The Post Office Scandal | A New Horizon | 1

Matt, can I just say, I'm really loving being on this holiday with you. It is great fun, and I feel like we kind of enjoy doing the same things. Yeah, totally. I just feel like maybe we've done all the things you want to do, though. I don't think that's true. You seem to have been enjoying yourself.

Well, we did just spend all of yesterday watching five concurrent football games from the ball pool. You were loving it. Okay, well, I just want to mix it up a bit. Okay. So how do you feel about renting some of those jet skis? I've had spinal surgery. There's absolutely no way I'm doing something like that. Okay, that makes a lot of sense. But water, that's good for taking pressure off the old mech. What about shark cage?

Alice, are you trying to get me killed? There's just no way I'm taking a risk like that. Okay, maybe we just do baby steps. We could go to breakfast a little bit later than 6am, even though they might have run out of mini croissants. Are you mad?

You end up at breakfast day. They run out of many croissants. Then you don't have the nutrition you need to get you through the day. You end up sleep deprived, ill. And then if everyone's doing that, society crumbles. There's no order. And then what's the point in living in a democracy? That is a risk I'm not prepared to take.

book the shark cage 2011 shrewsbury shropshire 57 year old alan bates hurries along the busy high street zips up his waterproof and glances behind him. His heart thumps. The man's still there. A few days back, he received a mysterious call from someone claiming they had explosive information. about the post office horizon system. For eight years, Alan's been at war with the post office, fighting to clear the names of sub-postmasters falsely accused of stealing.

And sub-postmasters are in charge of those branches. They're basically the franchisee. Exactly. So they're the people when you take in the wrong QR code to return your parcel, they're the people whose Thursday afternoon is being ruined. He's taken on a powerful... billion-pound company, and they're determined to shut him down. He risks another glance at the figure following him, takes a mental picture, short grey hair, dark framed glasses.

Alan ducks quickly into a cafe, hoping to lose him. But the man's right there. Alan Bates. Alan spins, feels his mouth dry. But the man holds out his hand. Richard Roll, I rang last week, about Horizon. A few minutes later, they sit down. As Richard slides a piece of paper over the table, Alan frowns. He doesn't know if he can trust this guy. He scratches at his grey beard. It's some kind of list, but it makes no sense. Delmington, calendar square, reversal.

What the hell is this? You said you had information on the Horizon system. Richard nervously hunches forward. I was a software engineer at Fujitsu. I worked on Horizon just after it rolled out in 2001. It's a total mess, full of bugs. These are the names of a few of them. Alan's eyebrows shoot up. Are you telling me the post office knew all along? He watches Richard nervously glance over his shoulder. They've been lying. To you. To the British public. For a moment, Alan can't speak.

For years, he's been arguing the Horizon system is flawed. He's watched almost 700 sub-postmasters hauled in front of the courts. Families have been ripped apart. Reputations shredded. And 13 people have taken their own lives. He slumps back. He's shaking. Do you have hard evidence? He watches Richard tap nervously on the table. I fixed these bugs myself. This list, it's just the tip of the iceberg. Alan stares at the paper.

feels his scalp tighten. A surge of anger runs through him. He realises, if this guy is telling the truth, this is proof. Proof the post office have been lying. proof of a massive and deliberate cover-up. Finally, he's got evidence of the biggest miscarriage of justice this country has ever seen.

From Audible Originals I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. And this is British Scandal. The show where we bring you the murkiest stories that's ever happened on these odd little aisles. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money, some are about sex. They're all about power. But when we look at scandals a bit closer...

They turn out to be stranger, wilder, just plain weirder than we remember. So we're journeying back to ask, who's to blame for what happened? And when the dust settled, did anything really change? So, Matt, in your memory, what are the most famous miscarriages of justice in history that we haven't yet covered on British Scandal? So many big ones.

Deirdre Barlow going to prison in Coronation Street. Of course. Free the Weatherfield One. That was big news. People would put posters in their front windows and it even got raised at Prime Minister's questions. I remember Tony Blair having to... Answer a question about it. A soap opera character. Wow. This nation. Beckham's red card against Argentina, but that's international. No, that one's for Interpol. It's out of our hands.

And the worst of all, quite a few years ago now, Greg's changed the recipe to their vegetable pasty. It used to be the best pasty in the world. It was a piece of culinary perfection. Then they mucked about with it. They added peppers. They've just ruined it. And they refuse, despite my Twitter campaign, to go back to the original and best recipe. Is it that? Justice for the shortcrust. Is it shortcrust or is it puff? It's puff.

I'm not sure I'm going to put justice for the puff on a poster in my window. This one actually captured the mood and the sympathy of the nation. Does that help you at all? Yes. Jackie Weaver and Hanford Parish Council. You do not have the authority, Alice Levine. Why aren't we doing that? Okay, that's going straight to the top. But no, final clues. What if I said this one involved a village shopkeeper, a faceless corporate giant?

and a kind of computer system you'd find in a school IT room circa 1997. Please do not tell me that that big paperclip is the villain in this story.

Clippy actually made me sign an NDA, so I can't say any more. But thematically, you are on the right tracks. This story has actually been requested by so many listeners. So thank you for your emails, britishscandalatwondery.com if you want to suggest one. This is a story about a computer programme that ruined... hundreds of lives it's the perfect example of a David versus Goliath story kind of the quintessential example of how you can get screwed over by the establishment

And it's a story that lots of people will be familiar with thanks to the incredible ITV drama Mr Bates vs The Post Office. The Post Office was the most trusted brand on the high street and then it all came tumbling down. This is episode one.

a new horizon. Ten years earlier, July 2001, South Warnborough, Hampshire. 44-year-old Jo Hamilton opens the boot of her car, takes out boxes of scones and cakes for her stall at the village fete. So you're a scone person? I knew this was coming. Is this the true scandal? I say scone. Now, there'll be great debate, people listening, but there's supposedly a sort of north-south, posh-not-posh divide on this.

I thought scone was posh. I thought scone was posh. This is the thing. I don't think there's any authority, really. Neither of us are posh. And what's gone on? Because we're from the same place as well. What's gone on? What's gone on? Oh, you're a gone person, eh? I say gone. Also, really not even worth talking about because they're not that nice. They're very dry. So for international listeners, a scone is a kind of fruit bun that is rock hard, crumbles immediately, and you have to kind of...

baste and paste with cream and jam to get any sort of purchase on it. Jo's been up since 6am, baking to raise money for the local school and to test her recipes for the community shop she recently bought. She tacks up bunting now, pins up her price list and lets out a quiet sigh of satisfaction. When her haulage business went under a few years back, she had to leave her old home, buy somewhere new.

on a joint mortgage with her parents. It was the only way she could clear her debts. But now she's back on track. Her community shop might be tiny. It's in the same room as the post office. But it's a fresh start. And she has big plans. All right, Jo. She looks up as Olwen, the sub-postmaster, strides towards her. She's about to cut him a slice of lemon drizzle when he blurts out, I thought you should be the first to know.

I've decided to retire. Her stomach nods. Retire? Who's taking over the post office? Olwen shrugs, shifting uneasily. Dunno. Might have to close it. Her mouth goes dry. If the post office goes, most of her customers will go with it. And her little shop will go under. She watches him stroll away, then sits down for a moment. Slowly, a plan begins to form.

That night, she sits at the table with her family, tells them about Olwen leaving, then takes a steadying breath. I'm thinking of applying to take it over. For a moment, no one speaks. Her mother tilts her head, fixes her with a sympathetic look. Are you sure about this, Jo? Jo bites back irritation. She knows her mum's just being protective after everything she's been through.

I watch Olwen work every day. I step in when he's busy, Mum. It's just that, after everything, Joe, I don't want it to be too much. Surely, if you're an elderly person, you dream. is for your offspring to take over a post office. That's like your mate having a pub at that age. You're like, man, I'd be straight to the front of the queue. Little book of stamps. Jo's about to snap back, but her husband, David, cuts in. Might not be a bad idea.

And we could do with the extra income. Joe squeezes his hand. He works long hours for the family. She wants to do her part. She looks around the table at her parents, her two sons. And decides. She's going to do everything she can to become South Warnborough's new sub postmistress. It's time to put past failures behind her. And finally prove...

She has what it takes to make a business a success. Five months later, New Year's Eve 2001. The Village Post Office. Jo pulls down the blind and locks the door. She steps into the post office cubicle. She's been sub-postmistress for a few months now and loves it, even if there never seem to be enough hours in the day. Sub Postmaster's a funny enough name. Sub Postmistress sounds even more odd as a job title. It's not right, is it, really? It sounds quasi...

Like you're someone's bit on the side and also that there's a dominatrix angle to it. When is your wife your mistress? When she's a sub-post mistress. That is a first-class joke. She glances at the till. Tonight, she needs to cash up fast. The villagers' New Year's Eve party is waiting, and she's helping with the catering. She gathers up the day's receipts. Joe jumps.

lifts the blind and peers out into the darkness, then jolts back when something slaps against the window. She hears a man's voice bellow out. Mrs. Hamilton, I'm here to train you on the horizon system. Did you get my email? She squints at the post office ID badge pressed against the glass, exhales, opens the door. A large man squeezes inside.

She's been so busy over Christmas, she can't remember if she got the email or not. A few minutes later, he's in the post office cubicle, his face red with effort as he unpacks a large grey computer terminal and a barcode scanner. She watches his thick fingers fly over the keyboard. White text scrolling across a blue screen. What is this exactly? He keeps his eyes on the computer as he tells her, It's the new Horizon system.

Think of it as the most sophisticated till in the world. Her eyes widen as coloured boxes appear on the screen. Cash withdrawal, balance inquiry, cash deposit. The trainer mutters... It calculates your daily accounts at the press of a button, tells you the total from your transactions and how much cash you have in the safe. He gestures at the pile of paper receipts on the counter. You won't have to worry about these again.

This machine does it all. Jo glances at the Horizon logo. The O has lines drawn around it like a kid's drawing of the sun. She fidgets uneasily. I'm not good with computers. I've always done everything manually. He sits her down. Honestly, it's a piece of cake, love. Everything's on the database. Full proof. Press it now to see your account. She lets her finger hover over the keyboard. The man leans in. It won't bite. I do not like this guy. No, I don't like that sort of tone.

I also don't like him leaning it. Just back up. Let me have a bit of space. Joe shoots him a withering look, then takes a breath and presses. A split second later, the screen displays her account. How many stamps she's got. How much cash she's taken. She smiles. He's right. Everything's here. She starts to cash up and grins. Even she can't make a mistake with this thing.

The trainer pins up a number on her notice board. That's the Horizon helpline if anything goes wrong. But it won't. He heads to the door and grins. Happy New Year! Joe stares at the grey monitor. at the blinking lights on the modem. She imagines all the possibilities with the time she'll save. She'll expand the shop, open a deli counter, even add a cafe. This little space could be the hub of the whole village. She switches off the system and smiles. Because now, anything is possible.

Two years later, December 2003, South Warmbra. Jo loads up the white van with boxes of fish and chips. She's been organizing hot food deliveries to elderly and housebound customers for a few weeks now. It's her latest idea, and it's a hit. She heads back inside her shop and cafe. She takes in the little bistro tables, the small vases of flowers. Feels a pang of pride. Business is booming.

She heads over to the Horizon Terminal, starts to cash up. It's been such a help to her these past two years. She can't believe she ever managed without it. She starts typing. The figures on the screen swim in front of her eyes. For some reason, it says that her day's takings are £2,032.67. She hasn't got anything like that. She stumbles over to the safe. She counts. £340.97. She must have made a mistake. Her chest tightens. Bloody hell, Joe.

Only you can muck this up. She scrabbles on the notice board for the Horizon helpline number, finds it buried under a pile of post-it notes. Her heart hammers as she rings. As soon as she hears a voice on the other end, she blurts it all out at once. The figures on the screen don't match with her takings. She's done something wrong. Feels a wave of heat rush to her face as the woman says,

heard of anything like this before. The sound of the keyboard tapping on the other end of the line makes her head pound. Then she hears the woman's voice again. Okay, redeclare your stock holdings. Reverse the difference. Don't worry, it'll balance out. Jo swallows hard. So then I just press the green tick? Yes. Jo's hand shakes as she presses the screen. Her heart jumps and she reels back.

almost dropping the phone. Here's her terrified voice blurt out. Oh my God, it's doubled. It now says in the safe, I've got £4,188.53. I don't. I haven't. The woman pauses briefly. Well, it's been re-declared now, so it's final. Any shortfall is your responsibility, I'm afraid. Jo lets the receiver slip from her ear, stares open-mouthed at the screen. £4,000. How is that possible? She goes through every receipt, every docket.

Nothing adds up. She can hardly breathe. She's cold and shaking as the terrifying truth hits her. Somehow, she has to find over £4,000.

before the end of the month. And she has no idea how she's going to do it. Three years later, 2006. 5.20am, Jo's cottage. Jo turns over in bed, tries to push away the image of a computer screen swimming in front of her. A jumble of coloured boxes swirl in her brain. Then her eyes snap open. Nausea hits her as she remembers how much debt she's in. She'd paid back the four grand shortfall three years ago from her own savings. But most of the time she cashes out.

She's short. Sometimes she's out by a few pounds. Other times, it's a few hundred. She has no idea what the hell she's doing wrong. There's so much unique Britishness in this story because the Post Office is a unique British brand and also we still have a slight deference to authority and a desire to apologise even when we're not in the wrong.

Those three things together are a perfect storm. She swings her legs out of bed, cradling her arm that is throbbing with constant pain. She tries to get dressed without waking David, drags on some clothes that hang loose. Most of her wardrobe no longer fits. She's been surviving on out-of-date food from her shop. Scraping off the mould from vegetables. Sometimes skipping meals altogether. Lying to her family that she's already eaten.

so they'll have enough for themselves. She's maxed out on her credit cards, behind with her loan, and she's just had to cancel the family holiday. She made up some story about the travel company being overbooked. Five hours later, she's dead on her feet. She just wants to go home, have a bath and an early night. She answers the phone with a hoarse voice. South Warmbra Post Office. Mrs Hamilton?

She feels her back tense, but a woman's cheerful voice tells her she's calling from post office HQ. Just a courtesy call to let you know you've reached the threshold for the amount of money you're legally allowed to keep in the safe. Jo's mind scrambles. She stutters out. What do you mean? The woman carries on. Nothing to worry about. According to Horizon, you've reached the limit for insurance purposes.

I'll send a post office van on Friday to collect the money, no problem. She feels sick, starts to sweat. She knows there's less than two grand in the safe. She hears her own trembling voice ask, Remind me, what's the limit? She takes in the brief pause on the other end of the line before the woman replies. £25,000. Just have it ready for our driver to collect on Friday. Jo's knees buckle. She stares at the horizon screen.

thinks back to all the times she's pressed that green declare button, hoping the system would correct itself. She's been wrong. She can't move. For a few minutes, she stares into the distance. She twists her wedding ring as she works out what to do. She pulls down the shutter on the counter, opens the safe, counts the money again. £1,900 exactly. No, no, no, no. Tears sting her eyes. She's shaking. She's got four days. Four days to sort this mess. Four days to cover £25,000.

And right now, there's only one person who can help her do it. That night, South Warnborough. Izzy Hogg kicks off her shoes, pours herself a glass of wine, and lets her head rest on the back of the chair. She's spent the day in Winchester Court. defending shoplifters and car thieves. She's exhausted. Right now, all she wants is a takeaway and a quiet night in. She lets out a sigh, puts down her glass and pads to the door.

Her eyes widen with shock as Joe barges in. I need help, Izzy. I've been trying for months to get the figures to tally and I can't get the hang of it and now I'm in real trouble. Izzy follows Joe inside, reels with shock. They've been friends for years, but she's never seen Joe look so ill. She's ashen-faced, sweating, babbling. Izzy sits her down, pours her a glass of wine, pushes aside her pizza menu.

and grabs a notepad. I love the meat feast and onion rings. No, wedges are pointless. Chicken kickers and four cookies and a Pepsi Max. Keep the calories down. Joe, take a breath. and tell me exactly what's happened. She scribbles down some notes as Jo explains how she can't get her accounts to balance on the Horizon system. Izzy looks up. Horizon? What's that?

It's the computer. It calculates everything automatically, but I keep coming up short. I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I've always been bad with numbers, but this is just... Sorry, Izzy. Izzy leans forward. Joe, how long's this been going on? Three years. Izzy puts a hand on Joe's arm. Isn't there someone at the post office who could help? I've called the Horizon helpline over and over again, but they just say to me, nobody else has any problems.

I feel so stupid. Izzy stares at her friend, then gently asks, how much money is missing Jo? She watches Jo dab at her eyes. £23,100. Izzy stares. And when Jo meets her eyes, pleading, she sees the terror in them. You won't tell my family, will you? I don't want them to worry. Izzy exhales, softening. You've been keeping this a secret. Oh, Jo.

She watches Joe cover her face and sob, noticing properly now how thin and frail she looks. Izzy reaches over and hugs her friend. As a criminal defence lawyer, she's seen it all. She can spot a guilty person a mile off. But Jo is one of the most honest people she's ever met. Izzy pulls back. We will find a solution. Are you a member of a union?

National Federation of Sub Postmasters. Do you think I should ring them? Izzy nods firmly. First thing in the morning. Tell them everything you've told me. They'll know your rights. That's our starting point. This sort of stuff doesn't always occur to people, that if you've got some sort of dispute at work and you're a member of a union, always tell your union. And if you've got any sort of issue, and I know where this story's going to go and that it doesn't always help, but contact your MP.

Like there are systems in place that don't always work, but alert people, make a fuss. And on a really basic level, tell a friend. I mean, it's so lonely to be in that position where you think this thing is out of control. And I think it's the great irony of this story that the kind of people who wanted to run these hubs of small towns or villages...

are civic-minded, honest people. And so their worst nightmare is doing something untrustworthy or irregular. This thought that this could be misread, oh, it just, it was the end of the world. Izzy pastes on a reassuring smile as Joe thanks her. When she's gone, Izzy studies her notepad. This isn't good. Joe could be in a whole heap of legal trouble if this isn't sorted.

Izzy can't let this drag on and hurt her friend any longer. Tomorrow, she'll clear her diary. She'll make sure Jo gets through this, no matter what. But first...

Meat Feast. Chicken Kickers. Doughballs. Pepsi Max. The following morning, village post office. Joe walks behind the counter, takes a deep breath. then dials the union number. A few seconds later, a woman answers. Jo swallows hard. I've only got £1,900 in the safe, not £25, and the post office is sending a van.

She listens to the brief silence on the other end of the line. Here's the woman's puzzled voice. Are you saying you're missing over £23,000? Jo's throat tightens. Then the words tumble out. That's the thing. Yeah, I don't know. I just lost track. The woman cuts in. Could one of your staff have stolen it? Maybe one of your family? Jo gasps.

God, no, there's just me. I just can't get my figures to add up on Horizon. But the woman's voice is cold. The Horizon system does not make mistakes, Mrs Hamilton. Jo, here's another pause. Given the amount of money that's missing... We're going to have to ask the post office to carry out a full audit of your branch. Immediately. Jo reels back, shocked. Her heart smacks in her chest. I'm also obliged to inform you, Mrs Hamilton.

that you are personally liable for any missing money. The audit office will be in touch. Hang on. These guys are the union. They're meant to be on her side. They're meant to be fomenting revolution and getting everyone out on strike, not signing with a man. Here I am saying get in touch with your union and your MP. Terrible advice. You've made Joe look a fool. She blinks around the post office cubicle.

stares at the photo of her sons on the wall. She can't hide this from her family any longer. A few minutes later, she walks into the cottage, heads into the kitchen, sits her husband and parents down. takes a deep breath and starts to explain about the audit. Some money's gone missing. I'm sure the auditors will find it. But if they don't, she grips the table.

I'll have to pay it back myself. David frowns at her, puzzled. Well, how much is it? Jo feels her chin tremble. She bites her dry lips. £23,000. He reels back. His face drains of all colour. How the hell are we going to find 23 grand? She tries to study her voice. It can't be anything like that. It could only be two or three grand tops.

But it's still a lot. I'm maxed out on my credit cards. On the loan. David's eyes bulge. What bloody loan? What the hell's been going on, Joe? See, maybe you shouldn't tell anyone anything. Because head office have been useless, the union have been useless, her husband's not taking it well, maybe bottling things up. The British way is the best way to deal with it.

You have a unique ability to take these stories and really quickly see the lesson to be learned. And I think that is this magic. She tries to fight back her tears. It's all my fault. I'm so sorry. I got in such a muddle. She gulps back a sob as her mother reaches for her hand. Don't worry love, we'll scrape the money together somehow. She blinks around at her family.

takes in their shocked faces. She hates what she's done, what she's putting them through. But at least it's no longer a secret. All she can do now is hope and pray that the auditor...

finds that missing money. The following day, South Warnborough. Post office auditor Graham Brander steps out from his black Audi, buttons up his long black overcoat, and strides up the street towards the village post office. He's here to do an audit. Do you think he... got that car so he could say, I put the Audi in audit. You can't spell audit without Audi and you can't spell audit without I and you. And I am here to investigate you.

He's here to find out why £23,000 has mysteriously disappeared from his branch. He stops outside the post office now, takes in the whitewashed walls, the shrubs in pots. It all looks very neat and tidy, very respectable. But he's not fooled by any of it. He's been a security manager for six years now. He's seen it all. Fake robberies, fraud, false accounting.

If anything dodgy's going on here, he'll find it. He tightens the knot on his tie and marches inside. A few seconds later, the sub postmistress, Mrs. Hamilton, appears. He takes in her smiling face, her neatly buttoned blouse. She looks like butter wouldn't melt. He'll be the judge of that. He holds out his hand. I'd like the coos to the safe, please, Mrs Hamilton.

He notices her hands tremble when she hands them over. Tells her to go home and wait. The last thing he wants is her looking over his shoulder. He'll question her when he's ready. He spends the next two and a half hours going through her accounts. He checks and double checks her transactions on the Horizon system. Goes over its history. Counts every penny in the safe. Then heads over to interview her.

A short while later, he sits in Mrs. Hamilton's kitchen, opposite her and her mother. She's fussing around, pouring him tea, offering him cakes and biscuits. He can see the fear in her eyes. He cuts to the chase. Will it surprise you to know that the audit has shown a very large discrepancy, Mrs Hamilton? She's shaking, white as a sheet. I tried to count every penny coming in, but I...

I couldn't get it to match. He narrows his eyes as she starts to falter. He knows Horizon inside out. He used it himself when he was a branch manager. It never makes mistakes. He leans forward. Where is it, Mrs Hamilton? Where's the money? This feels very full-on for a man who surely is meant to be there with an open mind. Also, you're not the police.

You can send me a letter that says there is a discrepancy, but you don't get to interrogate me over biscuits. No cake for you, pal. Her chin starts to wobble. I thought you'd find it and find out what I'm doing wrong. He watches her wipe at her eyes. crocodile tears he's seen it all before he lets out a long breath a substantial amount of public money is missing i have no other option than to start a formal investigation

In the meantime, you're suspended, with immediate effect. She's staring at him, her jaw hanging. Suspended? He grabs his briefcase and glares down at her. I think you should have a long think about how you're going to pay this back, Mrs Hamilton.

Jo clears empty plates from the tables. She's been here since half eight and she just wants to hide from everyone. But she has to keep going. Earn enough to pay the post office what she owes. She glances over at the post office cubicle, wishes it wasn't in the same room. The replacement sub-postmaster glares at her. She feels her face flush as she hears someone whispering behind her.

how she's been suspended for stealing thousands of pounds. I need time for this one, Jo. Jo looks up, sees the postman holding out a letter. She lets her shoulders drop, scribbles her signature. turns the letter over and recognises the postmark immediately. Head office. She tears it open and stares in disbelief. Failure to comply. Mrs. Josephine Hamilton, South Warnborough Post Office. Total deficit owing £36,644.89. She gasps.

Given the serious nature of the shortfall, Post Office Limited has no other option than to prosecute for theft and false accounting. Anger floods her. She might have made mistakes, but she's not a thief. She snatches off her apron and grabs her coat. She bangs on Izzy's door till it opens, shoves the letter into her friend's hands. They're saying I stole it.

I've made mistakes, I admit it, but not this much. I've been living on fresh air, Izzy, to pay them back. Canceled our holiday, can't even afford clothes that fit. What the hell do they think I've done with 36 grand? She takes a shaky breath and lifts her chin. If they want to call the police on me, fine. I'll tell them everything. I've got nothing to hide. But Izzy's eyes stay on the latter. When she finally looks up...

Her face is pale. They don't need the police, Jo. They can take you to court themselves. This is one of the mad things about this story is so many people don't realise. The actual powers that the post office as an institution has. They have in-house prosecutors. They essentially have their own police force. Other government departments obviously run their own investigations, but they have to work alongside the police and the CPS.

The post office are a law unto themselves, essentially. Jo feels herself sway. Court. She slumps into a chair, her breathing ragged. A pain shoots across her chest. as Izzy breaks the devastating news. But you have to pay this money, Jo. Every single penny. Because if you don't, you're going to prison.

A few weeks later, Village Hall. Jo pushes through the rows of chairs, tries to ignore the whispers around her. She steadies herself, steps up onto the stage. She blinks out at the mass of faces. There must be 60 people here at least. Neighbours, friends, customers. Her cheeks burn with humiliation as she clears her throat. I know I made mistakes cashing up.

A snort cuts through the room. And the rest. Don't heckle now, mate. Heckling anywhere is bad behaviour. This is not a gig. She swallows hard. But I have no idea where the money's gone. I promise on my life I have not stolen one penny. But it did happen under my watch. And I take full responsibility. She stands in the awkward silence.

A middle-aged man shouts from the back of the room. Where is it gone then, Jo? Ran off with the milkman's cat? Tough crowd. And it's a home crowd. Laughter ripples through the hall. Her head feels light. I've let you all down. I've been stupid. That's all I know. An elderly man in a tweed jacket, Mr Clydeton, gets up from his seat, jabs a finger at her. It's not stupid. It's bloody deliberate if you ask me.

Us pensioners will be stuck if the post office goes under. And it's your fault. She swallows back tears. She wants to run, but she's stuck to the spot. Then one of her regular customers... A stout woman in a purple hat stands up. You wouldn't forget her, would you? She looked like a quality street. Oh, stop being such an old fart. You know as well as I do, Jo would never steal any money. She watches a few people nod.

sees Mr Clyton sit, muttering, then feels Izzy's hand on her shoulder, gently guiding her to a chair. She sits down, shaking as Izzy steps forward. Joe's remortgaged her house. She's raised £30,000, but she's still £6,000 short. She needs to pay it all if she's got any chance of avoiding prison. She holds her breath. feels the room crackle with tension. The silence is broken when the vicar gets to her feet. Jo is the backbone of this village. She's always been there for us.

She hears a murmur of agreement run around the room as the vicar goes on. So now it's our turn to help her. Her eyes brim with tears as one after the other, people get to their feet. and start pledging money to help. She hears her own teary voice thank them over and over. She's never felt more grateful to the people of this village or more humble.

But Jo's never been more ashamed. In a few weeks, she'll pay back every single penny. Plead guilty to false accounting. Live forever with a tarnished reputation.

And maybe then, put this entire mess behind her, once and for all. Winchester Crown Court. Jo walks into the courtroom, clutching a small overnight bag. She tries to breathe through the sudden pain in her chest. A few weeks ago, she pleaded guilty here. to 14 counts of false accounting. Today, she's being sentenced. She's arranged to pay the money back. But yesterday, her probation officer had told her to expect a jail sentence.

I mean, this is mad because if she's guilty of anything, it's just of making an innocent mistake. She didn't know how those numbers weren't adding up and she's done everything in her power to pay that money back. It's mad.

that that could then lead to a custodial sentence. And that it's being regarded as serious financial misconduct. It'd be like getting arrested for going overdrawn. You'd be like, well, but I paid the overdraft off. They'd be like, no, no, no. You went into the red for a bit. We know what you're up to. She follows the guards to the dock, sits down and waits for the judge. She searches the public gallery for David and her parents, then gasps at the sight in front of her.

The whole gallery is full of supporters from the village. Some of them wave at her now, give her the thumbs up. She can't believe her eyes. There must be 70 people here, more even. She smiles, feels a ray of hope. Then she spots the auditor, Graham Brander, at the back, flanked by post office lawyers, and he's scowling at her. The judge enters.

Jo nervously picks at her hands as her vicar steps onto the witness stand. Your Honour, look at the gallery. These people are here because Jo is kind and caring. In many ways, she's more of a vicar in the village than I am. If she went to prison, the whole village would lose out. Let us pray. Joe watches the judge thumb through the thick folder of references. His face is unreadable. His eyes narrow when he looks at her.

Why are you here, Mrs Hamilton? She lowers her head, then looks back at him, tears streaming down her face. I don't know. I got in a muddle. She feels his eyes boring into her. This was no muddle. This was deliberate fraud. I am sentencing you. She grips onto the bench in front of her. Blood. To a 12-month community order, you must also repay the full amount owing to the post office of £36,644.89.

Relief floods Jo. She blinks up at the gallery, watches people hug each other. She wipes at her face as it sinks in. She isn't going to prison. A few minutes later, she stands outside the courtroom as well-wishers crowd around her. A local press photographer takes pictures. She tries to smile. But Graham Brander is marching towards her. Don't take photos of her. She's a criminal. She feels her jaw drop. She wants to snap back. But her mouth dries as she realises.

He's right. She is a criminal now. She might have been spared prison, but she's still been found guilty. She's 51 years old and her name is stained. Her business is wrecked and she's got 35 grand's worth of debt hanging over her family. But she knows she didn't steal that money. So she shows the camera a bright, polite smile and silently vows. She will find out where that money went, who stole it. And when she does, she will make money.

them pay. From Audible Originals and Samizdat Audio this is the first episode in our series The Post Office Scandal. 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. British Scandal was hosted by me, Alice Levine. And me, Matt Ford.

Written by Karen Laws. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor was James Maniak. Sound design by Rich Evans. Our engineer was Jai Williams. For Samazdat, our series producer was Chika Ayres. Our assistant producer was Louise Mason. Our senior producers were Joe Sykes and Dasha Lisitzina. Executive producers for Audible were Theodora Leloudis and Estelle Doyle.