Inside Story: Politics, Intrigue and Treachery from Thatcher to Brexit. Philip Webster

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СКАЧАТЬ came along, and he was so bloody nice and attractive, and so quiet in public that it was a challenge to unearth the real person and to seduce him – easy! And it was unexpectedly spectacularly good for such a long time.’ This was not my normal terrain but I was riveted.

      There were enough clues for me to realize quite quickly that B was indeed John Major. When I raced on to much later entries, after the affair ended in 1988 when B had become ‘John’, it was confirmed in my mind that, unless Currie had been victim to a lengthy fantasy, one of the most unlikely of political couplings had happened. I had to smile. Major was a Conservative whip when the affair started. The whips make it their business to know the private business of every one of their MPs, allegedly keeping notes in a black book. Here was one ex-whip who had kept a massive secret from his colleagues; even more surprising was that the affair was with one of the more colourful and controversial of their charges.

      Brian MacArthur, our associate editor who was in charge of the whole operation and whose extensive publishing-world contacts helped us to get a first sighting of the diaries, had also read the extracts. I told Robert that it was clear it was Major. He asked me point-blank: ‘Do you believe it?’ I replied that I had to believe it, although if I had not seen the evidence I would not have done.

      Next came a trip to the publishers Little, Brown on Waterloo Bridge, where MacArthur, George Brock (managing editor), myself, Ursula Mackenzie (the publisher), Alan Samson (the book’s editor), and our publicity chief, Mary Fulton, discussed issues such as where Currie would be over the crucial weekend after next and how I would approach Major. Our lawyer, Pat Burge, had warned from the outset that there might be two grounds for action of which we had to be aware – defamation if the story was wrong and breach of privacy. At that meeting the greatest worry was that Major might attempt to take out a privacy injunction when he learnt of what we intended to run. The general view was that I should leave the call to Major as late as I dared, to minimize that risk. But I stressed again the editor’s bottom-line demand: Major MUST be contacted.

      Roy Greenslade, of The Guardian, wrote later that it was at a meeting in Wapping on 20 August that MacArthur and Thomson had first been told of the explosive, alleged contents of the diaries after signing confidentiality agreements. Both had agreed it was a great story, but asked if it could possibly be true. They were assured that it was. The publishers had come to The Times first because it was there that Currie hoped the book would be serialized.

      As Friday, 27 September approached there was still in my mind, and in those of the handful who knew, that nagging doubt about what would happen when I got to Major with the news. Would he deny it, would he apply for an injunction, would he put out a press release telling the world in general and scuppering our exclusive? Knowing him, the latter was unlikely, but I was unsure on the other points.

      No one in my office at Westminster was aware of what I had been doing. I went into the office very early that Friday morning and got the splash story written before anyone else appeared. I had during the week collected every possible number for Major – two office numbers in London, a Huntingdon constituency number, and several numbers for former close aides and friends. He was no longer in the Commons and my contact with him had been limited since the 1997 election defeat.

      Peter Riddell – our chief political commentator – arrived back from the Lib Dem conference in the late morning. Peter was always my most trusted adviser and I confided in him about what we had got and showed him some of the relevant entries in the manuscript. If I was ever in danger of going over the top with a story, I could rely on Peter to pull me back from the brink, but this morning he said something I just did not want to hear. He wondered whether it was all an Edwina fantasy, the very doubt that had entered the head of Robert Thomson, me and others when we first learnt about it. At this stage I had not explained to Peter quite how much was at stake – the cost of the memoirs, the phoney first edition, the rest.

      But I assured him I was satisfied and tried not to let any further doubts enter my head. The day went slowly by. At about 4 p.m. I was itching to call Major’s office number, but it was still too early. I would have some explaining to do if I called prematurely and an injunction swiftly followed.

      At The Times the secret had been kept for thirty-eight days despite the number of people knowing about it gradually increasing, as the marketing director, picture editor, Ginny Dougary (who was to interview Currie in advance), and the night and design editors who were to work on the Currie edition, were all told. In the office the codename for the book among those who were in on it was ‘the Liverpool Novel’, after Currie’s birthplace.

      Six p.m. arrived. OK. A deep breath. I had often in recent days framed in my mind how I would tell Major what we were about to publish. I rang the first number I had for the London office, which I had found in the past was always manned. No reply. I rang the second number. No reply. And no answerphone message on either. I had a mobile number for Arabella Warburton, Major’s chief of staff, too. No luck. It did not work.

      This was worrying. I rang Huntingdon. Again no reply. Things were now serious. Not quite panic yet. But serious. I then, almost at random, started calling other people who might know where he was. I rang an ex-colleague, Sheila Gunn, who had gone on to work as a press adviser to Major. She did not know where he was and was very curious. I rang Jonathan (now Lord) Hill, his former political secretary. No joy. At Peter’s suggestion I rang Tristan Garel-Jones, a former minister and great friend of Major, on his number in Spain. No reply. In between all these calls I kept trying the London office numbers.

      At head office everyone was busy preparing what they thought would be the paper’s main edition. Only the chosen few realized it was due to be just the first edition, so that rivals would not see the big one when it dropped in most newsrooms at around 10.30 p.m. It was agreed to put a story about Jeffrey Archer across the top of the front page. Full-page ads for the electrical firm Currys were put on pages four and five. Robert Thomson liked a joke. The staff were unaware that in another part of the building, a handful of their colleagues were preparing the real edition.

      I told no one at the office at this stage that I was becoming desperate and that the whole thing was in danger of collapsing.

      By now my deputy, Tom Baldwin, had arrived and I kept him in the dark, too – for the time being at least. But he could tell that his normally unflappable boss was anything but, and offered to help. Nobody could help, though; I needed someone, anyone, to answer one of these phones. I rang Huntingdon for the umpteenth time. London yet again. I tried Arabella’s number once more.

      It was well after 7 p.m. when I tried the London office one last time, thinking that I was soon going to have to tell Robert that I could not find Major. Someone answered, apparently a secretary. I asked if Mr Major was there. No. I asked if Arabella was there. No. Aagh! I then told her that it was a matter of absolute life and death that I get hold of one of them. Was there anything she could do to help? She said she would try and I gave my Commons number. I repeated that it was of the utmost urgency and that they would be grateful to her if she could put them in touch with me. If I sounded desperate, I was.

      No more than five minutes later, the phone rang. It was Arabella. I did not know how this conversation was going to go, but never had I been more relieved to receive a call. It sounded like a long-distance call and she told me she was in Chicago, where Major was about to make a speech. Yes, Chicago! I said that I must speak to him about something that The Times was about to run. I had to speak to him personally. She said: ‘You know, Phil, that you can tell me so that I can tell John.’ I said that on this one occasion it was difficult and that I really had to speak to him. Arabella could tell that I was serious and she must have wondered what on earth it was all about, given my insistence. She said that she would talk to Major. But I said: ‘Please don’t ring off – I don’t want to lose you at this stage.’ Arabella, who had always been the most straightforward person to deal with, was magnificent. She came back on the phone very quickly and said that whatever СКАЧАТЬ