I STITCHED UP THE NEWS OF THE WORLD

As a matter of public interest, Lloyd Evans reveals how the notorious tabloid offered him L15,000 to shop two friends

NOW it can be told. A couple of months ago — following the stitch-up by the News of the World of Lawrence Dallaglio and the 10th Earl of Hardwicke (to name but two of the paper's victims this year) — The Spectator decided to offer the bestselling Sunday tabloid a series of increasingly preposterous stories. The editor, Boris Johnson, called me in to act as stooge. My mission: (1), to exam- ine the claim of the News of the World that it acts only in the public interest, and (2), to tempt it with scandalous gossip whose expo- sure couldn't conceivably lead to the moral improvement of society.

When Gary Glitter was con- victed on child porn charges last week and trudged off to the nick in his Bacofoil boiler- suit I got a call from the editor. 'Time to pull the rip-cord on this one,' he growled. Mr Glit- ter was not the victim of a stitch-up, it is true, but the News of the World had offered the witness against him in an underage sex case £25,000 for any first-person story by her following a conviction on that charge. Mr Glitter was not con- victed. The News of the World has yet to reveal how it served the public interest in this instance. That's why we have now decided, in the public interest, to describe in full and frank and intimate detail how the News of the World deals with the stories of the punters who approach it with bits and pieces of dirt — wrapped up. In my case, in a series of implausible fables: Fable One: Petronella Wyatt makes a few quid on the side by dealing cocaine to her upper-class friends. I phoned the News of the World, posing as one of her mates, and offered to betray her for £5,000. A some- what shirty cockney noted down the details, asked my price and said he'd call back in half an hour.

Six minutes later he was back on the line, brimming with self-approval. They'd realised I'd underestimated the value of the story: as I have since learned, its true Worth was probably nearer £20,000. 'Right,' said the cockney, 'we're goner accept your first price. 'Course, normal practise'd mean we'd offer you three 'n' a half and then set- tle on four grand. But we'll play it straight. Five thousand you want. Five thousand you'll get.'

I arranged to meet him in a pub. We'd have a chat, I'd sign a contract, we'd enjoy a drink, and then we'd set about ruining Petronella's career.

I hacked out of the deal, as instructed, in order to sec what moves the News of the World would make to talk me hack into it. I rang my contact Nigel Atkins, and told him I wanted out. He insisted that we meet all the same, and we arranged a rendezvous in a pub in Bethnal Green.

In the pub Mr Atkins sat with his Nick to the wall, wearing a grey Next suit and a sil- very worm knotted around his neck. Non- descript features. Slightly jowly. A local boy. Very chatty about his profession.

'We got reporters all over the world,' he boasted.

Where?

'Guy in LA. Guy in Europe.'

... And?

Nowhere. Those two places apparently count as `all over the world'.

He let me know that the Petronella scan- dal could be revived whenever it suited me. The editor, he told me, felt they'd run enough celebrity drug scandals recently and would focus on different subjects for the next few weeks. Like what? I said. 'Lib, politics. Women's issues.'

Mr Atkins probed my reasons for hack- ing out. He offered to double the money to £10,000. He said my name would be kept out of it. 'We always protect our sources,' he said. The money could be paid in cash, or into the hank account of a friend. He even offered protection ('We put people up in hotels') in case Petronella put the frighteners on me. An intriguing prospect.

I could imagine her hanging around in pubs in the Old I could imagine her hanging around in pubs in the Old Kent Road, sipping a Baby- chum and trying to hire unemployed scaffolders to break my legs for 50 quid.

He had a final stab. He suggested that if 1 didn't betray her someone else might get there before me. Thus, he hinted, I would lose out. After chatting to Mr Atkins for half an hour made my excuses and left.

A couple of weeks later I floated Fable Two. Boris Johnson is a pedlar of price- less antiquities. Acting on behalf of hard-up aristos Boris fixes black-market deals on i ems likely to attract an export licence: marble busts, Cromwelliana, James I's love le tcrs, pioneering telescopes from the Age of the Enlightenment, silver cheese-graters by Benvenuto Cellini, the collected laundry-bills of Charles James Fox, Stanley Baldwin's football boots that sort of thing. Boris 'Roll-Up-and-'Ave- a-Look' Johnson ensures a private sale and a safe getaway for the goods aboard a Learjet, thus avoiding VAT and auction- eers' commissions while trousering a hand- some percentage for himself.

I telephoned Mr Atkins and gave him the bones of the story, scarcely believing he'd swallow it. He didn't. 'Difficult,' he said, 'complicated for us.' They weren't interested at any price. Cocaine is the ideal scandal for the News of the World. Quick to set up. Doesn't harm anyone. Easy to record — and it's a career-wrecking crimi- nal offence.

Which brings us to Fable Three. Last week I called my old friends at Wapping with the final juicy revelation. I was put through to a reporter called Nadia and I explained that I'd been trying to sell a story about Petronella Wyatt dealing cocaine.

'Oh yes?' she said. From her tone she might have been a British Gas phone-chick answering a call about a faulty thermostat. 'And what's the story?'

'Same offence,' I said, 'different target. Boris Johnson.

'Oh,' she said. She sounded uncomfort- able, 'Why "oh"?' I asked.

'He's one of us,' she said. 'A journalist.'

Amazing. A twinge of humanity. Soon forgotten, however, as we settled the price. 1 asked for £5,000, which, as it happens, is half Petronella's street value. (Boris him- self had suggested I hold out for £15,000. `Then get them to haggle.' But I didn't want to start clowning around.) 'Five thousand?' she said. 'Yes, we should be able to do that.' I heard fingers clacketing at a keyboard. After three attempts this was becoming as easy as booking a holiday.

'How do you know him?'

`University.'

`So he trusts you?'

`Yes, we go back 15 years.'

`Does he have a drug problem?'

`Possibly. Did you see him on Question Time? He looked a bit manic.'

`What about other people at The Spectator.'

`Apart from Petronella, I wouldn't know.'

`Does he know your wife or girlfriend?' 'I'm single. Why?'

'I could pose as your partner and meet him too. Would that be OK?'

`What a good idea,' I said, inwardly rub- bing my hands with glee. 'And we could get him to talk about other celebrities who take drugs.'

This was turning into a bedroom farce.

We arranged to meet at a pub in Hack- ney. She asked what I looked like. 'Oh I'm just a skinny old hippie,' I was tempted to say. But suddenly this felt like a blind date so I went into Soulmates mode. 'I'm slim,' I told her, 'six-foot tall, auburn beard, pony- tail ... with [I almost added] a good sense of humour and a keen interest in European cinema.' She described herself. Five-foot four, slim, curly hair, glasses. Just my type. Especially the glasses.

I met her in the pub and signed a con- tract for £5,000, in which I undertook to `reveal solely and exclusively' my story 'with particular reference to ... Boris Johnson dealing/taking drugs'. The £5,000 was for a double-page spread. If it only made a sin- gle page my fee would be cut in half.

Nadia wired me up and I phoned Boris, using my codename 'David'. As an opener I mentioned some poems I'd sent him (in real life I'm a poet). Did he want to publish them? He sounded lukewarm, as we'd agreed he should. Then I mentioned 'Prince Charles' and asked if he could give me a small package from 'Charlie'. Fine, said Boris. Nadia liked this touch. 'Prince Charlie,' she said, 'must be real Oxford talk?' Yeah,' I said.

Meanwhile at The Spectator Boris was busy preparing. He had a plastic bag of baking soda and was stuffing it underneath a statuette that graces the mantelpiece of his office. The inscription on the fine silver figurine reads: 'To The Spectator. From The Townsfolk Of Aberdare. 1929.' The drugs would be produced with a flourish from beneath this official heirloom.

Back in the pub I replaced the receiver. Nadia checked her tape machine. 'That went incredibly smoothly,' she said. 'Yes, didn't it?' I replied, trying to sound sur- prised. She called Wapping and there were several breathless expletives from her – and from them too. They couldn't believe their luck.

We hurried over to her car. 'You've real- ly put the cat among the pigeons,' she said. 'They're calling in the Big Guns.' A hidden camera video-bag was on its way on a motorbike; a camera team in blacked-out vans had been hurriedly scrambled; and no less a divinity than Maz Mahmood (Chief Investigative Reporter) was to meet us at Holborn tube. 'Why all the fuss?' I said innocently. 'Well,' she said, 'lots of people at the News of the World are really after Boris Johnson. He's written some nasty things about us; `Oh, dear,' I said.

We were caught in traffic in Islington. Nadia was taking calls non-stop from the fretting news editors. It was happening too fast for their liking. Wapping was flapping. I heard her trying to convince them I was bona fide. 'He obviously knows Boris very well; you could tell from the phone call.' She asked for ID. Luckily I'd brought my Jack's moved to the islands . . . for "peace and quiet" he said.' passport, where 'David' appears as my first name though in real life I never use it. She asked if I had proof that I was a Balliol classicist. Not the kind of stuff you carry around with you. I suggested that she put me in touch with someone at the News of the World with a knowledge of the ancient languages who might give me a viva voce grilling in Ovid. She didn't take me up.

As we approached The Spectator the plan changed. I was to entice Boris into a pub to do the deal there. Legal problems made it tricky for them to film on private property. I was about to make the call when there was another development. They'd contacted Nigel Atkins. He must have mentioned my yarn about Boris as a black-market antiques dealer. I was rumbled. The video-bag was cancelled. The photographic cavalry were ordered to ride back to Wapping.

Maz Mahmood, though, was still in on the story, no doubt to protect the dignity of the News of the World and to make sure that nobody got the silly idea that it will behave with unscrupulous stupidity in the pursuit of sensation. He wanted to meet us at the Hilton. We parked underground and rode a lift into the gilded foyer where we waited for a few moments. A nondescript Pakistani came through the double-doors and shook hands with Nadia. It was Maz. I didn't recognise him without his turban. Early thir- ties, crumpled, chain-store clothes, cheap black shoes. I was getting used to the News of the World look — suburban and feature- less, designed to blend in and deflect notice.

We sat down over double espressos. He told me he'd just flown in from abroad, knew nothing about me or my story and asked me what I was up to. I explained.

`So, you're going to shop this old friend of yours for £5,000. Why?'

`Well,' I said, relying on my brilliant cover-story, 'I'm a poet and he said he was going to publish my poems but now he's gone all cold on them.'

'Is that it?'

'There are other reasons,' I said, 'but do you want to run this story or not?'

Apparently not. Maz now mounted his moral high horse. I was treated to the offi- cial line. His tone was insistent and dog- matic. 'This isn't the way we work,' he told me. 'Boris isn't a drug dealer — in the nor- mal sense. He doesn't do it for a living; he doesn't corrupt children. OK, dealers like that, yeah, we go after them — but not in this case. That's entrapment. And entrap- ment is not the way we work.'

He stressed this over and over again. The News of the World entraps no one. They never behave as agents provocateurs. He told me to call the police and tell them about Boris. He even hinted that he might, if I didn't. I was silent.

What a shame. We'd got so close. We'd mobilised the entire News of the World apparatus of entrapment and we'd stum- bled at the last hurdle. I felt bad. There was only one thing to do. I made my excuses and left.