Chapters (34)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Letter from Author
She glances again at the door, as though she’s worried we’re being watched.
‘Just so we’re clear, you want to write that the Chancellor backed off his pensions raid because of inappropriate pressure from Jimmy Breitner?’
I hadn’t framed it quite so baldly. But the moment she says it, I know it’s true.
Though truth is still a long way from being provable and not deniable. ‘I can’t write it yet. But I’m close.’ Stretching a point. ‘Just let me set some hares running and we’ll see what we catch.’
‘You’re asking a lot.’ She thinks in silence for a moment. ‘You have my permission to make discreet enquiries, but I will need to run it past the editor.’
Shit. ‘Look, I should have reminded you earlier. He warned me off the pensions story a few days ago. Remember?’
‘You are a fucking piece of work, Gil.’ She smiles. ‘I’ll handle the boss.’
It’s a dilemma for Lorimer, but no one claims to set more store by the paper’s reputation for independence than him. Nothing winds him up more than malicious whispers in our incestuous trade that after the FC’s 150 years of reporting without fear or favour he takes dictation from James Breitner. ‘The day the proprietor tells me what to print, or not to print, is the day I am no longer the editor,’ he once bellowed during a leader conference, after a catty piece in the satirical magazine Private Eye about how Breitner was allegedly interfering with the FC’s content.
Mary opens the door. ‘Leave it with me.’
I stroll back to my desk, picking up a Diet Coke from the vending machine along the way. I hardly need the caffeine. I am exhilarated by my conviction that Media Corp was the client Muller was representing when he met the Chancellor.
I have to call Jess.
‘You know I actually have a job to do?’ is her faux-grumpy greeting.
‘I’ve worked something out.’ An audible sigh. ‘No, really.’ I spell out my hypothesis, though in my mind it’s far more certain than that. ‘If our pension fund took a hit during the Capital TV deal, that would spook the markets, wouldn’t it?’
‘For fuck’s sake, boss! As I must have told you a thousand times, most pension funds are sitting on fat surpluses. That is why your sister was convinced they could afford to pay the tax. Why on earth should Media Corp be any different? Breitner doesn’t like paying taxes. But there’s no reason why this tax would be worse for him than any other. You haven’t proved a motive for Breitner putting the squeeze on Kendall.’