The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  “As my father’s son,” said Townsend.

  The comment was greeted with a ripple of laughter.

  “Please carry on as if I weren’t here,” said Townsend. “I don’t intend to be the sort of publisher who interferes with editorial decisions.” He walked over to the corner of the room, sat on the window ledge and watched as Bailey continued to conduct the morning conference. He hadn’t lost any of his skills, or, it seemed, his desire to use the paper to campaign on behalf of any underdog he felt was getting a rough deal.

  “Right, what’s looking like the lead story tomorrow?” he asked. Three hands shot up.

  “Dave,” said the editor, pointing a pencil at the chief crime reporter. “Let’s hear your bid.”

  “It looks as if we might get a verdict on the Sammy Taylor trial today. The judge is expected to finish his summing-up later this afternoon.”

  “Well, if the way he’s conducted the trial so far is anything to go by, the poor bastard hasn’t a hope in hell. That man would string Taylor up given the slightest excuse.”

  “I know,” said Dave.

  “If it’s a guilty verdict, I’ll give the front page over to it and write a leader on the travesty of justice any Aboriginal can expect in our courts. Is the courthouse still being picketed by Abo protesters?”

  “Sure is. It’s become a night-and-day vigil. They’ve taken to sleeping on the pavement since we published those pictures of their leaders being dragged off by the police.”

  “Right, if we get a verdict today, and it’s guilty, you get the front page. Jane,” he said, turning to the features editor, “I’ll need a thousand words on Abos’ rights and how disgracefully this trial has been conducted. Travesty of justice, racial prejudice, you know the sort of thing I want.”

  “What if the jury decides he’s not guilty?” asked Dave.

  “In that unlikely event, you get the right-hand column on the front page and Jane can give me five hundred words for page seven on the strength of the jury system, Australia at last coming out of the dark ages, etc., etc.”

  Bailey turned his attention to the other side of the room, and pointed his pencil at a woman whose hand had remained up. “Maureen,” he said.

  “We may have a mystery illness at the Royal Adelaide Hospital. Three young children have died in the last ten days and the hospital’s chief administrator, Gyles Dunn, is refusing to make a statement of any kind, however hard I push him.”

  “Are all the children local?”

  “Yep,” replied Maureen. “They all come from the Port Adelaide area.”

  “Ages?” said Frank.

  “Four, three and four. Two girls, one boy.”

  “Right, get hold of their parents, especially the mothers. I want pictures, history of the families, everything you can find out about them. Try and discover if the families have any connection with each other, however remote. Are they related? Do they know each other or work at the same place? Do they have any shared interests, however remote, that could just connect the three cases? And I want some sort of statement out of Gyles Dunn, even if it’s ‘No comment.’”

  Maureen gave Bailey a quick nod before he turned his attention to the picture editor. “Get me a picture of Dunn looking harassed that will be good enough to put on the front page. You’ll have the front-page lead, Maureen, if the Taylor verdict is not guilty, otherwise I’ll give you page four with a possible run-on to page five. Try and get pictures of all three children. Family albums is what I’m after—happy, healthy children, preferably on holiday. And I want you to get inside that hospital. If Dunn still refuses to say anything, find someone who will. A doctor, a nurse, even a porter, but make sure the statement is either witnessed or recorded. I don’t want another fiasco like the one we had last month with that Mrs. Kendal and her complaints against the fire brigade. And Dave,” the editor said, turning his attention back to the chief crime reporter, “I’ll need to know as soon as possible if the verdict on Taylor is likely to be held up, so we can get to work on the layout of the front page. Anyone else got anything to offer?”

  “Thomas Playford will be making what’s promised to be an important statement at eleven o’clock this morning,” said Jim West, a political reporter. Groans went up around the room.

  “I’m not interested,” said Frank, “unless he’s going to announce his resignation. If it’s the usual photo call and public relations exercise, producing more bogus figures about what he’s supposed to have achieved for the local community, relegate it to a single column on page eleven. Sport, Harry?”

  A rather overweight man, seated in the corner opposite Townsend, blinked and turned to a young associate who sat behind him. The young man whispered in his ear.

  “Oh, yes,” the sports editor said. “Some time today the selectors will be announcing our team for the first Test against England, starting on Thursday.”

  “Are there likely to be any Adelaide lads in the side?”

  Townsend sat through the hour-long conference but didn’t say anything, despite feeling that several questions had been left unanswered. When the conference finally broke up, he waited until all the journalists had left before he handed Frank the notes he had written earlier in the back of the taxi. The editor glanced at the scribbled figures, and promised he would study them more carefully just as soon as he had a minute. Without thinking, he deposited them in his out tray.

  “Do drop in whenever you want to catch up on anything, Keith,” he said. “My door is always open.” Townsend nodded. As he turned to leave, Frank added, “You know, your father and I always had a good working relationship. Until quite recently he used to fly over from Melbourne to see me at least once a month.”

  Townsend smiled and closed the editor’s door quietly behind him. He walked back through the tapping typewriters, and took the lift to the top floor.

  He felt a shiver as he entered his father’s office, conscious for the first time that he would never have the chance to prove to him that he would be a worthy successor. He glanced around the room, his eyes settling on the picture of his mother on the corner of the desk. He smiled at the thought that she was the one person who need have no fear of being replaced in the near future.

  He heard a little cough, and turned round to find Miss Bunting standing by the door. She had served as his father’s secretary for the past thirty-seven years. As a child Townsend had often heard his mother describe Bunty as “a wee slip of a girl.” He doubted if she was five feet tall, even if you measured to the top of her neatly tied bun. He had never seen her hair done in any other way, and Bunty certainly made no concession to fashion. Her straight skirt and sensible cardigan allowed only a glimpse of her ankles and neck, she wore no jewelry, and apparently no one had ever told her about nylons. “Welcome home, Mr. Keith,” she said, her Scottish accent undiminished by nearly forty years of living in Adelaide. “I’ve just been getting things in order, so that everything would be ready for your return. I am of course due for retirement soon, but will quite understand if you want to bring in someone new to replace me before then.”

  Townsend felt that she must have rehearsed every word of that little speech, and had been determined to deliver it before he had a chance to say anything. He smiled at her. “I shall not be looking for anyone to replace you, Miss Bunting.” He had no idea what her first name was, only that his father called her “Bunty.” “The one change I would appreciate is if you went back to calling me Keith.”

  She smiled. “Where would you like to begin?”

  “I’ll spend the rest of the day going over the files, then I’ll start first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Bunty looked as if she wanted to say something, but bit her lip. “Will first thing mean the same as it did for your father?” she asked innocently.

  “I’m afraid it will,” replied Townsend with a grin.

  * * *

  Townsend was back at the Gazette by seven the following morning. He took the lift to the second floor, and walked aroun
d the empty desks of the advertising and small ads department. Even with nobody around, he could sense the floor was inefficiently run. Papers were strewn all over desks, files had been left open, and several lights had obviously been burning all through the night. He began to realize just how long his father must have been away from the office.

  The first employee strolled in at ten past nine.

  “Who are you?” asked Townsend, as she walked across the room.

  “Ruth,” she said. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Keith Townsend.”

  “Oh, yes, Sir Graham’s son,” she said flatly, and walked over to her desk.

  “Who runs this department?” asked Townsend.

  “Mr. Harris,” she replied, sitting down and taking a compact out of her bag.

  “And when can I expect to see him?”

  “Oh, he usually gets in around nine-thirty, ten.”

  “Does he?” said Townsend. “And which is his office?” The young woman pointed across the floor to the far corner of the room.

  Mr. Harris appeared in his office at 9:47, by which time Townsend had been through most of his files. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” were Harris’s first words when he found Townsend sitting behind his desk, studying a sheaf of papers.

  “Waiting for you,” said Townsend. “I don’t expect my advertising manager to be strolling in just before ten o’clock.”

  “Nobody who works for a newspaper starts work much before ten. Even the tea boy knows that,” said Harris.

  “When I was the tea boy on the Daily Express, Lord Beaverbrook was sitting at his desk by eight o’clock every morning.”

  “But I rarely get away before six in the evening,” Harris protested.

  “A decent journalist rarely gets home before eight, and the back-bench staff should consider themselves lucky if they’re away much before midnight. Starting tomorrow, you and I will meet in my office every morning at eight-thirty, and the rest of your staff will be at their desks by nine. If anyone can’t manage that, they can start studying the Situations Vacant column on the back page of the paper. Do I make myself clear?”

  Harris pursed his lips and nodded.

  “Good. The first thing I want from you is a budget for the next three months, with a clear breakdown of how our line prices compare with the Messenger. I want it on my desk by the time I come in tomorrow.” He rose from Harris’s chair.

  “It may not be possible to have all those figures ready for you by this time tomorrow,” protested Harris.

  “In that case, you can start studying the Situations Vacant column as well,” said Townsend. “But not in my time.”

  He strode out, leaving Harris shaking, and took the lift up one floor to the circulation department, where he wasn’t surprised to encounter exactly the same laissez-faire attitude. An hour later he left that department with more than one of them shaking, though he had to admit that a young man from Brisbane called Mel Carter, who had recently been appointed as the department’s deputy manager, had impressed him.

  Frank Bailey was surprised to see “young Keith” back in the office so soon, and even more surprised when he returned to his place on the window ledge for the morning conference. Bailey was relieved that Townsend didn’t offer any opinions, but couldn’t help noticing that he was continuously taking notes.

  By the time Townsend reached his own office, it was eleven o’clock. He immediately set about going through his mail with Miss Bunting. She had laid it all out on his desk in separate files with different-colored markers, the purpose of which, she explained, was to make sure that he dealt with the real priorities when he was running short of time.

  Two hours later, Townsend realized why his father had held “Bunty” in such high regard, and was wondering not when he would replace her, but just how long she would be willing to stay on.

  “I’ve left the most important matter until last,” said Bunty. “The latest offer from the Messenger. Sir Colin Grant called earlier this morning to welcome you home and to make sure that you had received his letter.”

  “Did he?” said Townsend with a smile, as he flicked open the file marked “Confidential” and skimmed through a letter from Jervis, Smith & Thomas, the lawyers who had represented the Messenger for as long as he could remember. He stopped when he came across the figure £150,000, and frowned. He then read the minutes of the previous month’s board meeting, which clearly showed the directors’ complacent attitude to the bid. But that meeting had taken place before his mother had given him a ninety-day stay of execution.

  “Dear Sir,” dictated Townsend, as Bunty flicked over the next page of her shorthand pad. “I have received your letter of the twelfth inst. New paragraph. In order not to waste any more of your time, let me make it clear that the Gazette is not for sale, and never will be. Yours faithfully…”

  Townsend leaned back in his chair and recalled the last time he had met the chairman of the Messenger. Like many failed politicians, Sir Colin was pompous and opinionated, particularly with the young. “The seen-and-not-heard brigade,” was how he described children, if Townsend remembered correctly. He wondered how long it would be before he heard or saw him again.

  * * *

  Two days later, Townsend was studying Harris’s advertising report when Bunty popped her head round the door to say that Sir Colin Grant was on the line. Townsend nodded and picked up the phone.

  “Keith, my boy. Welcome home,” the old man began. “I’ve just read your letter, and wondered if you were aware that I had a verbal agreement with your mother concerning the sale of the Gazette?”

  “My mother told you, Sir Colin, that she would be giving your offer her serious consideration. She made no verbal commitment, and anyone who suggests otherwise is…”

  “Now hold on, young fellow,” interrupted Sir Colin. “I’m only acting in good faith. As you well know, your father and I were close friends.”

  “But my father is no longer with us, Sir Colin, so in future you will have to deal with me. And we are not close friends.”

  “Well, if that’s your attitude, there seems no point in mentioning that I was going to increase my offer to £170,000.”

  “No point at all, Sir Colin, because I still wouldn’t consider it.”

  “You will in time,” barked the older man, “because within six months I’ll run you off the streets, and then you’ll be only too happy to take £50,000 for whatever remains of the bits and pieces.” Sir Colin paused. “Feel free to call me when you change your mind.”

  Townsend put the phone down and asked Bunty to tell the editor that he wanted to see him immediately.

  Miss Bunting hesitated.

  “Is there some problem, Bunty?”

  “Only that your father used to go down and see the editor in his office.”

  “Did he really?” said Townsend, remaining seated.

  “I’ll ask him to come up straight away.”

  Townsend turned to the back page, and studied the Flats for Rent column while he waited. He had already decided that the journey to Melbourne every weekend stole too many precious hours of his time. He wondered how long he’d be able to hold off telling his mother.

  Frank Bailey stormed into his office a few minutes later, but Townsend couldn’t see the expression on his face; his head remained down as he pretended to be absorbed in the back page. He circled a box, looked up at the editor and passed him a piece of paper. “I want you to print this letter from Jervis, Smith & Thomas on the front page tomorrow, Frank, and I’ll have three hundred words ready for the leader within the hour.”

  “But…” said Frank.

  “And dig out the worst picture you can find of Sir Colin Grant and put it alongside the letter.”

  “But I’d planned to lead on the Taylor trial tomorrow,” said the editor. “He’s innocent, and we’re known as a campaigning paper.”

  “We’re also known as a paper that’s losing money,” said Townsend. “In any case, the Taylor t
rial was yesterday’s news. You can devote as much space to him as you like, but tomorrow it won’t be on the front page.”

  “Anything else?” asked Frank sarcastically.

  “Yes,” said Townsend calmly. “I expect to see the page-one layout on my desk before I leave this evening.”

  Frank strode angrily out of the office, without uttering another word.

  “Next I want to see the advertising manager,” Townsend told Bunty when she reappeared. He opened the file Harris had delivered a day late, and stared down at the carelessly compiled figures. That meeting turned out to be even shorter than Frank’s, and while Harris was clearing his desk, Townsend called for the deputy circulation manager, Mel Carter.

  When the young man entered the room, the look on his face indicated that he too was expecting to be told that his desk should be cleared by the end of the morning.

  “Have a seat, Mel,” said Townsend. He looked down at his file. “I see you’ve recently joined us on a three-month trial. Let me make it clear from the outset that I’m only interested in results: you’ve got ninety days, starting today, to prove yourself as advertising manager.”

  The young man looked surprised but relieved.

  “So tell me,” said Townsend, “if you could change one thing about the Gazette, what would it be?”

  “The back page,” said Mel without hesitation. “I’d move the small ads to an inside page.”

  “Why?” asked Townsend. “It’s the page which generates our largest income: a little over £3,000 a day, if I remember correctly.”

  “I realize that,” said Mel. “But the Messenger has recently put sport on the back page and taken another 10,000 readers away from us. They’ve worked out that you can put the small ads on any page, because people are far more interested in circulation figures than they are in positioning when they decide where to place an advertisement. I could give you a more detailed breakdown of the figures by six o’clock tonight if that would help convince you.”