The Fourth Estate

Armstrong read quickly through it. As soon as he realized there was no mention of any salary, only of the appointment as editor, he signed above his name at the bottom of the page. He had got rid of a man in Bradford by agreeing he should be editor and then paying him a pound a year. He would have advised Kirby that cheap lawyers always get you cheap results, but he satisfied himself with passing the signed document back to its eager recipient.

“Thank you,” said Kirby, looking a little more confident.

“So, which paper do you want to edit?”

“The Globe.”

For the second time that morning Armstrong was taken by surprise. The Globe was one of the icons of Fleet Street. No one had ever suggested it might be up for sale.

“But all the shares are held by one family,” said Armstrong.

“That’s correct,” said Kirby. “Two brothers and a sister-in-law. Sir Walter, Alexander, and Margaret Sherwood. And because Sir Walter is the chairman, everyone imagines he controls the company. But that isn’t the case: the shares are split equally between the three of them.”

“I knew that much,” said Armstrong. “It’s been reported in every profile of Sir Walter I’ve ever read.”

“Yes. But what hasn’t been reported is that recently there’s been a falling-out between them.”

Armstrong raised an eyebrow.

“They all met for dinner at Alexander’s apartment in Paris last Friday. Sir Walter flew in from London, and Margaret

from New York, ostensibly to celebrate Alexander’s sixty-second birthday. But it didn’t turn out to be a celebration, because Alexander and Margaret let Walter know they were fed up with him not paying enough attention to what was happening to the Globe, and blamed him personally for the drop in sales. They’ve gone from over four million to under two million since he became chairman—falling behind the Daily Citizen, which is boasting that it’s now the paper with the largest daily circulation in the land. They accused him of spending far too much time flitting between the Turf Club and the nearest racecourse. A real shouting match followed, and Alexander and Margaret made it abundantly clear that although they had turned down several offers for their shares in the past, that didn’t mean they would do so in the future, as they had no intention of sacrificing their lifestyle simply because of his incompetence.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Armstrong.

“His cook,” replied Kirby.

“His cook?” repeated Armstrong.

“Her name’s Lisa Milton. She used to work for Fleet Street Caterers before Alexander offered her the job with him in Paris.” He paused. “Alexander hasn’t been the easiest of employers, and Lisa would resign and return to England if…”

“… if she could afford to do so?” suggested Armstrong.

Kirby nodded. “Lisa could hear every word they were saying while she was preparing dinner in the kitchen. In fact, she told me she wouldn’t have been surprised if the entire exchange could have been heard on the floors above and below.”

Armstrong smiled. “You’ve done well, Derek. Is there any other information you have that might be useful to me?”

Kirby leaned down and removed a bulky file from his briefcase. “You’ll find all the details on the three of them in here. Profiles, addresses, phone numbers, even the name of Alexander’s mistress. If you need anything else, you can call me direct.” He pushed a card across the table.

Armstrong took the file and placed it on the blotter in front of him, slipping the card into his wallet. “Thank you,” he said. “If the cook comes up with any fresh information or you ever want to get in touch with me, I’m always available. Use my direct line.” He passed his own card over to Kirby.

“I’ll call the moment I hear anything,” said Kirby, rising to leave.

Armstrong accompanied him to the door, and when they entered Sally’s room he put an arm round his shoulder. As they shook hands he turned to his secretary and said, “Derek must always be able to get in touch with me, night or day, whoever I’m with.”

As soon as Kirby had left, Sally joined Armstrong in his office. He was already studying the first page of the Sherwood file. “Did you mean what you just said about Kirby always being able to get in touch with you night and day?”

“For the foreseeable future, yes. But now I need you to clear my diary to make space for a trip to Paris to see a Mr. Alexander Sherwood. If that proves successful, I’ll need to go on to New York to meet his sister-in-law.”

Sally began flicking over the pages. “Your diary’s jam-packed with appointments,” she said.

“Like a bloody dentist,” snapped Armstrong. “See they’re all canceled by the time I get back from lunch. And while you’re at it, go through every single piece of paper in this file. Then perhaps you’ll realize why seeing Mr. Sherwood is so important—but don’t let anyone else get their hands on it.”

He checked his watch and marched out of the room. As he walked down the corridor, his eyes settled on the new typist he had noticed that morning. This time she looked up and smiled. In the car on the way to the Savoy, he asked Reg to find out all he could about her.

Armstrong found it hard to concentrate during lunch—despite the fact that his guest was a cabinet minister—because he was already imagining what it might be like to be the proprietor of the Globe. In any case, he had heard that this particular minister would be returning to the back benches as soon as the prime minister carried out his next reshuffle. He was not at all sorry when the minister said he would have to leave early, as his department was answering questions in the House that afternoon. Armstrong called for the bill.

He watched as the minister was whisked away in a chauffeur-driven car, and hoped the poor man hadn’t got too used to it. When he climbed into the back of his own car, his thoughts returned to the Globe.