He wasn’t too worried about Sharon and whether she might blab. He had files on every editor in Fleet Street, even thicker ones on their masters, and almost an entire cabinet devoted to Keith Townsend. His mind drifted back to Ray Atkins.
After Pamela had gone through the morning mail with him, he asked her for a copy of Dod’s Parliamentary Companion. He wanted to remind himself of the salient facts of Atkins’s career, the names of his wife and children, the ministries he’d held, even his hobbies.
Everyone accepted that Ray Atkins was one of the brightest politicians of his generation, as was confirmed when Harold Wilson made him a shadow minister after only fifteen months. Following the 1966 general election Atkins became Minister of State at the Department of Trade and Industry. It was generally agreed that if Labor were to win the next election — a result that Armstrong didn’t consider likely — Atkins would be invited to join the Cabinet. One or two people were even talking of him as a future leader of the party.
As Atkins was a member for a northern constituency covered by one of Armstrong’s local papers, the two men had become more than casual acquaintances over the years, often having a meal together at the party conference. When Atkins was appointed minister of industry, with special responsibilities for takeovers, Armstrong made even more of an effort to cultivate him, hoping that might tip the balance when it came to deciding who should be allowed to take over the Citizen.
Sales of the Globe had continued their steady decline after Townsend had bought out Sir Walter Sherwood. Townsend had intended to sack the editor, but he shelved his plans when a few months later Hugh Tuncliffe, the proprietor of the Citizen, died, and his widow announced she would be putting the paper up for sale. Townsend spent several days convincing his board that he should put in an offer for the Citizen — an offer which the Financial Times described as ‘too high a price to pay,’ even though the Citizen boasted the largest daily circulation in Britain. After all the bids had been received, his turned out to be the highest by far. There was an immediate outcry from the chattering classes, whose strongly held views were reported on the front page of the Guardian. Day after day, selected columnists trumpeted their disapproval of the prospect of Townsend owning the two most successful dailies in the land. In a rare display of broadsheet solidarity The Times thundered its views in a leader on behalf of the Establishment, condemning the idea of foreigners taking over national institutions and thus exerting a powerful influence over the British way of life. The following morning several letters landed on the editor’s desk pointing out that The Times’s own proprietor was a Canadian. None of them was published.
When Armstrong announced that he would match Townsend’s offer, and agreed to retain Sir Paul Maitland, the former ambassador to Washington, as chairman of the board, the government was left with no choice but to recommend that the matter be referred to the Monopolies and Mergers Commission. Townsend was livid at what he described as ‘nothing more than a socialist plot,’ but he didn’t gain much sympathy from those who had followed the decline in the journalistic standards of the Globe over the past year. Not that many people came out in favor of Armstrong either. The cliché about having to choose the lesser of two evils had appeared in several papers during the past month.
But this time Armstrong was convinced he had Townsend on the run, and that the biggest prize in Fleet Street was about to fall into his lap. He couldn’t wait for Ray Atkins to join him for lunch and have the news officially confirmed.
Atkins arrived at Armstrong House just before one. The proprietor was having a conversation in Russian when Pamela ushered him into the office. Armstrong immediately put the phone down in mid-sentence and rose to welcome his guest. He couldn’t help noticing as he shook Atkins’s hand that it was a little damp.
‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked.
‘A small Scotch and a lot of water,’ Atkins replied.
Armstrong poured the minister a drink and then led him through to the adjoining room. He switched on an unnecessary light and, with it, a concealed tape recorder. Atkins smiled with relief when he saw that only two places had been laid at the long dining table. Armstrong ushered him into a chair.
‘Thank you, Dick,’ he said nervously. ‘It’s most kind of you to see me at such short notice.’
‘Not at all, Ray,’ said Armstrong, taking his place at the top of the table. ‘It’s my pleasure. I’m only too delighted to see anyone who works so tirelessly for our cause. Here’s to your future,’ he added, raising his glass, ‘which everyone tells me is rosy.’
Armstrong noticed a slight tremble of the hand before the minister responded. ‘You do so much for our party, Dick.’
‘Kind of you to say so, Ray.’
During the first two courses they chatted about the Labor Party’s chances of winning the next election, and both of them admitted that they weren’t over-optimistic.
‘Although the opinion polls are looking a little better,’ said Atkins, ‘you only have to study the local election results to see what’s really happening out there in the constituencies.’
‘I agree,’ said Dick. ‘Only a fool would allow the opinion polls to influence him when it comes to calling an election. Although I believe Wilson regularly gets the better of Ted Heath at Question Time in the House.’
‘True, but only a few hundred MPs see that. If only the Commons was televised, the whole nation could see that Harold’s in a different class.’
‘Can’t see that happening in my lifetime,’ said Dick.
Atkins nodded, then fell into a deep silence. When the main course had been cleared away, Dick instructed his butler to leave them alone. He topped up the minister’s glass with more claret, but Atkins only toyed with it, looking as if he was wondering how to broach an embarrassing topic. Once the butler had closed the door behind him, Atkins took a deep breath. ‘This is all a bit awkward for me,’ he began hesitantly.
‘Feel free to say anything you like, Ray. Whatever it is will go no further than this room. Never forget, we bat for the same team.’
‘Thank you, Dick,’ the minister replied. ‘I knew straight away that you’d be the right person with whom to discuss my little problem.’ He continued to toy with his glass, saying nothing for some time. Then he suddenly blurted out, ‘The Evening Post has been prying into my personal life, Dick, and I can’t take much more of it.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Armstrong, who had imagined that they were going to discuss a completely different subject. ‘What have they been doing that’s so disturbed you?’
‘They’ve been threatening me.’
‘Threatening you?’ said Armstrong, sounding annoyed. ‘In what way?’
‘Well, perhaps “threatening” is a little strong. But one of your reporters has been constantly calling my office and my home at weekends, sometimes two or three times a day.’
‘Believe me, Ray, I knew nothing about this,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’ll speak to Don Sharpe the moment you’ve gone. You can be assured that’s the last you’ll hear of it.’
‘Thank you, Dick,’ he said. This time he did take a gulp of wine. ‘But it’s not the calls I need stopped. It’s the story they’ve got hold of.’
‘Would it help if you were to tell me what it’s all about, Ray?’