I'd you'd found an arm. We found a torso.
The Thames Torso Mysteries - the women were never identified.
How did she die? She was poisoned.
If you want to find the other body parts, check the riverbank
from Richmond to Whitechapel.
It's her left foot. This belongs to another girl.
Subtitles by MemoryOnSmells http://UKsubtitles.ru
I'm afraid this is all we've managed to recover from the river
in the last seven days.
River Police reckon anything we haven't found by now we won't find.
It'll be out at sea. We'll work with what we have.
The cuts to the second victim were made with the same weapon
and I've identified the same toxin in the limbs.
I wasn't able to identify the poison using standard tests.
This is unlike anything I've ever come across,
so I decided to take the different approach,
and look at incredibly rare poisons I was unfamiliar with.
You found it? Cantharidin.
Cantharidin, or Spanish Fly,
has been regarded as an aphrodisiac for centuries.
It is, in fact, a highly toxic poison.
Ed, tell us what you found.
1772.
Two prostitutes were given aniseed balls laced with Spanish Fly.
They spent a week in agony and nearly died.
The man who poisoned them
was sentenced to have his head cut off, his body burned
and his ashes scattered. That man...
was the Marquis de Sade.
Now this is important. He wanted to excite their desires,
he wanted them to participate in an orgy.
And he didn't act alone.
His manservant procured the girls and took part in the orgies.
A couple, administering a lethal aphrodisiac
to satisfy their desires.
OK.
Miles.
I want you to have a really strong coffee.
I prefer tea. I prefer you awake.
Look, the baby's getting much better.
She slept for four hours last night. That clearly isn't enough.
I know where to buy Spanish Fly.
OK, why am I not surprised?
I didn't realise it was a poison. I...
I've given it to Eva.
Oh, my God.
It makes you feel all warm inside, you know?
I was trying to spice things up a bit. It didn't kill her.
Well, you've got to tell the boss. No, you tell him.
If I do he'll look at me like I'm a pervert.
Oh, and if I tell him?
Um, sir?
Erm, it's come to my attention that there is a place in Whitechapel
where... where you can... where you can buy Spanish Fly.
What's wrong with coffee? I like this better than coffee.
Right, what are we waiting for?
Found it. This is what we're looking for.
Now everyone thinks we're a couple.
Well, they're used to weirder than that in here.
No ingredients listed.
Let's get it analysed, see if it's the source of our cantharidin.
Is this real Spanish Fly?
It's 100% genuine. Satisfaction guaranteed.
Has anyone been in recently, ordering large amounts?
Everyone buys it. Young. Old.
Enjoy. Oh, no, it's not... it's not for me.
Or him. It's, um...
Oh, never mind.
Ah, there you are!
Well it, er, might season your paella.
Is that a euphemism?
No, I mean it literally. It's cayenne pepper.
What, is that it? Yes.
It might create a sensation of warmth, but it's not an aphrodisiac.
I've had a look at all the commercial preparations
claiming to be Spanish Fly, and truth is,
not none of them contain cantharidin.
Oh, hello. Didn't hear you come in.
How's it going?
I've made a good start on US crime and I'm now tackling Europe.
You won't have room.
Ah, about that.
I was hoping we could knock through.
I noticed there's a usable space on the other side of this wall.
That's the ladies. Look, I need to know
how the Marquis de Sade obtained his cantharidin.
Well, I suppose he would have bought it from an apothecary.
It was even sold in some spice markets in Morocco,
to be added to tagines. But, er,
well, anyone can make it.
If you have some blister beetles.
Just one second.
Latour have been importing medicinal herbs and spices for 200 years.
They specialise in Chinese remedies and obscure medicines.
Like cantharidin.
They supply it to pharmaceutical firms
who use it to manufacture wart treatments.
So far so legal. Well, there's more.
Latour is run by Travis Underwood
and one employee, a woman named Heather Green.
Travis Underwood, married to Mary for 25 years. Two adult children.
Mary has a long-term illness and is registered disabled.
Heather Green is the intriguing one.
She's worked with Underwood for three years.
She has a Masters in anthropology. Now at the end of her masters,
she published this paper in an esteemed journal.
This is her study into the use of aphrodisiacs
in tribal medicine by indigenous tribes in the Amazon.
She was particularly taken by a love potion called Catuaba,
and she tried it herself.
Excellent work. This could be our couple.
May I ask what this is about?
We'd like to speak to yourself and Mr Underwood
regarding the sale of blister beetles.
Is there a problem? There might be.
Just the two of you that run this place?
That's right.
Must be intense, two people working together all day long.
What are you implying?
Do you have more than a working relationship with your boss?
You two spend all your time together, don't you?
Long shifts.
I bet you spend more time with each other
than you do with your families.
Are you romantically involved?
He's not my type. Nor is Travis mine.
Gentlemen. Travis Underwood.
DI Chandler. DS Miles.
I understand you're interested in our beetles.
Cantharidin, yes.
Well, the trade is tightly controlled and regulated.
Lytta Vesicatoria.
Urgh! Strong odour. Unmistakable.
Smells like mice. Quite.
You mustn't touch them.
They are highly irritant, even like this. They'll cause blistering.
They're a powerful aphrodisiac, aren't they?
Sought after for hundreds of years.
It's not an aphrodisiac. That's a fallacy.
It's an extremely unpleasant poison.
Somebody would be very ignorant to try to use it in that way.
Excuse me. A few months ago, we had an enquiry from a couple
who thought cantharidin was a love potion.
They came here? No.
We take our security protocol very seriously.
The only way to become a client is to contact us by letter
and have the correct permits and documentation.
The first letter we received was from the woman and we politely declined.
There was a second letter?
From the man. And that one was scary.
Two letters. One address.
The first letter, from Celeste Caine, is reasonable.
The second letter, from Max, is very angry.
He was furious we denied his wife and demanded, in very strong terms,
to know how he could acquire the live beetles.
A couple desperate to obtain cantharidin
and willing to make violent threats to do so.
We need to take a closer look at Celeste and Max.
The two letters asking about cantharidin sent to Latour.
The names are false. Well, no big surprise there.
Same fake address on both.
Turns out to be a big house converted into flats,
where all the post is dumped in the hallway - easy access.
A dead letter drop. So nothing to go on, I'm afraid.
Wait a minute. At first glance this letter from Celeste,
it's beautifully written, suggests an educated woman of a certain age.
This letter from Max is misspelled and chaotic
and suggests someone who didn't finish school,
probably institutionalised, and of low intelligence.
She's the brains, he's the brawn. Yeah, but here's the thing.
I think they're the same person.
No. No, he's right.
Look closely. Ignore the differences and focus on the similarities.
The height ratio and spacing are the same.
You took the course too? I did. 2010.
Huh, 2008.
Well, if the same person wrote these letters,
are we looking for a burly woman or a girly bloke?
This is our third girl.
Found this morning in the Thames at the Dartford Crossing.
But she has something to tell us.
A nightclub? Mm.
The stamp is still vivid.
I think this gives us a good idea of her last movements.
Can you find out which club uses this stamp?
Yes, sir.
Come on. Club crawl.
Club crawl? Yeah, get your dancing shoes on.
I like the sound of that.
She'd have felt like she was burning to death from the inside.
I'm afraid they never found the heads.
I want you to remember she was a real person, care about her.
Unlike anything I've come across.
I thought we should eat.
How come you don't go home after your shift?
Because of them. The dead girls.
I can't go home and switch the TV on,
not when there's three victims out there,
with no name, no identity.
It doesn't feel right.
Are you always this invested in your cases?
The dead always get my full attention.
It's the, er... the living that I struggle with.
What, no wife, no kids? No.
No prospect of them either.
It's hard to meet someone who understands the demands of the job.
Definitely.
It's easy to see why police always fall for police.
Oh, erm, I would invite you to sit down,
only I've had to dispense with the luxury of chairs
on account of the shortage of space.
An issue I have already raised. Split personalities.
Hmm. Dissociative Identity Disorder.
That is very rare. Over here.
Um, 1999. Knoxville, Tennessee.
Thomas Huskey.
A recent addition to our crime family.
Huskey claimed he had a separate, darker personality called Kyle
who was responsible for a series of murders.
The defence argued that Kyle was to blame, and that Thomas was innocent.
What, Thomas wasn't aware of what Kyle was doing?
Mm. It's possible.
The personalities, I think they call them 'alters',
are formed to protect the person from traumatic memories.
It starts in childhood where there is abuse,
and then every time something terrible happens,
another alter forms to take hold of the memory and keep it from them.
You're telling me a person could be a murderer and not know it?
Well, yes, if the alters are hiding it from them.
In a way, the brain is keeping secrets from itself.
I don't think the killer's is pretending to be Celeste or Max.
He's someone who has the most distinct personalities. Alter egos.
John Doe suffered a traumatic event
so Celeste stepped in to protect him from those memories.
Celeste is the poisoner. Max is the hard man...
he chops up the bodies, wraps them in bin bags, dumps them in the Thames.
John Doe has no memory or knowledge of Celeste and Max.
Or that's what he wants us to think. It's a real psychiatric condition.
Not everybody thinks so.
It's a great defence, is what it is.
How can you be found guilty of murder
if technically you are not responsible
because your alter ego did it? It's a get out of jail free card.
Yeah, well, let's let the lawyers worry about that.
The hooded crow. You found it.
Yep, and it's not your usual five shots for a fiver and ladies go free
kind of place either. It's an underground club
and it's definitely not for the shy or the fainthearted.
It's the strangest thing.
I felt like I was having deja vu.
What, the victims are similar? Oh, more than that.
These three girls are very, very alike.
Musculature and muscle attachments indicate the same build.
Axillary hair suggests the same dark hair colour.
I can only estimate the height,
but I'm willing to guess it's the same as the others.
To the untutored eye, these three girls' body parts
would have been interchangeable. Like parts of a doll.
Our killer definitely has a type.
If only we knew what she looked like.
Only the heads can tell us that. Was she poisoned?
I'm afraid so. Our killer likes one type of girl, one type of murder.
Are you grinding your teeth?
Yes, um, these damn caffeine tablets.
Well, how many of them you taking? What, boxes or pills?
Dry mouth, palpitations, blurred vision, irritability, upset stomach.
Does it sound familiar? I'm always irritable.
You're poisoning yourself. You can't take them anymore.
How am I going to stay awake?
Right, we know the killer has a type he likes.
Five four, eight and a half stone, early 20s, dark hair.
Now the last victim may have met him in a club called The Hooded Crow.
The killer could have approached other girls who fit this profile.
If so, they may remember him.
This club's been going for years.
It's a dive, and the crowd are pretty edgy,
so you'll have to dress up, but, er, don't try too hard.
I'll borrow Judy's boob tube.
I think you should sit this one out.
You don't think I can cut it in a club?
No, just... go home and get an early night.
I'm not letting the team down. I can do my job.
I'm not asking, it's an order. Go home.
You look... so different. Yeah, I used to work in Vice.
Don't be fooled though, I can still snap a man's wrist in seconds.
Um, after you.
You all right? Yeah, all right.
Er, we're here to work, remember? I'll try.
Why did you turn off the TV? I was watching my channel!
I'm trying to put Martha down!
If you don't turn it off, I'll come in and turn it off myself!
Right, that's it, bedtime! I've had enough!
How can it be my fault?
I was wondering if I could ask you
if you've been to this night club before? And when you did come here,
I was just wondering if you could tell me if anyone had been...
Know who you remind me of?
My mum says I look a little bit like Matt Damon.
No, I was thinking, er, Ted Bundy.
I ain't a serial killer. You're acting like a psychopath.
You're scanning the room for the weak, the drunk,
the lonely and the vulnerable.
What time is it?
Er... 2:00am.
What are you doing? I am working late.
As are you.
You don't need to be here.
I've run out of space in the archive.
I can't breathe down there.
And it's still not finished.
You want to be careful down there,
or you won't see the wood for the trees.
I can come round and see you later on with my cuffs if you like.
You'd like that, wouldn't you? Yeah.
You're totally cheeky, you are.
Oi, that's my girl. Sorry, I was only having a laugh.
Mind you, she did give me her number. You'd better give me your phone.
Don't touch my phone. Back off, mate. Argh!
Don't move! Are you listening?
Give me one good reason why I should keep you on the team.
Come on, give me one good reason!
Cos I'm a dickhead
who can't appreciate what he's got until it's gone.
Is that what you said to Eva?
Yeah,...
but you're more forgiving than she is.
Calm down. Last chance.
Don't make me regret it. Thank you.
Bloody idiot. Watch my bad ear!
Where's Norroy?
I can't see her. She was just through here.
Excuse me.
She was talking to a blonde guy. Good-looking. Blue shirt.
Can't see him. Can't see him either.
Find her!
I'll check the loos. Excuse me.
This is DI Chandler. Track the location of DI Norroy's phone.
Scully Street?
This way. Scully Street, come on!
Stubbings Street!
Pretty sure.
Where is it? At the end.
Costermongers. This way. Down here. On the left.
No, no, no, no!
It's down this way.
Police!
Where is she?
Find her!
What have you done to her? Come on, where is she?
Mansell!
Unconscious.
Oh, Jesus, Mina! Mina? Mina? Police officer down.
Darling? 28 Costermongers Street.
- Can you hear me...? - Sir, we've found her!
No, she's passed out, either drugged or poisoned.
- It's going to be all right. - Just get here, will you?!
Just... just hang in there.
Joe.
I like you.
I like you too.
Can I get in there, please?
Thank you.
All right, can you open your eyes for me?
Open your eyes. What's your name? She's police. Look after her.
Look at this.
They're not aspirin. You can tell by the markings.
What is it? Rohypnol.
Well, why would a good-looking boy like him
need roofies to bring a girl home?
Because of what he wants to do with them.
Sir! You've got to see this.
Look what I've found.
It's a hidden camera. He's got a whole load of these movies.
That's us coming in.
Sleep well? Only one who did last night.
This is from Nelson's computer.
Star tattoo.
Victim number one.
This could be our Agnes.
We know what you did last night.
Really? Someone, you don't know who, drugged your detective.
When I met her she appeared willing and compliant.
She wanted to party and I had no problem with that.
I did not coerce or force her to accompany me.
The fact that I have Rohypnol in my home is coincidental,
as it is an old prescription, obtained abroad,
to help me sleep when I travel.
And what about the girls on the computer, the recordings?
I can see that you're excited by what you found,
but did you actually look at the films closely?
Do those girls look distressed? Do they look unhappy?
More to the point, did a single one of them report a rape?
How can they when they don't remember it?
There is no rape.
You can see they're not even undressed.
This girl's dead.
No, she isn't. We have her body.
Well, she was fine when I said goodbye to her.
I had nothing to do with her... dying.
Tell us her name, then.
Lucy Hooper.
I don't kill them.
Boss? I've found Lucy Hooper. They're bringing her in now.
Thanks.
You didn't need to come back so soon.
I slept it off. I'm fine.
I take full responsibility for Mansell's behaviour.
We should never have lost you.
I don't blame Mansell. I blame Miles.
What? But Miles wasn't even there.
Exactly. He should have been. We went out a man down
because he was too tired to fulfil his duties as sergeant.
He's got a new baby.
I made a choice, as you did, to put this job first.
We don't have families providing us with excuses
to go home early or take extra time off.
If his family means he can't give you 100 percent, then
a transfer to a less demanding post is appropriate.
Lucy, can you tell me who this man is?
Yeah. That's Damon.
How did you meet him? I met him in The Hooded Crow.
He made me laugh. We had a few drinks. You know how it goes.
And you spent the night with him? No, not like that.
My drink got spiked and I felt ill
and Damon took me back to his and looked after me. Nothing happened.
He didn't rape me.
What happened to your neck? Oh, Damon said I fell in his flat.
It's nothing.
What, you fell on your neck?
OK, rewind it.
Pause it.
OK, well, he's not a rapist. What is he?
Something stranger.
I think he drugs the girls so that he can drink their blood.
A vampire? Fetishist.
Well, he's not drinking pints,
he's just making a small incision, enough to make them bleed.
Then what the hell do we charge him with?
Providing a noxious substance with intent to stupefy. Kidnapping.
And if we can prove that this is a sexual fetish, indecent assault.
Life imprisonment for kidnap, 15 years for the Rohypnol,
and ten for the assault. Good result.
It would be a good result
if Damon was a serial poisoner and a murderer of women.
But he isn't. He's just a creep who knows exactly what he's doing.
And we are back to the beginning, with nothing. Excuse me.
Ed? I'm over here, In Icelandic crime.
Congratulations on creating a fire hazard.
It's a valuable resource.
Should there ever be herring-related crime, we're ready.
Look, will you just forget about completing your archive.
Girls are dying, right now.
I gave you the Thames Torso Mysteries.
You gave me an unsolved crime with unidentified victims.
It hasn't been a lot of help.
I'm... I'm missing something. The answer's in here somewhere.
I need your input. Very well. I'll look again.
This fourth girl, is she like the others?
Very similar. Same victim profile, with one telling difference.
The first victim showed high levels of cantharidin,
the second was poisoned with significantly less,
the third and fourth, less again.
Why would the poisoner lower the amount?
Running low on beetles? Or they could have worked out
that you could kill with a much lower dose.
The dreadful thing is, less poison kills you more slowly.
It would have taken longer and longer to die.
Maybe that's what the killer wants.
Oh, go on, then, educate me.
Elaine of Astolat. The Lady of Shalott.
Fell in love with Lancelot, died on the river.
Right everyone, listen up.
Four girls.
Exactly the same as each other.
Our killer has a definite type. Hang on, boss.
The missing girl who ran after the band. The goose chase.
Ella Bowe. She fits the profile perfectly, doesn't she?
Everything about her.
Ella Bowe could be just what we've been looking for.
A victim with a name. I hate to remind you, but there's no body.
If she was a victim she'd have washed up.
You can't trust the river. She's been missing for months.
Yeah, six months. Well, there you go.
She could have drifted out to sea without any of us knowing.
Highly unlikely. We should track Ella's movements,
find the last person to see her alive. That could be our killer.
What we should do is go public, make an appeal.
Even if John Doe's condition's undiagnosed,
walking around as Celeste and Max is bound to get him noticed.
We'll be swamped with information
and 99.9% of it will be a waste our time!
And 0.1% will be the killer's name.
With respect, I don't care what you think, I care what HE thinks.
I think he probably cares more for a DI's opinion than a sergeant's.
Let's concentrate on finding out what happened to Ella.
An appeal's the last resort only.
It's nothing personal.
I just thought Miles had the best idea, that's all.
Don't you get it? You weren't just choosing an idea.
Look, I didn't mean for you to lose a girl over this.
I found the whole thing quite exhausting.
I don't know how Mansell does it.
What's this?
Well, Ella Bowe left home to follow a band but the band split up.
So what I've got here is how the band evolved since then.
So, we start with The Devil's Architects.
The singer leaves and the rest of the band become The Buried Boys.
The bassist is sacked and they become Broken Crypt.
Now they play two gigs and it's all over because the drummer walks out.
Only the lead guitarist survives.
Yeah, now he's interesting.
He's pretty much the driving force behind it...
the songwriter, the guy with the ideas, the talent.
And he's pretty dishy.
So if Ella was a fan of anyone, it will be him.
Doug Brenton.
Arthur Ford. 1954.
Arthur Ford fell in love with a woman
who worked in his office on the Euston Road.
His feelings were not reciprocated, and desperate to seduce her,
he bought some coconut ice and laced it with... cantharidin.
He offered it to the woman and she, along with a friend, ate it.
They died from his unrequited love. In agony.
That's why the doses are getting smaller.
He's not trying to kill them, he wants them to fall in love with him.
Every girl's the same
because they're like the first perfect girl he lost.
What if Ella Bowe was that perfect girl,
the one he's trying to replace?
If you're right, then I have made a grave mistake.
That file was in the archive all along, right under my nose.
I was so busy trying to know everything that I missed it.
Ed...
Girls have died...
because of me.
Apparently they're a kind of folk rock electronica thing.
Explains why I've never heard of them.
We're looking for Doug Brenton.
Yeah, I'm Doug. What do you want? Police.
We're trying to trace a fan of yours. A girl called Ella Bowe.
Why do you need to find her?
It's important we establish her last movements.
Ah, that's easy. She was making the teas five minutes ago.
Ella!
Oh, great, my mum's sent the Jesus Police to bring me home.
She's alive, so there goes my victim theory.
She isn't a victim, but she might be something more interesting.
What's that? The trigger.
You've changed a bit.
Yeah, well, that was a while ago. A lot's happened since then.
Ella, we know The Devil's Architects
have been through several incarnations.
Were you the reason for any of their splits?
Me? No.
No other band members jealous of your relationship with Doug?
I'm not a Yoko.
Any other guys trying it on, asking you out?
Well, there's always going to be lads having a go,
especially after a few drinks.
No, I mean like really obsessed. Really crazy about you.
Uh... Nathan.
Tell us about him.
He was my boss at this chocolate shop I worked in.
And we got on really well,
and it was too late before I realised he was completely in love with me.
Nathan had left an envelope out for me and when I opened it,
I saw it was an invitation to dinner.
When I went to tell him that I wasn't interested,
he'd prepared this huge meal,
with... flowers and champagne and candles.
I mean, I knew he liked me, but it was so full on, it was weird.
When I told him I wasn't interested... he changed.
How did he change? He wasn't Nathan anymore.
He became someone else.
Nathan was in love with Ella but she rejected him,
and in response to that trauma, Celeste took over.
She gave the next girl a love potion to make her fall for Nathan.
But the love potion was cantharidin and the girl died.
So then another personality, Max, took over
and disposed of the bodies.
This cycle of seduction and death goes on and on
while Nathan has no idea.
What if all the victims worked in his shop?
Could be, but you still can't kill four girls
and not remember anything. After you.
I'll get that.
There's no need. We're closed.
Erm,
I'll tell them to go away.
OK.
Ana?
Don't keep me waiting.
Can I help you? Police. Open the door, please.
Where's Nathan, where's your boss? Oh, he's upstairs.
Has he given you anything to eat? We're just having dinner.
She's eaten. Get her checked out. What's going on? Go with DCI Riley.
Who are you? Where's Ana? It's all right, sir.
Er, DI Chandler. This is DS Miles.
Are you Nathan Merceron? Yes. What's going on?
Please, take a seat.
I want to ask you some questions. About what?
These beetles, where did they come from?
I don't know.
What do you mean you don't know?
What, you don't remember getting them?
No. I suffer from... blackouts.
I lose time. Sometimes days.
I don't remember anything.
It happens a lot.
Has anything else happened that you can't explain?
Well, there's this, er, picture down in the shop.
I hate it.
I've tried a few times to throw it out,
but when I black out it reappears, back on the wall.
I know there's something wrong with me,
with my head, but erm,
I've been too scared to find out what it is.
You know.
You know what I do when I black out, don't you?
We're looking into the murder of four girls
whose bodies were found in the Thames.
Four... four girls?
Please.
I've no idea why this is here.
Put that down. Put it down!
I loved those girls,
and I never knew why they all disappeared.
Tell me,... what have I done?
You poisoned them.
And then you disposed of the bodies.
No. No.
Nathan... Nathan, listen, you need help.
Oh, no. These blackouts...
How can you help me?
You can't bring the girls back.
Nathan Merceron, I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder.
You can't arrest me. I'm not Nathan.
Well, who are you, then? Max.
You're lying!
Wait. Max.
Max, listen.
Max, no! Wait, wait, wait, wait!
I need to know the names of the girls.
If you help me, I can help Nathan. You just want to send him to prison.
No, no, no, no, no! No!
Nathan is very ill.
He won't go to prison. He'll get help and treatment in hospital.
You can't help him. It's too late.
No! No, no!
Tell me the girls' names!
I need to know the names of the girls.
I have to know the girls' names!
Nathan, tell me their names!
He's gone.
Well, whoever he was, we still need to identify the victims.
The answer has to be in here somewhere.
Nathan wasn't allowed to get rid of the picture.
It must have meant something.
It's an illustration of a poem by Keats.
Isabella took the head of her murdered lover,
put it in a pot of basil, and watered it with own her tears.
Jesus. Does every romantic poem end in murder and death?
He never put their heads in the river. They meant too much.
Four pots of lilac. Four victims.
Here comes the bogey man dressed in black.
Mantus is the most dangerous individual
I've ever encountered. He's untreatable.
- Trust me. - You got no wife and kids
so you think it doesn't matter what happens to you! You don't care!
But you do? I have to, he hasn't got anyone else!
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