The Fourth Estate

“The bellboy knew exactly which table to go to.”

“So what?”

“You were facing me in the corner of the room looking toward the window, but I just happened to look up when he came into the Palm Court. I remember thinking it was strange that he knew exactly where to go, despite you having your back to him.”

“He could have asked the head waiter.”

“No,” said Kate. “He walked straight past the head waiter. Didn’t even give him a glance.”

“What are you getting at?”

“And Henry’s phone—continually engaged even though it was only just after 8:30 in the morning.” The wheels of the plane left the ground. “And why couldn’t you get through to the High Commissioner at 8:30 when you could at 7:20?”

Keith looked straight at her.

“We’ve been taken, Keith. And by someone who wanted to be certain that you wouldn’t be in Leeds at twelve o’clock to sign that contract.”

Keith flicked off his seatbelt, ran up the aisle and barged into the cockpit before the steward could stop him. The captain listened to his story sympathetically, but pointed out that there was nothing he could do now that the plane was on its way to Bombay.

* * *

“Flight 009 has taken off for Melbourne with both pieces of cargo on board,” said Benson from a telephone in the observation tower. He watched as the Comet disappeared through a bank of clouds. “They will be in the air for at least the next fourteen hours.”

“Well done, Reg,” said Armstrong. “Now get back to the Ritz. Sally’s already booked the room Townsend was in, so wait there for Wolstenholme to call. My guess is that it will be soon after twelve. By then I’ll have arrived at the Queen’s Hotel, and I’ll let you know my room number.”

Keith sat in his seat on the plane, banging the armrests with the palms of his hands. “Who are they, and how did they manage it?”

Kate was fairly certain she knew who, and a great deal of how.

* * *

Three hours later, a call came through to the Ritz for Mr. Keith Townsend. The switchboard operator followed the instructions she’d been given by the extremely generous gentleman who’d had a word with her earlier that morning, and put the call through to room 319, where Benson was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Is Keith there?” asked an anxious voice.

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Henry Wolstenholme,” he boomed.

“Good morning, Mr. Wolstenholme. Mr. Townsend tried to call you this morning, but your line was continually engaged.”

“I know. Someone called me at home around seven, but it turned out to be a wrong number. When I tried to dial out later, the line had gone dead. But where is Keith?”

“He’s on a plane to Melbourne. His mother’s had a heart attack and the High Commissioner arranged to hold up the flight for him.”

“I’m sorry to hear about Keith’s mother, but I fear Mr. Shuttleworth may not be willing to hold up the contract. It’s been hard enough to get him to agree to see us at all.”

Benson read out the exact words Armstrong had written down for him: “Mr. Tow

nsend instructed me to say that he has sent a representative up to Leeds with the authority to sign any contract, as long as you have no objection.”

“I have no objection,” said Wolstenholme. “When is he expected to arrive?”

“He should be at the Queen’s Hotel by now. He left for Leeds soon after Mr. Townsend departed for Heathrow. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was already in the hotel looking for you.”

“I’d better go down to the foyer and see if I can find him,” said Wolstenholme.

“By the way,” said Benson, “our accountant just wanted to check the final figure—£120,000.”