The Fourth Estate (27 page)

“Are all the
children local?”

“Yep,” replied
Maureen. ‘They all come from the Port Adelaide area.”

“Ages?” said
Frank.

“Four, three and
four. Two girls, one boy.”

“Right, get hold
of their parents, especially the mothers. I want pictures, history of the
families, everything you can find out about them. Try and discover if the
families have any connection with each other, however remote. Are they related?
Do they know each other or work at the same place? Do they have any shared
interests, however remote, that could just connect the three cases? And I want
some sort of statement out of Gyles Dunn, even if it’s’No comment.’”

Maureen gave
Bailey a quick nod before he turned his attention to the picture editor. “Get
me a picture of Dunn looking harassed that will be good enough to put on the
front page. You’ll have the front-page lead, Maureen, if the Taylor verdict is
not guilty, otherwise I’ll give you page four with a possible run-on to page
five. Try and get pictures of all three children. Family albums is what I’m
afterhappy, healthy children, preferably on holiday. And I want you to get
inside that hospital. If Dunn still refuses to say anything, find someone who
will.

A doctor, a
nurse, even a porter, but make sure the statement is either witnessed or
recorded. I don’t want another fiasco like the one we had last month with that
Mrs. Kendal and her complaints against the fire brigade. And Dave,” the editor
said, turning his attention back to the chief crime reporter, “I’ll need to
know as soon as possible if the verdict on Taylor is likely to be held up, so
we can get to work on the layout of the front page. Anyone else got anything to
offer?”

“Thomas Playford
will be making what’s promised to be an important statement at eleven o’clock
this morning,” said Jim West, a political reporter. Groans went up around the
room.

“I’m not
interested,” said Frank, “unless he’s going to announce his resignation. If
it’s the usual photo call and public relations exercise, producing more bogus
figures about what he’s supposed to have achieved for the local community,
relegate it to a single column on page eleven.

Sport, Harry?”

A rather
overweight man, seated in the corner opposite Townsend, blinked and turned to a
young associate who sat behind him. The young man whispered in his ear.

“Oh, yes,” the
sports editor said. “Some time today the selectors will be announcing our team
for the first Test against England, starting on Thursday.”

“Are there
likely to be any Adelaide lads in the side?”

Townsend sat
through the hour-long conference but didn’t say anything, despite feeling that
several questions had been left unanswered. When the conference finally broke
up, he waited until all the journalists had left before he handed Frank the
notes he had written earlier in the back of the taxi. The editor glanced at the
scribbled figures, and promised he would study them more carefully just as soon
as he had a minute. Without thinking, he deposited them in his out tray.

“Do drop in
whenever you want to catch up on anything, Keith,” he said.

“My door is
always open.” Townsend nodded. As he turned to leave, Frank added, “You know,
your father and I always had a good working relationship. Until quite recently
he used to fly over from Melbourne to see me at least once a month.”

Townsend smiled
and closed the editor’s door quietly behind him. He walked back through the
tapping typewriters, and took the lift to the top floor.

He felt a shiver
as he entered his fathees office, conscious for the first time that he would
never have the chance to prove to him that he would be a worthy successor. He
glanced around the room, his eyes settling on the picture of his mother on the
comer of the desk. He smiled at the thought that she was the one person who
need have no fear of being replaced in the near future.

He heard a
little cough, and turned round to find Miss Bunting standing by the door. She
had served as his father’s secretary for the past thirty-seven years. As a
child Townsend had often heard his mother describe Bunty as 11 a wee slip of a
girl.” He doubted if she was five feet tall, even if you measured to the top of
her neatly tied bun. He had never seen her hair done in any other way, and
Bunty certainly made no concession to fashion. Her straight skirt and sensible
cardigan allowed only a glimpse of her ankles and neck, she wore no jewelry,
and apparently no one had ever told her about nylons. “Welcome home, Mr.
Keith,” she said, her Scottish accent undiminished by nearly forty years of
living in Adelaide. “I’ve just been getting things in order, so that everything
would be ready for your return. I am of course due for retirement soon, but
will quite understand if you want to bring in someone new to replace me before
then.”

Townsend felt
that she Must have rehearsed every word of that little speech, and had been
determined to deliver it before he had a chance to say anything. He smiled at
her. “I shall not be looking for anyone to replace you, Miss Bunting.” He had
no idea what her first name was, only that his father called her “Bunty.” “The
one change I would appreciate is if you went back to calling me Keith.”

She smiled.
“Where would you like to begin?”

“I’ll spend the
rest of the day going over the files, then I’ll start first thing tomorrow
morning.”

Bunty looked as
if she wanted to say something, but bit her lip. “Will first thing mean the
same as it did for your father?” she asked innocently.

“I’m afraid it
will,” replied Townsend with a grin.

Townsend was
back at the Gazette by seven the following morning. He took the lift to the
second floor, and walked around the empty desks of the advertising and small
ads department. Even with nobody around, the could sense the floor was inefficiently
run. Papers were strewn all over desks, files had been left open, and several
lights had obviously been burning all through the night. He began to realize
just how long his father must have been away from the office.

The first
employee strolled in at ten past nine.

“Who are you?”
asked Townsend, as she walked across the room.

“Ruth,” she
said. “And who are you?”

“I’m Keith
Townsend.”

“Oh, yes, Sir
Graham’s son,” she said flatly, and walked over to her desk.

“Who runs this
department?” asked Townsend.

“Mr. Harris,”
she replied, sitting down and taking a compact out of her bag.

“And when can I
expect to see him?”

“Oh, he usually
gets in around nine-thirty, ten ...”

“Does he?” said
Townsend. “And which is his office?” The young woman pointed across the floor
to the far corner of the room.

Mr. Harris
appeared in his office at 9.47, by which time Townsend had been through most of
his files. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” were Harris’s first words
when he found Townsend sitting behind his desk, studying a sheaf of papers.

“Waiting for
you,” said Townsend. “I don’t expect my advertising manager to be strolling in
just before ten o’clock.”

“Nobody who
works for a newspaper starts work much before ten. Even the tea boy knows
that,” said Harris.

“When I was the
tea boy on the Daily Express, Lord Beaverbrook was sitting at his desk by eight
o’clock every morning.”

“But I rarely
get away before six in the evening,” Harris protested.

“A decent journalist
rarely gets home before eight, and the back-bench staff should consider
themselves lucky if they’re away much before midnight. Starting tomorrow, you
and I will meet in my office every morning at eightthirty, and the rest of your
staff will be at their desks by nine. If anyone can’t manage that, they can
start studying the Situations Vacant column on the back page of the paper. Do I
make myself clear?”

Harris pursed
his lips and nodded.

“Good. The first
thing I want from you is a budget for the next three months, with a clear
breakdown of how our line prices compare with the Messenger. I want it on my
desk by the time I come in tomorrow.” He rose from Harris’s chair.

“it may not be
possible to have all those figures ready for you by this time tomorrow,”
protested Harris.

“In that case,
you can start studying the Situations Vacant column as well,” said Townsend.
“But not in my time.”

He strode out,
leaving Harris shaking, and took the lift up one floor to the circulation
department, where he wasn’t surprised to encounter exactly the same
laissez-faire attitude. An hour later he left that department with more than
one of them shaking, though he had to admit that a young man from Brisbane
called Mel Carter, who had recently been appointed as the department’s deputy
manager, had impressed him.

Frank Bailey was
surprised to see “young Keith” back in the office so soon, and even more
surprised when he returned to his place on the window ledge for the morning
conference. Bailey was relieved that Townsend didn’t offer any opinions, but
couldn’t help noticing that he was continuously taking notes.

By the time
Townsend reached his own office, it was eleven o’clock. He immediately set
about going through his mail with Miss Bunting. She had laid it all out on his
desk in separate files with different-colored markers, the purpose of which,
she explained, was to make sure that he dealt with the real priorities when he
was running short of time.

Two hours later,
Townsend realized why his father had held “Bunty” in such high regard, and was
wondering not when he would replace her, but just how long she would be willing
to stay on.

“I’ve left the
most important matter until last,” said BUnty. “The latest offer from the
Messenger. Sir Colin Grant called earlier this morning to welcome you home and
to make sure that you had received his letter.”

“Did he?” said
Townsend with a smile, as he flicked open the file marked “Confidential” and
skimmed through a letter from Jervis, Smith & Thomas, the lawyers who had
represented the Messenger for as long as he could remember. He stopped when he
came across the figure E 150,000, and frowned. He then read the minutes of the
previous month’s board meeting, which clearly showed the directors’complacent
attitude to the bid. But that meeting had taken place before his mother had
given him a ninety-day stay of execution.

“Dear Sir,”
dictated Townsend, as Bunty flicked over the next page of her shorthand pad. “I
have received your letter of the twelfth inst. New paragraph. In order not to
waste any more of your time, let me make it clear that the Gazette is not for
sale, and never will be. Yours faithfully...”

Townsend leaned
back in his chair and recalled the last time he had met the chairman of the
Messenger. Like many failed politicians, Sir Colin was pompous and opinionated,
particularly with the young. “The seen -and-not- heard brigade,” was how he
described children, if Townsend remembered correctly. He wondered how long it
would be before he heard or saw him again.

Two days later,
Townsend was studying Harris’s advertising report when Bunty popped her head
round the door to say that Sir Colin Grant was on the line.

Townsend nodded
and picked up the phone.

“Keith, my boy.
Welcome home,” the old man began. “I’ve just read your letter, and wondered if
you were aware that I had a verbal agreement with your mother concerning the
sale of the Gazette?”

“My mother told
you, Sir Colin, that she would be giving your offer her serious consideration.
She made no verbal commitment, and anyone who suggests otherwise is. . .”

“Now hold on,
young fellow,” interrupted Sir Colin. “I’m only acting in good faith. As you
well know, your father and I were close friends.”

“But my father
is no longer with us, Sir Colin, so in future you will have to deal with me.
And we are not close friends.”

“Well, if that’s
your attitude, there seems no point in mentioning that I was going to increase
my offer to C170,00O.”

“No point at
all, Sir Colin, because I still wouldn’t consider it.”

“You will in
time,” barked the older man, “because within six months I’ll run you off the
streets, and then you’ll be only too happy to take £50,000 for whatever remains
of the bits and pieces.” Sir Colin paused. “Feel free to call me when you
change your mind.”

Townsend put the
phone down and asked Bunty to tell the editor that he wanted to see him
immediately.

Miss Bunting
hesitated.

“Is there some
problem, Bunty?”

“Only that your
father used to go down and see the editor in his office.”

“Did he really?”
said Townsend, remaining seated.

“I’ll ask him to
come up straight away.”

Townsend turned
to the back page, and studied the Flats for Rent column while he waited. He had
already decided that the journey to Melbourne every weekend stole too many
precious hours of his time. He wondered how long he’d be able to hold off
telling his mother.