Shownotes Transcript
Wondery Plus subscribers can binge entire seasons of British Scandal early and ad-free. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Man, that team meeting was intense. I'm actually so glad you brought that up. I agree. It was quite...
and maybe a little bit fraught, do you think? Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. I just think everyone now needs to reflect on their behaviour and what they're doing and everyone just needs to basically make changes to calm this place down a bit. Yeah, no, definitely. I do think with you starting the day with the three espressos, that sets a certain tone.
But it just wakes me up. I guess, you know how you were saying the other day that to get to sleep, you watch a really scary, sort of gratuitously violent horror film. Do you think maybe that is staying with you? No, no, no, no. I wake up screaming in the night and then I obviously finish the film in the morning because I'm going to be more stressed and be uptight if I've not seen the violent, bloody end of that film. So, no, I think they're all pretty normal things.
Yeah, that's fair. I suppose, I mean, the screaming has continued into work, hasn't it? Because you did scream at producer Redsy and she was petrified, actually. I just wonder if it's sort of charging you up in a slightly unusual way. Yeah, but the screaming is just like a, that's just like sneezing. There's nothing weird or personal about it. People just need to kind of accept that that's just part of my body. I really think everyone else's
else needs to just look at how they can improve and take the temperature out of this place a bit. Okay, I'll definitely pass that on to the team and we'll see how we can improve. Jesus! Oh, it's alright, I thought there was someone else in here. Okay. I'm just going to go and get some Pro Plus and wash it down with some Red Bull. Yep. Yeah, okay. 2011, Lapta, Northern Cyprus.
69-year-old Asil steps out of his villa, checks his watch, glances up at the CCTV cameras on the villa walls, makes sure they're tracking him, then nods to his bodyguards to open the secure gates. A few seconds later, he heads towards his black-armoured car, looks over at a group of elderly men sitting outside the cafe, watching him. He feels a trickle of nervous sweat run down the side of his face.
He's got a business meeting to attend, but he hates leaving the complex these days. For the past few years, he's been increasingly convinced that the SAS are out to kidnap him. He keeps thinking about Peter Diamond, how he was arrested and thrown in prison after he tried to return to Britain. He double-checks there aren't any new faces in the cafe, then jumps into the back of the car, waits until his bodyguards have squeezed in either side of him and gives the order to go. He barks out.
"What's my codename for this week?" His jaw hardens as they call back in unison. "My call, Mr Nadir." He nods, glad they're all well drilled. He glances over at the bold man next to him, catches sight of the gun in his shoulder holster, starts to relax. He's just lit a cigarette when the car splutters to a halt. He leans forward, his eyes bulging with fear. "What is going on?" The driver lowers his dark glasses. "Engine problem."
He watches in horror as his bodyguards jump out, surround the car and stare at him. His eyes widen now as the bold man reaches into his jacket. His heart thuds. He can hardly breathe. He wants to get out and run, but he can't move. He curls into a ball, hears himself screaming for mercy. For Christ's sake, don't shoot! Asil covers his eyes as a fist bangs on the window. Asil!
What the hell are you doing? He looks up. Cece's 26-year-old wife, Nur, frowning at him. 26, and he's, what, 69, is he? Yes, he's 43 years older than her. I don't know what my point is, sorry. No, I don't see any issue here whatsoever. Love is love. She tucks her long hair behind her ears, folds her arms. You're making a bloody fool of yourself again. For goodness sake, sort yourself out.
He watches her storm back to the villa. I thought this was going to be one of those terrible proposals where guys get their mates to pretend to kidnap them. Where they're like, oh, pretend I'm getting mugged. And then when she screams, you let go of me and I'll propose. It's never a good idea, is it? Where their mates are in on it. Yeah. And they're like, well, we'll put a burlap sack over your head and we'll drag you out of the car. And she'll be like, Leo! And then he'll be like, no, you won't marry me. Assel puts his head in his hands.
Mir's right. He can't keep living like this, in a paranoid prison of his own making. He sits up, takes a deep breath and decides there's only one thing that's going to give him real freedom. He has to go back to London, confront the British establishment face to face and settle this battle with them once and for all.
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From Wondery, I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. And this is British Scandal. So Alice, Asal Nadir, he's done it with the help of his friend Peter. He managed an audacious escape from the British establishment and the serious fraud office who would have seen him jailed for his crimes. This may sound like a stupid question.
But are you rooting for him at all? What do you take me for? No, he's defrauded shareholders. Don't forget that's often anyone with a pension. You can't steal millions and millions of pounds and just spaff it on gold turtles and panther portraits, which I thought I would never say on this show, but I just have.
However, from a British scandal story perspective, his escape plan was so silly. And I have to give him props for that. The Panama hats, the decoy bodyguard, the glued on wigs. You can't help but feel sort of impressed and amazed that it actually worked. So bravo, Asil, on that. Actually, I shouldn't say Asil, should I? I should use his very special codename. Big Bird did a good job with that plan. Big Bird did.
And you're right, he's a big character who committed a big crime and pulled off a big escape. So what do you imagine is next for Mr. Nadir? Well, he's got everything he wanted, so I imagine that he's going to be happy with his lot and live out his old age peacefully surrounded by his stolen wealth and his beloved ones. Am I right? I love it when you do this, but sadly, no. Buckle up. This is episode three, Battle of the Big Mac.
A year later, central London. 58-year-old David Green makes his way through the crowds in Trafalgar Square. He heads towards the serious fraud office. He's just come from a humiliating defeat at the Old Bailey and he needs to clear his head. He crosses the road, strides towards the solid white building flanked by stone pillars, glances at the morning headlines. UK back in recession as economy shrinks again. Economic crisis drags on.
He marches inside. He's only been heading the serious fraud office for a few weeks, but his back's already against the wall. Since the 2008 financial crisis, the SFO has been under more pressure than ever to identify unscrupulous business people and secure their convictions. But they've had a whole string of court defeats. The press keep calling it the seriously flawed office. He needs to turn things around and fast.
He looks at his phone, feels his heart sink when he sees the Attorney General's number flash up. He winces at the sound of Dominic Greaves' frosty voice. I've ordered an inspection into the SFO. In light of this latest fiasco, I'm sure you'll understand. He lets his shoulders drop. This is all he bloody needs. He's just walked into his office when his PA appears. David, I think the lawyers need an answer.
He feels a wave of anger rise up at the mention of Nadir's name. He'd worked on his case as a young investigator himself almost two decades ago. He knows exactly how much of a crook he is, how he stole millions from investors to fund his lavish lifestyle. He doesn't know how this man has the gall to come back. He grabs the polypep files, runs his hands through his thick, dark hair as he reads them over again. The truth is, this case is a nightmare.
It's 19 years old, and therefore too old for asshole. 18 of the original witnesses are now dead. He grabs a pen, crosses out the charges he'll never get across the line, one after the other, then leans back. There's still 22 counts of fraud and false accounting left. Tens of millions of pounds worth. He closes the file. He taps his pen on his desk as an idea starts to form. It's a gamble, and it could backfire spectacularly.
But Asil Nadir has long been the poster boy for reckless greed. And it's always irritated him that Nadir skipped justice all those years ago. He snatches up his phone, dials Nadir's lawyers. He's going to tread carefully, reel this fat cat in and give the public the head they crave.
Oh, God. We've definitely had in British Scandal the kind of grisly cop who's down on his luck and no one believes in him anymore. We've had the journalist and she's got to get a big story. What we haven't had is a bureaucrat who's not doing that great in the office and people think he's a bit rubbish. What every story needs is some desk guy on a losing streak. If I don't win this one, it's all over for me. They're going to second me to Wigan.
A few weeks later, Laptor, Northern Cyprus. 70-year-old Assel fills the cold stethoscope on his chest as he studies his doctor's face. He needs to know he's well enough to fly back to Britain. He watches the doctor frown, then pull the stethoscope from his ears. Your chest is clear, though God knows how. My advice? Stop smoking, Assel, and start taking care of yourself. Otherwise, you're good to fly.
As soon as the doctor's gone, he grabs his cigarettes and lights up. The truth is, he's still not sure he's doing the right thing going back to face trial. He misses London more than anything. His Mayfair house, visits to the Ritz, days out sipping champagne, watching horse racing. But his terror of prison keeps him awake at night. He takes a drag on his silk cut, lets his eyes fall on the empty birdcage at the window. His shoulders drop. He has to face facts.
His life here is small and monotonous, inconsequential. Even his two parrots, Polly and Peck, have left him. Peck escaped a few years ago, and Polly died not long after.
He doesn't want to end up like her, dying of boredom in a gilded cage. This is one of the first times in British Scandal that I've sort of understood why people put themselves at risk of going to prison. Because you'd think, just camp out, just hide, just live your lavish life, you've got it made, you don't have to go back and face the music.
But these kind of people are addicted, aren't they? They're addicted to the pace of the life that they had and, I guess, to their status in that life. That's it. It's the prestige. He wants to be seen in those places. He enjoyed rubbing shoulders with Thatcher and being seen as legitimate, whereas even though where he's living now, he's got a nice house, it's not just that that he wants. He wants the establishment to like him. That afternoon, he heads into the dining room and greets his friend Sheikh Nazim.
He takes in the Sheikh's long grey beard and thick white eyebrows, watches as he wraps himself in his green cloak and sits on the floor. Asil lowers himself down awkwardly onto a cushion and closes his eyes as the Sheikh starts to pray. Asil takes a lungful of olive twig smoke, tries hard not to think about how much it's just cost him to get the Sheikh here to pray for him. All he can do is hope it works.
Sheikh Nazim sounds important. He is, and he's very old. He's 90 at this point. And he's an influential spiritual healer and a descendant of the very famous poet Rumi, who, if you're on Instagram, you may see his quotes set against a mountain or a river or a sunrise or a sunset. As he intended. Exactly. When it's over, he heads into his office, makes his lawyer dial London. Well? His lawyer leans back.
They've reduced the charges from 22 counts to 13 and agreed to no arrest on arrival. He holds his hands up to the heavens. The Sheikh's prayers are working. The lawyer frowns. I dare you to question, Mr Nadir. You still might get a seven-year sentence. He lights a cigarette, looks out into the garden, at Nur on the sun lounger.
43 years his junior. We know. It feels like something he would say a lot. This is my wife, 43 years my junior. Does she have a name? Not relevant. He'd love more than anything to show her his old London life. And with the shake behind him, he could win this trial. It's risky. But right now he feels like the odds are in his favour. He fixes his lawyer with a steady gaze and tells him, Charter me a plane. I'm going back.
A few months later, airspace over southern England. Asil's heart quickens as he catches his first sight of the rugged English coastline. He looks at Nur, watches her flick through an in-flight magazine. He can't wait to show her around Mayfair, take her to his old haunts. Half an hour later, he skips off the plane at Luton Airport. I think one of the things that we have bonded over most is our sheer horror at Luton Airport being called a London airport.
It's not in London? It's not in London. Shouldn't be allowed? Shouldn't be allowed. And if his whole thing is, I can't wait to get back to my luxurious life, arriving at Luton Airport, mate. You start and end your holiday on that flight. Make it part of it. Why are you doing that to yourself? He takes in a lungful of cold air. After almost two decades, he's finally back. You're not. You're not. You think you are, but you've got an hour and a half yet until you're there.
Believe me, you're closer to your villa than you are to wherever you're staying in London. You look different, Hassan. The sparkles back in your eyes. He smiles at Nur, kisses her, flashes his British passport to waiting customs officials, then jumps in the waiting chauffeur-driven Jag. A short while later, he pulls up outside his 20 grand a month Mayfair house. A while later, yeah, a while. BANG
Mr. Nadir, over here. Sir, sir, over here, Nadir. He steps out of the car into a scrum of journalists. Are you worried about the trial, Mr. Nadir? Can you prove your innocence? Why did you run all those years ago? He pulls himself up to his full height, smooths down the few strands of long hair either side of his head, and grins at the cameras. I have battled with immense injustice and tremendous abuse of power over the years.
And now, I've returned home to clear my name. He hears his voice break as he says, I'm delighted to be back. I've missed this country. He clears his throat, pastes on a grin. And shortly, I'll be serving you a tea with biscuits. He guides Noor up the steps to the Georgian mansion, watches her eyes widen as they step inside. He takes in the polished gilt and ebony furniture.
the antique rugs and George Stubbs oil paintings, feels the spring of tears. It feels so good to be back. He's taking Nur to a show tonight, then on to a casino, and tomorrow he's going to meet up with some old business acquaintances. As soon as he's won this trial, he'll rebuild his business empire. He's just about to fix himself a drink when a policeman steps out in front of him. He's about to demand an explanation when he sees the electronic tag in the policeman's hand.
He shrinks back in horror. "You're not putting that thing on me." But the policeman glares at him. "I'll sell you to this and we'll take you into custody." He blinks over at Nur's shocked face. Feels his face flush with humiliation as the police fix the tag onto his ankle like he's a dog. Listens as he reads him the conditions. "You cannot leave this address after midnight or before six in the morning. Failure to comply will lead to your immediate arrest. Do you understand?"
Asil mumbles a yes, stares down at the bulky tag on his ankle. His heart sinks as he realises he might just have made the biggest mistake of his life. And for the first time in years, he has no idea what he's going to do next. A month later, serious fraud off his headquarters, London. David Green rolls his head to ease the pain in his neck, checks his watch, then closes the court file.
The Polly Peck case has consumed him for weeks now. Nadir's trial starts in seven days, and he's determined to be word perfect when he gives his evidence. He's just about to text his wife when his door flings open. His chief investigator walks in, still catching her breath. David, thank God I caught you. Her face is grey, crumpled with worry. What is it? She bites her lip. The evidence for court next week... I don't know how to say this. It's contaminated.
He feels his shoulders drop. What? He watches her lift her eyes to the ceiling. The test results just came back. They found microbial organisms. We might be able to heat treat some of the files, but a lot of it's a health hazard. He feels his jaw drop in disbelief. The bottom line is, a lot of our evidence can't go to court. This is crazy. Do they mean because it's being eaten away at? Basically gone mouldy, so then you can't expose people to that. And it might even...
Allow Nadir or his lawyers to say how can you verify that that's an original document or whatever? It's a problem for a moment. He can't speak. He's reeling feel sick as soon as she's gone He runs to the gents splashes his face with cold water grips the side of the sink. This is an absolute disaster He's on the stand next week
He's going to be torn to shreds. The press will have a field day. The SFO will look like fools. He can't let that happen. He has to find a way to get a guilty verdict. Because if he doesn't, this whole organisation will go down in flames. His career will go with it. And worst of all, that crook, Asil Nadir, will be back in business.
That may sound a little bit dramatic, but this is coalition era Britain, where the Tory-Lib Dem coalition was cutting the public sector back. And David Cameron talked about a bonfire of the quangos, and people were looking at arms and branches of the state, and they really had to justify their existence. So if the SFO was seen as incompetent or incapable, it's not too much of an exaggeration to say that if he fails in this case, it could threaten the existence of the whole organisation.
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Hey everybody, we have some exciting news that we want to share. If you want to go on an adventure with Generation Y, we'd love for you to join us. January 26th through the 30th, 2026, we'll be sailing from Miami to the Bahamas on Wondery's first ever true crime cruise aboard the Norwegian Joy.
Aaron and I will be there to chat, hang out, dive into all things true crime. And we're thrilled to be joined by some familiar voices in the true crime podcasting world. Surti and Hannah from Red Handed. Sashi and Sarah from Scam Fluencers. And Carl Miller from Kill List.
Super excited to hang out with them too. We've got some cool activities, interactive mysteries we can solve, testing our forensic skills with a blood spatter expert, and so much more. So for some sun, fun, and just the right amount of mystery solving, come join us. Ready to jump on this seriously epic adventure? Book your cabin right now at ExhibitCCruise.com. A week later, the old Bailey, London. Asil adjusts his lime green tie.
Oh, burn! And that's from his own representation.
Two hours later, he marches up to the stand himself. The prosecution barrister, Philip Shears QC, peers at him over his round glasses. Asselt determined to get his side of the story over. When SFO officers illegally took my papers, I knew I wouldn't get a fair hearing. They forced me to flee the country I love. His voice catches. He dabs at his eyes with his lime-green silk handkerchief. Would a guilty man come back?
Throw himself at your mercy? A bored guilty man might. His eyes crinkle into a subtle smile as a few heads nod in sympathy. Shears storms towards him, shoves a piece of paper into his hand. Mr. Nadir, perhaps you could read this list. Asil raises an eyebrow, puts on his reading glasses and clears his throat. A Ferrari? A private jet. A fireplace from Christie's. Total cost?
£2.5 million. £1.9 million for a deposit to buy a fountain house in Park Lane. He feels a bead of sweat on his forehead as he continues. £1.2 million for a deposit for a house in Oldford Street in Mayfair. Shears spins around to the jury. Your shopping list for one month in 1989. Assel shrugs, grins at the jury. Is it a crime to have good taste? Shears ignores him.
Luxuries paid for with money stolen from polypec shareholders. The equivalent, in today's money, of £60 million. The sudden silence in the courtroom is deafening. Assel watches Shears march over to the jury. Then he spins, spits out at Assel.
You used your charisma to persuade innocent investors to plough their money into your company and then you exploited regulatory loopholes to steal from them. Is it a crime to have charisma? I think when you're in a court of law to just keep saying, is it a crime? And then insert something that you don't think is a crime. It's a bold strategy, isn't it? Is it a crime to have great teeth? It's like, no, but it is a crime to do all the crimes you've done.
I see. So you stand by your statement, and I quote...
After withdrawing money in May 1990 from Polypec International, my mother made a cash deposit two days later of the same value into a Polypec account in Cyprus. Assel feels the corners of his mouth spread into a smile. That's how it worked. I withdrew money in London, my mother paid it back in cash in Cyprus. He watches Shears take a few steps back, then fix him with a bewildered stare.
If this were true, Mr Nadir, on this occasion, the notes stacked one on top of the other would reach 300 times the height of Nelson's column. You're seriously telling us your elderly mother dragged that into the bank single-handedly? Right, OK. Well, you don't know how strong his mum is, number one, so you're making some assumptions. Number two? Maybe it was in big denominations. Yeah, they...
May have very big wheelbarrows in... Exactly. This is culturally insensitive, actually, you remember. Assel's breath catches in his throat. You stole that money to fund your lavish lifestyle. You defrauded your investors and you've lied through your teeth under oath, which, may I remind you, is a crime. Assel stares wide-eyed. His mouth is dry. His legs are like lead. He hears his feeble voice muttering. That's not true.
But a pain rips through his chest. He's sweating and cold at the same time. He needs to get out of here, run, get some air. But his legs fold under him, and the last thing he hears is a whole courtroom gasping with shock as he collapses to the floor and blacks out. Later that afternoon, Harley Street. Asil lies on the cold slab of the MRI scanner as a police officer removes his ankle tag.
He's spent the last hour being examined by a Harley Street doctor. And right now, all he wants to do is go outside and have a cigarette. He raises his head, looks at the small tunnel of the scanner. He can't go through there. He's claustrophobic. It'll give him a heart attack for sure. He swings his legs round, but Noor stops him. Please, Asil, we need to find out what's wrong. He looks into her concerned eyes, grits his teeth, spits back,
It was just a silly panic attack. But he swings his legs back on the bench, keeps his arms still as he moves slowly through the small tunnel, and takes a deep breath to calm his rising fear. Two hours later, he's perched on a bunk in the old Bailey cells as his lawyer goes over the scan results. I'm delighted you're not in immediate danger of having a heart attack, Assel. However, it does mean the trial resumes tomorrow. If your scan had shown a serious illness, we could have argued for esteem and proceedings.
Assel's eyes widen. What? Stopped altogether? His lawyer nods. But I am seriously ill. Check my medical records. I've got a dilated aorta. I'm on meds for high blood pressure. Ask my doctor in Cyprus the stress of this trial. After that collapse, I really think it's going to kill me. He looks up as a burly prison guard walks in with a tray. Macaroni cheese, Mr. Nadir.
Oh, God, delicious. I knew our prisons were soft. Macaroni cheese, swilled down with a Chianti, no doubt. They should be having just carrots. Asil reels away, shakes his head. My doctor in Cyprus put me on a strict diet for my heart. No processed food, only fresh vegetables. A little chicken salad in lemon juice. He stares at his lawyer. Are these people trying to bloody kill me? His lawyer nods slowly.
Narrows her eyes. We'll need to get a second opinion. Assel closes his eyes. Mutters a silent prayer of thanks. He's been thrown a lifeline. He's going to do everything he can to convince the court he's too ill to carry on and put this whole legal nightmare behind him.
I suppose there is precedent for malingering working. General Pinochet, Al-Megrahi. They're sick when they're here. They get released, they're skipping across the tarmac. Full of macaroni cheese. The following day, Serious Fraud Office HQ, London. David Green stares in disbelief at the two SFO lawyers in front of him. He what? I know, I know. Chicken salad with lemon juice.
The senior lawyer shuffles, purses her lips. Mr Nadir and his team want the trial to be halted on grounds of ill health. David lets out a long breath, picks up the documents the lawyer slides towards him, reads over the reports from Nadir's two consultant cardiologists. He turns the page, skims down the list of medication and details of Nadir's very restricted cardio diet of chicken salad and steamed veg. He blinks up. You're bloody kidding me!
He glares at the lawyer, jabs at the documents. We've been chasing him for over 20 years and he pulls this at the last minute. It's bullshit. He slams the documents on the desk, rubs at his eyes as the lawyer tells him. He's got two Harley Street consultants and a doctor in Cyprus all saying the same thing. The judge has to take it seriously. He looks up as his PA stands in the doorway, ashen face. The police are asking if the trailer's collapsed. What do I tell them?
Later that afternoon, he stands outside the Old Bailey, feels his jaw tighten as the journalists jostle and yell at him. Has the SFO bungled again? How much has this trial cost taxpayers? Are you going to quit, Mr Green? He tries to sound calm, ignores the sweat trickling down his back, but his mind is screaming. He spins around now as someone runs up behind him, sees one of the juniors from the legal team trying to catch his breath. Sir, we've found something.
If it's fungus, I don't want to know. A few minutes later, he follows the young man into a McDonald's. He walks up to the counter. His face flushes with irritation. He's about to blast him for wasting his time when a shy-looking woman in a McDonald's uniform steps in front of him. Tell him what you just told me. David watches the woman point at the photo of Nadir on the junior staffer's phone. All I said was...
We always have a laugh when he bites his Big Macs. No! Is it a crime to like the greatest burger ever invented? David stares at her. Big Macs? How often have you served him those? The woman shrugs. Every day, more or less. Mr Nadir loves them. He's a lovely man, and he always offers me a cigarette when I'm eating on my ciggy break. This is gold. Also, they do serve a chicken salad, so it's not even like he didn't have the option. David can't believe what he's hearing.
If Nadir's ignoring his doctor's orders, he isn't taking his own heart disease that seriously. He's going to make sure the judge knows every detail of this. Burger bun, patty, then there's a sort of shredded lettuce. We've got the special sort... Oh, he means of the incident rather than of the burger. He's going to push to keep this trial alive. He'll put that slippery fraudster Asil Nadir behind bars if it's the last thing he does.
In the early hours of December 4th, 2024, CEO Brian Thompson stepped out onto the streets of Midtown Manhattan. This assailant pulls out a weapon and starts firing at him. We're talking about the CEO of the biggest private health insurance corporation in the world. And the suspect... He has been identified as Luigi Nicholas Mangione. ...became one of the most divisive figures in modern criminal history. I was targeted, premeditated, and meant to sow terror.
I'm Jesse Weber, host of Luigi, produced by Law & Crime and Twist. This is more than a true crime investigation. We explore a uniquely American moment that could change the country forever. He's awoken the people to a true issue.
Finally, maybe this would lead rich and powerful people to acknowledge the barbaric nature of our health care system. Listen to Law and Crime's Luigi exclusively on Wondery+. You can join Wondery in the Wondery app, Spotify, or Apple Podcasts.
In the 1950s, America was glued to its television screens, watching contestants battle it out for big money on quiz shows like 21 and The $64,000 Question. But behind the scenes, producers were feeding answers to the most popular contestants to keep audiences hooked.
I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondery Show American Scandal. We bring to life some of the biggest controversies in U.S. history. Presidential lies, environmental disasters, corporate fraud. In our latest series, quiz shows dominate 1950s TV until a disgruntled contestant blows the whistle and reveals that the shows are rigged.
Follow American Scandal on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Experience all episodes ad-free and be the first to binge the newest season only on Wondery+. You can join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. Start your free trial today. Two days later, the old Bailey. Assel lowers himself into the chair in the witness box. He's still reeling from the judge's decision to continue with the trial.
He stares straight ahead as Philip Shears, the SFO's barrister, stands in front of the jury and mocks his claim of ill health. Mr Nadir led you all a merry dance. He led you to believe he was practically at death's door and all the while he was guzzling Big Macs. Asil squeezes his eyes shut at the rippling laughter, gathers his breath as his own barrister now stands in front of the jury. He listens, motionless,
as he lists all the failures of the SFO's case. From files that were so dangerous to human health they were inadmissible, to a lack of witnesses. The SFO have produced one catalogue of disasters after another. His gaze drifts to the prosecution bench. He watches David Green squirm in his seat.
And most egregious of all, the botched raids on my client 19 years ago, where his own court documents were illegally snatched. He glances at the jury. His spirits lift as a few people nod sympathetically. He feels the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile as the jury file out to deliberate their verdict. A short while later, he gets to his feet as the jury come back in. He touches the knot of his pale blue tie.
feels a bead of sweat break out on his forehead as a middle-aged woman steps forward to read the verdict. The blood pounds in his ears as she goes through all 13 charges against him. He hears the words, Not guilty. But what about the Big Macs? Asil lets out a gasp of relief, grins over at Nur who blows him a kiss. They're going for a happy meal, aren't they? He looks over at Green, his face frozen, his eyes shut.
But then, his attention snaps back to the jury as he hears the words: "Guilty." On count four of theft: "Guilty." On count five of false accounting: "Guilty." His legs buckle. He grips the rail in front of him, tries to steady himself. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear a woman weeping. He crumples when he realizes it's Nur. Feels lightheaded as the judge tells him: "You have not shown the slightest remorse for your crime."
Your sole concern throughout this has been to avoid any acceptance of your own responsibility. Your sentence is of ten years' imprisonment. That's a whopper. Oh, no, they don't sell those, do they? It's a real zinger. Tower burger. Ten years. He almost faints. He looks over as the press bench empties, as journalists run outside to do interviews to camera, sees Green's huge grin as he shakes Philip Scheer's hand.
He feels two sets of hands lead him out of the court, down to a waiting prison van. That night, he lies on the thin blue plastic mattress in his cell in Belmarsh Prison. He can't stop shaking. He feels sick. He can't spend 10 years here. He'll be 80. That is a crazy thought, isn't it? No matter what you've done, that is a ripe old age to be in prison. By the time I get out, my wife will be 35, Your Honour. LAUGHTER
The whole place stinks of blocked toilets, male sweat and cheap disinfectant. He puts his hand to his mouth, tries to breathe through it. He should never have trusted the British judicial system. It was always against him. Coming back was the biggest mistake of his life. How on earth is he going to survive in this hellish place? A few months later, Belmarsh Prison.
Asil shuffles forward in the telephone queue, takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. He's desperate to speak to Nur. He steps forward. He's just about to reach for the phone when he's jostled out of the way. He looks up at the large man with tattoos on his scalp. "What's your fucking problem?" Asil starts to open his mouth but thinks better of it. He slinks to the back of the queue and waits again. Half an hour later, he finally gets to the phone.
His fingers shake as he dials the number. He presses the receiver into his ear, as soon as he hears her voice. "Hello?" He blurts out how much he misses her. "I need to see you, my darling." He looks around, lowers his voice. "Poliznur, come soon." He listens to the crackly silence on the other end of the line. "Azil, this isn't easy. I want a divorce." His chest tightens. He can't speak. He reaches for the wall to steady himself.
What? With all due respect, he has to be the only one that is shocked by the 43-year age gap relationship not working out. She lets out a sigh. I'm sorry, I said 10 years, it's too long. I'd like a reasonable settlement. His head swims as he hears her terms. £5 million plus the four-wheel drive and the villa in Turkey.
My solicitor will be in touch. A few minutes later, Asil sinks onto the plastic mattress, pulls the thin yellow blanket over himself, closes his eyes, feels a tear trickle down his face, sees an image of himself with Nur a few summers ago, drinking champagne in the gardens of their Turkish villa, entertaining the Turkish president and his wife. His eyes spring open.
He sits bolt upright as a plan starts to form in his head. This might be a long shot, but if it works, it could get him out of this hellhole, give him a chance to fight for his marriage and get him back his freedom. Four years later, 2016, Belmarsh Prison. Asil runs the mop over the dirty concrete floor. He needs to get this task finished before he can ring his solicitor, but he's 75 years old and his knees hurt.
He's been fighting for the past four years to be extradited to Turkey to serve the rest of his sentence there. He needs to be closer to Nur. She's agreed to stay with him, but only just. So far, though, every request he's made has been rejected by the British. He's just about to finish up when one of the prison officers marches up to him. The governor wants to see you. Now. For regular listeners, you'll know that prison guard as having been the prison guard in every prison we've ever been to.
I like to think of British Scandal a bit like British television. It's that some actors will pop up in Coronation Street and then an ITV drama and then EastEnders. So it's not unusual. These are all like little cast members in my mind for people to get another gig on another series. Lovely. And there's only about five voices I can do. It's that or Keir Starmer.
The governor wants to see you now. I recommend, I really do recommend that he goes and sees the governor at the earliest opportunity. Yeah, it doesn't work. A few minutes later, he follows the guard into the office. The governor, a smartly dressed woman with long brown hair, looks up at him as she shuffles some papers in her hands, then gestures for him to sit. Asil looks down at his shaking hands, then searches the governor's face, watches her pick up a sheet of paper.
and tell him, "Your request for extradition has been approved." He lets out a cry of relief, puts down his head and mutters a prayer of thanks. "It's up to the Turkish government how long they keep you, but from the Ministry of Justice's point of view, we're happy to let Turkey take the expense rather than the British taxpayer." Asil winces. Even now they're making him feel like a burden, an outsider. He's about to get to his feet when she slides a sheet of paper towards him. "There is a condition to this.
Let you hand over your British passport and give up your British citizenship. Oh God, he won't like that. His eyes widen in disbelief. They can't do this to him. He hears himself mutter, "But... but I'm British." His hands shake as he picks up the document. He had plans to live in London with Nur as soon as Turkey released him. Buy a big house in Mayfair. Get his old life back. He stares up at the governor, then lets his eyes fall back at the document.
He wants to rip it up into a thousand pieces. The truth is, he doesn't have a choice. He can't take any more of this place. Locked up for 23 hours a day, eating tasteless food, rubbing shoulders with the worst criminals in the country. He reaches for the pen, scrawls his signature, hands the document back. The governor shakes his hand, wishes him good luck. He smiles, then tells her: "This country is fucking crooked.
But it's always very stylish with it. What's amazing, even at this point, is that he thinks that the system is against him, that...
the Brits are crooked, that he has been hard done by and also that he deserves to be able to reset his life and just come back to where he was before this sentence. Like there really doesn't seem to be any part of him that thinks he's done anything wrong or that is in any way remorseful. Hang on, you're arresting me and convicting me of crimes that I committed? My god, you lot. 24 hours later, he walks out of the gates of Silviri prison near Istanbul. He takes a deep breath.
squints up at the bright cloudless sky, then lights a silk cut. 24 hours later, what do you mean? Well, this was part of his plan. He gets extradited to Turkey, where he's friends with the president, and then instead of having to serve out the rest of his sentence, they just let him out. This is kushti. It's so kushti. He shakes hands with the prison guards, then spins as a voice behind him. Asir? It's Nur. He wraps his arms around her, buries his face on her shoulder, and sobs.
That night, he sits in his favourite Queen Anne armchair as Nour fusses around him. He sips Earl Grey tea from his china cup, closes his exhausted eyes and falls into a deep sleep. He dreams he's in his favourite Jag, speeding around the streets of 1980s Mayfair. He's wearing his aviator sunglasses, a sharp suit with a fat tie. Tonight, he'll go to Paris, party till dawn, then jump in his private jet, fly to Monaco and play the tables.
He's young, rich, good-looking. He's Asil Nadir. He's got the world at his feet and nothing can go wrong. After his release from prison, Asil Nadir moved back to northern Cyprus and was greeted at the airport with a hero's welcome. Despite running several businesses there, he always vowed one day to return to the UK and reignite his corporate empire.
He and Nur remained married right up until his death on the 9th of February 2025, aged 83.
Matt, thank you. What an amazing story. A ride. Right, slight change to our usual format. We are going straight into our next series, which is an absolute belter. What do you think of, Matthew, when I say sexual revolution? Easy now. Oh, wow. Well, the swinging 60s, the dawn of free love, young people all over the country experimenting in a wave of sexual liberation. And that's kind of where we're heading. We're definitely going to the 60s and
and there is definitely swinging, but it's not so much young people, more like people in their 60s, middle-aged aristocrats to be specific. I don't want to sound judgy, but
It does sound less sexy now. No, no, you don't have to decide now. We're telling the story of Margaret Campbell. She was a wealthy, glamorous socialite. Her husband was the Duke of Argyle. On outward appearances, they had everything. But behind closed doors, he was a gambler and a freeloader, and she was, by the standards of the day, very free, very liberated, very at one with her sexuality. I...
Think I know what you mean. Which sort of finally became her downfall because when she'd had enough of him and stopped paying his bills, which were ever mounting, he decided to take revenge, publicly exposing Margaret, her 88 lovers and some very compromising Polaroids.
We would now say that their divorce was toxic. It scandalised the nation and exposed the hypocrisy of the sexual revolution. It also earned Margaret the moniker the Dirty Duchess. What a great nickname. I cannot wait. Binge the whole series early and ad-free on Wondery Plus. Follow British Scandal on the Wondery app, Amazon Music or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge entire seasons early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts.
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Everyone has that friend who seems kind of perfect. For Patty, that friend was Desiree. Until one day... I texted her and she was not getting the text. So I went to Instagram, she has no Instagram anymore. And Facebook, no Facebook anymore. Desiree was gone. And there was one person who knew the answer. I am a spiritual person, a magical person.
A gorgeous Brazilian influencer called Cat Torres. But who was hiding a secret?
From Wondery, based on my smash hit podcast from Brazil, comes a new series, Don't Cross Cat, about a search that led me to a mystery in a Texas suburb. I'm calling to check on the two missing Brazilian girls. Maybe get some undercover crew there. The family are freaking out. They are lost. I'm Chico Felitti. You can listen to Don't Cross Cat on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.
From Wondery and Samistat Audio, this is the third episode in our series, Thatcher's Favourite Fraudster. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Asil Nadir and the Rise and Fall of Polly Peck by David Barchard, Who Killed Polly Peck by Elizabeth Forsyth, The Turquoise Conspiracy by Bilge Nevzat, and Asil Nadir, Fugitive from Injustice by Tim Hindle.
If you've got a scandal that you would like us to cover, please get in touch. British Scandal at Wondery.com. British Scandal is hosted by me, Matt Ford. And me, Alice Levine. Written by Karen Laws. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor is James Maniac. Sound design by Dan King. Our engineer is Jai Williams. For Samistat, our producer is Redsy Bernard. Our assistant producer is Louise Mason. Our senior producer is Joe Sykes.
For Wondery, our senior producer is Theodora Leloudis, and our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne, and Marshall Louis. Have you ever wondered how a circus performer could become the most powerful woman in the Byzantine Empire? Even the Royals is a podcast from Wondery that pulls back the curtain on royal families, from ancient empires to modern monarchs, to show you the darker side of what it means to be royalty. Be
Before she ruled an empire, Theodora was a teen sensation in circus shows, featuring dancing bears, burlesque performers, and blood-soaked chariot races. But when her star came crashing down, she clawed her way from rock bottom to the very top, using everything from comedy to espionage to get there.
Empress Theodora didn't just survive. She revolutionized women's rights across the Byzantine Empire, like changing laws to let women divorce men, own property, and bring abusive men to justice. For all her work in pioneering, she's remembered as the most powerful Byzantine empress in history. Follow Even the Royals on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Even the Royals early and ad-free by joining Wondery Plus.