- Your dad's out.
Busted out with Hate 'Em All this afternoon.
He's broken out to get the gold.
Get him off the street. Just get him off the street.
They've blow-piped us, Hate 'Em.
Well, well, well, look what the pussycat dragged in.
You'll get nothing from me!
Do you think your friend Albert Hill
would take the same punishment for you?
I do. Nas Stone is coming to London.
- We're happy about this why?
He wants the rest of the gold, Albert.
He says he'll take all of it.
- Vic?
- Bob?
- You don't know, do you?
- Know what?
- Yeah, Bobby Adams' gang.
I knew it. I bloody knew it!
When I bought this place off Jonesy five years back,
he said, "Tommy, I've had some dealings"
with a bit of a naughty crew."
"Nasty types," he says.
Used to come down here for all manner of mischief.
Last year, they buggered off to Spain.
Let the heat die down after something big.
Here you go.
- Oh...
Yeah. Yeah, it fits the intel.
Yeah, you did the right thing, calling this in.
Truth is, I did some homework.
It says, "If no claim is made to articles found at the property",
ownership rights refer to the landowner."
That's me, right? Yeah.
That is you indeed, sir.
Give us a hand to bring it up, will you?
- Yeah, all right.
Uhh!
Sir... I found something I think you should take a look at.
- Mornin', pal.
Bit chilly last night, eh?
The shelter's just opened on Dexter Street.
Weren't much of a queue there when I went past.
- Get a bit of breakfast...
and a shower before the rush starts.
Here...
Get yourself a bacon roll and cuppa
before you go back on the hard stuff.
- Don't you know who I am?
I'm Vic Hill!
This... is my manor.
- And this... is my rubbish.
So piss off.
- No sign of him.
Well... well, you just get back out there, Albert,
and keep looking for him.
Look, I been traipsing around the neighborhood
looking for him all night, okay?
I got my own shit to deal with. He's a big boy.
I'm not gonna follow him around with a mop anymore, all right?
No, that's not okay... Your father is out there
on the street, on his own, and he's not safe!
Okay, well, let's say I do manage to track him down.
Then what, you want me to dart him again?
Maybe this time I'll run him over with the van.
Have you considered, just once,
that Dad is not the bloke you think he is?
He's a selfish prick that doesn't give a fuck
about either one of us!
Oh... Don't worry about it.
I'm sorry. Don't worry about it.
- Oh...
Albert...
- Ohh. Scooter.
If I ever get out of here,
I'm gonna make a few changes.
I'm gonna be more dependable.
You talking to the fairies, Charlie?
- Piss off!
- Look here.
There's no need for that kind of hostility.
This is a good time of your own making.
I fail to see how being snatched,
chained up, and beaten by a delusional psychopath
is anyone's idea of a good time.
What you need to do is point me
in the direction of my heart's desire.
If your information bears fruit,
I'll release you from these shackles
and furnish on you a finder's fee of, let's say...
ten percent?
You can propel your finders fee where the sun don't shine.
Looks like I'm gonna have to give you
a professional kicking this time.
Yeah.
But first... breakfast!
Ah.
Don't get any bright ideas.
I'll be back in two shakes
of a lamb's tail.
Nas is in a taxi on the way from the airport.
He's here in London, Albert.
Good, so where's the meet?
Well, I can't take him to Saul's,
so I'm meeting him in the market.
He'll be here in 20 minutes.
- I'm on my way.
- Okay.
Come on, big guy, pick up... pick up.
Hate 'Em, where the hell have you been?
You match fit?
Vic, now, I'm a little bit confused here.
What exactly happened?
- We got darted, Hate 'Em.
Like wild animals on the savannah.
They wanted us out of the picture.
Who wanted us out of the picture?
- Albert, Lily.
- Albert and Lily?
Don't be stupid.
- Oh, well, it appears
I have indeed been stupid, Hate 'Em.
Very stupid indeed.
They got used to me not being around,
Lily all cozied up with Norman,
and Albert wanting to be top dog.
And... I reckon they have the gold, Hate 'Em.
Or at least had it.
But I can't prove it.
I don't have all the pieces of the jigsaw... yet.
So what you're saying now, Vic, is that we're actually
hunting jigsaw pieces, yeah?
- Metaphorically speaking.
- Oh.
- So... seeing as how
I can't go after my own son,
we're gonna start with the weakest link.
An old pal of Albert's.
So, you tidy yourself up.
We're gonna pay a visit to the upper crust.
- I'll make you right, Vic.
- Norman.
I just don't get it.
Chair's not broken, rope's not cut.
Someone must have untied him. Come off it, Lil.
We tied him to a chair and locked him in a garden shed.
The man had just broken out of a high-security prison.
Honestly, I don't know what we were thinking.
I know, all I'm saying is...
if he'd done it himself,
the chair would be broke and the rope would be cut.
What does it matter how he got free, Lily?
Well, he's gone now.
Got only knows where he is.
I will not have my family estranged
for another 15 years, Norman.
- So where is he?
- He's not here yet.
Strike that!
He's not too subtle, your mate.
What? Yo! Yo! That's my wallet!
Whoa. Yo! Hey! Hey!
- Welcome to London.
- I am so sorry, Nas.
Sorry? For what?
First foot on the ground and I'm into some Oliver Twist shit.
I love this town!
Lovely, shall we get going, then?
- Oh, no, business can wait.
Ain't every day I get to visit my favorite metropolis.
I gotta soak it up.
Hey, man! Yo!
Hey.
Hyuh!
- Ah... Charlie's residence.
- Are you shitting me?
- I shit you not.
Check upstairs, mate.
Sweet.
- En garde, you cad.
Fah fah fah fah fah fah fah fah fah fah fah fah fah.
What's that? Music.
Drop the iron and put your hands where I can see 'em.
Slowly does it.
You're going to be disappointed.
The family coffers were emptied long ago.
Bequeathed to various pawnbrokers
by an esteemed line of forebears.
We're not here for the silverware, mate.
Then I'm not entirely sure how I can help you.
I can assure you that no one will pay my ransom.
- Get over here.
- You talk too much.
- Stay down. Stay!
- Ah... now...
where is Charles?
I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss the whereabouts
of my employers.
I was actually hoping you'd say that.
- Now, where is he?!
Ripe!
Dried fruit!
A challenging nose.
Make yourself comfortable, Vic.
I think this is gonna take a while.
Stay still! Where is he?
- Tell me.
Where is he? Where is he?
Stop it! Where is he?
Where is he? Where is he?
- Uhh! Uhh!
- You hit like a girl, sir.
Bob, what you fail to understand is
I may well be a girl...
but I'm the meanest girl on the playground.
- Uhh!
And you, heh... you, you naughty boy.
You've been running round my playground
causing quite a mess.
- Uhh! Agh.
Where is it? Where's the gold, Bob?
Teri...
did you know...
- Did I know what, Bob?
- Did you know...
you can never lose a homing pigeon?
If your homing pigeon doesn't come back,
what you've lost...
is a pigeon.
- Hm.
If I so much as hear your name whispered
in relation to this case again,
I'll find you, and I will put an end
to the quip that is Bob Fink.
Understood. Sir.
Uhh!
- Sling him out.
- Aaaah!
- Ha ha! Yeah!
This is some authenticated Brit shit right here!
Ha ha!
Is he taking us for a ride or what?
Let him get some new duds. He'll feel a million bucks,
and we'll take him to Uncle Dean's.
I wanna know what a million bucks feels like.
You will. Be patient.
Jimmy, Nas Stone. Nas, Jimmy the Chalk.
- Who the what?
Uh, what sort of getup does sir want to be fitted?
- Help me out here, brother.
What kind of suit do you want?
Oh.
Three-button hunting jacket
in an over-check twill tweed,
bold pattern with the vest and the...
- Uh, matching plus fours, sir?
My man!
So, uh, how long is this shit
gonna take to stitch up, Jimmy?
- Um... two days, sir.
Huh. Two hours, you said?
Two hours, sir. Mm.
You're making more friends, I see, Bob.
You're a curious one, Charlie.
Born into a family of note.
With all the opportunities that blue blood
coursing through your veins offers a young man.
Yet you... you choose to knock about
with a gangster's kid.
And an orphan.
Seems to me you're punching under your weight, mate.
- You haven't got an inkling
of who I am or what I want to be.
You see, that's where you're wrong.
I see you very clearly.
'Cause I used to be walking in your shoes.
Oh, yeah... I, like you, was seduced by the Hill family.
Extending myself for crumbs of acceptance.
Wanting to be a part of the inner circle,
longing, long for a firm pat on the back.
But let me tell you from experience,
the simple, "Well done, Charlie"...
it'll never come.
You're not a Hill. You never will be.
To Albert, you're just a posh twat...
who's there to be used and tossed aside
when your novelty wears thin.
- Albert is my friend.
- No.
I am your friend.
And I need you to accept me as such.
Or I will presuppose you're my enemy.
And if you're my enemy...
well...
Don't you touch me!
What's got into you, Scooter?
Eh? What's got into you, boy?
So our guest's been flirting with you, has he?
Course... breakfast, buddy.
It slipped my mind.
Aaagh!
Dog food, Bob!
- Bloody psycho.
- Not intruding, am I?
It's your house, Norman.
It's us who's intruding.
Lily, you are always welcome in this house.
- What is it, Norman?
- Oh, Christ.
I, uh...
I did it for you, Lily.
You and Albert.
What precisely have you done, Norman?
- It was me, Lily.
I untied him, I let Vic go.
- Why would you do that?
Lily, you've got to realize I did this for you.
I couldn't just stand by him,
witness him tear his family apart, again.
I... I see how he treats you,
what he expects of you, and I'm meant to just
sit back and watch you, the most exquisite flower,
wilting with neglect, poisoned by his selfishness!
Stop, Norm. Just stop it.
The gold is more important to him than his family.
It always has been, but you must realize...
Just... just stop it! I... I would never treat you...
All right? Just stop.
Now, I'm gonna have to make this absolutely clear.
For you, me, Vic, and Albert,
there can't be any confusion.
Vic is my husband, and I love him unconditionally.
I always have, and I always will.
Irrespective of what you might see or think you see,
I know that he loves me and Albert
more than anything else in the world.
I know he doesn't always do the right thing...
and that's what you see or...
perhaps that's... perhaps that's what you want to see.
But I know Vic, Norm.
I know Vic Hill that no one else knows.
And that is the man I love.
So what now, Vic?
A kneecapping or the Spanish Donkey?
Here, I don't know who you are.
But your methods of information extraction
are nothing in comparison to when...
as a young lance corporal in the Middle East,
I spent an uncomfortable week as a guest...
I don't have time for wartime reminiscences, old man.
I'm Vic Hill. I'm sure you've heard of me.
- Who?
Vic Hill?
- Yes... Vic Hill.
- No, doesn't ring a bell.
Tell me where the boy is at, or the joke is over.
Capisce?
Mr. Hill, I was brought into this world
without a home and without kin.
After all manner of foster homes...
a stint in Borstal and a stretch with the armed services.
The Cavendish-Scotts, this, uh, unique family
became my adopted family. Vic, if you don't iron him out,
I will!
Be careful, you bloody philistines!
Ah... Aha, ha ha.
- Fink.
- Sir?
- Sit down.
What happened to you?
Jurisdictional disagreement, sir.
- Dwyer?
I'm sorry, Fink.
This is...
well, it's partly my fault.
Dwyer was complaining.
Other officers muscling in, chasing leads
above their station.
I told her to handle it.
- Sir, I...
You don't have to explain.
I respect a man with ambition.
We've all had to go a little... off-piste at times
to get a leg up in our careers.
I wouldn't trust a man who hadn't.
- How can I help, sir?
The Flying Squad...
is no cleaner now than in the bad old days.
A bunch of venal little bullies,
promoted above their station, and for what?
Because they're better with their fists than their brains.
No, no. We need an overhaul.
Root and branch.
New leadership.
These leads of yours,
I don't need details,
just...
if they're admissible.
In this case...
it's career-defining.
If I have anything that could be of use...
you'll be the first to know, sir.
There is a better version of us all out there, Fink.
We just have to want to succeed.
This is some Prince Charles shit right here!
I should run for King!
- Nas, we gotta go.
Bag this shit up, Jimmy.
Bucket list complete!
- Finally.
Now... where's my gold?
- A gypsy camp.
- A what?
- The best.
Not this time. I said the best.
I want Windrush.
- I already tell you.
Windrush is not here.
And I don't believe you.
Now, I have the folding, and I have the need.
This ain't some sink-estate leg-breaker bollocks.
This is gangland history in the making.
The culmination of over a decade
of bile and bitterness.
This is mythology.
And for that, I require a legend.
So where is he... and what's the damage?
You think you come around here...
and use my boys for this and that.
You never ask him name, you never shake him hand.
Always you... sneering.
You... flashin' your money.
But you not look men.
You look meat!
But let me tell you one thing 'bout Windrush.
Him not ask question, and him not judge nothin'.
But Windrush ain't meat.
All him ask... all him expect
from any boss wanting the kind of reputation
what you mention...
is a little respect.
Windrush is not here.
- Stop!
Not that one, please.
It's the only pressing.
It's all I've got left of my childhood.
Oh, my.
This is you, your five minutes of fame.
Your X-Factor moment as a cadet.
Alas, "please" isn't amongst the magic words I'm after.
Bastards.
I don't believe that's the magic word, either.
The problem with these old 78s
is they're made of shellac.
They shatter like glass.
I drove him back from the country estate yesterday!
He was more than a little under the influence.
Blathering on about a... A golden bathtub!
Complete gibberish!
- Golden bathtub?
No, no! And... and something about gypsies and smelting...
Gypsies? And a girl named Chloe!
- Get his car keys.
- Give us your car keys.
Give us your car keys.
Prick.
- Right...
Got his car keys, Vic. Where to now?
- The Pikeys.
Pikeys. I hate Pikeys.
- What the hell is this?
All part of the anglo-rural experience, Nas.
How are your 5p specials holding up?
I ain't into getting shit on my shit.
Shall we get to the business at hand, gentlemen?
Who're these bastards then?
This is Nas Stone, Uncle Dean.
And what is a Nas Stone then?
- I'm a Nas Stone.
What the hell are you?
Oh, I am an Uncle Dean, pal.
Jesus, look at the size of this one.
Aye, man, look at the trousers hangin' off his ass.
Hey... anything for a favor.
I'd kill you for a tenner.
Nas is our buyer, Uncle Dean.
Oh, so that's not stolen then?
- No, it ain't stolen!
Hey, get them off my ride!
Rich yank fella in my camp. Thought I'd seen it all.
So you'll be wanting your gold, yank?
Or... do you want to buy a caravan?
Do I look like I'm here to buy a caravan?
- Fresh out the oven.
- Horseshoes?
- Lucky horseshoes.
It's one way to try and cancel a curse.
- Hold up.
What curse?
- Didn't you tell him?
This is deadlier than a banshee's wail, this pile.
Killed more baddies than Clint Eastwood, so it has.
Makes Tutankhamen look like a fairy gobshite.
- You'll probably be fine.
- They're poking fun.
It's a cultural sign of affection, Nas.
So you happy with the inventory?
It's all there, as promised.
- Let's weigh the shit.
We got scales in the trunk of the limo.
A sickness of the heart that only gold can cure.
I thought England was all Corgis,
Spice Girls, tea and crumpets.
This is some off-the-tour-guide "Deliverance" shit.
We'll complete the transaction
and get you out of here as soon as possible.
- God damn it! God...
Get off my ride!
- Y'all crazy!
Off-the-charts, God damn fuckin' crazy!
- Eeeny, meanie...
miney...
mo.
- Whoa... uhh!
- Aah!
- Shit.
- What was that?
- Where's the gold?
- It's in the wheelbarrow.
- Fink.
- Oh, sh...
- Who's this son of a bitch?!
Sure looks like a bastard copper to me!
- Aaah!
- Gah!
- Ohh!
- Aaaaah!
- Aah! Oh!
Uhh!
Tall Paul! Tall Paul!
Agh!
I ain't going out like this.
Not here... now now!
You know who I am?
I designed the diamond Brooklyn B!
The triple-weave gold dog rope!
I got my shit placed at Tiffany's!
I got more followers on Insta...
than all you joke shop sons of bitches.
I am Nas Stone!
Jeweler to the stars!
And I was born...
- Shut your mother...
a motherfuckin'...
Grenade! Hey, black man!
splash!
Sure you can't kill me! I'm Un...
Ah, jeez!
Give the the Hill kid a sendoff.
- Uhh!
Didn't your mummy tell you not to play with guns?
Right. Let's go and get our gold.
No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no...
- Albert?
Albert!
What happened? What happened here?!
What do you mean, what happened here?
Look around you. Everyone's dead.
Dead!
- Where's my gold, boy?
Where's my gold?!
- I lost it.
Me.
Bob Fink's got it.
All of it.
- Okay, Charlie.
All or nothing.
Come on!
Fuck!
Uhh!
- I'm baaack, Charlie boy!
What...
Yes.
Ahh. Yeees!
Yeeees! Ah, yeees!
Ahh...
Windrush.
- Respect.
- Best man gets the spoils.
I can't pretend to be disappointed, Detective.
That would imply, after all,
an expectation of character.
- Sir.
- Windrush...
- Boss.
- So he's what?
Undercover?
Windrush is one of yours?
- Don't be silly, Bob.
- Private hire.
Been on the books for years.
Very valuable asset.
I take it you're here to arrest me.
You were supposed to have been killed
in Vic Hill's lockup 15 years ago.
Often how these big cases go, Bob.
Sometimes you just keep plotting away
and get there in the end.
- You were in on that?
- Like I said...
we all have to go a little off-piste at times
to get a leg up.
- Uhh!
Perhaps if you'd focused on
one thing or another,
you might have made something out of your life.
But all these grudges, these...
seedy little agendas.
- Huh.
Yeah.
Oh, well.