The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Yes, Dick. I assume she is to receive the bonuses that are due, as well as the appropriate long-term severance pay?”

  “No. She is to receive nothing other than what she is entitled to under the terms of her contract and by law.”

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, Dick, Sally’s never had a contract. In fact she’s the longest-serving member of the company. Don’t you feel in the circumstances…”

  “Say another word, Fred, and you’ll be collecting your P45 as well.” Armstrong slammed the phone down again and picked it up a third time. This time he dialed a number he knew off by heart. Although it was answered immediately, nobody spoke.

  “It’s Dick,” he began. “Before you put the phone down, I’ve just sacked Sally. She’s already left the building.”

  “That’s wonderful news, darling,” said Sharon. “When do I begin?”

  “Monday morning.” He hesitated. “As my secretary.”

  “As your personal assistant,” she reminded him.

  “Yes, of course. As my PA. Why don’t we discuss the details over the weekend? We could fly down to the yacht…”

  “But what about your wife?”

  “I rang her first thing this morning and told her not to expect me home this weekend.”

  There was a long pause before Sharon said, “Yes, I’d love to spend the weekend on the yacht with you, Dick, but if anyone should bump into us in Monte Carlo, you will remember to introduce me as your PA, won’t you?”

  * * *

  Sally waited in vain for her final paycheck, and Dick made no attempt to contact her. Friends at the office told her that Miss Levitt—as she insisted on being called—had moved in, and that the place was already in complete chaos. Armstrong never knew where he was meant to be, his letters remained unanswered, and his temper was no longer mercurial, simply perpetual. No one was willing to tell him that he had it in his power to resolve the problem with one phone call—if he wanted to.

  Over a drink at her local pub, a barrister friend pointed out to Sally that under new legislation she was, after twenty-one years of unbroken service, in a strong position to sue Armstrong for unfair dismissal. She reminded him that she didn’t have a contract of employment, and no one knew better than she what tactics Armstrong would employ were she to serve him with a writ. Within a month she would find she couldn’t afford her legal fees, and would be left with no choice but to abandon the case. She had seen these tactics used to good effect on so many others who’d dared to retaliate in the past.

  Sally had just arrived home one afternoon from a temping job when the phone rang. She picked up the receiver and was asked, over a crackling line, to hold on for a call from Sydney. She wondered why she didn’t simply put the phone down, but after a few moments another voice came on the line. “Good evening, Mrs. Carr, my name is Keith Townsend and I’m…”

  “Yes, Mr. Townsend, I am well aware who you are.”

  “I was calling to say how appalled I was to hear how you’ve been treated by your former boss.”

  Sally made no comment.

  “It may come as a surprise to you that I’d like to offer you a job.”

  “So you can find out what Dick Armstrong has been up to, and which paper he’s trying to buy?”

  There was a long silence, and only the crackling convinced her that the line hadn’t gone dead. “Yes,” said Townsend eventually. “That’s exactly what I had in mind. But then at least you could take that holiday in Italy you’ve made the down payment on.” Sally was speechless.

  Townsend continued, “I would also make good any compensation you should have been entitled to after twenty-one years of service.”

  Sally said nothing for a few moments, suddenly aware why Dick considered this man such a formidable opponent. “Thank you for your offer, Mr. Townsend, but I’m not interested,” she said firmly, and put the phone down.

  Sally’s immediate reaction was to contact the accounts department at Armstrong House to try and find out why she hadn’t received her final paycheck. She was kept waiting for some time before the senior accountant came on the line.

  “When can I expect last month’s paycheck, Fred?” she asked. “It’s more than two weeks overdue.”

  “I know, but I’m afraid I’ve been given instructions not to issue it, Sally.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “It’s no more than I’m entitled to.”

  “I realize that,” said Fred, “but…”

  “But what?”

  “It seems there was a breakage during your final week which you’ve been billed for. A fine bone china Staffordshire coffee set, I was told.”

  “The bastard,” said Sally. “I wasn’t even in the room when he smashed it.”

  “And he’s also deducted two days’ wages for taking time off during office hours.”

  “But he knows very well that he told me to keep out of the way himself, so that he could…”

  “We all know that, Sally. But he’s no longer prepared to listen.”

  “I know, Fred,” she said. “It’s not your fault. I appreciate the risk you’re taking by even speaking to me, so thank you.” She hung up, and just sat at the kitchen table staring into space. When she picked up the telephone again an hour later she asked to be put through to the international operator.

  In Sydney, Heather put her head round the door. “There’s a reverse-charge call for you from London,” she said. “A Mrs. Sally Carr. Will you take it?”

  * * *

  Sally flew into Sydney two days later. Sam picked her up from the airport. After a night’s rest the debriefing began. At a cost of $5,000, Townsend had employed a former head of the Australian Security Intelligence Organization to conduct the interview. By the end of the week Sally was drained, and Townsend wondered if there was anything else he could possibly know about Richard Armstrong.

  On the day she was due to fly back to England, he offered her a full-time job in his London office. “Thank you, Mr. Townsend,” she replied as he handed her a check for $25,000, but added, with the sweetest of smiles, “I’ve spent almost half my life working for one monster, and after a week with you, I don’t think I want to spend the rest of it working for another one.”

  After Sam had taken Sally to the airport, Townsend and Kate spent hours listening to the tapes. They agreed on one thing: if he was to have any chance of purchasing the remaining shares in the Globe, he had to get to Margaret Sherwood before Armstrong did. She was the key to gaining control of 100 percent of the company.

  Once Sally had explained why Armstrong had bid a million francs for an egg at an auction in Geneva, all Townsend needed to discover was the equivalent of Peter Carl Fabergé for Mrs. Margaret Sherwood.

  Kate jumped out of bed in the middle of the night, and started playing tape number three. A drowsy Keith raised his head from the pillow when he heard the words “the senator’s mistress.”

  25.

  Ocean Times

  6 June 1967

  WELCOME ABOARD!

  Keith landed at Kingston airport four hours before the liner was due to dock. He checked through customs and took a taxi to the Cunard booking office on the dockside. A man in a smart white uniform, with a little too much gold braid for a booking clerk, asked if he could be of assistance.

  “I’d like to reserve a first class cabin on the Queen Elizabeth’s voyage to New York,” said Townsend. “My aunt is already on board taking her annual cruise, and I was wondering if there might be a cabin available somewhere near her.”

  “And what is your aunt’s name?” asked the booking clerk.

  “Mrs. Margaret Sherwood,” Townsend replied.

  A finger ran down the passenger list. “Ah, yes. Mrs. Sherwood has the Trafalgar Suite as usual. It’s on level three. We only have one first class cabin still available on that level, but it’s not far from her.” The booking clerk unrolled a large-scale layout of the ship and pointed to two boxes, the second of which was considerably larger than the first.


  “Couldn’t be better,” said Townsend, and passed over one of his credit cards.

  “Shall we let your aunt know that you’ll be joining the ship?” the booking clerk asked helpfully.

  “No,” said Townsend, without missing a beat. “That would spoil the surprise.”

  “If you would like to leave your bags with me, sir, I’ll see they are taken to your cabin as soon as the ship docks.”

  “Thank you,” said Townsend. “Can you tell me how to get to the center of town?”

  As he strolled away from the dockside he began to think about Kate, and wondered if she had managed to place the article in the ship’s paper.

  He dropped into three newsagents on the long walk into Kingston, and purchased Time, Newsweek and all the local newspapers. He then stopped at the first restaurant he came across with an American Express sign on its door, took a quiet table in the corner and settled down for a lengthy lunch.

  Other people’s newspapers always fascinated him, but he knew he would leave the island without the slightest desire to be the owner of the Jamaica Times, which, even with nothing else to do, was only a fifteen-minute read. In between articles about how the agriculture minister’s wife spent her day and why the island’s cricket team had been losing so consistently, his mind kept returning to the information Sally Carr had recorded in Sydney. He found it hard to believe that Sharon could be quite as incompetent as she claimed, but if she was, he also had to accept her judgment that she must be remarkable in bed.

  Having paid for a lunch best forgotten, Townsend left the restaurant and began to stroll around the town. It was the first time he had spent like a tourist since his visit to Berlin back in his student days. He kept checking his watch every few minutes, but it didn’t help the time pass any quicker. Eventually he heard the sound of a foghorn in the distance: the great liner was at last coming into dock. He immediately began walking back toward the dockside. By the time he arrived, the crew were lowering the gangplanks. After the passengers had flooded down onto the quay, looking grateful for a few hours of escape, Townsend walked up the gangway and asked a steward to direct him to his cabin.

  As soon as he had finished unpacking, he began to check the layout on level three. He was delighted to discover that Mrs. Sherwood’s stateroom was less than a minute away from his cabin, but he made no attempt to contact her. Instead he used the next hour to find his way around the ship, ending up in the Queen’s Grill.

  The chief steward smiled at the slight, inappropriately dressed man as he entered the large, empty dining room being set up for the evening meal. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked, trying not to sound as if he felt that this particular passenger must have strayed onto the wrong deck.

  “I hope so,” said Townsend. “I’ve just joined the ship, and wanted to find out where you’ve placed me for dinner.”

  “This restaurant is for first class passengers only, sir.”

  “Then I’ve come to the right place,” said Townsend.

  “Your name, sir?” asked the steward, sounding unconvinced.

  “Keith Townsend.”

  He checked the list of first class passengers who were joining the ship at Kingston. “You’re on table eight, Mr. Townsend.”

  “Is Mrs. Margaret Sherwood on that table, by any chance?”

  The steward checked again. “No, sir, she’s on table three.”

  “Would it be possible for you to find me a place on table three?” asked Townsend.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. No one from that table left the ship at Kingston.”

  Armstrong took out his wallet and removed a hundred-dollar bill.

  “But I suppose if I were to move the archdeacon onto the captain’s table, that might solve the problem.”

  Townsend smiled and turned to leave.

  “Excuse me, sir. Were you hoping to sit next to Mrs. Sherwood?”

  “That would be most considerate,” said Townsend.

  “It’s just that it might prove a little awkward. You see, she’s been with us for the whole trip, and we’ve had to move her twice already because she didn’t care for the passengers at her table.”

  Townsend removed his wallet a second time. He left the dining room a few moments later, assured that he would be sitting next to his quarry.

  By the time he had returned to his cabin, his fellow-passengers were beginning to come back on board. He showered, changed for dinner and once again read the profile of Mrs. Sherwood that Kate had compiled for him. A few minutes before eight he made his way down to the dining room.

  One couple were already seated at the table. The man immediately stood up and introduced himself. “Dr. Arnold Percival from Ohio,” he said, shaking Townsend by the hand. “And this is my dear wife, Jenny—also from Ohio.” He laughed raucously.

  “Keith Townsend,” he said to them. “I’m from…”

  “Australia, if I’m not mistaken, Mr. Townsend,” said the doctor. “How nice that they put you on our table. I’ve just retired, and Jenny and I have been promising ourselves we’d go on a cruise for years. What brings you on board?” Before Townsend could reply, another couple arrived. “This is Keith Townsend from Australia,” said Dr. Percival. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Osborne from Chicago, Illinois.”

  They had just finished shaking hands when the doctor said, “Good evening, Mrs. Sherwood. May I introduce Keith Townsend?”

  Keith knew from Kate’s profile that Mrs. Sherwood was sixty-seven, but it was clear that she must have spent a considerable amount of time and money trying to deny the fact. He doubted if she had ever been beautiful, but the description “well preserved” certainly came to mind. Her evening dress was fashionable, even if the hem was perhaps an inch too short. Townsend smiled at her as if she was twenty-five years younger.

  When Mrs. Sherwood first heard Townsend’s accent, she was barely able to hide her disapproval, but then two other passengers arrived within moments of each other and distracted her. Townsend didn’t catch the name of the general, but the woman introduced herself as Claire Williams, and took the seat next to Dr. Percival on the far side of the table. Townsend smiled at her but she didn’t respond.

  Even before Townsend had taken his seat, Mrs. Sherwood demanded to know why the archdeacon had been moved.

  “I think I see him on the captain’s table,” said Claire.

  “I do hope he’ll return tomorrow,” said Mrs. Sherwood, and immediately began a conversation with Mr. Osborne, who was seated on her right. As she resolutely refused to speak to Townsend during the first course, he began chatting to Mrs. Percival while trying to listen to Mrs. Sherwood’s conversation at the same time. He found it quite difficult.

  Townsend had hardly spoken a dozen words to Mrs. Sherwood by the time the main course was being cleared away. It was over coffee that Claire inquired from the other side of the table if he had ever visited England.

  “Yes, I was up at Oxford just after the war,” Townsend admitted for the first time in fifteen years.

  “Which college?” demanded Mrs. Sherwood, swinging round to face him.

  “Worcester,” he replied sweetly. But that turned out to be the first and last question she addressed to him that evening. Townsend stood as she left the table, and wondered if three days was going to be enough. When he had finished his coffee, he said good night to Claire and the general before returning to his cabin to go over the file again. There was no mention of prejudice or snobbery in the profile, but then, to be fair to Sally, she had never met Margaret Sherwood.

  When Townsend took his seat for breakfast the following morning the only vacant place was on his right, and although he was the last to leave, Mrs. Sherwood never appeared. He glanced at Claire as she left the table and just wondered whether to follow her, but then decided against it, as it wasn’t part of the plan. For the next hour he strolled around the ship, hoping to bump into her. But he didn’t see her again that morning.

  When he appeared a few minutes late for lunch, he
was disconcerted to find that Mrs. Sherwood had moved to the other side of the table, and was now sitting between the general and Dr. Percival. She didn’t even look up when he took his seat. When Claire arrived a few moments later, she had no choice but to take the place next to Townsend, although she immediately began a conversation with Mr. Osborne.

  Townsend tried to listen to what Mrs. Sherwood was saying to the general, in the hope that he could find some excuse to join in their conversation, but all she was saying was that this was her nineteenth world cruise, and that she knew the ship almost as well as the captain.

  Townsend was beginning to fear that his plan wasn’t going at all well. Should he approach the subject directly? Kate had strongly advised against it. “We mustn’t assume she’s a fool,” she had warned him when they parted at the airport. “Be patient, and an opportunity will present itself.”

  He turned casually to his right when he heard Dr. Percival ask Claire if she had read Requiem for a Nun.

  “No,” she replied, “I haven’t. Is it any good?”

  “Oh, I have,” said Mrs. Sherwood from the other side of the table, “and I can tell you it’s far from his best.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Sherwood,” said Townsend, a little too quickly.

  “And why is that, Mr. Townsend?” she asked, unable to hide her surprise that he even knew who the author was.

  “Because I have the privilege of publishing Mr. Faulkner.”

  “I had no idea you were a publisher,” said Dr. Percival. “How exciting. I’ll bet there are a lot of people on this ship who could tell you a good story.”

  “Possibly even one or two at this table,” said Townsend, avoiding Mrs. Sherwood’s stare.

  “Hospitals are an endless source for stories,” continued Dr. Percival. “I should know.”

  “That’s true,” said Townsend, now enjoying himself. “But having a good story isn’t enough. You must then be able to commit it to paper. That’s what takes real talent.”

  “Which company do you work for?” asked Mrs. Sherwood, trying to sound casual.

  Townsend had cast the fly and she had leapt right out of the water. “Schumann & Co., in New York,” he replied, equally casually.