The Fourth Estate Read online

  “Very fine bed,” said Keith.

  “Slept in by many maharajahs,” said Kate.

  “And by Lord Mountbatten,” said Keith.

  Kate laughed. “By the way, Keith, you didn’t have to buy off the Bombay electricity company just to get me into bed. I’ve spent the last week thinking you were only interested in my brain.”

  FOURTH EDITION

  Armstrong and Townsend Battle for the Globe

  22.

  The Times

  1 April 1966

  LABOR SWEEPS TO POWER: MAJORITY OF 100 ASSURED

  Armstrong glanced at a typist he didn’t recognize, and walked on into his office to find Sally on the phone.

  “Who’s my first appointment?”

  “Derek Kirby,” she said, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece.

  “And who’s he?”

  “A former editor of the Daily Express. The poor man only lasted eight months, but he claims to have some interesting information for you. Shall I ask him to come in?”

  “No, let him wait a little longer,” said Armstrong. “Who’s on the line now?”

  “Phil Barker. He’s calling from Leeds.”

  Armstrong nodded and took the phone from Sally to speak to the new chief executive of the West Riding Group.

  “Did they agree to my terms?”

  “They settled for £1.3 million, to be paid over the next six years in equal installments—as long as sales remain constant. But if sales drop during the first year, every succeeding payment will also drop pro rata.”

  “They didn’t spot the flaw in the contract?”

  “No,” said Barker. “They assumed that you would want to put the circulation up in the first year.”

  “Good. Just see that you fix the lowest audited figure possible, then we’ll start building them up again in the second year. That way I’ll save myself a fortune. How about the Hull Echo and the Grimsby Times?”

  “Early days yet, but now that everybody realizes you’re a buyer, Dick, my task isn’t made any easier.”

  “We’ll just have to offer more and pay less.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” asked Barker.

  “By inserting clauses that make promises we have absolutely no intention of keeping. Never forget that old family concerns rarely sue, because they don’t like ending up in court. So always take advantage of the letter of the law. Don’t break it, just bend it as far as it will go without snapping. Get on with it.” Armstrong put the phone down.

  “Derek Kirby is still waiting,” Sally reminded him.

  Armstrong checked his watch. “How long has he been hanging about?”

  “Twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

  “Then let’s go through the post.”

  After twenty-one years, Sally knew which invitations Armstrong would accept, which charities he didn’t want to support, which gatherings he was willing to address and whose dinner parties he wanted to be seen at. The rule was to say yes to anything that might advance his career, and no to the rest. When she closed her shorthand pad forty minutes later, she pointed out that Derek Kirby had now been waiting for over an hour.

  “All right, you can send him in. But if you get any interesting calls, put them through.”

  When Kirby entered the room, Armstrong made no attempt to rise from his place, but simply jabbed a finger at the seat on the far side of the desk.

  Kirby appeared nervous; Armstrong had found that keeping someone waiting for any length of time almost always made them on edge. His visitor must have been about forty-five, though the furrows on his forehead and his receding hairline made him look older. His suit was smart, but not of the latest fashion, and although his shirt was clean and well ironed, the collar and cuffs were beginning to fray. Armstrong suspected he had been living on freelance work since leaving the Express, and would be missing his expense account. Whatever Kirby had to sell, he could probably offer him half and pay a quarter.

  “Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,” Kirby said before he sat down.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Armstrong, “but something urgent came up.”

  “I understand,” said Kirby.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  “No, it’s what I can do for you,” said Kirby, which sounded to Armstrong like a well-rehearsed line.

  Armstrong nodded. “I’m listening.”

  “I am privy to confidential information which could make it possible for you to get your hands on a national newspaper.”

  “It can’t be the Express,” said Armstrong, looking out of the window, “because as long as Beaverbrook is alive…”

  “No, it’s bigger than that.”

  Armstrong remained silent for a moment and then said, “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Kirby?”

  “I’d prefer tea,” replied the former editor. Armstrong picked up one of the phones on his desk. “Sally, can we both have some tea?”—a signal that the appointment might go on longer than expected, and that he was not to be interrupted.

  “You were editor of the Express, if I remember correctly,” said Armstrong.

  “Yes, one of seven in the last eight years.”

  “I never understood why they sacked you.”

  Sally entered the room carrying a tray. She placed one cup of tea in front of Kirby and another in front of Armstrong.

  “The man who followed you was a moron, and you were never really given enough time to prove yourself.”

  A smile appeared on Kirby’s face as he poured some milk into his tea, dropped in two sugarcubes and settled back in his chair. He didn’t feel that this was the moment to point out to Armstrong that he had recently employed his replacement to edit one of his own papers.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Express, which paper are we talking about?”

  “Before I say anything more, I need to be clear about my own position,” said Kirby.

  “I’m not sure I understand.” Armstrong placed his elbows on the table and stared across at him.

  “Well, after my experience at the Express, I want to be sure my backside is covered.”

  Armstrong said nothing. Kirby opened his briefcase and removed a document. “My lawyers have drawn this up to protect…”

  “Just tell me what you want, Derek. I’m well known for honoring my pledges.”

  “This document states that if you take control of the paper in question, I will be appointed editor, or paid compensation of £100,000.” He handed Armstrong the one-page agreement.

  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