Three weeks or so ago, fascinating gossip began to emerge in New York.

Some scurrilous individual decided to put it about that Rupert Murdoch was divorcing his wife, Wendi Deng, because she was having an affair with Tony Blair. Things reached such a pitch, the former prime minister was forced to issue a denial.

No doubt the rumours were as hurtful as they were untrue. To intrude on a couple's privacy with unfounded speculation at such a time was an appalling act. For two staunchly Christian men and a blameless woman to be traduced in this manner was beyond the pale. On the bright side, The Sun missed the story.

Had some other octogenarian billionaire and some other politician been smeared, you can be certain the tabloid would have at least found room for the denial and a droll headline. Where Murdoch and his favourite newspaper are concerned, however, the pursuit of truth has limits. It stops at the boardroom door.

Treatment that can be meted out gleefully to celebrities and common folk alike is taboo where the boss is concerned. Even when Murdoch was grovelling before the Commons culture committee two years ago on "the most humble day" of his life, The Sun did not hold the front page or prepare one of its scorching editorials. What's the point of controlling 34% of the newspaper market if you have to read disagreeable tales about yourself?

It counts as a minor test of Murdoch's commitment to sincere journalism. The Times, to its credit – and possible cost – covered the phone hacking and bribery scandals adequately and accurately. Not the Bun. Its readers must have wondered what the fuss was about, and why the man who supplies their entertainment was promising, with apparently painful sincerity, to co-operate fully with politicians and police to right corporate wrongs.

It turns out the sincerity was rather more apparent than real. In another tale that has failed to dominate the pages of The Sun, Murdoch has found himself the victim of poetic justice, bugged by one of his own eager if disillusioned journalists. What's worse, he has been caught at a Wapping meeting telling something close to the truth about his views on tabloid journalism, corruption, democratic oversight and those his paper would otherwise call our boys in blue.

His most humble day was not, it transpires, his most penitent day. Operation Elveden, the investigation into alleged illegal payments to public officials, is "the biggest inquiry ever over next to nothing". The police are "totally incompetent" and a "disgrace". Pay-offs are just an old part of Fleet Street "culture". Murdoch and his journalists have been "picked on" by a combination of "the old right-wing establishment" and "the left-wing get-even crowd".

Journalists left feeling betrayed by their management are meanwhile assured that "for the last several months" co-operation with the police has been curtailed. In any case, it would be "outrageous" if any of the 24 staff who have been arrested were to be given prison terms. Murdoch, they are assured, will support them – in a manner he cannot specify for legal reasons – no matter what. He even utters words familiar to many who have dealt with this tycoon: "Just trust me, OK?"

More fascinating still, the old man has recovered from that unfortunate bout of humility. On the tape, The Sun's deputy editor, one Geoff Webster, gives voice to the paper's deepest instincts when he says it would be "nice to hit back when we can". The executive is talking about the police, no less. Murdoch's response: "We will, we will."

So what was all that rubbish Murdoch told the Commons committee during his performance two years ago? What about the claims of ignorance, the promise of full co-operation, the professed shame over the damage done to private citizens by his News Of The World? What became of The Sun's devotion to "law 'n' order"? Where now the poor, confused chap taken aback by the wanton excesses of his favourite hacks? Where now the insistence that there was no cover-up?

On the tape, one of the noises you can hear is, apparently, the sound of Murdoch slamming his hand on the table in anger. The individual whose newspaper has persecuted so many defenceless people is agitated because of "persecution". His arrested journalists, so relentless in their pursuit of selected victims, also claim to feel "victimised". Perhaps a few lessons in empathy have been learned. But don't bank on it.

What's clear is that Murdoch is not consumed by remorse. If the tape is anything to go by, he reckons the entire scandal, not least the alleged bribing of public officials – with much more than mere "tip-off" money at stake – was no big deal. He speaks the language of revenge as fluently as ever. The Sun is, as it has always been, his faithful echo.

The tycoon has been disingenuous, then, in his public responses to the myriad scandals of News International. This raises some obvious questions. Why should anyone take this individual seriously as a defender of press freedom? What price reform and royal commissions when the tape makes plain that the issue has always been one of ownership? What value can be placed on the evidence Murdoch gave to a Commons committee?

There are old rules in that regard, most of them to do with the concept of contempt, but they have not been tested for decades. It is doubtful, equally, if MPs would have Murdoch bang to rights on the basis of the tape alone. There is no reason, however, that he could not be called back to the culture, media and sport committee to explain himself.

The Americans are more straightforward in these matters. The Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, designed to prevent bribery, renders it an offence for US companies to pay public officials on foreign soil. On the tape of the Wapping meeting Murdoch does not admit to knowing what was allegedly going on at The Sun, but that isn't enough to protect his firm from charges. A failure by management to establish systems to prevent illegal payments can trigger the act.

Murdoch is 82 years old. His run as the devil incarnate of the British media is drawing to a close. But it is naive to believe the problems of press freedom and press law will be solved when he quits the stage. In fact, it remains hard to see what all the talk of reform and licensed journalism have to do with the outrages he has perpetrated down the years. The issue is not one of ethics but of crime.

A Murdoch arises when there is an opportunity for an individual to control 34% of the press with the encouragement and support of politicians. Whether such control is exerted by a fit and proper person is almost a secondary question. Allow so much power to be concentrated in one man and all the fine talk of ethics and oversight is mere whistling in the dark.

The rest of us are told, meanwhile, that we can publish freely until a government comes along with a darker view of free speech and "statutory underpinning". It might not count as Murdoch's greatest crime, but that legacy, too, will have been his doing.