The Fourth Estate (61 page)

“You know it and
I know it,” said Stephen. “But the MMC isn’t made up only of socialists.”

“More’s the
pity,” said Armstrong. “if I could get my hands on the Citizen, for the first
time in his life Townsend would discover what real competition is all about.”

“You don’t have
to convince me, Dick. I wish you luck with the minister.

But that wasn’t
the reason I was calling.”

“Whenever you
phone, Stephen, it’s a problem. What is it this time?”

“I’ve just
received a long letter from Sharon Levitt’s solicitor, threatening you with a
writ,” said Stephen.

“But I signed a
settlement with her months ago. She can’t expect another penny out of me.”

“I know you did,
Dick. But this time they’re going to serve a paternity order on you. It seems
that Sharon has given birth to a son, and she’s claiming that you’re the
father.”

“it could be
anyone’s, knowing that promiscuous little bitch...” began Armstrong.

“Possibly,” said
Stephen. “But not with that birthmark below its right shoulderblade. And don’t
forget there are four women on the MMQ and Townsend’s wife is pregnant.”

“When was the
bastard born?” asked Armstrong, quickly leafing backward through his diary.

“4 January.”

“Hold on “ said
Armstrong. He stared down at the entry in the diary for nine months before that
date: Alexander Sherwood, Paris. ‘The bloody woman must have planned it all
along,” he boomed, “while pretending that she wanted to be my personal
assistant. That way she knew she’d end up with two settlements. What are you
recommending?”

“Her solicitors will
be aware of the battle that , s going on for the Citizen, and therefore they
know that it would only take one call to the Globe...”

‘They wouldn’t
dare,” said Armstrong, his voice rising. “Perhaps not,” replied Stephen calmly.
“But she might. I can only recommend that you let me settle on the best terms I
can get.”

“if you say so,”
said Armstrong quietly. “But make sure you warn them that if one word of this
leaks out, the payments will dry up the same day.”

“I’ll do my
best,” said Stephen. “But I’m afraid she’s learned something from you.”

“And what’s
that?” asked Dick.

‘That it doesn’t
pay to hire a cheap solicitor. I’ll phone you back as soon as we’ve agreed
terms.”

“Do that,” said
Armstrong, slamming the phone down.

“Pamela!” he
bellowed through the door. “Get me Don Sharpe.” When the editor of the London
Evening Post came on the line, Armstrong said, “Something’s come up. I’m going
to have to postpone our lunch for the time being.” He put the phone down before
giving Sharpe a chance to respond.

Armstrong had
long ago decided that this particular editor needed replacing, and he had even
approached the man he wanted for the job, but the minister’s phone call had
caused that decision to be delayed for a few more days.

He wasn’t too
worried about Sharon and whether she might blab. He had files on every editor
in Fleet Street, even thicker ones on their masters, and almost an entire
cabinet devoted to Keith Townsend. His mind drifted back to Ray Atkins.

After Pamela had gone through the morning mail with him,
he asked her for a copy of Dod~ Parliamentary Companion. He wanted to remind
himself of the salient facts of
Atkins’s career, the names of his wife
and children, the ministries he’d held, even his hobbies.

Everyone
accepted that Ray Atkins was one of the brightest politicians of his
generation, as was confirmed when Harold Wilson made him a shadow minister
after only fifteen months. Following the 1966 general election Atkins became
Minister of State at the Department of Trade and Industry.

It was generally
agreed that if Labor were to win the next election-a result that Armstrong
didn’t consider likely-Atkins would be invited to join the Cabinet. One or two
people were even talking of him as a future leader of the party.

As Atkins was a
member for a northern constituency covered by one of Armstrong’s local papers,
the two men had become more than casual acquaintances over the years, often
having a meat together at the party conference. When Atkins was appointed
minister of industry, with special responsibilities for takeovers, Armstrong
made even more of an effort to cultivate him, hoping that might tip the balance
when it came to deciding who should be allowed to take over the Citizen.

Sales of the
Globe had continued their steady decline after Townsend had bought out Sir
Walter Sherwood. Townsend had intended to sack the editor, but he shelved his
plans when a few months later Hugh Tuncliffe, the proprietor of the Citizen,
died, and his widow announced she would be putting the paper up for sale. Townsend
spent several days convincing his board that he should put in an offer for the
Citizen-an offer which the Financial Times described as “too high a price to
pay,” even though the Citizen boasted the largest daily circulation in Britain.
After all the bids had been received, his turned out to be the highest by far.
There was an immediate outcry from the chattering classes, whose strongly held
views were reported on the front page of the Gtiardian. Day after day, selected
columnists trumpeted their disapproval of the prospect of Townsend owning the
two most successful dailies in the land. In a rare display of broadsheet
solidarity The Times thundered its views in a leader on behalf of the
Establishment, condemning the idea of foreigners taking over national
institutions and thus exerting a powerful influence over the British way of
life. The following morning several letters landed on the editor’s desk
pointing out that The Times’s own proprietor was a Canadian.

None of them was
published.

When Armstrong
announced that he would match Townsend’s offer, and agreed to retain Sir Paul
Maitland, the former ambassador to Washington, as chairman of the board, the
government was left with no choice but to recommend that the matter be referred
to the Monopolies and Mergers Commission. Townsend was livid at what he
described as “nothing more than a socialist plot,” but he didn’t gain much
sympathy from those who had followed the decline in the journalistic standards
of the Globe over the past year. Not that many people came out in favor of
Armstrong either.

The clich,6
about having to choose the lesser of two evils had appeared in several papers
during the past month.

But this time
Armstrong was convinced he had Townsend on the run, and that the biggest prize
in Fleet Street was about to fall into his lap.

He couldn’t wait
for Ray Atkins to join him for lunch and have the news officially confirmed.

Atkins arrived
at Armstrong House just before one. The proprietor was having a conversation
inRussianwhen Pamela ushered him into the office.

Armstrong
immediately put the phone down in mid-sentence and rose to welcome his guest.
He couldn’t help noticing as he shook Atkins’s hand that it was a little damp.

“What would you
like to drink?” he asked.

“A small Scotch
and a lot of water,” Atkins replied.

Armstrong poured
the minister a drink and then led him through to the adjoining room. He
switched on an unnecessary light and, with it, a concealed tape recorder.
Atkins smiled with relief when he saw that only two places had been laid at the
long dining table. Armstrong ushered him into a chair.

‘Thank you,
Dick,” he said nervously. “It’s most kind of you to see me at such short
notice.”

“Not at all,
Ray,” said Armstrong, taking his place at the top of the table. “It’s my pleasure.
I’m only too delighted to see anyone who works so tirelessly for our cause.
Here’s to your future,” he added, raising his glass, “which everyone tells me
is rosy.”

Armstrong noticed
a slight tremble of the hand before the minister responded, “You do so much for
our party, Dick.”

“Kind of you to
say so, Ray.”

During the first
two courses they chatted about the Labor Party’s chances of winning the next
election, and both of them admitted that they weren’t over-optimistic.

“Although the
opinion polls are looking a little better,” said Atkins, “you only have to
study the local election results to see what’s really happening out there in
the constituencies.”

“I agree,” said
Dick. “Only a fool would allow the opinion polls to influence him when it comes
to calling an election. Although I believe Wilson regularly gets the better of
Ted Heath at Question Time in the House.”

‘True, but only
a few hundred MPs see that. If only the Commons was televised, the whole nation
could see that Harold’s in a different class.”

“Can’t see that
happening in my lifetime,” said Dick.

Atkins nodded,
then fell into a deep silence. When the main course had been cleared away, Dick
instructed his butler to leave them alone. He topped up the minister’s glass
with more claret, but Atkins only toyed with it, looking as if he was wondering
how to broach an embarrassing topic. Once the butler had closed the door behind
him, Atkins took a deep breath. “This is all a bit awkward for me,” he began
hesitantly.

“Feel free to
say anything you like, Ray. Whatever it is will go no further than this room.
Never forget, we bat for the same team.”

“Thank you,
Dick,” the minister replied. “I knew straight away that you’d be the right
person with whom to discuss my little problem.” He continued to toy with his
glass, saying nothing for some time. Then he suddenly blurted out, “The Evening
Post has been prying into my personal life, Dick, and I can’t take much more of
it.”

“I’m sorry to
hear that,” said Armstrong, who had imagined that they were going to discuss a
completely different subject. “What have they been doing thafs so disturbed
you?”

“They’ve been
threatening me.”

“Threatening
you?” said Armstrong, sounding annoyed. “in what way?”

“Weil, perhaps
‘threaten i ng’ is a little strong. But one of your reporters has been
constantly calling my office and my home at weekends, sometimes two or three
times a day.”

“Believe me,
Ray, I knew nothing about this,” said Armstrong. “I’ll speak to Don Sharpe the
moment you’ve gone. You can be assured that’s the last you’ll hear of it.”

“Thank you,
Dick,” he said. This time he did take a gulp of wine. “But it’s not the calls I
need stopped. It’s the story they’ve got hold of.”

“Would it help
if you were to tell me what it’s all about, Ray?”

The minister
stared down at the table. It was some time before he raised his head. “it all
happened years ago,” he began. “So long ago, in fact, that until recently I’d
almost been able to forget it ever took place.”

Armstrong
remained silent as he topped up his gUests wine glass once again.

“it was soon
after I’d been elected to the Bradford city council.” He took another sip of
wine. “I met the housing manager’s secretary.”

“Were you
married to Jenny at the time?” asked Armstrong.

“No, Jenny and I
met a couple of years later, just before I was selected for Bradford West.”

“So what’s the
problem?” said Armstrong. “Even the Labor Party allows girlfriends before
you’re married,” he added, trying to lighten the tone.

“Not when they
become pregnant,” said the minister. “And when their religion forbids
abortion.”

“I see,” said
Armstrong quietly. He paused. “Does Jenny know anything about this?”

.

“No, nothing.
I’ve never told her, or anyone else for that matter. She’s the daughter of a
local doctor-a bloody Tory, so the family never approved of me in the first
place. If this ever came out, among other things I’d have to suffer the ‘I told
you so’ syndrome.”

“So is it the
girl who’s making things difficult?”

“No, God bless
her, Rahila’s been terri f ic-al though her family regard me with about as much
affection as my in-laws. I pay her the full maintenance, of course.”

“Of course. But
if she isn’t causing you any trouble, what’s the problem?

No paper would
dare to print anything unless she corroborated the story.”

“I know. But
unfortunately her brother had a little too much to drink one night and began
shouting his mouth off in the local pub. He didn’t realize there was a
freelance journalist at the bar who works as a stringer for the Eveiihig Post.
The brother denied everything the following day, but the journalist just won’t
stop digging, the bastard- If this story gets out, I’d be left with no choice
but to resign. And God knows what that would do to Jenny.”

“Well, it hasn’t
reached that stage yet, Ray, and you can be sure of one thing: you’ll never see
it referred to in any paper I own. On that you have my word. The moment you
leave I’ll call Sharpe and make it clear where I stand on this. You won’t be
contacted again, at least not on this subject.”

‘Thank you,”
said Atkins. “That’s a great relief. Now all I have to pray is that the
journalist doesn’t take it anywhere else.”