The Fourth Estate (63 page)

Townsend smiled
as he checked the headline once again:

MINISTER’S
MOSLEM LOVE CHILD MYSTERY

He then read the
proposed first paragraph, inserting one or two small changes.

Last night Ray
Atkins, the minister for industry, refused to comment when asked if lie was the
father of little Vengi Patel (see picture), aged seven, who lives with his
mother in a dingy oneroom flat in the minister’s constituency. Vengi’s mother
Miss Rahila Patel, aged thirty-three...

“What is it,
Heather?” he asked, looking up as his secretary entered the room.

‘The political
editor is on the phone from the press gallery at the House of Commons. It seems
there’s been a statement concerning the Citizen.”

“But I was told
there would be no announcement for at least another month,” said Townsend as he
grabbed the phone. His face became grimmer and grimmer as the details of the
statement Ray Atkins had just made to the House were read out to him.

“Not much point
in running that front-page story now,” said the political editor.

“Let’s just set
and hold,” said Townsend. “I’ll have another look at it this evening.” He
stared gloomily out of the window. Atkins’s decision meant that Armstrong would
now control the one daily in Britain that had a larger circulation than the
Globe. From that moment he and Armstrong would be locked in battle for the same
readers, and Townsend wondered if they could both survive.

Within an hour
of the minister delivering his statement in the Commons, Armstrong had called
Alistair McAlvoy, the editor of the Citizen, and asked him to come across to
Armstrong House. He also arranged to have dinner that evening with Sir Paul
Maitland, the chairman of the Citizen’s board.

Alistair McAlvoy
had been editor of the Citizen for the past decade. When he was briefed on the
minister’s decision, he warned his colleagues that no one, including himself,
should be confident they would be bringing out the next day’s edition of the
paper. But when Armstrong put his arm around McAlvoy’s shoulder for a second
time that afternoon, describing him as the greatest editor in the street, he
began to feel that perhaps his job was safe after all. As the atmosphere became
a little more relaxed, Armstrong warned him that they were about to face a
head-on battle with the Globe, which he suspected would begin the following morning
...

“I know,” said
McAlvoy, “so I’d better get back to my desk. I’ll call you the moment I
discover what the Globe is leading on, and see if we can find some way Of
Countering it.”

McAlvoy left
Armstrong’s office as Pamela walked in with a bottle of champagne.

“Who did that
come from?”

“Ray Atkins,”
said Pamela.

“Open it,” said
Armstrong. Just as she uncorked the bottle, the phone rang.

Pamela picked it
up and listened. “It’s the junior porter at the Howard Hotel-he says he can’t
hang on for much longer, or he’ll be caught.” She placed her hand over the
mouthpiece. “Fie tried to speak to YOU ten days ago, but I didn’t put him
through. He says it’s about Keith Townsend.”

Armstrong
grabbed the phone. When the porter told him who Townsend had just had a meeting
with in the Fitzalan Suite, he immediately knew what the Globe’s frontpage
story would he the following morning. All the boy wanted for this exclusive
piece of information was £50.

He Put the phone
down and blasted out a series of orders before Pamela had even finished filling
his glass with champagne. “And once I’ve seen Sharpe, put me through to
McAlvoy.”

The moment Don
Sharpe walked back into the building, he was told that the proprietor wanted to
see him. He went straight to Armstrong’s office, where the only words
 
he heard were “You’re fired.” He turned round
to find two security guards standing by the door waiting to escort him off the
premises.

“Get McAlvoy for
me.”

All Armstrong
said when the editor of the Citizen came on the line was, “Alistair, I know
what’s going to be on the front page of the Globe tomorrow, and I’m the one
person who can top it.”

As soon as he
put the phone down on McAlvoy, Armstrong asked Pamela to dig the Atkins file
out of the safe. He began sipping his champagne. It wasn’t vintage.

The following
morning the Globe’s headline read: “Minister’s Secret Moslem Love Child;
Exclusive.” There followed three pages of pictures, illustrating an interview
with Miss Patel’s brother, under the byline “Don Sharpe, Chief Investigative
Reporter.”

Townsend was
delighted, until he turned to the Citizen and read its headline:

LOVE CHILD
MINISTER REVEALS ALL TO THE

CITIZEN

There followed
five pages of pictures and extracts from a tape-recorded interview given
exclusively to the papees unnamed special affairs correspondent.

The lead story
in the London Evening Post that night was that the prime minister had announced
from 10 Downing Street that he had, with considerable regret, accepted the resignation
of Mr. Ray Atkins MP.

THE CITIZEN

21 AuGUST 1978

N
ot Many People Inhabiting the New Globe
WHEN ToWNSEND HAI) cleared customs he found Sam waiting outside the terminal to
drive him into Sydney. On the twenty-five-minute journey, Sam brought the boss
up to date with what was happening in Australia. He left him in no doubt as to
what lie felt about the prime minister, Malcolm Fraser-out of date and out of
touch-and the Sydney Opera HOUse-a waste of money, and already out of date. But
he gave him one piece of information which was fresh, and not out of date.

“Where did you
pick that up, Sam?”

“The chairman’s
driver told me.”

“And what did
you have to tell him in exchange?”

“Only that you
were coming back from London on a flying visit,” replied Sam, as they pulled up
outside Global Corp’s headquarters on Pitt Street.

Heads turned as
Townsend pushed his way through the revolving doors, walked across the lobby
and into a waiting lift which whisked him straight up to the top floor. He called
for the editor even before Heather had a chance to welcome him back.

Townsend paced
up and down his office as he waited, stopping occasionally to admire the opera
house, which, like Sam, all his papers with the exception of the Continent had
been quick to condemn. Only half a mile away was the bridge that had until
recently been the city’s trademark. In the harbor, colorful dinghies were
sailing, their masts glowing in the sun.

Although its
population had doubled, Sydney now seemed terribly small compared to when he
had first taken over the Cbronicle. He felt as if he was looking down on a Lego
town.

“Good to have
you back, Keith,” said Bruce Kelly as he walked through the open door. Townsend
swung round to greet the first man he had ever appointed to be editor of one of
his newspapers.

“And it’s great
to be back, Bruce. It’s been too long,” he said as they shook hands. He
wondered if he had aged as much as the balding, overweight man who stood in
front of him.

“How’s Kate?”

“She hates
London, and seems to spend most of her time in New York, but I’m hoping she’ll
be joining me next week- What’s happening over here?”

“Well, you’ll
have seen from our weekly reports that sales are slightly up on last year,
advertising is up, and profits are at a record level. So I guess it must be
time for me to retire.”

‘That’s exactly
what I came back home to talk to you about,” said Townsend.

The blood
drained out of Bruce’s face. “Are you serious, chief?”

“Never been more
serious,” said Townsend, facing his friend. 1 need you in London ...”

“Whatever for?”
asked Bruce. “The Globe is hardly the sort of paper I’ve been trained to edit.
It’s far too traditional and British.”

‘That’s exactly
why it’s losing sales every week. For one thing, its readers are so old that
they’re literally dying on me. If I’m going to tackle Armstrong head-on, I need
you as the next editor of the Globe. The whole paper has to be reshaped. The
first thing to be done is to turn it into a tabloid.”

Bruce stared at
his boss in disbelief. “But the unions will never wear it.”

“I also have
plans for them,” said Townsend.

TRITAIN’S
BEST-SELLING DAILY”

Armstrong was
proud of the strapline that ran below the Citizeii’s masthead. But although the
sales of the paper had remained steady, he was beginning to feet that Alistair
McAlvoy, Fleet Street’s longest-serving editor, might not be the right man to
carry out his long-term strategy.

Armstrong
remained puzzled as to why Townsend had flown off to Sydney. He couldn’t
believe that he would allow the circulation figures of the Globe to keep on
dropping without even putting up a fight. But as long as the Citizen was
outselling the Globe by two to one, Armstrong didn’t hesitate to remind its
loyal readers every morning that he was the proprietor of Britain’s
best-selling newspaper. Armstrong Communications had just declared a profit of
seventeen million pounds for the previous year, and everyone knew that its
chief executive was now looking west for his next big acquisition.

He must have
been told a thousand times, by people who imagined they were in the know, that
Townsend had been buying up shares in the Neu, York Star. What they didn’t
realize was that he had been carrying out exactly the same exercise himself. He
had been warned by Russell Critchley, his New York attorney, that once he was
in possession of more than 5 percent of the stock he Would, under the rules of
the Securities and Exchange Commission, have to go public and state whether he
intended to mount a full takeover.

He was now
holding just over 4 1/2 percent of the Star’s stock, and Suspected that
Townsend was in roughly the same position. But for the moment each was content
to sit and wait for the other to make the first move. Armstrong knew that Townsend
controlled more city and state newsprint in America than lie did, despite his
own recent acquisition of the Milwaukee Group and its eleven papers. Both knew
that as the New York Times would never come up for sale, the ultimate prize in
the Big Apple would be to take control of the tabloid market.

While Townsend
remained in Sydney, going over his plans for the launching of the new Globe on
an unsuspecting British public, Armstrong flew to Manhattan to prepare for his
assault on the New York Star.

“But Bruce Kelly
knew nothing about it,” said Townsend as Sam drove him from Tallamarine airport
into Melbourne.

“I wouldn’t
expect him to,” said Sam. “He’s never even met the chairman’s driver.”

“Are you trying
to tell me that a driver knows something that no one else in the newspaper
world has heard about?”

“No. The deputy
chairman also knows, because he was discussing it with the chairman in the back
of the car.”

“And the driver
told you that the board are meeting at ten o’clock this morning?”

‘That’s right, chief.
In fact he’s taking the chairman to the meeting right now.”

“And the agreed
price was $12 a share?”

‘That’s what the
chairman and deputy chairman settled on in the back of the car,” said Sam as he
drove into the center of the city.

Townsend
couldn’t think of any more questions to ask Sam that could prevent him from
making a complete fool of himself. “I don’t suppose you’d care to take a wager
on it?” he said as the car turned into Flinders Street.

Sam thought
about the proposition for some time before saying, “OK by me, chief.” He
paused. “A hundred dollars says I’m right.”

“Oh no,” said
Townsend. “Your wages for a month, or we turn round and go straight back to the
airport.”

Sam ran through
a red light and just managed to avoid hitting a tram.

“You’re on,” he
said finally. “But only if Arthur gets the same terms.”

“And who in
hell’s name is Arthur?”

‘The chairman’s
driver.”

“You and Arthur
have got yourselves a deal,” said Townsend, as the car drew up outside the
Courier’s offices.

“How long do you
want me to wait?” asked Sam.

“ just as long
as it takes you to lose a month’s wages,” Townsend replied, slamming the car
door behind him.

Townsend stared
up at the building in which his father had begun his career as a reporter in
the 1920s, and where he himself had carried out his first assignment as a
trainee journalist while he was still at school, which his mother later told
him she had sold to a rival without even letting him know. From the footpath he
could pick out the room his father had worked in. Could the Courier really be
up for sale without any of his professional advisers being aware of it? He had
checked the share price that morning before taking the first flight out of
Sydney: $8.40.