“I understand,” said Stephen. “Be assured I
’ll stay on top of it.”
Armstrong slammed the phone down and smiled sweetly up at the temp.
“This is Sharon. I’ve told her it will only be run-of-the-mill stuff, and you’ll let her go by five,” said Sally. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
Armstrong’s eyes settled on Sharon’s ankles and then moved slowly up. He didn’t even look at Sally as she said, “See you tomorrow.”
* * *
Townsend finished reading the article in the Daily Mail, swung round on his chair and stared out over Sydney Harbor. It had been an unflattering portrayal of the rise and rise of Lubji Hoch, and his desire to be accepted in Britain as a press baron. They had used several unattributed quotes from Armstrong’s fellow-officers in the King’s Own Regiment, from Germans who had come across him in Berlin, and from past employees.
There was little in the article that hadn’t been lifted from the profile Kate had written for the Sunday Continent some weeks before. Townsend knew that few people in Australia would have any interest in the life of Richard Armstrong. But the article would have landed on the desk of every editor in Fleet Street within days, and then it would be only a matter of time before it was being reproduced in part or in full for dissemination to the British public. He had only wondered which newspaper would publish first.
He knew it wouldn’t take long for Armstrong to discover the source of the original article, which gave him even more pleasure. Ned Brewer, his bureau chief in London, had recently told him that stories about Armstrong’s private life had stopped appearing quite so frequently since the writs had begun falling like confetti on editors’ desks.
Townsend had watched with increasing anger as Armstrong built up WRG into a strong power-base in the north of England. But he was in no doubt where the man’s true ambitions lay. Townsend had already infiltrated two people into Armstrong’s Fleet Street headquarters, and they reported back on anyone and everyone who made an appointment to see him. The latest visitor, Derek Kirby, the former editor of the Express, had left with Armstrong’s arm around his shoulder. Townsend’s advisers thought Kirby was probably taking over as editor of one of WRG’s regional papers. Townsend wasn’t quite so sure, and left instructions that he should be told immediately if Armstrong was discovered bidding for anything. He repeated, “Anything.”
“Is WRG really that important to you?” Kate had asked him.
“No, but a man who would stoop so low as to use my mother as a bargaining chip will get what’s coming to him.”
So far Townsend had been briefed on Armstrong’s purchases from Stoke-on-Trent to Durham. He now controlled nineteen local and regional papers and five county magazines, and he had certainly pulled off a coup when he captured 25 percent of Lancashire Television and 49 percent of the regional radio station, in exchange for preference shares in his own company. His latest venture had been to launch the London Evening Post. But Townsend knew that, like himself, what Armstrong most craved was to be the proprietor of a national daily.
Over the past four years Townsend had purchased three more Australian dailies, a Sunday and a weekly news magazine. He now controlled newspapers in every state of Australia, and there wasn’t a politician or businessman in the country who wasn’t available whenever Townsend picked up a phone. He had also visited America a dozen times in the past year, selecting cities where the main employers were in steel, coal, or automobiles, because he nearly always found that companies involved in those ailing industries also controlled the local newspapers. Whenever he discovered such a company having cash-flow problems he moved in, and was often able to close a deal for the newspaper quickly. In almost every case he then found his new acquisition overstaffed and badly managed, because it was rare for anyone on the main board to have any first-hand experience of running a newspaper. By sacking half the staff and replacing most of the senior management with his own people, he could turn the balance sheet round in a matter of months.
Using this approach he had succeeded in picking up nine city papers, from Seattle to North Carolina, and that in turn had allowed him to build up a company which would be large enough to bid for one of America’s flagship newspapers, should the opportunity ever arise.
Kate had accompanied him on several of these trips, and although he was in no doubt that he wanted to marry her, he still wasn’t sure, after his experiences with Susan, that he could ask anyone to spend the rest of her life living out of suitcases and never being quite sure where their roots were.
If he ever envied Armstrong anything, it was that he had a son to take over his empire.
23.
The Times
29 October 1966
CHANNEL TUNNEL TARGET DATE 1975. FOUR YEARS TO BUILD
“Miss Levitt will be accompanying me to Paris,” said Armstrong. “Book me two first class tickets and my usual suite at the George V.”
Sally carried out his orders as if it was a normal business transaction. She smiled at the thought of the promises that would be made over the weekend and then not kept, of the presents that would be offered but never materialize. On Monday morning she would be expected to settle up with the girl, in cash, just like her predecessors—but at a far higher hourly rate than any agency would have dared to charge for even the most experienced temp.
When Armstrong arrived back from Paris on Monday morning, there was no sign of Sharon. Sally assumed she would be hearing from her later that day. “How did the meeting with Alexander Sherwood go?” she asked after she had placed the morning post on his desk.
“We agreed on a price for his third of the Globe,” Armstrong said triumphantly. Before Sally could ask for any details, he added, “Your next task is to get hold of the catalog for a sale at Sotheby’s in Geneva that’s taking place on Thursday morning.”
She didn’t bat an eyelid as she flicked over three pages of the diary. “You’ve got appointments that morning at ten, eleven and eleven forty-five, and a lunch with William Barnetson, the chairman of Reuters. You’ve already rearranged it twice.”
“Then you’ll just have to rearrange it for a third time,” said Armstrong, not even looking up.
“Including the meeting with the chief secretary to the Treasury?”
“Including everything,” he said. “Book me two first class tickets for Geneva on Wednesday evening, and my usual room at Le Richemond overlooking the lake.”
So Sharon whatever-her-name-was must have survived for a second outing.