, Sue. Er, the one item I really
couldn't live without is a decent

cup of English breakfast tea.

A cup of tea? That's the
one thing you'd take?

You're stuck on an
island, for flip's sake!

One word for you, sir. Sausages.

That's not the same
thing at all, Florence.

They were exceptional sausages.

Here we go, Chief.

Every single thing from Frank's house

that might conceivably be of interest.

But you might want to
look at this first, sir.

Frank was sent this fax late last night.

He was about to sign with a new agent?

So Larry not only faced the thr*at
of being discarded by an old

friend after, what, 40 years,

but also losing what must've
been a fairly hefty income.

No wonder they were arguing.

Just so you know, I don't
normally hit the sauce this early.

My nerves are a tad jangly just now.

It pains me to tell you this, but...
Frank's best days were behind him.

No-one would publish his last
two novels. He blamed me.

That's what you were arguing about
last night? After the dinner?

Oh, that was just a bit
of nonsense really.

We were both three sheets to the wind.

Frank was telling me that he was
going to sign with a new agent.

I need someone young and dynamic.

And you think that'd make the
blindest bit of difference, do you?

It won't!

He just did that to get a rise out of me.

I'm sorry to be the one to tell you.

Ah! Well, there you go.

Frank switching agents.

I assume there'd be financial
implications for you.

As I told you, the golden goose had
stopped laying eggs some time ago.

Thank you for your time, Mr South.

I dare say Frank's m*rder won't
do his book sales any harm.

I suppose you're right.

I just haven't thought
of it in those terms.

No?

Well, it seems to me that a
thriller writer dying in mysterious

circumstances, well, you can't buy
that sort of publicity, can you?

What's your point?

It just strikes me that poor
Frank is not really in a position

to enjoy his renaissance,
but you'll still get your,

what is it, 10% of every penny he makes.

Jesus! I may be an agent,
but I'm not THAT ruthless!

So, JP, what's the story
with those financial checks?

So I've gone back over the last
five years, sir, and it seems the

O'Tooles didn't have a lot of money
-- not as much as we'd think, anyway.

So Larry was right. Book
sales aren't what they were.

I guess, from his wife's perspective,

he's worth a lot more dead than alive.

Chief, I checked out those
tyre tracks like you asked.

They belong to a small scooter,
but no-one in the house owns one,

and they've had no
deliveries in the last week.

Well, someone was outside that
house on a scooter, and recently.

I've managed to pull up some more
information about Gilly White.

Here's the home page of her
social media profile. Take a look.

Ah, the social media page.
God's gift to detectives.

A year ago, she got engaged
to the manager of the bookshop

in Stoke, Dean Shanks, and if
the comments from their friends

are anything to go by --
"Where are you, Gilly?"

"How could you do this to Dean?"

And here's one from Dean himself,
"Call me! Please! I need answers!"

She recently cut off all contact.

Right, let's see if we can't set up
a video chat with this Dean fella.

Hear what he has to say for himself.

Frank O'Toole decides,
on the spur of the moment,

to go for an early-morning dip.

He tells no-one he's going,

just leaves a note on his pillow.

Yet, one of these three -- the
wife, the agent, the protege --

gets wind of the fact, rouses
themselves from their heavy

post-champagne slumber, and
follows him down to the beach.

No sign of a boat.

So we assume they swim
out after him, and then...

But why not s*ab him on
the beach or in the house?

Why wait till he's out to sea?

- No witnesses, I suppose.
- Ah.

Not much chance of recovering DNA,

not from a million square
miles of open water.

She's been following me around the island.

I thought I'd seen just about every
saint going. She's something else.

They say, if you make her an
offering, she will bring you love.

What sort of offering?

She loves knives, rum and
unfiltered cigarettes.

Oh, I knew a girl like that
once back in County Cork.

Butcher's daughter. Eimear. Biggest
hands I've ever seen on a woman.

Look, I know we didn't really talk a
lot at school, Darlene, but I always...

Did we ever speak?

Well, not with, you know, actual words.

But you were a bit younger than me!

Only a bit?

All right, a lot.

But if I'd known you was going
to grow up to look like this!

- Oh, wow! - So now, years
later, the day before Erzulie,

you find yourself

without a date, so you run
around the bar in a panic to see

the only woman standing on her own.

No! It's not because
you're on your own, Darlene.

And it's not because I'm panicking.

It's because you're the most
beautiful woman on the island.

You know what?

Every year at Erzulie, I get
taken to the same restaurant,

and I eat the same meal.

Just once, I wish someone
would make a real effort.

I like a man who can cook.
Can you cook, Dwayne?

Excuse me a minute.

Don't look now, but the most
beautiful woman on the island

just agreed to let me
cook her an Erzulie meal.

So I decided I was going to cook
her some of my "sure thing" chicken,

but then I remembered
I don't live on my own.

Oh. Right. No, don't you worry, Dwayne.

Understood. I'll make myself scarce.

You won't even know I'm there.

Pete's sake, Dwayne, you
must be clean by now?

Hold on there, Chief. You
can't rush the regime.

It takes a lot of time and
effort to look this good.

I swear you take longer in the
bathroom than anyone I've ever met.

And I've got four sisters!
And they're big girls!

It's like he's never
heard of personal space.

I guess it's a while since he lived
with anyone that wasn't family.

But I'm not family.
He's meant to be my boss!

Pathology reports have come through.

Cause of death, definitely the s*ab wound.

And they found some tiny fibres
under Frank's fingernails --

iron oxide and polyurethane.

Iron oxide's used for making
paint and polyurethane's

a type of varnish, you might use it
to make something water-resistant.

That's it! Of course.
There're must have been a boat.

Frank wasn't stabbed in the
water. The k*ller had a boat.

And the paint and the varnish
were under Frank's nails,

so he must've... What was he doing?

Why was he clambering onto a
boat in the middle of the sea?

And where did this boat come from?

Is it possible the k*ller had
it stashed around the bay?

But even if they did, that
doesn't really explain how

they got from the house to the boat
in time to meet Frank out there.

- Unless.
- Unless?

They had a scooter.

Oh, that's very good, Florence.
Stick a pin in that thought.

First things first. Dwayne,
JP, ring round the marinas,

speak to the harbour masters.

See if anyone saw a grey boat
coming or going between five

and seven yesterday morning.

Aye, aye, Captain.

Any luck with Gilly's fiance?

He's expecting our video call any time.

So this was found floating out to sea

and the harbour master said, as far
as he can tell, it's unregistered.

As you know, all boats on the
island have to be registered.

Hang on a minute.

Got you.

Er, Dwayne...

Ah?

Looks like blood.

Frank came to do a signing about
a year ago. Don't get it myself.

Always seemed like a
budget Le Carre to me.

But Gilly did this online
thriller writing course

and he was like a rock star to her.

Now, they met at the bookshop
where you were both working?

She asked him to sign a book.

Told him she was a writer.

Next thing I know, he's only
invited her to stay with him

and his wife on some tropical island.

At first, she was a bit homesick,
she used to call me every day.

But then she changed. She
became obsessed with her novel.

Her last book got
rejected by 15 publishers

and she was terrified
of it happening again.

It was all she could talk about.

Then, two months ago, she just
stopped answering her phone.

E-mails. Texts. Ignored 'em all.

All right, Dean, well,
thanks for your time.

If she wanted to end it,
why didn't she just say so?

Why did she just ghost him?

Why don't we ask her?

Paradise Mislaid.

This the novel you've been working on?

Well, it's very much a work in progress.

Sadly, Frank never got
to read my latest draft.

I've been working on it day and
night these past two weeks.

These are his notes? Not one
to mince his words, was he?

I came out here to learn.
It was always constructive.

And this is what he
signed at your bookshop,

- the day you met?
- How did you know?

We just spoke with Dean Shanks.

Why? Dean's not a part
of my life any more.

So the engagement's off? Your decision?

Yeah, it was. We wanted different things.

I had to focus on me writing.

Sometimes you've got to be a
bit hard-nosed, don't you?

I know that seems selfish,
but I'm never going

to have this chance again.

So, tell me, how long ago
did Frank end your affair?

What?

Well, Frank's criticism isn't cruel,

but it is intimate. "Clumsy, darling!

"I know you're better than this."

And there's a lingering scent
of aftershave on your towel.

And the shower's set to
a man's height. Also...

This should be a prized
memento of that first meeting.

You wouldn't tear it up unless you
were in a blind, passionate rage.

I didn't tear it up. Dean did.

He couldn't understand why
I'd want to come out here.

He's never been further than Spain.

And I wouldn't call it an affair.

It was just a, a silly fling.

But, but for what it's
worth, Frank didn't end it.

In fact, he'd just booked these.

A trip to Prague?

He wanted to show me his favourite city.

It was a research trip,

in theory.

Only, please, don't tell Valerie.

She's been through enough.

Wife and mistress under the same
roof. And he wasn't even French!

So Valerie had a motive.
Assuming that she knew...

Sorry to disturb you, Mrs O'Toole. May I?

Frank would never let
anyone sit in his chair.

Or, God forbid, touch his beloved Irene.

He was superstitious like that.

He was working on something new?

Mmm. Novel 41. The Moscow Mule.

Mmm.

Did he always plan it all out like this?

He never just made it
up as he went along, no?

Frank would never start
until he knew the ending.

It was one of the few
rules that he never broke.

He always says a good
writer plots backwards.

Said.

I'm sorry, I can't. I'm sorry.

We can go somewhere more
comfortable, if you prefer?

You and Frank had been together 23 years?

I was in the TV version
of one of his books.

He was married to someone
else at the time.

The papers were scandalised.

He was a good husband?

He loved me. I loved him.

Must be strange, though, being
married to a well-known writer.

All those readers who feel
they know him intimately.

Did it never feel like
you were sharing him?

I suppose occasionally it bothered me

that he was so receptive to
his prettier, younger fans.

But you were happy enough to
welcome one into your home?

I wouldn't say happy. It
was pragmatism on my part.

Frank needed the validation
of adoring younger women.

Better it happen under my roof,
where I could keep an eye on him.

So you turned a blind eye?

No. My eyes were wide open.
She's the one with blinkers on.

Poor, naive little girl. I knew
he'd tire of her soon enough.

Did you know he'd booked a trip
to Prague for the two of them?

A research trip.

It was my idea.

Your idea?

I knew a week alone with her
would put him off for good.

How could you be so sure?

Because she was clingy. And
Frank couldn't bare clingy.

We had to send her off to
Montserrat last weekend just

so that we could breathe.

Forgive me, Mrs O'Toole, I know you

and Frank had been struggling financially.

But the terrible irony is
that, with Frank's death...

Do you think I'd give a damn
about book sales? Or money?

My husband was m*rder*d yesterday
and I would give everything

I have, everything, to
bring him back again.

You have no idea what we had.

Well, if it isn't Inspector Jack Money.

Is this how you conduct
your investigations?

Sitting around sipping tea!

- There's a k*ller
out there, man! - Sir.

Who knows, deciding which
of us to bump off next!

Stop it, Larry. You're not helping.

Yes, so once we had the
number, it didn't take us

long to find the boat's
last registered owner.

Zeke the Crab Man.

Zeke the Crab Man?

Zeke the Crab Man.

Took a while for Zeke to
sober up enough to speak but,

when he did, he told us he
sold the boat two weeks ago.

Did he say to whom?

Mr Otis Falconer.

Otis Falconer? Well, there's
a name to conjure with.

Any description of the man.

Zeke said it was all done by
e-mail, and the cash posted to him.

They never met.

Right, well, I think

we can safely file that
under suspicious behaviour.

Oh, I was so certain it had
to be one of these three.

We've got motives, we've got proximity.

And then, suddenly, enter
stage left Mr Otis Falconer,

a mysterious man with a boat,

and all the cards are
thrown up in the air.

Right. Let's find this Otis and
bring him in for questioning.

Er, about that, Chief.

We checked with the Land
Registry and Immigration

and there's absolutely no record
of an Otis Falconer on Saint Marie.

I also called the O'Toole household.

They'd never even heard of the name.

So we don't know what Otis looks
like, or where Otis lives,

or what Otis's connection to Frank is.

All we have is a name and a boat.

And, possibly, a scooter.

Ah, yes! The scooter! Right.

What if it was Otis who was sitting
outside the house watching and

waiting for the moment Frank emerged

so as he could zip round to his boat?

Dwayne, JP, I need you to visit
every scooter shop on the island.

Find out if anyone's
rented or sold a scooter to

a Mr Otis Falconer in the last few days.

You mean right now, Chief?

Well, yes. Given this is a
m*rder investigation, I think

there's some small degree of urgency.

Right. Don't tell me.

- Erzulie.
- Erzulie.

OK. OK.

Wow, Dwayne! That smells good!

Can I just have a little...?

- Hey...
- A tiny bit!

Mmm. What's that you added? Allspice?

Gives it quite a kick. I might just...

- OK.
- If you wouldn't mind... Oh.

My mother used to put allspice
in her Christmas cake but, then,

one year, she forgot her glasses and
she added black pepper by mistake.

We were still sneezing
halfway through March!

Chief, please! I, I'm sorry.

Look, look, I don't want to be
disrespectful or anything, but

Darlene's going to be here at any
second, so do you think maybe,

just for one minute, you could possibly

give me just a tiny little bit of space?

Well, of course, Dwayne. Why
didn't you just say so before?

I'll get out of your hair.

That's it, thank you, Chief.

Right, that'll be her.

Right, just pretend I'm not here.

- I'll be out the back doing
battle with this. - Well, go na!

Yeah. Knock her dead, Dwayne.

I mean, not literally, obviously,
that would be disastrous.

- Chief, go!
- OK!

Happy Erzulie!

I got to tell you, Dwayne, that is
one of the best thing I ever eaten.

You must give me the recipe.

My secret recipe? You'll
have to t*rture it out of me.

Now that sound like a challenge.

You better believe it!

So what do you call it?

I call it "sure thing" chicken.

Do you now? And why you call it that?

Erm, well...

.. I suppose people always
asking me for my recipe and I say,

"Sure thing," you know?

But you just said it was a secret.

Did I?

So it's not because you're under
the illusion that all this chilli

and spice might put a
woman in a certain mood?

Who's that?

Ah, erm, oh, that's, erm...

Sorry. Ignore me. I'm not here.

Is that an Irish accent I hear?

Er, no.

It is! A real Irishman!

Like Liam Neeson.

Well, no, not really like him.

I mean, he's from Ballymena, which is...

You've not been back there all this time?

Erm...

Look, you must try some of this chicken.

No, no, no, no, no, no!

I insist. Pull up a chair, honey.

Dwayne, get the man a plate.

Really, it's, it's not...

Do not say no to Darlene. Come!

You are going to love this. It's
a "sure thing", right, Dwayne?

Right...

Now, what I need to know is,
what is a good-looking Irishman

like yourself doing alone at Erzulie?

Anyone for cheesecake?

Who knew there could be

so many scooter shops on
one little island, eh?

This'll be number six!

Oh, erm, by the way,
how did it go last night

with your "sure thing" chicken?

Listen, I don't want to talk
about it, OK! Eh, Eddie...

- Hmmm? - You rent a scooter
to an Otis Falconer lately?

You're sure now, Eddie? Cos
this is vitally important.

We think this Otis might hold the
key to the Frank O'Toole m*rder.

Ah.

Chief! We've got a description!

Otis! We went to every
scooter shop on the island.

And no-one know the name
Otis Falconer. Until...

.. we got to the last
one, Eddie's Scooters.

Now, Eddie is very, very laid-back.

Never writes anything down,
never bothers taking names,

but he said, and I quote,
"This dude in his 30s or 40s,

"maybe British, maybe Australian,
rented a red scooter, wore

"a yellow T-shirt, was medium
built and paid a cash deposit."

And get this -- he asked Eddie
where Frank O'Toole lived.

- It has to be him.
- Yeah.

Not the most detailed description
I've ever heard, but it's got to be.

So, who is Otis Falconer?

And what motive could
he have to m*rder Frank?

A deranged fan, or did
Frank owe him money?

Some sort of m*llitary connection?

But we know he has no
footprint on Saint Marie.

So how're we going to find him?

We know he has a boat.

So what's to say he's
based on this island?

Dwayne, JP, run a search on
all the neighbouring islands.

Meanwhile, we'll see

if we can find any more witnesses
back here besides Scooter Eddie.

Where's the first place you'd
expect to find a Brit with a moped?

I'm afraid I'm not open yet.

Alas, Catherine, we're
not here for a drink.

We're here on police business.

Oh? Is it something to do
with the Frank O'Toole m*rder?

Yes, proving to be a puzzle, like
something out of one of his novels.

We're searching for a man
called Otis Falconer.

Sorry, I don't know that name.

No-one does.

All we know is he's a man in
his 30s or 40s, medium build,

a yellow T-shirt and a red scooter.

I think I might know the man you mean.

- You do?
- Yes.

He was in here a couple
of days ago, asking

if I could recommend a
cheap place to stay.

I sent him to Queenie's Guest House.

Mayor Bordey, I think I love you.

OK, you go on up. I'll
keep watch out here.

He's in there.

Otis Falconer! Police! Open up, please.

There he is.

He's getting away!

I don't think so.

Of course, a potato is best,
but you work with what you have.

Otis Falconer, I'm arresting you
on suspicion of the m*rder of...

Dean Shanks?

Would you rather we
called you Dean or Otis?

Who's Otis?

Otis Falconer is the identity you assumed

when you landed in Saint
Marie two days ago.

I'm sorry. I don't...

The thing is, Dean, we're not
that inclined to trust you.

Given that you lied in a police interview,

pretending that you were
in Stoke, when in reality...

I didn't. I mean, you, you never asked.

You just assumed.

You also scarpered when we
tried to question you just now,

and I suspect your tyre treads
are an exact match for the tracks

we found outside Frank's house.

I know! I know! It, it looks terrible.

Yeah, not great, to be fair.

This is your chance to explain yourself.

Well, Gilly and me, it's...
I love her, you know?

I mean, we're supposed
to be getting married.

I couldn't just give
her up without a fight!

So you flew to Saint
Marie. You hired a scooter.

You asked around till you found
out where Frank lived. And then?

I thought I'd go round there
first thing in the morning,

before everyone else was awake.

Find Gilly, say my piece.
Then, when I get there...

I don't know, I just lost my nerve.

I thought, "What if I've come all
this way and she just tells me

"to get lost?"

So... I bolted. Like a coward.

I'll ask you one last time.

Are you, or are you not, Otis Falconer?

I've never heard of him. I swear.

We had him. I honestly thought
we had Otis Falconer in custody.

But now he's back to being nothing
more than a big, fat question mark.

Sir!

I just heard back from Linton Williams,

a rental manager from St Michel,
one of the neighbouring islands.

Four months ago, he rented a
house to an Otis Falconer.

And guess what? He's never
met him. Never spoken to him.

It was all done via e-mail.

And apparently this Otis wanted the
most secluded house he had to offer.

How far is St Michel from here?

Not far at all. About 5km.

Right, this must be the place.

It's the only one here, sir.

Sshhh.

Otis Falconer?

Don't we need a search permit, sir?

Probably. Don't tell anyone.

I'll say this for Otis. He
doesn't go in for clutter.

Otis's laptop.

If there's nothing on it, let's
bag it and check it for prints.

Frank was k*lled on the boat.

The boat was bought by Otis.
Otis rented this house.

What else do we have?

Well, we've got zero motive.

Zero idea who Otis is, no-one's
ever seen him or spoken to him.

You're right, Dwayne. Our number
one suspect is an invisible man.

He's only communicated with
two people on this laptop --

Zeke the Crab Man, and the
letting agent for this house.

And there is no internet here,

so he must've sent the
e-mails from somewhere else.

Wow! It's like we're looking for a ghost.

Or a voodoo goddess. Except there's
more proof flipping Erzulie exists.

Maybe that's it. What
if Otis doesn't exist?

Yeah! What if he was one
of our suspects all along?

And now we come to your luxury.

"Jack Money?"

Frank would never start
until he knew the ending.

They found some tiny fibres
under Frank's fingernails.

He left me this.

As I told you, the golden
goose had stopped laying eggs.

I would give everything
to bring him back again.

I've been working on it day and
night these past two weeks.

There's a good
case-and-a-half of champagne,

but Frank didn't think there'd
be enough for the four of you.

Of course.

You beauty! We have to
get back to Saint Marie.

Dwayne, when we do, I need you to
check something with Immigration.

- Will do, Chief.
- What's in a name?

I tell you I'm Jack Mooney,
you take me at my word.

But what's the difference between
Jack Mooney and Jack Money?

The letter O?

The letter O is exactly
right, JP. That is it. Yes!

It all comes down to the missing letter O.

I know who Otis Falconer is. I
know who k*lled Frank O'Toole.

And I know how.

Gilly?

Dean? What, what are you doing here?

I flew out here cos I
couldn't let you give up on us.

We're meant to be
together, you know we are.

You shouldn't have come. I'm sorry, Dean.

The wife. The mistress. The
agent. The jilted boyfriend.

And then there's our fifth suspect,
who you'll notice isn't here yet.

Mr Otis Falconer. Which one
of these five is our k*ller?

Right, yes.

With My Little Eye by Frank O'Toole.

Full disclosure, I wasn't too sold
on Jim Harvey to begin with but,

by the end, when Jim
cracks the Russian code,

I have to admit the plotting is ingenious.

Yeah! A real feat of reverse engineering.

Which put me in mind of
something that Valerie said --

Frank could never start writing
a novel until he knew the ending.

- Yeah?
- Yeah.

For Frank, a good plot was a puzzle,
a, a code to cr*ck in itself.

It was the letter O that solved it for me.

Now, we all know the O in
O'Toole was a late addition.

But our man of letters, he couldn't
resist one last literary flourish.

The last plot he constructed...

.. the last character he
created was a pseudonym,

but it was also an anagram of his name.

Otis Falconer.

But why did he feel the
need to create Otis?

Well, the fact is Frank and
Valerie had run out of money.

And Frank decided that the only
answer was to fake his own death.

Step one...

.. he'd buy a boat.

Step two, he'd rent a hidey-hole
on a neighbouring island,

filling it with just the bare essentials.

Clothes, groceries. Of course
-- English breakfast tea,

his Desert Island luxury item.

Step three, on the
afternoon of the party...

Champagne stocks are perilously low.

I'll nip into town and replenish them.

.. when he was supposedly
buying champagne,

he'd pre-set the boat into position.

Step four...

.. the following morning,

a few minutes before five, he'd
leave a note for his wife, before

heading down to the beach.

He'd wave at a fishing
boat just setting out,

as it did every morning, to
make sure that he had witnesses.

And then he'd stride out into the
ocean, never to be seen again.

Missing, presumed drowned.

Being sure to leave behind a
pile of unfinished business --

a contract with a new
agent that he'd never sign,

a trip to Prague that he'd never make,

and a novel he'd never finish -- so
as nobody would suspect the truth.

At least that was the
plan. Wasn't it, Valerie?

You knew, as a former
actress, that you could play

the part of the grieving
widow convincingly

until it was safe to join
Frank... on St Michel,

where you'd spend the rest of your lives

living off Frank's
newly-reinvigorated book sales.

Frank had planned his death
down to the very last detail.

All except for one tiny,
tiny thing -- the dying part.

It was never meant to end like this.

He wasn't supposed to die.

No. Certainly you didn't
mean for him to die.

But you did...

.. didn't you, Gilly?

Frank had already done
all the planning for you.

All you had to do was swim out
ahead of him and lie in wait.

This is ridiculous. Why
would I want to k*ll Frank?

Well, because you were head
over heels in love with him.

Up till now, you'd barely left Stoke.

But here you were in paradise
with the man you idolised

reading your words and sharing your bed.

Dean told us how obsessive you can be.

He thought it was your
novel you were obsessed by.

But really it was Frank.

And you believed that
Frank felt the same way.

I mean, what were the tickets to Prague,

if not a declaration of love?

You had no idea that they were just
another of Frank's red herrings.

Until last weekend, believing they had
safely despatched you to Montserrat...

We had to send her off to
Montserrat last weekend just

so that we could breathe.

.. Frank and Valerie were finally
able to talk about their plan

out in the open.

The hardest part will be
swimming out to the boat.

The hardest part will be living
without you for six months.

Little did they know that you
hadn't gone to Montserrat.

We checked with Immigration
and you never left the island.

Instead, you decided to stay
behind and work on your novel.

I've been working on it day and
night these past two weeks.

Which is when we assume that you overhead

the conversation and
you became suspicious.

You must've started
snooping around, which is

when you discovered Frank's laptop,

and that would've revealed
the existence of two things.

A boat and a hideaway on a nearby island.

For someone with such a
deep-rooted fear of rejection,

this must have been unbearable.

Her last book got
rejected by 15 publishers

and she was terrified
of it happening again.

It wasn't Dean who tore
this up, was it? It was you.

You were prepared to give
up everything for Frank.

And then you realised that the only
woman that he was truly in love

with, the woman he was planning
a future with, was his wife.

So, on the afternoon of the party...

Champagne stocks look perilously
low, I'll nip into town

and replenish.

.. you knew going to buy
champagne was just a ruse.

You do most of the catering in here.

You knew exactly how much
champagne was in that cupboard.

So you followed Frank.

And you discovered exactly
where the boat would be.

And then, after that, all you had
to do was feign drunkenness to

put everyone off the scent, swim
out to the boat and lie in wait.

This is ridiculous! You've got no proof.

Well, except for a small grey
boat, the paint on which exactly

matches the paint fibres that we
found under Frank's fingernails.

And I've no doubt that
our lab will confirm

that you left your DNA all over it...

.. when you brutally stabbed
Frank O'Toole to death.

Before setting the boat adrift,
hoping that it would never be found.

Hoping that you might,
indeed, get away with m*rder.

After everything he did for you?

Did for me? He destroyed my life.

Oh, I was happy when I met him.

But then he had to let me
believe that I was special.

That I had talent. That he loved me.

And all the while you knew.

Frank felt nothing for you. How could he?

You're a monster.

DI Money? Mooney! Mooney! Sorry! Sorry!

I just wanted to apologise
for doubting you.

I see now that there's a
certain method in your madness.

Oh, thank you. What are you
going to do now, Larry?

On the hunt for another golden goose?

Oh, no, no, no, no, as you pointed out,

the irony is that now the old sod's
going to keep me busier than ever.

But it seems to me that you have a
certain gift for spinning a yarn.

If you ever decide to turn to writing...

.. give me a call.

Well, I'll bear it in mind.

I mean it now! Bye!

Why is she still up? Thought
I'd seen the last of her.

Even when you can't see
Erzulie, she's always there --

tricking people into falling in
love, so she can break their hearts.

You're not really that cynical, are you?

What have we just seen? One man
dead, two lives ruined -- by what?

Well, it wasn't love that
k*lled him. It was envy.

Precisely because, in its own way, Frank

and Valerie's love was the real deal.

The kind of love that nothing
can break, not infidelity,

not time, not even death.

Does that really exist?

Oh, it does. Trust me.

Talking of which...

It was such a lovely surprise
to receive your voicemail.

Whenever I feel blue,

I'm just going to listen
to your lovely Irish voice

cooing in my ear.

Ah, that's great!

Well, the reason I asked
you here, Darlene,

is because, well, last night I
feel I interrupted something.

Now, it seemed to me that you were
striking sparks off each other.

And that's rare.

You don't seem too convinced.

But, frankly, you should be, because
Dwayne, he's got a good heart, and,

and, and a great sense of humour,
and a magic way with chicken!

So you can't judge a man on
half a date, now, can you?

You've got to give him a
fair cr*ck at the whip.

So, I know it's not Erzulie any more,

but maybe you could ask him
to dance. What do you say?

You're a good man, Jack Mooney. Come here.

Come, Dwayne! Come.

What about you, Jack?

What about me?

Not dancing?

No, no, no, no. Not
ready for that just yet.

But I'm happy to watch, you know? For now.

Amen!

Do you feel his power?

Looks like burn marks on her lips.

You mean the kind you get when you...?

When you've ingested poison.

We will be introducing policing
methods that are new to us.

Would I be right in thinking
that's something to do with it?

Is he really arrogant
enough to commit m*rder?

I'm playing a particularly
sophisticated game here.

- And that actually works?
- Hasn't failed me yet.

Night, Dwayne.

Who the hell is Gerald?