Maxwell | Mirror Man | 2
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Alice, how you doing? Yeah, I'm good, thanks. How are you? Yeah, really good. This is a bit awkward. Could I borrow some money off you, please? Yeah, of course you can. How much? £1,000. Ah, um, no. Okay, how about £100,000? Well, obviously not. I just said no to £1,000. Okay, I hear you. A million? Are you okay? It's March 1991, New York City. No one can fail to spot huge yachts sailing slowly up Manhattan's East River.

At four storeys high, it dwarfs most of its neighbours as it docks at the Water Club at East 30 Street. In his thick camel hair coat and bright red bow tie, Robert Maxwell is equally eye-catching as he waves to bemused onlookers inside the club. He's confident this publicity stunt has done its job, told America he's arrived. Stepping off the Lady Galane, named in honour of his favourite daughter, Maxwell grins, raises a bushy eyebrow and doffs his baseball cap in greeting.

The onlookers smile back at him quizzically. Maxwell understands why. He's barely known in New York, and that's worked in his favor. For once, his shady reputation doesn't precede him. His poor background and European roots are of no significance. He can't believe he didn't do this sooner. An hour later, Maxwell is at the glass-fronted HQ of publisher Macmillan on Fifth Avenue. He's owned the company for just over two years. His only foray into US publishing until now.

Maxwell enthusiastically shakes hands with Jim Hogue, the publisher of the New York Daily News. I'll be straight with you, Mr. Maxwell. Ours is not an easy paper.

Jim launches into a searingly honest account of why the Daily News is up for sale, including trouble they've had with the unions, widespread fraud, antiquated equipment and falling sales. The truth is, Maxwell doesn't care. He's determined to buy the paper regardless. Jim, you must know my personal wealth is estimated at between a billion and two billion dollars. I know what I'm doing. Let's talk terms. The humble Bobby Maxwell there.

At 9am the next morning, a convoy of stretch limousines draws up outside the iconic Daily News building on East 42nd Street. The humble Bobby Maxwell there. Hundreds of New Yorkers and several TV crews are gathered. Stepping out of his limo, Maxwell beams with pride. Not only is he the new owner of the oldest and most iconic tabloid in America, he's finally realised his ultimate ambition.

To cause the worst traffic jam in central New York ever? Almost. To be a global player. That makes more sense. In the traffic jam market. Maxwell walks over to one of the news crews and snatches a mic from the reporter's hand.

Today is a great day. I love New York. I am a New Yorker. Bob the Max will do his duty. I'm sure we've talked about it before. I think we align. You can't get your own nickname off the ground. Says Alice the Great. People are saying it. Alice the Great at Hotmail.com. And you named your boat it. Will you not give away my email address, please? He drinks in the adoration from the crowd. Some people are dancing in the street. One woman brings her baby over to him.

I've come all the way from Crown Heights, Mr. Maxwell. I just had to see the man who saved the news. Maxwell doffs his cap to her. What year is it? Then kisses the tot's forehead. The mother looks ecstatic. Maxwell feels like a president or a god. Watching the news crews jostle and the cameras snap away, Maxwell pushes aside the niggling doubts in his mind that the mafia distribution boys will only play nice for so long.

that he's given the unions too many concessions, that he's gambled every last penny to get here. Because despite what he told Jim Hogue, he doesn't have even close to $2 billion. In fact, his debts are so out of control, he owes more money than he can ever repay. He may be the king of New York right now, but it might only be a matter of time before his entire empire comes crashing down.

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So Alice, last time we met Robert Maxwell. What do you make of him? Yeah, what a guy. Okay, ruthless, powerful.

power mad, in fact, obsessive and a particularly bad dinner time conversationalist, if I remember correctly. What about you? Yes, all those things as well. But I do find myself strangely rooting for him because he is an outsider and he is the victim of racist abuse, even in Parliament. OK, so you're kind of sympathetic. Yeah, and I like the fact he's kind of taken on the establishment a little bit. Of course, what we also found out was that he has this incredible rivalry that really will define him.

A rivalry with Rupert Murdoch. Yeah, define him and maybe destroy him. Very possibly. This is episode two, Mirror Man. It's the 10th of July, 1984. 12.10am, Piccadilly, London. Stepping out of the Ritz Hotel, Robert Maxwell gets into the back of his Rolls Royce. He smiles at his driver. Where to, Mr Maxwell? Where the fuck do you think? To the mirror! He's in a good mood. Just been to the Ritz, mate. Chill out, huh?

As the car speeds towards Hoban Circus, Maxwell picks up his state-of-the-art car phone. Amusing. It's just amusing. What, the old stuff was state-of-the-art one time? I'm just picturing it. It's huge, it's clearly plugged in and probably comes with its own backpack. He's just achieved his dream of buying Mirror Group newspapers, making him the owner of three national tabloids, The Daily Mirror, Sunday Mirror and Sunday People. He's damned if he's going to wait till morning to get started.

He calls the company's director, Bob Edwards. Yes? Bob, I want you to contact every member of the board and tell them to go to HQ for a meeting. Now! By 2.45am, the board members are sitting around a large conference table.

Maxwell stands at the end. He puffs his chest out, proud. Be in no doubt. Things are going to change now I'm in charge. We are going to get circulation up. We are going to be bigger and better than ever. We're going to blow Murdoch's titles out of the water.

Everyone exchanges cautious looks. Maxwell glares at Edwards. What's the problem? The editorial team aren't happy. The old guard in particular. Let me worry about that. Dismissing any further concerns, Maxwell holds court, regaling his new executives with tales of his past triumphs. By the time they file out at dawn, he's confident he's made his presence felt. Well, yeah, he got them all out of bed in the middle of the night.

And then wouldn't let them speak. And then send them back to their desks. Like a dawn raid. Alone now, Maxwell picks up a recent issue of The Mirror and reads a passionate column by chief leader writer Joe Haines. It argues against Maxwell taking over. While the paper's current editor, Mike Malloy, has been in situ for nine years, Maxwell knows it's Haines who holds the greatest sway with the editorial team. A committed socialist and brilliant writer, he's regarded as the beating heart of the paper.

If Maxwell wins over Haynes, he's laughing. A few hours later, Maxwell sits at the head of a smaller table at Claridge's. He's summoned the writers here for lunch. While they clearly regard him with suspicion, few are turning down the bucks-fizz he's plying them with. But when the waitress tries to fill up Haynes' glass, he puts his hand over it. "'No thanks. Leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.' Maxwell glares at him. Physically, he dwarfs this small, bald man with steel-framed glasses."

But Maxwell knows that to mirror readers and staff, Haynes is a giant. All eyes are upon the pair as they square up. Mr. Haynes, do you have a problem with me taking over? Haynes takes a moment, clearly considering his response carefully. Frankly, yes. I think you are a monstrous crook. Inside, Maxwell bristles. He can almost feel the rest of the writers taking a sharp intake of breath.

I see. But I suspect you already knew that, so if there's going to be a public execution, let's get it over with. Maxwell pauses, then sticks to his plan. Tell me, how can I get you to stay? Haynes looks thrown, but boldly lays out a list of terms. The paper must remain committed to the Labour Party.

Maxwell must never tell him what to write or interfere with anything he has written. Maxwell listens patiently. The rest of the team waits nervously, clearly expecting one of his famous explosions. I agree to all your terms. Now, can we eat? I mean, I'm no top negotiator, but that seems like there could have been another stage there. Yeah, can I interfere with some of what you write? What if I really don't like it? Everyone, including Haynes, looks stunned.

But Maxwell knows it's had the desired effect. The tension is gone and the rest of the meal is spent with laughs and drinks flowing freely. By the time the group leaves, Maxwell is in high spirits. Then he hears the manager of the restaurant calling after him. Mr. Maxwell, come back. You haven't paid your bill. Send it to my office. You always say that and you never pay. It's a thing we do. He says that. I come here all the time. No, but seriously, you have to pay the bill.

Maxwell's new staff react with a mixture of awkward looks and chuckles. He's irritated as he goes back inside to settle up. But he's made progress today, and he can't let the mask slip. He must do all he can to show his new employees that Robert Maxwell is a man they can trust. The paper's success depends on it, and the paper's success will help him in his campaign to take down Rupert Murdoch. It's a month later, August 1984, Essex.

Mike Malloy smiles as he watches his new proprietor vigorously shaking hands with pensioner Maudie Barrett, the Mirror's first bingo winner. Mike's standing awkwardly next to Maxwell in the tiny council flat, while Maxwell booms at his personal photographer to get snapping. His boss sure knows how to make his presence felt. The Mirror has just launched their version of the game, Who Dares Wins, to rival the Suns.

Some of the editorial team are already tiring of Maxwell's obsession with Murdoch's titles. But Molloy reckons it can only be good for the paper. He's impressed by Maxwell's energy. He's already rebranded Mirror Group newspapers as MGN. Molloy can't help but feel awed at Maxwell's shameless stealing of the famous Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer roaring lion as its logo.

The man certainly means business. Or he's clearly untrustworthy and a crook. Yeah, he's just nicking other people's ideas. He's a thief. Where does this guy keep getting these great ideas from? Oh yeah, other people. He made that logo in five minutes. Malloy is even taking Maxwell's editorial interference in his stride. He finds him entertaining. Life is never dull when Maxwell is around.

As if to prove the point, Maxwell sits on Maudie's bed, his enormous frame causing the pensioner's dog Thumper to fly into the air. Malloy stifles a giggle and whispers to the photographer, Tell me you got a photo of that?

Maxwell is gabbering on at Maudie and barely notices. I am so glad you won my million pounds. Do you realise this is a tax-free sum and if you let me invest it for you, it will bring you an income of a thousand pounds a week. I hadn't really thought about what to do with it yet. Malloy looks on as Maudie fidgets nervously on the bed. He's suddenly struck by how alone she is in the flat. Not to mention the contrast between Maxwell's towering form and the tiny pensioner. A shiver runs down his spine.

Maxwell isn't letting the matter drop. "I'm currently overhauling MGN's own pension scheme to make it more lucrative, and I..." Malloy interrupts. "Maudie, what would you like to spend your winnings on? Perhaps we can run a story?"

Maxwell swivels in his seat and stares directly at Malloy. He looks furious. I know what I'm talking about, Malloy. Do you want this woman to fritter her money away? There's a reason you work for me rather than the other way round. There's something particularly sinister about this. It's not a massive business deal. It's an old woman's bingo winnings. Yeah, and just a surreal moment where this national figure is sat on your bed and is offering effectively to take back the million pounds you've just won. It

If I was Maudie, I'd go, million pounds cash now. It's going under the mattress. Under you, so you will actually need to stand up. That night, still unsettled, Malloy calls a psychiatrist friend, Tom Pitakins. Everyone knows Robert Maxwell's a character, but what I saw today, I don't know, Tom. Is he right in the head?

Cool sounding crew. Oh, like slaves. Tom pauses for a second.

He's not eccentric, he's dangerous. The man's clinically insane. He'll end up bringing his whole empire down. Replacing the receiver, Malloy ponders Tom's words. Then he tells himself he's overthinking this. Life under Maxwell may seem crazy, but he's simply got an ego to match his gargantuan appetite. What's the worst that can happen? Oh, don't ask that, Matt. Why are you saying that? We really should never ask that question on this show. Let's make that a promise, which we'll forget. Which we will break it.

It's two years later, August 1986, High Holborn.

At Mirror Group HQ, Kevin Maxwell enters his father's office and waits. The 26-year-old jealously takes in the large frame photo on the desk, Maxwell smiling proudly with Kevin's little sister, Ghislaine. Have favourites, but be a bit subtle about it. None of the other children has earned a place, including Kevin or his brother Ian, who work most closely with Maxwell these days. Ian may be older, but Kevin is aware that he's his dad's first choice for successor.

He's watched Maxwell studiously since he took over at the Mirror, and he's sick of waiting. Kevin knows he's got the right stuff for a role befitting a company CEO in waiting. The only person he has to convince is his dad. Look, I'll put a pound in the jar every time I mention Succession, but this is like Succession. And that jar money is going to buy our first yacht. Yes! When Maxwell enters, Kevin instinctively adjusts his posture.

He stands tall with an air of confidence, as he was always taught to as a small boy. What do you want? Good start. I have some ideas for you about streamlining the papers. We've already cut costs laying off staff. I think we should start looking at expenses. The system is widely abused here. I already have it in hand. Is that the best you've got? Kevin starts to shake under Maxwell's intimidating glare. I've seen the projections from doing it your way. Do it my way and we can double the figures. Maxwell rests his gaze on him now.

and Kevin can tell he's considering it. Suddenly, he throws a torrent of questions Kevin's way. Everything from the current annual expenses of senior executives to projected revenue for the next five years. In his head, Kevin is transported back to the dinner table where he sat as a scared child, unable to get his words out fast enough. But he reminds himself he's not a little boy anymore. He's a grown man, and he's done his homework.

Before he knows it, Kevin's reeling off every answer. When he's done, Maxwell seems impressed. They're interrupted by a knock on the door. "Peter, come in, come in. I'd like you to meet my son Kevin. Kevin, this is Peter Jay. Have you heard of him?" Kevin searches his mind. The name is familiar but he can't place it. Maxwell fills him in. Peter is a former British ambassador to the United States.

He also works for Rupert Murdoch for a while. "Preeto was once referred to as the cleverest man in Britain. I'm very pleased to say he's agreed to become my Chief of Staff." The news hits Kevin like a punch to the gut. It's exactly the kind of role he was after.

and his dad has sidelined him in favour of a stranger. The message is clear. Maxwell still doesn't see him as worthy. Kevin has proved very useful around the place. Kevin feels bolstered. Has he called it wrong? He makes great coffee. Be a good boy. Go get us some. Gutted. Oh, that's so embarrassing. Maxwell turns his back and gestures to J to sit. Starts chatting away as if Kevin's already gone.

Kevin's cheeks burn as he dutifully leaves, feeling humiliated. But watching Maxwell and Jay chat through the window of Maxwell's office, Kevin vows not to give up. He'll win his father's respect yet by making him the best cappuccino he's ever had. With a little biscuit on the side. For the next 20 years, I will keep him caffeinated and then it shall be my time. It's September 1986, Buckinghamshire.

In the grounds of the Prime Minister's country residence, Chequers, a helicopter touches down. Now, I know this is going to sound mad, but I have been to Chequers, so I can give you first-hand. Maybe. I was very drunk, but it's a nice place. What? Why were you there? I used to work for the Labour Party, and we had a leaving due when Tony Blair...

was leaving. For good? Yes. So we had a leaving party for Tony Blair and it was just free drink. You were smashed? In my defence, it was a really hot day. Sure. And the beer was free. But it's a lovely place. Do you remember any of it? I remember getting told off for having a cigarette by Cherie Blair. Sure. And I remember just seeing like snipers and stuff in the bushes. Is that real? Oh, yeah. Why? What had you done? Oh, sorry. As protection.

And I prodded Tony Blair on the chest and told him he was a legend. Other people would have gone for a different word. Bold. Yeah, and in front of snipers. That was pretty brave of me, I think. Robert Maxwell steps out. An official leads him into the drawing room of the main house, where his hostess awaits. Prime Minister! Mr Maxwell, how nice to see you again. Margaret Thatcher gestures to a nearby table, upon which a lavish afternoon tea is laid out.

Shall we? They sit down, and Thatcher pours two cups of tea. Their politics may differ, but Maxwell has huge admiration for her. She rose from humble beginnings to achieve great things, just as he has. And to his great pride, it's clear to Maxwell the respect is mutual. He's been asked here today to give advice regarding the Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev.

With his old links to the Soviet Union, Maxwell has forged a personal relationship with Gorbachev, as well as several other world leaders. In fact, he's become something of a diplomat, a role he revels in. Diplomat is not a word I would use for him so far. Imagine sending him on top secret state business. Red squirrel to blue badger. Get me a bloody cappuccino. He and Thatcher spend the next hour chatting like old friends.

Thank you for this afternoon, Mr Maxwell. You are a great asset to our country. I imagine it won't be long until that's officially recognised. Maxwell swells with pride as they shake hands. He's more convinced than ever he's a shoo-in for an OBE at the very least. Maxwell's still beaming when his chopper lands on the MGM roof. This is the life, the status he always wanted.

Of course. He's just a good guy. The problem is, if you're walking down the street listening to this, you know when you sometimes get a little droplet of rain on your head? You're always going to wonder now. Is that a little bit of Maxwell? Don't call it a task. LAUGHTER

Yeah, it's like getting a badge in the Scouts or Girl Guides. There isn't a urination badge, I can assure you. He heads to his flat in Maxwell House, the building next door to MGM that he bought last year. Its penthouse has been decorated to his specifications. Let me guess, subtle, understated, classy.

Sure. Gotcha. My bad. Of course. Yeah.

The chief of staff nervously brandishes a copy of Private Eye. Maxwell glows at the sight of it. The satirical mag mocks him with increasing regularity, nicknaming him "The Bouncing Check" in reference to what it insists are his dubious financials. "There's something I think you'll want to see, Mr. Maxwell."

Jay turns to the offending page and hands the magazine over, clearly nervous. Maxwell rests his eyes on a cartoon that claims he's given money to Labour leader Neil Kinnock in return for a peerage. Overcome with rage, Maxwell rips up the magazine then kicks his glass coffee table so hard it shatters, making Jay and the valet jump back in shock. But Maxwell barely notices. He feels his achievements today have been totally obliterated. He's fed up of these public humiliations.

Those piss ants will be sorry they ever messed with me. He's taking this to court and he's not just going to win. He's going to show everyone that you crossed Robert Maxwell at your peril. This man's rage is going to end in tears.

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It's November 1986, Chancery Lane. At the High Court, Ian Hislop feels confident as he enters the witness box. The Private Eye editor is here to defend his magazine's latest jibe about Robert Maxwell, who is suing for libel. But Hislop's not worried. It's an open secret Maxwell has been lobbying the Labour leader Neil Kinnock for a peerage. It's not like he's a subtle operator.

Hislop and his colleagues have been spoiled by the number of comedy opportunities he's afforded them since taking over the Daily Mirror, or as they now call it, the Daily Maxwell. Really good. Very smart. Ian momentarily makes eye contact with the target of his ridicule. He can't help but shudder. With his dark, bushy eyebrows and jet black hair, Maxwell looks like a villain from a vampire movie, and he's staring Hislop down. He might have only been the editor of Private Eye for a few months, but he won't allow himself to cower.

He stands and begins to make his case to the court. We run humorous cartoons about many public figures, and most of them get the joke. We're a satirical magazine, and people like Maxwell will always be a target. He's not personal. Hislop keeps an eye on the jury. Several of them smile or nod sagely as he delivers his testimony. Leaving the witness box, he's pretty sure they're on his side. It's a satirical cartoon, for God's sake.

Maxwell is sure to come across as a humourless control freak rather than a wronged victim. When Maxwell takes the stand, things certainly begin well. Mr Maxwell, isn't Mr Hislop right? Aren't cartoons like the one Private Eye ran of you and Mr Kinnock no more than a bit of harmless joshing? But Hislop is unprepared for what happens next. He watches as Maxwell seems to shrink in front of him. When Maxwell answers, it isn't with his usual booming voice.

He talks in little more than a whisper and struggles to maintain his composure. I'm sorry, this is very difficult for me. From his pocket, Maxwell produces an old issue of Private Eye. If you'll indulge me, Your Honour, I'd like to read you something that will give you a better idea of why I am so anxious. To Hislop's amazement, the judge allows Maxwell's request. Now Maxwell holds up a cartoon that jokes about Prince Philip looking like a Nazi.

Hislop's QC immediately springs to his feet. Objection! Your Honour, that cartoon isn't even about Mr Maxwell. It has no relevance to this case. Wiping away a tear. A tear? Maxwell looks pleadingly at the judge. Please. My family was destroyed in the Holocaust. I wouldn't show this if I didn't think it was pertinent. If this isn't genuine, if that's not genuine emotion, it's pretty deplorable to invoke that. I'll allow it. Take your time, Mr Maxwell.

To Hislop's horror, Maxwell puts on a performance worthy of an Oscar. He talks of how his family suffered under the Nazis during the war and how this sort of anti-Semitic abuse is typical of Private Eye. Hislop's colleague is so incredulous he starts to laugh and Hislop finds himself joining in. A couple of the jurors notice and look appalled. Hislop cringes.

Despite the absurdity of Maxwell's claim, he realises he's being outplayed. To the jury, he must look like a bully mocking a grieving man. He is barely surprised when the jury finds in Maxwell's favour, but horrified when private eye is ordered to pay him £55,000 in damages, plus costs of £250,000. Whoa! They're only a small operation, and this will hurt. Might even bankrupt them. They'll have to double their cover price if they're to recover.

He can barely contain his fury when a grinning Maxwell puts his hand on his shoulder and winks. Who needs drama school? No way. Is that real? Hislop doesn't think his day can get any worse, but when he arrives back in the office, there's another blow.

WH Smith is refusing to stock us off the back of the verdict. Apparently Maxwell called their CEO in applied pressure. They're so scared of him, they agreed. Only now does Hislop realise Maxwell isn't just a self-important buffoon. He's a demented megalomaniac who won't be happy until he's completely crushed anyone who dares to slight him in any way. And what's more, he has the money and power to do it. So scary. Yeah, so watch out, Alice Levine. Oh, I'm sure I'm on the list.

It's Saturday the 28th of June 1987, Los Angeles. Rupert Murdoch sighs as a familiar voice booms down the telephone line.

Hello, Mr Murdoch. Robert Maxwell here. How are you, Bob? Family keeping, Will? They're just two nice, power-hungry egotists shooting the breeze. Murdoch always exchanges niceties with Maxwell. He prides himself with the level of professionalism he feels his greatest rival has always lacked. But Murdoch has to admit, Maxwell's given him a run for his money these last few years. Since buying the Mirror, he has done everything in his power to overtake the sun and the news of the world's circulation.

coming pretty close at times. Yes, because he's obsessed with you. Maxwell's also managed to introduce colour printing, while Murdoch's papers are still smudgy black and white. OK, so he's got an inkjet. I mean, you can sort that out. It stings, but not enough to cause Murdoch undue concern. Quickly tiring of Maxwell's small talk, he moves things along. So, what can I do for you, Bob? I just thought you'd like to know I've bought today newspaper...

Murdoch's throat tightens. Today is a relatively new UK paper, produced in colour. It hasn't done brilliantly, but has potential. It's an astute move. And of course, once everything's signed, I'll be making a big announcement. Perhaps a whole TV campaign. I thought it only right to give you the heads up. The words echo in Murdoch's head. Once everything's signed.

He smiles as he realises Maxwell is so desperate to show off to him, he's jumped the gun. That's rookie! Today is still up for grabs. Re-energised, Murdoch forces himself to sound magnanimous. Thanks for the courtesy call, Bob. Congratulations. Hanging up on Maxwell, Murdoch books the first flight to London. Then he calls the head of his legal team at News International.

Today's up for sale. We need to put in a bid. Murdoch remembers why he's always seen Maxwell as more of a joke than a threat. Because the man can't stop his ego getting in the way of business. Exactly. Murdoch knows that if he plays the next 24 hours right, he can outmanoeuvre his old rival again. This is going to be explosive. It's Sunday the 29th of June, 1987. High Hoban, 4am.

In his penthouse flat, Maxwell is abruptly woken by the loud ring of the phone. Knocking over the empty bottle of champagne on the nightstand, he picks up the receiver and growls. Maxwell! Sorry to wake you, Mr Maxwell. There's a problem with the today deal. Rupert Murdoch's put in an offer. Maxwell snaps to attention. Any trace of sleepiness eradicated by the mention of that name. No! I'll get you, Gadget! No!

An hour later, the penthouse is filling up with executives Maxwell has hauled from their beds. How could this happen? I thought the deal was done! It was. We're due to sign at 10.30am tomorrow morning. There were no rival bids, but somehow Murdoch found out. Maxwell refuses to acknowledge the call he made. How much has he offered them? We don't know.

Maxwell slams his hand on the table, furious. ''I pay you to know!'' For the owners to consider it, it would have to beat our own bid. It must be tight, though. Murdoch won't go over the odds. ''Are there any shareholders we can sway?''

An hour later, Maxwell is on the phone with Geoffrey Archer. No way, another stand-up guy? He would be a brilliant British Scandal series. Let's do it. Shall we? I'm adding it to the list. Geoffrey Archer, who was given a 1% share of Today in return for serialisation rights to his latest books. It could be enough to tip the balance in the event of a tie.

Maxwell has no choice but to comply.

The minutes feel like hours as he waits. Then, Archer is back on the line. Hi, Bob. That was actually a banker friend I was talking to. He advised me that while £10,000 is very generous, the share must be worth far more to you if you're so desperate to acquire it on a Sunday morning. Good point. Maxwell knows when he's being played. He doesn't have time for games. Let's cut the bullshit, Geoffrey. How much do you want? £10,000.

£500,000. Whoa! Impossible! £100,000. Goodbye, Bob. £250,000. You've got a deal. For 1%. Maxwell is angry but relieved. Then he calls today's owner with his new leverage. Sorry, Mr Maxwell, that won't change anything. Murdoch has offered £38 million up front. Maxwell realises his negotiating has been in vain. He has no chance of matching it at such short notice.

The next call he makes is to Murdoch. You Australian bastard! Listen, Bob, it's the first rule of business. Don't tip off your rival before the deal is closed. Face it, we're just in different leagues. It's hard not to think that at this point. Maxwell slams down the phone. He decides then and there he will join Murdoch's league if it kills him.

It is unbelievable how much of his energy this takes. This kind of rivalry must eat you up inside. Murdoch Maxwell is very much the Levine Ford of the 80s. I wondered why the emotion felt so familiar. It's September 1988. High Hoban. In his MGN office, Maxwell bangs his fist on the conference table.

Oh, Kevin's in there. I'm telling you, it's succession. Put a pound in the jar. I'm going to be bankrupt.

As far as Maxwell is concerned, his son's new positions are mere window dressing. Oh, good. He needs senior staff who obey him without question. Ever since Murdoch nabbed today from under him, he's been increasingly paranoid. He's convinced there are spies within Mirror Group reporting back to the enemy. He's even had the officers fitted with surveillance equipment and phone books. It just sounds like a great working environment. Thursday night drinks? Oh, you'll love it here.

Kevin's new role is merely to be a loyal monkey to Maxwell's organ grinder, so he's unimpressed when his son dares to challenge him.

The amount you're talking about buying Macmillan for is way more than it's worth. We'll never get the banks to loan what we need. We'll see about that. Maxwell isn't stupid. He knows $2.6 billion is an astronomical amount of money. On that we can agree. But he doesn't care. On that we probably disagree. The American publishing company is huge, and purchasing it will tip Maxwell into the Big Ten League, an unofficial club of the world's top media moguls.

If he joins, he'll be swimming in the same sea as sharks like Rupert Murdoch. Small life tip, don't swim in a sea that has sharks in it. I bet you, do you swim in the sea? I love going in the sea. Do you? I love, you know what, if I get near water, I have to touch it, whether it's a river or a stream. Or rancid sewage. The trouble is, he doesn't have the funds. But Maxwell won't let that stop him.

When the room empties, Maxwell buzzes his PA. Get the banks on the phone. We'll start with Goldman Sachs. Over the course of the day, Maxwell speaks to every financial institution he's ever dealt with. He arranges loans with 44 different banks and spending syndicates. Maxwell doesn't even have to prove he's good for the money.

His reputation as a brilliant business mind precedes him, and he ruthlessly exploits it. This is no risky investment. Macmillan is a big name in publishing with a fine reputation like myself. You know I'm good for the money. You've seen the recent Sunday Times rich list, right? Yes, I did see that, Mr Maxwell. You can count on us as always. How much do you need? That evening, Maxwell bursts into Kevin's office overjoyed.

As usual, you allowed yourself to get bogged down in detail, whereas I always see the bigger picture. The deal is done. I'm taking you and Ian to Claridge's to celebrate. Walter's in town. He's going to join us. Who's Walter? Walter Mondale, the US Vice President. Oh, yes, that Walter, sure.

But when he returns to his penthouse flat that night and goes through the accounts, he has to accept his son was right. The figures simply won't add up. Maxwell's companies are crippled with debt and he's overstretched himself. His loans total over £300 million and if there's the slightest dip in his stock, the banks will demand more security.

Rising interest rates and a looming recession are set to make the situation worse. This is why on the show, when we do financial scandals, I get so stressed. £300 million of debt. If you don't want to feature on a future series, borrow it a bit, pay it back quickly.

Maxwell's eye is drawn to a glossy brochure. He had it made to promote the relaunched MGN pension scheme back when he took over. The relaunch was a huge success, and the fund's assets now amount to the same figure as Maxwell's loans. Oh, no.

No, it's not a good idea. Just ignore it. Then everything would collapse and it would be terrible. This is bad, bad, bad. Pophos.

puffing on a cigar as he waits. He convinces himself he's just borrowing the money. He'll return it once his financial situation stabilises. No one need ever know. And that's what happened at the end. Thank you so much for joining us yet again on British Scandal.

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Kevin stares into his omelette Arnold Bennett as his dad slams a copy of the Financial Times on the table, cursing loudly. Stop looking at your omelette, Kevin. Get your elbows off the table. Kevin is mortified by Maxwell's display, which couldn't be more out of place in this grand dining room with its upmarket clientele.

But then Kevin's father never was given to caring what other people think. The cause of Maxwell's fury this morning is the FT's latest Lex column, which claims that shares in Maxwell Communications are basically worthless, and that far from being in profit, it's running at a loss. Kevin gets why his father's angered by it, but he wonders if there's more behind his reaction this time.

There's no truth in the FT's claims, is there? Kevin finally asking the important questions. Maxwell glares at him, furious. You know your problem, Kevin. You're nothing but a glorified pen pusher. You're only capable of thinking small. Not really an answer. Kevin finds himself staring at the table again. Glancing at the offending FT column, he's struck by a familiar face. Now feeling he has an ace up his sleeve, Kevin forces himself to make eye contact with his dad.

I went to Oxford with the guy who wrote this. Maybe if I have a word... Ha! Falling back on your privilege to sort things out. If only I had that luxury at your age. He can't really win, can he, Kev? It's the same old story. Kevin's damned if he does and damned if he doesn't. But he pushes back, determined to win Maxwell's respect. You gave me that education. I might as well put it to good use. Leave this with me. I'll make sure this guy never crosses you again.

Half an hour later, Kevin storms into the FT's Southwark Bridge office and squares up to the reporter. They were on friendly terms at Oxford, but now Kevin puts all niceties aside and gets straight to business. What you've published today is trash, nothing more than rumours spread by people who are envious of what my father has achieved. Oh, please, the whole city knows your dad's in the shit. Defamation is a criminal offence. Come on, Kevin! Taking a leaf from Maxwell's book,

Kevin ignores him and bulldozes on. I want to speak to your editor, now! The reporter has no choice but to get his boss. Kevin squares up to him, using the kind of threatening approach he's witnessed so many times with his dad. I'm sure you're aware of how litigious Robert Maxwell is. Unless you wish your legal team to be tied up in litigation for years and you want to be personally hauled before a judge, you need to issue a retraction. The editor stands his ground, but he's shaken and agrees to meet Kevin halfway.

In the interests of balance, the FT will publish a letter from the Maxwells refuting the claims. Kevin's smart enough to know that this is a bigger win than having to go to court to prove their point. He accepts and leaves feeling triumphant. But when he calls his dad... Oh, that? I'd forgotten all about it. I have bigger fish to fry, Kevin. Devastating.

Maxwell abruptly hangs up. Kevin is left on the outside again. But he wonders if there's more to this than his father's usual pig-headedness. He can't get the reporter's words out of his head. The whole city knows your dad's in the shit. Has he been defending a fantasy? He decides he needs to start asking questions and find out the truth for himself. It's March 1991. The Dorchester Hotel.

Maxwell anxiously checks his watch. It's 5pm. That's midday in New York. His body may be in the opulent orchid room of one of London's finest hotels, attending Betty's 70th birthday party, but his mind is very much elsewhere. Oh, Betty's making an appearance again. Where's she been? Well, they're sort of separated, but sort of together, so in public, they're still together, but in private, they're not together. And I imagine Betty's 70th. Not a party you want to miss. An absolute banger. LAUGHTER

A few days ago, Maxwell tasked one of his editors, Ian Watson, with looking into the rumoured sale of the New York Daily News. Watson has just returned from several meetings stateside, and now he's on his way over to the party. Maxwell strides towards the exit, determined to wait outside. But Betty intercepts him. Mike wants to take a family photo. Please do this for me, Bob. I think you can at least give her that. Do I have to?

Maxwell reluctantly nods and follows her to where the photographer has gathered the children. All seven are in attendance today. Maxwell affectionately squeezes Ghislaine's cheek. The moment the photos are done, he takes Kevin and Ian aside.

Now Ian, usually too scared to pipe up, looks Maxwell dead in the eye.

Dad, we've sold the encyclopaedia business. Our stake in De La Rue. Kevin picks up where Ian left off. Even our 51% stake in MTV, which everyone knows is about to explode. I don't understand. Did not see him as a music video and Geordie Shore fan. Maxwell is distracted by Watson walking in. He immediately heads over to him, taking in the wiry Scots despondent expression. Maxwell's heart sinks. I thought the publisher was keen. What's the problem with

The peeper is Distribution. It's run by the Mafia. They use its vans to peddle drugs to outlying areas, and they want us to back off. I won't be threatened by a bunch of jumped-up gangsters! Well, you should be.

I said to them, we're your last hope. The people will close unless we do a deal. Know what they replied? If you continue to put pressure on us, you and your fat boss will find yourselves floating down the Hudson River with your fucking throat's cut. Maxwell steps outside the hotel and lights a cigar. Watson is right. He'd be mad to take this on. But he wants the Daily News so much. Murdoch owns one of its biggest rivals, The Post.

There will never be a better chance to compete with him stateside. Maxwell throws his cigar to the ground and grinds it underneath his shoe. He hasn't got this far by quitting. No, just by taking out colossal loans. Maxwell re-enters the grand ballroom where Betty is now cutting her cake. Standing beside her, he takes the mic.

The guests applaud. Touched, Betty looks lovingly into Maxwell's eyes.

He feels emotional as he stares back, but it's the daily news he's thinking of. And that is why she understands that I now have to leave. I have negotiations in New York to attend to. The guests stare open-mouthed as Maxwell heads out. On his way, he grabs Watson. I don't care about the risks. I'm doing this deal. Tell New York to watch out. Captain Bob's coming. This can only end well.

This is the second episode in our series, Maxwell. If you like our show, please give us a five-star rating and a review. Follow British Scandal on Apple Podcasts, Amazon Music, the Wondery app, or wherever you're listening right now. Join Wondery Plus and the Wondery app to listen one week early and ad-free. In the episode notes, you'll find some links and offers from our sponsors.

Please support them. By supporting them, you help us offer you this show for free. Another way to support us is to answer a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, books include Fall by John Preston, Maxwell by Roy Greenslade, and The Happy Hack by Mike Malloy. I'm Matt Ford.

And I'm Alice Levine. Wendy Grandeter wrote this episode. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our sound design is by Rich Evans. Script editing by James Magniac. Our associate producer is Francesca Gilardi Quadrio Corzio. Our senior producer is Joe Sykes. Our executive producers are Jenny Beckman, Stephanie Jens and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Wondery.

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