The Fourth Estate

1 The Globe 5 November 1991 Armstrong Faces Bankruptcy

The odds were stacked against him. But the odds had never worried Richard Armstrong in the past.

‘Faites vos jeux, mesdames et messieurs. Place your bets.’

Armstrong stared down at the green baize. The mountain of red chips that had been placed in front of him twenty minutes earlier had dwindled to a single stack. He had already lost forty thousand francs that evening — but what was forty thousand francs when you had squandered a billion dollars in the past twelve months?

He leaned over and deposited all his remaining chips on zero.

‘Les jeux sont faits. Rien ne va plus,’ the croupier said as he flicked his wrist and set the wheel in motion. The little white ball sped around the wheel, before falling and jumping in and out of the tiny black and red slots.

Armstrong stared into the distance. Even after the ball had finally settled he refused to lower his eyes.

‘Vingt-six,’ declared the croupier, and immediately began scooping up the chips that littered every number other than twenty-six.

Armstrong walked away from the table without even glancing in the direction of the croupier. He moved slowly past the crowded backgammon and roulette tables until he reached the double doors that led out into the real world. A tall man in a long blue coat pulled one of them open for him, and smiled at the well-known gambler, anticipating his usual hundred-franc tip. But that wouldn’t be possible tonight.

Armstrong ran a hand through his thick black hair as he walked down through the lush terraced gardens of the casino and on past the fountain. It had been fourteen hours since the emergency board meeting in London, and he was beginning to feel exhausted.

Despite his bulk — Armstrong hadn’t consulted a set of scales for several years — he kept up a steady pace along the promenade, only stopping when he reached his favorite restaurant overlooking the bay. He knew every table would have been booked at least a week in advance, and the thought of the trouble he was about to cause brought a smile to his face for the first time that evening.

He pushed open the door of the restaurant. A tall, thin waiter swung round and tried to hide his surprise by bowing low.

‘Good evening, Mr. Armstrong,’ he said. ‘How nice to see you again. Will anyone be joining you?’

‘No, Henri.’

The head waiter quickly guided his unexpected customer through the packed restaurant to a small alcove table. Once Armstrong was seated, he presented him with a large leather-bound menu.

Armstrong shook his head. ‘Don’t bother with that, Henri. You know exactly what I like.’

The head waiter frowned. European royalty, Hollywood stars, even Italian footballers didn’t unnerve him, but whenever Richard Armstrong was in the restaurant he was constantly on edge. And now he was expected to select Armstrong’s meal for him. He was relieved that his famous customer’s usual table had been free. If Armstrong had arrived a few minutes later, he would have had to wait at the bar while they hastily set up a table in the center of the room.

By the time Henri placed a napkin on Armstrong’s lap the wine waiter was already pouring a glass of his favorite champagne. Armstrong stared out of the window into the distance, but his eyes did not focus on the large yacht moored at the north end of the bay. His thoughts were several hundred miles away, with his wife and children. How would they react when they heard the news?

A lobster bisque was placed in front of him, at a temperature that would allow him to eat it immediately. Armstrong disliked having to wait for anything to cool down. He would rather be burned.

To the head waiter’s surprise, his customer’s eyes remained fixed on the horizon as his champagne glass was filled for a second time. How quickly, Armstrong wondered, would his colleagues on the board — most of them placemen with titles or connections — begin to cover their tracks and distance themselves from him once the company’s accounts were made public? Only Sir Paul Maitland, he suspected, would be able to salvage his reputation.

Armstrong picked up the dessert spoon in front of him, lowered it into the bowl and began to scoop up the soup in a rapid cyclical movement.

Customers at surrounding tables occasionally turned to glance in his direction, and whispered conspiratorially to their companions.

‘One of the richest men in the world,’ a local banker was telling the young woman he was taking out for the first time. She looked suitably impressed. Normally Armstrong reveled in the thought of his fame. But tonight he didn’t even notice his fellow-diners. His mind had moved on to the boardroom of a Swiss bank, where the decision had been taken to bring down the final curtain — and all for a mere $50 million.

The empty soup bowl was whisked away as Armstrong touched his lips with the linen napkin. The head waiter knew only too well that this man didn’t like to pause between courses.

A Dover sole, off the bone — Armstrong couldn’t abide unnecessary activity — was deftly lowered in front of him; by its side was a bowl of his favorite large chips and a bottle of HP Sauce — the only one kept in the kitchen, for the only customer who ever demanded it. Armstrong absentmindedly removed the cap from the bottle, turned it upside down and shook vigorously. A large brown blob landed in the middle of the fish. He picked up a knife and spread the sauce evenly over the white flesh.

That morning’s board meeting had nearly got out of control after Sir Paul had resigned as chairman. Once they had dealt with ‘Any Other Business,’ Armstrong had quickly left the boardroom and taken the lift to the roof where his helicopter was waiting for him.

His pilot was leaning on the railing, enjoying a cigarette, when Armstrong appeared. ‘Heathrow,’ he barked, without giving a thought to clearance by air-traffic control or the availability of take-off slots. The pilot quickly stubbed out his cigarette and ran toward the helicopter landing pad. As they flew over the City of London, Armstrong began to consider the sequence of events that would take place during the next few hours unless the $50 million were somehow miraculously to materialize.

Fifteen minutes later, the helicopter landed on the private apron known to those who can afford to use it as Terminal Five. He lowered himself onto the ground and walked slowly over to his private jet.

Another pilot, this one waiting to receive his orders, greeted him at the top of the steps.

‘Nice,’ said Armstrong, before making his way to the back of the cabin. The pilot disappeared into the cockpit, assuming that ‘Captain Dick’ would be joining his yacht in Monte Carlo for a few days’ rest.

The Gulfstream took off to the south. During the two-hour flight Armstrong made only one phone call, to Jacques Lacroix in Geneva. But however much he pleaded, the answer remained the same: ‘Mr. Armstrong, you have until close of business today to repay the $50 million, otherwise I will be left with no choice but to place the matter in the hands of our legal department.’

The only other action he took during the flight was to tear up the contents of the files Sir Paul had left behind on the boardroom table. He then disappeared into the lavatory and flushed the little pieces down the bowl.

When the plane taxied to a halt at Nice airport, a chauffeur-driven Mercedes drew up beside the steps. No words were exchanged as Armstrong climbed into the back: the chauffeur didn’t need to ask where his master wished to be taken. In fact Armstrong didn’t utter a word during the entire journey from Nice to Monte Carlo; after all, his driver was not in a position to lend him $50 million.

As the car swung into the marina, the captain of Armstrong’s yacht stood to attention and waited to welcome him on board. Although Armstrong had not warned anyone of his intentions, others had phoned ahead to alert the thirteen-man crew of Sir Lancelot that the boss was on the move. ‘But God knows to where,’ had been his secretary’s final comment.

Whenever Armstrong decided that the time had come for him to head back to the airport, his secretary would be informed immediately. It was the only way any of his staff around the world could hope to survive for more than a week.

The captain was apprehensive. The boss hadn’t been expected on board for another three weeks, when he was due to take a fortnight’s holiday with the rest of the family. When the call had come through from London that morning, the skipper had been at the local shipyard, supervising some minor repairs to Sir Lancelot. No one had any idea where Armstrong was heading, but he wasn’t willing to take risks. He had, at considerable expense, managed to get the yacht released from the shipyard and tied up at the quayside only minutes before the boss had set foot in France.

Armstrong strode up the gangplank and past four men in crisp white uniforms, all standing to attention and saluting. He slipped off his shoes and went below to the private quarters. When he pushed open the door of his stateroom, he discovered that others had anticipated his arrival: there were several faxes already piled up on the table beside his bed.

Could Jacques Lacroix possibly have changed his mind? He dismissed the idea instantly. After years of dealing with the Swiss, he knew them only too well. They remained an unimaginative, one-dimensional nation whose bank accounts always had to be in the black, and in whose dictionary the word ‘risk’ wasn’t to be found.

He began to flick through the sheets of curling fax paper. The first was from his New York bankers, informing him that when the market had opened that morning, the price of shares in Armstrong Communications had continued to drop. He skimmed the page until his eyes settled on the one line he had been dreading. ‘No buyers, only sellers,’ it stated clinically. ‘If this trend continues for much longer, the bank will be left with no choice but to consider its position.’

He swept all the faxes onto the floor, and headed for the little safe hidden behind a large framed photograph of himself shaking hands with the Queen. He swiveled the disk backward and forward, stopping at 10-06-23. The heavy door swung open and Armstrong placed both his hands inside, quickly removing all the bulky wads of cash. Three thousand dollars, twenty-two thousand French francs, seven thousand drachma and a thick bundle of Italian lire. Once he had pocketed the money, he left the yacht and headed straight for the casino, without telling any of the crew where he was going, how long he would be or when he might return. The captain ordered a junior rating to shadow him, so that when he made his way back toward the harbor they wouldn’t be taken by surprise.

A large vanilla ice cream was placed in front of him. The head waiter began to pour hot chocolate sauce over it; as Armstrong never suggested that he should stop, he carried on until the silver sauce-boat was empty. The cyclical movement of the spoon began again, and didn’t cease until the last drop of chocolate had been scraped off the side of the bowl.

A steaming black coffee replaced the empty bowl. Armstrong continued to gaze out over the bay. Once the word was out that he couldn’t cover a sum as small as $50 million, there wouldn’t be a bank on earth that would consider doing business with him.

The head waiter returned a few minutes later, and was surprised to find the coffee untouched. ‘Shall we bring you another cup, Mr. Armstrong?’ he asked in a deferential whisper.

Armstrong shook his head. ‘Just the check, Henri.’ He drained his champagne glass for the last time. The head waiter scurried away and returned immediately with a folded slip of white paper on a silver salver. This was one customer who couldn’t abide waiting for anything, even the bill.

Armstrong flicked open the folded slip but showed no interest in its contents. Seven hundred and twelve francs, service non compris. He signed it, rounding it up to a thousand francs. A smile appeared on the head waiter’s face for the first time that evening — a smile that would disappear when he discovered that the restaurant was the last in a long queue of creditors.

Armstrong pushed back his chair, threw his crumpled napkin on the table and walked out of the restaurant without another word. Several pairs of eyes followed him as he left, and another was watching as he stepped onto the pavement. He didn’t notice the young rating scamper off in the direction of the Sir Lancelot.

Armstrong belched as he strode down the promenade, past dozens of boats huddled close together, tied up for the night. He usually enjoyed the sensation of knowing that the Sir Lancelot was almost certain to be the largest yacht in the bay, unless of course the Sultan of Brunei or King Fahd had sailed in during the evening. His only thought tonight was how much she might fetch when she was put up for sale on the open market. But once the truth was known, would anyone want to buy a yacht that had been owned by Richard Armstrong?

With the help of the ropes, Armstrong yanked himself up the gangway to find the captain and the first officer awaiting him.

‘We’ll sail immediately.’

The captain was not surprised. He knew Armstrong would not want to be tied up in port any longer than was necessary: only the gentle swaying of the boat could lull him to sleep, even in the darkest hours. The captain began issuing the orders to get under way as Armstrong slipped off his shoes and disappeared below.

When Armstrong opened the door of his stateroom he was met by yet another pile of faxes. He grabbed them, still hoping for a lifeline. The first was from Peter Wakeham, the deputy chairman of Armstrong Communications, who, despite the late hour, was obviously still at his desk in London. ‘Please call urgently,’ read the message. The second was from New York. The company’s stock had plummeted to a new low, and his bankers had ‘reluctantly found it necessary’ to place their own shares on the market. The third was from Jacques Lacroix in Geneva to confirm that as the bank had not received the $50 million by close of business, they had been left with no choice but to...

It was twelve minutes past five in New York, twelve minutes past ten in London, and twelve minutes past eleven in Geneva. By nine o’clock the following morning he wouldn’t be able to control the headlines in his own newspapers, let alone those owned by Keith Townsend.

Armstrong undressed slowly and allowed his clothes to fall in a heap on the floor. He then took a bottle of brandy from the sideboard, poured himself a large glass and collapsed onto the double bed. He lay still as the engines roared into life, and moments later he heard the clanking of the anchor being hauled up from the sea bed. Slowly the ship began to maneuver itself out of the harbor.

Hour after hour slipped by, but Armstrong didn’t stir, except to refill the brandy balloon from time to time, until he heard four chimes on the little clock by the side of his bed. He pushed himself up, waited for a few moments and then lowered his feet onto the thick carpet. He rose unsteadily, and made his way across the unlit stateroom toward the bathroom. When he reached the open door, he unhooked a large cream dressing-gown with the words Sir Lancelot emblazoned in gold on its pocket. He padded back toward the door of the cabin, opened it cautiously and stepped barefoot into the dimly-lit corridor. He hesitated before locking the door behind him and slipping the key into his dressing-gown pocket. He didn’t move again until he was sure he could hear nothing except the familiar sound of the ship’s engine droning below him.

He lurched from side to side as he stumbled down the narrow corridor, pausing when he reached the staircase which led up onto the deck. He then slowly began to climb the steps, clutching firmly onto the rope on both sides. When he reached the top he stepped out onto the deck, checking quickly in both directions. There was no one to be seen. It was a clear, cool night, no different from ninety-nine in every hundred at that time of year.

Armstrong padded silently on until he was above the engine room — the noisiest part of the ship.

He waited only for a moment before untying the cord of his dressing-gown and allowing it to fall to the deck.

Naked in the warm night, he stared out into the still black sea and thought: isn’t your whole life meant to flash before you at a time like this?

2 The Citizen 5 November 1991 Townsend Faces Ruin

‘Messages?’ was all Keith Townsend said as he passed his secretary’s desk and headed toward his office.

‘The President called from Camp David just before you boarded the plane,’ Heather said.

‘Which of my papers has annoyed him this time?’ Townsend asked as he sat down.

‘The New York Star. He’s heard a rumor that you’re going to print his bank statement on tomorrow’s front page,’ Heather replied.

‘It’s more likely to be my own bank statement that makes the front pages tomorrow,’ said Townsend, his Australian accent more pronounced than usual. ‘Who else?’

‘Margaret Thatcher has sent a fax from London. She’s agreed to your terms for a two-book contract, even though Armstrong’s bid was higher.’

‘Let’s hope someone offers me $6 million when I write my memoirs.’

Heather gave him a weak smile.

‘Anyone else?’

‘Gary Deakins has had another writ served on him.’

‘What for this time?’

‘He accused the Archbishop of Brisbane of rape, on the front page of yesterday’s Truth.’

‘The truth, the whole truth, and anything but the truth,’ said Townsend, smiling. ‘Just as long as it sells papers.’

‘Unfortunately it turns out that the woman in question is a well-known lay preacher, and has been a friend of the archbishop’s family for years. It seems that Gary suggested a different meaning each time he used the word “lay”.’

Townsend leaned back in his chair and continued to listen to the myriad problems other people were facing all around the world: the usual complaints from politicians, businessmen and so-called media personalities who expected him to intervene immediately to save their precious careers from ruin. By this time tomorrow, most of them would have calmed down and been replaced by another dozen or so equally irate, equally demanding prima donnas. He knew that every one of them would be only too delighted to discover that it was his own career which really was on the verge of collapse — and all because the president of a small bank in Cleveland had demanded that a loan of $50 million be repaid by the close of business tonight.

As Heather continued to go through the list of messages — most of them from people whose names meant nothing to him — Townsend’s mind drifted back to the speech he’d given the previous evening. A thousand of his top executives from all over the world had gathered in Honolulu for a three-day conference. In his closing address he’d told them that Global Corp couldn’t be in better shape to face the challenges of the new media revolution. He had ended by saying: ‘We are the one company that is qualified to lead this industry into the twenty-first century.’ They had stood and cheered him for several minutes. As he looked down into the packed audience full of confident faces, he had wondered just how many of them suspected that Global was actually only hours away from going bankrupt.

‘What shall I do about the President?’ Heather asked for the second time.

Townsend snapped back into the real world. ‘Which one?’

‘Of the United States.’

‘Wait until he calls again,’ he said. ‘He may have calmed down a bit by then. Meanwhile, I’ll have a word with the editor of the Star.’

‘And Mrs. Thatcher?’

‘Send her a large bunch of flowers and a note saying, “We’ll make your memoirs number one from Moscow to New York”.’

‘Shouldn’t I add London?’

‘No, she knows it will be number one in London.’

‘And what should I do about Gary Deakins?’

‘Phone the archbishop and tell him I’m going to build that new roof his cathedral so desperately needs. Wait a month, then send him a check for $10,000.’

Heather nodded, closed her notebook and asked, ‘Do you want to take any calls?’

‘Only Austin Pierson.’ He paused. ‘The moment he phones, put him straight through.’

Heather turned and left the room.

Townsend swiveled his chair round and stared out of the window. He tried to recall the conversation he’d had with his financial adviser when she had phoned him in the private jet on his way back from Honolulu.

‘I’ve just come out of my meeting with Pierson,’ she’d said. ‘It lasted over an hour, but he still hadn’t made up his mind by the time I left him.’

‘Hadn’t made up his mind?’

‘No. He still needs to consult the bank’s finance committee before he can come to a final decision.’

‘But surely now that all the other banks have fallen into place, Pierson can’t—’

‘He can and he may well. Try to remember that he’s the president of a small bank in Ohio. He’s not interested in what other banks have agreed to. And after all the bad press coverage you’ve been getting in the past few weeks, he only cares about one thing right now.’

‘What’s that?’ he’d asked.

‘Covering his backside,’ she’d replied.

‘But doesn’t he realize that all the other banks will renege if he doesn’t go along with the overall plan?’

‘Yes, he does, but when I put that to him he shrugged his shoulders and said, “In which case I’ll just have to take my chance along with all the others.”’

Townsend had begun to curse, when E.B. added, ‘But he did promise me one thing.’

‘What was that?’

‘He’ll call the moment the committee has reached its decision.’

‘That’s big of him. So what am I expected to do if it goes against me?’

‘Release the press statement we agreed on,’ she’d said.

Townsend had felt sick. ‘Is there nothing left that I can do?’

‘No, nothing,’ Ms. Beresford had replied firmly. ‘Just sit and wait for Pierson to call. If I’m going to make the next flight to New York, I’ll have to dash. I should be with you around midday.’ The line had gone dead.

Townsend continued to think about her words as he rose from his chair and began pacing around the room. He stopped to check his tie in the mirror above the mantelpiece — he hadn’t had time to change his clothes since getting off the plane, and it showed. For the first time, he couldn’t help thinking that he looked older than his sixty-three years. But that wasn’t surprising after what E.B. had put him through over the past six weeks. He would have been the first to admit that had he sought her advice a little earlier, he might not now be so dependent on a call from the president of a small bank in Ohio.

He stared at the phone, willing it to ring. But it didn’t. He made no attempt to tackle the pile of letters Heather had left for him to sign. His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened, and Heather came in. She handed him a single sheet of paper; on it was a list of names arranged in alphabetical order. ‘I thought you might find this useful,’ she said. After thirty-five years of working for him, she knew he was the last man on earth who could be expected to just sit and wait.

Townsend ran his finger down the list of names unusually slowly. Not one of them meant anything to him. Three had an asterisk against them, indicating that they had worked for Global Corp in the past. He currently employed thirty-seven thousand people, thirty-six thousand of whom he hadn’t ever met. But three of those who had worked for him at some point in their careers were now on the staff of the Cleveland Sentinel, a paper he’d never heard of.

‘Who owns the Sentinel?’ he asked, hoping that he might be able to put some pressure on the proprietor.

‘Richard Armstrong,’ Heather replied flatly.

‘That’s all I need.’

‘In fact you don’t control a paper within a hundred miles of Cleveland,’ continued Heather. ‘Just a radio station to the south of the city that pumps out country and western.’

At that moment Townsend would happily have traded the New York Star for the Cleveland Sentinel. He glanced again at the three asterisked names, but they still meant nothing to him. He looked back up at Heather. ‘Do any of them still love me?’ he asked, trying to force a smile.

‘Barbara Bennett certainly doesn’t,’ Heather replied. ‘She’s the fashion editor on the Sentinel. She was sacked from her local paper in Seattle a few days after you took it over. She sued for wrongful dismissal, and claimed her replacement was having an affair with the editor. We ended up having to settle out of court. In the preliminary hearings she described you as “nothing more than a peddler of pornography whose only interest is the bottom line.” You gave instructions that she was never to be employed by any of your papers again.’

Townsend knew that that particular list probably had well over a thousand names on it, every one of whom would be only too happy to dip their pens in blood as they composed his obituary for tomorrow’s first editions.

‘Mark Kendall?’ he queried.

‘Chief crime reporter,’ said Heather. ‘Worked on the New York Star for a few months, but there’s no record of your ever coming across him.’

Townsend’s eyes settled on another unfamiliar name, and he waited for Heather to supply the details. He knew she would be saving the best for last: even she enjoyed having some hold over him.

‘Malcolm McCreedy. Features editor at the Sentinel. He worked for the corporation on the Melbourne Courier between 1979 and 1984. In those days he used to tell everyone on the paper that you and he were drinking mates from way back. He was sacked for continually failing to get his copy in on time. It seems that malt whiskey was the first thing to gain his attention after the morning conference, and anything in a skirt soon after lunch. Despite his claims, I can’t find any proof that you’ve even met him.’

Townsend marveled at how much information Heather had come up with in so short a time. But he accepted that after working for him for so long, her contacts were almost as good as his.

‘McCreedy’s been married twice,’ she continued. ‘Both times it ended in divorce. He has two children by the first marriage: Jill, who’s twenty-seven, and Alan, twenty-four. Alan works for the corporation on the Dallas Comet, in the classifieds department.’

‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Townsend. ‘McCreedy’s our man. He’s about to get a call from his long-lost mate.’

Heather smiled. ‘I’ll get him on the phone right away. Let’s hope he’s sober.’

Townsend nodded, and Heather returned to her office. The proprietor of 297 journals, with a combined readership of over a billion people around the world, waited to be put through to the features editor on a local paper in Ohio with a circulation of less than thirty-five thousand.

Townsend stood up and began to pace around the office, formulating the questions he needed to ask McCreedy, and thinking about the order he should put them in. As he circled the room, his eyes passed over the framed copies of his newspapers displayed on the walls, bearing their most famous headlines.

The New York Star, 23 November 1963: ‘Kennedy Assassinated in Dallas.’

The Continent, 30 July 1981: ‘Happily Ever After,’ above a picture of Charles and Diana on their wedding day.

The Globe, 17 May 1991: ‘Richard Branson Deflowered Me, Claims Virgin.’

He would happily have paid half a million dollars to be able to read the headlines on tomorrow’s papers.

The phone on his desk gave out a shrill blast, and Townsend quickly returned to his chair and grabbed the receiver.

‘Malcolm McCreedy is on line one,’ said Heather, putting him through.

As soon as he heard the click, Townsend said, ‘Malcolm, is that you?’

‘Sure is, Mr. Townsend,’ said a surprised-sounding voice with an unmistakable Australian accent.

‘It’s been a long time, Malcolm. Too long, in fact. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, Keith. Just fine,’ came back a more confident reply.

‘And how are the children?’ asked Townsend, looking down at the piece of paper Heather had left on his desk. ‘Jill and Alan, isn’t it? In fact, isn’t Alan working for the company out of Dallas?’

A long silence followed, and Townsend began to wonder if he’d been cut off. Eventually McCreedy said, ‘That’s right, Keith. They’re both doing just fine, thanks. And yours?’ He was obviously unable to remember how many there were, or their names.

‘They’re doing just fine too, thank you, Malcolm,’ said Townsend, purposely mimicking him. ‘And how are you enjoying Cleveland?’

‘It’s OK,’ said McCreedy. ‘But I’d rather be back in Oz. I miss being able to watch the Tigers playing on a Saturday afternoon.’

‘Well, that was one of the things I was calling you about,’ said Townsend. ‘But first I need to ask you for some advice.’

‘Of course, Keith, anything. You can always rely on me,’ said McCreedy. ‘But perhaps I’d better close the door to my office,’ he added, now that he was certain every other journalist on the floor realized who it was on the other end of the line.

Townsend waited impatiently.

‘So, what can I do for you, Keith?’ asked a slightly out-of-breath voice.

‘Does the name Austin Pierson mean anything to you?’

Another long silence followed. ‘He’s some big wheel in the financial community, isn’t he? I think he heads up one of our banks or insurance companies. Give me a moment, and I’ll just check him out on my computer.’

Townsend waited again, aware that if his father had asked the same question forty years before it might have taken hours, perhaps even days, before someone could have come up with an answer.

‘Got him,’ said the man from Cleveland a few moments later. He paused. ‘Now I remember why I recognized the name. We did a feature on him about four years ago when he took over as president at Manufacturers Cleveland.’

‘What can you tell me about him?’ asked Townsend, unwilling to waste any more time on banalities.

‘Not a great deal,’ replied McCreedy as he studied the screen in front of him, occasionally pressing more keys. ‘He appears to be a model citizen. Rose through the ranks at the bank, treasurer of the local Rotary Club, Methodist lay preacher, married to the same woman for thirty-one years. Three children, all residing in the city.’

‘Anything known about the kids?’

McCreedy pressed some more keys before he replied. ‘Yes. One teaches biology in the local high school. The second’s a staff nurse at Cleveland Metropolitan, and the youngest has just been made a partner in the most prestigious law firm in the state. If you’re hoping to do a deal with Mr. Austin Pierson, Keith, you’ll be pleased to know that he seems to have an unblemished reputation.’

Townsend was not pleased to know. ‘So there’s nothing in his past that...’

‘Not that I know of, Keith,’ said McCreedy. He quickly read through his five-year-old notes, hoping to find a titbit that would please his former boss. ‘Yes, now it all comes back. The man was as tight as a gnat’s arse. He wouldn’t even allow me to interview him during office hours, and when I turned up at his place in the evening, all I got for my trouble was a watered-down pineapple juice.’

Townsend decided that he’d come to a dead end with Pierson and McCreedy, and that there wasn’t any purpose in continuing with the conversation. ‘Thank you, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘You’ve been most helpful. Call me if you come up with anything on Pierson.’

He was just about to put the phone down when his former employee asked, ‘What was the other thing you wanted to discuss, Keith? You see, I was rather hoping that there might be an opening in Oz, perhaps even at the Courier.’ He paused. ‘I can tell you, Keith, I’d be willing to take a drop in salary if it meant I could work for you again.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Townsend, ‘and you can be sure I’ll get straight back to you, Malcolm, if anything should ever cross my desk.’

Townsend put the phone down on a man he felt sure he would never speak to again in his life. All that McCreedy had been able to tell him was that Mr. Austin Pierson was a paragon of virtue — not a breed with whom Townsend had a lot in common, or was at all certain he knew how to handle. As usual, E.B.’s advice was proving to be correct. He could do nothing except sit and wait. He leaned back in his chair and tucked one leg under the other.

It was twelve minutes past eleven in Cleveland, twelve minutes past four in London and twelve minutes past three in Sydney. By six o’clock that evening he probably wouldn’t be able to control the headlines in his own papers, let alone those of Richard Armstrong.

The phone on his desk rang again — was it possible that McCreedy had found out something interesting about Austin Pierson? Townsend always assumed that everyone had at least one skeleton they wanted to keep safely locked up in the cupboard.

He grabbed the phone.

‘I have the President of the United States on line one,’ said Heather, ‘and a Mr. Austin Pierson from Cleveland, Ohio, on line two. Which one will you take first?’