The Fourth Estate (62 page)

“What’s his
name?” asked Armstrong.

“John Cummins.”

Armstrong
scribbled the name down on a pad by his side. “I’ll see that Mr. Cummins is
offered a job on one of my papers in the north, somewhere not too near
Bradford. That should dampen his ardor.”

“I don’t know
how to thank you,” said the minister.

“I’m sure you’ll
find a way,” said Armstrong as he rose from his place, not bothering to offer
his guest a coffee. He accompanied Atkins out of the dining room. The
minister’s nervousness had been replaced by the voluble selfassurance more
usually associated with politicians. As they passed through Armstrong’s office,
he noticed that the bookshelf contained a full set of Wisden. “I didn’t know
you were a cricket fan, Dick,” he said, “Oh yes,” said Armstrong. “I’ve loved
the game from an early age.”

“Which county do
you support?” asked Atkins.

“Oxford,”
replied Armstrong as they reached the lift.

Atkins said
nothing. He shook his host warmly by the hand. “Thank you again, Dick. Thank
you so much.”

The moment the
lift doors had slid closed, Armstrong returned to his office. “I want to see
Don Sharpe immediately,” he shouted as he passed Pamela’s desk.

The editor of
the Evening Post appeared in the proprietor’s office a few minutes later,
clutching a thick file. He waited for Armstrong to finish a phone conversation
in a language he didn’t recognize.

“You asked to
see me,” he said once Armstrong had put the phone down.

“Yes. I’ve just
had Ray Atkins to lunch. He says the Post has been harassing him. Some story
that you’ve been following up.”

“Yes, I have had
someone working on a story. In fact we’ve been trying to get in touch with
Atkins for days. We think the minister may have fathered a love child some
years ago, a boy called Vengi.”

“But this all
took place before he was married,”

“Mat’s true,”
said the editor. “But...”

“So I can hardly
see how it could be described as in the public interest.”

Don Sharpe
appeared somewhat surprised by the proprietor’s unusual sensitivity on the
matter-but then, he was also aware that the MMCs decision on the Citizen was
due to be made within the next few weeks.

“Would you agree
or not?” asked Armstrong.

“in normal
circumstances I would,” replied Sharpe. “But in this case the woman in question
has lost her job with the council, been abandoned by her family, and is
surviving-just-in a one-bedroom flat in the minister’s constituency. He, on the
other hand, is being driven around in a Jaguar and has a second home in the
south of France.”

“But he pays her
full maintenance.”

“Not always on
time,” said the editor. “And it could be regarded as being in the public’s
interest that when he was an tinder-secretary of state in the Social Services
Department, he was responsible for piloting the single-parent allowance through
its committee stage on the floor of the House.”

‘That’s
irrelevant, and you know it.”

‘There’s another
factor that might interest our readers.

“And what’s
that?”

“She’s a Moslem.
Having given birth to a child out of wedlock, she can never hope to marry.
They’re a little stricter on these matters than the Church of England.” The
editor removed a photograph from his file and placed it on Armstrong’s desk.
Armstrong glanced at the picture of an attractive Asian mother with her arms
around a little boy. The child’s resemblance to his father would have been hard
to deny.

Armstrong looked
back up at Sharpe. “How did you know I was going to want to discuss this with
you?”

“I assumed you
hadn’t canceled our lunch because you wanted to chat with Ray Atkins about
Bradford City’s chances of being relegated this season.”

“Don’t be
sarcastic with me,” snapped Armstrong. “You’ll drop this whole inquiry, and
you’ll drop it immediately. If I ever see even a hint of this story in any one
of my papers, you needn’t bother to report to work the next morning.”

“But... “ said
the editor.

“And while
you’re at it, you can leave that file on my desk.”

“I can what?”

Armstrong
continued to glower at him until he meekly placed the heavy file on the desk.
He turned and left without another word.

Armstrong
cursed. If he sacked Sharpe now, the first thing he would do would be to walk
across the road and give the story to the Globe. He had made a decision that
was likely to cost him a great deal of money either way. He picked up the
phone. “Pamela, get me Mr. Atkins at the Department of Trade and Industry.”

Atkins came on
the line a few moments later. “is this a public line?” asked Armstrong, aware
that civil servants often listened in on conversations in case their ministers
made commitments that they would then have to follow up.

“No, you’ve come
through on my private line,” Atkins assured him.

“I have spoken
to the editor in question,” said Armstrong, “and I can assure you that Mr.
Cummins won’t be bothering you again. I also warned him that if I see any
reference to this incident in any one of my papers, he can start looking for
another job.”

‘Thank you,”
said the minister.

“And it may
interest you to know, Ray, that I have on my desk Cummins’s file concerning
this matter, and will be shredding it as soon as we’ve finished speaking.
Believe me, no one will ever hear a word of this again.”

“You’re a good
friend, Dick. And you’ve probably saved my career.

“A career worth
saving,” said Armstrong. “Never forget, I’m here if you need me.” As he
replaced the phone Pamela put her head round the door.

“Stephen called
again while you were on the phone to the minister. Shall I get him back?”

“Yes. And after
that, there’s something I want you to do for me.” Pamela nodded and disappeared
into her own office. A moment later one of the phones on his desk rang.
Armstrong picked it up.

“What’s the
problem, Stephen?”

‘There’s no
problem. I’ve had a long discussion with Sharon Levitt’s solicitors, and we’ve
come up with some preliminary proposals for a settlement – subject of course to
both parties agreeing.”

“Fill me in,”
said Armstrong.

“It seems that
Sharon has a boyfriend living in Italy, and...” Armstrong listened intently as
Stephen outlined the terms that had been negotiated on his behalf. He was
smiling long before his lawyer had finished.

‘That all seems
very satisfactory,” he said.

“Yes. How did
the meeting with the minister go?”

“It went well.
He’s facing roughly the same problem that I am, but he has the disadvantage of
not having someone like you to sort it out for him.”

“Am I meant to
understand that?”

“No,” replied Armstrong.
As soon as he had put the phone down, he called for his secretary.

“Pamela, when
you’ve typed up the conversation that took place over lunch today, I want you
to put a copy of it in this file,” he said, pointing to the pile of papers Don
Sharpe had left on his desk.

“And then what
do I do with the file?”

“Lock it in the
large safe. I’ll let you know if I need it again.”

When the editor
of the London Evening Post requested a private meeting with Keith Townsend, he
received an immediate response. It was well understood in Fleet Street that
Armstrong’s staff had a standing invitation to see Townsend if they had any
interesting information about their boss. Not many of them had taken advantage
of the offer, because they all knew that if they were caught, they could clear
their desks the same day, and would never work for any of Armstrong’s
newspapers again.

It had been some
time since anyone as senior as Don Sharpe had contacted Townsend direct. He
suspected that Mr. Sharpe already knew his days were numbered, and had
calculated that he had nothing to lose. But like so many others before him, he
had insisted that the meeting should take place on neutral ground.

Townsend always
hired the Fitzalan Suite at the Howard Hotel for such purposes, as it was only
a short distance from Fleet Street, but wasn’t a haunt of prying journalists.
One phone call from Heather to the head porter and all the necessary
arrangements were made with complete discretion.

Sharpe told
Townsend in detail about the conversation that had taken place between himself
and Armstrong following the proprietor’s lunch with Ray Atkins the previous
day, and waited for his reaction.

“Ray Atkins,”
said Townsend.

“Yes, the
minister for industry.”

‘The man who
will make the final decision as to who takes control of the (‘itizen “

“Precisely.
That’s why I thought you would want to know immediately,” said Sharpe.

“And Armstrong
kept the file?”

“Yes, but it
would only take me a few days to get duphcates of everything. If you broke the
story on the front page of the Globe, I’m sure that under the circumstances the
Monopolies and Mergers Commission would have to remove Armstrong from their
calculations.”

“Perhaps,” said
Townsend. “Once you’ve put the dOCLImentation together, send it to me direct.
Make sure you put my initials, K.R.T, on the bottom left-hand corner of the
package. That will ensure that no one else opens it.”

Sharpe nodded.
“Give me a week, a fortnight at the most.”

“And should I
end up as proprietor of the Citizen,” said Townsend, “you can be sure that
there will be a job for you on the paper if ever you want it.”

Sharpe was about
to ask him what job he had in mind when Townsend added, “Don’t leave the hotel
for another ten minutes.” As he stepped out onto the street, the senior porter
touched the rim of his top hat. Townsend was driven back to Fleet Street,
confident that the Citizen must now surely fall into his hands.

A young porter,
who had seen the two men arrive separately and leave separately, waited for his
boss to take a tea break before he made a phone call.

Ten days later
two envelopes arrived in Townsend’s office with “K.R.T” printed boldly in the
bottom left-hand corners. Heather left them on his desk unopened. The first was
from a former employee of the NeLV York Times, who supplied him with the full
list of shops that reported to the best-seller list. For $2,000 it had been a
worthwhile investment, thought Townsend. He put the list on one side, and
opened the second envelope. It contained pages and pages of research supplied
by Don Sharpe on the extra-curricular activities of the minister for industry.

An hour later,
Townsend felt confident not only that he would retrieve his second million, but
also that Armstrong would live to regret suppressing the minister’s secret. He
picked up a phone and told Heather that he needed to send a package to New York
by special delivery. When she had taken one of the sealed envelopes away, he
picked up the phone and asked the editor of the Globe to join him.

“When you’ve had
a chance to read through this,” he said, pushing the second envelope across his
desk, “you’ll know what to lead on tomorrow.”

“I already have
a lead story for tomorrow,” said the editor. “We have evidence that Marilyn
Monroe is alive.”

“She can wait
for another day,” said Townsend. ‘Tomorrow we lead on the minister for industry
and his attempt to suppress the story of his illegitimate child. Make sure I
have a dummy front page on my desk by five this afternoon.”

A few minutes
later Armstrong received a call from Ray Atkins.

“How can I help
you, Ray?” he asked, as he pressed a button on the side of his phone.

“No, Dick, this
time it’s my turn to help you,” said Atkins. “A report has just landed on
mydesk from theMonopolies and Mergers Commission, outlining their recommendations
for the Citizen.”

It was
Armstrong’s turn to feel a slight sweat on his hands.

“Their advice is
that I should rule in your favor. I’m simply ringing to let you know that I
intend to take that advice.”

‘That’s
wonderful news,” said Armstrong, standing up. ‘Thank you.”

“Delighted to be
the one to let you know,” said Atkins. “As long as you’ve got a check for ~78
million, the Citizen is yours.”

Armstrong
laughed. “When does it become official?”

“The MMC’s
recommendation will go before the Cabinet at eleven o’clock this morning, and I
can’t imagine you’ll find anyone round that table objecting,” said the
minister. “I’m scheduled to make a statement in the House at 3:30 this
afternoon, so I’d be obliged if you said nothing before then. After all, we
don’t want to give the commission any reason to reverse their decision.”

“Not a word,
Ray, of that I can promise you.” He paused. “And I want you to know that if
there is anything I can do for you in the future, you only have to ask.”