Despite institutionalised stupidity and the most slapdash recruitment and training in this or any other hemisphere the PSNI quickly establish that the still smoking husk in front of them is Paul Spector’s car.
“Tell you what, mate” says one “That’s a write-off now, so it is.”
Stella makes a mental note to have the plod in question dismissed by the end of the day but for now it’s time for a bit of sightseeing. With a snip of the police issue bolt cutters Stella finally gets to see Paul’s shitbox lair. No sign of Rose but the chair she was tied to for her video message sits there as bold and cute as you like. Stella plonks herself down in it, grabs some selfies for Instagram then GTFO there.
There’s a hive of activity over at the Spector residence with plod and forensics zipping in and out with the carefree abandon of those who just love to shut the stable door after the horse has bolted. They are watched by that useless hack Ned Callan and Big Wee Jimmy Tyler who gets word of Liz’s whereabouts in Bangor from one of his many layabout pals dotted across Ulster. Jimmy takes Ned’s lunch money, his phone and his car which as a journalist makes him about as much use as a Geldof as a parent.
In no time at all Jimmy arrives at the women’s shelter and starts shouting the odds like he’s John McCririck.
“Battered women?” he bellows “I’ll batter ye, alright!” And, true to his word, he lays out three score or so vulnerable women with backhanders, forearm slams, left leads and fanny punches. His vicious display enrages Liz so much she lies and tells her she fucked Spector right in Dead Danny’s bed and that, furthermore, his performance was significantly better than Jimmy’s quite frankly dated loyalist paramilitary sexual technique. It takes the wind right out of Jimmy’s sails and after a seriously lame murder-suicide threat he GTFO like a little bitch. Effing Jimmy.
Back at the station Stella watches webcam footage of Paul getting his cock out for Katie and she fucking loves it. She sends in DS Tom Anderson to flirt with the little minx and her hot talk of their incredible sex gets him hard as a rock. Trouble for Katie is that the Bleecker Street hotel proprietor has been spying on his guests and plod have the footage. She’s there alright, tied up in the hotel room but no sexual congress worthy of the name takes place.
A delighted Tom presents her with the evidence.
“Ha!” he says “VIRGIN!”
“Oh FFS…” says Stella watching in. This is going to be a long day.
Her next move is to dress McAnally up like Sex Worker Barbie to interview Paul.
“Sending someone in who looks vaguely like Annie Brawley is pretty feeble, Stella.” he says “You can do better than that surely.”
Dude, have you even watched the show? This is Stella’s A-game.
Once that doesn’t work she drags in his shitty daughturd Olivia to talk about the naked lady in the attic daddy liked so much. But she turns out to be a proper handful.
“I’ll never talk, copper!” she screams “Screw you! Get me my fucking brief. I’ll be out of here in 24 hours. Eat my box.”
Blimey. It’s no good. Paul’s clamming up unless he can talk to Stella. Yet still Cantona tries to dissuade her.
“I’ve been face-to-face with pure evil, Stella” he says “Alex Ferguson”.
She tells him to button it and brings up his recent hotel room gropearama.
“I just wanted to –”
“Fuck me? Nail me? Bang me? Screw me?”
“Don’t mind if I do!” he responds “Oh, you weren’t offering. Of course. Quite right.”
He is forced to watch on as the Catherine and Heathcliff of this epic finally do what everyone has been thinking they should do for the past year and get a room. Specifically, Police Interview Room #3. From a strict procedural point of view it’s a piece of piss for Stella as she can’t stop the cunt confessing all over the place. After that it’s just punch and counterpunch. She asks about his mammy’s hair, he wonders if she wanted her daddy to put his cock in her. She wonders about his relationshit with his daughturd, he calls her a “barren spinster” who could never understand being a parent.
There’s a lot of philosowanking from Paul on his “utterly compelling, compulsive” altered states of murder and the “elevated aestheticism” of making up the corpses. He tells her how free he is and she responds that he is free and all but the legal and factual sense.
“Fuck you” he says which is not his best comeback. He is charged with all the murders and one lesser count of grievous bodily handsomeness.
We next see Stella at home with a glass of wine in a silk dressing gown after boning Tom Anderson. Tom is grateful for the wonderful opportunity but understands that it is only happening because he reminds her of Paul. Au contraire, she lies. She despises Paul Spector with every fibre of her being.
And yet when he offers her an indecent proposal re: Rose Stagg’s location she jumps at the chance. He just wants a wee chat with Olivia because, after all, nobody gives a fuck about that Chris from Homeland son. Once that’s done it’s off to the woods to see how much is left of Rose. Uncertainty keeps everyone on their toes.
Unbeknownst to them, they will be joined by Ned Callan who gets a tip off from inside the station about the daytrip. Of course to do that he needs to get his car back off Jimmy Tyler who is more than happy to give him a lift. See, he’s not all bad Wee Jimmy, so he’s not.
If there’s one thing we know about a trip to the woods it’s that you’re sure of a big surprise and Stella gets one when they locate Rose’s car with Rose in the boot, still alive if barely. Good work, sister. But the really big surprise comes just as Stella returns and Jimmy runs out from nowhere plugging both Paul and Tom before being plugged himself. Stella screams, stomps right over Tom’s prone bleeding carcass to get to Paul.
“Don’t leave me, daddy!” she screams “Come back!”
“Ma’am, we’ve got an officer down” says a paramedic.
“Fuck you! We’re losing him!” says Stella as she tries desperately to staunch the blood flow from his wound and gives him not strictly mandated tongue kiss mouth-to-mouth CPR. She looks down and he gazes up in mutual adoration. Soulmates forever, they look like Christ and Mary in Michelangelo’s Pieta.
And we’re OUT. It finished as it began: fucking weird. We don’t discover if Paul is indeed free at last, free at last but if he is it would be quite galling that it was for one of the few sins he didn’t commit. Stella Gibson arrived in Northern Ireland with a solemn promise that she would halt the slaughter of the sexually attractive and she failed miserably, saving only Rose Stagg who with the best will in the world is a 5/10. Her relentless sexual harassment of underlings shamed a police force even as shameless as the PSNI. She may very well be the worst female role model television has ever produced.
It’ll be great to have her back.
The verdict: Poor little Jimmy wouldn’t let go.
Marks out of 10: 7.5