Hitler Diaries | Hoaxed | 3
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Just a warning before we begin this episode, it does contain strong language, Alice. I might not have heard some of these words before. I think I've heard you use all of them. Alice, what are you reading over there? I don't know. It says, Dear Diary, today I interviewed Angela Rayner. I think I did a great job. Mum will be proud. Is this...

Is this your diary? I don't keep a diary. That must be fake. This one says, Today I watched Forest play and they won. I was so happy I cried myself to sleep. It's clearly a fake. Dear diary, this job is hell. That ginger witch and then the page is torn out. Oh God, it's real. How did you get hold of that? Friday the 6th of May, 1983. Grayson Road, London.

In his glass front sixth floor office, Rupert Murdoch watches the live news report on CNN. He takes a sip of water and loosens his tie, which suddenly feels more like a noose around his neck. The head of the German Federal Archive has just officially declared the Hitler diaries as fakes.

On the basis of the analysis of the contents and after a forensic examination, the Federal Archive is convinced that the documents do not come from Hitler's hand, but were produced after the war. This is not good news for Murdoch, because for the past two weeks, the jewel in his British newspaper stable, the Sunday Times, has run exclusive extracts from those same diaries. They're set to become a national laughingstock. Murdoch feels a surge of adrenaline shoot through him.

He can't let that happen. He needs to change the narrative, and fast. Strutting onto the paper's editorial floor, Murdoch is greeted by a mix of ashen-faced shock and barely concealed rage. He catches the eye of Philip Knightley, the senior reporter who begged him not to publish the diaries in case they were a hoax. Murdoch refuses to be cowed. Here's the plan. We issue a statement making it clear this is on the Germans. They tricked Trevor Roper and, by default, us.

Then we move on. There are murmurs of dissent. Knightley looks aghast. Murdoch eyeballs him. What's the problem? Knightley looks at him as if that should be obvious. Undaunted, Murdoch waits, forcing him to spit out what's on his mind. We have to issue an unreserved apology to the readers. Murdoch knows Knightley has a point. Rivals like the Telegraph and the Daily Mail will be desperate to have a pop. Murdoch mustn't give them more ammunition.

But he won't have them wallow in self-flagellation and pity either. Fine, stick a sentence near the bottom of the statement. Something about how we're sorry we let the readers down. He's got a beautiful way with words, hasn't he? Knightley pipes up again. Well, we did let them down. We can't bury this with one line then act like nothing happened. Murdoch feels anger bubbling up within him. These UK broadsheet journalists are so earnest, so bogged down with right and wrong. Boring! Boring!

They don't seem to understand that they wouldn't have their jobs without big, bold, entertaining stories. That's what the public wants these days. Murdoch holds Knightley's gaze. He wants there to be no doubt he means business. That's exactly what we do. Then we turn the spotlight on Stern. Here's your headline. Murdoch goes over to a whiteboard. He feels the hum of anticipation in the air. A staff crane their necks and whisper to each other, desperate to know what the next move will be.

He pauses for effect, then picks up a pen and writes in big capital letters. The Hitler Diaries. The hunt for the forger. Oh, it's good. That's a good spin though, right? Clever git.

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So, Alice, what a wonderful tale of basically everyone getting duped by someone else. Yeah, you can't trust anyone. We have this Nazi enthusiast who has produced dozens and dozens of these fake Hitler diaries to make some money. He's scrawling them in his basement while his wife's upstairs making dinner. We have this British...

establishment historian who's willing to put his name to the veracity of them, because he kind of is willing it to be real. And then we have the Times and the Sunday Times, who are going to print these excerpts, even though the doubts are rife about how real they are. And those doubts could potentially have a profound impact on the reputation of Britain's two most trusted newspapers, owned by Rupert Murdoch, who himself is driving this decision forward.

This feels like this is the start of a new instinct at the heart of British news. Yeah, we can't imagine a time now when we're not talking about fake news or being in a post-truth world. This feels like a really key moment. In some ways, it's foreshadowing a completely new media landscape. We'll see it much later on. But that idea that truth doesn't matter when money is the primary goal.

So at the end of this story, do you think Murdoch's going to get his comeuppance and that things will go badly for him, or do you think he'll basically be fine? Matthew, what do you think? This is episode three, Hoaxed. It's two weeks earlier, 10.30am, Tuesday the 25th of April, 1983, Hamburg. Hugh Trevor Roper sits in the darkness of Stern's canteen.

Along with the 200 journalists squeezed into the room, he's watching a film explaining how the Hitler diaries were discovered. Gert Heidemann looms large on the screen, holding up photos of the crashed aircraft that's thought to have carried them. But Trevor Roper hasn't listened to a word. He's too distracted. He's still furious at Rupert Murdoch for running the Sunday Times diary scoop two days ago, despite his warnings they may not be real after all.

As the historian who initially authenticated the diaries for the paper, his name is now wedded to that decision, for better or worse. That's why he reluctantly agreed to go ahead with his appearance here today, as the key speaker at the press conference to launch the diaries in Stern magazine. The Sunday Times assured Trevor Roper they would urgently carry out checks of their own, and pushed home the point that to back out of the press conference would make them all look bad.

Trevor Roper thought he could just say a few words and put aside his doubts. But now he's here. He's realising what a big mistake that could be. With the eyes of the world upon him, this could be his only chance to rescue his own reputation if the diaries are later revealed as fakes. The lights come up. Trevor Roper watches as a stern staffer theatrically tips a dozen volumes of Hitler diaries onto the table. What? Don't do that. They're historical documents. There are oohs and ahhs from the assembled throng.

Photographers scramble for close-ups. Stern's editor, Peter Koch, addresses the audience. We paid a lot of money for these diaries, but when it comes to informing the reader, nothing is too expensive. Looking around, Trevor Roper notes all the different expressions. Some of awe, others hint at doubt and defiance. Before he can think straight, Koch is introducing him.

Then questions are flying his way from all directions. Are these actually the real thing? How come no one had heard of these until now? Trevor Roper takes a deep breath. The diaries might be genuine, but there is such a thing as a perfect forgery. Really? That's how he's going to try and cover his back? Trevor Roper finds himself blushing. This may well be the most mortifying moment of his entire 69 years. Peter Koch looks his way, clearly concerned.

Trevor Roper can feel the editor's eyes burn into him. And as a historian, I regret the normal method of historical verification has perhaps to some extent been sacrificed to the requirements of journalistic scoop. The whole room erupts. The questions are now more frenzied, more aggressive. You're now saying these are fake. What will this do to your reputation, Lord Dacre? Trevor Roper doesn't know what to say, who to answer first. He's utterly overwhelmed.

He glances back at the stern executives. They sit stony-faced, arms folded, almost defiant. Koch's look of betrayal suddenly seems to shift to one of fury as the editor jumps to his feet. I am 100% convinced that Hitler wrote every single word in these books. That leaves very little wriggle room. But no one is listening to Koch. There are shouts from a man at the back of the room.

Trevor Roper immediately recognises him as David Irving, a self-appointed Third Reich expert from the UK. He's known to British historians as nothing more than a far-right zealot. He struts towards Trevor Roper, waving documents. I know the collection from which these diaries come. It is full of forgeries. I have some here. Irving holds a bunch of papers aloft. The cameras now swing to him.

Koch is also trained on Irving, dispatching a stern flunky to turn his microphone off. Irving simply grabs another. Has the ink been tested for age? There is no answer from Koch or the others. Irving is being dragged from the room, but now the reporters are shouting at Koch. Ink! Ink! Ink! It's not exactly the loudiest of chants, is it? Trevor Roper sits in a daze as the rest of the conference turns to pure farce.

As he leaves the building, he catches sight of Irving, surrounded by a mob of reporters. This Holocaust denier is being given airtime, while Trevor Roper is ignored. The full force of what's happened today suddenly hits Trevor Roper. Two weeks ago, he was one of Britain's most respected historians. Now he's playing second fiddle to a pantomime crackpot. But he convinces himself he's done the right thing and hardens his resolve.

From now on, he will only speak what he knows to be true, whatever the consequences. It's Thursday 28th April 1983, Stuttgart. Gert Heidemann feels his irritation grow as he listens to the debate on the car radio. Four so-called experts are discussing the authenticity of the diaries. Heidemann can't understand it.

He's collected numerous testimonies from experts, spent two years gathering documents and providing evidence that these diaries are genuine. No question of authenticity should remain, but he won't let it dent his spirits. All told, it's still been a positive week. He's managed to allay the fears of the Sunday Times executives, who were understandably furious about Trevor Roper's statements. With his unshakable conviction, Heidemann personally assured them that the diaries are real.

and Stern's team has presented a united front to the world, publicly backing Heidemann and the Diaries. He pulls up outside Konrad Kujau's shop, whistling as he switches off the engine of his car. Heidemann is looking forward to seeing his friend and contact. He's here to take delivery of some paintings, but he's also glad of the opportunity to meet with the source of the Diaries face-to-face. If anyone can understand what he's felt over the last few days, it's Konrad.

It's good to see you, my friend. I've had quite a week. I wish I could sit and shoot the breeze cut, but I have a very busy schedule today. Next time, though, yes? Heidemann hides his disappointment. Conrad seems different somehow, a little on edge. Hmm, it's just that, isn't it? Heidemann shakes off his concerns. Conrad must have been equally stressed by the diary's authenticity being scrutinised. Of course he's not himself.

Heidemann moves on to a new money-making scheme. He's sure it will be of interest to Conrad. I've had word of a hoard of Nazi treasure buried in East Berlin. I will pay you and Edith 20,000 marks to go over and dig it up. But Heidemann receives a muted reaction. Maybe sometime in the future, Gerd, but I've taken enough risks smuggling the diaries over. I need a break. Driving back home, Heidemann feels deflated.

but he reminds himself not to worry if this project doesn't come off. Several book publishers have expressed interest in his two-year investigation. It would be good to have something new to bring to Stern, but if that doesn't happen, the diaries can be his legacy. It's late by the time Heidemann enters his apartment, but the phone is ringing. He rushes to answer, hoping it's Conrad saying he's changed his mind, but it's Peter Koch.

We've had a new set of experts look at the diaries. The forensic tests have just come back. It's a disaster. Heidemann pales as Koch outlines the main findings. The diaries aren't just fakes, they're utterly crude fakes. That is a real punch in the gut. The paper used is laced with whitener which didn't exist before 1955. The red threads attached to the cover seals are viscous and polyester.

the four different types of ink used are commonly found in modern artist shops and don't match those used during the war. The writing in the 1943 diary is less than 12 months old. Heydermann can hear Koch's animosity grow as he speaks. It's clear their tentative truce is over. I knew I should have stuck with my gut about you. What was this to you? Some neo-Nazi fantasy made real? Some rehabilitation of the Third Reich? God, did you even have a hand in the forgeries?

Of course not! I believed in these diaries. I still believe. But Koch refuses to listen. You have always been a fraud, Heidemann. I will personally see to it that you pay for this. As Koch hangs up, Heidemann drops the telephone to the floor. His head spins. He can't breathe. This can't be happening. The project he's dedicated the last two years of his life to, his journalistic reputation, his heart and soul, can it really all have been a lie?

He can't let that be true. He won't let it be true. One week later, Friday the 6th of May 1983, Munich. It's late afternoon and Heydermann is speeding along the country lanes north of the city. Long drives usually help Heydermann get his head together but he's been on the road for hours and he's still trying to figure out what to do next. Like everyone else, he saw the press conference earlier.

The head of the German Federal Archives has publicly confirmed what Koch told him a week ago, that the Hitler diaries are fakes. But Heidemann still won't accept it. Not yet. So even though he's aware Hamburg police want to speak to him, and that this might make it look as if he's going on the run, Heidemann puts his foot down. Going faster, he tries to think of something he's missed, evidence he can produce to counter everything that's been said.

By the evening, with no big ideas or revelations, Heidemann has to admit defeat. With a heavy heart, he pulls over and goes to a payphone. Then he calls Stern's publishing director. Thank God, we need you back here. Tell me where you are. We'll send a private plane to pick you up. Heidemann feels a surge of relief flood through him. Stern's bosses still believe in him.

They will look after him. He tells them his location, then finds a motorway cafe and waits. An Olympic breakfast later and he feels right as rain. Do you know why they're called an Olympic breakfast? Why? Because they're cooked in ancient Greece. LAUGHTER

That's very good. And if you're a British Scandal listener that doesn't live in the UK, you might not have had the delights of an Olympic breakfast. It's just all of the food things many times on a big oval plate, isn't it, at a service station? Five sausage, five bacon, five hash brown, five, just five of everything. Rule of five. Yeah, to represent the five Olympic rings. Right. A few hours later, as he boards the plane they've sent, he's overwhelmed to find Gina is waiting on board. My darling, I'm so happy to see you.

Third wheel, Marge. Confused, Heidemann looks at Gina for guidance.

They think you knew the diaries were forgeries all along. They think I was in on it too. They want answers. Heidemann is filled with dread as he realises he's completely misjudged the situation. Stern's top brass don't have his back at all. What they want is a head on a stick. And like a damn fool, he's just walked straight into their hands.

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It's the same day, Friday the 6th of May 1983, Hamburg. It's almost midnight by the time Heidemann reaches Stern Magazine's HQ. His mood matches the gloom of the empty editorial floor. Heidemann watches Gina being led into one office as he is taken into another. He mouths the words, I love you. His biggest regret in all of this is that she's been dragged into this mess. He has no time to dwell on that mess.

Waiting for him are a group of senior officials including Stern's founder, Henry Nannan. It's clear to Heidemann that while Stern has beaten the police to finding him, they intend to conduct their own interrogation. But Heidemann isn't about to fall on his sword. As far as he's concerned, he's as much of a victim in this as Stern is.

We are going to uncover the full story of this forgery and lay it before our readers. No! I still have every reason to believe most of these diaries are genuine. Then why run? I was looking for more evidence to prove it conclusively. Heidemann almost jumps in shock as Nannan bangs the table in fury. Wake up, man! The Federal Archive is not wrong! Heidemann puts his head in his hands. He won't allow himself to believe it.

When Nanon sits back, seemingly exasperated, Heidemann feels a surge of relief. Are they done with him? But to his horror, they switch to a different topic. "You must tell us the name of your source. If you are so confident in them, we should know who they are." A jolt of adrenaline courses through Heidemann's veins. Giving up his source goes against every journalistic instinct he has.

He's determined to resist. I cannot tell you. Lives would be in danger. Nanon eyeballs Heidemann, clearly furious. Nonsense! We are the ones in danger! Heidemann crosses his arms in defiance. He will not let a bunch of jumped-up pen-pushers break him. But as the hours tick past, exhaustion sets in. At 4am, Heidemann's thoughts turn back to Gina. Did you make sure she got home safely? Nanon almost chuckles. What?

She is still here. She will remain here until you give us what we need. Heidemann's heart sinks. He doesn't want to give up Conrad. He truly believes that if the diaries are fakes, his friend was conned too. Not only that, giving up his source would put his journalistic integrity on the line. Surely this does as well. I don't think anyone's coming out with a Pulitzer, are they? But then he wonders, isn't it already? If this really was a hoax, he fell for it hook, line and sinker.

And now Gina's in danger because of him. Okay, enough. Heidemann scribbles Conrad's number on a piece of paper, hands it to the stern executive. Finally, Heidemann is allowed to leave. He should feel glad. But he knows while giving up Conrad means his ordeal tonight might be over, his problems have only just begun.

His loyalty is admirable, but logic and reasoning have just left him, haven't they? Why wouldn't he suspect Conrad? And all I can think is, he just is willing for it to be real so badly. Yes, and for someone so concerned about his journalistic integrity, his journalistic judgment is appalling. It's the 8th of May, 1983, Cambridge. At Peterhouse College, Masters Lodge, Trevor Roper peeks through the curtains.

To his relief, there are no students loitering outside trying to get a glimpse of him. No reporters have sneaked into the grounds. All is finally quiet. Five weeks ago, Trevor Roper craved attention. But since the start of the month, all he's wanted is to be left alone to lick his wounds. Now, he realises time and space to think may be worse. Because all he can conclude is that he's been an utter fool.

Yes, if Stern had run even the most basic checks on more than one page of the diaries, the forensics would have exposed the diaries as fakes. But there were glaring clues Trevor Roper failed to spot too. The German Federal Archives identified the main source of the diaries' information as one single book. Wherever the book made a historical error, it's repeated in the diaries. Trevor Roper's failure to notice this feels like a schoolboy error. He walks into his study, takes in the pile of newspapers scattered across the desk.

He picks one up at random. A copy of The New Republic, published just after the Stern press conference took place. Trevor Roper opens it to an article written by one of his former pupils, Timothy Garton Ash. His heart sinks as he skims the first paragraph. Lord Dacre's performance was rather like watching a Victorian gentleman trying to backpedal a penny farthing. Trevor Roper throws it down in anger. He's being mocked by his own students.

Walking over to his floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, he takes out his prized first edition of the book that put him on the map all those years ago. The Last Days of Hitler. It occurs to him that if he's going to claw back any credibility, he will have to earn it. Just as he did by spending endless months painstakingly researching this. He's heartened by that idea. He's done it before, what's to say he can't do it again? Everything that's happened in the past few months?

He gets straight on the phone to his agent. It's time I wrote another book. A completely different period of history this time. The French Revolution, perhaps. There's a long pause. Listen, Hugh, I think the only thing anyone will be interested in right now is your take on this whole diaries affair. The public appetite isn't going to stretch to anything else. Trevor Roper knows he's right. But accepting it is something else. He hangs up the phone, defeated.

As he stands in the study surrounded by his books, he realises that despite his glittering career, this is what he will be remembered for. It's mid-May 1983, Dornburn, Austria. At a small cottage on the outskirts of town, Konrad Kujau relaxes on the sofa with a sherry.

He savours the first mouthful as he switches on the TV, then nearly spits it out as his own face stares back at him from the screen. This is Konrad Kuzhau, the man wanted in connection with the Hitler diary hoax. Sitting beside Kuzhau, Edith turns her face towards him, clearly terrified. What do we do, Connie? Kuzhau searches his mind for an answer. He should have been better prepared for this moment.

After all, the reason they came to stay with Edith's parents was to escape the frenzy caused by the diaries being exposed as fakes. He thought it would be a good idea to get out of Stuttgart until the dust settled, but never really believed he was in danger. He's been giving Heidemann a false surname all this time, calling himself Conrad Fisher. How will he crack the code? I mean, he could have at least given himself a false first name as well. Go the full hog! If a country-wide search is underway, the police must think they have concrete evidence.

Kuzhau's no fool. He can only conclude that under immense pressure, Heidemann has given up the name he's been using and the authorities have pieced together enough information for the trail to lead back to him. Kuzhau calls his lawyer, who confirms the Hamburg state prosecutor is looking for him. Your home and shop were raided this morning. I've been trying to reach you. My advice? Give yourself up. Replacing the phone, Kuzhau is unconvinced.

But Edith, ever the realist, takes his hand and looks him in the eye. "If they've raided the shop, it's only a matter of time before they come here!" "We can't run forever, Connie!" It slowly dawns on Kuzhau that she's right. He can't avoid detection forever, and even if he could, he wouldn't want to. But the more Kuzhau thinks about it, the more he sees how he can turn this around, even make a game of it.

Okay, but I won't make this easy for them. I'm going to tell them a load of fairy stories. Mess with their heads. Connie, I was thinking we could just actually tell them the truth now. At 8am, Kujau crosses the German border and is promptly arrested.

When he sits down for his interrogation with Dietrich Klein of the prosecutor's office, he's in a playful mood. The only thing he will be honest about is Heidemann's ignorance. After all, the poor fool is guilty of no more than falling for his lies. He takes a cigarette from the squashed pack on the table, lights it with a flourish. If Klein is rattled by Cujau's bravado, he doesn't show it. If you think you'll walk away from this with a famous name and little more than a slapped wrist, think again.

Now, it was a bit of fun. Nobody died? That's not how Stern sees it. They forked out a total of nine million marks for these diaries. Kujau chokes out a puff of smoke. He's stunned. He only received a quarter of that amount. Where's the rest? Having clocked his shock, Klein smiles. You seem surprised. Kujau pulls on the cigarette tightly. It's dawning on him for the first time that he wasn't the only deceiver here. He's also been conned.

Heidemann must have taken the rest of the money for himself. He thinks back to his last meeting with the reporter, his suggestion he and Edith dig up the Nazi treasure in East Germany. It occurs to him that Heidemann may have been setting him up to be arrested over the border. Kuzhau takes a moment, makes a decision. "I would like some paper, please." Klein passes Kuzhau a notepad.

The prosecutor's eyes widen as Kujau, ever the showman, begins to write out a confession in the same Germanic script he used to write the diaries. Checking Klein is still watching him, he then adds the sentence. My partner in this hoax was Gerd Heidemann. Fleecing Stern was his idea. He knew the diaries were forgeries from the start. If Kujau is going down, he's now determined to take Heidemann with him.

Oh, the betrayal. We have seen this so many times before in British Scandal. When people are deceived, they're hurt. And then the only way they know how to regain some control is to be spiteful. Even if it means confessing to this crime. It's the 20th of May, 1983, Hamburg. Heidemann doesn't know how long he's been laying on the cold, hard floor of his basement. He hasn't eaten or slept properly in weeks.

Despite Stern's threats, he's yet to be arrested or charged with any crime. He suspects due to a lack of evidence. But that hasn't stopped him entertaining thoughts of suicide. The only thing that stops him is knowing how much it would devastate Gina. Now he becomes aware of her presence. She's kneeling down beside him, touching his tear-stained cheek, wearing a deeply worried expression. Kurt, darling, the police are here. Heidemann can only stare back at her wide-eyed.

This is it. They finally come for him. He has no idea what to do. You have to take whatever is coming with dignity. Heidemann isn't sure he could do that for anyone else. But Gina is his rock, his backbone. For her, he will see this through. It takes every ounce of strength he has, but he pulls himself to his feet, then follows her to the sitting room where two police officers are waiting.

He takes in their expressions as they look around the room, which is filled with many of the Nazi relics he's been collecting these last three years. He can tell they're disgusted. It occurs to Heidemann that maybe Koch was right all along. He really has become so obsessed with this world, with Hitler, that he's lost all sense of journalistic objectivity. "Gert Heidemann, you are under arrest for deception and fraud." It pains Heidemann to watch Gina sob as he's cuffed and led away, her words ringing in his ears.

He turns to one of the officers. I will fully cooperate. Sitting in the police interview room, Heidemann feels re-energized. He will tell the truth. He is guilty of stealing money from Stern. It's right that he be punished. If he takes what's coming with good grace, he can at least walk away from this with some dignity.

The prosecutor, Dietrich Klein, sits down on the other side of the desk and coldly informs him that the forger of the diaries is Konrad Kujau, who also goes under the alias Konrad Fischer. Not only that, Kujau has named Heidemann as a co-conspirator. All Heidemann can do is look back at Klein in disbelief. Heidemann can hardly take it in. The man who claimed he was the go-between, who was his friend, was not only the forger all along, but is now trying to blame him too?

No, that's not true. I always believed the diaries were real. That's not what Herr Kujau says. He's lying to you. He lied to me. We've all been duped. But Klein refuses to listen, clearly convinced by Kujau's version of events. By the time the interview is terminated, Heidemann doesn't think things can get worse. Then his solicitor informs him. Bale has been denied. He's too much of a flight risk.

He'll be remanded in custody awaiting trial. Heidemann keeps replaying Gina's words over and over in his head as he's transported to prison. Despite Kuzhau's lies, despite his desperate situation, he must keep his dignity. As his cell door slams behind him, he politely thanks the officer and sits on the bed. All he can do now is keep his head down and wait for this time to pass.

But as he closes his eyes and attempts to sleep, he's jolted by a familiar voice. It's Kujel, talking to another prisoner just a few cells away. No way! As if they would put them so close together. You wouldn't believe how easy it was. I said they had to be smuggled across inside pianos. The reporter loved the idea. He even asked me to make more, keep the money pouring in.

An almost animalistic wail escapes Heidemann's lips. No! That is not what happened! He hears a chuckle. Ha ha! Gert, old friend, you are here at last! I've been waiting for you! On his bed, Heidemann curls up into a ball and starts to sob. He thought prison was the worst thing that could happen to him, but he was wrong.

He's trapped in hell with his greatest tormentor. And knowing what an accomplished liar Cujo is, Heidemann knows he has little hope of getting out. You know what that's like, don't you, Matt? In this little room.

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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 Saturday the 28th of May 1983. Grayson Road, London. In his sixth floor office, Rupert Murdoch leans back in his executive chair and smiles.

He's on the phone to his circulation chief, who's just informed him that despite the furore over the diaries, the rise in the Sunday Times' readership has remained steady. It turns out the public couldn't give a fig whether the diaries were real or not. They're just enjoying the drama. Murdoch's hunch has proved bang on. He's in the entertainment business. And for better or worse, this whole affair has entertained the nation. But Murdoch's still left with a problem.

The paper's board of directors, which is almost entirely made up of establishment bores, are baying for blood. They want to see someone's head roll for this. And to keep them happy, Murdoch needs a sacrificial lamb. If it were up to him, Hugh Trevor Roper would be given the chop. After all, he's the person who made the greatest error of judgement. But as an independent director, he's not on the payroll. Murdoch must find someone else.

He looks through the glass of his office to the cubicle opposite, where Sunday Times editor Frank Giles sits. Surely Frank's not going to get the chop. If we think back, he was a naysayer. He was the one that really didn't want it in his paper. He was trying to wash his hands of the whole thing. He buzzes through to his secretary. Get Giles over here. Moments later, Giles tentatively enters the room.

Murdoch gives him the good news first. Frank, you'll be pleased to know our first diaries issue saw readership increase by 60,000. Giles looks nonplussed. Murdoch quickly moves on to the bad news. But I need a full guy, and you've been doing this a long time, Frank. You must know what's coming.

Show business, not show friends, guys.

You'll get a generous package. It's not about that. What about the damage to my reputation, not to mention the reputation of the paper? Sorry, Frank, but I'm making you editor emeritus. It's Latin. The E means you're out, and the emeritus means you deserve it. As far as Murdoch's concerned, that's his last word on the matter. He swivels his chair round and faces the window.

a clear signal to Giles that their conversation is over. Murdoch sneaks a glance at him leaving. He looks like he's been hit by a truck. Murdoch chuckles. Then he stands up, puts on his jacket and picks up the tickets for his Concorde flight to New York. By tonight, he'll be back at News Corp's HQ, making new deals and chasing new scoops. The future is his, and he's more ready than ever to expand his vast empire.

You'll have to excuse me if I don't rejoice at this image of Murdoch walking off into the sunset to embark on his next adventure. I mean, this is the early 80s. This is proto-Murdoch. We haven't even got to fully-fledged Murdoch at his worst. And if you want to know what fully-fledged Murdoch at his worst is like, listen to previous series of British Scandal. It's a year later, the 8th of July, 1985, Hamburg.

Sunday Times reporter Philip Knightley feels his eyelids getting heavy as he sits in the press gallery, awaiting the verdict of what was once dubbed the trial of the decade. In truth, it's been anything but. In the 11 months since it began, there have been 94 sessions and 37 witnesses. Oh my God! The massive media attention on day one soon dwindled to practically zero. Knightley can see why. Highlights have been few and far between, and mostly provided by Cujo.

When the diaries were brought out as evidence, Knightley couldn't help but chuckle as Cujo theatrically gasped at their dishevelled appearance, a result of them being passed through so many experts' hands. He then quipped, Your Honour, they look awful now. When I had just finished them, they looked a lot better. I would go see him at the comedy store.

Heidemann, by contrast, droned on interminably for seven days and spoke in an almost inaudible voice that frustrated reporters and spectators alike. One magistrate even had to be replaced because of his chronic inability to stay awake during Heidemann's speeches. Knightley has heard Heidemann suffered some kind of breakdown in prison and reckons he must now be delusional if he really thinks he can get an acquittal. There's overwhelming evidence against him on the theft charges.

But he protests he had nothing to do with the fraud. Knightley believes him. Heidemann seems to have been taken in by Cujau. He wanted to believe the diaries were real, so he didn't ask the right questions. They call it willful blindness. Knightley is the only Sunday Times reporter who has studiously followed the case. After the dust settled on the scandal, it was pretty much business as usual for the paper. Sales remained buoyant and, Frank Giles aside, no jobs were lost.

It was hardly the carnage he predicted, but there is still a sense of embarrassment amongst all involved, sniggers from journalists in the pubs of Fleet Street when the topic comes up in conversation. And the authority that the paper held, their reputation, that's hard to measure, but that must have been dented. Yes, the Times and the Sunday Times aren't just any newspapers. These are the papers of record. They're the most reputable papers in the country.

Murdoch himself vetoed any further coverage of the story after the Sunday Times' initial apology. But the outcome of this trial is news. They can't ignore it. When Knightley was met with resistance to flying out to Hamburg to cover it, his persistence won through in the end. It's not just that he feels a journalistic responsibility to report all the facts. It's also his way of drawing a line under the whole affair. He certainly feels a sense of closure as the jury returns its verdict.

Both men are found guilty of fraud. Heidemann is sentenced to four years and eight months in prison, with the judge concluding he helped perpetuate the fraud to ease his debts. Cujau is sentenced to four years, six months, and is acknowledged as the sole forger of the diaries. Heidemann looks crushed, but he doesn't protest, seemingly accepting his fate. Cujau, as always, plays up to the cameras, shrugging his shoulders as if he expected nothing less.

Like the rest of the reporters, Knightley heads to the phones in the lobby to file the story. But when he asks to be put through to the copywriter, one of the paper's executives comes on the line instead. "Don't worry, Philip. We already got the verdict from the news agencies. We're just running a couple of lines on page five. Get yourself back ASAP. The boss wants everyone prepping for Live Aid next week." Knightley replaces the phone. He sighs.

Once again Murdoch's deciding on the paper's news agenda and doing all he can to airbrush history. Knightley wonders if it will work. Will people really forget that the Sunday Times fell for the hoax of the century?

This question is what makes this story so fascinating. I would say, yes, what were the consequences of this? The erosion of press trust, possibly more generally, but Murdoch went from strength to strength. He just gained more power. This definitely didn't stop him in his tracks. Yes, his concerns are not really about press integrity.

His primary concern is finance and he's made a lot of money, but the rest of us have to live with the consequences of the reality that not everything you can read, even in reputable newspapers, is true. And it sets a precedent, I suppose, that there is no fallout. You can print a few lines on page five and move on. It's autumn 1988, Stuttgart. Conrad Cujau beams like a small child as he looks around his new museum. This dream project has been seven years in the making.

It may not be exactly as he first envisioned it, but maybe this is even better. Now a free man, Kuzhau didn't even need to return to his old hobby of collecting Nazi relics to fill it. Instead, everything in his gallery of fakes has been produced right here, by his own hand. What gave him the idea was the constant requests he's had for fake Hitler handwriting samples and autographs. Kuzhau figured if he made money from it once, he could do it again, but legitimately.

He's also realised he's not limited to making art in the Führer's style. More recently, he's also painted his versions of works by more famous artists, including Renoir, Rembrandt and Picasso. They're not exact copies, more his own interpretations. Heading over to unlock the door, Cujo hesitates. For the first time, a flicker of doubt enters his mind. Will this stuff fly with the public? Until now, he's made all his money and fame by being someone else.

Can he really make money from being Connie Cujo? This could be a total disaster. Never one to entertain self-doubt for long, Cujo brushes those concerns aside and pulls open the door. He grins. A large gathering of press and at least a hundred keen customers flood into the gallery. Within moments they're admiring his paintings and sketches and asking for prices. Soon, every single painting bearing Cujo's tongue-in-cheek label "Guaranteed Fake" is flying off the shelves.

He chuckles to himself as he rings them up. If he'd known there was this much appetite for forgeries, he might have revealed himself all those years ago, rather than toiling away in a dark cellar. At the end of a successful day, Kujiao packages up a painting for his last customer. He places his business card alongside it, signing as Adolf Hitler, then looks up with a mischievous glint in his eye. I can still write his signature faster than my own!

The woman laughs, then goes on her way, leaving Cujiao to count up his profits. He grins as he reminds himself, crime really does pay. And I think that's a really nice moral of the story there. Thank you, Matt. Gert Heidemann fell into obscurity following his release from prison. In 2002, it was alleged he had worked as a double agent for the Stasi and that the publication of the Hitler Diaries had been part of a Soviet and East German plan to embarrass and discredit the capitalist West.

He vehemently denied it and remained bitter about his conviction for fraud, saying of Stern in 2008: "I was a big scapegoat for them. The Stern editors got millions in compensation, but I lost everything. I hold myself to be an innocent man." Today he lives in poverty in Hamburg. Konrad Kujau successfully ran his gallery of fakes for many years and remained a small-time celebrity in Germany. He died from cancer on 12 September 2000, aged 62.

Hugh Trevor Roper never fully recovered his reputation following the scandal. He died in 2003, aged 89. Rupert Murdoch has been quoted as saying, Circulation went up and it stayed up. We didn't lose money or anything like that. That statement is certainly true. Stern returned to News International all the money it paid for the diaries. And the Sunday Times retained 20,000 of the 60,000 new readers it acquired when it published the scoop.

This is the third episode in our series, The Hitler Diaries. 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 Selling Hitler by Robert Harris, The Hitler Diaries, Fakes That Fooled the World by Charles Hamilton, or The Diary of Diaries article from Deseit magazine, 4th of April 2013 by Felix Schmidt. I'm Alice Levine.

And I'm Matt Ford. 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 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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