The Fourth Estate (49 page)

I must say your
friend Townsend is obviously a man of action.”

“Not much doubt
about that,” said Wolstenholme.

“And generous,
too,” said Shuttleworth.

“Generous?”

“Yes-they may
have left without saying goodbye, but they threw in a couple of bottles of
champagne.”

When
Wolstenholme arrived home that night, the phone was ringing. He picked it up to
find Townsend on the other end of the line. was so sorry to hear about your
mother,” were Henry’s opening words.

“There’s nothing
wrong with my mother,” said Townsend sharply.

“What?” said
Henry. “But .

“I’m returning
on the next available flight. I’ll be in Leeds by tomorrow evening.”

“No need to do
that, old chap,” said Henry, slightly bemused.

“Shuttleworth
has already signed.”

“But the
contract still needs my signature,” said Townsend.

“No it doesn’t.
Your representative signed everything on your behalf,” said Henry, “and I can
assure you that all the paperwork was in order.”

“My
representative?” said Townsend.

“Yes, a Mr,
Richard Armstrong. I banked his draft for E 120,000 just before lunch. There’s
really no need for you to come all the way back.

WRG now belongs
to you.”

Townsend slammed
the phone down and turned round to find Kate standing behind him. “I’m going on
to Sydney, but I want you to return to London and find out everything you can
about a man called Richard Armstrong.”

“So that’s the
name of the man who was sitting in the next alcove to us at the Savoy.”

“it would seem
so,” said Townsend, spitting out the words.

“And he now owns
the West Riding Group?”

“Yes, he does.”

“Can’t you do
anything about it?”

“I could sue him
for misrepresentation, even fraud, but that could take years. In any case, a
man who would go to that amount of trouble will have made sure he stayed within
the letter of the law. And one thing’s for sure: Shuttleworth isn’t going to
agree to appear in any witness box.”

Kate frowned.
“Well then, I can’t see much point in returning to London now. I suspect your
battle with Mr. Richard Armstrong has only just begun. We may as well spend the
night in Bombay,” she suggested. “I’ve never been to India.”

Townsend looked
at her, but didn’t say anything until lie spotted a TWA captain heading toward
them.

“Which is the
best hotel in Bombay?” he asked him.

The captain
stopped. “They tell me the Grand Palace is in a class of its own, but I’ve
never actually stayed there myself,” he replied.

“Thank you,”
said Townsend, and began pushing their baggage toward the exit. just as they
stepped out of the terminal it began to rain.

Townsend loaded
their bags into a waiting taxi that he felt certain would have been
decommissioned in any other country. Once he had joined Kate in the back, they
began the long journey into Bombay. Although some of the street lights were
working, the taxi’s were not, nor were its windscreen wipers. And the driver
didn’t seem to know how to get out of second gear. But he was able to confirm
every few minutes that the Grand Palace was “in a class of its own.

When they
eventually swept into the driveway, a clap of thunder struck above them. Keith
had to admit that the ornate white building was certainly large and palatial,
even if the more seasoned traveler might ungraciously have added the word
“faded.”

“Welcome,” said
a man in a fashionable dark suit as they entered the marble-floored foyer. “My
name is Mr. Baht. I am the general manager.”

He bowed low.
“May I ask what name your booking is in?”

“We don’t have a
reservation. We’ll be needing two rooms,” said Keith.

‘That is indeed
unfortunate,” said Mr. Baht, “because I am almost certain that we are fully
booked for the night. Let me find out.” He ushered them toward the reservation
desk and spoke for some time to the booking clerk.

The clerk kept
shaking his head. Mr. Baht studied the reservation sheet himself and finally
turned to face them again.

“I’m very very
sorry to tell you that we have only one room vacant,” he said, placing his
hands together, perhaps in the hope that through the power of prayer one room
might miraculously turn into two. “And I fear.

“You fear... ?”
said Keith.

“it is the Royal
Suite, sahib.”

“How
appropriate,” said Kate, “remembering your views on the monarchy.”

She was trying
not to laugh. “Does it have a sofa?” she asked.

“Several,” said
a surprised general manager, who had never been asked that question before.

‘Then we’ll take
it,” said Kate.

After they had
filled in the booking form, Mr. Baht clapped his hands and a porter in a long
red tunic, red pantaloons and a red turban came bustling forward.

“Very fine
suite,” said the porter as he carried their bags up the wide staircase. This
time Kate did laugh. “Slept in by Lord Mountbatten,” he added with obvious
pride, “and many maharajahs. Very fine suite.” He placed the bags by the
entrance to the Royal Suite, put a large key in the lock and pushed open the
double door, then switched on the lights and stood aside to usher them in.

The two of them
walked into an enormous room. Up against the far wall was a vast, opulent
double bed, which could have slept half a dozen maharajahs. And to Keith’s
disappointment there were, as Mr. Baht had promised, several large sofas.

“Very fine bed,”
said the porter, placing their bags in the center of the room. Keith handed him
a pound note. The porter bowed low, turned and left the room as a flash of
lightning shot across the sky and the lights suddenly went out.

“How did you
manage that?” asked Kate.

“If You look out
of the window, I think you’ll find it was carried out by a far higher authority
than me.” Kate turned to see that the whole city was in darkness.

“So, shall we
just stand around waiting for the lights to come back on, or shall we go in
search of somewhere to sit down?” Keith put out his hand in the darkness, and
touched Kate’s hip. “You lead,” she said, taking his hand. He turned in the
direction of the bed and began taking small paces toward it, sweeping the air
in front of him with his free arm until he eventually hit the corner post. They
fell onto the large mattress together, laughing.

“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.”

THE TIMES

I Apm 1966

L
abor Sweeps to
Power:

Majority of 100
Assured APMSTRONC. 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 C1.3 million, tobepaidoverthe 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 Ecbo 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 he 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...”