“Very fine bed,” said Keith.
“Slept in by many maharajahs,” said Kate.
“And by Lord Mountbatten,” said Keith.
Kate laughed. “By the way, Keith, you didn’t have to buy off the Bombay electricity company just to get me into bed. I’ve spent the last week thinking you were only interested in my brain.”
FOURTH EDITION
Armstrong and Townsend Battle for the Globe
22.
The Times
1 April 1966
LABOR SWEEPS TO POWER: MAJORITY OF 100 ASSURED
Armstrong glanced at a typist he didn’t recognize, and walked on into his office to find Sally on the phone.
“Who’s my first appointment?”
“Derek Kirby,” she said, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece.
“And who’s he?”
“A former editor of the Daily Express. The poor man only lasted eight months, but he claims to have some interesting information for you. Shall I ask him to come in?”
“No, let him wait a little longer,” said Armstrong. “Who’s on the line now?”
“Phil Barker. He’s calling from Leeds.”
Armstrong nodded and took the phone from Sally to speak to the new chief executive of the West Riding Group.
“Did they agree to my terms?”
“They settled for £1.3 million, to be paid over the next six years in equal installments—as long as sales remain constant. But if sales drop during the first year, every succeeding payment will also drop pro rata.”
“They didn’t spot the flaw in the contract?”
“No,” said Barker. “They assumed that you would want to put the circulation up in the first year.”
“Good. Just see that you fix the lowest audited figure possible, then we’ll start building them up again in the second year. That way I’ll save myself a fortune. How about the Hull Echo and the Grimsby Times?”
“Early days yet, but now that everybody realizes you’re a buyer, Dick, my task isn’t made any easier.”
“We’ll just have to offer more and pay less.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” asked Barker.
“By inserting clauses that make promises we have absolutely no intention of keeping. Never forget that old family concerns rarely sue, because they don’t like ending up in court. So always take advantage of the letter of the law. Don’t break it, just bend it as far as it will go without snapping. Get on with it.” Armstrong put the phone down.
“Derek Kirby is still waiting,” Sally reminded him.
Armstrong checked his watch. “How long has he been hanging about?”
“Twenty, twenty-five minutes.”
“Then let’s go through the post.”
After twenty-one years, Sally knew which invitations Armstrong would accept, which charities he didn’t want to support, which gatherings he was willing to address and whose dinner parties he wanted to be seen at. The rule was to say yes to anything that might advance his career, and no to the rest. When she closed her shorthand pad forty minutes later, she pointed out that Derek Kirby had now been waiting for over an hour.
“All right, you can send him in. But if you get any interesting calls, put them through.”
When Kirby entered the room, Armstrong made no attempt to rise from his place, but simply jabbed a finger at the seat on the far side of the desk.
Kirby appeared nervous; Armstrong had found that keeping someone waiting for any length of time almost always made them on edge. His visitor must have been about forty-five, though the furrows on his forehead and his receding hairline made him look older. His suit was smart, but not of the latest fashion, and although his shirt was clean and well ironed, the collar and cuffs were beginning to fray. Armstrong suspected he had been living on freelance work since leaving the Express, and would be missing his expense account. Whatever Kirby had to sell, he could probably offer him half and pay a quarter.
“Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,” Kirby said before he sat down.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Armstrong, “but something urgent came up.”
“I understand,” said Kirby.
“So, what can I do for you?”
“No, it’s what I can do for you,” said Kirby, which sounded to Armstrong like a well-rehearsed line.
Armstrong nodded. “I’m listening.”
“I am privy to confidential information which could make it possible for you to get your hands on a national newspaper.”
“It can’t be the Express,” said Armstrong, looking out of the window, “because as long as Beaverbrook is alive…”
“No, it’s bigger than that.”
Armstrong remained silent for a moment and then said, “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Kirby?”
“I’d prefer tea,” replied the former editor. Armstrong picked up one of the phones on his desk. “Sally, can we both have some tea?”—a signal that the appointment might go on longer than expected, and that he was not to be interrupted.
“You were editor of the Express, if I remember correctly,” said Armstrong.
“Yes, one of seven in the last eight years.”
“I never understood why they sacked you.”
Sally entered the room carrying a tray. She placed one cup of tea in front of Kirby and another in front of Armstrong.
“The man who followed you was a moron, and you were never really given enough time to prove yourself.”
A smile appeared on Kirby’s face as he poured some milk into his tea, dropped in two sugarcubes and settled back in his chair. He didn’t feel that this was the moment to point out to Armstrong that he had recently employed his replacement to edit one of his own papers.
“Well, if it isn’t the Express, which paper are we talking about?”
“Before I say anything more, I need to be clear about my own position,” said Kirby.
“I’m not sure I understand.” Armstrong placed his elbows on the table and stared across at him.
“Well, after my experience at the Express, I want to be sure my backside is covered.”
Armstrong said nothing. Kirby opened his briefcase and removed a document. “My lawyers have drawn this up to protect…”
“Just tell me what you want, Derek. I’m well known for honoring my pledges.”
“This document states that if you take control of the paper in question, I will be appointed editor, or paid compensation of £100,000.” He handed Armstrong the one-page agreement.
Armstrong read quickly through it. As soon as he realized there was no mention of any salary, only of the appointment as editor, he signed above his name at the bottom of the page. He had got rid of a man in Bradford by agreeing he should be editor and then paying him a pound a year. He would have advised Kirby that cheap lawyers always get you cheap results, but he satisfied himself with passing the signed document back to its eager recipient.
“Thank you,” said Kirby, looking a little more confident.
“So, which paper do you want to edit?”
“The Globe.”
For the second time that morning Armstrong was taken by surprise. The Globe was one of the icons of Fleet Street. No one had ever suggested it might be up for sale.
“But all the shares are held by one family,” said Armstrong.
“That’s correct,” said Kirby. “Two brothers and a sister-in-law. Sir Walter, Alexander, and Margaret Sherwood. And because Sir Walter is the chairman, everyone imagines he controls the company. But that isn’t the case: the shares are split equally between the three of them.”
“I knew that much,” said Armstrong. “It’s been reported in every profile of Sir Walter I’ve ever read.”
“Yes. But what hasn’t been reported is that recently there’s been a falling-out between them.”
Armstrong raised an eyebrow.
“They all met for dinner at Alexander’s apartment in Paris last Friday. Sir Walter flew in from London, and Margaret
from New York, ostensibly to celebrate Alexander’s sixty-second birthday. But it didn’t turn out to be a celebration, because Alexander and Margaret let Walter know they were fed up with him not paying enough attention to what was happening to the Globe, and blamed him personally for the drop in sales. They’ve gone from over four million to under two million since he became chairman—falling behind the Daily Citizen, which is boasting that it’s now the paper with the largest daily circulation in the land. They accused him of spending far too much time flitting between the Turf Club and the nearest racecourse. A real shouting match followed, and Alexander and Margaret made it abundantly clear that although they had turned down several offers for their shares in the past, that didn’t mean they would do so in the future, as they had no intention of sacrificing their lifestyle simply because of his incompetence.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Armstrong.
“His cook,” replied Kirby.
“His cook?” repeated Armstrong.
“Her name’s Lisa Milton. She used to work for Fleet Street Caterers before Alexander offered her the job with him in Paris.” He paused. “Alexander hasn’t been the easiest of employers, and Lisa would resign and return to England if…”
“… if she could afford to do so?” suggested Armstrong.
Kirby nodded. “Lisa could hear every word they were saying while she was preparing dinner in the kitchen. In fact, she told me she wouldn’t have been surprised if the entire exchange could have been heard on the floors above and below.”
Armstrong smiled. “You’ve done well, Derek. Is there any other information you have that might be useful to me?”
Kirby leaned down and removed a bulky file from his briefcase. “You’ll find all the details on the three of them in here. Profiles, addresses, phone numbers, even the name of Alexander’s mistress. If you need anything else, you can call me direct.” He pushed a card across the table.
Armstrong took the file and placed it on the blotter in front of him, slipping the card into his wallet. “Thank you,” he said. “If the cook comes up with any fresh information or you ever want to get in touch with me, I’m always available. Use my direct line.” He passed his own card over to Kirby.
“I’ll call the moment I hear anything,” said Kirby, rising to leave.
Armstrong accompanied him to the door, and when they entered Sally’s room he put an arm round his shoulder. As they shook hands he turned to his secretary and said, “Derek must always be able to get in touch with me, night or day, whoever I’m with.”
As soon as Kirby had left, Sally joined Armstrong in his office. He was already studying the first page of the Sherwood file. “Did you mean what you just said about Kirby always being able to get in touch with you night and day?”
“For the foreseeable future, yes. But now I need you to clear my diary to make space for a trip to Paris to see a Mr. Alexander Sherwood. If that proves successful, I’ll need to go on to New York to meet his sister-in-law.”
Sally began flicking over the pages. “Your diary’s jam-packed with appointments,” she said.
“Like a bloody dentist,” snapped Armstrong. “See they’re all canceled by the time I get back from lunch. And while you’re at it, go through every single piece of paper in this file. Then perhaps you’ll realize why seeing Mr. Sherwood is so important—but don’t let anyone else get their hands on it.”
He checked his watch and marched out of the room. As he walked down the corridor, his eyes settled on the new typist he had noticed that morning. This time she looked up and smiled. In the car on the way to the Savoy, he asked Reg to find out all he could about her.
Armstrong found it hard to concentrate during lunch—despite the fact that his guest was a cabinet minister—because he was already imagining what it might be like to be the proprietor of the Globe. In any case, he had heard that this particular minister would be returning to the back benches as soon as the prime minister carried out his next reshuffle. He was not at all sorry when the minister said he would have to leave early, as his department was answering questions in the House that afternoon. Armstrong called for the bill.
He watched as the minister was whisked away in a chauffeur-driven car, and hoped the poor man hadn’t got too used to it. When he climbed into the back of his own car, his thoughts returned to the Globe.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Benson, glancing into the rear-view mirror.
“What is it?” snapped Armstrong.
“You asked me to find out about that girl.”
“Ah, yes,” said Armstrong, softening.
“She’s a temp—Sharon Levitt, covering for Mr. Wakeham’s secretary while she’s on holiday. She’s only going to be around for a couple of weeks.”
Armstrong nodded. When he stepped out of the lift and walked to his office, he was disappointed to find that she was no longer sitting at the desk in the corner.
Sally followed him into his room, clutching his diary and a bundle of papers. “If you cancel your speech to SOGAT on Saturday night,” she said on the move, “and lunch on Sunday with your wife—” Armstrong waved a dismissive hand. “It’s her birthday,” Sally reminded him.
“Send her a bunch of flowers, go to Harrods and choose a gift, and remind me to call her on the day.”
“In which case the diary’s clear for the whole weekend.”
“What about Alexander Sherwood?”
“I called his secretary in Paris just before lunch. To my surprise, Sherwood himself called back a few minutes ago.”
“And?” said Armstrong.
“He didn’t even ask why you wanted to see him, but wondered if you’d care to join him for lunch at one o’clock on Saturday, at his apartment in Montmartre.”
“Well done, Sally. I’ll also need to see his cook before I meet him.”
“Lisa Milton,” said Sally. “She’ll join you at the George V for breakfast that morning.”
“Then all that’s left for you to do this afternoon is to finish off the post.”
“You’ve forgotten that I have a dental appointment at four. I’ve already put it off twice, and my toothache is starting to…”
Armstrong was about to tell her to put it off a third time, but checked himself. “Of course you mustn’t cancel your appointment, Sally. Ask Mr. Wakeham’s secretary to cover for you.”
Sally couldn’t hide her surprise, as Dick had never allowed anyone to cover for her since the first day she’d worked for him.
“I think he’s using a temp for the next couple of weeks,” she said uneasily.
“That’s fine. It’s only routine stuff.”
“I’ll go and get her,” said Sally, as the private phone on Armstrong’s desk began to ring. It was Stephen Hallet, confirming that he had issued a writ for libel against the editor of the Daily Mail, and suggesting it might be wise for Dick to keep a low profile for the next few days.
“Have you discovered who leaked the story in the first place?” asked Armstrong.
“No, but I suspect it came out of Germany,” said Hallet.
“But all that was years ago,” said Armstrong. “In any case, I attended Julius Hahn’s funeral, so it can’t be him. My bet is still Townsend.”
“I don’t know who it is, but someone out there wants to discredit you, and I think we might have to issue a series of gagging writs over the next few weeks. At least that way they’ll think twice about what they print in the future.”
“Send me copies of anything and everything that mentions my name,” he said. “If you need me urgently, I’ll be in Paris over the weekend.”
“Lucky you,” said Hallet. “And do give my love to Charlotte.”
Sally walked back into the room, followed by a tall, slim blonde in a miniskirt that could only have been worn by someone with the most slender legs.
“I’m just about to embark on a very important deal,” said Armstrong in a slightly louder voice.
“I understand,” said Stephen. “Be assured I
’ll stay on top of it.”
Armstrong slammed the phone down and smiled sweetly up at the temp.
“This is Sharon. I’ve told her it will only be run-of-the-mill stuff, and you’ll let her go by five,” said Sally. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
Armstrong’s eyes settled on Sharon’s ankles and then moved slowly up. He didn’t even look at Sally as she said, “See you tomorrow.”
* * *
Townsend finished reading the article in the Daily Mail, swung round on his chair and stared out over Sydney Harbor. It had been an unflattering portrayal of the rise and rise of Lubji Hoch, and his desire to be accepted in Britain as a press baron. They had used several unattributed quotes from Armstrong’s fellow-officers in the King’s Own Regiment, from Germans who had come across him in Berlin, and from past employees.
There was little in the article that hadn’t been lifted from the profile Kate had written for the Sunday Continent some weeks before. Townsend knew that few people in Australia would have any interest in the life of Richard Armstrong. But the article would have landed on the desk of every editor in Fleet Street within days, and then it would be only a matter of time before it was being reproduced in part or in full for dissemination to the British public. He had only wondered which newspaper would publish first.
He knew it wouldn’t take long for Armstrong to discover the source of the original article, which gave him even more pleasure. Ned Brewer, his bureau chief in London, had recently told him that stories about Armstrong’s private life had stopped appearing quite so frequently since the writs had begun falling like confetti on editors’ desks.
Townsend had watched with increasing anger as Armstrong built up WRG into a strong power-base in the north of England. But he was in no doubt where the man’s true ambitions lay. Townsend had already infiltrated two people into Armstrong’s Fleet Street headquarters, and they reported back on anyone and everyone who made an appointment to see him. The latest visitor, Derek Kirby, the former editor of the Express, had left with Armstrong’s arm around his shoulder. Townsend’s advisers thought Kirby was probably taking over as editor of one of WRG’s regional papers. Townsend wasn’t quite so sure, and left instructions that he should be told immediately if Armstrong was discovered bidding for anything. He repeated, “Anything.”
The Fourth Estate Page 35