The Fourth Estate

“No, Dick, this time it’s my turn to help you,” said Atkins. “A report has just landed on my desk from the Monopolies and Mergers Commission, outlining their recommendations for the Citizen.”

It was Armstrong’s turn to feel a slight sweat on his hands.

“Their advice is that I should rule in your favor. I’m simply ringing to let you know that I intend to take that advice.”

“That’s

wonderful news,” said Armstrong, standing up. “Thank you.”

“Delighted to be the one to let you know,” said Atkins. “As long as you’ve got a check for £78 million, the Citizen is yours.”

Armstrong laughed. “When does it become official?”

“The MMC’s recommendation will go before the Cabinet at eleven o’clock this morning, and I can’t imagine you’ll find anyone round that table objecting,” said the minister. “I’m scheduled to make a statement in the House at 3:30 this afternoon, so I’d be obliged if you said nothing before then. After all, we don’t want to give the commission any reason to reverse their decision.”

“Not a word, Ray, of that I can promise you.” He paused. “And I want you to know that if there is anything I can do for you in the future, you only have to ask.”

* * *

Townsend smiled as he checked the headline once again:

MINISTER’S MOSLEM LOVE CHILD MYSTERY

He then read the proposed first paragraph, inserting one or two small changes.

Last night Ray Atkins, the minister for industry, refused to comment when asked if he was the father of little Vengi Patel (see picture), aged seven, who lives with his mother in a dingy one-room flat in the minister’s constituency. Vengi’s mother Miss Rahila Patel, aged thirty-three …

“What is it, Heather?” he asked, looking up as his secretary entered the room.

“The political editor is on the phone from the press gallery at the House of Commons. It seems there’s been a statement concerning the Citizen.”

“But I was told there would be no announcement for at least another month,” said Townsend as he grabbed the phone. His face became grimmer and grimmer as the details of the statement Ray Atkins had just made to the House were read out to him.

“Not much point in running that front-page story now,” said the political editor.

“Let’s just set and hold,” said Townsend. “I’ll have another look at it this evening.” He stared gloomily out of the window. Atkins’s decision meant that Armstrong would now control the one daily in Britain that had a larger circulation than the Globe. From that moment he and Armstrong would be locked in battle for the same readers, and Townsend wondered if they could both survive.

* * *

Within an hour of the minister delivering his statement in the Commons, Armstrong had called Alistair McAlvoy, the editor of the Citizen, and asked him to come across to Armstrong House. He also arranged to have dinner that evening with Sir Paul Maitland, the chairman of the Citizen’s board.

Alistair McAlvoy had been editor of the Citizen for the past decade. When he was briefed on the minister’s decision, he warned his colleagues that no one, including himself, should be confident they would be bringing out the next day’s edition of the paper. But when Armstrong put his arm around McAlvoy’s shoulder for a second time that afternoon, describing him as the greatest editor in the street, he began to feel that perhaps his job was safe after all. As the atmosphere became a little more relaxed, Armstrong warned him that they were about to face a head-on battle with the Globe, which he suspected would begin the following morning.

“I know,” said McAlvoy, “so I’d better get back to my desk. I’ll call you the moment I discover what the Globe is leading on, and see if we can find some way of countering it.”

McAlvoy left Armstrong’s office as Pamela walked in with a bottle of champagne.

“Who did that come from?”

“Ray Atkins,” said Pamela.

“Open it,” said Armstrong. Just as she uncorked the bottle, the phone rang. Pamela picked it up and listened. “It’s the junior porter at the Howard Hotel—he says he can’t hang on for much longer, or he’ll be caught.” She placed her hand over the mouthpiece. “He tried to speak to you ten days ago, but I didn’t put him through. He says it’s about Keith Townsend.”

Armstrong grabbed the phone. When the porter told him who Townsend had just had a meeting with in the Fitzalan Suite, he immediately knew what the Globe’s front-page story would be the following morning. All the boy wanted for this exclusive piece of information was £50.

He put the phone down and blasted out a series of orders before Pamela had even finished filling his glass with champagne. “And once I’ve seen Sharpe, put me through to McAlvoy.”

The moment Don Sharpe walked back into the building, he was told that the proprietor wanted to see him. He went straight to Armstrong’s office, where the only words he heard were “You’re fired.” He turned round to find two security guards standing by the door waiting to escort him off the premises.