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‘No. Not that stuff. Different stuff. Kinky sex with prostitutes. Drugs. You name it; I’ve got the photos.’
‘Is that right?’
‘And videos. I’m willing to go exclusive with you. But I’ll need a lot of money.’
‘How much?’
‘One million.’
There was a loud guffaw at the other end. ‘He’s only a businessman, for God’s sake! Not some movie star. Where’s your perspective?’
North swallowed. ‘Well then, seven-fifty.’
‘You’re wasting my time. Even if this stuff is as hot as you say, I’d never pay more than half a mill – and that’s assuming there’s enough material to take several runs at the story.’
‘OK, OK! Half a mill. But I need cash.’
‘That’s never a problem.’
‘And I need it tonight.’
There was a pause. ‘Not planning to be around very long?’
‘What do you think?’
After arranging a meeting place not far away, in one hour’s time, North pressed the ‘Off’ button, and headed for the door.
Across town, in the semi-darkness of his office in Monitoring Services, Bruno d’Andrea had followed the entire night’s proceedings on television. He had also just listened, with the greatest of interest, to Elliott North’s conversation with Keith Barron. Action was called for, he decided, and on this occasion he didn’t think he needed to trouble Mike Cullen to make the necessary arrangements.
Alex Carter surveyed his appearance in the mirror of The Herald’s executive bathroom. It met with his approval. He’d always felt good in a dinner jacket. The crimson cummerbund about his waist had a flattering, slimming effect, and as he leaned towards the mirror to inspect his face and the lines around his eyes, he decided he was looking good for his age. If anything, he reflected, he was growing more handsome with each passing year. Though it wasn’t only a physical thing – he supposed he had also developed a certain charisma as he’d ascended to his position of power in business media.
He was a survivor all right. The upset earlier in the week had been his biggest test: how to deal with that prick North. In the end, he’d had to go along with North’s plans for Judith Laing. He’d sent the deceitful little minx off to India, never to be heard of again. Which suited him fine. And there, Carter had reassured himself, was the end of it. He’d made it clear to North that they were evens. He didn’t expect any more trouble from him. The stress of it had had him really worried. The Starwear story was one he’d have given his left ball to break as an exclusive. Suppressing it had gone against his every editorial instinct. But he had to think of putting the kids through school. And, he supposed, he did enjoy his trappings – the country home, the Jag, the rather good wine cellar. Dabbing eau de toilette behind his ears and on his forehead, he patted the leather cigar case in his top pocket and stood to attention. He was all set for a big night out. He intended to enjoy himself.
Making his way back through the office, still a hive of activity at seven forty-five at night, he found Carol Anderson hovering at his office door.
‘Harvey would like a word,’ she told him.
Carter rolled his eyes. ‘I’m on my way out, right now. Can it wait …?’
‘It’s urgent,’ she said briskly, before heading back to her desk, just outside the Editor’s office.
Typical Harvey Tilyard, fumed Carte
r, stalking across the newsroom. Everyone agreed on Harvey: brilliant journalist, hopeless manager. Just didn’t have the right ‘people skills’ – didn’t know how to win his subordinates’ support and respect in the way that came so effortlessly to Carter.
‘You wanted to see me?’
Harvey turned away from a screen covered with material for the next morning’s edition.
‘Yes.’ A frown appeared as he glanced over his littered desk, before finding the envelope that had recently arrived by courier. ‘I’ve just had sight of this.’ He extracted Judith Laing’s Starwear article from the envelope, and flicked it towards Carter. ‘I believe she filed it eight days ago?’
His eyes met Carter’s with a look of fierce enquiry. Harvey Tilyard was not a man to beat about the bush, and this latest delivery had confirmed a number of suspicions he had long harboured about his City Editor.
Reaching for the Starwear article, Carter was suddenly aghast – though he tried to disguise his feelings. He glanced at the front page before flicking through the rest. ‘Yes,’ he replied, meeting Harvey’s eyes for the first time with as much confidence as he could muster.
Harvey leaned forward in his seat, glaring at him. ‘Must I ask the obvious question?’ he snapped.
‘I didn’t think it was strong enough,’ tried Carter.
