“But…” said the editor.
“And while you’re at it, you can leave that file on my desk.”
“I can what?”
Armstrong continued to glower at him until he meekly placed the heavy file on the desk. He turned and left without another word.
Armstrong cursed. If he sacked Sharpe now, the first thing he would do would be to walk across the road and give the story to the Globe. He had made a decision that was likely to cost him a great deal of money either way. He picked up the phone. “Pamela, get me Mr. Atkins at the Department of Trade and Industry.”
Atkins came on the line a few moments later. “Is this a public line?” asked Armstrong, aware that civil servants often listened in on conversations in case their ministers made commitments that they would then have to follow up.
“No, you’ve come through on my private line,” Atkins assured him.
“I have spoken to the editor in question,” said Armstrong, “and I can assure you that Mr. Cummins won’t be bothering you again. I also warned him that if I see any reference to this incident in any one of my papers, he can start looking for another job.”
“Thank you,” said the minister.
“And it may interest you to know, Ray, that I have on my desk Cummins’s file concerning this matter, and will be shredding it as soon as we’ve finished speaking. Believe me, no one will ever hear a word of this again.”
“You’re a good friend, Dick. And you’ve probably saved my career.”
“A career worth saving,” said Armstrong. “Never forget, I’m here if you need me.” As he replaced the phone Pamela put her head round the door.
“Stephen called again while you were on the phone to the minister. Shall I get him back?”
“Yes. And after that, there’s something I want you to do for me.” Pamela nodded and disappeared into her own office. A moment later one of the phones on his desk rang. Armstrong picked it up.
“What’s the problem, Stephen?”
“There’s no problem. I’ve had a long discussion with Sharon Levitt’s solicitors, and we’ve come up with some preliminary proposals for a settlement—subject of course to both parties agreeing.”
“Fill me in,” said Armstrong.
“It seems that Sharon has a boyfriend living in Italy, and…” Armstrong listened intently as Stephen outlined the terms that had been negotiated on his behalf. He was smiling long before his lawyer had finished.
“That all seems very satisfactory,” he said.
“Yes. How did the meeting with the minister go?”
“It went well. He’s facing roughly the same problem that I am, but he has the disadvantage of not having someone like you to sort it out for him.”
“Am I meant to understand that?”
“No,” replied Armstrong. As soon as he had put the phone down, he called for his secretary.
“Pamela, when you’ve typed up the conversation that took place over lunch today, I want you to put a copy of it in this file,” he said, pointing to the pile of papers Don Sharpe had left on his desk.
“And then what do I do with the file?”
“Lock it in the large safe. I’ll let you know if I need it again.”
* * *
When the editor of the London Evening Post requested a private meeting with Keith Townsend, he received an immediate response. It was well understood in Fleet Street that Armstrong’s staff had a standing invitation to see Townsend if they had any interesting information about their boss. Not many of them had taken advantage of the offer, because they all knew that if they were caught, they could clear their desks the same day, and would never work for any of Armstrong’s newspapers again.
It had been some time since anyone as senior as Don Sharpe had contacted Townsend direct. He suspected that Mr. Sharpe already knew his days were numbered, and had calculated that he had nothing to lose. But like so many others before him, he had insisted that the meeting should take place on neutral ground.
Townsend always hired the Fitzalan Suite at the Howard Hotel for such purposes, as it was only a short distance from Fleet Street, but wasn’t a haunt of prying journalists. One phone call from Heather to the head porter and all the necessary arrangements were made with complete discretion.
Sharpe told Townsend in detail about the conversation that had taken place between himself and Armstrong following the proprietor’s lunch with Ray Atkins the previous day, and waited for his reaction.
“Ray Atkins,” said Townsend.
“Yes, the minister for industry.”
“The man who will make the final decision as to who takes control of the Citizen.”
“Precisely. That’s why I thought you would want to know immediately,” said Sharpe.
“And Armstrong kept the file?”
“Yes, but it would only take me a few days to get duplicates of everything. If you broke the story on the front page of the Globe, I’m sure that under the circumstances the Monopolies and Mergers Commission would have to remove Armstrong from their calculations.”
“Perhaps,” said Townsend. “Once you’ve put the documentation together, send it to me direct. Make sure you put my initials, K.R.T., on the bottom left-hand corner of the package. That will ensure that no one else opens it.”
Sharpe nodded. “Give me a week, a fortnight at the most.”
“And should I end up as proprietor of the Citizen,” said Townsend, “you can be sure that there will be a job for you on the paper if ever you want it.”
Sharpe was about to ask him what job he had in mind when Townsend added, “Don’t leave the hotel for another ten minutes.” As he stepped out onto the street, the senior porter touched the rim of his top hat. Townsend was driven back to Fleet Street, confident that the Citizen must now surely fall into his hands.
A young porter, who had seen the two men arrive separately and leave separately, waited for his boss to take a tea break before he made a phone call.
* * *
Ten days later two envelopes arrived in Townsend’s office with “K.R.T.” printed boldly in the bottom left-hand corners. Heather left them on his desk unopened. The first was from a former employee of the New York Times, who supplied him with the full list of shops that reported to the best-seller list. For $2,000 it had been a worthwhile investment, thought Townsend. He put the list on one side, and opened the second envelope. It contained pages and pages of research supplied by Don Sharpe on the extracurricular activities of the minister for industry.
An hour later, Townsend felt confident not only that he would retrieve his second million, but also that Armstrong would live to regret suppressing the minister’s secret. He picked up a phone and told Heather that he needed to send a package to New York by special delivery. When she had taken one of the sealed envelopes away, he picked up the phone and asked the editor of the Globe to join him.
“When you’ve had a chance to read through this,” he said, pushing the second envelope across his desk, “you’ll know what to lead on tomorrow.”
“I already have a lead story for tomorrow,” said the editor. “We have evidence that Marilyn Monroe is alive.”
“She can wait for another day,” said Townsend. “Tomorrow we lead on the minister for industry and his attempt to suppress the story of his illegitimate child. Make sure I have a dummy front page on my desk by five this afternoon.”
* * *
A few minutes later Armstrong received a call from Ray Atkins.
“How can I help you, Ray?” he asked, as he pressed a button on the side of his phone.
“No, Dick, this time it’s my turn to help you,” said Atkins. “A report has just landed on my desk from the Monopolies and Mergers Commission, outlining their recommendations for the Citizen.”
It was Armstrong’s turn to feel a slight sweat on his hands.
“Their advice is that I should rule in your favor. I’m simply ringing to let you know that I intend to take that advice.”
“That’s
wonderful news,” said Armstrong, standing up. “Thank you.”
“Delighted to be the one to let you know,” said Atkins. “As long as you’ve got a check for £78 million, the Citizen is yours.”
Armstrong laughed. “When does it become official?”
“The MMC’s recommendation will go before the Cabinet at eleven o’clock this morning, and I can’t imagine you’ll find anyone round that table objecting,” said the minister. “I’m scheduled to make a statement in the House at 3:30 this afternoon, so I’d be obliged if you said nothing before then. After all, we don’t want to give the commission any reason to reverse their decision.”
“Not a word, Ray, of that I can promise you.” He paused. “And I want you to know that if there is anything I can do for you in the future, you only have to ask.”
* * *
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 he was the father of little Vengi Patel (see picture), aged seven, who lives with his mother in a dingy one-room 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. “He 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 front-page story would be 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 paper’s 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.
29.
The Citizen
21 August 1978
NOT MANY PEOPLE INHABITING THE NEW GLOBE
When Townsend had 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 he 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 Chronicle. 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. “I 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.
“BRITAIN’S BEST-SELLING DAILY”
Armstrong was proud of the strapline that ran below the Citizen’s masthead. But although the sales of the paper had remained steady, he was beginning to feel 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 New 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.
The Fourth Estate Page 44