So she had asked for O’Neill’s office and been put through to Penny Guy.
“Hi, it’s Mattie Storin, from the Chronicle,” she said, feeling only a twinge of dishonesty. “We met a couple of times, at the conference, remember?”
“Yes, Mattie. How can I help?”
“I was wondering—I know it’s short notice and everything—but I was wondering if I could come over tomorrow morning sometime and have a quick word with Roger.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mattie, but he likes to keep his mornings free to clear his paperwork and for internal meetings.” It was a lie, and one she was increasingly forced to use as O’Neill’s timekeeping had become spectacularly erratic. He rarely came into the office before 1:00 p.m. nowadays.
“Damn, I was really hoping…”
“What’s it about?”
“I’ve got some ideas I want to bounce off him. About Charles Collingridge’s sudden love of political literature. And the Praed Street address.”
There was a pause, a distraction, as if Penny might have dropped the phone. “I’ll call you back,” she said and cut the connection.
* * *
Penny had expected her alarm at Mattie’s call to be converted into a volcano of panic when she phoned O’Neill, yet he seemed surprisingly confident. “She’s got nothing, Pen,” he insisted. “I hear she’s in trouble with her newspaper anyway. It’s not a problem.”
“But what does she know, Rog?”
“How the fuck should I know? Let’s get her in and find out.”
“Rog?”
“You think I can’t still do my old body swerve, Pen? She’s only a bloody girl!”
She had tried to insist that it was foolish, he should be cautious, but he didn’t do caution. Neither did he do mornings anymore, so Mattie had been invited to see him the following afternoon.
Penny loved O’Neill but her feelings brought her too close to him. She thought he was stressed, working too hard, suffering; she didn’t comprehend the mind-pulverizing effects of cocaine. It kept O’Neill hyperactive into the small hours, unable to sleep until a cascade of depressant drugs gradually overwhelmed the cocaine and forced him into an oblivion from which he rarely emerged before midday, or sometimes later. So she grew increasingly confused and embarrassed as Mattie sat waiting for O’Neill. He had promised he would be on time but as the clock on his wall ticked on remorselessly, Penny’s ability to invent new excuses began to vanish beneath her bewilderment about his public bravado and his private remorse, his inexplicable behavior and the irrational outbursts. She brought Mattie yet another cup of coffee.
“Let me give him a call at home,” she suggested. “Perhaps he’s had to go back there. Something he forgot, or not feeling too well…”
She went into his office to make the call, away from Mattie. She sat on the corner of his desk, picked up the phone and punched the numbers. With some embarrassment she greeted Roger on the phone, explaining in a whispered voice that Mattie had been waiting for more than half an hour and…Out of sight of Mattie her face gradually began to crumple in concern as she listened. She tried to interrupt but it was useless. Her lip began to tremble; she bit it hard, until the point came when she couldn’t stand it any longer. She dropped the phone and fled from the office, past Mattie, in tears.
Mattie’s first instinct was to run after the distressed Penny; her second and stronger instinct was to find out what had upset her. The receiver was still swinging beside the desk where it had been abandoned. She put it to her ear.
The voice that was still coming out of the phone was unrecognizable as Roger O’Neill. The words were incoherent, indecipherable, slowed and slurred to the point where it sounded like a doll with the batteries almost dead. There were gasps, moans, long pauses, the sound of tears falling, the mad music of a man in emotional agony and tearing himself apart. She replaced the receiver gently in the cradle.
* * *
Mattie found Penny in the washroom, choking into a paper towel. Mattie touched her consolingly on the shoulder. Penny turned in alarm, as though slapped, her eyes raw and swollen.
“How long has he been like that, Penny?”
“I can’t say anything!” she blurted, her confusion mixed with excruciating pain.
“Look, Penny, he’s obviously in a very bad way. I’m not going to print any of this, for goodness’ sake. I think he needs help. I think maybe you need a hug.”
Mattie stretched out her arms and Penny fell into them as though she were the loneliest woman on the planet. She stayed there, locked in Mattie’s arms, until there were no more tears left. When she had recovered sufficiently to escape, she and Mattie went for a walk in nearby Victoria Gardens to refresh themselves in the crisp air blowing off the Thames, and where they could talk without interruption. The fight had gone from Penny. She asked Mattie for an assurance that none of what she said would be printed, and when Mattie agreed, it began to pour forth. She told of how the Prime Minister’s resignation had put O’Neill in turmoil, how he had always been a little “emotionally extravagant” but had been growing worse. “I think the resignation had really brought him close to a breakdown.”
“But why, Penny? Surely they weren’t that close?”
“He liked to think he was close to the whole Collingridge family. He was always arranging for flowers and special photographs to be sent to Mrs. Collingridge, doing little favors whenever he could. He loved it all.”
Mattie sighed, took in the cold air, the same wind that had blown her grandfather on his journey across the sea. How would he have felt about what she was doing? She felt guilty; she knew she wasn’t being simply a friend to Penny, but hadn’t her grandfather left all his friends behind, even his family, for what he knew was right? She, like him, had to press on. “Roger’s in trouble, isn’t he? We both heard him just now, Penny. Something has really got to Roger, something that’s eating away at him from the inside.”
“I…I think he blamed himself so badly over the shares.”
“The shares? You mean the Renox shares?” Mattie pressed, trying to hide a flush of alarm.
“Charlie Collingridge asked him to open the accommodation address because he wanted somewhere for his private mail. Roger and I went to Paddington in a taxi and he sent me in to do the paperwork. I knew he felt uneasy at the time, I think he sensed there was something wrong. And when he realized what it had been used for and how much trouble it had caused, he just began going to pieces.”
“Why did Charlie Collingridge ask Roger to open the address and not do it himself?”
“I’ve no idea, it was just a silly favor Rog agreed to do for him. Perhaps Charlie felt guilty because of what he was going to use it for. Fiddling the shares.”
They were leaning on the parapet, staring out over the gray, sluggish river. A seagull landed beside them and stared with menacing yellow eyes, hoping for food. Mattie stared back and the bird flapped its wings and disappeared, crying out in disappointment.
“I’m sure it was something like that,” Penny continued, “something Charlie was ashamed of. He took advantage of us. Roger just breezed into the office one day and said he’d got this little job to do, that it was terribly confidential and I had to keep quiet about it. As silent as if I were sucking a bishop, he said. You know Rog. Tries to be an Irish poet. Thinks he has a way with words.”
“So you never saw Charlie Collingridge yourself?”
“No. I’ve never met him. Rog likes to handle all the important people himself.”
“But you are sure it was Charlie Collingridge?”
“Of course, Rog said so. And who else could it have been?” A burst of November air sent dead autumn leaves scurrying around their ankles like rats and Penny shivered. “Oh, God, it’s all such an awful mess.”
“Penny, relax! It’ll be all right. These things sort themselves out.” Mattie linked her arm through
Penny’s and they began to walk on. “Why don’t you take a couple of days off? Roger can survive without you for a little while.”
“Can he? I wonder.”
“He can’t be that useless. Knows how to make tea and use the office computer, doesn’t he?”
“He’s strictly a coffee man and types with one finger.”
“Slow but sure.”
“No, just slow.”
It made sense to Mattie. Whoever messed with the computer file was no expert. O’Neill was no expert. It didn’t make them one and the same but it made sense. So many fingers were pointing at O’Neill.
They had arrived back at Smith Square in the shadow of the church.
“You know, they still use gaslight in this square,” Mattie said, pointing to the ornate street lamp above their heads.
“Do they?” Penny looked up and shook her head in surprise. “You know, I’ve walked around this square every day and never noticed. You have a sharp eye.”
“I try.”
They were outside the headquarters building. Penny heaved a sigh as she contemplated going back inside to everything that waited for her there. She squeezed Mattie’s hand. “I love him, you know. That’s the problem.”
“Love should never be a problem.”
“And there was me thinking how wise you were!” Penny laughed, her strength having returned. “Thanks for listening. It’s been great just to be able to talk.”
“Call me. Any time. And take care of yourself.”
“You, too.”
Mattie walked slowly the few hundred yards back to the House of Commons, oblivious of the chill, warmed by thoughts that were on fire with impatience, and with one thought burning brighter than all the others. Why the hell had Roger O’Neill framed Charles and Henry Collingridge?
Thirty-Four
Every politician has his principles. It’s simply that some are on a wavelength so rare you would require a telescope at Jodrell Bank to locate them.
Tuesday, November 16—Wednesday, November 17
Urquhart declared his intention to run for the leadership at a press conference held in the House of Commons timed to catch the early evening news and the following day’s first editions. This was no pavement scramble but an announcement backed by the historic atmosphere of the Palace of Westminster with its noble stone fireplaces, its dark oak paneling, and its atmosphere of ageless authority. It was dignified, restrained, almost humble. No one had accused Samuel, Woolton, and the others of such things. Mortima was by his side and he emphasized that this was a family decision. He gave the impression of a man who was being dragged reluctantly toward the seat of power, placing his duty to his colleagues and his country above his own personal interests. It was political theater, of course, from a carefully rehearsed script, but he did it so well.
The following day, on Wednesday morning, Landless also held a press conference, another piece of theater but with an entirely different atmosphere. He sat in one of the palatial reception rooms of the Ritz Hotel at a long table covered with microphones, facing the cameras and questions of the financial press. Alongside him and almost dwarfed by his bulging girth sat Marcus Frobisher, the Chairman of the United Newspapers Group who, although an industrial magnate in his own right, was clearly cast in a secondary role for this occasion. To one side a large video screen played some of the Chronicle’s better advertising material interspersed with cuts of Landless being greeted by workers, pulling levers to start the printing presses, and generally running his empire in a warm and personal manner. And there was the man himself, smiling for the cameras.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” Landless called the throng to order in a voice which was considerably less common cockney than the one he adopted on private occasions. “Thank you for coming at such short notice. We have invited you here to tell you about one of the most exciting steps forward for the British communications industry since Julius Reuter established his telegraph service in London more than a hundred years ago.” He shifted one of the microphones a little closer to allow a few moments for the sense of excitement to take hold. “Today we wish to make an historic announcement. We have decided to create the largest newspaper group in the United Kingdom, which will provide a platform for making this country once again the worldwide leader in information services.” He smiled around the room, then at Frobisher. “Chronicle Newspapers has made an offer to purchase the full issued share capital of the United Newspapers Group at a price which values them at £1.4 billion. That’s a premium of 40 percent above the current market price. And I am delighted to say that the board of the United Newspapers Group has unanimously accepted the bid.” More smiles. Frobisher was smiling, too, but Landless had a magnetism and physical presence that dragged all attention in upon him, leaving others struggling in shade. “We have also agreed the terms for the future management of the combined group. I shall become Chairman and Chief Executive of the new company, and my good friend and former competitor, now colleague”—he stretched a huge paw to grasp the shoulder of Frobisher, stopping just short of his neck—“is to be our President.”
Several wise heads around the room were nodding in understanding. They knew Landless, had no doubts he would be in sole charge of the new operation. Frobisher had been kicked upstairs so high that the only view anyone would get of him was his arse. He sat there trying hard to put on a good face.
“This is a huge step for the British newspaper industry, and for the country as a whole. The combined operation will control more national and major regional titles than any other newspaper group. The amalgamation of our international subsidiaries will make us the third largest newspaper group in the world. It will be a springboard for our ambition, which very simply is to become the biggest newspaper group on the planet. And based right here in Britain.” He beamed, his huge face split with a vast predatory smile. “Now ain’t that exciting!” he declared, reverting to his east London accent, and cameras flashed as though on his command. He let them have their few moments before once more taking the reins.
“Now I know you’ll all be bursting with questions—so let’s start!”
A hum of excitement swept around the room and a forest of hands shot up to catch his eye.
“I suppose to be fair I ought to take the first question from someone who won’t be working for the group,” Landless jested. “Can we find anyone unlucky enough to fit that description?” With theatrical exaggeration he shielded his eyes from the bright lights and searched the gathering for a suitable victim and they all laughed at his cheek.
“Mr. Landless,” shouted the business editor of the Sunday Times. “The Government have made it very clear in recent years that in their view the ownership of British newspapers is already concentrated in too few hands. They’ve made it clear they would consider using their monopolies and mergers powers to prevent any further consolidation. How on earth do you expect to get the necessary Government approval?”
Many heads around the room nodded in agreement. Good question. Landless appeared to agree.
“An excellent point,” he said, spreading his arms wide as if to hug the question to his chest and slowly throttle it to death. “You’re right, of course, the Government will need to make its mind up. Newspapers are part of the worldwide information industry. It’s growing and changing every day. You all know that. Five years ago you lot worked in Fleet Street with old typewriters and printing presses that should’ve been scrapped when the Kaiser surrendered. Today the industry is modernized, it’s decentralized, it’s computerized.”
“Shame!” cried a voice and the room burst into nostalgic laughter for the days of long liquid lunches at El Vino’s wine bar and prolonged printers’ strikes which allowed them weeks or sometimes months off, a time when they could write books or build boats and dream dreams, and all of it while still on full pay.
“You know that had to change. And we’ve got to
keep on changing, we can’t stand still. We have to face competition not just from each other but from satellite television, local radio, breakfast TV, and the rest. More people will be demanding information twenty-four hours a day, from all parts of the world. They won’t be buying newspapers which arrive hours after the news has occurred and then covers them in filthy printing ink. If we are going to survive we’ve got to move from being parochial newspapers to being suppliers of information on a worldwide basis. And for that we need clout.” He lifted his shoulders in an enormous shrug that subsided with the deftness of an avalanche. “So the Government has got to decide. Does it play the ostrich, bury its head while the British newspaper industry goes bust like the British car industry, dead inside ten years as the Americans, Japanese, and even Australians take over? Or will it be visionary and back the best of British? Simple proposition. Do we duck and decline? Or take on the rest of the world and beat it?”
A blitz of flash guns greeted him as he sat back in his chair while the journalists who still took shorthand scribbled furiously to catch up with him. The questioner turned to his neighbor. “What do you think? Will the old bastard get away with it?”
“The industrial logic is compelling, that’s for sure, and there’s something rather charming about a working class kid on the make, don’t you think? But if I know our Ben, he won’t be relying just on persuasive logic or passion. He’s the sort of guy who’s already prepared the ground, every inch of it, even the cracks. I think we’ll soon see just how many politicians owe him favors.”
* * *
The answer seemed to be that a whole host of politicians owed Landless. With nominations closing the following day and the first ballot due in just a week, no one seemed keen to take him on and risk antagonizing the combined might of the Chronicle and United groups. There was a rush to endorse his idea that within hours had grown into a stampede among contenders as they struggled not to be left behind. Why, the man was surely not only enlightened but deeply patriotic. Once again, it seemed that Landless had discovered the way to tickle a politician’s fancy. By teatime he was able to sit back with his usual mug of Bovril and snap his red braces in delight.
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