The Fourth Estate

“Not at the moment, perhaps, but it will once we’re selling more copies than they are.”

“You’re so like your father, Keith,?

? said his mother, looking up at him.

“Just give me an opportunity to prove myself,” said Keith. “You’ll find that I’ve learned a great deal during my time in Fleet Street. I’ve come home to put that knowledge to good use.”

Lady Townsend stared into the fire for some time before she replied. “Sir Colin has given me ninety days to consider his offer.” She paused again. “I will give you exactly the same time to convince me that I should turn him down.”

* * *

When Townsend stepped off the plane at Adelaide the following morning, the first thing he noticed as he entered the arrivals hall was that the Messenger was placed above the Gazette in the newspaper rack. He dropped his bags and switched the papers round, so that the Gazette was on top, then purchased a copy of both.

While he stood in line waiting for a taxi, he noted that of the seventy-three people who walked out of the airport, twelve were carrying the Messenger while only seven had the Gazette. As the taxi drove him into the city, he wrote down these findings on the back of his ticket, with the intention of briefing Frank Bailey, the editor of the Gazette, as soon as he reached the office. He spent the rest of the journey flicking through both papers, and had to admit that the Messenger was a more interesting read. However, he didn’t feel that was an opinion he could express on his first day in town.

Townsend was dropped outside the offices of the Gazette. He left his bags in reception and took the lift to the third floor. No one gave him a second look as he headed through the rows of journalists seated at their desks, tapping away on their typewriters. Without knocking on the editor’s door, he walked straight into the morning conference.

A surprised Frank Bailey rose from behind his desk, held out his hand and said, “Keith, it’s great to see you after all this time.”

“And it’s good to see you,” said Townsend.

“We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.” Bailey turned to face the horseshoe of journalists seated round his desk. “This is Sir Graham’s son, Keith, who will be taking over from his father as publisher. Those of you who have been around a few years will remember when he was last here as…” Frank hesitated.

“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.