The Fourth Estate

His driver turned into Wall Street a few minutes before two and drew up outside the offices of J.P. Grenville. As Townsend stepped out onto the pavement, he remembered how nervous he had been when he had first been summoned to his headmaster’s study almost fifty years before. The huge plate-glass door was opened by a man in a long blue coat. He touched the rim of his top hat when he saw who it was. But for how much longer would he do that, Townsend wondered.

He nodded and walked on toward the reception desk, where David Grenville was deep in conversation with Tom Spencer. The moment they saw him both men turned and smiled. They had obviously been confident that this was one appointment he would not be late for. “Good to see you, Keith,” said Grenville as they shook hands. “And thank you for being so prompt.” Townsend smiled. He couldn’t remember his headmaster ever saying that. Tom put an arm round his client’s shoulder as they walked toward a waiting elevator.

“How’s Kate?” asked Grenville. “When I last saw her she was editing a novel.”

“It was such a success she’s now working on one of her own,” said Townsend. “If things don’t work out, I might end up living off her royalties.” Neither of his two companions made any comment on his gallows humor.

The lift doors slid open at the fifteenth floor, and they walked down the corridor and into the chief executive’s office. Grenville ushered the two men into comfortable chairs, and opened a file on the blotter in front of him. “Let me begin by thanking you both for coming in at such short notice,” he said.

Townsend and his lawyer both nodded, although they knew they hadn’t been left with a lot of choice.

“We have had the privilege,” said Grenville, turning to Townsend, “of acting on behalf of your company for over a quarter of a century, and I would be sorry to see that association come to an end.”

Townsend’s mouth went dry, but he made no attempt to interrupt.

“But it would be foolish for any of us to underestimate the gravity of the situation we are now facing. On a superficial study of your affairs, it looks to us as if your borrowings may well exceed your assets, possibly leaving you insolvent. If you wish us to remain as your investment bankers, Keith, then we will do so only if we are guaranteed your full co-operation in trying to solve your current dilemma.”

“And what does ‘full co-operation’ mean?” asked Tom.

“We would begin by attaching to your company a financial team under one of our most senior banking officers, who would be given complete—and I mean complete—authority to investigate any aspect of your dealings we felt necessary in order to ensure the company’s survival.”

“And once that investigation has been completed?” asked Tom, his eyebrows rising.

“The banking officer would make recommendations which we would expect you to carry out to the letter.”

“When can I see him?” asked Townsend.

“Her,” the bank’s chief executive replied. “And the answer to your question is immediately, because Ms. Beresford is in her office on the floor below us waiting to meet you.”

“Then let’s get on with it,” said Townsend.

“First I must know if you agree to our terms,” said Grenville.

“I think you can assume that my client has already made that decision,” said Tom.

“Good, then I’ll take you down to meet E.B. so she can brief you on the next stage.”

Grenville rose from behind his desk, and led the two men down a flight of stairs to the fourteenth floor. When they arrived outside Ms Beresford’s office, he stopped and gave an almost deferential knock.

“Come in,” said a woman’s voice. The chief executive opened the door and led them into a large, comfortably furnished room overlooking Wall Street. It gave an immediate impression of being occupied by someone who was neat, tidy and efficient.

A woman Townsend would have guessed was around forty, perhaps forty-five, stood up and came from behind the desk to greet them. She was about the same height as Townsend, with neatly cropped dark hair and an austere face almost hidden by a rather large pair of spectacles. She wore a smartly-cut dark blue suit and a cream blouse.

“Good afternoon,” she said, thrusting out her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Beresford.”

“Keith Townsend,” he said, shaking her hand. “And this is my legal counsel, Tom Spencer.”

“I’ll leave you to get on with it,” David Grenville said. “But do drop into my office on the way out, Keith.” He paused. “If you still feel up to it.”

“Thank you,” said Townsend. Grenville left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Please have a seat,” said Ms. Beresford, ushering them into two comfortable chairs on the opposite side of her desk. As she returned to her own seat, Townsend stared at the dozen or more files laid out in front of her.

“Would either of you care for coffee?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” said Townsend, desperate to get on with it. Tom also shook his head.

“I am a company doctor,” began Ms. Beresford, “and my task, Mr. Townsend, is quite simply to save Global Corp from a premature death.” She leaned back in her chair and placed the tips of her fingers together. “Like any doctor who diagnoses a tumor, my first task is to discover whether it is malignant or benign. I have to tell you at the outset that my success rate in such operations is about one in four. I should also add that this is my most difficult assignment to date.”