Archer | From the Penthouse to the Jailhouse | 3
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Hi, Alice. Hi, Matt. You all right? Yeah, not bad, actually. Could you do me a favour? Yeah? I need you to lie to producer Joe for me, if that's all right. What about? Just tell him that I was here on time rather than being ten minutes late. What's it worth? Twenty grand? Ten pounds. Mate, that's not how you negotiate, but deal. Shake on it now. The 4th of November, 1999. Cranley, Surrey. Ted Francis rushes into the living room of his tiny flat.

Clears away dirty plates and newspapers from the coffee table. A few minutes later, two News of the World journalists set up their recording equipment. Ready when you are, Ted? His hands shake as he picks up the phone, but he can't let his nerves give him away. In the next few minutes, he needs to make Geoffrey Archer admit on tape he forged his alibis in the 1987 libel trial. Surely he won't fall into that trap. He could still go away for that. Hello? Hello?

Ted tries hard to sound casual. He hasn't spoken to Geoffrey in a long time, not since Geoffrey humiliated him at the Champagne and Shepherds pie party almost nine years ago. After a couple of minutes, he says, The reason I'm ringing is we've got a problem. That letter I sent to your solicitor in 87 giving you a false alibi, well, a journalist, Michael Crick, has managed to get hold of it. Now he's looking into the fact I lied for you. Geoffrey snaps back. Well, how did he get a copy? Ted swallows hard.

He can't admit he was the one who gave it to him. Or that the two News of the World journalists sitting opposite are chasing the same story. I have no idea. Ted looks at the journalists. Bring him back, Ted. He needs to admit he asked you for a false alibi.

Ted cracks his knuckles, dials Archer again. I need you off the line. I'm trying to call my solicitor to find out exactly what that letter said. Ted jumps in. Thing is, Jeffrey, this guy, Crick, he's got proof I wasn't with you on September the 9th. He's found receipts of mine, proof that I was somewhere else at the time. So he knows we lied about the alibi. He hears Jeffrey's voice falter. Oh, Christ. Ted glances at the journalists. They're waving their arms, urging him on.

Oh boy. Ted glances at the journalists. Their eyes are shining. They gesture him to keep going. But I still lied for you in that letter. I wasn't with you on the 9th of September, was I? If my family find out that I told Porky's...

Porkies! Surely your porky is. Did you finish that dairy milk or not? Do I look nice in this dress? Yes. Did you falsify an alibi to keep me out of prison? Geoffrey sounds more relaxed now. If anyone says anything about it, I'll sue. I'll be mayor soon. Nobody will dare say anything to me then. Don't worry, Ted. It'll all blow over. Ted slumps back. He feels drained. He looks over at the journalists. They grin. Well done, Ted.

We've got him. We did tell him not to wrong Ted. We did say. Would it have killed him to just be polite to him at that party? My dad works in B2B marketing. He came by my school for career day and said he was a big ROAS man. Then he told everyone how much he loved calculating his return on ad spend.

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From Wondery, I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. And this is British Scandal. So Alice, what are the most memorable parts of this story for you? Okay, so there's the creepy judge who was all over Mary Archer, basically making a pass at her. The legal importance of backspots has really jumped out. And just the fact that Geoffrey Archer just keeps getting away with stuff unnoticed.

over and over again. It is incredible his ability to keep wriggling out of these situations and there have been quite a few of them. Oh yeah, he's lied in court now, he's slept with numerous sex workers and lied about that and seemingly he took all that money from the fundraiser or at least it's gone walkabout and still he gets made a lord and he's running for London Mayor. Yeah,

Yes, I mean, I don't want to over-labour the case, but he's also a very good writer. He's written some very good novels. So you keep saying, yeah, we know you're a big fan. You'd love your book signed. We'll try and get it sorted for you. So, do you think he's going to keep getting away with it? I actually do. This is episode three, From the Penthouse to the Jailhouse. I take it back. I actually don't.

Three weeks later, Grantchester, Cambridge. Geoffrey stares in horror at the newspaper his wife's just thrown on the kitchen table. He squirms at the headline, My Sex Games With Archer. He looks at the photo of Sammy Farmilo, the actress he's been having an affair with for the past three years. Ah, yeah.

Mary yells at him. It's just one bloody humiliation after another. He's desperate to calm her down. He reaches out to her. It's all lies, every word. Don't touch me. She runs from the room sobbing. Farmelo's picture smiles out at him from the front page. She's wearing a low-cut leopard print mini dress and high heels. Her blonde bouffant hair is perfectly set. He reads her exclusive interview.

Amazing.

No comment. I mean, it's hardly romance, is it? Tell us about the first time you met. I came up behind her and grabbed her boobs. I mean, how often does that work? You must get into hot water sometimes, surely. She lists the places they had sex. In his penthouse. In a suite at the Café Royal. In his mini at an NCP car park. That will cost a fortune. It's about a fiver an hour. A few minutes later, he heads upstairs. He can hear Mary crying in the bedroom.

He pushes the door open, but she throws a shoe at him. Get out! He walks in, sits on the side of her bed. I'm going to sue her. I'll ring my solicitor now. Mary looks up from the pillow. Her eyes are streaked with mascara. Why didn't you just keep it secret, you stupid fool? Downstairs, he pours a whiskey.

He's about to ring his solicitor, Lord Mishcon. When a call comes in, he snatches up the receiver. Geoffrey, it's Phil Hall, editor of the News of the World. He swallows his whiskey. I've got nothing to say about Sally Farmilow. You're wasting your time. He's about to hang up when he hears Hall say that's not why he's ringing. We've been talking to Ted Francis for the past few weeks. He claims you asked him to lie in your libel trial in 1987. We're running the story tomorrow. Do you want to comment?

He feels winded, reaches out to steady himself. For a few seconds he can't speak. Then a wave of anger hits him. He's not going to let Ted Francis ruin his chances of being mayor, or anyone else for that matter. He's going to do what he always does when his back's against the wall. He's going to fight. The following day, Geoffrey Archer's penthouse, London. Geoffrey paces around his living room. He's on the phone to the Conservative leader, William Hague.

He spent the last ten minutes trying to convince Haig that Ted Francis is lying. He's angling for money. I'm taking legal action against him. But Haig cuts in. I want you to stand down as party candidate for mayor. He grips the phone tighter. I'm almost neck and neck in the polls. I'm the only one who can beat Ken Livingstone.

But Haig's voice is firm. Stephen Norris is taking over. Your position is untenable and your image is damaging to the party. I'm referring your case to the Ethics and Integrity Committee. He puts the receiver slowly back in the cradle, stares out of the window at the dull sky, then snatches up his car keys and rushes out.

A short while later, he's at Grantchester. He sits with Mary at the kitchen table. "Hague's dropped me. They're making Stephen Norris the official candidate for mayor. He won't win. His poll ratings are nowhere near mine."

It's kind of mad to me that he still thinks he could win it. With all of these scandals, like with one about to break, a huge one already out there, is he just completely delusional? But it's also, that's the prism through which he sees everything. Like his wife is distraught at his serial affairs. I know you're upset, darling, but don't worry. I think I can pull ahead in the next fortnight. Then it hits him. What if I run as an independent? I don't need Hague's permission to be mayor. I can win this.

But Mary glares at him. You can't run as an independent. You won't have the protection of the party. The papers will look through every part of your life, even more than now. I'm sick of it all, Geoffrey. I want some peace. Mary's motivations are a mystery to me. She has profanities.

professional standing, she's so accomplished, she's charming, that judge loved her, people really take to her, Margaret Thatcher couldn't get enough of her. I just don't understand why she stays. You don't think she's getting anything out of this relationship? Next morning, he stands on the manicured lawn outside Grantchester, looks out at the gathered press. Thirteen years ago, I asked a friend of mine, Ted Francis, to write a letter to my solicitor saying we were having dinner together on the evening of September the 9th, 1986.

In fact, I wasn't with Ted. He looks up at the clicking cameras. I was having dinner with a close female friend. I asked Ted to cover for me so my wife didn't find out. It was a silly indiscretion on my part and I'm very sorry.

What is he doing? This is bad, bad, bad. He glances up. Everyone stares back in silence. Then someone shouts, Are you admitting you lied under oath, Geoffrey? He doesn't know how to answer that. How? How have you not thought this through? What do you mean? You should have an answer for everything. As a result, I'm withdrawing from the race for London Mayor.

I'm returning to my writing career, to my work in the House of Lords, and above all, to my charity work. Actually, we're good for that, thanks. Signed, Charity. I'd like you to give my family some privacy now, thank you. Everyone swarms forward, shouting questions. He rushes inside. Here's a reporter from the Star, shouts, When are you going to pay us our money back?

Oh yeah, of course, they're going to want their half a mil, aren't they? Yes, he'd sued them for libel, even though they'd been telling the truth. I mean, you'd be livid if you were the Daily Star. You... Yeah, you would, yeah. That night, he pours himself a whiskey, sits alone in front of the open fire. All his dreams of being mayor are dead. As he watches the flames, he wonders if he made a mistake admitting to the false alibi. I mean...

Yes, but also many other mistakes, but also... What? He'll ring his solicitor in the morning and sort it all out. He lets his head rest back, feels his body relax in front of the warm fire. He jumps up. Blue lights flash outside. He opens the door. Two policemen glare at him. Lord Archer, come with us, sir. You're under investigation for perjury. Oh, God, he can't wriggle out of this one. I'm going to sue you for arresting me.

Several days later, 8.30 Monday morning, Lord Mishcon's office, central London. Geoffrey barges through the golden black iron gates of his lawyer's building. A few minutes later, he bursts into Lord Mishcon's office. He's spent the last few days being interviewed by the police about the Ted Francis letter. Now, he's got another fire to fight.

His old friend and fixer, Michael Stackpole, has given the Mail on Sunday an exclusive interview from his hideaway in Thailand. It's the third damning article in a week. He wants his solicitor to sue the Mail on Sunday and threaten Stackpole with legal action. He watches as Mishkon paws over the article.

"'Stackpool claims you sent him to Victoria Station "'with a large envelope of money from Monica Coughlin that she rejected.' "'Jeffrey scoffs. "'Caw! That's not the bit I want you to sue him for.' "'Mishcon tents his fingers. "'I take it you're referring to Mr. Stackpool's claims "'you both went on hunting trips to find prostitutes for sex?' "'Jeffrey jumps forward. "'He's lying about that. "'I've never been with a prostitute in my life.'

Mishkon taps the paper. What about the numerous women he lists that you've allegedly had affairs with? Jeffrey rubs at his eyes. Yes, that part's true. Mishkon folds the paper, leans back. Jeffrey, this isn't your biggest problem right now. I'm going to ask you something, and as your lawyer, I want you to think very carefully before you answer. Did you ask Ted Francis to prepare a false alibi to send to me immediately?

Geoffrey glances away. ''I'll take that as your answer.'' ''It wasn't like that. I was seeing my mistress at the time. I was having dinner with her on the 9th of September and I didn't want Mary to find out.'' Mishkon stares at him. His wide mouth is set in a straight line. It's making Geoffrey nervous. ''Oh, come on. It was only to cover the affair. Ted was never asked to testify in court. The alibi had nothing to do with the case.''

I like the idea of Mishkan looking through all of his huge volumes of legal books and saying, yeah, no, you're actually right. You are absolutely right, Geoffrey. There is a caveat. If you're lying under oath to cover up for an affair, totally fine. As if that's a defence. Also, obviously this is about Mishkan annoyed that Archer's lied to him. Yeah, because, I mean, this looks terrible professionally for him, of course.

Mishkon leans forward. It has everything to do with the case, Jeffrey. You asked him to lie. Not only that, you admitted as much in your statement to the press. I don't think you realize how much trouble you're in. Jeffrey looks at the file Mishkon's just pushed over to him. What's more, your old secretary, Angie Pepiat, saw your press conference. She's saying you lied in your libel trial. She claims to have your old diary.

And it proves you didn't have an alibi. Oh, well done, Angie. So she had to transcribe false appointments into a sort of identical decoy diary, but she kept the old diary. Exactly. Oh, man. Geoffrey's jaw slackens. Mishcon leans forward. I hope she doesn't have proof that you lied in 87, Geoffrey. Because if she does, you're going to jail.

So the Ted stuff is really bad, obviously, but he wasn't in court. Whereas the diary, that was the whole backbone of Geoffrey's alibi. This is the clincher. Thursday, the 26th of April, 2001. Scamondon, near Huddersfield. Monica Coughlan changes gear on her Ford Fiesta. She's just finished her shift as a cleaner and now she's heading home. She'd been looking forward to tonight...

She'd arranged to go to the cinema with her son, but she's just had a call from her solicitor about the Jeffrey Archer case. He's due to stand trial for perjury. She's going to testify against him in court next week. She's on her way to the solicitor's office to look over the final paperwork. She'll relish her time in court. She's going to stand in front of Jeffrey Archer and tell him how his lies made her life miserable, how the court costs ruined her, how she and her son lost their home,

How clearing his name ruined hers and caused a rift with her parents who didn't even know she was on the game. Worst of all, how her son has had to grow up under the shadow of it all. More than anything, she wants to look him in the eye and say, "Tell me now I'm lying, Jeffrey." She changes gear, sits back, lets herself enjoy the country view. She hasn't let him defeat her. She's worked hard since she went bankrupt.

She's even managed to buy a little red brick house for her and her son in Rochdale. He's doing well at school. He's got his GCSEs soon and big plans for the future. He'd given her a small bunch of daffodils on Mother's Day this year. He's the only man who's ever bought her flowers, and she loves him dearly for it. She lets her mind wander to this evening, to the film she'll see with her son. She glances in the rearview mirror, looks back at the road. A car's right in front of her.

She slams on the brakes, tries to swirl. Oh God. The shock of the impact goes through her body. Glass smashes in her face. She's still gripping the steering wheel, but somehow she feels weightless. She can't see the road anymore. All she can see is sky and one last image of her young son's face before the dark ground looms up. Oh my goodness. Did she die? Yes, she died in this car crash. It's such a tragedy. There are obviously lots of jokes in this story, but...

It's easy to forget that there is a real human cost here. And she didn't get her moment in court, the moment that she deserved, where she could show Archer for what he really was. Hey, I'm Ryan Reynolds. At Mint Mobile, we like to do the opposite of what Big Wireless does. They charge you a lot. We charge you a little. So naturally, when they announced they'd be raising their prices due to inflation, we decided to deflate our prices due to not hating you.

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May 2001. The Old Bailey, London. Ted Francis walks into the hushed courtroom and takes his place in the witness box. It's the second day of Archer's perjury trial. He wipes the sweat from his forehead. Whatever Archer's barrister puts him through today, he's determined to tell the truth. Archer's counsel, Nicholas Purnell QC, raises his grey eyebrows at him.

You say you lied for my client in a letter to his solicitor sent in 1986 and that Mr. Archer arranged to pay you for that letter. Ted nods. He promised £20,000, but he only paid £12,000. Pennell paces. So you lied for money. Why should this court believe you now? He shuffles uneasily. I regret lying for Geoffrey, but I want to put that right now.

Ted lets his head hang. He's taken a massive risk with this trial. He knows he could go to prison for perjury himself. But he goes on. Jeffrey Archer lied in his libel trial. Not just about the alibi, but about his marriage. I've been on trips with him around the world. I've seen him pick up women dozens of times. He lied to the court and he lied to me. He told me he was seeing his mistress that night.

But I don't believe he was. I really believe he was with the prostitute in that seedy Mayfair brothel. I believe he was with Monica Coughlin. Pennell cuts in. Do you have proof of that, Mr. Francis? Ted hangs his head again. No. Half an hour later, he stands outside the Old Bailey having a cigarette. His body aches. He hasn't slept properly for weeks. It's not the threat of prison that keeps him awake at night. It's the fear that Jeffrey's going to get away with this.

There's hardly anyone left from the 87 trial to say Jeffrey lied. Terence Baker, Archer's original alibi, died 10 years ago. Lloyd Turner, the editor of the Daily Star, has been dead for almost five years. Oh, wow. A few days ago, Monica Coughlin died in a car accident. And just yesterday, he found out Archer's main fixer, Michael Stackpole, was rushed to hospital in a critical condition.

He'd been knocked off his motorbike in Thailand. This is mad. This is every key player. If he was a superstitious person, he'd think Archer somehow had something to do with it. Superstitious, or as we say in 2022, reading too many conspiracy theories on subreddits. So no, we are absolutely not saying that, right? We're not saying that, no. But equally, if you're in his position, you would feel vulnerable. Sure.

There's only him and Archer's old secretary, Angie Pepiat, left. And after his performance today, proving Archer's guilt rests on her. I believe in Angie. He hears a scuffle behind him, spins round to see a bunch of reporters. One of them shoves a microphone in his face. Mr Francis, how do you feel about going to prison for perjury? Do you think it will happen? He stands to his full height. He's not going to show anyone how scared he is, especially Geoffrey Archer.

He looks at the camera. "I'm going to keep telling the truth and no one will stop me." Two days later. The Old Bailey, London. Geoffrey sits on the bench next to Mary. He'd decided weeks ago not to give evidence himself. He watches now as his former secretary, Angie Pepiat, walks to the stand. Her evidence could be the most damaging of the trial. But Geoffrey's got a plan to discredit her.

He's been collecting evidence, enough to destroy Peppiat's credibility. Oh God. Can people just leave innocent people alone for once in these stories? She is just doing what she feels compelled to do because it's the truth. Yeah, just a life lesson for British Scandal listeners. Be nice to each other. He watches Peppiat take the oath. Her blonde bob is neatly curled at the shoulder. She's wearing a diamante brooch on her dark blue jacket.

When she looks at him, she looks fearless. Geoffrey reaches out for Mary's hand, folds his fingers round hers. Things are still tense between them. No, really? He's just relieved that Mary's here and that she's agreed to give evidence later. The prosecuting barrister, David Waters QC, stands up.

He asks Pepiat to describe her main tasks as Geoffrey Archer's secretary. I organized his life for him. Waters nods. You organized his diary? More than that. I bought jewelry for his wife and for his mistress. His mistress always had to have the bigger stones.

Geoffrey grimaces at the laughter from the public gallery. Mary snatches her hand from his. I would also manage Mrs Archer's visits to his penthouse. When I knew she was coming, I would remove all photographs of Andy, Geoffrey's mistress, and replace them with family photos. I can't believe how contrived it is. It's like a set change in the theatre. Geoffrey squeezes his eyes shut.

When he opens them, his QC, Nicholas Purnell, has jumped up. The next few minutes are crucial. He's given Purnell everything he needs to destroy Pepeat. Now all he can do is watch. You described buying jewellery for Miss Colquhoun and Mrs Archer. Isn't it true you bought jewellery for yourself, at Mr Archer's expense?

Geoffrey holds his breath, waits for her to crumble. ''I most certainly did not. Everything I bought I have receipts for. I kept copies of everything.'' Penel goes on. ''But you fiddled your expenses. You bought yourself free lunches.'' ''No. Mr. Archer gave me an account to entertain. It was part of my job. I was always very careful to log exactly how much I spent.''

Penel scrambles for his notes. "But you lied to Mrs Archer about Andrena Colquhoun! You're a woman giving to telling lies, are you not?" Geoffrey watches her smile. "Oh, I lied to his wife about his mistress, all right. I also lied to his mistress about all the other women he had." "Mic drop!" Geoffrey squeezes his eyes shut at the laughter from the public gallery. Here's Penel ask: "You describe forging Mr Archer's diary. Why? Surely you knew it was wrong to forge potential evidence?"

Jeffrey looks at her. Pennell's finally trapped her. He watches her drop her gaze. I was scared of him. That's why I kept hold of this as insurance. Yes, perfect answer. Because she's got it, hasn't she? She's got it. Her hand flies up. She's holding up his old diary.

This is his original diary. I made photocopies of the forged entries next to copies of that day's newspapers for proof. Geoffrey Archer did not have an alibi for that night. He did not see Terence Baker or Ted Francis or Andrena Colquhoun. He made it all up. Every. Single. Word. She's so brave! The public gallery erupts as journalists run out to do interviews to camera. Geoffrey looks over at Mary.

Imagine asking that of her at this point. What would be going through her mind? She's devastated. She's humiliated. Her whole life is destroyed.

And his fate is in her hands. She's already demonstrated incredible reserves of loyalty when she's frequently been cheated on. So at this stage, you do wonder whether this is the final straw for her or whether she's going to keep backing him up. A few days later, the old Bailey, London. Mary tugs at her neat black collarless jacket. She stares defiantly at David Waters, the prosecuting barrister.

He's been cross-examining her for 20 minutes now. She's agreed to save Geoffrey, but more than that, she's determined to save her own reputation. If she admits she lied in the original trial, she could be prosecuted for perjury herself. Oh, Mike. I mean, the amount of people he's drawn into this. Waters paces in front of her. How many diaries did your husband keep? Her muscles relax. Geoffrey had two diaries.

"'Maybe Pepeatz isn't the most important,' she tells the court now. "'There was an economist diary for the year in question, 1986, "'and an A4 diary that Geoffrey kept at the London flat.' "'She watches Waters nod. "'Did you ever look in the economist diary?' "'She purses her lips. "'Of course. "'When I needed to know what appointments he had, Waters goes on. "'In the 1987 trial, you described your marriage, under oath, as happy.'

She glares at Geoffrey. Since she married him, he's lied and hurt and humiliated her. But after 35 years together, she's not giving up on him now. It begs the question, why? We have been very happy. The judge, Justice Potts, leans forward. I remind you, Mrs. Archer, not to use the term we. You are giving evidence. He is not. Do you understand? She bristles, manages to mutter,

Yes. He's getting a very different treatment from this judge. Absolutely. And also, think of the subtle but definite change in British society since 87 to 2001. You've now got a Labour government that's way more socially liberal. The Tories aren't in power anymore. Even though judges are still part of the establishment in a way, the mood in the country from 1987 to 2001, I think, was fundamentally different about stuff like this and their attitude towards people like the Archers.

Waters goes on. You and your husband lead separate lives. In fact, at the time of the libel trial, your husband was living in his riverside apartment with his mistress, Andrina Cole-Hulme. She scoffs. That is complete and utter nonsense. Waters raises a thick eyebrow at her.

He made entries in the Economist diary, which you've admitted to referencing. You knew about this affair. In fact, you knew he'd been having affairs since you got married. And yet, under oath, you covered all that up. She snaps back. I did not cover anything up. I may have made light of it, that's all. Which, in a way, is her prerogative. How she decides to take those affairs is her business. Except when, maybe, it's under oath.

Waters looms towards her. Let's be clear, Mrs. Archer. You told the court in 1987 that yours was a full and happy marriage when you knew he was having an affair. Isn't that true? She stares at him. Yes, and you lied about it in court. She takes a few breaths. Her eyes never leave Waters' face. Then she hears her own quiet voice say, Yes. A shocked ripple goes round the courtroom.

She blinks over at Jeffrey. He's got his head in his hands. As she steps down, she realizes it's not just Jeffrey who might end up in jail. It's looking more and more likely he's going to bring her down with him.

Outrageous. I just can't believe it. What a terrible deal. You marry this guy, he cheats on you, you agree to help him because you love him, and then that puts you at risk of going to prison. Love does the strangest things, Matt. A few days later, the old Bailey, London. Geoffrey stands up as the jury file in. He rests his hands on the polished oak rail.

His old friend, Ted Francis, stands next to him, shaking. Geoffrey stares straight ahead. Whatever happens, he's determined not to show any fear. He lets his gaze wander round the oak-panelled courtroom. The editors of the Daily Star and the News of the World glare at him. He blinks away. He knows how much they'd love to find him guilty. He's still confident it won't come to that. He's still confident he could be Mayor of London.

Yesterday, he watched his QC, Pernell, remind the jury that the burden of proof is not on Lord Archer to prove his innocence. It's up to the prosecution to prove that Lord Archer lied in his libel trial in 1987. He bristled slightly when Pernell had added, Lord Archer may have been a bloody fool for attempting to cover up a liaison with a female friend, but that doesn't make him a criminal. He lengthens his neck as the judge, Mr Justice Potts,

Asks the jury if they've reached a decision on Mr Francis. A neatly dressed woman stands up and nods. Mr Edward Francis, on the charge of perverting the course of justice by providing a false alibi, not guilty. He sees Ted burst into tears with relief. Then he hears his own name. Here we go. Lord Geoffrey Archer, on the charge of perverting the course of justice, making entries in an Economist diary for September 1986...

Not guilty. Okay. He almost buckles with relief. He looks over at the editors of The Star and The News of the World, gives them both a little smile of victory. Just, just hold it in. Then he hears. On the charge of perverting the course of justice and giving Angela Pepiat instructions to forge his diary, guilty. On the charge of perjury and making a statement under oath for use in judicial proceedings, guilty. Oh no.

On the charge of perjury and knowingly making a false statement as a sworn witness, guilty, he sees the editor of the Daily Star jump to his feet and shout, Yes! He looks at the judge, but he can hardly hear what he's saying for the pounding blood in his own ears. This has been an extremely distasteful case. The charges represent as serious an offense of perjury as I have experience of and have been able to find in the books.

He hears him hand out a prison sentence of four years. Wow. He looks for Mary. Her face is white, frozen with fear. He shakes as he's led to the cells. And for the first time in his life, he feels utterly powerless.

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I bet. I just need you to bring a cake with a pickaxe in it. Last favour, last favour. And a poster of Rita Hayworth. LAUGHTER

A few days ago, he was caught trying to take the blade from his Bic razor. He's been on suicide watch ever since, woken by prison guards who check on him through the night. He can't sleep anyway. Men shout and scream at all hours. Even when it is quiet, he can't find any comfort on the thin, hard mattress.

Then there's the cockroaches. They crawl over him at night. And they're the size of small mice. And then the small mice crawl over him. They're the size of dogs. He follows the guard into the visiting room, sees Mary. She looks out of place, dressed in a cashmere suit, sitting on a dirty plastic chair. He rushes to her. He'd love nothing more than to hug her right now, but he knows he can't.

Instead, he whispers, God, she's good.

They want their £500,000 from the original settlement, plus interest. We've been waiting for this, haven't we? He shakes his head. He can't think about money now. He tries not to cry when he tells her, please, Mary, just please help me. That's a lovely privilege for him to have, to not worry about that money whilst he's in prison, whereas I'm sure Mary is out of her mind.

At five o'clock, he's in the queue for food. People push in front of him. Eventually, he gets to the front. There's hardly any food left. A small lump of steak and kidney pie is plopped onto his tray. Sorry, I ordered shepherds and champers. The toilet wine's there and you'll get what you're given. He's about to walk away when a wiry man with a huge tattoo on his neck knocks the tray from his hand.

He snaps. Watch out! The man turns. What you say? Jeffrey shrinks back, apologises. Scoops up his food from the floor. Heads back to his cell to the sound of jeering from the other prisoners. Next morning, he's in the workroom, packing tea bags into boxes when the guard calls him over. You're being transferred!

A few hours later, he's led through a landscaped garden to the governor's office. This is an open prison. You will not be locked in your cell, but you can only leave these premises for specific purposes if I consider them necessary or beneficial. Understood? So sorry, wait, he can leave? With the governor's permission. He nods and thanks the governor. Belmarsh had terrified him. He never wants to go back there. I'll stick to the rules, sir, and respect them. You have my word.

Could we maybe get a deposit or something instead? Because that counts for nothing.

13 months later, Northwold, Norfolk. Geoffrey leans back in his BMW, takes in the countryside around him. What? He's meant to be on a home visit to Grantchester today. Usually, he and Mary spend his home visits pottering round the garden or enjoying lunch. But three days ago, Gillian Shepherd, an old friend and former Conservative minister, invited them to her party. Right now, in his faded blue sweatshirt and jeans, he isn't dressed for a social event.

And he hasn't got permission from the prison governor either. But he's ignoring all of that. He's just desperate to feel normal and part of his old social circle again. No, no, no. When will he learn? I mean, if there's one person you don't break your word with, it's the governor of the prison you're an inmate at.

Yeah, I'd agree with that rule. Life has been much easier in the open prison. He loves being the umpire for the prison cricket team. Most days he drives to Lincoln Theatre to do unpaid work shifting scenery, followed by a long lunch at the Italian Bistro. Are you joking? I mean, shifting scenery was like the way he used to swap his flat round in between visits. LAUGHTER

and at weekends he goes home to see Mary for a few hours. This is very cushy. He pulls up outside the charming Norfolk Rectory, where Gillian Shepherd lives. She rushes out to greet him. After she's hugged him, she raises a well-manicured eyebrow. You look tired, Geoffrey. Come inside. Lunch is ready. When he walks in, the other guests fall quiet.

His jaw tightens. There must be two dozen people here, and he knows them all. He stares back in awkward silence. But then, someone starts to clap. Really? Others join in. He feels relief spread across his face. A few minutes later, he's eating ham quiche and salad, surrounded by a group of eager listeners. He tells them about his time in Belmarsh, how difficult it had been, but how a prisoner had come up to him in the dinner queue and shook his hand.

He told me he'd just learned to read. He said, Jeffrey, your stories keep me sane in this place. Can we have some verification? Eyewitnesses? A few hours later, Mary drives him back to North Sea Camp Prison. He's got just under three years left on his sentence.

If he can break up the monotony with visits like this, it'll be more bearable. Oh yeah, I'm sure lots of prisoners think if I could just go to a weekly party, this sentence will be much easier to handle. Yeah, I mean, Your Honour, I accept a life sentence at Belmarsh, but can I just nip out on Sundays, just go down to the old dug and duck, see the old boys, plate a mashed potato, couple of points. But as they pull into the grounds, a guard ushers him out of the car, marches him to the prison governor's office. He checks the clock.

He's on time. They can't penalise him for being late. But the governor asks where he was this afternoon. He doesn't want to admit to being at Gillian Shepherd's party. It's 50 miles away, so he juts his chin out. I was at home with my wife at Grantchester. He watches the governor tap his pen against his greying temple. We've had a phone call from one of the guests at Mrs Shepherd's party. Oh, not all fans then. Geoffrey opens his mouth, but says nothing. The governor leans back.

I'm revoking your privileges. You'll be transferred to a secure prison." "As if you would risk it all for that." He starts to bleed. "No, you can't. That's not fair." A few hours later, he's driven to Lincoln Prison and locked in a cell. He paces, kicks the metal toilet. He wants to cry. But he's not going to be defeated by this. He's going to figure out a way to turn it to his advantage. Tomorrow, he's going to ask for a pen and some paper.

He's turned his life around before. He's determined to do it again. He's going to write his prison diaries and become a best-selling author once more. Quite smart. I've read all three of his prison diaries. I knew you would have. The Belmarsh bit's the best bit. It's July 2003, Grantchester, Cambridge.

Mary snips the twine from a bunch of flowers and arranges them in a vase. Geoffrey gets out of prison today. She wants everything to look perfect. She's been lonely without him. The past two years have made her realise how much she loves him. Could have gone either way. That's why she's going to persuade him to sell his London penthouse and live with her here in Grantchester for good.

Half an hour later, she watches a dark green BMW pull into the drive. Jeffrey steps out. He's instantly surrounded by yelling reporters. She checks herself in the mirror, heads into the garden. Jeffrey pushes his way to her. He looks tired. His navy suit hangs on his shrunken body. She rushes over and hugs him. She holds his hand as they pose for photographs. She's determined not to cry in front of the press.

A few minutes later, she follows him inside, pours him a coffee, listens as he talks about how relieved he is to be out, how he's been talking to his publisher about getting his prison diaries published. She smiles to herself. They've been through some terrible times, but right now, all she can feel is pride.

This is a topsy-turvy world, isn't it? It's amazing. Every time you read what her reaction is, I think it's the opposite to what most people's reaction would be. All she can feel is anger. No, pride. Whatever life throws at Geoffrey, he always turns it around. Famously not, Mary. She's already read the three volumes of prison diaries he sent to his publisher. He'd based them on Dante's Divine Comedy. It had felt like the old days. Her making comments and suggestions. Him organising the publicity.

The press have already attacked him, of course. Some early drafts had leaked and he'd breached prison regulations by naming some of the prisoners. What's amazing about the Archer story is literally in every half a sentence he's doing stuff wrong. Yeah, and doesn't care one bit. But she doesn't let that spoil her moment with him now.

She's just so happy to listen to him make plans for the future. She reaches over to him, takes his hand in hers. "I think you should sell the London apartment. Live here with me. We could start again. Put everything behind us." For a second, he looks shocked, then says, "I've already decided. I'm going back to London. Permanently." She snatches her hand away. "Why?"

He looks at her with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry, but I need to be there. To do publicity for the diaries. I could get a whole new generation of readers from this. And then I can get back into politics." She turns away, gazes out of the kitchen window. "When are you going?" He doesn't speak for a few seconds. "Tonight." She looks down at the flowers in the vase. "After 37 years of marriage, you're still choosing your career over me.

A few hours later, she watches the tail lights of his BMW disappear into the darkness. She's too stunned to cry. She turns back and heads into the house. She'll carry on as normal. She'll do what she's always done. She'll keep the outside world out. And if anyone dares question the state of her marriage, she'll defend it. And her husband. Forever.

Since his release from prison, Geoffrey Archer has continued to write novels. He paid the Daily Star the £500,000 damages he was awarded after the 1987 trial, along with the legal costs and interest of £1.3 million. Whoa. He was forced to resign as president of the World Professional Billiards and Snooker Association. Gutted.

He subsequently presented them with a bill for £15,000 for legal costs. It's the Archer Way. Mary Archer was made a Dame of the British Empire in 2012. After years as chair of Cambridge Hospitals, the town named a road after her, the Dame Mary Archer Way. Actually, that's the Archer Way. She and Geoffrey are still happily married and live together in Grantchester.

This is the third episode in our series, Lord of the Lies. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all of our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Geoffrey Archer, Stranger Than Fiction by Michael Crick, and In For A Penny by Jonathan Mantle. I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. Karen Laws 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.

Hey, I'm Mike Corey, the host of Wondery's podcast, Against the Odds. In each episode, we share thrilling true stories of survival, putting you in the shoes of the people who live to tell the tale. In our next season, it's July 6th, 1988, and workers are settling into the night shift aboard Piper Alpha, the world's largest offshore oil rig.

Home to 226 men, the rig is stationed in the stormy North Sea off the coast of Scotland. At around 10 p.m., workers accidentally trigger a gas leak that leads to an explosion and a fire. As they wait to be rescued, the workers soon realize that Piper Alpha has transformed into a death trap. Follow Against the Odds wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen ad-free on Amazon Music or the Wondery app.