Hastings, night. Air-raid sirens howl and b*mb are dropping. One of them strikes a row of houses.

Daylight. ARP Warden Willis and other wardens and police move around the wreckage of the b*mb site.

CAPTION: AUGUST 1940

Willis: We've got a gas leak! Get it plugged! 

A body is being carried away on a stretcher.

Man (offscreen): Help!

Man (offscreen): All right. 

Man (offscreen): Got it?

Man (offscreen): Yeah.

Joyce Davies arrives on the scene carrying bags and stops as she sees the devastation.

Joyce: Oh my God. 

She runs forward.

Joyce: Oh! 

A policeman, PC Fisher, stops her.

Fisher: Sorry. You can't come through. 

Joyce: No, you don't understand. I live here. 

Fisher: What's your name? 

Joyce: Joyce Davies. This is my house. 

Fisher: All right, love. You'd better come with me. 

He takes her over to Willis.

Fisher: This lady says she lives here. 

Joyce: My house. I don't believe it. 

Willis: Sorry, love. It caught one. You'll be all right, though. Someone get her a cup of tea! 

Man (offscreen): All right!

Willis pulls an intact chair from the wreckage.

Willis: Here. Sit down. 

Joyce: My chair. My kitchen chair! 

Willis: Not much left of your kitchen, I'm afraid. So where were you last night, then? Down the local shelter? 

Joyce: No. No, I wasn't. 

Willis: Was the house empty? 

Joyce: No. My husband. Oh, Graham! 

She runs forward and the two men stop her.

Willis: Any children? 

Joyce: No. Graham, is he in there? 

Willis: We're looking now. 

He pats her on the shoulder and moves off. Fisher guides her to sit down.

Fisher: Have you got somewhere to go? Someone to look after you? 

Joyce; Bloody Germans. Dropped a b*mb on my house. Bloody cowards! 

Fisher: Don't you worry. Our boys'll be doing the same to them, and worse. 

Warden (offscreen): Hey! 

Willis points at Joyce before going to investigate.

Willis: You stay there. 

He joins the warden who called out to him.

Willis: Ah. Poor sod. Come on, let's get him out of there. Hey, take care. I've got his wife over there.

They clear debris off the body of Graham Davies. As the warden turns him onto his back, they see a Kn*fe sticking out of his chest.

Willis: Bloody hell. 

Fisher and Joyce both stare at the body.

OPENING CREDITS

Street outside the Foyle house. Bruce Leighton-Morris drives up to the house. Andrew Foyle is in the passenger seat in his RAF uniform.

Andrew: Bruce, you must let me pay my share of the petrol. 

Bruce: Oh, forget it. I was coming down anyway. 

Andrew: Thanks, Bruce. 

He gets out of the car.

Bruce: Give me a call. Let's have lunch, yes?

Andrew: Righty-o. 

Bruce: Good luck. 

He drives away.

Foyle's bedroom. Still in bed, he's roused by a loud thump from below. Heading downstairs in his dressing gown, he follows clattering noises to the kitchen.

Foyle: Andrew? 

Andrew: Hello, Dad. 

Foyle: What the hell are you doing? 

Andrew: I was trying not to wake you. 

Foyle: You're trying not to- you're making such a bloody racket.

Andrew: Sorry. I don't suppose you've got any food, have you? I left too early for breakfast. 

Foyle: Food? Yes, there's food. There's... There's some eggs. 

Andrew: Great. 

Foyle: That's about it, though. Got some leave? 

Andrew: No, I've been posted. 

Foyle: Right. Well, you put something together. I'll have mine scrambled. I'll get changed. 

Andrew: All right. 

Foyle: Uniform suits you. 

Andrew: Thanks. Wish I could say the same for your dressing gown. 

Foyle: Hmph.

Dining room, later. Foyle brings the teapot over to Andrew at the table.

Andrew: Knew him up at Oxford and bumped into him again in London. He put me up last night and drove me down today. You sure you don't remember him? 

Foyle: What was his name again? 

Andrew: Bruce. Bruce Leighton-Morris. 

Foyle: No. 

Andrew: He's recceing for the Crown Film Unit. 

Foyle: Right. So you've finished your training then, have you? 

Andrew: Mm-hmm. 

Foyle: Are you attached to a squadron now? 

Andrew: No, and I don't know why not. Most of the chaps I was with have already gone operational. b*mb, coastal command. But Calder - he was our CO - sent me here. Some sort of cloak-and-dagger show. "Don't breathe a word to a soul," that sort of thing. 

Foyle: Does that include me? 

Andrew: Absolutely. 

Foyle: I understand. Well, good to have you home anyway. 

Andrew: You never talk about the last w*r. 

Foyle: Ooh. Well, not if I can help it. 

Andrew: Well, you were in it. 

Foyle: Yeah, worst three years of my life. 

Andrew: So you were conscripted? 

Foyle: No. Conscription didn't start until 1916. I volunteered. 

Andrew: And? 

Foyle: Well, um, went in as a private, er, got sent to France, er, came out as, er, what they called a "temporary officer and gentleman" only because there was nobody else left. 

Andrew: Did you ever k*ll anyone? 

Foyle: What, are you worried about maybe having to? 

Andrew: I suppose I have g*n to think about it. Well, did you? 

Foyle hesitates before answering. There's a knock on the door, and he lets out a huff.

Foyle: Yes. Yeah, I did. And all I can say is, you get through it. 

Andrew: Hell or high water. 

There's another knock.

Foyle: Get that, would you? It's my driver. 

Andrew: Course. 

They both stand up. Andrew goes to answer to the door.

Sam: Oh, hello. 

Andrew: Hello. Are you...?

Sam: You must be Andrew. I'm Samantha Stewart. I'm your father's driver. 

Andrew: Oh. Come in. Um, he never told me he had a... 

Sam: What? 

Andrew: Well, um, a girl. Especially such a pretty one. 

Sam: I see you don't hold back. Obviously been well trained by the RAF.

Andrew: Have you met many pilots? 

Sam: No. I tend to mix more with policemen. Just as well, really. 

Andrew: Look, I didn't mean to offend you. We've got plenty of WAAF drivers. I just didn't expect to meet one driving my dad. 

Sam: Well, I was hoping to cook or knit balaclavas for His Majesty's Forces, but here I am. 

Foyle comes through from the next room, straightening his tie.

Foyle: Hmm. You two met, then? 

Sam: Yes. 

Foyle turns to Andrew.

Foyle: You here this evening? 

Andrew: Er, they haven't told me where I'm being billeted, but I expect so. 

Foyle: Right. We'll eat out, yeah? 

Andrew: Right. 

Foyle: Good. Sam? 

They head out and Andrew closes the door behind them.

Sam and Foyle drive along the street outside.

Foyle: What's on your mind, Sam? 

Sam: My father called me last night. He's coming down to Hastings. 

Foyle: Well, that's a nice surprise, isn't it? 

Sam: It's a surprise, certainly. He wants me to have dinner with him tomorrow night. 

Foyle: So what's the problem? 

Sam: He is. He never wanted me to join the MTC, and I don't suppose he'll think the police are any better. He's probably come to check up on me. 

Foyle: Well, I'm sure you'll be able to persuade him you're doing a worthwhile job. 

Sam: You don't know my father. 

Foyle: Oh. 

Police station. Milner comes through from the back with a file as Sam and Foyle arrive.

Milner: Morning, sir. 

Foyle: Milner. 

Milner: A man's body's been found. A house on Henley Terrace, b*mb last night. 

Foyle: Oh, yeah?

Sam: So he was k*lled by Jerry? 

Milner: No, not unless they're dropping kitchen knives. He was s*ab. 

b*mb site. Foyle and Milner are talking with one of the wardens.

Willis: It was a lone raider, sir. Came in just before dawn. Dropped six high expl*sives and some incendiaries. We've got casualties in Bexleigh Avenue, Maze Hill, and Ecclesbourne Glen. This was the worst h*t. As you can see. He wouldn't have stood a chance. 

He lifts the covering blanket off of Graham Davies' body.

Foyle: Except he was d*ad already. 

Spotting something, he crouches down to retrieve a locket necklace held in Davies' hand.

Milner: Worn by the k*ller, torn off as the Kn*fe went in? 

Foyle: Perhaps. 

Milner: A young girl? 

Foyle: A young girl... with a kitchen Kn*fe? 

He gives the locket to Milner to examine.

Foyle: What do you know about him? 

Willis: Graham Davies. Er, 42, a driver. Not in the forces. Local deliveries, removals, that sort of thing. Married, no children. 

Foyle: Where's his wife? 

Willis: Oh, we put her in the pub round the corner. Thought she could do with a drink after all this. 

Foyle: Yeah. Me too. 

The pub. Joyce Davies takes a drink.

Joyce: I should have been there. That's what I can't get over. I should have been there. 

Sam is sitting opposite her.

Sam: I, I don't think there's anything you could have done. 

Joyce: Who'd want to k*ll my Graham? 

Sam: Well, we were hoping you'd tell us that. 

Joyce: It doesn't make any sense. 

The door opens and Foyle and Milner come in. Sam gets up to meet them.

Sam: (She's, er, still a bit, um...)

Foyle: Sure. Okay, thank you. 

He approaches Joyce.

Foyle: Good morning. 

Joyce: Who are you? 

Foyle: I'm a police officer. I'm investigating your husband's death. 

He and Milner both sit down.

Joyce: There's nothing I can tell you. I don't know anything about it. 

Milner: Your husband drove a lorry for a living, is that right? 

Joyce: He came back from Wales last night. 

Milner: What was he carrying? 

Joyce: Er, it was art stuff, um, paintings, that sort of thing. He'd been in London. That's where he had to collect it from. 

Milner: And do you know which gallery? 

Joyce: Oh, he did tell me. I can't remember. The Wilson, the Winstone, something like that. 

Foyle: And you were in Brighton last night, is that right? 

Joyce: Well, yes. 

Foyle: And who were you with? 

Joyce: I, I was with a friend. 

Foyle: Do you mind telling us, erm, your friend's name? 

She hesitates, upset.

Joyce: I did love Graham. He wasn't a bad man. We never had enough money. We never did anything. His name's Trevor Thompson. He's the cinema manager. The Astoria. 

Foyle: And your husband didn't know about this? 

Joyce: Oh, he'd have died if he'd found out. He never knew. I didn't want to hurt him. 

Foyle shows her the locket.

Foyle: Is this yours? 

Joyce: No. 

Foyle: You recognise it? 

Joyce: No. I, I've never seen it before. 

Foyle: Okay. 

Willis is talking with an elderly member of the Home Guard, Frank Watson.

Foyle (offscreen): You realise, um, you're gonna have to search what's left of this place. 

Milner (offscreen): I was afraid you were going to say that. 

Foyle (offscreen): Well, the reason he was k*lled might still be in there. 

Willis and Frank approach the two of them as they walk up with Sam.

Willis: Excuse me, sir. Er, there's a witness wants to talk to you. His name is Frank Watson, and he was on patrol in this area last night. 

Foyle: Mr Watson?

Frank: There's not much to tell you, sir. I was on my way home. It was about half past ten, and this man came up to me. 

Milner: What did he look like? 

Frank: What? 

Milner (louder): What did he look like? 

Frank: I couldn't see, I told you. It was a blackout.

He looks Foyle up and down.

Frank: About as tall as you, he was. About 50, I don't know. 

Foyle: And what did he want? 

Frank: He asked me the way to Henley terrace, and I told him - past the corner, second on the right. And then I thought, "What's he doing creeping round the streets this time of night? He's not from round here. Could be a German spy. Could be anyone." And then when I heard about the m*rder... 

Foyle: Right. Well, thank you. 

Frank: Pardon? 

Willis leads Frank away while the other three get in the car.

A manor in the countryside. A military vehicle drives up to the front door.

Keller (voiceover): Good morning, Foyle. My name is Wing Commander Keller. Welcome to the manor. 

Keller's office. Andrew stands before his desk.

Andrew: Sir. 

Keller: I have your, er, instructor's report. He says a lot of good things about you. 

Andrew: Thank you, sir. 

Keller: I just hope it's true. You flew under the Forth Bridge? 

Andrew: We had a bit of a bet. 

Foyle: Risking your own neck and, more to the point, a valuable aircraft. Still, it seems you have an aptitude for low-level flying, and that's why you're here. I imagine you were disappointed not to be posted to a squadron. 

Andrew: Yes, sir. If you want the truth, I was. 

Keller: Well, this is much, much more important. 

He heads out of the office, and Andrew follows him through the rooms of the manor.

Keller: What I'm about to show you is probably the biggest, the most important secret of the w*r. This goes no further. You don't even whisper a word to your mother.

Andrew: Actually, sir, my mother's d*ad. 

Keller: Security is my responsibility, and if you step out of line, I'll come down on you like a ton of bricks. Is that understood? 

Andrew: Absolutely, sir. 

Keller: Good. Right. Well, let me introduce you to the three most important letters you'll hear in your life. RDF. Radio direction finding. Also known as radar. 

He opens the outer door, heading for the car outside.

Keller: How do you think h*tler made such easy work of Poland, Belgium, and the Netherlands? It was because he was able to take out their entire air forces before they got off the ground. Thanks to radar, that's not gonna happen here. 

They both get into the car.

Keller: Now, how are you on science? 

Andrew: It was never my strong suit, I'm afraid, sir. 

The car drives away from the manor.

Keller (voiceover): Well, put simply, radar allows us to determine the position of a distant point by means of reflected radio waves. It means that we can spot enemy aircraft at night, in cloud, long before they even reach the coast. Spot them, intercept them, and, of course, destroy them. We have CH stations - chain home, that's what they're called - all along the coast. You've probably noticed the masts. 

Andrew (voiceover): Yes, sir, I have, and so will Jerry, won't they? 

Keller: Well, they haven't appreciated their significance, thank God. Maybe they're not quite the master race that they think. The radar stations are the eyes. They're directly connected to Fighter Command HQ, which is in north London. That in turn is connected to sector control rooms in different parts of the country that control our defences. 

The car stops at a roadblock.

Guard: Sir, can I see your pass? 

Keller shows his.

Guard: Sir. 

He calls to the other guard on duty.

Guard: Open up. 

Keller: Thank you, Corporal. 

Cliffs overlooking the sea.

Andrew (voiceover): What's my part in all this, sir? 

The car heads up the cliffs.

Keller (voiceover): I'm about to introduce you to a Group Captain Graeme. He's a brilliant man, science background. Runs this station and more or less built it. 

Car interior.

Keller: He trained the people that work here, and he's put together a formidable team. 

The car approaches a series of masts on the clifftop.

Keller (voiceover): He'll introduce you. You'll be based at the manor, but this is where the vital work will be done. That's why you're here. 

The car passes through another guarded barrier, and Keller and Andrew get out to head into the building.

Inside. The two of them stand in Graeme's office.

Graeme: Very good to meet you, Foyle. Very good indeed. 

He shakes hands with Andrew.

Graeme: I don't go in for too much formality here, unlike Keller. "k*ller Keller", that's what we call him. Ha! Would you like some tea? 

Andrew: No, thank you, sir. 

Graeme: It's very good of you to help us out. Er, the Wing Commander's put you in the picture, I hope. 

Andrew: To a certain extent, sir, yes. 

Graeme: Well, at the moment we're fine-tuning. Calibrating the system. It's a bit late, some might say, but that's where you come in. 

Keller: Low flying. 

Graeme: Low flying, night flying, yes. 

Andrew: You're going to track me? 

Graeme: Find you, track you, everything. Except sh**t you down. Ha! Er, make sure you turn on your IFF, by the way. It's only one little switch, and you'd be amazed how many pilots forget it. 

Keller: Nobody knows about these exercises, and if you don't identify yourself with an IFF signal, you'll have every g*n on the south coast f*ring at you. 

Andrew: I won't forget, sir. 

Graeme: I can't tell you how important all this is to us, Foyle. We recently lost one of our plotters - most unfortunate - and we have to get the new team up to scratch. 

Andrew: Plotters? 

Graeme: I'll show you round. 

He leads the way out of the office.

Plotters' office. Women in headsets and WAAF uniforms man phones and watch radar signals.

Woman: Sector 3A.

Graeme leads Andrew and Keller inside in.

Graeme: At ease, everyone. This is Pilot Officer Foyle, our very own hedge-hopper. We'll be tracking him as of tomorrow. Corporal Howes, Sergeant Roberts, Corporal Holdsworth. 

Andrew: Hello. 

Holdsworth: How do you do? 

Graeme: Er, you'll get a chance to meet up at the manor. That's where they're billeted. A home away from home, isn't it, ladies? 

Roberts: Damp, drafts, and dreadful food? Not my idea of home. 

Graeme: Oh, don't put him off. Ha! Er, now, this is what I want to show you, Foyle. This is what is going to win us the w*r. 

On screen, a radar signal detects several blips.

Foyle's office. Foyle is studying the locket. There's a knock on the door and Milner enters.

Milner (offscreen): Trevor Thompson, sir. 

Foyle: Yes? 

Milner: He was with Joyce Davies last night. He backs up her story. 

Foyle: Would a m*rder really have to ask the way to his victim's house, do you think? 

Milner: The man Frank Watson saw? 

Foyle: Mm-hmm.

Milner: Hmm. It's a bit unlikely. But it was pitch-black, and they've taken down half the signposts, so it's easy to get confused. 

Foyle: This has been repaired quite recently. See? 

He hands the locket over for Milner to look at.

Milner: That might help us. There can't be that many jewellers in Hastings. 

Foyle: Exactly. You get onto that while I'm in London. 

Milner: Sir? 

Foyle: At the Whittington Gallery, who have a collection of priceless French impressionist paintings and drawings. Davies used to work for them. 

Milner: Might have got him k*lled. 

Foyle: It might well have. 

A street in Eastbourne. Harold Smith rides his bike home and hurries inside with a newspaper.

In the kitchen, his wife Enid is rolling dough.

Harold (offscreen): Enid! 

Enid: What is it? 

Harold: Listen. 

Enid: Harold? 

Harold: The paper. "Police are investigating the m*rder of 42-year-old Graham Davies, a lorry driver who was found s*ab in the wreckage of his house shortly after last night's air raid."

He hands the paper over for her to read for herself.

Enid: My God, Harold. Oh my God!

Harold: What we gonna do? 

Airfield. Andrew heads toward his Spitfire, being checked over by a pair of mechanics.

Andrew: Good morning. 

Mechanic: Good morning, sir. 

Andrew: Everything in order? 

Mechanic: Everything's fine. Ready to go. 

Andrew climbs aboard and starts the take-off sequence. Keller watches the plane take off from a window.

Plotters' office. Holdsworth has a phone to her ear.

Holdsworth: The target Spitfire's taken off, sir. 

Graeme: All right. He'll head inland 30 Miles and then turn. We have nine minutes until the exercise starts. 

Roberts: Standing by, sir. 

Spitfire cockpit.

Andrew: I've completed my circle, and I'm coming in. Over and out. 

The Spitfire dips.

Plotters' office. Graeme and the plotters watch the radar.

Spitfire. Andrew brings the plane in low.

Plotters' office.

Graeme: Haven't you got him yet? 

Roberts: Nothing, sir. Just a blank screen. 

Her radar shows a blip.

Roberts: Wait a minute. There's something. No, that's just ground reflection. 

Graeme: Come on, Roberts. This is not good enough. He'll be here in seven minutes, and if he was the enemy, we'd need to see him by now. 

Spitfire. Andrew flies down low over a river.

Plotters' office.

Roberts: Still nothing, sir. 

Graeme: All right, try a different modulation. 

She adjusts some dials.

Spitfire. Andrew flies the plane beneath a bridge.

Andrew: Yes! 

Plotters' office.

Graeme: Three minutes and counting. He's right on top of us. 

Roberts: He's not there, sir. He's not anywhere. 

Holdsworth: I've picked up an echo from his IFF, sir.

Graeme: He's out there. Where is he? 

They hear Andrew over the radio.

Andrew: This is target Spitfire to base. I've just dropped a b*mb. You're all goners.

He flies past the masts, laughing to himself.

Keller's office. Keller watches the plane from the window.

Keller: Well, thank you very much for bringing this to my attention, Mr Henderson. 

Henderson: I imagined you'd want to know, sir. 

Keller: And this friend of his...

Henderson: His name is Bruce Leighton-Morris, sir. A wealthy family. 

Keller: They drove down together? 

Henderson: Yes, sir, from London. 

Keller: And are you planning to arrest him? 

Henderson: Not yet, sir, but if we do... 

Keller: You'll let me know. 

Henderson: Oh, yes, sir. We'll keep you informed. 

Manor house mess. Andrew stands holding his plate and looks around. He spots Roberts at one of the tables and heads over to her.

Andrew: Hello there. May I join you? 

Roberts: Please do. 

Andrew: Thanks. 

He sits down.

Andrew: How was it you described this place? Damp, dismal, dreadful food? Well, you were right about the food, anyway. 

Roberts: I'm Anne. Roberts. I have to say, what you did this morning, we all thought it was tremendous. I've still got no idea how you managed to sneak up on us. 

Andrew: Well, I suppose I was lucky. 

Roberts: Oh, now that's something you don't meet every day, a modest pilot. 

Andrew: No, actually, you're right. Was a damn good piece of flying. 

Roberts: We'll just have to try harder next time. This radar work. Every day there are more raids and soon. It's so important. 

Andrew: How long have you been a WAAF? 

Roberts: I started with the VADs, but then I heard they were looking for people who could work nights and weren't scared of being b*mb. 

Andrew: And you aren't? 

Roberts: Well, of course I am, but I suppose they meant people who could keep their heads in a raid. I'm not the sort who goes off in a flap, so I thought it might be me. Anyway, I applied, and I was accepted, and they sent me to Bawdsey, where I was trained. That was in April. And then I was sent here. 

Andrew: So you live here? 

Roberts: Actually, I've got an aunt living in Hastings. She runs a flower shop. I see her some weekends, but most of the time I'm here. We've got rooms in the old s*ab block. 

Andrew: The three of you? 

Roberts: The plotters, yes. 

Andrew: Must be quite a team. 

She smiles bashfully. Andrew inspects his food.

Andrew: Hmm. Listen, when are you back on duty? 

Roberts: Not until three.

Andrew: Then let's go out for lunch. 

He stands up.

Roberts: What? 

Andrew: I know the perfect place. Come on. 

A country field. Andrew and Roberts sit with a picnic basket. He hands her a sandwich on a plate.

Andrew: Here. 

Roberts: Thank you. This is lovely. 

Andrew: Yes, isn't it? You could almost forget there's a w*r on. 

Roberts: Oh, no. I mean, well, the w*r's all we ever think about here, day and night. 

Andrew: The people who run this show, they seem pretty tough. 

Roberts: They're all right, really. Group Captain Graeme can be a bit short-tempered. He was a pilot, you know, in the last w*r, and then he flew in Persia. He won lots of medals. And Wing Commander Keller, he's... not very friendly, but that's not why any of us are here. 

Andrew: Hmm. Are all the operators girls? 

Roberts: Most of them are, I think. They say men are too ham-fisted.

Andrew snorts.

Roberts: Men peel potatoes, but women scrape them. That's the difference. At least, that's what they say. We've got the right hands for the job. 

Andrew: I think you've got perfect hands. 

Roberts: You should stop flirting like that. How do you know I haven't got a boyfriend? 

Andrew: I don't. 

She laughs.

Andrew: Have you? 

Roberts: That's none of your business. 

Andrew: Oh, I see. It's like everything else in this place - top secret. Here. 

He holds out a glass bottle.

Roberts: That's not beer, is it? You'll get me sh*t. 

Andrew: It's ginger beer. Don't drink it too fast. 

He gets another bottle for himself.

Roberts: Cheers. 

Andrew: Cheers. 

Outside the Whittington Gallery. Sam and Foyle drive up and stop in front.

Sam: How long are you going to be, sir? 

Foyle: I have no idea, Sam. 

Sam: It's just that, um, Bond Street is just round the corner, and I was thinking about getting my hair done. For, for tonight. My father. 

Foyle: Oh. Um, I'll be an hour. 

He gets out and Sam drives away.

Inside the gallery. Foyle is at the reception desk. Curator Austin Carmichael comes down the staircase behind him.

Receptionist: Ah, here he is. 

Carmichael: Good morning. Mr Foyle, isn't it? 

He shakes Foyle's hand.

Foyle: Yeah.

Carmichael: I'm Austin Carmichael, curator here. How can I help you? 

Foyle: Er, didn't the sergeant explain on the phone? 

Carmichael: Yes, you say a driver's been s*ab?

Foyle: That's right. 

Carmichael: Extremely unpleasant business. Why don't we walk to my office, and you can tell me what it is you want? 

He leads the way up the stairs.

Carmichael: Do you know the collection, Mr Foyle? 

Foyle: Er, no. I've never been here.

Carmichael: The collection was acquired by Dorothy Whittington, an American living in Paris at the turn of the century. She moved to London just before the last w*r.

Foyle: Yeah, she bought paintings and drawings, mainly, er, French impressionists like Berault and Matisse. 

Carmichael: That's right, yes, but she was also surprisingly avant-garde.

They arrive in a gallery full of bare display stands.

Carmichael:  She met Picasso several times. She also bought Braque, de Chirico, and Marcel Duchamp. 

Foyle: She must be quite old now?

Carmichael: Oh, she's well into her nineties and in poor health. You might like to know that she's bequeathed this gallery and all its contents to the British people. A remarkable gift.

Foyle: Where are the contents? 

Carmichael: In Wales. 

Foyle: Ah. 

Carmichael: After you. 

Foyle: Thank you. 

Carmichael's office. Carmichael waves Foyle towards the desk.

Carmichael: Do, er, please sit down. As you know, all the main London galleries, including the National, moved their treasures out of the city last year. We've decided to follow suit. The building itself will remain open for lunchtime concerts and evening lectures, but the works are being housed in a disused mine in Wales, and that's where they'll stay until the end of the w*r. 

Foyle: And Graham Davies transported them for you? 

Carmichael: Yes. Poor man. But if you're thinking he light-fingered some sketches on the way, you can put that right out of your mind. 

Foyle: I'm not suggesting anything of the sort. 

Carmichael: I chose Davies myself. He was thoroughly checked. Besides, there was a security procedure which was flawless. 

Foyle: Would you explain that to me? 

Carmichael: With pleasure. 

Flashback to the artworks being moved out.

Carmichael (voiceover): The removal was supervised by an independent witness from our board of governors. In fact, Mrs Whittington's niece. Every picture in the collection was numbered and briefly described in a ledger. This was signed by me and countersigned by Miss Whittington before it left the gallery in a sealed crate. There are a number of sketches and drawings which are not on permanent display in the gallery, but these too were numbered and described. There were about 80 in all. Everything was loaded into the gallery's own lorry, which was parked in our own grounds next to the entrance. Before it left London, the lorry was locked with a key which remained in my possession throughout. 

He holds up the key to show Foyle.

Carmichael: This is the key here. The second key was at our facility in Wales, so the lorry couldn't be opened until it got there. At which point, of course, the entire procedure was reversed, with every picture being checked off against the ledger, its number and description verified. 

Foyle: This the ledger over there? 

Carmichael: Mm-hmm. 

Foyle: Would you mind? 

Carmichael: No, not at all. 

He hands Foyle the ledger and Foyle flips through the pages.

Foyle: "Georges Rouault, Clouds and Horses, 1910, W." What does the W mean? 

Carmichael: It's a little shorthand I introduced. W is woodcut, L is lithograph, S sketch, D drawing and so on.

Foyle: Mm-hmm.

Carmichael: 1910 is the date it was ex*cuted. 

Foyle: Mm. It's all very thorough. 

Carmichael: I am the custodian of Mrs Whittington's bequest, Detective Chief Superintendent. I'm very sensible of my responsibilities. 

Foyle: Good. 

Manor house mess. Andrew and Roberts walk back in together.

Roberts: Arundel was the best. I was sent there while I was waiting to start training, and it was enormous fun. Arundel castle, we were actually waited on by a Butler, and the food was marvellous. 

Andrew: Like here? 

She chuckles as he hands her a cup of tea. 

Roberts: There were twelve of us billeted in a sort of circular tower. The Duke and Duchess of Norfolk used to invite us to Red Cross dances. 

Andrew: Really? 

Roberts: But then I was sent to Bawdsey, and that was where I met Lucy, and the two of us were transferred here. 

Andrew: Lucy? 

Roberts: Oh, she isn't here anymore. 

Andrew: So, what happened to her? 

They head over to a table to sit down.

Roberts: I... shouldn't have mentioned it. She died. 

Andrew: Oh. I'm sorry. Was it a raid? 

Roberts: No, it was nothing like that at all. 

Keller approaches the tea urn next to their table.

Keller: Foyle. Are you settling in? 

Andrew: Yes, thank you, sir. 

Keller: Been given a billet? 

Andrew: Not yet, sir. I was rather holding out for the s*ab block, actually. 

Keller: No, that's just for the girls. 

Andrew: Too bad. I suppose I can stay at home. My father lives in Hastings. 

Keller: Oh. Home Guard? 

Andrew: No. Actually, he's a police officer. A Detective Chief Superintendent. 

Keller: Well, you'd better stay with him, then. 

Andrew: Right. 

Keller: Sergeant Roberts, you should be getting back to your position. 

He walks away and Roberts gets up to leave.

Foyle's office. Milner is looking at the gallery ledger.

Milner: Does seem pretty foolproof. 

Foyle: Yes, I agree. So. What other reason could there be for k*lling Davies? 

Milner: His wife was having an affair. 

Foyle: Yeah, but she could have left him. She didn't have to k*ll him. But these paintings are worth a fortune. The owner's an old lady who could well be d*ad by the end of the w*r, and Davies was the driver. Any luck at the jewellers? 

He takes the ledger back from Milner.

Milner: I visited five today. Nothing so far. 

Foyle: Oh, well. Keep at it. Where's Sam, by the way? 

Milner: She left to see her father. 

Foyle: Oh, of course she did. Er, she's driving me to Wales tomorrow. Wish me luck. 

Milner: Good luck. 

Foyle: Thank you. 

A street in Hastings. Sam, still in uniform, stops to take a breath then heads into the Royal Victoria hotel.

Hotel restaurant. Iain Stewart stands up from one of the tables as Sam walks in.

Iain: Oh, Samantha, my dear. 

He goes over to embrace her.

Sam: Hello, Dad. 

They exchange kisses on the cheek.

Iain: Quite a shock, seeing you in uniform. 

Sam: Don't you think it suits me? I would have changed, but I came straight from work. 

Iain: You look very smart. Please sit down. You are going to join me for supper? 

Sam: Rather. 

Iain: There's, er, no menu, I'm afraid. They say it's fishcakes. 

Sam: Oh, I love fishcakes. 

Iain: Just as well. 

Sam: How's Mother? 

Iain: Much the same.

Waitress: Ready, sir?

Iain nods to the waitress.

Iain: She sends you her love. She worries about you. We both do. 

Sam: Well, I'm all right. It's only Hastings. It's not as if it's the other side of the world. 

Iain: Yeah, well, even so, we hear so much about young women these days, in uniform, in the forces. Of course, I know we're out of touch. Lyminster's such a quiet place. But even if half of what we hear is true, you know, young women in the WAAF, in the ATS, the Navy!

Sam: "Up with the lark, to bed with a Wren." That's what they say.

Iain looks taken a back.

Sam: I'm sorry, Dad. It's just a joke. 

The waitress comes over with their plates.

Waitress: There you are, miss.

Iain: Well, that's my point, Samantha. 

Waitress: Sir.

Iain: I don't think it is a joke. I meet a great many parents whose daughters have got into difficulties. It's my job to offer them pastoral care. And I have to say, it's my opinion that any sort of morality has been sh*t to pieces by this dreadful w*r. I read some of the bulletins put out by the Association for Moral Hygiene, for example, and quite frankly, I'm appalled. 

Sam: Yes, but you needn't worry about me. There's no chance of me getting PWP. 

Iain: I'm sorry? 

Sam: "Pregnant without permission". Anyway, I'm not in the forces. You should be grateful they moved me to the police. It's not the same thing at all. 

Iain: Yes, I know they moved you. In fact, that's what made it easier for your mother and me to come to our decision. 

Sam: What decision? 

Iain: I'm here, Samantha, because I want you to come home. 

Sam: What? 

Iain: Immediately. Your mother still isn't well. We both need you. And we'd feel more comfortable knowing where you are. 

Sam: But I can't. 

Iain: It would be different if you were doing something important for the w*r effort, that's how you talked us into letting you go in the first place, but what is this job of yours? Driving a policeman round the country? Getting involved in m*rder and Lord knows what else. 

Sam: Mr Foyle needs me, and I do more than drive him. You don't understand. 

Iain: I'm sorry, Samantha. My mind is made up. I want you to come home. 

Radar base. Graeme and Keller head towards Graeme's office.

Keller: Andrew Foyle.

Graeme: What about him? 

Keller: Did you know that his father is a police officer? Detective chief superintendent Christopher Foyle. You may know the name. 

Keller closes the office door behind them.

Graeme: No. 

Keller: He's in Hastings. He has something of a reputation. 

Graeme: Really, Martin, I don't see-

Keller: Andrew Foyle had lunch with Sergeant Roberts today. 

Graeme: These flyboys, they don't waste any time. 

Keller: I overheard them. They were talking about Smith. 

Graeme: Are you sure? 

Keller: He was asking questions. 

Graeme: It was very unfortunate. Poor Miss Smith. But everyone here was aware of the strain she had been under, and I thought we'd decided to draw a line under the whole thing. 

Keller: Well, maybe you should tell Foyle that. 

Graeme: I'm sure I don't need to. 

Keller: I just thought you ought to know, sir, that's all. 

Graeme: Thank you, Martin. Now I do. 

Keller leaves the office.

Foyle house. Foyle brings Andrew a drink in the front room.

Foyle: So you can't tell me anything at all? 

Andrew: No, Dad, I can't. 

Foyle: Everything's classified, is it? 

Andrew: Well... They gave me a new Spit. 

Foyle: Oh, well.

He moves to sit down opposite Andrew.

Andrew: I've never flown anything like it. When you get in, it, it's a bit of a squeeze. The canopy's only about an, an inch away from your head, and when you breathe... I wasn't sure at first. I mean, it's a beautiful thing, but it doesn't taxi well. If you ask me, the brakes are too sensitive, and if you push too hard, you go belly over. But the moment I was in the air... Well, it's, it's hard to describe. It was as if I'd become part of the plane. I didn't have to think about the controls, I just thought where I wanted to go, and I went. Wizard. 20,000 feet in no time at all. 350 Miles per hour. That's at least 50 more than the Hurricane. Turning, landing - there's just nothing like it. 

Foyle: So you can tell me what you flew but not where you flew it? 

Andrew: I didn't leave England. It was a test flight. I'm not actually going into combat, Dad, so you don't have to worry about me. Not yet, anyway. 

Foyle: Good crowd? 

Andrew: Yeah, they seem all right. Wing Commander's a bit of a cold fish. There's this girl... 

Foyle: There always is. 

Andrew: Anne. Damn pretty. Blue eyes, nice smile. The sort of girl you want to run out and buy flowers for. Except her aunt runs a flower shop here in Hastings, so she probably can't stand the sight of them. 

Foyle: Don't think there's any such thing as a girl who can't stand the sight of flowers, is there? 

Andrew gives an amused snort.

Andrew: Aren't there times when you think of... 

Foyle: Think of what? 

Andrew: Well, you know. Marrying again? 

Foyle: Here we go. 

Andrew: Is there someone else? 

Foyle: What, you think I'd tell you? 

Andrew: Come on, Dad. It's been eight years. 

Foyle: Andrew, I don't really think this is quite the right time for this, you know. 

He stands up from his chair.

Andrew: I don't see that the w*r makes any difference. Life still goes on. 

Foyle: Well, I sincerely hope so.

He turns away from Andrew, rustling some papers.

Foyle:  What time are you leaving tomorrow? 

Andrew: Late, and I won't be in for dinner. 

Foyle: Hmm. Anne? 

Andrew: Ooh, I should be so lucky. No, I've got a night op. 

Foyle: Right. 

Andrew: Sleep well, Dad. 

Foyle: And you. 

Andrew walks away. Foyle looks down and is quiet for a moment.

Foyle: (Take care.)

b*mb site. Police officers are searching the wreckage. One finds a broken statuette and hands it to another.

Policeman: All right. 

He huffs and adds the pieces to a pile of other items recovered from the ruins.

Evidence lock-up. Foyle is looking at the collection of recovered items. Milner speaks to him through the cage around the lock-up as he approaches.

Milner: Sir, good news. Jeweller, does a lot of repairs. Tiny place in Mount Pleasant. He remembered it straight away.

He's holding the locket.

Milner: He keeps a note of all his business. And you were right. Mended it six months ago. 

Foyle: He give you a name? 

Milner: Yes, he did. 

Smith household, Eastbourne. Foyle's car is parked outside.

Harold (voiceover): I never thought I'd see it again. 

The Smiths are in their front room with Foyle and Milner.

Harold: It was taken from the house. Ooh, it must be a couple of weeks ago now, wasn't it, Enid? 

Enid: Couple of weeks, yes. 

Harold: We never lock the door. Someone came in and took it off the sideboard in the front room. 

Enid: They took other things, too. 

Harold: A few things of Enid's. 

Foyle: Did you report it? 

Harold: Didn't seem any point. Nothing they took was worth very much. 

Enid: Except sentimental value. 

Foyle: Is it yours? 

Harold: No, it was my daughter's. She died. 

Foyle: Oh, I'm very sorry to hear that. How? 

Harold: There was an accident. She fell under a train. I bought her that locket for her birthday, just before she died. 

Enid: I'm just so glad to have it back. I can't thank you enough. 

Milner: Does the name Graham Davies mean anything to you? 

The Smiths exchange a look.

Harold: Graham Davies? 

He shakes his head.

Harold: Who's he? 

Milner: He worked as a driver for the Whittington art gallery in London. 

Harold: Never heard of him. 

Enid: D-did he have it? W-was, was he the one who stole it? 

Milner: Graham Davies was k*ll in an air raid a few days ago. When his body was found, he had the locket in his hand. 

Enid: Well, maybe he, he bought it from someone. 

Harold: We don't care who had it. Like Enid said, we're just glad to have it back. 

Foyle: What do you do for a living, Mr Smith? 

Harold: I sell ice cream. "Stop me and buy one." Well, least I did. Had to pack it in when they took away my refrigeration machine. 

Enid: They needed it to transport blood. 

Harold: Not that it'd be any use to me now. Well, there's no ice cream anymore. 

Enid: Harold's joined the Home Guard. 

Foyle: What, here in Eastbourne? 

Harold: Where else? 

Foyle: Well, not Hastings? 

Harold: No. Enid and I have lived here for over 30 years. We're on our own now. We don't get out much. Keep ourselves to ourselves. 

Hastings seafront. Bruce and Andrew are walking together.

Bruce: So, how are you getting on, then? 

Andrew: Pretty well. I'd have thought you'd have gone back to London by now. 

Bruce: Oh, can't wait. I don't know how you can stick it down here. 

Andrew: I was born here. 

Bruce: Huh. It must be inbred, then. 

Andrew snorts.

Bruce: No, I'm still stuck here for a couple more days. 

Andrew: You should come to supper, meet my father. 

Bruce: Why did he never come up to Oxford? 

Andrew: I don't know. Suppose he was too busy. 

Outdoor seating area of a seafront café. Andrew is smoking a cigarette after he and Bruce have finished their meal.

Andrew: So, are you still scouting locations for this epic of yours, then? 

Bruce: Don't knock it, Andrew. We may not be glory boys like you, but the CFU Will come out of this w*r with its head held high. 

Andrew: The Crown Film Unit? I can't see you making propaganda. 

Bruce: It's not propaganda. It's art.

In the background, a man in a suit strolls around the edge of the seating area, seemingly taking in the sea view.

Bruce: Well, actually, it's neither, it's a two-reeler about the need to conserve fuel. 

Andrew: Why Hastings? 

Bruce: Well, why not? This is where it's all happening. What is happening, by the way? You said you had no idea what you were going to be doing down here. I presume you found out. 

Andrew: I, I can't really talk about it. 

Bruce: What? 

Andrew: Seriously. I'm on active service now and-

Bruce: Are you doing something hush-hush? 

Andrew: No. 

Bruce: Well, come on, I'm interested. 

Andrew: Look, Bruce, I, I ought to be going. 

He stubs out his cigarette and checks his watch.

Bruce: Frightened you off, have I? 

Andrew: Let's go halves on the lunch. 

Bruce: Oh, forget it, this one's on me. 

Andrew: I'm sorry, Bruce. I didn't mean to sound pompous. 

Bruce: No, I understand. Careless talk and all that. 

The man in the background is revealed to be Henderson, watching the two of them as Bruce takes the money out of his wallet.

Bruce: Now, let's see... 

Countryside. Sam and Foyle are driving along through the woods.

Foyle: You're disturbingly quiet, Sam. 

Sam: Yes, sir. There's something I've been meaning to say. I'm afraid I can't drive you any more. I'm going to have to offer my resignation. 

Foyle: Well, this is a bit sudden. 

Sam: Effective immediately. 

Foyle: What, you're going to leave me here? 

She laughs.

Sam: No. I mean... effective as soon as I've taken you back. 

Foyle: Does this have anything to do with your father? 

Sam: Everything to do with my father. He wants me to come home. He's taking me with him two days from now. 

Foyle: Ah. Right. 

Sam: I did try to reason with him, but he's decided that I'm not doing anything useful anyway and I'm to pack it in. 

Foyle: Well, I'm sorry to hear it. 

Sam: There is just one chance, sir. I wonder if you could talk to him? 

Foyle: Would he want to talk to me? 

Sam: Well, I, I did ask him, and he agreed. I hope you don't mind. It's just I, I really don't want to shove off just at the moment. And I, I know you could easily get another driver, but I really would appreciate it. 

Foyle: Well, I'll do what I can. 

Sam: Where are these paintings? 

Foyle: They're in some sort of mine. Looks like we're here. 

They pull up in front of a set of barbed-wire gates with a sign that says 'Danger, Keep Out'. Foyle gets out of the car and walks up to the gate.

Art storage room inside the mine. A man, Creavey, shows Foyle around the collection.

Creavey: Rubens, Rembrandt, Michelangelo, Da Vinci, we've got them all. There's more art in Wales right now than there's been in a thousand years. Nobody's gonna see it. It's a crying shame. Francois Berault. That's one of his later works. 

Foyle looks at a pair of sketches of ballerinas.

Creavey: He only started drawing young women just before he lost his sight. 

Foyle: So, er, you were here when Graham Davies arrived? 

Creavey: I was. 

Foyle: And the van was locked when it arrived? 

Creavey: That lock hadn't been tampered with. I had the only other key. 

Foyle: And you were here all the time the van was being unloaded? 

Creavey: I supervised the whole thing, Mr Foyle. 342 items came out, and 342 went in. I checked every one of them against the entries in Mr Carmichael's ledger. What makes you so sure that something was taken? 

Foyle: Oh, no, I'm not, but, er, just wanted to be sure it was all here. 

Creavey: It's a funny way to spend the w*r, wet-nursing a bunch of Old Masters. Can't even look at most of them, but they're all here. All accounted for. 

Foyle: Good. 

Creavey: Was your Mr Davies a magician? 

Foyle: I don't think so. 

Creavey: Then he couldn't have spirited anything away. 

Andrew's Spitfire in flight.

Plotters' office. Roberts studies the radar screen.

Roberts: I think I've got him, sir. 

Graeme: Range? 

Roberts: 30 Miles, bearing 2-4-0, height 600. 

Graeme: Right, lock onto him. 

Roberts: There. 

Graeme: Well done, Roberts. 

She smiles.

Airfield. The Spitfire comes in to land.

Later. Roberts is watching the mechanics check the plane.

Andrew (offscreen): Hello again. 

Roberts: Oh, it's you. You startled me. 

Andrew: Is it my imagination, or is everyone a bit jumpy around here? 

Roberts: We're all on edge, it's true, but then, there's so much at stake. Some people say the Luftwaffe's finished, that they're no match for our boys. And I want to believe it, but I don't think it's true. I can feel them out there like a great big shadow getting nearer every day, and I just wonder how we're ever going to stand up to them. 

Andrew: You sighted me today. 

Roberts: We're getting there. 

Andrew: I'll make it more difficult for you tonight. 

Roberts: It's wonderful, the way you're helping us. I bet you can't wait to join a squadron, though. 

Andrew: I want to get out there, yes, but I'll get my chance. 

Roberts: I think you're very brave.

They start walking back together.

Roberts: Is it true what you said, your father being a policeman? 

Andrew: Yes. Why do you ask? 

Roberts: Just wondered, that's all. 

Andrew: Just wondered? 

Roberts: Yes. 

Andrew: There wasn't something you wanted to tell me, was there? We were interrupted at lunch. 

Roberts: No. 

Andrew: Oh, for heaven's sake, Anne, what is it? Why are you so afraid? 

Roberts: I'm not. 

Andrew: I can feel it here. Everyone seems to be so nervous. And it isn't just Jerry. You were telling me about your friend. Lucy, wasn't it? 

Roberts: Yes. 

Andrews: You didn't tell me how she died. 

Roberts: Well... Well, it was horrible. She committed su1c1de. 

Andrew: Here? 

Roberts: In Brighton. She was my best friend. I felt terrible when it happened. It was all so wrong. 

Andrew: Wrong? 

Roberts: The way she was bullied and pushed and... I shouldn't talk about it. It doesn't matter. 

Andrew: Of course it matters. What do you mean about her being pushed? 

Roberts: It was just a manner of speaking. 

Andrew: You were asking me about my father. Is there something you want me to say to him, something he ought to know? 

Roberts: No. I was just interested, that's all. Lucy hated it here. The work was too much for her, and the waiting. In the end, she cracked. We're not meant to talk about it. I shouldn't have mentioned it at all. 

She notices Keller watching them from the window.

Roberts: I'm sorry. I have to go. 

She hurries back in, leaving Andrew out on the airfield.

Keller (voiceover): You were talking about her, weren't you, Sergeant Roberts? 

Roberts stands to attention in front of Keller's desk.

Keller: I saw the two of you together for a second time. I'll be talking to Foyle later, so you might as well tell me the truth. 

Roberts: We did mention her, sir. 

Keller: Why? 

Roberts: He asked me about her. 

Keller: And what did you say? 

Roberts: I didn't say anything. That's the truth, sir. 

Keller: At ease, sergeant.

He stands up and comes around the desk.

Keller: Look, we all felt as bad about Lucy as you did, but you have to see it in context. I told you at the time, we cannot allow anything to get in the way of our work or, more importantly, our working as a team. Ever since Lucy did what she did, morale has been sh*t to pieces, and to be frank, it's been reflected in our results. That's the main reason why Pilot Officer Foyle is here. If we keep going over old ground, it'll just make things worse. 

Roberts: I do know that, sir. 

Keller: Look, I know it's been tough on you. You were the closest to her. And that's why I've come to a decision which I hope will help you get over it. 

Roberts: What decision? 

Keller: I've had a request from Ventnor.

He goes back round to sit behind the desk again.

Keller: They're one man short, and they need an experienced plotter. I've recommended you. You're to be transferred with immediate effect from tomorrow. 

Roberts: Ventnor? 

Keller: The Isle of Wight. Very much the front line. 

Roberts: But, sir, I'm happy here. 

Keller: No, I don't think you are. I think a change of scene will do you good. 

Roberts: Are you moving me because you're afraid I'll talk? 

Keller: That's all, sergeant. I'm moving you for the reasons I've just told you. Dismissed. 

Roberts: Yes, sir. 

She leaves the office.

Evidence lock-up. Hugh Reid studies the damaged statuette.

Hugh: What's this, then? Holding a sale of bric-a-brac? 

Foyle: Er, no, it's out of Davies's house, or what's left of it. 

Hugh: What, you think you're going to find the reason he was m*rder here? 

Foyle: I'm beginning to think not. It seems the, um, the gallery has nothing whatsoever to do with it. 

Hugh: You sound tired. 

Foyle: It's 'cause I am. Just back from Wales, and I'm, er, gonna lose Sam, you know. 

He heads out of the lock-up and Hugh follows him.

Hugh: What, your driver? 

Foyle: Yeah. Her father wants her back home. 

Hugh: Oh, lock up your daughters, eh? Suppose you can't blame him. I look at my own girls, and I'm only glad they're not old enough to serve. 

Foyle: You worried about it? 

Hugh: There are all sorts of horror stories doing the rounds. 

They arrive at Foyle's office.

Hugh: Take the ATS. You know what they call the women? 

Foyle: Officers' groundsheets. 

He looks at the paperwork in a file on his desk.

Hugh: Well, illegitimate births are up, and arrests of teenaged girls this year have sh*t up. 

Foyle: Yeah, well, I'm sure Sam is gonna be as safe as houses in Lyminster. 

Hugh: Yes, I'm sorry. 

Foyle rubs his forehead.

Foyle: D'you know, I've had enough of this. I'm going home. I'm not getting anywhere with it. 

Hugh: Is Andrew at home tonight? 

Foyle: No. He's on some sort of operation or other. 

Hugh: Then why not come out for a drink? I'm buying. 

Foyle: Oh. Make a nice change, Hugh. 

Hugh chuckles.

Hugh: Liquid inspiration. 

Foyle: All right. Good idea. 

They leave the office.

Night. The Spitfire soars into the sky.

Plotters' office. Holdsworth watches the radar.

Holdsworth: Bearings 3-0-0, range 28 Miles. 

Andrew continues flying.

Plotter's office.

Holdsworth: Sir, I'm not getting any IFF response. 

Graeme: What? 

Holdsworth: There's no trace, sir. 

Graeme: If his IFF isn't switched on, he'll be sh*t out of the sky. 

He turns to Roberts behind him.

Graeme: See if you can get him on the radio. 

Roberts: Base to target Spitfire. Base to target Spitfire. Do you read me? Over. 

Spitfire cockpit.

Andrew: This is target Spitfire to base- whoa! Jesus! 

There are flashes of g*n around the plane.

Plotters' office.

Andrew (radio): Base, what the hell's going on? I'm coming under f*re. 

Graeme: Foyle, you're not transmitting an IFF signal. Put your bloody parrot on. Over! 

Holdsworth: Sir, he's losing height. 

Spitfire cockpit.

Andrew: Spitfire to base. IFF is on. Confirm! Base? 

Holdsworth Height 600 feet. 

Graeme: We still have no signal, Foyle. Over. 

Spitfire cockpit. More g*n bursts around the plane.

Andrew: Jesus. 

The plane goes into a dive.

Plotters' office.

Holdsworth: I've lost him, sir. 

Graeme: Base to target Spitfire. Base to target Spitfire. Come in, please. Do you read me? Over. 

Radio static.

Graeme: Base to target Spitfire. Base to target Spitfire. Come in, please. Do you read me? Over. 

Still only radio static.

Holdsworth: I'm sorry, sir. He's gone. He's not there anymore. 

The radar screen is blank.

Daylight. A vehicle carrying logs drives up to the manor. Andrew is sitting in the back.

Graeme (voiceover): All in all, I'd say you were very fortunate, Foyle. At least you're still in one piece. 

Keller's office.

Andrew: I don't quite see it that way, sir. What happened to my IFF? 

Graeme: It malfunctioned. These things happen. I'm very sorry. Engine vibration probably broke up some of the carbon elements in the unit with the result that we didn't receive an identifying pulse. Nor did anyone else, so naturally it was assumed you were an enemy aircraft, and you came under f*re. 

Andrew: They bloody nearly sh*t me down. 

Graeme: The fact they didn't does you credit. 

Andrew: Yes, sir. Well, as soon as the ack-ack f*re started, I realised I had to get down as fast as I could. I was lucky there was a bit of a moon. I put down in a farm about six Miles away. 

Keller: How come you lost radio contact? 

Andrew: I knocked myself out. Someone had put a haystack in the field. 

Graeme: But you're unhurt? 

Andrew: I bruised my head, but otherwise I'm okay. 

Graeme: You did very, very well. 

No one could have done better. 

If you ask me, you deserve a spot of leave. 48 hours. 

Andrew: I'm still puzzled, sir. The parrot was working when I took off. It had been fine throughout the day. 

Graeme: Well, I've explained. 

Andrew: You don't think it might have been... tampered with? 

Keller: What are you suggesting, Foyle? 

Graeme: Who would want to do a thing like that? 

Andrew: I don't know. It was just a thought. 

Graeme: A crazy one. Maybe that bump on the head has affected you more than you think. 

Keller: All right, Foyle, that's enough. You're dismissed. 

Andrew: Sir. 

Graeme: You get some rest. 

Andrew heads out through the manor. He spots Holdsworth passing by.

Andrew: Excuse me. You're Jane, aren't you? 

Holdsworth: Yes. 

Andrew: Have you seen Anne? 

Holdsworth: She's gone. 

Andrew: Gone where? 

Holdsworth: I don't know. She's been transferred. 

Andrew: You mean she's gone permanently? 

Holdsworth: I suppose so. 

Andrew: When did this happen? 

Holdsworth: It was all very sudden. She was packing her bags yesterday evening just before you took off. 

Andrew: Thanks. 

Holdsworth walks on. Andrew glances back towards Keller's office, the moves on.

Royal Victoria hotel.

Foyle (voiceover): You wanted to see me about your daughter, Mr Stewart? 

He and Iain Stewart stand by one of the tables in the hotel restaurant.

Iain: Er, it was Samantha who wanted me to talk to you, Mr Foyle. I really have nothing to say. 

Foyle: Oh. Well, I, er, I've come over here because Samantha hoped I might, er, be able to change your mind. But if I'm wasting your time-

Iain: No, I'm sorry. I spoke rather rudely just now. Please, sit down. 

Foyle: Thank you. 

Iain: Will you...?

He offers Foyle tea.

Foyle: No. 

Iain: So, how has Samantha been getting on? 

Foyle: Oh, she's doing very well. She's very popular. 

Iain: Well, I do appreciate that she does seem to have taken rather a liking to her work with you, though I did say to her it does seem rather an odd field of activity in which to find herself. 

Foyle: Police work? 

Iain: I don't mean to cause offense. 

Foyle: None taken. No, I couldn't agree more. People are being k*ll in b*mb raids every day of the week, and we spend all our time trying to solve small domestic m*rder. Er, you're absolutely right. In fact, it's why I keep asking to be transferred. But on the other hand, should we be ignoring innocent victims simply because we're in the middle of a w*r? 

Iain: Oh, no, of course not. 

Foyle: And, um, as for your daughter being involved, um, it wasn't my choice. Er, nor in fact was it hers. In fact, she was transferred from the MTC, er, simply because I was short-staffed. 

Iain: Oh, I understand completely. But at the same time, I do need her with me. Her mother's not well. I'm very much on my own. I'm more in demand than I ever was, and people seem to turn to the church more in a time of w*r. And if I'm to be honest, it's my personal feeling that Samantha would be better off at home. 

Foyle: Well, I'd rather my son were at home too, Mr Stewart, so I understand as well. But, er, I'm not going to argue with you when I can see very well that you've made up your mind. 

Iain: Mr Foyle? Where is your son? 

Foyle: My son is, er, with the RAF. He's a pilot. 

Police station. Andrew hurries up to the front desk and rings the bell. Milner is just coming down the staircase behind him.

Milner: Hello? Can I help you? 

Andrew: I'm looking for DCS Foyle. 

Milner: You're Andrew? 

Andrew: Yes. 

Milner: I thought you might be. I'm Paul Milner. I work with your father. You've got your wings. Congratulations. 

Andrew: Thanks. 

Milner: I wish I could be in your shoes. 

Andrew: Not at the moment. 

Milner: Why, is something wrong? 

Andrew: Apart from someone trying to k*ll me, no, I'm fine. 

Milner: I'm sorry? 

Andrew: Look, I shouldn't have said that. I just need to talk to my father. Do you have any idea when he'll be in? 

Milner: Well, it could be any time. Er, you're welcome to wait for him here. 

Andrew: No. I'm going home. Tell him he can find me there, will you? 

He heads back out.

Milner: Yes. Are you sure I can't help? 

Andrew: No. Thanks. 

Milner: Er, I'll see you again. 

Andrew: I hope so. 

As Andrew is leaving the police station, a car pulls up and Henderson gets out.

Henderson: Pilot Officer Foyle? 

Andrew: Yes?

Henderson: Er, my name's Henderson. I'm with Special Branch. Could you get in the car, please? 

Andrew: Why? 

Henderson: I'd prefer not to talk here, sir. If you could just get in.

Andrew: Er, no, sorry. I'm meeting my father. 

Henderson: Well, we'll contact your father in due course, Mr Foyle. Will you please get in the car? 

Andrew: No, I won't. 

Henderson: Andrew Foyle, you're suspected of conspiring to assist the enemy in contravention of the defence regulations, and I'm placing you under arrest. Now get in. 

Andrew gets into the car.

Police station. Foyle and Sam are just on their way in.

Milner: Sir, your son was here just a few minutes ago. 

Foyle: Why was he here? 

Henderson: He wants to see you, and I think it's urgent. He's waiting for you at home. 

Sam: Sir, last drive? 

Foyle: Thank you, Sam. 

He and Sam head back out.

Foyle house. The front door is standing open as Sam and Foyle arrive in the car. Foyle gets out and heads in to find Henderson and his associates searching the place.

Foyle: Who are you? What are you doing in my house? 

Henderson: I have a warrant to search the house, Mr Foyle. Henderson, Special Branch. 

Foyle: Where's my son? 

Henderson: Your son is currently being held under arrest, sir. 

Foyle: What for? 

Henderson: Your son is suspected of being in possession of certain documents of such a nature that their dissemination would be a breach of the defence regulations. 

Foyle: Total rubbish. I want to see him. 

Henderson: I'm afraid that won't be possible, sir, until we've had a chance to question him. 

Foyle: Where is he? 

Henderson: That information is classified. I don't need to tell you, sir, how serious, how extremely serious this offense is. I'll report back just as soon as there's anything to say. 

Foyle's office. Foyle is on the phone.

Foyle: Richard, Richard, all he told me was that he's involved in some test on the south coast. Yes, well, of course it's secret. If it wasn't secret, I wouldn't be calling you, would I? You're in Whitehall! You must know.

Milner comes into the room.

Foyle: I just want to know where he is. Look, my son in possession of secret documents is obviously ridiculous. This is obviously a mistake. Please do. Thank you. 

He hangs the phone up.

Milner: I can't find anyone who knows anything about a Henderson at Special Branch, although these days that's not surprising, they've got so many different divisions. I've got a friend at Scotland Yard, and, er, I'll get onto him, see if he can dig anything up. 

Foyle: Yeah, thank you. Er, you shouldn't get involved in any of this. Listen, I'm obviously not gonna be around for a couple of days, so you should take over this Davies business. Er, this gallery has obviously got something to do with it, and for what it's worth, I don't like the curator. 

Milner: A k*ller? 

Foyle: Thief, maybe. Are you finished at the Davies house? 

Milner: Yes, sir. We've got all the bits and pieces here. If there was a painting or a drawing hidden somewhere, it was probably destroyed in the f*re. 

Foyle: Yeah. This, erm, this ice-cream seller.

Milner: Harold Smith. 

Foyle: Yeah. Didn't believe him, did you? 

Milner: About the break-in and the locket being stolen? No. 

Foyle: No. He seemed to be more worried about the fact we'd found it rather than being pleased to see it. 

Milner: Perhaps there's a link between him and Davies that we don't know about. 

Foyle: Yeah, quite possibly. And the daughter, did we get her name? 

Milner: No, just that she fell under a train. 

Foyle: Yeah, well, did she fall, or was she pushed? And, er, could she possibly have been having an affair with Davies, do you think? 

Milner: Well, could explain how he got hold of the locket. 

Foyle: But not why he had it in his hand when he opened the door. We need to find out more about her and how she died. 

Milner: Yes, sir. And, er, if I hear anything about Henderson, I'll let you know. 

Foyle: Thank you. 

Hugh Reid approaches Foyle as he's leaving the office.

Hugh: Christopher, any news? 

Foyle: Not a thing. 

Hugh: Same here. I called the Commissioner. I asked a couple of questions, and the world caved in on my head. He said it was none of my damn business and more or less read me the entire Official Secrets Act. 

Foyle: Well, thank you for trying. 

Hugh: Now, Andrew definitely said somebody tried to k*ll him? He's young. He could be imagining it. 

Foyle: He's not that imaginative. 

Hugh: Well, he'll turn up in due course. Whatever he's supposed to have done, they can't keep him locked up for good. I don't think there's much more we can do. 

Foyle: He mentioned a girl. 

Hugh: A girl? 

Foyle: Name is Anne, has an aunt with a flower shop. 

Hugh: That's not much to go on. 

Foyle: In Hastings. 

Hugh: Ah, well, there's something. I'll get somebody onto it. 

Foyle: Thank you. 

Hugh: And just be careful. I don't want you arrested as well. 

Foyle: Yes, yes. Yeah.

He leaves the station.

The manor.

Andrew (voiceover): This is ridiculous. The whole thing is completely crazy. 

He's seated in a barred cell opposite Henderson. Keller paces back and forth.

Keller: Have you any idea of the seriousness of the charges against you? 

Andrew: Yes. Mr Henderson has told me. 

Keller: We could be talking treason! 

Andrew: We're talking nonsense! 

Henderson: These documents were discovered missing at 0600 hours this morning. 

Andrew: Yes? 

Henderson: They contain a detailed analysis of the most recent tests made on the radar system at this station. They could give the enemy vital information about the strengths and weaknesses of our entire coastal defence. 

Andrew: I didn't take them. 

Henderson: They were found in your locker. 

Andrew: Well, somebody must have put them there. 

Keller: And who would do that? 

Andrew: You tell me. 

Henderson: Tell us about Bruce Leighton-Morris, Mr Foyle. 

Andrew: What? 

Henderson: Bruce Leighton-Morris. Your friend from Oxford. 

Andrew: Why do you want to know? 

Henderson: When did you last see him? 

Andrew: A couple of days ago. He drove me down here. Er, and we had lunch. What's Bruce got to do with this? He's down here to make a film about fuel conservation. 

Henderson: Why did he give you money? 

Andrew: He didn't. 

Henderson: I was watching, Mr Foyle. Mr Leighton-Morris has been under surveillance for some time now. You met him. He produced his wallet. 

Andrew: Well, he paid for lunch. He took out his wallet and paid for lunch! 

Henderson: Don't play the innocent with us, Mr Foyle. Communist Party of Great Britain. That's where you met him. You were in the Communist Party at Oxford. You joined in the summer of 1938. 

Andrew: For heaven's sake, it was nothing. It was... It was like a club. After Spain, a lot of us felt... The communists were fighting the n*zi before we were! Anyway, I only went to half a dozen meetings. I lost interest. 

Keller: You kept your membership. 

Andrew: I'd forgotten all about it. 

Henderson: We hadn't. 

Andrew: Look, you can't keep me here. I want to speak to my father or at least to my commanding officer. This is crazy. 

Henderson: You're not seeing anyone, Mr Foyle, until you start answering some questions. 

Andrew: This has got nothing to do with me! He knows! 

He looks at Keller.

Keller: I'll tell you what I know, Foyle. A number of extremely sensitive documents have gone missing and have been found in your possession. You turn out to be a self-confessed member of the Communist Party and are seen taking money from a prominent communist agitator who has since disappeared. 

Henderson: Now, let's start from the beginning, shall we? 

Street outside Foyle's house. Anne Roberts walks up and knocks on the front door. Foyle answers it.

Roberts: Excuse me. 

Foyle: Yes? 

Roberts: I wanted to see... Is Andrew here? Andrew Foyle? 

Foyle: No, I'm afraid he isn't. 

Roberts: Oh. Right. I shouldn't really have come anyway. I'm sorry. 

Foyle: Er, you're Anne, aren't you? I'm sorry. I don't know your surname. He works with you? He's mentioned you. 

Roberts: I really can't stay. 

Foyle: Please, listen. I think he's in trouble, and I need some help to find him. Would you please come in? Please.

She comes into the house and closes the door.

Front room.

Roberts: I can't tell you anything. You must understand, I signed the Official Secrets Act. If they found out I was even here I could be sent to prison. 

Foyle: Well, when did you last see him? 

Roberts: Two days ago. 

Foyle: And did you know what had happened to him? 

Roberts: I only met him a couple of times. I hardly know him. If he's been arrested, well, there must be a reason. 

Foyle: Well, why have you come here? 

Roberts: I wanted to see him. I wanted to say goodbye. 

Foyle: Oh, you're leaving? 

Roberts: They've made me. 

Foyle: And why is that? 

Roberts: I can't tell you. I can't tell you anything. If they knew it was me... 

Foyle: Yeah, I don't- I don't understand why you're so frightened. 

Roberts: It's not the work, it's something that happened before Andrew came. 

Foyle: Look, it's clear you know something, so I don't want you to just leave here without at least helping me in the next step of the way. 

Roberts: Andrew's commanding officer is a man called Graeme, Group Captain Alastair Graeme. He lives here in Hastings. He shouldn't be hard to find. But please, I never gave you his name. 

Foyle: No, of course. Um, where are they sending you? Can you tell me that? 

Roberts: No. But, er, when you find Andrew, tell him- well, just say good luck from me. 

She leaves.

Sam and Foyle are parked on a street watching a row of houses.

Sam: Why don't we just go in? 

Foyle: We can't. Well, he hasn't done anything. And if I was to ask him about Andrew, he wouldn't tell me anyway. Why should he? 

Sam: Well, we could follow him back to where he's based. 

Foyle: We'd get arrested as spies. 

Sam: I'm gonna miss all this. 

Foyle: Are you? 

Sam: I've enjoyed working with you, sir. I'm sorry I've been... 

Foyle: Been what? 

Sam: You know. 

Foyle: Yep. 

She gives him a sidelong look.

Foyle: No, you've been fine, Sam. 

Sam: Is that him there? 

Graeme comes out of one of the doors.

Foyle: Could be. Looks like it. Here we go.

Sam starts the engine.

Sam and Foyle followed Graeme round a corner close to the Lower Red Lion pub.

Sam: Isn't this the pub where we interviewed Joyce Davies? 

Foyle: Yes. Henley Terrace is just around the corner. You wait here? 

Sam: Sir, why don't you let me do it? Isn't there more chance he'd talk to a girl? 

Foyle: You think so? 

Sam: Well, if I can catch him alone having a drink, he might give me a clue. 

Foyle: All right. Be careful. 

She smiles and salutes before getting out of the car. Foyle smiles and raises his eyebrows a little, clearing his throat as he sits back to wait.

Pub interior. A barmaid is pouring a pint as Graeme lights a cigarette.

Barmaid: There we are, sir. 

Graeme: Thanks awfully. 

Sam approaches the bar.

Barmaid: What'll it be, miss? 

Sam: Er, I'll have a, a glass of sherry, please. 

Graeme: Let me get you that. 

Sam: I'm sorry? 

Graeme: On your own? 

Sam: Yes. 

Graeme: I hate to see a lady buying herself a drink. 

Sam: Oh. Thank you very much, sir. Very kind. 

Graeme: Cigarette? 

Sam: Mmm. 

She takes one from his cigarette case and he lights it for her.

Graeme: You ATS? 

Sam: No, MTC. 

Barmaid Your sherry, miss. 

Sam: How about you? Well, RAF, obviously, but which bit? 

Graeme: My name's Alastair. 

Sam: I'm Samantha, but everyone calls me Sam. 

Graeme: Cheers. 

She clinks glasses with him.

Graeme: I didn't know there were any MTC sections round here. 

Sam: Well, actually, I'm on leave. I only got home today. 

Graeme: Meeting someone? 

Sam: No, there is no one, Just me. 

Graeme: I find that very surprising. 

Sam: Do you fly? 

Graeme: I used to. 

Sam: Well, you don't look like a pilot. You look too important. 

Graeme: Ha! I'll take that as a compliment. 

Sam: You're a Group Captain? 

Graeme: Why do you want to know? 

Sam: Well, it's just I'd love to get in the WAAF. I mean, the MTC is fine, but the work is a bit grubby. Mostly it's just form-filling. 

Graeme: Well, we're all making our own contributions. I'm sure yours is as valuable as anyone else's. 

Sam: Hmm. Yes, but I'd, I'd love to be near planes and all that. Where are you based? 

Graeme: What was your name again? 

Sam: Samantha Stewart. 

Graeme: MTC.

He moves to put an arm around Sam's shoulders.

Graeme: You know, my dear, when a good-looking, well-developed young girl like you comes into a bar on her own, well, that's one thing. But when she starts asking questions, name, rank, serial number, that's when a chap has to start asking himself, "What's her game?"

Sam: I-

Graeme: Especially when that girl seems to have deliberately followed him in. 

Sam: I did no such thing. 

Graeme: I'm sure you didn't, but that's a loose tongue you have. A very loose tongue, and I think you should be careful what you do with it. So, it was very nice to meet you, and I hope you enjoyed the drink, but I think it's time you were on your way. 

He drops his hand from her shoulder and Sam yelps in shock. She gasps and turns to look at him indignantly before heading out of the pub.

Sam returns to the car and gets in.

Foyle: What happened? 

Sam: I didn't get anything out of him, sir. He rumbled me straight away. 

Foyle: What is it? You all right? 

Sam: Actually, he... pinched me. 

Foyle: He did what? 

Sam: You know. Quite hard. It really hurt. 

Foyle moves to get out of the car.

Foyle: I'll have a word with him. 

Sam: No, no, no. It'd only confirm his suspicions. Maybe Dad was right. Perhaps I ought to write to the Association of Moral Hygiene. 

She starts the car and they drive off.

Lower Red Lion, night. Graeme emerges and heads home. As he goes into the house, someone is standing out on the street watching him.

Graeme house. Graeme puts his hat down. His wife Elizabeth is sitting doing needlework.

Elizabeth: You were a long time. 

Graeme: Not really. 

Elizabeth: It's a shame you have to go out so much. I see little enough of you as it is. 

Graeme: Really, Elizabeth, I was only an hour. 

Elizabeth: Two. What do you think? 

She shows him her needlework.

Graeme: Very nice. 

He sits back in the armchair opposite.

Elizabeth: It's going to be a raffle prize. You know, with all the other activities, we'll soon have made enough to buy our own Spitfire. 

Graeme: Hmm. 

Elizabeth: Oh, and did I tell you? Kate has asked me to help her set up a local housewives' group.

Graeme: No, you didn't say. 

Elizabeth: Kate is marvellous. She's indefatigable. 

The doorbell rings.

Graeme: Who's that at this hour? 

Elizabeth: I'll go, if you like. 

Graeme: No, you stay here. 

A classical tune comes on the wireless.

Elizabeth: Oh, I know this. 

There's the sound of the front door opening.

Graeme (offscreen): I don't know you. What do you want? What?

Elizabeth: Alastair, who is it? 

Graeme takes a gasping breath and there's a faint thump. Elizabeth gets up to go to the door.

Elizabeth: Alastair? 

She sees him lying on the floor, clutching at a Kn*fe stuck through his chest. She screams as his head sags backwards.

Police station. Iain Stewart approaches the front desk.

Iain: Er, excuse me. 

Desk Officer: Sir?

Iain: I've come to pick up my daughter. Samantha Stewart?

Milner approaches the desk.

Milner: Hello, sir. I'm Sergeant Milner. I work with Sam. 

Iain: How do you do? 

They shake hands.

Milner: She isn't in yet, I'm afraid. Um, would you like to come through? 

Milner's office. He opens the door to let Iain inside.

Milner: You're welcome to wait in my office. She should be along soon. We're going to miss her. 

Iain: I'm sure. Oh, what's all this? 

He sees the items recovered from the Davies house on Milner's desk.

Milner: Oh, it's from a house that was just b*mb. It's all junk. 

Iain: What? Excuse me, er, Sergeant Milner. 

He picks up the broken statuette.

Iain: This statuette is by Francois Berault. 

Milner: I'm sorry, sir? 

Iain: It's a tragedy. It's been broken, I presume in the b*mb, but this is wonderful. It's a Berault. 

Milner picks up a small booklet and reads something.

Milner: The French impressionist. He did sketches and drawings. 

Iain: That's right, but he was also a sculptor - figures, horses. This is a petite danseuse. It's about 1880. 

Milner: How do you know, sir? 

Iain: Well, I studied art at university before I found my vocation. I've always maintained an interest. 

Milner: And you're sure that this is by Berault? 

Iain: Yes. Yes. I, I actually saw it once, or something very like it in London, in the- in the Whittington collection. 

Milner: Mr Stewart, how much do you think a figure like this would be worth? 

Iain: Well, it's broken, but many thousands of pounds, I should imagine. 

Sam arrives in the office doorway.

Sam: Dad. What are you doing? 

Iain: Well, I've come to collect you. 

Foyle steps up behind her in the doorway.

Foyle: Oh, I'm afraid you can't have her yet, sir. She's needed. Sam, follow me. 

He moves off again and Sam follows.

Sam and Foyle drive through Hastings.

Elizabeth (voiceover): They were playing Schubert on the wireless. 

Foyle is seated in an armchair in her front room.

Elizabeth: We went to a concert in Venice on our honeymoon, and it was the same piece. 

Foyle: You were married a long time? 

Elizabeth: Er, 21 years. 

Foyle: Children? 

Elizabeth: Two sons, both in the RAF.

Foyle: I understand your husband was a serving officer. Lot of responsibility? 

Elizabeth: I can't talk about that!

Foyle: But, um, was it the case? 

Elizabeth: I- I can't discuss his work. 

Foyle: Mrs Graeme, I'm sure you'd like to help us find your husband's k*ller. 

Elizabeth: Well, of course I want to help. Of course I do, but... But you must understand that I can't tell you anything about what he was doing. I'm not allowed to. No. His people will come here. I'll talk to them. 

Foyle leaves the house, shaking his head.

Foyle: Nothing. 

Sam is waiting by the car. A military vehicle pulls up behind her. Keller and another man in RAF uniform get out.

Sam: Sir, couldn't it have been a woman who did this? I mean, after what happened last night in the pub, I wouldn't be surprised if there were one or two who wouldn't gladly stick a Kn*fe in him. 

Keller: Are you Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle? 

Foyle: Yes. 

Keller: My name's Keller. Wing Commander Martin Keller. I was working with Group Captain Graeme, and his m*rder falls under the jurisdiction of the RAF Police. 

Foyle: You've got my son. 

Keller: Who told you that? 

Foyle: I want to see him. 

Keller: Well, that's not possible. Anyway, I'm afraid this takes priority. 

Foyle: You don't feel they're connected? 

Keller: Well, I'll be taking over this investigation, so it's my job to find out. 

Foyle: Well, you're a bit late. I already know who k*lled him and why he was k*lled. 

Keller: Tell me. 

Foyle: Not until I've seen my son. 

Andrew's cell at the manor. He's sitting on the bed. Footsteps approach and a guard unlocks it.

Foyle (offscreen): Andrew? 

Andrew: Dad? 

Foyle: How are you? 

Andrew: All right. I'm glad you're here. 

Foyle enters the cell and the guard closes the door behind him.

Foyle: Well, this is a complete bloody mess, isn't it? 

Andrew: You're telling me. 

Foyle: Well, you never mentioned your Communist Party membership to me. 

Andrew: I'm not. I mean, I was, but I'm not ashamed of it. 

Foyle: When were you ever interested in politics? 

Andrew: After Franco. 

Foyle: Oh, yeah? 

Andrew: Well, all right. Wasn't quite as simple as that. You see, there was this girl...

Foyle rolls his eyes.

Foyle: I see. Another one. 

Andrew: I didn't take those documents, Dad. 

Foyle: I know you didn't take the documents, but somebody's taken the documents, and they've put them in your locker, haven't they? 

Andrew: Yeah. But a lot of strange things have been going on around here even before I got posted. A girl k*lled herself. Lucy. 

Whittington Gallery.

Milner (voiceover): You have a lorry. It was driven by a man called Graham Davies, and I believe it's still here. I'd like to see it, please. 

A garage door opens to reveal the lorry. Two men open the doors at the back of the lorry for Milner to look inside.

Milner (voiceover): We haven't met before, sir. My name is Milner. Sergeant Milner. You spoke to my senior officer, DCS Foyle. 

Milner finds a compartment under one of the seats in the back of the lorry.

Milner (voiceover): I'd like you to come with me to Westminster police station. 

Carmichael's office.

Carmichael: What for? 

Milner: Because I'm arresting you for theft. 

Carmichael: Theft? 

Milner: A priceless work of art from this collection. 

Carmichael: I'm sorry, Mr Milner. I think you must be mistaken. There's nothing missing. 

Milner: Yes, that's what it looks like, but we've recovered a statuette belonging to this gallery from the wreckage of Graham Davies' house. 

Carmichael: Ah. 

Milner: It was Davies who stole it, but he couldn't have done it without your help. I assume you were paying him and that he would have returned it to you had he not been k*lled. Everything you told DCS Foyle was true, except that your security arrangements weren't quite as foolproof as you made out. The shorthand, for example: S for sketch. It could also mean S for statuette, couldn't it? 

Carmichael: You tell me. 

Flashback to the artworks being packed away.

Milner (voiceover): There was a sketch that showed three dancers on a single sheet of paper. There was also a statuette of a dancer made by Berault in his old age.

Graham Davies shows the statuette to Carmichael and gets a subtle nod. Then he takes it out to the van.

Milner (voiceover): Graham Davies was the only one who actually climbed into the van. The first Berault, the statuette, went into a compartment underneath the seat.

Davies packs the statuette into a box inside the compartment.

Milner (voiceover): The next Berault was the sketch.

A man brings a cardboard folder out to Davies in the van.

Milner (voiceover): Unlike the paintings, the drawings and the sketches weren't crated up, perhaps deliberately.

Davies pulls a curtain across to cover the inside of the van and takes the sketch out of its protective folder.

Milner (voiceover): Once again, Davies chose his moment well.

Davies lays the sketch down. On one side of the paper is a pair of ballerinas, on the other side a third. He uses a ruler and Kn*fe to divide it into two separate pictures.

Milner (voiceover): The single sketch became two sketches. I'd say that was an act of wanton vandalism.

Carmichael's office:

Milner: So. Two dancers by Berault went into the lorry, and two dancers by Berault came out of it at the other end. It was as if the statuette had never existed. And then what? You'd wait until the w*r was over. Dorothy Whittington would probably be d*ad. Who would notice that one of her masterpieces was missing? According to the records, nothing would be missing. And then you'd sell it. 

Carmichael: Oh, no, sergeant, I wouldn't sell it. You can't sell a masterpiece by Francois Berault without people noticing. 

Milner: What, then? 

Carmichael: You wouldn't understand. Just to have it. That would be enough. You can't imagine what it would be like to own something so beautiful. 

Milner: Well, it isn't beautiful any more, sir. Thanks to you, it was destroyed. Shall we go? 

Royal Victoria hotel. Sam and her father walk out of the hotel together, Sam carrying a suitcase.

Sam: You're quite sure about this, Dad? 

Iain: Oh, yes, I think so. 

Sam speaks to the driver of a taxi waiting out in front.

Sam: Station, please. 

She puts the suitcases in the back.

Sam: It's good to see you. 

Iain: You take care of yourself, my dear. I don't doubt you're in safe hands with Mr Foyle, but even so, these are unhealthy times. 

Sam: Absolutely. But don't worry, I'll take care. 

He mouths the words "All right."

Iain: Goodbye. 

He kisses her on the cheek.

Sam: Send my love to Mother. 

Iain gets into the taxi and Sam watches it drive away.

Foyle's office.

Foyle: Excellent, Milner. 

Milner: Thank you, sir. 

Foyle: Confession? 

Milner: Carmichael's at Westminster police station doing just that. Someone will have to tell Mrs Whittington about her figurine, though. 

Foyle: Well, another casualty of the w*r. 

Milner: Hmm. 

Foyle: Harold Smith? 

Milner: They were lying about their daughter Lucy. She didn't fall under a train. 

Foyle: She jumped. 

Milner: Exactly. 

There's a knock on the office door.

Foyle: Yes? 

Sam walks in, smiling.

Sam: Hello. 

Foyle: You're still here? 

Sam: I'm afraid it's not quite that easy to get rid of me. My father's changed his mind. 

Foyle: So you persuaded him? 

Sam: Er, no, sir. In fact, um, it was you and Sergeant Milner. He was so excited to have helped solve a crime, it revised his opinion of the whole thing, and he decided that perhaps after all I was doing an important job and that I, I should stay. 

Foyle: Well, that's wonderful. We don't have to walk. 

Sam and Milner laugh.

Their car pulls up in front of Smith house.

Harold (voiceover): I thought I'd be seeing you again, Mr Foyle. 

Foyle and Milner are in the Smiths' front room.

Foyle: You know why I'm here? 

Harold: To arrest me. 

Foyle: And you probably know why. 

Harold: I'm not gonna deny it. 

Enid: Harold... 

Harold: There, there, come on. I said it might end like this. 

Foyle: With the m*rder of an innocent man. 

Harold: Graeme deserved to die. My Lucy was nineteen when she went to work for that man. Just nineteen years old. And she was so proud, you know, to be helping our boys. And you know what he did? 

Enid: She didn't know what she was doing. She didn't know anything about... that sort of thing. 

Harold: He forced himself on her. She was young enough to be his daughter, for God's sake. He forced himself on her, and he made her have relations with him up against the wall. You know why? He told her she wouldn't get pregnant that way. The worst of it... The worst of it was, she couldn't tell us anything. Not about her work, not about what was happening, because they made her sign the Official Secrets Act. It was all too important, too secret. And he knew that too, of course. When he found out she was pregnant, that she was carrying his child, he put the fear of God into her. Enid managed to wheedle some of it out of her, enough for the two of us to work it out. By then it was too late. Lucy couldn't bear the shame. She decided to put an end to it. Her and the baby. She threw herself in front of that train. There's nothing innocent about a man like that. 

Foyle: Mr Smith, you know exactly what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the first person you m*rder, who may have been a petty crook, but as far as your daughter's concerned, he was totally innocent. 

Harold: That was a mistake. I never meant that to happen, Mr Foyle. That was a dreadful, dreadful mistake. 

Foyle: I know. 

Harold: I decided to have my revenge on Group Captain Graeme.

Flashback to Harold taking Lucy's necklace and putting it around his neck.

Harold (voiceover): I didn't see it as m*rder. It was punishment. A man like that, what he'd done, he deserved to die. 

Enid stands behind him and lays a hand on his shoulder.

Hastings, night. Harold makes his way along a darkened street.

Harold (voiceover): The road signs had been taken down. I didn't know Hastings anyway. The blackout made it difficult to see anything, so I had to ask the way. 

Frank (voiceover): I was on my way home. It was half past ten, and this man came up to me. He asked the way to Henley Terrace, and I told him. 

Harold (voiceover): I knew I'd got the right number, number 10. I could see that. 

He knocks.

Harold (voiceover): A man came to the door. 

Graham Davies opens the door.

Davies: Yes? 

Harold: You Graeme? 

Davies: Yes. What do you want? 

Harold: Want you to have this, you bastard. 

He s*ab Davies. Davies clutches at him as he falls, and pulls the locket from his neck. Harold hurries away.

Smith house.

Harold: I've never met Alastair Graeme. I don't know what he looked like. He said he was Graeme. 

Milner: He was Graham, Mr Smith, but he was Graham Davies, not Group Captain Alastair Graeme. And while you knew that Alastair Graeme lived at number 10 Henley Crescent, Graham Davies lived at number 10 Henley Terrace, which is where you were directed to. 

Harold: I said Henley Crescent. I didn't know there was a Henley Terrace. 

Milner: Yes. We met the man you asked. He's very hard of hearing. Because he didn't hear what you said, he sent you to the wrong address.

Foyle: How did you know Graeme's address in the first place? 

Enid: He wrote to us after our daughter's funeral. A note of condolence. It was on that. 

Foyle: But in spite of all of this, you still went back and tried again. 

Harold: I knew as soon as you found the locket, it was only a matter of time before you caught up with me. So yes, I had to get to him before you got to me. I know I'll be hanged. I deserve it.

Enid: Oh!

Harold: And I'm ashamed of it, and it'll be Graham Davies I'll be thinking of when they hang me. 

Enid: Harold, don't. 

Harold: I'm not ashamed about Alastair Graeme. I had to do it. I'm glad I did it. I don't see it as m*rder. It's punishment. I just wish he'd suffered more. 

Enid: Harold, please. 

Harold: This was entirely my idea. Enid had nothing to do with it. Just leave her alone. 

Enid: No, Harold. I want to come with you. It's over. It was over the day Lucy died. 

Keller's office.

Foyle: I'm here to collect my son. Is he still here? 

Keller: Yes. Yes, he's still here. Look, Mr Foyle, whatever you may think, I swear to you I've done absolutely nothing wrong. 

Foyle: Well, not entirely the case. You know exactly why Lucy Smith k*lled herself. You helped cover the whole thing up. 

Keller: You have to put this into context, Mr Foyle. Whatever his personal failings, Alastair Graeme was a first-class CO. He had a brilliant, scientific mind. I don't know anyone in the country who understood radar better than him. And remember, Mr Foyle, my first job, my first responsibility was to keep him in his rightful position, in command of this station. 

Foyle: By planting stolen documents in my son's locker? 

Keller: That wasn't me. 

Foyle: No, it was Graeme, but you allowed it to happen. He was terrified it was all going to come out, and he used the investigation to keep my son out of the way. 

Keller: I was against it. I was against the whole idea. 

Foyle: And what he did to Lucy Smith might not have been perhaps strictly criminal, but it was immoral, improper, and downright disgusting and would have cost him his job, not to mention his marriage. 

Keller: I'm not telling you again, Mr Foyle. I had no part in any of it. I was simply doing what I thought was best for the w*r. 

Foyle: I'm sure a great many n*zi are going to be saying exactly the same thing when this w*r is over. I want Andrew released, and not a word of this is to go on his record. 

Andrew's cell. The guard unlocks the door.

Andrew: Dad? 

Foyle: Come on. 

Andrew gets up and walks out of the cell.

Andrew: You are brilliant, Dad, you know that? 

Foyle: Yep. 

Outside. Foyle and Andrew walk across the base together.

Andrew: So you think I was imagining it? 

Foyle: Well, maybe. 

Andrew: I felt like Graeme was trying to k*ll me. 

Foyle: Well, I'm sure. 

Andrew: If it was him who planted the documents, surely it was him who sabotaged the IFF in my Spitfire?

Foyle: No, I don't think it was sabotage. He didn't have access to the plane. He didn't want to k*ll you. He just wanted you out of the way. 

Andrew: So I sort of overreacted? 

Foyle: Well, wouldn't be the first time. 

Andrew: So what do we do now? 

Foyle: I don't know about you, but I'm going to have some lunch. 

There's the sound of planes approaching. As they both look round, the air-raid siren begins to sound.

Andrew: Bloody hell, Dad. They're German! 

There are expl*si*n as b*mb h*t the base nearby, and they start running.

Man (offscreen): Run for cover!

Andrew: Come on, Dad! In here! 

Man (offscreen): Get in the shelters!

Andrew leads his father to a doorway covered by camouflage netting. They crouch down in the dark as the sound of further b*mb continues above.

Foyle: What's that smell? 

There's a close expl*si*n outside.

Foyle: You all right? 

Andrew lights a match so they can see. By its light, they can read the words 'Aviation Fuel, highly flammable' on a barrel nearby.

Foyle: Blow it out, would you? 

Andrew blows the match out. There's another close expl*si*n.

Foyle: Why have you brought us to shelter in a fuel dump, Andrew? 

The b*mb stop. Foyle and Andrew emerge from the fuel dump. A bell is ringing and someone is shouting instructions in the background.

Foyle: Let's go. 

Through the smoke, a car can be seen approaching.

Andrew: Dad, wait.

Foyle: Here comes the cavalry. 

Sam drives up with Milner in the front seat. He opens the door so they can speak to Foyle.

Sam: I was getting worried about you, sir. You all right? 

Foyle: Well, no thanks to this one. 

Andrew gets into the back of the car.

Milner: Sir? 

Foyle: No, we'll go in the back.

He gets in and the four of them drive away.
{"type": "series", "show": "Foyle's War", "episode": "01x04 - Eagle Day"}