The Brink's-Mat Heist | The Golden Rule | 2
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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. Alice, management said you wanted a word. Yeah, so I've been reading the emails on britishscandalatwondery.com and one thing just keeps coming up over and over. So I just thought, I'll just lance the boil if that's all right. People feel like your cockneys all sound the same. So I thought we'd just have a go at kind of

making them differentiated, if that's all right. Yeah. I mean, I thought I was already, but yeah, sure. Okay, so you've got a line there. Maybe we could try angry. You ain't got nothing on me, you mug. Fantastic. Old. You ain't got nothing on me, you mug. Great. Sad. You ain't got nothing on me, you mug. Female. You ain't got nothing on me, you mug. I honestly don't know what they're talking about. You've got such range. January 1985. Kenneth Noy's mansion, Kent.

Kenny Noy clicks on his torch, tries to keep his breath steady as he steps out into the cold night air. Someone has spooked his three Rottweiler dogs and he needs to find out who. He makes his way through the trees of his 20-acre estate, feels a trickle of sweat run down his back as he shines his torch out into the night. He glances back at the brightly lit windows of his mock Tudor mansion. Word's already got out he's smelting Brink's Mac Gold here.

Every criminal in London would love to get their hands on it. He calls the dogs to his side, listens for movement. He takes a few steps forward, but there's nothing. Whatever set off the dogs is gone. He freezes at the sound of a twig snapping behind him. He turns slowly. His eyes widen as a silhouette emerges from the darkness. A man dressed in black, wearing a balaclava. Kenny feels his chest tighten.

He snatches his knife from his belt. "Who the fuck are you?" But the man doesn't speak. He just stares straight at him. Kenny feels a surge of rage. He pulls back his arm, hurls himself forward and stabs the man in the chest. The man buckles, sinks to his knees, then collapses back. Kenny watches his red blood seep into the white snow.

He grabs the man's balaclava. He's about to rip it from his head when he hears a radio crackle. Unit 2, request status update. No! No! It's coming from the man's belt. All units AM! All units AM! His stomach lurches as he realises. He hasn't attacked a rival criminal. He's just stabbed a copper.

He looks up as blue lights flood the garden. He lets the bloodstained knife drop from his hand. He's got seconds to run. If he's caught now, he's finished. And the whole Brinksmat circle will come crashing down with him.

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Audible. There's more to imagine when you listen. Go to audible.com slash WonderyPod and discover all the year's best waiting for you. From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal. So Alice, we left the last episode with the big heist in theory being a huge success and

But as with all good scandals, it quickly got very complicated. Yes, they've now had to learn a new craft, the smelting game, and also get their heads around some serious money laundering. In fact, gold laundering, because they just weren't expecting to get that in the hall at all. Yeah, and this Brian-Mickey relationship has suddenly become way more complicated because Brian's agreed to look after Mickey's gold while he's stuck away...

He's also agreed to look after his wife and Brian's definition of what that means really has been stretched beyond generosity. He really is looking after Mickey's wife. Success has made Brian quite the opportunist, hasn't it? So he's decided that Mickey's just not getting out of prison. So why not just claim his haul? And this means Brian is faced with a whole new level of drama, which is how do you spend all of my money and all of Mickey's money before he finds out?

while still being in possession of a whole load of traceable gold. And bonking Jackie, yeah. Yes, bonking Jackie. This is episode two, The Golden Rule. April 1984, Isle of Dogs, London. Brian Perry paces the large derelict warehouse. He looks at the broken windows, the walls covered with graffiti. He shakes out a silk handkerchief and covers his mouth. The whole place stinks of urine and bird droppings.

Gentlemen thieves, silk handkerchiefs. It was a different time, a different quality of criminal. Yes, I don't think the moped gangs that blight London these days have silk handkerchiefs. They just carry knives and acid. Snatch a phone, daub their face with a little neckerchief. Oh, is that Paisley? He ducks as a pigeon swoops over his head. Why are we here? It's a shithole. He watches Jackie tighten her fur coat against the cold.

He wants to tell her he's had a tip-off that this whole area could be transformed into Manhattan on Thames. Shut up! What do you mean? What do you mean Manhattan on Thames? Well, surely, like, not in the time that they're going to be there. Not in the next 35 minutes. It's a 40-year project. He knows how foolish it sounds. Yep. The truth is, since stealing Mickey's gold, money's been coming in faster than he can cope with.

He needs to invest it somewhere. Make it all untraceable. Legit. He hears Jackie shriek as a rat scuttles past.

Fucking hell, Brian, I've had enough. I want to go home. This is like the worst episode of Grand Designs ever. I think the smell of bird poo's got a bit of charm, hasn't it? And just to say, if people don't know this area, the train stations have names which really paint a picture of somewhere glamorous, like Mud Shoot. You know, this is a part of London where they really didn't spend long on the PR. And Alfa Romeo screeches to a halt outside.

A few seconds later, a man in a pinstripe suit and crisp white shirt strides in confidently to meet him. Sorry I'm late. The man juts out a hand to shake. Brian takes in his Rolex, his starched cuffs, his gold cufflinks, his glistening white teeth. Michael Rolton. He looks like he's just stepped out of a boardroom. Brian didn't realise he'd be so posh. He'd heard about Rolton through an acquaintance after the robbery.

a lawyer turned property dealer who knows how to launder money and sniff out legal loopholes. It's Relton who's told him this land would be the perfect place to launder his cash. Brian grabs Relton's arm, leads him away from Jackie and hisses in his ear. What the fuck is this place? There's no transport, no shops. Who in their right mind would live out here? If you just hold your horses, Brian, in a couple of years, they'll build the DLR, then you can get off at Mudchute and then walk for 35 minutes. I really don't know what you're complaining about.

He watches Relton's face turn serious. "Yuppies, Brian. That's who. And they'll pay a bloody fortune for it." Relton takes a map from his pocket. "We're six miles from the city, from the whole financial sector." He waves his arm around. "Which makes this prime real estate perfect place for someone who needs to invest a lot of money very quickly." Brian glances over at Jackie, sees her nudge away a used condom with the toe of her shoe.

Relton moves a step closer. You won't even have to build anything. Just buy the land. Draw up plans with an architect. Sell it on. Clean money, big profit. I can help you do that, Brian. Relton raises an eyebrow at him. At a cost, of course. Brian walks over to the broken window and gazes out. He lights a cigar, takes in the rubbish-strewn wharfs and old warehouses, the scummy surface of the Thames covered with litter. He's only ever run his little cab firm.

He doesn't know a damn thing about laundering vast sums of money. It seems so naive to not have an investment plan set up of how you're going to launder the money. But I guess because they thought they were getting a share of 3 million and they've actually got a share of 26 million, it's a whole different ballgame of how you're going to hide that. It's the classic problem that you find on Dragon's Den is this money laundering operation is effectively a cottage industry. How are they going to scale it up?

And you cannot use Tuca's central London offices for stuff like this. To be clear, Matt does not mean the people that go on Dragon's Den are laundering money. I mean, the odd one must have. He heads back to Relton. He knows it's a risk. He could lose it all. But right now, Relton is his best bet. Brian holds out his hand to shake, then hisses in his ear. Nobody else finds out about this. Understood. Two weeks later, Brian's cab office, South London.

Brian fixes himself a drink, enjoys the clink of ice in the tumbler. He can't wait till he's out of this tiny office. He hears the phone ringing. Hello? I want to see you, Brian. Get yourself over here. Brian's blood runs cold. He parts the curtains, peers out into the empty street. Mickey, I was just heading out. I, um... But Mickey cuts in. I don't care what you're doing, Brian. Visiting hours are in one hour.

An hour later, Brian tries not to tremble as he puts his keys and wallet in front of the guard. He holds out his arms as they pat him down. A few seconds later, he sits in a bolted-down chair and waits. Brian twists his hands as his mind races. He needs believable answers for anything Mickey might throw at him. He blinks around nervously as the prisoners start to file in. He tries hard not to think about all the times he's seen Mickey beat someone to a pulp or douse them with petrol and hold a lighter to them.

No, maybe you should have thought about that before you started romancing this man's wife. Romancing? What do you want me to say? Tonkin? Brian has a lot of stamina for romance. I really hope you're practising safe romancing. Brian jumps to his feet as Mickey appears, pastes on a smile, tries to keep his voice light. How you been, Mickey? Mickey sits down. How do you fucking think? He sits down himself and shuffles uneasily.

feels his body break into a cold, clammy sweat as Mickey leans across the table and glares at him. He blinks at the guards, wonders if they'll be able to save him if Mickey explodes. Can I trust you, Brian? Brian swallows nervously. Of course, Mickey. You know that. Mickey stares at him in silence for a moment. I'll do anything, Mickey. Just tell me what it is. A slight grin appears on Mickey's face. I want you to spring me.

I've got an helicopter ready for two days' time. I want you on it. Brian's eyes widen. Escape! Keep your fucking voice down. He watches Mickey's eyes swivel over to the guards before he puts a piece of paper on the table. The pilot's number. Call him for details. Make sure the helicopter lands in the yard. 11 o'clock. On the dot. This is madness. What, is this an episode of, like, Annika Rice? What do you mean it's going to land in the yard?

"Mickey, if you're cool..." Mickey leans back. "Don't worry about that, Brian. You just make sure it lands on time." Brian's hand shakes as he lights his cigar at the prison gates. He needs to find a way out of this mess. He looks back at the imposing prison walls. At the tall, gloomy building with its tiny barred windows. One way or another, he has to keep Mickey locked up. But he can't ignore Mickey's orders either. He throws down his cigar butt, marches over to the phone box.

unfolds a piece of paper with the pilot's number, dials out and arranges a recce for the next day. When the call's over, he takes a deep breath, then picks up the receiver again and dials the prison. He's about to take the biggest risk of his life and if Mickey ever finds out, he's a dead man. Two days later, Brixton Prison. Mickey sits at the long table in the prison mess, smiles as he takes a mouthful of porridge

He pushes away his plate. It's the last tasteless sludge he's ever going to eat in this place. Tonight, he'll be relaxing with a cold beer by a pool somewhere in Spain. He's got a private jet on standby to fly him and Jackie there. All he has to do is get into that yard on time. He grabs his cup and plate and heads back to his cell. Checks his watch. 55 minutes to go. He lights a cigarette and tries to calm his nerves.

He takes down the photo of Jackie from his wall, tucks it in his pocket. He can't wait to see her face. He takes a final look at his cell, then heads out to the common room. 45 minutes later, he joins the queue for the yard. He shuffles forward slowly and then stops. He strains to see what's going on. He has some argument ahead of him. His heart thuds. He catches the guard's eye, sees him jerk his head. He pushes his way to the front,

A few moments later, he steps into the yard. His pulse races as he squints up at the cloudless sky. Only a few minutes to go now. A few minutes, then he's free. He spins around at the sound of the scuffle behind him, smiles to himself. He's organised a fight in the yard to distract the guards. He glances up at the clock, but realises in horror it's too early. It shouldn't kick off until the helicopter's in view.

His jaw slackens as he realises the guards aren't stopping a fight. They're running towards him. A few seconds later, he's knocked to the ground. He sees a brief glint of handcuffs. He tries to kick out, but someone holds his legs. He feels his head yanked back as a prison officer he's never seen before snarls at him. On your feet. He's hauled back inside and thrown into solitary. He bangs and kicks the door. Oh, fucking ratty! Oh, the fuck was it?!

He sinks into the thin mattress, slams his fist against the concrete wall. He doesn't know what's just gone down. He just knows someone has snitched. And mad Mickey McAvoy isn't going to rest until he's hunted down the scumbag that's keeping him here. This must be so stressful, your one chance at freedom. But I still don't think it's any excuse to talk about yourself in the third person. December 1984. Court number two, the Old Bailey, London.

Brian squirms in his seat in the gallery, rubs his forehead, glances down at Mickey in the dock. He looks relaxed, happy even. Brian thought Mickey's trial would be a cut and dry case, but he spent the last few hours listening to witnesses claim they were with Mickey at the time of the heist. He can't believe what he's hearing. Crooks? Lying? What has the world come to? We're meant to be honourable crooks, we never lie under oath. Mickey must have gotten to half of South London.

And right now, even one of the policemen is cracking under Mickey's barrister's cross-examination. But is there any forensic, photographic or telephone evidence to link my client, Michael McAvoy, to the scene of this robbery? Brian watches the policemen swallow hard, then turn to the judge. No, Your Honour.

Mickey's barrister spins around to the jury, then looks back at the policeman. Am I correct that your main evidence is a statement by one of the guards, a Mr. Anthony Black? Brian leans forward, watches the policeman stutter out his reply. That's, uh, that's right. Brian's mouth is dry. He swallows hard. He's just laundered another half million of Mickey's stolen gold in Dockland's property.

That is a lot of bird poo and broken windows. Where you see bird poo and broken windows, I see potential. And used condoms. He needs Mickey to remain behind bars. Brian watches as the barrister rocks on his heels. And is it correct to say that the statement from Mr Anthony Black has now gone missing? Brian feels his blood go cold as a murmur goes around the courtroom. His heart pounds as the policeman hangs his head.

Yes, that's correct. A few minutes later, Tony Black walks up to the stand. Brian hasn't seen him since the robbery, when Black let them into the warehouse. But he's hardly recognisable. He's lost weight. His dark hair's turning grey. Even from this distance, Brian can see that he's shaking. Mickey's barrister sweeps forward and booms at him. You positively identified Mr Michael McAvoy as one of the robbers, did you not?

Brian runs his tongue over his dry lips as Tony nods. "Yes." He watches the barrister turn to the jury and smile. "Did you see his face in the robbery?" His heart thumps as Tony blurts out, "Course not. He was wearing a yellow balaclava." Brian closes his eyes as laughter runs around the courtroom. This whole trial has been an utter disaster. He looks down at Mickey now, sees a satisfied smirk spread across his face.

Two days later, Brian feels his chest tighten as the foreman stands up and clears his throat. He can only hope the jury hasn't been hoodwinked by Mickey and his team. We find the defendant guilty, Your Honour. Brian needs to rearrange his face. He needs to paint on a sort of distressed scowl. Oh, gutted for you, Mick. Oh, man. We were all rooting for you, dude. A ripple of shock goes around the courtroom.

Brian's eyes widen as the judge calls for quiet, then sentences Mickey to... 25 years without parole. 25 years is shocking. That is so long. This was the biggest robbery in British history. It was way more than the Great Train Robbery. So once you're dealing with the value of this scale...

It's effectively a national security issue. And they had to send a message to deter anyone else thinking of pulling off something like this. Honestly, just talk to any of the people involved. They'd say, don't do it. It's a right headache. If you're thinking of pulling off the biggest heist in British history, and you're listening to this maybe for research, I think I can speak for both of us, Alice, and say... Oh, please.

Get a hobby. Fulfil your life in other ways. Money isn't everything. You'll be looking over the shoulder for the rest of your days and you might be looking over your shoulder in prison. I think in a way as a podcast we are helping fight crime. Oh, I don't think you could argue that this isn't a public service broadcast. Two hours later, Brian walks into his cab office in Bermondsey and pins a sign on his wall. Remember the golden rule. Whoever has the gold makes the rules. He puts his feet on the desk, lights a cigar...

and blows out a blue plume of smoke. There's a new boss in town, and now Brian's going to live the life he always wanted, with Jackie by his side. And there's nothing Mickey McAvoy can do to stop him.

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January 1985, Central London.

Brian takes a seat in the gleaming West London office, tightens the knot on his silk tie and looks at the team of property developers sitting opposite. He's been trying to sell them one of his warehouses, Globe Wharf. He bought it with the help of that property dealer, Relton, for just over £1.5 million a few months ago. Right now, he has a terrible feeling he paid too much. He turns his gold pen in his hands. He feels his palms sweat.

He watches Relton point to a white architectural model in the middle of the table. "Globe Wharf is the perfect space for luxury living. A gym and swimming pool in the basement, one and two bed luxury apartments. We have the architect's plans and planning permission from the council." He grins at them. "We need a sensible offer, of course. We do have other interested parties." Brian tries hard to read the mood in the room. Eventually a woman in the middle of the group clears her throat.

She runs her bright red fingernails through her big hair, eyeballs Brian, then slides a piece of paper across the desk. This is our offer, Mr Perry. Brian unfolds the paper. He stares, open-mouthed at the figure, looks up at the woman, then back at the amount, and mutters to himself in disbelief. Eight million pounds.

Can we just not have Brian in any of these negotiations in the future? He is a liability. Sorry, he looks surprised. Can we change our offer? He looks at Relton, who snatches the paper. For a second, the room is completely silent. Then Relton clears his throat, slowly gets to his feet and holds out his hand. We have a deal. That night, Brian staggers around Doc's Diner, Relton's favourite restaurant. He can't believe it.

Eight million quid for a derelict old warehouse covered in pigeon shit. It's the best job he's ever pulled off in his life. He grabs another bottle of champagne from an ice bucket, takes a long glug. A cheer goes up as a naked woman pushes past him and climbs onto the diner counter. He stumbles over, watches as Relton shakes up a bottle of champagne, pours it over the woman's breasts and licks it off.

That's just how they served champagne in the 80s. You don't want to see how they drank Carling. Lick it off what? He takes another swig from his own bottle, sways uneasily. He's been partying now for eight hours solid and he's exhausted. He staggers out into the car park, takes in the stench from the Thames as he lights a cigar. That stench is worth a cool £8 million. That is what you're going to be smelling from your one to two bedroom penthouses on the balcony, my friends.

He stumbles to his Bentley, taps on the window and tells his chauffeur, get me home. He leans his head against the window, gazes out at the endless rows of empty warehouses and decides he's going to buy them all up. He's going to make himself richer beyond anything he could ever imagine. Eight hours later, Kenneth Noy's mansion, Kent.

Detective Chief Superintendent Brian Boyce jumps out of his car. He storms over to his team of officers, standing around the cordoned off spot where Kenneth Noy killed one of his men just hours ago. He clenches his fists, fights hard to keep a lid on his anger and his grief. He's been leading the Brinksmat investigation for months, but right now all he's got to show for it is the murder of one of his best men. He bristles at the shouts from the press corps stationed at the property's gate.

Is it true Noy's been under surveillance for months? How much of the Briggs Mac gold are you still looking for, boys? For Christ's sake, shut that lot up. I want every inch of these grounds searched. If we have to clear the whole 25 acres, so be it. I want that gold found. He turns on his heels, marches into the house. He's dealt with dangerous criminals his whole career. He was part of Nipper Reed's team that put the craze away.

But the last 24 hours have been the toughest of his life. He picks up a drawing from the kitchen table. It looks like it must have been done by one of Noy's kids. But is the blueprints for the Bank of England? Why has the Governor of the Bank of England got seven fingers? Try harder. He stares at the sketch of a gold bar, lying next to an open copy of the Guinness Book of Records, with a pencilled circle around the entry...

Brinks Matt, Britain's biggest ever robbery. What is wrong with these people? Stop leaving written clues around the place. Are they quite all right? Why is there no attempt to cover that? Is it just hubris? Are they just like, it's fine, we're never going to get got. We're never going to get ingot. It's not good. It's not good. Move on. He snaps the book shut, presses his fingers to his eyeballs. He then picks up a record on the stereo system.

It's Goldfinger by Shirley Bassey. Come on, are you taking the piss? No, absolutely. He had Goldfinger by Shirley Bassey on top of the stereo. I mean, points for detail, I suppose. His favourite chocolate bar was a gold bar. He had Going for Gold on VHS. Gold by Spandau Ballet. A vein throbs on Boyce's temple. He storms out, heads to the team of officers digging underneath noise-drained swimming pool. Anything? The officer shakes his head.

Only that Norwich's been hating his swimming pool by nicking electricity from the Young Offenders Institution next door. Oh my God, this guy. He really is a crook to the bones, isn't he? He doesn't like paying for anything. But then I guess he's stealing from young offenders, so in a way he's teaching them a lesson and rehabilitating them. You really had to do some mental gymnastics for that one. Yeah. Boyce grits his teeth, grabs a shovel and hurls it down.

Rip the whole bloody thing out if you have to. Norley's been giving no comment answers all night. He might well be too smart to hide the gold here. The truth is, it could be anywhere. But he needs a breakthrough. He marches back to his car. Sir? He's just about to pull away when a uniformed officer taps on his window. You need to take a look at this. He heads over to a group of officers crouching near a drain. One hands him a bundle of white striped cotton cloth.

He unwraps it carefully and stares down at the perfect yellow gold ingots. He holds one up, squints at the identification stamp. A crossed hammer and pick enclosed in an oval. Ha! Brinks Matt Gold. He grins. At last, a breakthrough. Eleven gold bars from the raid. All he has to do now is find the rest. Two days later, France-Switzerland border.

Brian slows down his Bentley Turbo at the border checkpoint, feels his heart pound against his ribs as a guard knocks on his window and asks for his papers. He's decided he needs to shift his money to somewhere no one can find it, somewhere out of the UK. If Noy talks, he's finished. But as he glances down at a snarling Alsatian dog and watches a border guard thumb through his passport, he's starting to wonder if he's made a mistake. Purpose of your visit?

He swallows hard, tries to steady his voice. Je visite en France parce que j'ai un ami en Paris et aussi je voudrais un Coca-Cola. Je voudrais un 1000 Goldingots. Laundered gold civil play. I'm a businessman here for a meeting with a bank. Nothing to see here. I'm just a cockney in a Bentley Turbo at the border.

The guard's eyes narrow. "Out of the car, please." He breaks out into a cold sweat as they check his boot. Search under the car. He spins around, half thinks about making a run for it. But the guard marches over and hands back his passport. He nods his thanks, slips into the driver's seat and stares straight ahead. For a moment, he's completely frozen with fear. He's got 900 grand hidden in the bodywork of this car.

He can't believe they haven't found it. He starts the engine. His heart pounds as he watches the barrier slowly lift. He takes a deep breath and glides the car across the border into Switzerland. A few hours later, he drags two heavy, battered suitcases into the Hong Kong and Shanghai bank in Zurich. He heaves the cases onto the marble counter. The smartly dressed cashier looks him up and down and frowns. Brian looks at him in confusion.

Relton has set up this meeting. He isn't sure what he's supposed to ask for. He clears his throat. I want to open an account. A few accounts, actually. The cashier's face hardens. That could just be because of the arrogance of being a Brit and not even trying with the language. At least thumb through a translation dictionary. Make the effort. Brian glances around as everyone stares at him. He stares down at his ill-fitting suit and scuffed shoes, realises he hasn't shaved for two days.

He sticks out like a sore thumb. He pulls himself up to his full height, unzips the two suitcases and pushes them a few inches towards the cashier, watches his eyes bulge at the sight of the neatly stacked notes. He mutters something to his colleague. A few seconds later, a tall, elegant man appears from a hidden doorway and glides towards him, introduces himself as the manager. This way, sir.

This is every day in a Swiss bank, isn't it? It is, and I dare say, with even a basic knowledge of Swiss history, they've taken money off worse people. Brian's positively a fit and proper person compared to some of their previous clients. Upstanding. A bead of sweat breaks out on Brian's forehead as he follows him into a small room. His mind scrambles for a reason why he has bundles of brand new £50 notes.

But the manager doesn't ask any questions. Instead, he offers him a cigar while an assistant hands him a clipboard with some forms. Fill in your personal details, please, as the names of your new accounts. Brian looks up. He hasn't thought about names. He stares out of the window at the tall clock tower for a moment. He looks back at the forms. He may as well have fun with this.

So he scribbles down Glad after his mother Gladys, Burton after Richard Burton, his favourite actor, and Moet after his favourite champagne. And for his occupation, he writes...

Does it really feel like the time to have fun with it? You can have fun with it, with the money, later. Have fun with the money. Don't have fun with the forms. Yeah, what I would say is I don't think banter translates in a formal environment. An hour later, he opens a bottle of chilled champagne in his luxury suite at the Dolder Grand Hotel. Checks his watch. Round about now, Relton should be walking into a bank in the Cayman Islands.

opening a new account for an offshore company to hide an additional £2 million. In the next few weeks, Brian will open more accounts in other banks here and over the border in Liechtenstein, and he'll keep pumping money into all of them. Even if Kenny Noy does talk now, the police won't be able to trace the money. He sips his champagne and watches the sun slip behind the Alps. Perhaps Noy's arrest was the best thing that could have happened to him,

Because no one can touch him or his money now. One day later, Gartree Prison, Leicester. Mickey saunters into the interview room. His heart drops at the sight of DCS Boyce. He was hoping it'd be Jackie. He sits down, folds his arms and juts out his chin. You're wasting your time, Mr Boyce. He watches Boyce's eyes narrow as he pushes a gold ingot over the table. Mickey stares down at it.

fights every urge not to pick it up. "We found 11 of these in Kenneth Noy's house. Look at the stamp, Mickey." Mickey feels the pressure in his temples. "How come noise smelting your gold, Mickey?" Mickey fumbles for a cigarette. He's determined not to be needled by Boyce. He's got no proof it's his gold. He takes a deep drag, squints across the table. "Thing is, Mickey, we're suddenly hearing all sorts of wild tales.

Million pound property deals in London. People buying luxury cars, mansions. A lot of your old South London mates are really living it up and we think it's with your share. What a way to find out. You're in prison for 25 years and then you find out the people that you're covering for are just living the life of Riley and they've nabbed your portion. I was planning on spending all that when I was 80. I was going to have the best year and a half of my life.

Mickey looks away, tries to push down his growing anger. "Why don't you go talk to them then?" He watches Boyce slowly nod. "Cause they're all out there free and you're not." Boyce leans towards him. "Money changes people, Mickey. Who can you really trust on the outside?" Mickey stubs out his cigarette. "You're wasting your time, Mr. Boyce." Mickey slowly gets to his feet, glares at the guard. "I'm done."

He heads back to his cell, sits down on his bed. He knows how the police operate, but Boyce has rattled him. He reaches down, pulls out a mobile phone from under the latrine. That's got to be a big latrine to conceal the size of 80s mobile we imagine he's rocking. He dials a number he knows off by heart. Hello? Rod, it's Mickey. I've got a job for you. Two days later, Mickey runs his fingers along a line of Geoffrey Archer novels in the prison library.

Just for his own peace of mind, he waits until the librarian finishes chatting with another prisoner, then heads over to him. What you got for me? He watches the librarian's eyes nervously dart around the room as he hands over a large copy of Jane Fonda's workout book. Mickey grabs it and slips into one of the booths, where he slides out a letter from the covers. His eyes scan down the names of every one of the Brinksmack gang.

He reads how Tony White's bought a mansion in Kent, but spends most of his days in South London pubs. How little Legs Lloyd's living it up in Spain. How Big John's been scammed after he bought an oil well in the States that was dry as sticks. He smiles, feels his neck muscles start to relax. Boyce was yanking his chain. Nobody's double-crossing him at all. Then he notices the corner of a photograph. He starts to slide it out, and then stops. It's Jackie.

He didn't ask anyone to follow Jackie. He slides out the rest of the photo and recoils. She's kissing someone. A man. It takes him a moment before he realises who he is. Brian. He can't understand it. He furrows his brow, examines the photo a second time. Brian kissing his Jackie on the lips. He spins around as a guard passes behind him. Someone's message is having a good time, eh, Mickey?

There must be some kind of explanation. Brian always seemed so... so willing. I mean, there it is. That's the explanation, Mickey. He stares again at the photo. He asked Brian to look after Jackie when he was arrested. He's been asking Brian to look after Jackie for years. He even asked him to collect her before his failed helicopter escape.

He feels his blood start to boil as it hits him. There it is. But it can't have been Brian that sabotaged his helicopter escape. Come on. Brian that tipped off the guards so that he could spend time with Jackie and he slams his hand against the bookcase. Mickey, settle down. But all Mickey can see is Brian in bed with Jackie. The two of them laughing at him, planning, plotting, scheming.

How many photos were there? I think they might have been doing something else in bed as well, Mickey. Catch up, mate. What were you doing in there? Plotting? Yeah. We did planning, plotting, scheming, romancing. He smashes his fist against the bookcase for a second time. He watches as the shelving tilts forward and crashes to the floor. Before he knows what's happening, two guards are on him and he's kicking and punching with a violence he didn't think he had. He watches the first guard reel back in shock as blood spurts from his cheek.

Then he lays into the second guard, hits him over and over. He's about to grab the photo when he feels a sharp pain across his back. His legs weaken and buckle from under him. He covers his head as he hits the floor, tries to curl into a ball as fists and boots lay into him. He looks across at the crumpled, blood-stained photo of Jackie and Brian on the floor. Brian's been betraying him this whole time. He closes his swollen eyes and decides...

He's got one last card to play. It goes against every moral code he's ever held and everything he's ever stood for. But it's the only chance he's got left and he's going to take it.

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Mickey sits in a plastic chair in the interview room, feels his leg nervously shake up and down. DCS Boy should be here any minute, but Mickey still hasn't worked out exactly what he's going to say to him. A few seconds later, Boyce walks in with another man. Mickey, I'd like you to meet Detective Superintendent Lundy. Mickey stares at the man, takes in his grey, swept-back hair and brown suit. He shakes his head. I'll talk to you, not him. I ain't talking to no one I don't know.

He watches Boyce's jaw tighten. I hope you're not going to mess us around, Mickey. Mickey narrows his eyes, studies Lundy again, then leans back. OK, but let's get this straight. I ain't giving you no names. Mickey wonders for a moment if actually he should. He could give Boyce Brian's name. Mickey allows himself to imagine the police smashing down Jackie's front door and pulling the two of them kicking and screaming into the street. It's a nice thought, isn't it?

It's a nice revenge thought. Keeps me warm at night. Mickey grips the edge of the table. No, he wants to be the one to do that. He watches Boyce and Lundy glance at each other until Boyce reluctantly nods. Mickey sits up, tries to ignore the pain that shoots through his ribs. You want the gold, Mr Boyce, and I control half of it. I can give it to you, but I want guarantees. I want a year off my sentence for every million I give back. Boyce frowns, leans forward.

You're going to hand over 3,400 gold ingots. It's just occurred to me that Mickey genuinely thinks he is going to hand it over. This isn't a bluff. He thinks that his share of the gold is still safely locked up because the last thing that he said to Brian about it was, sure, you go to Noy and you have yours smelted. You can be the guinea pig. And he was biding his time to see if he wanted to do the same with his own. So he thinks that Brian's just been babysitting it.

Mickey glares at Boyce, takes in his neatly combed hair and carefully knotted tie. He hates everything about the police. His whole life has been spent either avoiding them or lying to them. He takes a deep breath, then looks Boyce straight in the eye. I want guarantees you lot won't double-cross me. He watches Boyce's eyebrows shoot up as Lundy plants his folded hands on the desk and snarls. We're not the criminals in the room, Mickey.

Boyce holds up his hand to silence Lundy. How will you get it to us? Mickey takes a last drag on his cigarette. I'll sort that out. Don't you worry. Just get the helicopter here for 11 o'clock. He crushes the cigarette in the ashtray, hopes they don't see his hands shaking. This is his last chance to get out, to get back to Jackie, save his marriage and get even with Brian. He looks at Boyce, then at Lundy.

They're both stony-faced, giving nothing away. He spits out. We got a deal then, or what? He holds his breath as they stand up. Boyce straightens his tie, then holds out his hand for Mickey. Mickey wipes his sweaty palm and shakes on it. He's going to hand over his gold. Give it to the police, no questions asked. Get out of this godforsaken place. And when he does, he'll hunt Brian Perry down and kill him.

In the Pacific Ocean, halfway between Peru and New Zealand, lies a tiny volcanic island. It's a little-known British territory called Pitcairn, and it harboured a deep, dark scandal. There wouldn't be a girl on Pitcairn once they reached the age of 10 that was still a virgin. It just happens to all of us.

I'm journalist Luke Jones and for almost two years I've been investigating a shocking story that has left deep scars on generations of women and girls from Pitcairn. When there's nobody watching, nobody going to report it, people will get away with what they can get away with. In the Pitcairn Trials I'll be uncovering a story of abuse and the fight for justice that has brought a unique, lonely Pacific island to the brink of extinction.

Listen to the Pitcairn Trials exclusively on Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. I'm Tristan Redman, and as a journalist, I've never believed in ghosts. But when I discovered that my wife's great-grandmother was murdered in the house next door to where I grew up, I started wondering about the inexplicable things that happened in my childhood bedroom.

When I tried to find out more, I discovered that someone who slept in my room after me, someone I'd never met, was visited by the ghost of a faceless woman. So I started digging into the murder in my wife's family, and I unearthed family secrets nobody could have imagined. Ghost Story won Best Documentary Podcast at the 2024 Ambies and is a Best True Crime nominee at the British Podcast Awards 2024. Ghost Story is now the first-ever Apple Podcast Series Essential.

Each month, Apple Podcast editors spotlight one series that has captivated listeners with masterful storytelling, creative excellence, and a unique creative voice and vision. To recognize Ghost Story being chosen as the first series essential, Wondery has made it ad-free for a limited time only on Apple Podcasts. If you haven't listened yet, head over to Apple Podcasts to hear for yourself.

From Wondery, this is the second episode in our series, The Brinksmat Heist. 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 The Curse of Brinksmat and Public Enemy No. 1, The Life and Crimes of Kenneth Noy by Wensley Clarkson,

And remember, if you want to get in touch with us with comments, suggestions, complaints, ideas for scandals, then you can email us at britishscandal at wondry.com. British Scandal is hosted by me, Alice Levine. And me, Matt Ford.

Written by Karen Laws. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor is James Maniac. Sound design by Rich Evans. Our engineer is Jai Williams. For Samizdat, our producer is Chika Ayres. Our assistant producer is Redzi Bernard. Our senior producer is Joe Sykes.

For Wondery, our series producer is Theodora Leloudis and our managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne, Morgan Jones and Marshall Louis. Wondery.

From Wondery and Dr. Seuss, from high atop Mount Crumpet, tis the Grinch Holiday Podcast. Tonight's special guest, he's the big mouth behind Big Mouth, and you can see him in the Christmas blockbuster Red One, in theaters and available to stream on Prime Video now, Funny Man News!

Hey, Nicky, how you doing? Good. How are you, Grinch? Oh, I'm pretty good. I'm doing pretty good today, buddy. Are you finding everything okay in here? Yeah, it's been awesome. Thanks so much. This is going to be fun. Yeah, I think we're going to have fun. I'm really excited. I was a little nervous because you're quite an intimidating character, but I feel like we've had some good chemistry here in this pre-interview, and I think it'll be fun. Whoa. All right, let's save it for the interview. Yeah.

Follow Tis the Grinch Holiday Podcast on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Unlock weekly Christmas mystery bonus content and listen to every episode ad-free by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Spotify, or Apple Podcasts.

This is a story that begins with a dying wish. One thing I would like you to do. My mother's last request that my sister and I finish writing the memoir she'd started about her German childhood when her father designed a secret super weapon for Adolf Hitler. Sieg!

My grandfather, Robert Lusser, headed the Nazi project to build the world's first cruise missile, which terrorized millions and left a legacy that dogged my mother like a curse. She had some secrets. Mom had some secrets. I'm Suzanne Rico. Join my sister and me as we search for the truth behind our grandfather's work and for the first time, face the ghosts of our past. Jeez.

Who is he? Listen to The Man Who Calculated Death exclusively with Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. ♪