The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  His thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing. Pamela had Stephen Hallet on the line.

  “Sorry to have to call you back, Stephen, but I had young Ray Atkins on the line. Says he needs to see me urgently. I think we can both work out what that’s about.”

  “I thought the decision on the Citizen wasn’t expected until next month at the earliest.”

  “Perhaps they want to make an announcement before people start speculating. Don’t forget that Atkins was the minister who referred Townsend’s bid for the Citizen to the Monopolies and Mergers Commission. I don’t think the Labor Party will be ecstatic about Townsend controlling the Citizen as well as the Globe.”

  “It’s the MMC who’ll decide in the end, Dick, not the minister.”

  “I still can’t see them allowing Townsend to gain control of half of Fleet Street. In any case, the Citizen is the one paper that’s consistently supported the Labor Party over the years, while most of the other rags have been nothing more than Tory magazines.”

  “But the MMC will still have to appear even-handed.”

  “Like Townsend has been with Wilson and Heath? The Globe has become a daily love letter to Teddy the sailor boy. If Townsend were to get his hands on the Citizen as well, the Labor movement would be left without a voice in this country.”

  “You know it and I know it,” said Stephen. “But the MMC isn’t made up only of socialists.”

  “More’s the pity,” said Armstrong. “If I could get my hands on the Citizen, for the first time in his life Townsend would discover what real competition is all about.”

  “You don’t have to convince me, Dick. I wish you luck with the minister. But that wasn’t the reason I was calling.”

  “Whenever you phone, Stephen, it’s a problem. What is it this time?”

  “I’ve just received a long letter from Sharon Levitt’s solicitor, threatening you with a writ,” said Stephen.

  “But I signed a settlement with her months ago. She can’t expect another penny out of me.”

  “I know you did, Dick. But this time they’re going to serve a paternity order on you. It seems that Sharon has given birth to a son, and she’s claiming that you’re the father.”

  “It could be anyone’s, knowing that promiscuous little bitch…” began Armstrong.

  “Possibly,” said Stephen. “But not with that birthmark below its right shoulderblade. And don’t forget there are four women on the MMC, and Townsend’s wife is pregnant.”

  “When was the bastard born?” asked Armstrong, quickly leafing backward through his diary.

  “4 January.”

  “Hold on,” said Armstrong. He stared down at the entry in the diary for nine months before that date: Alexander Sherwood, Paris. “The bloody woman must have planned it all along,” he boomed, “while pretending that she wanted to be my personal assistant. That way she knew she’d end up with two settlements. What are you recommending?”

  “Her solicitors will be aware of the battle that’s going on for the Citizen, and therefore they know that it would only take one call to the Globe…”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” said Armstrong, his voice rising.

  “Perhaps not,” replied Stephen calmly. “But she might. I can only recommend that you let me settle on the best terms I can get.”

  “If you say so,” said Armstrong quietly. “But make sure you warn them that if one word of this leaks out, the payments will dry up the same day.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Stephen. “But I’m afraid she’s learned something from you.”

  “And what’s that?” asked Dick.

  “That it doesn’t pay to hire a cheap solicitor. I’ll phone you back as soon as we’ve agreed terms.”

  “Do that,” said Armstrong, slamming the phone down.

  “Pamela!” he bellowed through the door. “Get me Don Sharpe.” When the editor of the London Evening Post came on the line, Armstrong said, “Something’s come up. I’m going to have to postpone our lunch for the time being.” He put the phone down before giving Sharpe a chance to respond. Armstrong had long ago decided that this particular editor needed replacing, and he had even approached the man he wanted for the job, but the minister’s phone call had caused that decision to be delayed for a few more days.

  He wasn’t too worried about Sharon and whether she might blab. He had files on every editor in Fleet Street, even thicker ones on their masters, and almost an entire cabinet devoted to Keith Townsend. His mind drifted back to Ray Atkins.

  After Pamela had gone through the morning mail with him, he asked her for a copy of Dod’s Parliamentary Companion. He wanted to remind himself of the salient facts of Atkins’s career, the names of his wife and children, the ministries he’d held, even his hobbies.

  Everyone accepted that Ray Atkins was one of the brightest politicians of his generation, as was confirmed when Harold Wilson made him a shadow minister after only fifteen months. Following the 1966 general election Atkins became Minister of State at the Department of Trade and Industry. It was generally agreed that if Labor were to win the next election—a result that Armstrong didn’t consider likely—Atkins would be invited to join the Cabinet. One or two people were even talking of him as a future leader of the party.

  As Atkins was a member for a northern constituency covered by one of Armstrong’s local papers, the two men had become more than casual acquaintances over the years, often having a meal together at the party conference. When Atkins was appointed minister of industry, with special responsibilities for takeovers, Armstrong made even more of an effort to cultivate him, hoping that might tip the balance when it came to deciding who should be allowed to take over the Citizen.

  Sales of the Globe had continued their steady decline after Townsend had bought out Sir Walter Sherwood. Townsend had intended to sack the editor, but he shelved his plans when a few months later Hugh Tuncliffe, the proprietor of the Citizen, died, and his widow announced she would be putting the paper up for sale. Townsend spent several days convincing his board that he should put in an offer for the Citizen—an offer which the Financial Times described as “too high a price to pay,” even though the Citizen boasted the largest daily circulation in Britain. After all the bids had been received, his turned out to be the highest by far. There was an immediate outcry from the chattering classes, whose strongly held views were reported on the front page of the Guardian. Day after day, selected columnists trumpeted their disapproval of the prospect of Townsend owning the two most successful dailies in the land. In a rare display of broadsheet solidarity The Times thundered its views in a leader on behalf of the Establishment, condemning the idea of foreigners taking over national institutions and thus exerting a powerful influence over the British way of life. The following morning several letters landed on the editor’s desk pointing out that The Times’s own proprietor was a Canadian. None of them was published.

  When Armstrong announced that he would match Townsend’s offer, and agreed to retain Sir Paul Maitland, the former ambassador to Washington, as chairman of the board, the government was left with no choice but to recommend that the matter be referred to the Monopolies and Mergers Commission. Townsend was livid at what he described as “nothing more than a socialist plot,” but he didn’t gain much sympathy from those who had followed the decline in the journalistic standards of the Globe over the past year. Not that many people came out in favor of Armstrong either. The cliché about having to choose the lesser of two evils had appeared in several papers during the past month.

  But this time Armstrong was convinced he had Townsend on the run, and that the biggest prize in Fleet Street was about to fall into his lap. He couldn’t wait for Ray Atkins to join him for lunch and have the news officially confirmed.

  Atkins arrived at Armstrong House just before one. The proprietor was having a conversation in Russian when Pamela ushered him into the office. Armstrong immediately put the phone down in mid-sentence and rose to welcome his guest. He couldn�
�t help noticing as he shook Atkins’s hand that it was a little damp.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

  “A small Scotch and a lot of water,” Atkins replied.

  Armstrong poured the minister a drink and then led him through to the adjoining room. He switched on an unnecessary light and, with it, a concealed tape recorder. Atkins smiled with relief when he saw that only two places had been laid at the long dining table. Armstrong ushered him into a chair.

  “Thank you, Dick,” he said nervously. “It’s most kind of you to see me at such short notice.”

  “Not at all, Ray,” said Armstrong, taking his place at the top of the table. “It’s my pleasure. I’m only too delighted to see anyone who works so tirelessly for our cause. Here’s to your future,” he added, raising his glass, “which everyone tells me is rosy.”

  Armstrong noticed a slight tremble of the hand before the minister responded. “You do so much for our party, Dick.”

  “Kind of you to say so, Ray.”

  During the first two courses they chatted about the Labor Party’s chances of winning the next election, and both of them admitted that they weren’t over-optimistic.

  “Although the opinion polls are looking a little better,” said Atkins, “you only have to study the local election results to see what’s really happening out there in the constituencies.”

  “I agree,” said Dick. “Only a fool would allow the opinion polls to influence him when it comes to calling an election. Although I believe Wilson regularly gets the better of Ted Heath at Question Time in the House.”

  “True, but only a few hundred MPs see that. If only the Commons was televised, the whole nation could see that Harold’s in a different class.”

  “Can’t see that happening in my lifetime,” said Dick.

  Atkins nodded, then fell into a deep silence. When the main course had been cleared away, Dick instructed his butler to leave them alone. He topped up the minister’s glass with more claret, but Atkins only toyed with it, looking as if he was wondering how to broach an embarrassing topic. Once the butler had closed the door behind him, Atkins took a deep breath. “This is all a bit awkward for me,” he began hesitantly.

  “Feel free to say anything you like, Ray. Whatever it is will go no further than this room. Never forget, we bat for the same team.”

  “Thank you, Dick,” the minister replied. “I knew straight away that you’d be the right person with whom to discuss my little problem.” He continued to toy with his glass, saying nothing for some time. Then he suddenly blurted out, “The Evening Post has been prying into my personal life, Dick, and I can’t take much more of it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Armstrong, who had imagined that they were going to discuss a completely different subject. “What have they been doing that’s so disturbed you?”

  “They’ve been threatening me.”

  “Threatening you?” said Armstrong, sounding annoyed. “In what way?”

  “Well, perhaps ‘threatening’ is a little strong. But one of your reporters has been constantly calling my office and my home at weekends, sometimes two or three times a day.”

  “Believe me, Ray, I knew nothing about this,” said Armstrong. “I’ll speak to Don Sharpe the moment you’ve gone. You can be assured that’s the last you’ll hear of it.”

  “Thank you, Dick,” he said. This time he did take a gulp of wine. “But it’s not the calls I need stopped. It’s the story they’ve got hold of.”

  “Would it help if you were to tell me what it’s all about, Ray?”

  The minister stared down at the table. It was some time before he raised his head. “It all happened years ago,” he began. “So long ago, in fact, that until recently I’d almost been able to forget it ever took place.”

  Armstrong remained silent as he topped up his guest’s wine glass once again.

  “It was soon after I’d been elected to the Bradford city council.” He took another sip of wine. “I met the housing manager’s secretary.”

  “Were you married to Jenny at the time?” asked Armstrong.

  “No, Jenny and I met a couple of years later, just before I was selected for Bradford West.”

  “So what’s the problem?” said Armstrong. “Even the Labor Party allows girlfriends before you’re married,” he added, trying to lighten the tone.

  “Not when they become pregnant,” said the minister. “And when their religion forbids abortion.”

  “I see,” said Armstrong quietly. He paused. “Does Jenny know anything about this?”

  “No, nothing. I’ve never told her, or anyone else for that matter. She’s the daughter of a local doctor—a bloody Tory, so the family never approved of me in the first place. If this ever came out, among other things I’d have to suffer the ‘I told you so’ syndrome.”

  “So is it the girl who’s making things difficult?”

  “No, God bless her, Rahila’s been terrific—although her family regard me with about as much affection as my in-laws. I pay her the full maintenance, of course.”

  “Of course. But if she isn’t causing you any trouble, what’s the problem? No paper would dare to print anything unless she corroborated the story.”

  “I know. But unfortunately her brother had a little too much to drink one night and began shouting his mouth off in the local pub. He didn’t realize there was a freelance journalist at the bar who works as a stringer for the Evening Post. The brother denied everything the following day, but the journalist just won’t stop digging, the bastard. If this story gets out, I’d be left with no choice but to resign. And God knows what that would do to Jenny.”

  “Well, it hasn’t reached that stage yet, Ray, and you can be sure of one thing: you’ll never see it referred to in any paper I own. On that you have my word. The moment you leave I’ll call Sharpe and make it clear where I stand on this. You won’t be contacted again, at least not on this subject.”

  “Thank you,” said Atkins. “That’s a great relief. Now all I have to pray is that the journalist doesn’t take it anywhere else.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Armstrong.

  “John Cummins.”

  Armstrong scribbled the name down on a pad by his side. “I’ll see that Mr. Cummins is offered a job on one of my papers in the north, somewhere not too near Bradford. That should dampen his ardor.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” said the minister.

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way,” said Armstrong as he rose from his place, not bothering to offer his guest a coffee. He accompanied Atkins out of the dining room. The minister’s nervousness had been replaced by the voluble self-assurance more usually associated with politicians. As they passed through Armstrong’s office, he noticed that the bookshelf contained a full set of Wisden. “I didn’t know you were a cricket fan, Dick,” he said.

  “Oh yes,” said Armstrong. “I’ve loved the game from an early age.”

  “Which county do you support?” asked Atkins.

  “Oxford,” replied Armstrong as they reached the lift.

  Atkins said nothing. He shook his host warmly by the hand. “Thank you again, Dick. Thank you so much.”

  The moment the lift doors had slid closed, Armstrong returned to his office. “I want to see Don Sharpe immediately,” he shouted as he passed Pamela’s desk.

  The editor of the Evening Post appeared in the proprietor’s office a few minutes later, clutching a thick file. He waited for Armstrong to finish a phone conversation in a language he didn’t recognize.

  “You asked to see me,” he said once Armstrong had put the phone down.

  “Yes. I’ve just had Ray Atkins to lunch. He says the Post has been harassing him. Some story that you’ve been following up.”

  “Yes, I have had someone working on a story. In fact we’ve been trying to get in touch with Atkins for days. We think the minister may have fathered a love child some years ago, a boy called Vengi.”

  “B
ut this all took place before he was married.”

  “That’s true,” said the editor. “But…”

  “So I can hardly see how it could be described as in the public interest.”

  Don Sharpe appeared somewhat surprised by the proprietor’s unusual sensitivity on the matter—but then, he was also aware that the MMC’s decision on the Citizen was due to be made within the next few weeks.

  “Would you agree or not?” asked Armstrong.

  “In normal circumstances I would,” replied Sharpe. “But in this case the woman in question has lost her job with the council, been abandoned by her family, and is surviving—just—in a one-bedroom flat in the minister’s constituency. He, on the other hand, is being driven around in a Jaguar and has a second home in the south of France.”

  “But he pays her full maintenance.”

  “Not always on time,” said the editor. “And it could be regarded as being in the public’s interest that when he was an under-secretary of state in the Social Services Department, he was responsible for piloting the single-parent allowance through its committee stage on the floor of the House.”

  “That’s irrelevant, and you know it.”

  “There’s another factor that might interest our readers.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “She’s a Moslem. Having given birth to a child out of wedlock, she can never hope to marry. They’re a little stricter on these matters than the Church of England.” The editor removed a photograph from his file and placed it on Armstrong’s desk. Armstrong glanced at the picture of an attractive Asian mother with her arms around a little boy. The child’s resemblance to his father would have been hard to deny.

  Armstrong looked back up at Sharpe. “How did you know I was going to want to discuss this with you?”

  “I assumed you hadn’t canceled our lunch because you wanted to chat with Ray Atkins about Bradford City’s chances of being relegated this season.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic with me,” snapped Armstrong. “You’ll drop this whole inquiry, and you’ll drop it immediately. If I ever see even a hint of this story in any one of my papers, you needn’t bother to report to work the next morning.”