The Princess of Wales was watching the man with unusual intensity. She leaned forward in her chair, anxious not to miss any of the action she had just been promised. Her eyes widened with anticipation.
The man obviously did not know he was being watched, but he was ill at ease, definitely shifty. He seemed to be waiting for someone, and was losing patience. He took a few paces to the left, then a few to the right. He scratched his tangled, dirty hair and looked anxiously up and down the street. I did not like the look of him.
Then a second man appeared, dodging between a couple of pedestrians. If anything, the newcomer was even more nervous. He looked jumpy and his arms made strange twitching movements as he spoke rapidly into the other man’s ear. They seemed to be making some kind of deal because I saw money changing hands, but I could not hear what they said. Suddenly they were walking off together, slipping into a deserted alleyway next to the station. Still they did not know they were being watched.
What happened next made the Princess shriek with a kind of thrilled horror. As we watched, with a final furtive look around, the first man loosened his jeans and crouched forward. There was a look of fixed concentration on his face. For five seconds he did not move. I had just realized he was defecating when his hand disappeared down the seat of his pants and emerged a few seconds later clutching a small package. Quickly he passed it to the other man, clearly his customer. Then, without a backward glance, the pusher adjusted his belt and returned to his position on the street.
The police officer stretched across the Princess and switched off the video with a click. Her hands were still clutched theatrically to her face, the shock of what she had seen still obvious in her eyes as she peeped from between her fingers. She caught my glance and giggled. Obscenity usually made her giggle.
‘Ugh! Talk about a video nasty. I hope you arrested him.’
‘Oh, he’s an old friend, Ma’am. And so are most of his customers. We keep them under surveillance with these TV cameras. Then we move in when we’ve got the evidence we need.’
The inspector stood up and reached for his leather jacket. There was a whiff of aftershave. He looked every inch TV’s idea of an undercover cop. I had noticed the Princess register his star quality as we arrived at his office half an hour earlier. That was good. An attractive male lead always brought out the best in our unpredictable royal performer. ‘If you’re ready …’ he said, heading for the door with an athlete’s easy grace. His amused expression promised further treats in store.
The Princess followed him meekly. Her eyes were demurely lowered, as if to retain the image she had just seen. I knew she was enjoying herself – she was fascinated by the forbidden.
Two minutes later we were outside on the late rush-hour streets of King’s Cross. Night had fallen. It started to rain. Out of the darkness a solitary flashbulb popped. I heard the Nikon’s motor drive as my boss reacted with a loud sigh of exasperation. ‘Oh! Wretched press! They follow me everywhere.’ The plaintive note was easy to hear. Too easy, I thought. You’re overdoing it. But it earned her a sympathetic look from our handsome guide, so that was good too.
As we moved unnoticed into the hurrying crowds, I took up my familiar position slightly behind the tall figure with the expensively casual hairdo. Tonight she was in black jeans and a short, sexy jacket. This was our version of incognito. The Princess of Wales, icon of the oppressed and champion of the socially excluded, was beginning another ‘secret’ fact-finding tour.
Tramping round King’s Cross that night, I felt again the familiar wrench in my gut. It always came when I thought of where the Princess had been and where she was going. The sensation was becoming much more frequent. It was the same feeling you get on a roller coaster as it stops climbing and begins to dive towards the ground.
She had been so high: the future Queen. Now she was still high, at least with the people we were meeting on the street, and the papers said she was a phenomenon – the looks of a supermodel and the heart of a saint. But I knew the truth.
I had seen many saintly things done in her name, and even if she was not exactly saint material herself – as she would be quick, even too quick, to agree – she had certainly done a lot of suffering. Not all of it had been done in public either, as some would have you believe. Now, however, she was floundering. Where once she had been the ideal young wife and mother, now she was a self-proclaimed adulteress. Where once she had been worshipped by charities, now she was worshipped for her photo-spreads. Where once she had summoned Air Force jets, now she cadged lifts in planes smelling of rich men’s cologne.
True, there were always going to be causes begging for this kind of celebrity patronage; and she had built up deep reserves of public sympathy. She still had that magical forgivability. But I knew these were the gifts more of others’ mistakes than of her shining virtues. I knew she had begun to believe her own publicity, just as I was believing it less and less. I feared that others, like me, were every day seeing more of the steady fraying of her fragile mental stability, and I felt there was now no way back to the happy certainties of my early days at the Palace.
How had it all changed? Eight years earlier it had all been so different – another world, almost another universe.
Autumn 1987. Somewhere on the long journey from Scotland I had lost my cuff links. Summoned from the frigate Arethusa while she was pausing in her patrol to refuel in a stormy west-coast sea loch, I had taken a boat, two buses, an aeroplane and a taxi to reach the Kensington hotel that was my base for the coming ordeal. Along the way the cuff links, with their family crest and a wealth of sentimental value, had disappeared, never to return.
Some frantic improvisation was called for. Dejectedly I substituted collar studs, one of the archaic pieces of kit which gave the Navy its charm for me. It seemed a bad omen, not least because in those days any meeting with royalty was a signal for sartorial precision of the highest order. This was no ordinary meeting either: it was a job interview. By some quirk of fate, I had been chosen – along with five others – as a candidate to be the next equerry to the Princess of Wales.
I knew little about what an equerry actually did, but I did not greatly care. I already knew I wanted to do the job. Two years on loan to the royal household would surely be good for promotion, and even if it was not, it had to be better than slaving in the Ministry of Defence, which was the most likely alternative.
I wondered what it would be like to work in a palace. Through friends and relatives I had an idea it was not all red carpets and footmen. Running the royal family must involve a lot of hard work for somebody, I realized, but not, surely, for the type of tiny cog that was all I expected to be.
In the wardroom of the frigate, alongside in Loch Ewe, news of the signal summoning me to London for interview had been greeted with predictable ribaldry and a swift expectation that I therefore owed everybody several free drinks.
Doug, our quiet American on loan from the US Navy, spoke for many. He observed me in sceptical silence for several minutes. Then he took a long pull at his beer, blew out his moustache and said, ‘Let me get this straight. You are going to work for Princess Di?’
I had to admit it sounded improbable. Anyway, I had not even been selected yet. I did not honestly think I would be. ‘Might work for her, Doug. Only might. There’s probably several smooth Army buggers ahead of me in the queue. I’m just there to make it look democratic.’
The First Lieutenant, thinking of duty rosters, was more practical. ‘Whatever about that, you’ve wangled a week ashore. Jammy bastard!’ Everyone agreed with him, so I bought more drinks.
While these were being poured, my eye fell on the portraits hanging on the bulkhead. There were the regulation official photographs of the Queen and Prince Philip, and there, surprisingly, was a distinctly nonregulation picture of the Princess of Wales, cut from an old magazine and lovingly framed by an officer long since appointed elsewhere. The picture had been hung so that it lay between the formality of the official portraits