Maxwell | The Outsider | 1
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Okay, Alice, if you'd like to hand over the keys, I'm happy to drive this one. I am more than happy to be co-pilot. Great, okay. Well, I'm just going to have to move the chair back because you sit very close to the wheel. What are you trying to say? I've got short, stubby legs. Oh, Matt, what have you... There's sweet wrappers everywhere. I've just made the place my own. Oh, man, have you been smoking in here? Alice, there are cans all in the footwell. It's like a house party. It's 9.45am, 5th November 1991, Southern Tenerife.

On board the Lady Galane, Captain Gus Rankin gives the order to dock. Looking out from the deck of the luxury yacht, Gus takes in the beauty of Los Cristianos. The endless golden beaches, the vast mountains, the fishing boats lined up along the harbour.

He suspects his boss, the boat's owner, will regret sleeping in. This view is stunning. There's something very indulgent on holiday about not getting up when you know there's a beautiful view. Sleeping in on holiday, you're like, there's loads of great stuff out there, but I'm going to stay in bed. I think if I was sleeping in on a holiday in southern Tenerife, it would probably be because I'd had too many Smirnoff Isers the night before. A very large fishbowl. LAUGHTER

Gus snaps out of his trance when the ringing phone stops. He's become so used to the sound of it, the silence suddenly seems deafening. But before long, it starts again. All morning, people have been trying to reach his boss, but the endless calls to his private section of the yacht, known as the State Room, have gone unanswered. As the phone begins to ring again, Gus turns to a passing crew member. "No sign of our VIP?" "No, Captain. Must still be asleep." Gus checks his watch.

If it were anyone else, he'd accept that without a second thought. But Robert Maxwell is a workaholic. However tired he may be, he doesn't leave a ringing phone this long. Try the other rooms. He may be somewhere else. Half an hour later, Maxwell still hasn't appeared. That's one big yacht. All the boats I've been on are like booze cruise ones. Either that or a ferry where I've essentially just been in the cabin puking, so I don't know where anybody else is. Have you checked the cabin? Might be puking in there like Alice Levine.

There's no sign of him inside or on any of the decks. Repeated knocking on the locked stateroom door has got no response. Maxwell is known for his fiery temper. The last thing Gus wants to do is disturb him, but now he feels he has no choice. With some trepidation, Gus inserts his spare passkey and slides the stateroom door open. The first thing he sees is Maxwell's crumpled dressing gown on the floor. Uh-oh. Gus moves slowly into the bedroom, but the bed is empty.

The whole room is empty. "I want this boat searched from top to bottom!" The crew begin tearing the Lady Ghislaine apart. His panic rising, Gus finds himself flinging open cupboards and drawers, half expecting Maxwell to pop out and surprise him. By noon, after two hours of searching, Gus forces himself to head back to the bridge and regroup. The calls for Maxwell, mostly from banks and other financiers, haven't stopped. Now his sons Kevin and Ian are ringing too. Gus doesn't know what to tell them.

Regretfully, he summons the whole crew to the deck. Stop the search! It's obvious Maxwell isn't here. Gus looks out into the distance again. But this time, he's not taking in the beautiful shoreline. He's staring into the forbidding waves of the Mediterranean Sea. If Maxwell is no longer on this boat, there's only one place he could have gone. Overboard. Oh my God.

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As summer winds down, let your imagination soar by listening on Audible. Whether you listen to stories, motivation, expert advice, any genre you love, you can be inspired to imagine new worlds, new possibilities, new ways of thinking. With Audible, there's more to imagine when you listen.

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As an Audible member, you choose one title a month to keep from their entire catalogue. New members can try Audible free for 30 days. Visit audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. That's audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal.

The show where we bring you the murkiest stories that ever happened on these odd little isles. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money, some are about sex. They're all about power. But when we look at scandals a little bit closer, they turn out to be stranger, wilder and just plain weirder than we remember. So we're journeying back to ask who's to blame for what happened. And when the dust settled, did anything really change? MUSIC

Okay, Alice, this is a different type of story to some of the other ones we've done on British Scandal because this is an origin story. Okay, go on. Have you heard of

of Ghislaine Maxwell. I mean, of course, impossible to avoid her name in the past months and years. I would probably describe her as a British socialite gone wrong. Obviously, she's been convicted of sex trafficking, young girls, partner, girlfriend of Jeffrey Epstein, I suppose would be the salient bullet points there. Yes, they're the headlines and they are not an attractive pair.

But what do you know about Galena apart from that? Do you know anything about where she's from? Honestly, no. I mean, of course I know her father is Robert Maxwell. I know that he's a huge looming figure in her story, but none of the details really. Well, you're going to get the details because this series we're doing Robert Maxwell. Oh my God. From even just the small amount I know, I know that this is a saga, a family saga. This is like real life Logan Roy. Well, this is even wilder than that.

Maxwell's story includes fake identities, dodgy business dealings and a very mysterious death. I've already said too much. This is Episode 1, The Outsider. It's October 1955, Isha. Robert Maxwell forces himself to sit up in his hospital bed.

Five children? He's 32? Bloody hell. What would you like to say to me, Michael? That I love you, Father, and I will miss you very much.

Michael's bottom lip starts to tremble. Maxwell gestures for the next child, seven-year-old Philip, to come forward and repeats the process. Then six-year-old Anne and five-year-old twins, Isabel and Christine. Physically and emotionally exhausted, Maxwell beckons Betty to return to his side. He lowers his voice. Take them outside. I don't want them to see me get weaker.

The chief rabbi has just arrived. Shall I send him away? Hearing that, Maxwell almost seems revitalized. No. Show him in. Moments later, the rabbi sits alone in the room with Maxwell. The bravado he forced for the children has left him now. His mouth feels as dry as sand. Tell me, chief rabbi, why a man like myself should be cursed with terminal cancer in his prime? All I can say is that God, in his wisdom, has a plan for us all.

Maxwell glares at him, outraged by the injustice of it all. He dismisses the rabbi. He is replaced by a Christian scientist, then a Roman Catholic priest, and finally, a Church of England vicar. Of all of them, he asks the same question. Why? But they don't tell him what he wants to hear. That this isn't the end. That he is somehow immortal. Feeling betrayed and hopeless, Maxwell asks Betty to find his consultant.

He wants to know how many days, if not hours, he has to live. Left completely alone, Maxwell finds himself lost in memories. He thinks of his early years as Jan Ludvík Hock, living in a two-room wooden shack in Czechoslovakia. How he and his eight siblings slept in one room, the babies in cots suspended on ropes from the ceiling.

The pain of losing his parents and most of his nine siblings to the Holocaust. Oh my God. His arrival in England at just 17 with a dogged determination to reinvent himself as a gentleman and a squire. The different identities he tried on during his rise through the ranks in the British Army. From Ivan de Morier to Private Leslie Jones to Captain Stone. His courtship of Betty in 1944. By then he'd settled on a new name. Robert Maxwell.

So many lives in one, so many people to invent and then sustain. How many characters did you go through before you settled on the persona of Alice Levine? Does that suggest I should keep going? Oh, yeah. Keep working on it because we can find a better one. For many, this would be considered a short life well-lived.

But not Maxwell. He's always felt restless, always needed to keep moving. How he wishes he could do that now, rather than lie helpless in this bed. He wanted to turn his burgeoning publishing business, Pergamon Press, into a thriving empire. Run for Prime Minister one day, like his hero Winston Churchill. Take his rightful place on the world stage. Look, we've all got dreams. Mine are just much, much smaller than that. What do you set it for, Chancellor? I'm sec. Just make it through an episode of this.

Maxwell wipes away a tear, cursing the universe for doing this to him. But when Betty returns with the consultant, she's smiling. The consultant looks nervous under Maxwell's gaze. He clears his throat. It, um, seems your initial diagnosis was incorrect. This new x-ray shows no sign of any tumour in your left lung. And while there is definitely a tumour in the right lung, it may not be malignant. What? Maxwell can't quite take it in.

I might not die? To know what we're dealing with, we'll need to do a biopsy. Well, you'd better get on with it then. A few hours later, Maxwell opens his eyes. Betty's face comes into focus.

The tumour is benign. Everything's going to be alright. That is one hell of a turnaround. Maxwell wonders if he's still unconscious or already dead. It seems too good to be true. But as the anaesthetic wears off and the room comes into sharper view, he realises this is real. He's been given a second chance. He decides then and there that he's not going to waste it. He's going to live every day like it's his last.

He's going to achieve all of his ambitions and more. Have the biggest house, the biggest family, the biggest business, the biggest life. Everyone around the world is going to know the name Robert Maxwell. They certainly are, just maybe not for the reasons he hoped. It's a year later, autumn 1956, Russia. Maxwell brushes the snow off his shoulders and enters a forbidding grey office block.

He's at the Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology for a meeting with the university's head of science. Maxwell is now 33. The man who greets him is at least twice his age and oozes academic authority.

Maxwell is far from intimidated. Apart from having plenty of business now, one of several languages he speaks is Russian. What are the others? So he speaks his native Yiddish, Czech, French, German, Hungarian, Romanian and English. Same. How many languages did you go through before you settled on the character of Alice Levine, the English podcaster? His language skills have helped him access new markets.

True to his vow, he spent the last 12 months building Pergamon Press into an international success story. He's acquired the rights to scientific books and journals all over Europe. And he's recently noticed a gap in Eastern Bloc countries, which are being overlooked by the West due to the Cold War.

Today, it's his shot at the big time. If he can gain the trust of Russian scientists at this institution, he'll be able to corner one of the most lucrative areas in publishing. Really? Scientific publishing? It just sounds a bit niche. Maxwell basically invented the scientific publishing market and made it incredibly lucrative. If you think about it, scientists have got to read stuff, right? I mean, they love reading. That's one of their top things. You're basically aiming books at the group of people most likely to read them. Maxwell holds out a hand in greeting.

His host eyes him suspiciously, then silently leads him to a cluttered office. Maxwell attempts small talk, but it's stilted. His usual charm seems to be having no effect. Watching the academic wrap his fingers on the desk, bored, Maxwell gets an idea. Perhaps we could continue this conversation elsewhere. An hour later, the pair are in a seedy windowless bar. Perfect. That's actually where I imagined he meant.

Waiting to be served, Maxwell glances at a scantily clad young woman draped across two men in the corner. He feels a pang of envy. He misses Betty and gets a surge of homesickness as he thinks of her back in England with the kids. Shaking it off, Maxwell takes a cheap bottle of vodka from the barman and crosses the sticky floor to rejoin the professor. Now several shots down, the scientist greets him like an old friend. Before long, Maxwell's secured the contract.

He pours them each another shot to seal the deal. The cheap vodka burns Maxwell's throat as it goes down. He doesn't care. This deal alone will make him millions. What, really? But he's already thinking about his next move. He needs a new market to corner, a new challenge to sink his teeth into. He's still only just getting started.

It's four years later, March 1960, Oxfordshire. Holding baby Kevin in her arms, Betty Maxwell tries to settle him as he cries. But the sound of building work makes it all but impossible. Betty can only blame herself. It was her decision to move the family into Headington Hill Hall while the refurbishment was going on. A restless baby is the consequence.

Bob secured the 50-room mansion late last year after doing a deal with Oxford City Council to restore the dilapidated building to its former glory in return for a cheap rent.

He keeps saying it's going to be the grandest council house in Britain. No frame of reference for what cheap rent on a 50-room mansion would be. It must be a nightmare renting a 50-room... It's bad enough if you're renting like a five-room house and you've got to email the landlord every time you want to put a poster on. Sorry, can we have a ball pool in the 49th room, please?

Situated in 15 acres of wooded parkland, with a view over the spires of Oxford, right now it's all collapsed ceilings and broken floors. Just what I look for in a rental. Yeah, I'm looking for, I don't know if you guys have got anything, a mansion, 40 plus rooms. Ideally something structurally unsound. I know just the place. But Betty is sure it will eventually be the perfect family home. There's just one thing missing.

Her husband. When Bob isn't on the road for business, he spends all his time in the nearby outbuildings where Pergamon's officers are now housed. Betty knows how much her husband needs his work. She has only ever supported him in that. But there used to be a team. It's high time she reminded him of that fact. She goes to the bedroom and takes an old letter from her bedside table. Then, with Kevin in her arms, she makes her way next door.

When Betty enters Bob's makeshift office, he barely looks up from his paperwork. "I don't have time right now, darling." Betty eyes the family photograph on Bob's desk. Taken before Kevin was born, it shows them and their other children, including little Corrine. Betty feels tears sting her eyes. Corrine died in 1957, aged just three, from leukemia. Betty suspects ambition isn't the only thing driving her husband's need to work.

Bob's secretary, Anne Dove, enters the room. Betty catches Anne giving Bob an anxious glance. His eyes linger on her as she quickly turns and leaves. Suddenly, the scales fall from Betty's eyes. Bob hasn't turned to her since Corrine's death.

Because he's been turning to someone else. Oh. Swallowing her pain, she takes the letter from her pocket and pushes it across the desk. It's a list entitled Six Rules for the Perfect Partnership. What a love letter. You gave me this in 1945 on our wedding day. Bob stops working and reads it.

and Betty reels each bullet point off by heart. One, don't nag. Two, don't criticize unduly. Three, give honest appreciation. Four, pay little attentions. Five, be courteous. Six, have the utmost confidence in yourself and in your partner.

I've followed every one of those rules since we got married, but you haven't. Bob's like, that was not intended for you. I am so sorry. That's actually a training manual for the people that work at the publishing company. So... Yeah, those rules are for you, not me. I've got different six rules over here. Darling, I know you're doing all this for us, but I need you with me more. How can I build a home that has no master? Betty moves closer.

She lays their sleeping baby down on the floor. Just amongst the rusty nails and splintered floorboards. That leaves her free to kneel before Bob. She takes his hand. She knows exactly which buttons to push. Darling, how can I give you more children if you're never in our marital bed? Maxwell breaks into a smile. You're right, I'm a very talented man. I can juggle home and work much better than most. Betty feels triumphant. But glancing at Anne hovering just outside...

She won't leave it there. Darling, I think you need a new secretary. Betty stays on Bob, who sheepishly drops eye contact. I suggest you move Anne to another office. Suggest. Betty holds Bob's gaze. She means business and can tell that he knows it. Okay, I'll have her sent to New York. I was thinking... Tibet? Oh, whoa! Okay. Maxwell dutifully nods.

Betty may be a housewife, but she's no pushover. She loves her life, the big house, large family, her husband. Woe betide anyone who tries to take any of this away. Woe betide Anne. It's 18 months later, the 28th of December 1961, Oxfordshire. Standing in the grand dining room of Headington Hill Hall, watching their butler clear away the lunch plates, Maxwell coos playfully at the tiny baby in his arms.

Ghislaine gurgles back at him. Of course. Rocking her gently, he looks up at the dazzling tiles that reach all the way to the ceiling, the grand portraits adorning the walls, one of which is of himself.

Well, this place is looking incredible since we were last here. I love the sound of the 18-foot Christmas tree. I don't like the sound of a big portrait of yourself on the wall. That is quite ostentatious, isn't it?

Are you telling me you don't have any Matt Ford related paraphernalia? You don't have a bust or a sculpture of yourself or anything? I don't have any portraits, sculptures, busts, recreations, figurines, no merch. I mean, I barely have any mirrors. The thought of seeing my own face at any time of the day is not positive.

Maxwell is impressed by how his wife has transformed this place. The Italianate mansion is now the home of his dreams, and Maxwell feels content in a way he never thought possible. Business is booming, and he's even forging a political career, standing as MP for the small town of Buckingham earlier this year. He lost, but only by a narrow margin. He's sure it's only a matter of time before he conquers Westminster too.

As Betty walks towards him, Maxwell marvels at her fresh face and petite waistline. You'd never know she gave birth to their ninth child just three days ago. Boy! Maxwell grabs her and kisses her passionately. When Ghislaine goes to sleep, maybe we could... Three days ago, Bob. Three days ago. Ninth child. Just give her a beat. He raises a big bushy eyebrow at Betty, only to be thwarted by a ringing phone.

Betty throws him an apologetic look as she answers. Her face immediately drains of colour. It's Michael. He's been in an accident. Two hours later, Maxwell is at Oxford General Hospital. He looks through the glass window where Betty sits beside 16-year-old Michael's bed, clutching his hand as she wipes away her tears. A consultant approaches Maxwell. "Mr. Maxwell, while Michael is stable, I'm afraid the brain scans show a bleak picture. The vegetative state he's in now is likely to be permanent.

Michael's a strong boy, like his father. He'll snap out of it. I wish I could tell you that's true. Maxwell wants to retort, but looking at Michael, he knows deep down how hopeless the situation is. An hour later, after a journey home with Betty in silence, they pull into the grand driveway of Heddington Hill Hall. Tell the children dinner will be at 7pm, on the dot. Later, when Maxwell enters the dining room, seven children are already seated and waiting.

Children, from now on we will eat together at seven o'clock sharp. No exceptions. You will each be assigned a topic to study in advance and I will call on one of you at random to share what you have learned. Should you fail to impress me, you will regret it. The children eye each other nervously. Tonight we will start with Philip.

I called your English schoolmaster earlier. He said you had been studying Orwell's 1984. Tell me, who is the main protagonist and what is his goal? So great to catch up, Dad. Philip looks stunned. Tongue-tied, he glances at Betty for help. She's clearly as lost as the rest of them. I'm sorry, Father, off the top of my head, I don't... Then you haven't been working hard enough. I'll deal with you later, with my belt. That took a sharp turn. Betty stares at Maxwell, horrified.

Unbowed, he turns his attention to Anne. "That is an extremely ugly dress. Never wear it to dinner again." At the other end of the table, Isabel nervously raises her hand. "Father, how is Michael?"

Overcome with fury, Maxwell pushes back his chair and rises to his feet. You must never mention his name again. Do you understand? Oh my God. Scared, Isabel quickly nods. Betty turns to Maxwell, pained. Bob, please! Maxwell looks at her, his expression hard and emotionless. These children have been mollycoddled for too long. No more! Before Betty can reply, Maxwell storms from the table.

hiding his pain beneath the anger. He can't help Michael, but he will make his other children invincible. Just as he grew stronger when faced with adversity, so will they. This is heartbreaking and petrifying. Also, I'm not sure this stuff does make people stronger. How many times have we seen in British Scandal, I had it rough, so you're going to have it rough and you'll be happy about it. That's exactly how you justify your treatment of me. But eventually, Matt, it will pay dividends.

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It's the 3rd of November 1964, Westminster. In the Commons Public Gallery, Betty could burst with pride as the Speaker of the House utters the words she and Bob have waited so long to hear. Be silent for the Member of Parliament for Buckingham, Robert Maxwell. It happened. Betty beams as her husband rises to his feet. At 41, after four years of tireless campaigning by them both...

Bob has finally been elected as a Labour MP. Oh, Labour, not Tory. Yes, you might presume from some of the details we've heard so far that he would be a Conservative rather than Labour. But as he said, I come from a very humble farm labouring family and would rather cut off my arm than betray my class. Sure, I'll take it. Today, Bob is making his maiden speech and Betty can hardly contain her excitement. She helped him write it.

This feels like a victory for her as well as her husband. It is with a great sense of humility that I speak here for the first time. Humility is not a word I necessarily associate with him at this point. It is quite ironic, isn't it? It is with great humility as I stand here as an elected Member of Parliament, taking my rightful seat in Britain's elite.

Bob launches into a passionate diatribe against the terrible provisions for sewage disposal in his constituency. Finally! Betty has to admit, it's a bit long-winded for a first speech. And she's a fan. She wrote it. But she's not prepared for what happens next.

Bob is greeted by jeers from the opposition. You're a bloody foreigner! Oh, I wasn't expecting that. Betty looks over to the Labour benches, willing Bob's colleagues to jump up to his defence. To her horror, they remain silent. But she's proud to see the abuse only spurs Bob into spending longer on his feet. When he leaves the chamber, she rushes to his office.

He enters, clearly furious. How dare they treat me like that? I am one of them now! I know, darling. It's disgraceful. Maxwell's phone begins to ring. Betty answers it.

She holds out the receiver. It's the Jewish Chronicle. Maxwell snatches the phone from her. Mr Maxwell, congratulations on your election win. There are so few Jewish MPs in Westminster, we're delighted to have another. I'm not Jewish! Oh. Betty's shocked as Bob slams the phone down. Then it dawns on her. His Jewish roots only set him further apart from everyone else here. And all Bob wants is to fit in, be part of the British establishment, just like the rest of them.

So now he has to construct a version of himself which he thinks is acceptable to belong. But as we've heard so many times on previous British scandals, really for the ultra elite in Britain, not really about money, it's about breeding. We're talking about such a small group of people. Someone like Robert Maxwell, even with all his wealth and power, would never penetrate that. Betty goes over to him, puts her hand on his broad shoulders.

Bob looks at her guiltily, as if he's been scolded. Yes, it does sound weird, doesn't it? Yes, it does. Never say it again. Bob often calls Betty that. At first, she liked it.

Bob lost his mother at such a young age and she felt flattered to be seen as a worthy substitute. What? These days, she's less comfortable playing a maternal figure. She has four sons and doesn't need another. Yes, especially not her husband. But her intervention seems to have got Bob back to his overconfident self. Is there no middle ground? And Betty reasons that behind every great man is a stronger, cleverer woman. Coping with her husband's growing eccentricities is what she signed up for, for better or for worse.

It's four years later, February 1968, Mayfair, London. We never have a good night out in Mayfair. It's either polonium or, frankly, worse. And willy taps. In a dimly lit members bar, oh no, Maxwell sits back in a plush leather chair, puffing on an expensive cigar. His head of finance has just finished going through a list of figures. It looks set to be his most lucrative financial year to date.

Maxwell expertly blows smoke rings as he leans back in his chair and contentedly picks up a copy of the Sunday Times. Oh, sorry, you can blow smoke rings? Oh, no, no, no, you're completely accepted. Get in here. There's a phone call for you, Mr Maxwell. Your wife. Tell her I already left. Maxwell knows what Betty wants, for him to come home. But he doesn't plan on heading back any time soon. Michael passed away at the beginning of the year and Maxwell has hated being in the house since.

Instead, he's thrown himself into his work and it's paying dividends. Through sheer hard graft, he's even started winning over his fellow MPs in the Commons. He flicks through the paper, which grabs the attention of a passing member of the club. "I take it you've seen page five? One does wonder where those Fleet Street boys get their tip-offs." "No smoke and all that." Maxwell quickly turns the pages.

He darkens as he reads a story suggesting he's been cooking the Pergamon books. Maxwell throws the paper down. After everything he's achieved, he will not have his reputation sullied in this way. He'll sue them for every last penny.

Two days later in Westminster, Maxwell enters a large meeting room. Rather than dragging the Sunday Times through the courts, Maxwell has been persuaded to let the House of Commons deal with the matter. He watches as the Sunday Times' esteemed editor, Harold Evans, enters the room. Maxwell gives him a convivial wave, enjoying himself. This was the right call. Evans is on his turf now.

his reputation will be restored in no time. But as the hearing gets underway and the committee chair starts to speak, Maxwell is increasingly frustrated. While these claims are totally unsubstantiated, we do of course understand your need to report information that comes your way, Mr Evans, albeit sometimes from less than reliable sources.

However, I think you'll agree that Mr Maxwell deserves an apology. If not in your newspaper, then in person today. He is not going to like that. Maxwell inwardly fumes. The committee has come down on the fence. While he's fought to be in this gang, he hates this namby-pamby element of the establishment, playing by outdated rules and achieving so little as a result. That night, Maxwell sits in his study.

Staring at the offending paper, he's struck by a realisation. Real power doesn't lie in Westminster. It's with the press. Papers like the Sunday Times control the narrative. With his own mouthpiece, he could bite back at the likes of Evans. It's time to fight fire with fire. It's October 1968, Oxfordshire, Headington Hill Hall. Seeing Betty enter the sitting room of the Sunday Papers,

Maxwell grumpily snatches the News of the World from her hand. Nobody's called? Betty shakes her head. Maxwell's frustrated. Having heard the News of the World's owner, Sir William Carr, was desperate to sell, Maxwell put in a very generous offer yesterday. He wants this newspaper. As the biggest seller in Britain, it wields enormous influence.

I don't think you should buy it, Bob. It's not an old car. Why is everybody being so casual about it? Like he's bidding for it on eBay. You don't mean that, Betty. You're not thinking straight. I am. It's nothing more than scandal and nudes. I prefer to do serious reading. This is hardly... Maxwell cuts her off mid-sentence. Next!

Maxwell glares at Betty, making it clear he doesn't want to hear any more. She looks like she's about to retort, but his eyes burn into her. She gives up and leaves the room. Maxwell enjoys his small moment of victory, only to open the paper and find the editor has written an outraged editorial about him.

Mr Robert Maxwell, a socialist MP, is trying to take over. It would not be a good thing for Mr Maxwell, formerly Jan Ludwig Hock, to gain control of this paper, which is as British as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. This is a British newspaper, run by British people. Let's keep it that way. Maxwell bangs the table in fury. Once again, the British upper classes are determined to shut him out.

When the phone rings, Maxwell snatches it up, steeling himself for a row. Maxwell! To his surprise, it's Liberal MP David Steele. I just read the News of the World editorial. It's a revolting piece of chauvinism, Mr Maxwell. You may not be everybody's cup of tea, but you are as British as anyone I know. I believe you even have a Rolls Royce. Well, that does swing it. I do. With a telephone in it. Oh, for goodness sake, he's British. Case closed. And he can blow smoke rings. HE CHUCKLES

Soon, Maxwell is laughing with Steele, who pledges his support. And he's not the only one. Over the next 24 hours, several other Liberal and Labour MPs and business leaders condemn the remarks made against Maxwell. Rather than ruining his chances, the editorial seems to have guaranteed his success.

He calls his head of acquisitions. Should I start celebrating now? I don't see why not. I've heard a few whispers that they have another interested buyer, but I don't think he's serious competition. Some Australian fellow named Rupert Murdoch? You won't amount to anything. You've got no problems. Putting the phone down, Maxwell feels elated. If his only competition is another foreigner nobody's heard of, surely this is in the bag. I don't think you're going to have any issues.

The 2nd of January, 1969. The Connacht Rooms, Covent Gardens.

Rupert Murdoch feels nervous as he sits waiting for the meeting to begin. It's weird to think of a young Rupert Murdoch, isn't it? In 69. That's a really good point. Flares on, tinted specs, you know, long hair. Yeah, I start trying to imagine Churchill as a boy. It's like it doesn't feel right. They were all born at least 60, weren't they? Boyish looking for his 37 years, in an unflashy dark suit and white shirt, he tries to forget that what happens here could change his life forever.

Newspapers are in Murdoch's blood. At one point, his father, Sir Keith, was the most successful newspaper executive in Australia. Murdoch has had great success with the newspaper he inherited from him, The News. That's a funny name. That's a bold name. It's like the least imaginative title. It's also really arrogant. The News. I suppose he didn't call it The Only News. But he's barely known outside his own country.

He's as surprised as anyone that he's made it this far. Somehow, he's won over the Carr family enough to gain the promise of their shares, giving him a 40% stake in the company. His rival, Robert Maxwell, holds 25%, which leaves 30% of the shareholders to decide which way to go. That's the purpose of this gathering today. But Murdoch doesn't fancy his chances. This is Maxwell's adopted home. The man is a British MP.

His opponent has the home advantage. It's hard not to think through the lens of succession when we think about these negotiations now. There are loud murmurs as an imposing figure in an electric blue suit enters the room. Maxwell. Beside him, his wife Betty wears a long mink coat. In a simple knitted two-piece worn over thick tan tights, Murdoch's own wife Anna looks shabby in comparison. Rupert clutches her hand as Sir William introduces him.

I think you're the Murdoch voice. Don't start, don't start. By the time Murdoch has finished speaking...

He has no idea what impression he's made. As his rival stands to speak, Murdoch steals himself for what he's sure will be an impressive performance. But Maxwell has barely begun when boos start coming from the crowd. Murdoch is stunned to see upper-crust Brits behaving like this. Murdoch can only compare it to being at a pantomime. Even Maxwell looks stunned. Are you going to give me a fair... Go home! Get lost! This is so gross. Maxwell launches into a lengthy denouncement of the paper's board.

To Murdoch's surprise, Carr gives as good as he gets. I don't think the shareholders care a two-penny cuss what you think. Does the meeting wish to hear any more from Mr Maxwell? Cries of no ring out around the room. It's only then that Murdoch realises he and Maxwell may both be foreigners, but Murdoch is seen as the lesser of two evils. Less brash, more modest, less vulgar. Wow, that's quite wild, isn't it really? Given how things ultimately end...

In this case, the establishment favours the devil it doesn't know. When it goes to the vote, 299 are in favour of Murdoch and only 20 against. To his astonishment, he's the new owner of the News of the World. If you'd like to find out how that goes, listen to our series on phone hacking. It's all fine. From across the room, his rival's eyes burn into him, full of rage. Murdoch is left with no doubt. He hasn't seen the last of Robert Maxwell.

It's October 1969, Headington Hill Hall. In the vast dining room, a furious Maxwell flings a copy of the Sunday Times towards his son Ian. With such force, he's lucky not to be decapitated. His old enemy, Harold Evans, is at it again, running a story about discrepancies in Pergamon's accounts. Damn Evans and his blasted rag! Betty picks up the carving knife beside the large beef joint in front of him. Maybe I should do it.

Don't be stupid, woman. Give it to me. Snatching the knife from Betty, Maxwell starts hacking at the joint, directing all his anger at the centrepiece of their Sunday lunch.

That's why she'd just go to a Toby Carvery. They know what they're doing and emotion is set aside for the benefit of all patrons. As always, he puts the best cuts on his own plate and leaves the gristly parts for the children. Much beloved dad, Bob Maxwell there. Ian, when we've eaten, I expect you to recite the Magna Carta in Latin. Sure, dad. The only thing with that is, though, I've only got fat, so I'm going to probably finish about 20 minutes after you. I'll just floss this cartilage out of my teeth and I'll be right with you. Everyone looks anxious. Max,

Maxwell knows they're expecting another explosion. But while Maxwell is a strict disciplinarian with the others, he has a soft spot for his youngest. When she was just three, Ghislaine stood before Betty and said, Mummy, I exist. At three? Yeah, what age did you say it? I wasn't having an existential crisis till at least five and a half. At that moment, Maxwell realised they'd both practically ignored her since Michael's accident, and he vowed never to do it again.

Maxwell gives her a playful wink. God, he's a man of extremes. The butler enters with the Pergamon executive in tow. We're about to eat. What is it? Sorry to disturb you, Mr Maxwell, but the board has called an urgent meeting to discuss the issues raised by today's Sunday Times. The thing is, some discrepancies have been found. Discrepancies in the show mean drama. Hours later, Maxwell sits at a large table in the Connacht rooms. The last time he was here was the day he lost the news of the world to Murdoch.

He thinks about it daily. Last year, he even tried to take revenge on his new rival by going up against him to buy the sun, but he lost out to Murdoch again. Maxwell's convinced he and Evans have joined forces against him. The meeting gets underway and the charges against Maxwell are outlined.

he's accused of crediting Pergamon's accounts with sales and therefore profits it hasn't actually made. Mr Maxwell, it has been decided you will be removed from the board with immediate effect. You will no longer have access to the Pergamon accounts, its officers or any of the items within them. For once, Maxwell is speechless. The company he built from nothing, devoted every waking moment to, is no longer his. And it's happening to him in the same place where he was humiliated just 10 months earlier.

So he didn't do what they said. So wait, is it a stitch up or what? Have you heard of a thrilling new podcast called British Scandal? Yeah. What often happens on that show is that these things get set up in episode one. Right. And then you often find out in episode three, four or five. Am I jumping the gun? A little bit, yeah. Sure. Maxwell takes his Rolls Royce back to Headington Hill Hall. He steps out of the car to see a man hammering a fence post into the ground. A roll of barbed wire sits nearby.

It soon becomes clear to Maxwell that he won't even be permitted to enter the Pergamon officers on his own grounds. Betty comes out to join him. What are they doing? Twenty years of blood, sweat and tears, all gone. Maxwell takes in Betty's horror as she watches the barbed wire going up. Not for long. They will never keep me down for long.

Maxwell can see the doubt in Betty's eyes, but he's determined to fight this with every fiber of his being and come back bigger and better than ever. This season, Instacart has your back to school. As in, they've got your back to school lunch favorites like snack packs and fresh fruit. And they've got your back to school supplies like backpacks, binders and pencils. And they've got your back when your kid casually tells you they have a huge school project due tomorrow.

Let's face it, we were all that kid. So first call your parents to say I'm sorry, and then download the Instacart app to get delivery in as fast as 30 minutes all school year long. Get a $0 delivery fee for your first three orders while supplies last. Minimum $10 per order. Additional terms apply. It's five years later, February 1974, Oxfordshire. At Pergamon Press HQ, bemused members of staff file into the large dining area,

where they've been instructed to wait. After a few moments, Maxwell struts in and climbs onto a chair. His booming voice echoes around the hall as he announces, I'm back! LAUGHTER

Why is that amusing to us? I just don't know. Such a funny way to announce yourself. That's what you say every time we come in to record. You're on the phone, you go, Ford! Call me later. I'm back! Every time I come back from a loo break. So I'm a big throne. You should be able to picture us, by the way, listeners. I sit on a chair eight foot above Alice. It just creates the dynamic we like. Whispers ripple through the room. Saying nothing more, Maxwell walks out.

Once back in his old office, he turns to the PA. Have a team of builders take down that fence between this building and my house. Today. Maxwell settles into his plush leather chair and allows himself to enjoy the moment. It's taken him five years and more patience than he ever thought he could muster. But finally, he's triumphed. Soon after he was ejected from Pergamon UK...

Maxwell spotted a loophole that meant he still owned 70% of its American subsidiary, which was actually the engine room of the whole business. Clever girl. Without it, Pergamon UK was an empty shell, devoid of profit. All Maxwell had to do was wait it out and buy it back when the time was right. It wasn't easy playing the waiting game, and many of his friends deserted him during the lean years.

He also lost his seat at the 1970 general election. But the time it freed up meant Maxwell could go back on the road and hustle for deals, just as he did in the old days. At home later, he delights in telling the children about his comeback. He's dejected to find the congratulations are muted. These days, they practically cower before him. Except Ghislaine, who runs over and gives him a hug. Well done, Daddy! Thank you, darling. Dismissing the others, Maxwell puts an arm around Ghislaine.

"Do you know what I'm going to do now, my dear? I'm going to show them that you messed with Robert Maxwell at your peril!" "That's foreboding." Maxwell means it. Because winning Pergamon back isn't enough. He hasn't forgotten the people who wrote him off. The establishment figures who jeered him. The rivals like Murdoch who bested him. He won't rest until he has crushed and humiliated every last one of them. More than that, he'll take everything they have and make it his own. And he can't wait to get started.

It's September 1980, six years later. On board a yacht in the Mediterranean Sea, Betty closes her eyes and tries to relax on her sun lounger, but it's impossible. The kids that have joined her on this holiday, Ian, Kevin and Ghislaine, are now in their 20s, but they're squabbling like teenagers. Stop standing up, Ghislaine, you're putting me in the shade! Kevin chuckles. Arriving on deck, Maxwell intervenes. Stop picking on your sister! Come here, darling.

The boys look affronted, as Ghislaine runs for her daddy as usual. Betty sighs. It's no wonder they resent her. Betty can empathise with their sense of rejection. Bob barely looks at her these days. Watching him head back to the boat's study, she decides to follow. Surely not another child. It's just that being in the ocean and all that...

Not now. Rumour has it the Times is about to go up for sale. I'm not going to let Murdoch beat me to the punch this time. Betty rolls her eyes. Beating Murdoch has become Bob's obsession. Undeterred, she catches him up, blocking his path. We can't go on like this. Your behaviour, it's hurting me. I've given up everything for you. I've abandoned any personality of my own. Why must you speak like that? Like what?

I can't understand what you're trying to say. I'm trying to say that we need to do something about this relationship. Something more than a holiday. That is not what you are trying to say. You are talking gibberish and I can't deal with you when you're like this. Well, great to have this heart to heart and I'm just really glad we put our cards on the table. Yeah, I'm going to walk around the old town. On holiday, after a massive barney, a walk around the old town on your own. Very relatable content, Matt. Betty could cry with frustration.

This is what Bob does these days. Rephrases her sentences or dismisses her completely until she feels utterly diminished. She looks deeply into his eyes. Suddenly, it hits Betty like a thunderbolt. The man staring back at her doesn't love her anymore. Everything he once felt for her, as a wife, a lover, even a surrogate mother, is gone. With that realisation, the will to fight leaves her. I'm going ashore for a business meeting. Don't wait up.

Betty knows this is no business meeting. Bob is clearly going to meet his latest mistress. This time, she has no desire to try and stop him. She still loves Bob, she always will, but she won't flog a dead horse. Fine, have a nice time. God, that's devastating, isn't it, really? Betty watches Bob step ashore and walk towards the bright lights of the Madeira coastline. She turns to find Kevin behind her, looking concerned. Is everything all right?

Momentarily thrown, Betty hesitates. "I'm not a kid anymore, Mum. I've seen how you talk to each other." Betty pulls herself together. "We're going through a bit of a rough patch. All marriages do. But you know me and your father. Solid as a rock." Betty may have admitted the end of her marriage to herself, but she will keep up appearances for everyone else, even her children. She's known her husband long enough to know that's what he'll want. And what Robert Maxwell wants, Robert Maxwell gets, no matter what the cost.

It's July 1984, Headington Hill Hall. Maxwell furiously slams the phone down. Chocker. Read International has turned down his very public offer of £80 million to take over Mirror Group newspapers. Maxwell has no intention of giving up.

Once again, he lost out to Murdoch in the battle for the Times. That, along with its sister title, the Sunday Times, is now part of Murdoch's burgeoning UK newspaper empire, News International, which also comprises The Sun and The Newt of the World. With those titles, Maxwell's nemesis now dominates the British press. But with The Mirror and its stablemates, The Sunday Mirror and The People...

Maxwell would be a major rival. The papers sell well, and with their socialist roots, they are a perfect foil for Murdoch's Tory titles. By now at 61, as well as a thriving Pergamon, Maxwell owns Oxford United Football Club and the largest printing company in Europe. But his biggest dream, owning a national newspaper, still eludes him. And it won't become a reality if he can't win over Mirror Group's owners.

Maxwell spends the next few days bombarding Reid's executives with phone calls, then checks into the Ritz Hotel, right opposite Reid's HQ in Piccadilly. Maxwell picks up the phone and calls Reid's CEO, Les Carpenter. Made-up name. What makes you think that? Some people just sound like your dad's mate, and Les Carpenter just sounds like your dad's mate. Les Carpenter would have a wallpaper stripper that you could borrow. I'm just saying, not real.

I'm calling it. I think the surname sounding like a trade is what does it. Oh, Les Carpenter. He hangs around with Mickey Window Cleaner. Exactly. Look out of your window, Les. From his suite, Maxwell waves at Les, who looks stunned. I'm not leaving here until we've got a deal. An hour later, Maxwell shows Carpenter into the room.

That's impossible. I don't have it. Carpenter heads straight for the door. The most I can do is 107. I'll tell them. All Maxwell can do now is wait. For the first time in years, he says a little prayer.

Soon, the phone rings. We can't go down to 107. Maxwell's heart sinks. But we're prepared to lend you the six million you're short at a very favourable rate of interest. What do you say? You have a deal. Replacing the phone, Maxwell falls to his knees, shell-shocked. He's finally done it after all these years. He's bought his own newspaper group. He has his own personal mouthpiece. And boy, is he going to use it.

This is the first 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 A Mind of My Own by Elizabeth Maxwell.

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 Giolardi Quadriocorsio. Our senior producer is Joe Sykes. Our executive producers are Jenny Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Wondery.

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