“Twenty, twenty-five minutes.”
“Then let’s go through the post.”
After twenty-one years, Sally knew which invitations Armstrong would accept, which charities he didn’t want to support, which gatherings he was willing to address and whose dinner parties he wanted to be seen at. The rule was to say yes to anything that might advance his career, and no to the rest. When she closed her shorthand pad forty minutes later, she pointed out that Derek Kirby had now been waiting for over an hour.
“All right, you can send him in. But if you get any interesting calls, put them through.”
When Kirby entered the room, Armstrong made no attempt to rise from his place, but simply jabbed a finger at the seat on the far side of the desk.
Kirby appeared nervous; Armstrong had found that keeping someone waiting for any length of time almost always made them on edge. His visitor must have been about forty-five, though the furrows on his forehead and his receding hairline made him look older. His suit was smart, but not of the latest fashion, and although his shirt was clean and well ironed, the collar and cuffs were beginning to fray. Armstrong suspected he had been living on freelance work since leaving the Express, and would be missing his expense account. Whatever Kirby had to sell, he could probably offer him half and pay a quarter.
“Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,” Kirby said before he sat down.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Armstrong, “but something urgent came up.”
“I understand,” said Kirby.
“So, what can I do for you?”
“No, it’s what I can do for you,” said Kirby, which sounded to Armstrong like a well-rehearsed line.
Armstrong nodded. “I’m listening.”
“I am privy to confidential information which could make it possible for you to get your hands on a national newspaper.”
“It can’t be the Express,” said Armstrong, looking out of the window, “because as long as Beaverbrook is alive…”
“No, it’s bigger than that.”
Armstrong remained silent for a moment and then said, “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Kirby?”
“I’d prefer tea,” replied the former editor. Armstrong picked up one of the phones on his desk. “Sally, can we both have some tea?”—a signal that the appointment might go on longer than expected, and that he was not to be interrupted.
“You were editor of the Express, if I remember correctly,” said Armstrong.
“Yes, one of seven in the last eight years.”
“I never understood why they sacked you.”
Sally entered the room carrying a tray. She placed one cup of tea in front of Kirby and another in front of Armstrong.
“The man who followed you was a moron, and you were never really given enough time to prove yourself.”
A smile appeared on Kirby’s face as he poured some milk into his tea, dropped in two sugarcubes and settled back in his chair. He didn’t feel that this was the moment to point out to Armstrong that he had recently employed his replacement to edit one of his own papers.
“Well, if it isn’t the Express, which paper are we talking about?”
“Before I say anything more, I need to be clear about my own position,” said Kirby.
“I’m not sure I understand.” Armstrong placed his elbows on the table and stared across at him.
“Well, after my experience at the Express, I want to be sure my backside is covered.”
Armstrong said nothing. Kirby opened his briefcase and removed a document. “My lawyers have drawn this up to protect…”
“Just tell me what you want, Derek. I’m well known for honoring my pledges.”
“This document states that if you take control of the paper in question, I will be appointed editor, or paid compensation of £100,000.” He handed Armstrong the one-page agreement.