‘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:
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.
‘Get McAlvoy for me.’
All Armstrong said when the editor of the Citizen came on the line was, ‘Alistair, I know what’s going to be on the front page of the Globe tomorrow, and I’m the one person who can top it.’
As soon as he put the phone down on McAlvoy, Armstrong asked Pamela to dig the Atkins file out of the safe. He began sipping his champagne. It wasn’t vintage.
The following morning the Globe’s headline read: ‘Minister’s Secret Moslem Love Child: Exclusive.’ There followed three pages of pictures, illustrating an interview with Miss Patel’s brother, under the byline ‘Don Sharpe, Chief Investigative Reporter.’
Townsend was delighted, until he turned to the Citizen and read its headline:
There followed five pages of pictures and extracts from a tape-recorded interview given exclusively to the paper’s unnamed special affairs correspondent.
The lead story in the London Evening Post that night was that the prime minister had announced from 10 Downing Street that he had, with considerable regret, accepted the resignation of Mr. Ray Atkins MP.
29
The Citizen
21 August 1978
Not Many People Inhabiting the New Globe
When Townsend had cleared customs he found Sam waiting outside the terminal to drive him into Sydney. On the twenty-five-minute journey, Sam brought the boss up to date with what was happening in Australia. He left him in no doubt as to what he felt about the prime minister, Malcolm Fraser — out of date and out of touch — and the Sydney Opera House — a waste of money, and already out of date. But he gave him one piece of information which was fresh, and not out of date.
‘Where did you pick that up, Sam?’
‘The chairman’s driver told me.’
‘And what did you have to tell him in exchange?’
‘Only that you were coming back from London on a flying visit,’ replied Sam, as they pulled up outside Global Corp’s headquarters on Pitt Street.
Heads turned as Townsend pushed his way through the revolving doors, walked across the lobby and into a waiting lift which whisked him straight up to the top floor. He called for the editor even before Heather had a chance to welcome him back.
Townsend paced up and down his office as he waited, stopping occasionally to admire the opera house, which, like Sam, all his papers with the exception of the Continent had been quick to condemn. Only half a mile away was the bridge that had until recently been the city’s trademark. In the harbor, colorful dinghies were sailing, their masts glowing in the sun. Although its population had doubled, Sydney now seemed terribly small compared to when he had first taken over the Chronicle. He felt as if he was looking down on a Lego town.
‘Good to have you back, Keith,’ said Bruce Kelly as he walked through the open door. Townsend swung round to greet the first man he had ever appointed to be editor of one of his newspapers.
‘And it’s great to be back, Bruce. It’s been too long,’ he said as they shook hands. He wondered if he had aged as much as the balding, overweight man who stood in front of him.
‘How’s Kate?’
‘She hates London, and seems to spend most of her time in New York, but I’m hoping she’ll be joining me next week. What’s happening over here?’
‘Well, you’ll have seen from our weekly reports that sales are slightly up on last year, advertising is up, and profits are at a record level. So I guess it must be time for me to retire.’