The Fourth Estate (66 page)

The next day, Armstrong
called for McAlvoy without bothering to consult anyone on the board. When the
editor of the Citizen entered the proprietor’s office, Armstrong didn’t stand
to greet him, and made no suggestion that he should take a seat.

“I’m sure you’ve
worked out why I’ve asked to see you,” he said.

“No, Dick, I
haven’t the slightest idea,” replied McAlvoy innocently.

“Well, I’ve just
seen the JICNAR figures for the past month. If we continue at this rate, the
Globe will be selling more copies than we are by the end of the year.”

“And you will
still be the proprietor of a great national newspaper, while Townsend will
still be publishing a rag.”

‘That may well
be the case. But I have a board and shareholders to consider.”

McAlvoy couldn’t
recall Armstrong ever mentioning a board or shareholders in the past. The last
refuge of a proprietor, he was about to say. Then he recalled his lawyer’s
warning that his contract still had five months to run, and that he would be
unwise to provoke Armstrong.

“I assume you’ve
seen the Globe’s headline this morning?” said Armstrong, holding up his rival’s
paper.

“Yes, of course
I have,” said McAlvoy, glancing at the thick, bold print:

“Fop Pop Star
Named in Drugs Scandal.”

“And we led
on’Extra Benefits for Nurses.’”

“Our readers love
nurses,” said McAlvoy.

“Our readers may
well love nurses,” said Armstrong, flicking through the paper, “but in case you
haven’t noticed, the Globe had the same story on page seven. It’s fairly clear
to me, even if it isn’t to you, that most of our readers are more interested in
pop stars and drug scandals.”

“The pop star in
question,” countered McAlvoy, “has never had a record in the top hundred, and
was smoking a joint in the privacy of his own home. If anyone had ever heard of
him, the Globe would have put his name in the headline. I have a filing cabinet
full of such rubbish, but I don’t insult our readers by publishing it.”

‘Then perhaps
it’s time you did,” said Armstrong, his voice rising with every word. “Let’s
start challenging the Globe on its own ground for a change. Maybe if we did
that, I wouldn’t be looking for a new editor.”

McAlvoy was
momentarily stunned. “Am I to assume from this outburst that I’m fired?” he
asked eventually.

“At last I’ve
got through to you,” said Armstrong. “Yes, you’re fired. The name of the new
editor will be announced on Monday. See that your desk is cleared by this
evening.”

“Can I assume
that after ten years as editor of this paper I will receive my full pension?”

“You will
receive no more and no less than you are entitled to,” shouted Armstrong. “Now
get out of my office.” He glared at McAlvoy, waiting for him to unleash one of
the tirades for which he was so famous, but the sacked editor simply turned and
left without uttering another word, closing the door quietly behind him.

Armstrong
slipped into the adjoining room, toweled himself down and changed into a fresh
shirt. It was exactly the same color as the previous one, so no one would
notice.

Once McAlvoy was
back at his desk, he quickly briefed a handful of his closest associates on the
outcome of his meeting with Armstrong and on what he planned to do. A few
minutes later he took the chair at the afternoon conference for the last time.
He looked down the list of stories vying for the front page.

“I’m putting
down a marker for tomorrow’s splash, Alistair,” said a voice.

McAlvoy looked
up at his political editor.

“What do you
have in mind, Campbell?” he asked.

“A Labor
councilor in Lambeth has gone on hunger strike to highlight the unfairness of
the government’s housing policy. She’s black and unemployed.”

“Sounds good to
me,” said McAlvoy. “Anyone else pushing for the lead?” No one spoke as he
looked slowly round the room. His eyes finally rested on Kevin Rushcliffe, to
whom he hadn’t addressed a word for over a month.

“How about you,
Kevin?”

The deputy
editor looked up from his place in the corner of the room and blinked, unable
to believe that the editor was addressing him. “Well, I’ve been following up a lead
on the foreign secretary’s private life for some weeks, but I’m finding it hard
to make the story stand up.”

“Why don’t you
knock out three hundred words on the subject, and we’ll let the lawyers decide
if we can get away with it.”

Some of the
olderhands began toshuffle in theirchairs.

“And what
happened to that story about the architect?” asked McAivoy, still addressing
his deputy editor.

“You spiked it,”
said Rushcliffe, looking surprised.

“I thought it
was a bit dull. Can’t you spice it up a I ittle?”

“If that’s what
you want,” said Rushcliffe, looking even more surprised.

As McAlvoy never
had a drink until he had read the first edition from cover to cover, one or two
of those present wondered if he was feeling well.

“Right, that’s
settled then. Kevin gets the front page and Campbell gets the second lead.” He
paused. “And as I’m taking my wife to see Pavarotti tonight, I’ll be leaving
the paper in Kevin’s hands. Do you feel comfortable with that?” he asked,
turning to face his deputy.

“Of course,” said
Rushcliffe, looking delighted that he was at last being treated as an equal.

‘Then that’s
settled,” said McAlvoy. “Let’s all get back to work, shall we?”

As the
journalists began to drift out of the editor’s office muttering to each other,
Rushcliffe came across to McAlvoy’s desk and thanked him. “Not at all,” said
the editor. “You know this could be your big chance, Kevin.

I’m sure you’re
aware that I saw the proprietor earlier this afternoon, and he told me that
he’d like to see the paper chal -lenging the Globe on its own ground. In fact,
those were his exact words. So when he reads the Citizen tomorrow, be sure it
has your stamp on it. I won’t be sitting in this chair forever, you know.”

“I’ll do my
best,” promised Rushcliffe as he left the office. If he’d stayed a moment
longer, he would have been able to help the editor clear his desk.

Later that
afternoon McAlvoy made his way slowly out of the building, stopping to speak to
every member of staff he bumped into. He told all of them how much he and his
wife were looking forward to seeing Pavarotti, and when they asked who would be
bringing out the paper that night, he told them, even the doorman. Indeed, he
doublechecked the time with the doorman before he headed off toward the nearest
underground station, aware that his company car would already have been
clamped.

Kevin Rushcliffe
tried to concentrate on writing his front-page story, but he was constantly
interrupted by a stream of people who wanted his input for their copy. He
cleared several pages he just didn’t have time to check carefully. When he
finally handed his piece in, the print room was complaining about running late,
and he was relieved when the first edition came off the stone a few minutes
before eleven.

Armstrong picked
up the phone by his bed a couple of hours later to have the front page read out
to him by Stephen Hallet. “Why the hell didn’t you stop it?” he demanded.

I didn’t see it
until the first edition hit the streets,” replied Stephen.

“By the time the
second edition came off the stone, we were leading on a Lambeth councilor who’s
gone on a hunger strike. She’s black and...”

I don’t give a
damn what color she is,” shouted Armstrong. “What the hell did McAlvoy imagine
he was up to?”

“McAlvoy didn’t
edit the paper last night.”

‘Then who in
heaven’s name did?”

“Kevin
Rushcliffe,” the lawyer replied.

Armstrong didn’t
get back to sleep that night. Nor did most of Fleet Street, who were
frantically trying to contact the foreign secretary and/or the actress/model.
By the time their final editions came out, most of them had established that he
had never actually met Miss Soda Water Syphon 1983.

The story was so
widely discussed the following morning that few people spotted a little item
tucked away on page seven of the Citizen under the headline “Bricks but no
Mortarboard,” which claimed that one of Britain’s leading architects was
designing council houses which kept falling down. A hand-delivered letter from
his equally distinguished solicitor pointed out that Sir Angus had never
designed a council house in his life. The solicitor enclosed a copy of the
apology he expected to be published on the front page of the following day’s
paper, and a note stating the size of the donation that should be sent to the
architect’s favorite charity.

On the food
pages a leading restaurant was accused of poisoning a customer a day, while the
travel section named the tour company alleged to have left the most
holiday-makers stranded in Spain without a hotel room. On the back page the
England football manager was said to have...

McAlvoy made it
clear to everyone who called him at home that morning that he had been sacked
by Armstrong the previous day and told to clear his desk immediately. He had
left Armstrong House at 4:19, leaving the deputy editor in charge. “That’s
Rushcliffe with an e,” he added helpfully.

Every member of
staff who was approached confirmed McAlvoy’s story.

Stephen Hallet
rang Armstrong five times during the day, telling him on every occasion that he
had received a writ, and recommending that each of them be settled, and settled
quickly.

The Globe
reported on page two the sad departure of Alistair McAlvoy from the Citizen
after a decade’s devoted service. They went on to describe him as the doyen of
Fleet Street editors, who would be sadly missed by all true professionals.

When the Globe
sold three million copies for the first time, Townsend held a party to
celebrate. This time most of the leading politicians and media personalities
did attenddespite Armstrong’s rival party to celebrate the Citizen’s eightieth
anniversary.

“Well, at least
he got the date right this time,” said Townsend.

“Talking about
dates,” said Bruce, “when can I hope to return to Australia? I don’t suppose
You’ve noticed, but I haven’t been home for five years.”

“You don’t go
home until you’ve removed the words ‘Britain’s Best-Selling Daily’ from the
Citizen’s masthead,” replied Townsend.

Bruce Kelly
didn’t book a flight to Sydney for another fifteen months, when the audit
commission announced that the Globe’s daily sales for the previous month had
averaged 3,612,000 against the Citizen’s 3,6 10,000.

The Globe’s
banner headline the following morning was “GET’EM OFF,” above a picture of the
twenty-two – stone Armstrong in boxer shorts.

When the
Citizen’s boast remained firmly in place, the Globe informed “the world’s most
discerning readers” that the proprietor of the Citizen still hadn’t honored his
debt of E 100,000 from his lost bet, and was “not only a bad loser, but also a
welcher “

Armstrong sued
Townsend for libel the following day. Even The Times felt this was worthy of
comment: “Only the lawyers will benefit,” it concluded.

The case reached
the High Court eighteen months later, and lasted for over three weeks,
regularly making every front page except that of the Independent. Mr. Michael
Beloff QQ on behalf of the Globe, argued that the official audit figures proved
his client’s case. Mr. Anthony Grabinar QC pointed out for the Citizen that the
audited figures did not include the sales of the Scottisb Citizen, which when
combined with those of the Daily kept its circulation comfortably ahead of the
Globe.

The jury retired
for five hours to consider their verdict, and by a majority of ten to two came
down in favor of Armstrong. When the judge asked what damages they were
recommending, the foreman stood up and declared without hesitation, ‘Twelve
pence, m’Lud,”-the price of a copy of the Citizen.

The judge told
leading counsel that in the circumstances he felt both sides should pay their
own costs, which were conservatively estimated at one million pounds each.
Counsel nodded their acquiescence and began gathering up their briefs.

The following
day the Financial Times, in a long article on the two press barons, predicted
that one of them must eventually cause the othees downfall. However, the
reporter went on to reveal that the trial had helped to increase the sales of
both papers, which in the case of the Globe had passed four million copies for
the first time.

Next day both
groups’shares rose by a penny.

While Armstrong
was reading about himself in the acres of column inches devoted to the trial,
Townsend was concentrating on an article in the New York Times which had been
faxed over to him by Tom Spencer.

Although he had
never heard of Lloyd Summers, or the art gallery that was coming to the end of
its lease, when he reached the last line of the fax he realized why Tom had
written boldly across the top: FOR IMMEDIATE AT ...