Son of Lynley: A (proposed) Masterpiece MYSTERY! Original Series
Pilot Episode: "Sins of the Father"

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Thomas Lynley or Barbara Havers, much as I might wish to, and I mean no disrespect to Elizabeth George, nor infringement of copyright, in creating and posting this project. I am neither a professional screenwriter nor a resident of the United Kingdom just yet (though I did enjoy the privilege of living there for several months) nor formally acquainted with police procedure in the United Kingdom or otherwise, so kindly overlook any shortcomings in those departments.

EXT. OXFORD. GILCHRIST'S GALLERIA – NIGHT.
NOVEMBER, PRESENT DAY.

A laughing, beautiful couple in trendy evening apparel is hurrying down the sidewalk to escape the rain. DETECTIVE CONSTABLE THOMAS CRAWFORD – dark-haired and startlingly handsome, in his mid-20s – has one arm curled around ADELE CRAWFORD, his mother – a stunning black-haired woman in her early 40s – who is holding a waxed carton of chips and eating one, now and again, between sprints and giggles.

ADELE
Did you see his face?

THOMAS
I know! You'd think gorgeous women never went out with their sons.

They duck under the awning of the narrow brick building and ADELE unlocks the glass front door.

INT. ADELE'S FLAT. BEDROOM – NIGHT.

THOMAS is sitting on the bed in an opulent gem of a bedroom, calmly inhaling chips. His formerly elegant mother emerges from the adjacent bathroom a few moments later, dressed in cozy flannel pajamas with her damp curly hair drawn back in a knot. She eyes the nearly empty chip carton, then her son, accusingly.

THOMAS
(defensively)
You had dinner already!

ADELE
(retorting, albeit with great affection)
So did you! Anyway, that was hours ago…

She plops companionably beside him and snatches up the last three chips. As she eats them, she sighs and leans against his shoulder, and her eyes wander to the door of the wardrobe opposite, against which hangs a diaphanous white evening gown. THOMAS follows her line of vision and curls his free arm around her in response.

THOMAS
(gently)
You've been ready for this for years, mum.

She gives him a sad smile.

ADELE
I know, Tommy. I just can't believe it's finally come.

She tucks her cheek against his shoulder, closing her eyes. He presses a kiss to her forehead, then studies the wall opposite for a moment with an oddly tense expression.

THOMAS
(carefully)
You wish Dad were here to see it?

She exhales in a long, uneven breath and opens her eyes, which are tearless but not without sorrow. She does not look at her son as she replies.

ADELE
Yeah. Yeah, I do.

INT. FINNEGAN'S FLAT – NIGHT.

KIP FINNEGAN, mid-40s, handsome in a rough-cut way with a dark, sullen look about him, walks through his living room, in which his three FRIENDS are in the midst of a fierce card game, Stella Artois in every free hand. His girlfriend KATHERINE BRAMWELL, a quietly pretty dark-haired woman in her early 30s, is sitting on the sofa on the fringe of said game. She looks up as he bends to collect the empty bottles from the table.

KATHERINE
Kip?

BRENNAN, one of FINNEGAN's friends, remarks:

BRENNAN
Yeah, mate, what's to do? Are you in or out this round?

FINNEGAN
(distractedly)
I'll sit this one out, thanks.

He goes into the kitchen and throws the bottles into the bin, perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary, then drags a hand through his hair as he looks down at a newspaper clipping on the counter. KATHERINE approaches silently behind him and rests a hand on his back.

KATHERINE
What is it, love?

He does not look up.

FINNEGAN
(blunt but not cruel)
Nothing. Go back to your game.

Her eyes, made keen by concern, do not miss the page on which his gaze is resting, and her tone reflects a certain degree of frustration.

KATHERINE
Why can't you just let it go?

He does look up then to level glances with her.

FINNEGAN
(evenly)
You know why, Katie.

She presses her lips together in what could either be bitten-back rage or barely contained tears.

KATHERINE
(caustically)
Just don't be all night about it, would you? Your mates are here to play cards with you, not chat me up.

She walks back to the living room. As she leaves, FINNEGAN leans back from the counter a bit and the newspaper clipping is clearly visible; it features a photograph of ADELE CRAWFORD and the headline "Local Artist Wins Early Acclaim – Tate Expected Wednesday Night."

INT. CRAWFORD'S FLAT – NIGHT.

JOHN CRAWFORD, a grizzled man in his mid-60s, is reading a newspaper in his tattered recliner, bowl of crisps in hand. The room is threadbare, unwelcoming, and hopelessly out-of-date, save for some curiously brilliant abstract paintings on one wall and a kitchen table spread with a canvas-in-progress, tubes of paint, and a palette knife. The television is set to Channel 4, though CRAWFORD, caught up in his newspaper, is not paying it the slightest heed.

THOMAS CRAWFORD, damp and slightly disheveled from the rain, unlocks the door and comes inside. CRAWFORD glances up briefly.

CRAWFORD
(gruffly and void of affection)
How's your mum?

THOMAS thinks aloud as he peels out of his wet jacket.

THOMAS
Nervous. Happy. And utterly gorgeous. Good night, Granddad.

THOMAS flashes the older man the smallest of smiles as he disappears into his bedroom. He deposits a set of keys on his nightstand before turning to close the door to begin preparing for bed. The focus of the scene (sadly) returns to CRAWFORD, who looks down again at the paper – in particular, the same article that held FINNEGAN's interest earlier – then leans back into his chair and sighs.

EXT. GILCHRIST'S GALLERIA – NIGHT.

DAVEY GILCHRIST, mid-30s, portly and plain, walks up to the glass front doors of his gallery and peers inside for a few moments – long enough to ascertain that all is well within.

GILCHRIST
(under his breath)
Bloody prankster.

He unlocks the door and is about to open it when he is seized from behind. A dark-clad FIGURE clamps one gloved hand over GILCHRIST's mouth and with the other drives a short blade into GILCHRIST's chest. The aim is poor and GILCHRIST gives a muffled cry against the grip over his mouth, but the FIGURE continues in its assault, stabbing blindly from behind at GILCHRIST'S chest till he slumps against the FIGURE.

INT. GILCHRIST'S GALLERIA – NIGHT.

The gallery is dark but for a few emergency lights, by which one can just make out the ethereal Pre-Raphaelite-style paintings covering the walls and a bit of the corresponding décor: iridescent draperies, tulle-covered pouf chairs, etc. The scene is breathtaking for its sheer beauty – and then one sees the FIGURE in dark clothing, tugging something across the floor. The FIGURE bends down to shift its burden – DAVEY GILCHRIST'S BODY – onto its front with gloved hands, then rises to its feet.

INT. ADELE'S FLAT. BEDROOM – MORNING.

ADELE, her long hair drawn back in a loose ponytail of curls, is standing before her bedroom mirror in a black tracksuit, applying the lightest touches of mascara. As she leaves her bedroom one can just glimpse a framed photograph – a little boy (later revealed to be YOUNG THOMAS CRAWFORD) standing in front of a vast manor – on her dresser. She retrieves her coat from the back of a chaise longue, unlocks the flat door, goes out onto the landing, closes and locks the door behind her, and goes downstairs, a little excitedly, to GILCHRIST'S GALLERIA.

INT. GILCHRIST'S GALLERIA – MORNING.

ADELE pauses a moment at the gallery's edge, smiling as she takes in the exquisite room in a sweeping glance. She begins walking toward the glass front doors when she stops short at the sight a pair of legs (belonging to a BODY) sprawled on the floor behind one of the pouf chairs; she approaches cautiously and turns over the BODY, revealing it to be that of DAVEY GILCHRIST. His face is colorless and his shirt is saturated with blood which has emanated from several wounds on his chest. The wooden handle of the murder weapon is protruding from his chest in the approximate region of his heart.

ADELE
Oh my God…Davey?

(Cue theme song: "The Walk" by Imogen Heap)

It's not meant to be like this / Not what I planned at all,
I don't want to feel like this / Yeah,
No it's not meant to be like this / Not what I planned at all,
I don't want to feel like this / So that makes it all your fault.