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Wonderly.

The Wondry! It's late on an evening in November 1969 in London England.

19-year-old Richard Branson unlocks his apartment door, walks inside, and kicks off his shoes.

He makes his way to the tiny kitchen and takes a cold beer from the refrigerator.

Then he steps into the living room and slumps exhausted onto the couch.

Richard is used to getting home late.

Although he's still a teenager, he already runs his own magazine,

but making ends meet and publishing is proving tough.

Every month, it feels like his young business is on the brink of going under.

Richard takes another sip of beer, trying to forget the day

when there's a knock on the door.

He lifts himself off the couch, curious as to

who might be visiting at this time. Two middle-aged men stand on the front step. Richard doesn't

recognize them, but he can tell by their expressions this isn't a friendly visit. Richard Branson? Yes?

I'm Sergeant Morris and this is PC Davies. We're from the Met. Richard is startled.

The police officers aren't in uniform, and he wonders if this is some kind of joke. Your police?

We are, sir. We don't like to wear the uniforms unless strictly necessary. It tends to make people nervous.

The officer holds up his Metropolitan Police Warr warrant card, and Richard peers at it.

...