to keep you busy: writing stories from publicity handouts and local
government press releases, stuff that would never get in the paper. It
was demoralizing, time-wasting work, and only the more insecure of
newspaper executives demanded it.
A Lad came across from the teleprinter room, carrying a Press
Association story on a long sheet of paper. Kevin took it from him and
glanced at it.
He read it with a growing sense of shock and elation.
A syndicate headed by Hamilton Holdings today won the license to drill
for oil in the last North Sea oil field, Shield.
The Secretary of State of Energy, Mr. Carl Wrightment, announced the
name of the winning contender at a Press conference overshadowed by the
sudden illness of his Junior Minister, Mr. Tim Fitzpeterson.
The announcement was expected to provide a much-needed fillip to the
ailing shares of the Hamilton print group, whose half-year results,
published yesterday, were disappointing.
Shield is estimated to hold oil reserves which could ultimately amount
to half a million barrels a week.
The Hamilton group’s partners in the syndicate include Scan, the
engineering giant, and British Organic Chemicals.
After making the announcement Mr. Wrightment added: “It is with sadness
that I have to tell you of the sudden illness of Tim Fitzpeterson, whose
work on the Government’s oil policy has been so invaluable.”
Kevin read the story three times, hardly able to believe its
implications. Fitzpeterson, Cox, Laski, the raid, the bank crisis, the
takeover–all leading in a great, frightening circle, back to Tim
Fitzpeterson.
“It can’t be that,” he said aloud.
“What have you got?” Arthur’s voice came from behind him. “Is it worth a
fudge?” The fudge was what the public called the Stop Press.
Kevin passed him the story and vacated his chair. “I think,” he said
slowly, “that story will persuade the editor to change his mind.”
Arthur sat down to read. Kevin watched him eagerly. He wanted the older
man to react; to jump up and shout
“Hold the front page!” or something; but Arthur stayed cool.
Eventually he dropped the sheet of paper on the desk. He looked coldly
at Kevin. “So what?” he said.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Kevin said excitedly.
“No. Tell me.”
“Look. Laski and Cox blackmail Fitzpeterson into telling them who has
won the Shield license.
Cox, maybe with Laski’s help, raids the currency van and gets a million
pounds. Cox gives the money to Laski, who uses it to buy the company
that got the oil license.”
“So what would you like us all to do about it?”
“For Christ’s sake! We could drop hints, or mount an investigation, or
tell the police–at least tell the police! We’re the only people who
know it all–we can’t let the bastards get away with it!” “Don’t you
know anything?” Arthur said bitterly.
“What do you mean?”
Arthur’s voice was as somber as the grave.
Hamilton Holdings is the parent company of the Evening Post.” He paused,
then looked Kevin in the eye. “Felix Laski is your new boss.”
FOUR P.M. THEY SAT DOWN in the small dining room, on either side of the
little circular table, and he said:
“I’ve sold the company.” She smiled, and said calmly: “Derek, I’m so
glad.” Then, against her will, tears came to her eyes, and her icy
self-control weakened and crumbled for the first time since the birth of
Andrew.
She saw, through the tears, the shock in his expression as he realized
how much it meant to her.
She stood up and opened a cupboard, saying: “I think this calls for a
drink.” “I got a million pounds for it,” he said, knowing she was not
interested.
“Is that good?”
“As it happens, yes. But more importantly, it’s enough to keep us
comfortably well off for as long as we’re likely to live.”
She made gin-and-tonic for herself. “Would you like a drink?”
“Perrier, please. I’ve decided to go on the wagon for a bit.”
She gave him his drink and sat opposite him again. “What made you
decide?”
“No single thing. Talking to you, and talking to Nathaniel.” He sipped
his mineral water. “Talking to you, mainly. The things you said about
our lifestyle.”