Inspector George Gently

Will you get us a drink, pet?

Circulate, all right. Enjoy yourselves.

All right, Craig, get me a drink.

Oh, easy!

Excuse me.

Right, I'm just going to say a few words. Really?

All right, everyone. Gather round. Scottie's going to say a few words.

Turn it off! Can we have you on the dance floor, please?

Where is he? Peter?

Peter? Come on.

Little Peter Magath, where is he?

Ah, there he is! Go on, Peter!

Now, little Peter may not have been the smartest kid in the village,

but he was the slowest.

I've got short legs.

We used to think, Michael and me,

that Peter had been dropped on his head as a kid.

I had. We felt sorry for him.

We worried about your future, Peter.

How's little Pete going to manage?

We didn't know you'd end up one of the richest sods in Newcastle!

Did we, Michael? No idea at all, Scottie.

Should've paid more attention, then, shouldn't they?

Oh, they're only joking. Hm. Hilarious!

Now, when Peter came to me and said,

"I'm going to make my fortune laying pipe,"

I thought he wanted to be a gigolo!

What's a gigolo, Scott? Ask Michael.

Gigolo, that's right! Michael thought tonight was fancy dress,

so he's come as a Danish porn star.

Have you finished? The pies have come. Not yet.

Our mate Michael, the best-dressed Bolshevik in Newcastle.

We're all grateful to him for standing up for our right

not to have our rubbish collected.

It used to be I was talking rubbish, or he was talking rubbish,

now the whole of Newcastle's talking rubbish

because we can't get it collected. Hear, hear!

Scott. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

All right, seriously.

I love Peter Magath. Just like I love Michael.

Lifelong friends.

I love that Peter's an original.

I love that he had a vision of what he could be and he pursued it,

even when we laughed.

I love that he has faith in others.

Maybe even in me.

God knows the world needs people like that.

- Peter! - Peter!

Right, music!

Yeeha!

Yeeha!

Yeeha!

Come on!

Whoo!

Yeeha!

'180 council dustmen have gone on strike

'for a higher basic rate of pay.

'Fears that the mouldering rubbish might become a health hazard

'mounted following reports of rat sightings.

'The markets disgorge their daily collection of garbage

'onto the growing mess.

'But the dustmen were adamant, they wanted their basic wage upped from

'£15.9 shillings a week to £20.

'The dustcarts stayed in the depot.

'The general opinion was that the whole business stank.'

He's got wooden splinters in his head.

Body was discovered just after 7:00, sir.

The sergeant reckons he was a jumper.

Really? There's been a few of them lately.

They've pulled two out of the Tyne already this month, sir.

If he was aiming for the river, he was a bad shot.

Debt. Unemployment.

Is this where they found him? He hasn't been moved?

No, sir.

There's no blood around him.

He was dead when he hit.

Have we got a name? We've got his wallet, but there's no ID.

There's no money in it either.

So, robbery, maybe?

We've got this. It's a receipt for a pawnbroker,

a couple of betting slips from the dog track

and a note that says, "Gwendolen Howard, 5:00 Wednesdays."

Who's she?

Gwendolen Howard?

Sir? Sir, we're a bit shorthanded with the bin strike.

I need to release men to other duties

if we don't absolutely need the scene sealed.

It's a crime scene, Sergeant.

No, no, no. You heard him. Seal it.

Sorry. Dawson pawnbroker.

A chance to get yourself a decent suit, John.

She died of leukaemia. Left me her watch.

I'll be with you in a tick, gents. Thank you.

What was your gran's name, son?

Er... I just called her Grannie.

I would've called her Glamorous Grannie. This is a Rolex.

Look, I-I just need the money.

I'm sorry, son. Mr Dawson has very strict rules about these things.

I'm not sure that this really belonged to your gran,

may she rest in peace.

What are you trying to accuse us of, like? Being stupid.

How are you today? Champion.

I'm sorry about the smell.

The working stiff normally has all my sympathy,

but this set of work-shy bastards, I could crucify.

I've got rats.

We'd like to speak to Mr Dawson, please.

He's not in at the moment. Perhaps I can help you?

Are you buying or selling?

Ah.

There is no Mr Dawson.

It's just a name I can blame when I have to say no.

People can get, erm...

What's the technical word? Arsey.

Anyway, how can I help you?

Can you tell us who you issued this to, please?

I can try.

Here we are.

He gave the name of, T Dan Smith.

T Dan Smith.

A-ha. That's what it says here.

So, T Dan Smith, until recently, leader of the council,

has fallen on hard times?

Well, probably not.

Some people aren't comfortable about using their real names, you know.

And not just the thieves.

There's a lot of shame in falling on hard times. Sad.

Yeah, I can see the tracks of your tears.

Aren't you supposed to take their identities?

I'll tell Mr Dawson.

I can do a full audit of this place, sir.

Maybe get it shut down, you know.

Hey, and I thought we were getting along.

What was pawned?

Four weeks ago. And all on the one ticket.

All this? Aye.

He said he'd be back for all of it.

Mind, they all say that, like, but I believed him.

And all this is definitely his?

No question in my mind.

Well, if he's half-inched anything, I'll be back to see you.

Now I'm torn, aren't I?

I mean, I don't want stolen goods on me hands,

but if it's a chance of meeting you again, Sergeant...

Your T Dan, what's he look like?

Ooh... 40ish.

Short dark hair.

A bit taller than you.

Beautiful skin, soft blue eyes.

How much did you give him for this lot?

It's a hard life, isn't it?

There you are. Thanks, John.

There's no missing person's report matching the dead man's description.

The pathologist hasn't got anything yet and won't have until tomorrow.

And we've got no Gwendolen Howard on any of our files.

Making progress, then!

Don't shoot the messenger, Inspector Bacchus.

She never irritate you?

No.

Our man's not a thief, John.

That pawnshop bloke could have sniffed out a thief out a mile away.

We watched him do it. He's pawning the family silver.

This is a man with a wife, who's got rings and necklaces.

At least, she did have.

So, where is she? What's she waiting for?

It's dead. 'Right. How do you know that?'

Because there's no dial tone, that's how I know.

'We've noted that you've been cut off.'

Well, why've we been cut off?!

'Anita Magath.'

Anita, Jo. Is my husband there?

Tommy Cary?

Aye. I've got me license, just not on us.

You're all right. We want to know if you know who this belongs to.

Aye, I know him.

He put a pony on the third race. Doesn't happen very often.

He chases his bets. Makes us uneasy.

It's like watching them jumping off a cliff.

Is he? Jumping off a cliff.

When you take the money, you try not to think about the look in their eyes,

but, aye, there's some you feel sorry for.

Was he one of them? Jimmy?

What, is it an addiction?

Most people bet for a laugh,

but some can't stop laughing till they've emptied their pay packet.

And that's when the crying starts.

Bills to pay, bairns going hungry at home, angry wives.

It certainly keeps those guys busy in that window, I can tell you.

Who are they, loan sharks?

I'm not really in a position to judge.

Did our man use them?

I don't know. I suppose.

Always managed to find a bit of money from somewhere.

Do you know his name?

Aye. Said his name was...

T Dan Smith?

No. Richard. Richard Grainger.

But when you find him, tell him there's £2.10 to come back on that.

He won't be collecting it. Off the cliff?

Something like that, yeah.