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Hello Matthew. Miss Levine. Guess who is back in the old narration seat? I guess a reward for good behaviour. Yes, I can see you're in the big chair, but it's not for good behaviour, is it? We just alternate a series each. Alright, don't go into the nitty gritty, air our dirty laundry. I have a big question for you, as always at the beginning of a new series.
How do you think Britain's biggest newspaper got so many exclusives at the beginning of the 21st century? Oh, well, of course, it was good old-fashioned proper journalism, combing through lengthy details of court proceedings, talking to witnesses, spending the hard yards, being a proper, diligent journalist. Good one. No, actually, by calling someone's mobile phone and hoping they don't answer. It feels quite retro. Yeah, it really is. Well, let's cast our minds back.
It's 6am, 8th August 2006, Cheam, South London. Glenn Mulcair wakes with a start. A moment ago, the 34-year-old was sleeping soundly, but now he's completely alert to a noise coming from outside. It's the steadily growing roar of a helicopter, so close it could almost be in the house. Never a good sign. Never. Then there's a thudding at the door, his front door. Glenn jumps out of bed and wrestles into his robe. He glances at his wife, Alison, as she stirs.
He doesn't want her waking up, at least not until he's answered the door. Too late. She opens her eyes and looks at the bedside clock, grimacing. What the hell is that? Go back to sleep. I'll deal with it. Glenn races out of the room and down the stairs. He knows that the police don't wait long before breaking doors down. He at least wants to spare his family that. Glenn pulls the door open. Glenn Mulcair, we have a warrant to search these premises.
Within moments, the house is swarming with police. Some uniformed, some plain clothed. By now, the children are awake and watching from the top of the stairs. Alison tries to reassure them. One eye on Glenn, the other on the police, utterly confused. The officer with Glenn carries on talking.
Glenn Mulcair, I'm arresting you under the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act of 2000. You do not have to say anything. The next few moments flash by in a blur for Glenn. His rights being read, officers filling every room, Alison pleading for an explanation. But Glenn feels strangely relieved. For the first time in months, the dark clouds lift and his head clears. The stress, the drinking, the panic attacks. Maybe that will all end now.
Alison's repeated questions pull Glenn back to the moment. Another officer is filling her in. Were you aware your husband's been intercepting the royal family's voicemail messages? What? Glenn's heart sinks. This could get bad. Prison bad. And what about his family? The mortgage on this house is massive. One income won't begin to cover it. Suddenly, Glenn knows what he has to do. He turns to the arresting officer. My office is down here.
That's where you need to look. Glenn leads him inside. The officer's eyes widen as they take in the site before them. Whiteboards with lists of PIN numbers, security codes and bank details, stacks of documents and CD-ROMs, names scrawled over everything, some familiar, some that make sense only to Glenn.
It sounds like one of those rooms, you know, in a comedy sketch when someone's had a breakdown and they have like bits of string connecting everything on a whiteboard. It's very that episode of Homeland, isn't it? It's like a beautiful mind. They've always got a lovely bare wall and lots of post-its and they've always like cut out lots of things from the newspaper and stuff, haven't they? Yes. It's incredible that he actually did that. CD-ROMs though. Old school.
What the police officer doesn't realize yet is what they're looking at is enough not only to incriminate Glenn, but every boss he's had at Britain's best-selling newspaper. It's enough to spark hundreds of lawsuits. And it's going to shake the British establishment to its core. 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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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.
MUSIC
We like to talk about powerful people on British Scandal, especially when they get into trouble. So, Matt, on a scale of one to ten, how powerful is Rupert Murdoch? Oh, way more than ten. I mean, he owns so much of the media and that brings with it massive political influence. Politicians are genuinely frightened of him.
And he owned The Sun, The News of the World, The Times and The Sunday Times. OK, so in summary, pretty damn powerful. And I guess The News of the World, that was the jewel in the crown. Yeah, Britain's most popular tabloid and its front page was something that celebrities would fear. It had the biggest gossip about the biggest stars, the Royals, the Beckhams, the Spice Girls, Kate Moss, other people in the 90s.
I don't think I read it after that. And it's important to say it wasn't just Murdoch. The editors of the newspaper had huge power. It held massive sway over people in the public eye, which is why this story is so exciting to us, so juicy, because while it was reporting on other people's scandals, it was hiding a whopping great scandal of its own. This is episode one, The Dark Arts.
Our story begins with two young, ambitious journalists. Alice and Matt. One young, one middle-aged ambitious journalist. Whoa! It's November 1988 in London. Rebecca Brooks waits in the reception of an unremarkable office building. She checks her reflection in her hand mirror, pushes her unruly red ringlets out of her face. Then she dabs her carefully applied red lipstick. Snapping the mirror shut, Rebecca dusts down the arms of her sharply cut tailored jacket.
She hopes it makes her appearance more mature than her 20 years. Rebecca hates looking her age. Her youth makes people take her less seriously. She's travelled too far today to fall at the last hurdle due to her inexperience. Rebecca looks enviously at the staff buzzing around the newsroom just beyond the reception desk. That's where she wants to be.
Only a few weeks ago, Rebecca was studying French at the Sorbonne University in Paris. Her mum and dad had split up and she was keen to get away from the drama. But Paris hadn't captured her heart. So when she heard a new national newspaper, The Post, was launching in her hometown of Warrington, she returned to the UK with a different plan.
Am I the only person who doesn't remember a national newspaper called The Post? It sounds like one you'd make up for a Hollywood film about England. Goddammit, I want those pictures of Spider-Man in Warrington, England. I'm not surprised you've forgotten. It never made much of an impression on the British public either, lasting only five weeks before folding. So on her return from Paris, Rebecca went to see The Post's feature editor, Graham Ball, and offered her services as his secretary.
Sorry, love. I'm moving to the London office next week. Rebecca had a choice. She could stay in Warrington, get some temp work, spend her days applying for jobs she may never get. Or she could take matters into her own hands. Which is why, one week later, she's here, waiting for Ball to turn up for work. Eventually, he comes through the revolving door. She springs to her feet and ambushes him. Remember me? Uh, yeah. Rebecca, right? You wanted a job. Still do. Ball is perplexed.
This is my first day. I haven't even found my desk yet. I'll find you a desk. Then I'll type up your stories, get your coffee, pick up your dry cleaning. You need an assistant. Come on. What do you say? Ball can't help but laugh. He's been well and truly Rebecca'd. Not a verb. All right. Why not? Rebecca inwardly punches the air in triumph. Getting a break in journalism is all about getting a foot in the front door. Now that she has, she's going to push it wide open. What could possibly go wrong?
It's six years later, February 1994. Stringfellows Nightclub, London. Here we go. Oi, oi. We love this, don't we, Matt? We love the strip club. We go there all the time after work. A beautiful waitress brings another bottle of Bollinger to a table of rowdy reporters. Andy Coulson sits in the middle, still boyish at 24 with short dark hair and a cheeky grin. He grabs the bottle and pours the champagne directly into his mouth. The classy way to do it.
FOME DRIBBLES DOWN HIS CHIN. THE OTHERS ROAR THEIR APPROVAL. ANDY'S JUST BEEN MADE EDITOR OF THE SON'S SHOWBIZ COLUMN, BIZARRE. NO ONE'S GOING TO BEGRUDGE HIM THIS MOMENT OF EXCESS. ANDY'S COME A LONG WAY SINCE HIS ESSEX COUNCIL ESTATE UPBRINGING. AT 18, HE GOT AN APPRENTICESHIP AT THE BASILDON ECHO AS A CUB REPORTER. HE'S WORKED HIS BOLLOCKS OFF OVER THE PAST SIX YEARS AND PLAYED JUST AS HARD.
His best mate on the newspaper, Sean Hoare, will testify to that. Their nights out are legendary. All birds, booze, and as they say at the sun, bonks. Oh my God. Bonks? How was your night out last night? Oh yeah, you know, birds, booze and bonks. Wall-to-wall bonks, I guess. The Sun cashier even gives the showbiz team £300 cash every Friday. Cocaine money, so they can start the weekend at full throttle. That's just incredible.
I mean, we have a similar setup here at British Scandal, but instead of cocaine, it's tea. And instead of 300 quid, we have to pay for it ourselves. Yeah, but I still feel like the perks are fantastic. What an incredible job. Okay, so that's your pension sorted and your holiday leave. I mean, you get 300 cash for cocaine at weekends. Yeah, all right. And obviously, it's a birthday in the office, so I'll bring the ease in. I'll just run it past my union rep. Where do we stand on coke money? Absolutely mad.
Back in Stringfellows, Sean slumps down beside him. He slaps a wrap of Coke on the table, then grabs the bottle off Andy and takes a big swig.
Andy smiles and shakes his head. If anyone's embraced the showbiz desk lifestyle, it's Sean. Befriending the likes of Oasis' Gallagher brothers and starting every day with what he calls a rock star's breakfast. A Jack Daniels and a line of Coke. I think I'll just have my tea and yoghurt, thanks. You're like, can I be friends with the Gallaghers and not have that breakfast? Let me fix you a lovely breakfast. How do you like your Coke in the morning? LAUGHTER
Got a tip off Paula and Michael are in the Red Room at Brown's. Fancy it? Andy would like nothing more than a big night out with a tabloid's favourite couple of the moment, Paula Yates and Michael Hutchins. She's the ex-wife of Band-Aid legend Bob Geldof. And Hutchins, as lead singer of NXS, is a bona fide rock god. But Andy's smart enough to know there's more to showbiz reporting than partying.
What may seem frivolous from afar is actually a fast track to the top for the paper's most ambitious hacks. The person Andy's taking over from has just got a big promotion to editor of the Sunday tabloid The News of the World. A 28-year-old by the name of Piers Morgan. Uh-oh. Familiar, right? Andy doesn't see why he shouldn't follow in his footsteps. Coulson watches Sean wipe white powder from his nostrils with the back of his hand.
A year ago, he might have stayed out, chatted up a model or two, got wasted. But his new job as showbiz editor needs a clear head. Andy pushes the cocaine back across the table. Sorry, mate. Think I'm going to get an early night. Get the scoop on Paula or you're fired. Andy winks, then stands up. The other hacks jeer, but he walks to the exit regardless. It's time to put ambition before fun. I love how not having coke in the strip club is like, oh, nerd alert. Yeah.
Just the one line of coke, is it, you square? Why so clean living, Andy? It's the 15th of October, 1994. While Andy Coulson is making his name at the sun, Rebecca Brooks is out late for a different reason. She checks her watch for the 20th time. It's midnight. She must have been in this toilet cubicle for over an hour now. Tummy trouble? She's dressed in a cleaner's uniform, kneeling by a cistern. She tries to ignore the overwhelming smell of bleach.
If someone had told her a year ago that this is what she'd be doing with her Saturday night, she wouldn't have believed them. Well, so now she's working as a cleaner. In fact, at this point, she's now Features Editor at the News of the World. In 1994, the News of the World is based in the same offices as another newspaper owned by Rupert Murdoch, the much more respectable broadsheet The Sunday Times. They don't say bonks there. They don't. They don't bonk. They make love to the news every Sunday.
Rebecca's boss at the News of the World, Piers Morgan, has got wind of the fact that the Sunday Times is about to serialise an explosive biography about Prince Charles. He's already asked nicely for an early steer on what it says, but the Sunday Times editor was characteristically polite. Fuck off. Cheers, mate. So Piers has decided to steal it, and Rebecca is only too happy to help. That would be the natural conclusion. Wow. Rebecca might have graduated to a big league paper, but she's still desperate to prove herself.
not just to her new boss, but to all those hardened hacks who have been there for years. People like Greg Miskew. He's a news editor with decades of experience and he clearly resents her. Recently, Greg changed her list of story ideas to TWAT1, TWAT2, TWAT3. That could be a compliment of the news of the world. That's somebody taking you under their wing. Well done, Rebecca. Congratulations on the old three TWAT story.
So here she is in a toilet cubicle by the print works. She's listening for the sound of the huge printing presses starting to roll. The plan is to run in, take a copy of the paper, steal all the best stories from the Prince Charles book and run them as a scoop for the news of the world. If she gets caught, she'll be in big trouble with the Sunday Times editor. It could even go up to the big man himself, Rupert Murdoch. Rebecca's weighed it up, though. She'd rather Murdoch noticed her for doing something crazy than didn't notice her at all.
At last, the printing presses begin to whir. Rebecca steals herself. Then she sneaks into the print room. There are a couple of staff hovering nearby. So she tiptoes up to the machine. Oi! What do you think you're doing? Rebecca freezes. Then she pulls the paper from the presses and legs it up the nearest staircase. Her cleaner's hat flies off. Her red hair flows behind her as she runs.
Back at the office, she throws the paper on Piers' desk. They look to see what they've got. Charles admitting he never loved Diana. Diana attempting suicide in front of him. It's fantastic stuff. Fantastic in the moral-less world of tabloid hacks. Absolutely.
Piers clears page one. To hell with the consequences. Well done, Rebecca. She looks across at Greg Miskew too. She swears she can see a small chink of respect. She hopes the old guard at the news desk have taken note. She doesn't want them left in any doubt. She will do anything to succeed. Is it wrong that I feel like I'm kind of rooting for her? Yes. I'm dead inside.
Six years later, it's May 2000. Rebecca strides into the large glass office at the end of a newsroom. She takes in the endless bouquets of flowers from well-wishers, including PM Tony Blair and various celebrities. Finally, she's editor of the News of the World. There's a knock on the door. It's Andy Coulson, her new deputy. The dream team. Together at last. What's the mood like out there? Brooks asks.
Think a pack of hyenas waiting to pull apart a fresh carcass. They sound lovely. Brooks gives him a playful push. Thanks for that. She's glad Andy's here, though. While she won't make it obvious, she welcomes any support she can get. She knows that the News of the World's old guard won't care that she's spent the last two years as deputy editor of Britain's biggest daily, The Sun. She's done a damn good job, too. In that time, she's become infamous for her love bombing, winning over politicians and showbiz stars with her charm and wit.
She's even bagged herself a celebrity boyfriend in actor Ross Kemp, who plays hard man Grant Mitchell in the UK's biggest soap, EastEnders. Most importantly, she's gained the admiration and respect of Rupert Murdoch. And now, finally, he's putting her in charge of his biggest newspaper. Despite all that, the news of the world's hacks remain unconvinced she's up to the job. But while others may have underestimated her, Andy Coulson never has.
They worked well together at The Sun, where he was one rung below her. They've become increasingly close. Too close in the eyes of many. The gossip is they're shagging. Rebecca's relationship with Ross Kemp has been pretty tumultuous. She knows she leans heavily on Andy at times. But first and foremost, he's a colleague. And that's why she's brought him with her from The Sun. They make a great team. She needs an ally. Coulson looks at her. Don't worry about that lot. You've got this. I know.
Rebecca takes a deep breath and picks up the phone. Can you send the team in? The paper's news and features executives file in. Rebecca sets out her stall. The news of the world has to move with the times. Less emphasis on public officials no one cares about, more sex and celebrity gossip. And she wants big campaigns, causes they can get behind. The paper can't just be cheeky, it must be seen as a force for good.
Rebecca notes some of the staff eyeing each other, sceptical. But she has an ace up her sleeve. A familiar figure knocks on the door. She waves him in. Greg, you're here. Most of you know Greg Miskew, right? What's going on? The assembled executives exchange surprised looks. Rebecca's one-time tormentor left the paper a couple of years ago. Now she's brought him home. Greg's going to head up our new investigations unit.
Rebecca may not like Greg, but he is a master of the dark arts, the shady tactics often employed by tabloid hacks to get the story. Rebecca smiles. The miscues of the paper, along with hungry young execs like Coulson, are going to help her keep the news of the world at the top of its game. And they're going to help her keep climbing the corporate ladder. Because
Because anyone who thinks she's going to rest on her laurels now she's in the editor's chair is wrong. As far as Rebecca's concerned, this is just the beginning. Hey, I'm Ryan Reynolds. Recently, I asked Mint Mobile's legal team if big wireless companies are allowed to raise prices due to inflation. They said yes. And then when I asked if raising prices technically violates those onerous two-year contracts, they said, what the f*** are you talking about, you insane Hollywood a**hole?
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It's two months after Rebecca became editor. Glenn Mulcair waits outside the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. He lights a cigarette, his third in a row. Glenn doesn't enjoy smoking. He's a part-time footballer for non-league club AFC Wimbledon. Cigarettes aren't great for his game. But right now, he's doing his day job. For that, he's a smoker and he's a doctor. ♪
So we're back with Glenn, the guy who got raided by the police. I'm guessing he's not actually a doctor. No, in fact, he's a private investigator. They do make it seem fun.
Glenn's been with an agency that does work for the news of the world for the last couple of years. Part of his job involves bringing in stories with a medical angle. When an actress is suspected of being pregnant but hasn't announced it yet, for example, or is having an abortion, or when a showbiz star has been diagnosed with cancer, that's what he's trying to confirm today. OK, now it's sounding less fun. Obviously, hospitals and private clinics won't just dish this info out to any Tom or Dick. Or Glenn. Or Glenn.
So the papers get people like Glenn to use the dark arts. He's already found out the name of someone who works there. Let's call him Dr Eric Young. So he's come prepared, wearing a fake badge with Eric's name on it. Now it's step two. Glenn stands outside the hospital, cigarette in hand. He's waiting for the receptionist to come out for her smoking break. Ten minutes later, he sees her walk through the doors.
He offers her a light. She puts a cigarette in her mouth and leans in. And then she notices his badge. You're not Eric Young. We dated for six months. Busted. Not at all. He's quicker, Glenn. No, I'm not that Eric. We have the same name, that's all. I'm the new improved model. She seems to buy it. She finishes her cigarette and nods at him as she goes back inside. Back at home, Glenn sticks on a CD of low-level chatter noise and rings the hospital.
The same receptionist answers. Hey, didn't we meet earlier? I don't want to be a nuisance, but my PAS system's frozen and I urgently need some details on a patient. Glenn gives her the details. Then he asks for the medical number and the name of the consultant. I thought so. Can you stay on the line a sec? Glenn pretends to call the consultant.
The receptionist confirms she's heard all of that and reads out the details. Diagnosis, prognosis, everything Glenn needs. Glenn hangs up and that is what tabloid hacks call a blag.
I know what he's doing is wrong, but he is so good at it. It's hard not to be impressed. I'm worried about you. What's on a CD of background chatter noise? I mean, that's too much, isn't it? Where do you get that? And does he have like chatter noise one, chatter noise two? Now that's what I call chatter noise. Double CD. Next, Glenn calls Greg Miskew, passing on the news. As always, Greg's pleased with his work. That's when Glenn sees his chance for another blag.
Glenn enjoys this work, but it's not paying enough. His missus has her eye on a bigger house, their kids are growing up fast. And Glenn's football playing is a labour of love rather than a serious career. So he takes the plunge. How about cutting out the agency and taking him on direct? The pair agree a deal. Glenn cannot wait to get started. He's going to be the best private investigator the news of the world has ever had.
It's two years later, April 2002, at the News of the World HQ in Wapping. Andy takes his place next to Rebecca in her office. It's the regular Tuesday morning conference. Andy's impressed by what Rebecca's done with the paper. They've been beating their rivals on several showbiz exclusives.
Plus, she's established a campaigning agenda. Two years ago, they went big on the murder of Sarah Payne, an eight-year-old girl who was killed by a paedophile. Rebecca launched a whole campaign to name and shame paedos across the country. It was controversial, but it put them on the top of the news agenda.
This week, there's another story that could be as big. A 13-year-old schoolgirl, Millie Dowler, has been missing for over a week. There's a massive police hunt to find her. Andy looks around the room at the assembled reporters. We need to get out ahead of the press back on this.
Meeting over, the department heads file out. Rebecca asks Andy to hang back. He feels a little awkward. Things between them on a personal level have been a bit complicated lately. They're both married now, but still sleeping together on and off. But Rebecca is quick to tell him that this is about work and work alone. She's on holiday in a few days' time. Keep me up to speed on the dowler situation while I'm away.
Andy swallows hard. He knows Rebecca's got her eye on the editor's job at The Sun. That would leave her position on the news of the world vacant. This is his chance to prove he can bring in the goods. Back on the newsroom floor, Andy beckons over Greg Miskew and the other newsroom managers. If we could get something before the police and the news of the world solved this case, that'd really be something.
It's three years later, June 2005. In his office, Andy Coulson bangs the conference table. I knew it. This is gold. Play it again. One of Coulson's reporters, Dan Evans, replays a voicemail message from Sienna Miller. She's the it girl movie star of the moment. It's a message to Daniel Craig. The message isn't that interesting, but the end is. She signs off telling him, I love you.
What makes it gold is that Daniel Craig isn't her boyfriend. Jude Law is. As his staff file out of the meeting, Andy pulls Dan Evans back. You know what to do. Make it look like that's been couriered to us anonymously. Andy knows it's another massive exclusive for the News of the World.
Rebecca left the paper in great shape when she took over at The Sun two years ago. But now Andy's the editor, the news of the world is on fire. It's shifting 3.5 million copies every Sunday. They decimated the competition at the annual press awards, bagging Scoop of the Year and Newspaper of the Year.
This was down to an impressive hat-trick of splashes. Football's golden balls, David Beckham, Home Secretary David Blunkett's affair with a married woman and England football manager Sven-Goran Eriksson's fling with Faria Alam. All that retro shagging makes me kind of nostalgic for the early noughties. It really places you in time, doesn't it? Everybody remembers where they were when Sven-Goran Eriksson had a fling with Faria Alam.
Andy's so proud of the paper's success, he's had a special trophy cabinet made. And this latest coup proves he was right to poach Dan Evans from the Sunday Mirror. Andy targeted him because he'd heard all about his special skills at a relatively new addition to the dark arts.
phone hacking. Here we go. It's amazing, actually. We call it special skills. It's remarkable how easy it is. Yeah. So as most of us are aware, if you call a mobile phone and the line's engaged, you go through to the voicemail, obviously. And the voicemail inboxes have their own pin, which the owner can input directly to get to their messages.
But what makes it easy to abuse is that most people don't bother to change the pin that their phone comes with. I mean, I've never done it. I wouldn't even know mine was. Even knowing this, even though this story broke, I still haven't checked mine. Well, if you have Alistair's mobile number.
Try this quick tip. Why did I say that? But even if you do change your pin, blaggers can often get the code from dodgy phone company employees or just have it set back to default. So it's a no-brainer for them. Yeah. Apart from the fact that it's highly unethical. Yes, if you have morals, that will be a problem. Andy doesn't let himself enjoy the victory for long. He needs to show the team that if they don't perform, they're out. Looking around the office, he rests his gaze on Royal Editor Clive Goodman.
He hasn't brought in many stories lately and apparently the others call him the eternal flame because he never goes out. Andy wonders whether it's time to have another word, but he's already demoted Clive this year. He decides to give him a little more time to pull his socks up. Instead, he zones in on Sean Hoare. Ah yes, Mr Cocaine for breakfast. The very same. He's slumped at his desk, looking totally out of it. Andy sighs. He knows what he has to do. He calls Sean into his office, closes the door.
Then he tells his old mate he's sorry, but he's letting him go. Sean may be half cut, but he's still outraged. You can't do this. How long have we known each other? Sorry, mate, it's nothing personal, but you're a shambles. There's no room for passengers on this team. Andy feels a little guilty as he watches Sean clear his desk. He quickly shakes it off.
That's what sets him apart from all the others who want his job. He can choose efficiency over popularity. He doesn't have to be liked, he just wants to get results. Only at the news of the world would sacking someone who has cocaine and Jack Daniels for breakfast be considered like a bold move. Really, Sean? He's like Employee of the Month. God, he's tough. He sacks the cocaine for breakfast guy. What's going to happen to the rest of us?
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Dark circles under his eyes give away the fact he's barely been sleeping. He's never felt so under pressure. Was anyone at the News of the World on a normal diet? What's wrong with a banana and some porridge? Glenn looks at the long list of missed calls on his phone. He's constantly being asked to do new hacking jobs. Yesterday's requests came in every ten minutes. On top of that, his main handler at the News of the World, Greg Miskew, has moved to the Glasgow office.
Glenn's never felt more out of the loop. He doesn't know what to prioritise, who to trust. Could say he's hacked off. So lame. Taser him. Glenn was glad when Clive Goodman suggested this meeting. He hopes it'll give him some clarity. And when Clive arrives, Glenn can see he's not the only one feeling tired and harassed. Clive's usually quite perky, but now he looks older than his 48 years. It's no secret he's been struggling with Andy Coulson's leadership.
They quickly get small talk out of the way and get down to business. I need more royal stories for the column, Glenn. What kind of thing? Christ, anything. Andy's got my balls in a vice and he's squeezing harder by the week. I need to show him I've still got the inside track. I thought you could do some phone surveillance, come straight to me with any findings. Clive explains Coulson is particularly interested in the young princes, William and Harry.
Girlfriends, nights out, health stuff, anything like that. I'll set up an account, pay you direct. You get an extra bit of income, I get the exclusives. Glenn mulls it over. It'll increase his huge workload, but his income too. And both their jobs are safe as long as they keep the stories coming. Plus, Glenn likes Clive. It would be good to have a trusted contact on the news floor again. Glenn holds out his hand and they shake on the deal.
Glenn hopes this will be a game changer for both of them. Don't do it, guys. Stop. Stop now and everything will be fine. It's like it's in slow-mo, isn't it? It's not just Glenn and Clive who are feeling the pressure in autumn 2005. It's well past 1am. Curtains twitch on a leafy street in Clapham, South London. There's screaming coming from one of the Victorian townhouses.
Inside, Rebecca Brooks hurls a glass against the wall. It's like a scene from EastEnders, but this isn't Grant and Sharon. This is Ross and Rebecca. And they're not on the set of a fictional soap. This is prime South London real estate, with all the trappings you'd expect from a successful couple. Laura Ashley-style soft furnishings, state-of-the-art kitchen, suit of armour in the hallway.
Hang on, what, a suit of armour in the hallway? Yeah, a gift from Rebecca for Ross's 40th birthday. It was made to measure. Nothing says happy birthday, I love you, like a made-to-measure suit of armour. You don't want off-the-peg armour. You want it bespoke. Also, what night out is like suit of armour night? You know he gets into it as well. Oh, sorry, Ross has gone to put his armour on. But it takes ages for him to get into it. Just wait, because he'll be sad if you don't see it.
There's no such romance tonight, though. Rebecca has been arguing with husband Ross for what seems like hours. They're both drunk from a party they went to earlier. Their voice is a horse from screaming. The police are at the door. Only then does Rebecca realise this has gone way past the average domestic. She freezes, looking at Ross wide-eyed. He goes to answer the door, his lip bleeding. Your neighbours reported a disturbance. Can we come inside? Rebecca looks aghast as the officers enter the hallway.
Just to clarify, is he wearing the armour? Yeah, he should have pulled the visor down, idiot. That's the whole point of having a suit of armour. Before she can sober up enough to turn on her famous charm, Rebecca's being arrested for assault. Rebecca paces up and down in a police cell. She's sobering up. Mortified doesn't begin to cover it.
She knows her rivals will love this and that Ross's on-screen image will only add to the joke. Their private life has been no laughing matter for a while, though. The pressure of Rebecca's job hasn't helped, and now she wonders what Rupert Murdoch is going to say. At daybreak, the cell door opens. An officer tells Rebecca she's free to go. Ross isn't pressing charges. The paparazzi are waiting for her outside.
She tries to front it out as she walks through the scrum of photographers. Back at the Sun, Rebecca gamely jokes with staff that with Murdoch in town, she just wanted to make sure she'd found the boss a good splash. But as she hides away in her office, Rebecca's troubled. She may be keeping up appearances on the news floor, but for the first time in her News International career, Rebecca feels vulnerable. Maybe she's not as bulletproof as she thought.
Later that month, in Kensington Palace, Helen Asprey stares at the newspaper in front of her. She's the personal private secretary to Prince William, and she's not sure what to do. She's just read a small story in the News of the World's Blackadder gossip column. It's about Prince William's knee. His knee? Yep. Do you want to hear a bit? What?
Not really, but I get the sense that I have a choice. Well, I've got it here, so I'm going to read it. William pulled a tendon in his knee after last week's kids' kickabout with Premiership Club Charlton Athletic. Now medics have put him on the sick list. There's more. He's seen Prince Charles' personal doc and is now having physiotherapy at Cirencester Hospital near his country home, Highgrove. It's just a little bit of a shock.
It's such a boring story. You're welcome. Hardly the kind of thing to plunge the monarchy into crisis. But Helen's confused. It's real inner circle stuff. Calm down, Helen. Chill out. Chill out, Helen. It's fine. No one knows about it bar a few palace insiders.
It's not the first story of its kind to appear in the newspaper. There have been other bits of tittle-tattle. Again, all low-level, but enough to trouble Helen. She could leave it, see if it blows over, but then she wouldn't be doing her job properly. However, dealing with it means doing something she'd really rather not. She'll need to ask Prince William if he's been indiscreet. About his own knee? LAUGHTER
Can I just ask, have you shown anybody your knee? William, stop slagging your knee off. It's bad for the brand. I only told them about the right one, I swear. William. Later, alone with the prince, Helen sees her chance. She steals herself. Your Highness, I'm sorry to have to ask this, but have you spoken to any reporters lately specifically about your knee injury? William blinks. No. Why would I do that? Who did you tell about your knee?
William gives her a very small list of people he mentioned it to. Great small talk. She runs a couple of other leaked stories by him. Again, the circle of friends and staff in the know is small. For one story, the only person he told was his brother, Prince Harry. When did you tell him?
Not sure. I think I rang him. That sets alarm bells ringing for Helen, but she doesn't want to alert the prince. She casually thanks him. Helen, should I be concerned? Not at all, Your Highness. Don't give it another thought. Back in her office, Helen picks up the phone and rings Scotland Yard. I'm calling from Kensington Palace. I think the prince's phones are being bugged. If that happened today, I bet he'd blame Prince Harry. Ooh, controversial. Ah.
It's nine months later, August 2006, dawn. News of the World's royal reporter, Clive Goodman, is outside his home on a street in Putney, southwest London. He's still in shock as a police officer finishes reading him his rights, then leads him to a waiting car. The officer tells Clive his home and his desk at the News of the World will be searched while he's questioned at the station.
Clive's wife, still in her dressing gown and slippers, dashes from the house after him. She asks what she can do. Ring the paper and get them to put you through to the legal team. I'm going to need a good lawyer. Ashen-faced, she races back inside. Clive could kick himself for letting this happen. Glenn warned him he was sailing too close to the wind with some of the stories he's run lately. They were too detailed, like Prince William phoning Harry and jokingly pretending to be his girlfriend Chelsea Davey.
Clive was so desperate to keep Coulson happy, he kept filing. Everything and anything Glenn could get, he's overplayed his hand. At the police station, it becomes clear to Clive that this morning's raid is the result of a long-running investigation. Detectives have been on him and Glenn for months, gathering evidence. It dawns on Clive. The News International management are desperate to contain this. He's not the only one with something to lose. Clive's head is all over the place.
The officer leading the investigation, DCS Keith Surtees, enters and begins his questioning. Before long, he gets to the killer question. Whose orders were you acting under, or were you acting alone? Coulson has been making Clive's life hell for months. He's had no support from former boss Rebecca Brooks. Now, he effectively has the power to destroy them both, and the paper along with them. But at what personal cost to himself?
Whatever Clive's decision, it's going to have massive repercussions. This is the first episode in our series, The Murdoch Phone Hacking. 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 dramatizations are based on historical research.
If you'd like to know more about this story, we especially recommend the books Hack Attack by Nick Davies, Beyond Contempt by Peter Dukes, and The News Machine by Glenn Mulcair and James Hanning. 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. Our senior producer is Russell Finch. Our executive producers are Stephanie Jens and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Wondery.
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