The Fourth Estate

“Not when they become pregnant,” said the minister. “And when their religion forbids abortion.”

“I see,” said Armstrong quietly. He paused. “Does Jenny know anything about this?”

“No, nothing. I’ve never told her, or anyone else for that matter. She’s the daughter of a local doctor—a bloody Tory, so the family never approved of me in the first place. If this ever came out, among other things I’d have to suffer the ‘I told you so’ syndrome.”

“So is it the girl who’s making things difficult?”

“No, God bless her, Rahila’s been terrific—although her family regard me with about as much affection as my in-laws. I pay her the full maintenance, of course.”

“Of course. But if she isn’t causing you any trouble, what’s the problem? No paper would dare to print anything unless she corroborated the story.”

“I know. But unfortunately her brother had a little too much to drink one night and began shouting his mouth off in the local pub. He didn’t realize there was a freelance journalist at the bar who works as a stringer for the Evening Post. The brother denied everything the following day, but the journalist just won’t stop digging, the bastard. If this story gets out, I’d be left with no choice but to resign. And God knows what that would do to Jenny.”

“Well, it hasn’t reached that stage yet, Ray, and you can be sure of one thing: you’ll never see it referred to in any paper I own. On that you have my word. The moment you leave I’ll call Sharpe and make it clear where I stand on this. You won’t be contacted again, at least not on this subject.”

“Thank you,” said Atkins. “That’s a great relief. Now all I have to pray is that the journalist doesn’t take it anywhere else.”

“What’s his name?” asked Armstrong.

“John Cummins.”

Armstrong scribbled the name down on a pad by his side. “I’ll see that Mr. Cummins is offered a job on one of my papers in the north, somewhere not too near Bradford. That should dampen his ardor.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said the minister.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” said Armstrong as he rose from his place, not bothering to offer his guest a coffee. He accompanied Atkins out of the dining room. The minister’s nervousness had been replaced by the voluble self-assurance more usually associated with politicians. As they passed through Armstrong’s office, he noticed that the bookshelf contained a full set of Wisden. “I didn’t know you were a cricket fan, Dick,” he said.

“Oh yes,” said Armstrong. “I’ve loved the game from an early age.”

“Which county do you support?” asked Atkins.

“Oxford,” replied Armstrong as they reached the lift.

Atkins said nothing. He shook his host warmly by the hand. “Thank you again, Dick. Thank you so much.”

The moment the lift doors had slid closed, Armstrong returned to his office. “I want to see Don Sharpe immediately,” he shouted as he passed Pamela’s desk.

The editor of the Evening Post appeared in the proprietor’s office a few minutes later, clutching a thick file. He waited for Armstrong to finish a phone conversation in a language he didn’t recognize.

“You asked to see me,” he said once Armstrong had put the phone down.

“Yes. I’ve just had Ray Atkins to lunch. He says the Post has been harassing him. Some story that you’ve been following up.”

“Yes, I have had someone working on a story. In fact we’ve been trying to get in touch with Atkins for days. We think the minister may have fathered a love child some years ago, a boy called Vengi.”

“B

ut this all took place before he was married.”

“That’s true,” said the editor. “But…”

“So I can hardly see how it could be described as in the public interest.”

Don Sharpe appeared somewhat surprised by the proprietor’s unusual sensitivity on the matter—but then, he was also aware that the MMC’s decision on the Citizen was due to be made within the next few weeks.

“Would you agree or not?” asked Armstrong.

“In normal circumstances I would,” replied Sharpe. “But in this case the woman in question has lost her job with the council, been abandoned by her family, and is surviving—just—in a one-bedroom flat in the minister’s constituency. He, on the other hand, is being driven around in a Jaguar and has a second home in the south of France.”