Fall

by John Preston

  ‘Come in,’ Grigg called.

  Maxwell entered, carrying a tray.

  ‘I have brought your breakfast, Simon,’ he announced.

  Before that there had been another departure. Andrea Martin’s and Nick Davies’s resolve to see less of one another didn’t last long. Nor did it take long before Maxwell found out – this time Davies had no idea how. One afternoon in the spring of 1990, he summoned Davies to his office, shut all the doors and instructed his secretaries that under no circumstances was he to be disturbed.

  Sitting slumped in his chair, Maxwell didn’t say anything at first. It was only after several minutes had passed that Davies realized he was so upset he was physically incapable of talking – ‘emotion was running so high through his body, constricting his throat’. Eventually, Maxwell managed to call for water. Once he’d drunk it, he said hoarsely, ‘I have to talk to you about Andrea. We must have an agreement.’

  Davies asked what he had in mind.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Maxwell told him, ‘but something must be done. I can’t go on like this.’

  If Davies and Andrea continued to see one another, he said, he would be forced to sack her. The editors of his various papers wouldn’t want a senior member of staff having an affair with his PA – apart from anything else, it would be bad for business.

  Although there wasn’t a great deal of evidence to support the idea, Davies had always liked to think of himself as a gentleman. He decided to do the gentlemanly thing and fall on his sword. ‘That being the case, I shall resign,’ he declared. ‘Andrea is far more vital to you as your PA than ever I am as Foreign Editor. You’re always describing her as your right arm. You can easily go and find someone else to do my job.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Maxwell told Davies. ‘This is strictly between you and me. No one must know of our conversation.’ By way of a send-off, he said plaintively, ‘You are my friend.’

  For the next few weeks an uneasy calm prevailed. Despite their conversation, Davies carried on working as Foreign Editor and Maxwell made no move to replace him. Then, in May 1990, Maxwell finally snapped. For no apparent reason he starting shouting at Andrea, telling her she was fired. She was ordered to hand over her keys and her security pass, and leave the building. A few days later he called her, saying that he’d made a terrible mistake and imploring her to come back.

  With considerable reservations, Andrea agreed. To begin with Maxwell could not have been more solicitous, but, just as she had suspected, the black mist soon descended. This time she’d had enough. Maxwell told her that if she left, he wouldn’t give her a penny. That she would be left impoverished and unemployable. ‘Every time she tried to talk sensibly to him Maxwell would go wild, tearing into her, shouting at her until she was reduced to tears.’

  Once again, Nick Davies felt compelled to intervene. Only now he decided to be more forceful than before. Maxwell, he said, was acting outrageously, even by his standards. How could he claim that he cared about Andrea when he treated her so badly? Why was he bullying someone who couldn’t possibly answer back? He should be thoroughly ashamed of himself.

  Maxwell sat in silence throughout.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked when Davies had finished.

  There was nothing more to be done, Davies told him. Whatever happened, Andrea was leaving. Before he left, he offered a parting shot:

  ‘You’ve blown it.’

  Another fortnight went by. One Sunday afternoon, Davies was at work when Maxwell phoned and asked if he would come up to his apartment. Shown into his bedroom by one of the Filipina maids, he found Maxwell lying on his bed in a white towelling dressing gown, watching television.

  First, Maxwell complained of having a cold which he couldn’t shake off. Then, according to Davies, he stood up and walked over to the window. As he stared out of the window, Maxwell started talking – more to himself than to Davies, or so it seemed: ‘“Sometimes I don’t know why I go on,” he muttered. “Everything I try, people turn against me . . . I’ve got no friends, no one I can turn to . . . no one to share my life with . . . Sometimes I think I should just end it all, throw myself out of the window . . . I sometimes feel I can’t go on.”’

  26.

  What Have I Done to Deserve That?

  One evening in June 1990, Betty Maxwell was preparing to go to a party that she and her husband had been invited to a few miles away from their home in Oxford. Although Maxwell now hardly spent any time at Headington Hill Hall, on this occasion he’d agreed to accompany her. But while Betty was dressing, the phone rang. It was Maxwell. He had decided not to come, he told her. He didn’t offer any apology or explanation, merely that she should take their son Ian instead.

  Just as Betty and Ian were about to leave, they were surprised to hear the thump of rotor blades overhead – Maxwell had arrived back in his helicopter. Walking into the house, he announced that he had a splitting headache and was going straight to bed. Ever attentive, Betty went upstairs with him to turn the bed down and close the shutters. Maxwell didn’t say anything; he just stood there glowering.

  ‘He then abruptly dismissed me and asked me to leave him alone.’

  Before Betty went, she asked if there was anything else she could do – whereupon Maxwell began to shout at her. ‘He accused me of callously leaving him in the hands of servants when he was ill. I was outraged . . . I couldn’t take any more of his ranting.’ Even so, she was still sufficiently concerned about his welfare to ask the kitchen to prepare hot soup and a light meal for his supper before she and Ian left in a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce.

  They were only ten minutes away from the house when the car phone rang.

  Once again it was Maxwell.

  ‘This time you’ve really gone too far,’ he said. ‘You’re heartless and stupid and I’m leaving you.’

  Betty asked the driver to take them back to Headington Hill Hall. The chauffeur dropped her off, then took Ian on to the party, where he had to apologize for the fact that both his parents had been unavoidably detained.

  Going back upstairs, Betty found Maxwell propped up in bed.

  She asked what on earth was going on.

  ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re absolutely raving mad,’ Maxwell told her. ‘After all I’ve done for you, you don’t even have the decency to stay with me when I come home sick and tired. You prefer to go out dancing. I’ve decided irrevocably to leave you.’

  Betty tried to reason with him, but it was hopeless; he refused to listen. In all the time they’d been together – almost fifty years – she had never seen him so angry.

  The next morning, at around eleven o’clock, Maxwell asked her to go to his study. There, he repeated what he had said the night before – that she was mad and he wanted nothing more to do with her. He then said that he wanted an immediate legal separation which would be announced in The Times on 1 July. ‘I was stunned. I didn’t argue with him, but just said, “Why do you want to make it such a public affair? What have I done to deserve that? If you want me to leave, I’ll go. I’ve no wish to hurt you in any way.”’

  But Maxwell was adamant he wanted a public announcement. ‘“I don’t want to see you again,” he said. “I don’t want you to phone me. I don’t want to talk to you any more. I no longer love you. This is the end and I really mean THE END.”’

  Before Betty left his study, Maxwell asked her if she wished to be involved in the wording of the announcement.

  ‘No,’ she told him, ‘You are the communications man. You must do as you think best.’

  ‘All right,’ said Maxwell gloomily. ‘People will say it was all my fault anyway.’

  ‘Yes, they’re sure to say that,’ Betty agreed. ‘And they’ll be right too,’ she added.

  After she left she telephoned her son Kevin to ask if he had any idea why his father was behaving like this. She also wanted his help in trying to work out a financial settlement. Kevin advised her not to ask for too much – ‘Mother, don’t do
an Ivana Trump on him. Just ask him for what will amply cover your present and future needs.’

  A week later, Betty was in Headington Hill Hall when once again she heard the thump of rotor blades overhead. This time Maxwell had come to ask if she’d given any further thought to what they had discussed. By way of a reply, she handed him a piece of paper.

  On it she had written a list of conditions for her agreeing to their separation. The first was that she wished to spend eight days with Maxwell on board the Lady Ghislaine, ‘So that we can discuss the various aspects of our separation in a civilized manner, as two people who have loved each other very much and spent forty-seven years together. Specifically, I need sufficient money to:

  •Complete the building of Fraytet [the house in France that Betty had bought].

  •Buy myself a pied à terre in London.

  •Pay for the removal of all my personal furniture and chattels from Headington and their installation in my new London base and in Fraytet.

  •Settle such debts as I may have in England.’

  The second condition said simply, ‘I wish to leave Headington Hill Hall soon after March 11th 1991, my seventieth birthday.’

  In the third and final condition, she asked to be given a lump sum on her birthday ‘to ensure an adequate income for me for life’.

  Maxwell read over the list, grunted and put it in his pocket.

  ‘My answer is yes for the eight days on the boat,’ he told her. ‘When would you like it to be?’

  Betty said that any time in August would be fine for her. Maxwell then went back out to the helicopter, leaving her feeling more confused than ever. ‘I found myself alone, reflecting on what a ridiculous way this was to part and wondering what on earth had happened to the man I had loved so dearly, protected and slaved for all my life.’

  On the morning of 1 July 1990, Betty opened The Times and scanned the Personal columns. There was no announcement of their separation. Nor was there any word from Maxwell. For the next month, they neither met, nor spoke on the phone. But in August they agreed – by memo – to meet in Turkey in order to spend their final eight days together on the Lady Ghislaine.

  When Betty arrived, she discovered that Maxwell had left an hour earlier on his private plane. Unsure what to do, she called his office. ‘I plucked up my courage and phoned Bob.’

  He said she should head for the island of Samos and he would meet her there. But when she reached Samos there was no sign of him. Again Betty phoned. This time Maxwell told her to meet him in Lesbos – a day’s sail away. Off she went once more, but he never showed up there either.

  For a fourth time she tried. He would definitely be waiting for her in Ephesus on the Turkish coast, Maxwell said. The yacht duly set sail.

  He never appeared.

  27.

  Intangible Assets

  Maxwell Communications Press Information.

  4 June 1990.

  MAXWELL INSTITUTE TO BOOST PEACE

  The Gorbachev–Maxwell Institute of Technology was launched in America yesterday by Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev. The Institute of Global Technology will be an international centre for American, Soviet and European scientists and engineers to conduct research into problems ranging from food and health to global warming and communication.

  With President Gorbachev at his side during the launch ceremony in the Minnesota Governor’s mansion, Mirror publisher Robert Maxwell said the Institute will honour the Soviet leader and he praised him for the ‘great service’ he had rendered in ending the Cold War.

  Mr Maxwell said he would contribute $50,000,000 to be matched dollar for dollar by Governor Perpich and a committee of Minnesotans. The new Institute of Global Technology, he said, ‘will conduct truly international research, for science cannot be restrained by national boundaries. The world stands on the threshold of its greatest leap forward since the invention of the wheel.’

  Minnesota Governor Rudy Perpich campaigned for years to bring the Institute to Minneapolis. The Governor said, ‘Mr Maxwell, through his great generosity, will unite scientists in a great human endeavour.’

  President Gorbachev, who spent seven hours in Minnesota after ending his Washington Summit talks, said, ‘This institute is another element of common co-operation. We join our efforts to come to grips with the problems that are of concern to us all.’

  A month earlier, in May 1990, Rupert Murdoch’s Sun announced that the paper was offering a £5,000,000 first prize in a game called Spot-the-Ball. One of British tabloid newspapers’ oldest and most hallowed competitions, Spot-the-Ball consists of a photograph of a football match which has been divided into a grid. The ball, however, is missing.

  Anyone taking part has to guess which numbered square on the grid the ball belongs in. This involves a certain amount of skill. Clues as to its whereabouts can be gleaned from the positions of the players, the direction of their gaze, and so on – but the ball is seldom, if ever, where you might expect to find it.

  All too predictably, Maxwell announced that he also wanted to run a Spot-the-Ball competition. But he baulked at matching the £5,000,000 first prize, and settled instead for £1,000,000. Calling the Mirror’s Editor, Roy Greenslade, into his office, Maxwell told him, ‘I have decided to be the chairman of judges of the first Spot-the-Ball thing. You will chair them from then on.’

  Before Greenslade left, Maxwell had one last thing to say. ‘Make sure this doesn’t cost me a million.’ Just in case Greenslade was in any doubt, he repeated it: ‘I don’t want to pay out one million pounds.’

  It soon became clear what Maxwell meant. Rather than correctly identifying the position of the ball on one occasion, the winner of the Mirror’s competition had to do so on five consecutive days. A panel of adjudicators would then decide if anyone had guessed correctly on all five occasions. But Maxwell also introduced another innovation. He told the adjudicators to wait until all the entries were in. Having done so, they were to select a combination of squares that nobody had chosen.

  This put an entirely new spin on the idea that the ball was never where you expected to find it. In Maxwell’s version of the game, its position either defied the laws of physics, or else involved superhuman feats of contortion from the players. These, though, were trifling concerns as far as he was concerned. Played by Maxwell’s rules, there need never be a winner unless he decided to create one.

  Forced to run a game that he knew no one could win, a disconsolate Greenslade wrote in his diary: ‘Tonight I spoke of resignation. The sure knowledge that I must carry out RM’s Spot the Ball commands now haunts me.’ What, he wondered, had made Maxwell rig the competition? Was it simply meanness? Or could there be another explanation? Could the reason that Maxwell didn’t want to give anyone the million-pound prize because he no longer had the money to spare?

  Later that month Maxwell went to a reception at 10 Downing Street. Despite their political differences, Maxwell and Mrs Thatcher had always got on well, and on this occasion his appearance brought out the warmer, nursier side of the Prime Minister’s character. To begin with, they discussed a visit she was hoping to make to Russia to see President Gorbachev. Mrs Thatcher told Maxwell that she regarded him as one of her main links to the Soviet premier. Then, gazing at him more closely, she said, ‘Robert, you look tired. I do hope you’re not overdoing things.’

  At the end of July 1990, a short paragraph appeared in the ‘Lex’ column of the Financial Times – so short that anyone who wasn’t a careful reader might easily have missed it. The day before, MCC had published its annual report. On the surface, it appeared to offer yet more good news to shareholders. But the author of the ‘Lex’ column wasn’t convinced. What the report failed to take into account was that interest payments on the company’s debts were continuing to rise far more quickly than MCC’s profits.

  Nor were the profits all they seemed. In an attempt to nudge the figures as far as possible into the black, properties worth £41,000,000 had been sold off. If you took the
debts and the property sales into account, the company barely had enough money to cover their dividend payments. MCC’s shares, the column concluded, were basically worthless. Far from being in profit, the company was running at a considerable loss.

  The moment he read this, Maxwell sprang into action, complaining the article was ‘irresponsible and impermissible’. For a start, it made no mention of MCC’s numerous ‘intangible assets’. As their name suggests, intangible assets – things like brand value or intellectual property – have no physical substance. Although you may not be able to see or feel them, they can greatly affect a company’s fortunes. But, because of their nature, putting a value on intangibles is a notoriously subjective business.

  Maxwell persuaded the paper to publish a letter in which he raged against the ‘scribblers’ who were trying to do him down. However, throughout July the share price continued to fall, and by the end of the month it had dropped to 142p – a loss of almost 30 per cent in three years. In an attempt to stop the price from falling further, Maxwell began to buy even more MCC shares – in July 1990 alone, he spent more than £75,000,000.

  On 23 August, one of his private companies, Bishopsgate Investment Trust, bought 15.65 million shares. Six days later, the same company bought another 10 million shares. Maxwell also entered into an arrangement with Goldman Sachs whereby he sold 15.65 million MCC shares to the bank on the understanding that he’d buy them back at the end of November for a set price – £1.85 each.

  But still the share price kept falling. On 23 October, Maxwell was due to repay loans worth more than £200,000,000. If he defaulted on his repayment, the true scale of his problems would become clear to everyone. In an attempt to raise more money, he embarked on a giant sale of assets – a sale he announced would bring him £600,000,000. Among them were his encyclopedia business, his 22 per cent stake in the banknote printers De La Rue, and 51 per cent of the satellite rock channel MTV.