Diana--A Closely Guarded Secret (15 page)

To my astonishment, and to their credit, the deal with the press held up for the next three days. I think the Princess was surprised, too, because she changed her swimsuit every day, just in case she should be photographed again. She was never one knowingly to disappoint her public. She and her party suffered no press intrusion whatsoever, and I basked in the glory of having brought about this almost unthinkable state of affairs. Diana and her family were able to walk on the beach, swim and snorkel without a press boat in sight. At last she was able to unwind.

There was no daily plan of activities, but William and Harry looked to the men in the party to organise their day. So while the Princess and the rest of the women lounged around the pool, watched over by Dave Sharp, I was tasked with keeping her two extremely active sons occupied. It was not an onerous task, not least because Richard Branson’s island had everything in place to make this, for boys, the adventure holiday of a lifetime. One of William’s favourite games involved the children unleashing billiard balls across the snooker table at high speed in a bid to smash their opponents’ fingers, almost the only rule being that contestants had to leave their hands resting on the table’s cushions until the ball was unleashed. I had to put a stop to this, as gently as I could. As a diversion, I took them snorkelling with their uncle Charles, but this was not enough to beguile the inquisitive Prince William. He wanted to explore. So he and I hatched a plan to reconnoitre the island, and one morning set off together armed with knives, and with
only bottled water, fruit and some sandwiches to sustain us. William could not contain his excitement as we ventured deep into the island’s interior.

For the next three hours the boy destined to be king and I hacked our way through the undergrowth, climbed rocks and forded streams, re-enacting our own version of
Robinson Crusoe
. William loved every minute of it. At one point I began to worry as the midday sun beat down on us and I realised that I had lost my bearings. I kept this to myself, however, and eventually, albeit two hours later than I had anticipated, we made it back to the main house. William raced in, desperate to tell his mother every detail of his great adventure.

Throughout the three-day truce I kept in daily touch with Kent Gavin by telephone. This was a way of briefing reporters, who had asked that I should let them know if anything untoward had happened to the Princess or any of her party that might constitute a legitimate story. I thought the tale of how the heir apparent had gone missing while exploring with his mother’s police protection officer might make a good story, but for obvious reasons I said nothing.

I honoured my side of the bargain, allowing the journalists harmless snippets about what the Princess and her party had been doing, and repeated that I expected the media to keep theirs. On the third day after the photo call, however, Gavin warned me that something was afoot. He told me that Fleet Street could no longer be held responsible for the French paparazzi who he feared would soon be out in force again. My heart sank. I knew that the Princess would be furious if their peace were to be broken by the media again. Gavin suggested
that I should persuade her to do another photo call, which, he thought, would probably placate the ever-hungry paparazzi.

When I put the proposal of a second photo call to Diana she was predictably reluctant.

‘Ken, you said that if I did the first one they would leave us alone, so why have I got to do another one?’ she complained. She had a point, but I reminded her that at least the deal I had struck had kept the press away for the last three days. I continued by saying that although many of the photographers had left the area, my information was that there were a few hardcore paparazzi preparing to invade her privacy once again. I then suggested that the best solution, however annoying, was for her to do a short, ten-minute photo call, at which point the deal would be reinstated, with any luck until the end of the holiday. After a few minutes’ consideration she saw the logic of this and agreed, and the shoot went ahead the following day. She did not like being forced into a corner, but relaxed and beautifully tanned, she saw the advantages to both sides.

Yet even after this, a few paparazzi determined to try to get something different. The rest of the press honoured the agreement and left the immediate area, but a handful of freelance photographers remained. They were, from a security viewpoint, considerably easier to handle than the original fifty or sixty, and I felt my decision to negotiate had been fully justified. But the young princes, in particular, still wanted their revenge on the ‘’tographers’, as Harry called them. It was not long before they got their wish.

Richard Branson’s manager on the island, Dan Reid, had returned from one of his business and supply trips to Tortola
armed with three giant handheld catapults and hundreds of balloons, which he gave to the children. I have no idea where he found them, but they proved a big hit with the princes and their cousins. The catapults were huge. To fire the balloons, which for maximum effect would be filled with water to the size of cricket balls, the catapults had to be tied to posts or held by two people while the third loaded, aimed and fired the missile. Initially, they caused much hilarity as the children and the protection officers fought pitched mini-battles against each other. There was, however, one moment of slight anxiety when young Fellowes – son of Lady Jane and her husband, the Queen’s private secretary, Sir Robert (now Lord) Fellowes – known as Beatle, received a direct hit in the chest when William launched an attack on him from the helicopter pad. Poor Beatle went down severely winded and was left with a huge bruise on his chest for the rest of the holiday. But after a brief cooling-off period during which the Princess considered a complete ban on our war games, the balloon battles were allowed to continue.

As the children perfected their warlike activities, William had a brainwave that he felt sure would get his mother’s backing.

‘Ken,’ he said, his eyes lighting up with excitement, ‘when the photographers come back in their boats, why don’t we catapult them from the house?’ There was a perfect vantage point, set upon rocks about eighty feet above the shoreline. William – whose ancestors had led troops into battle – was ready to get his revenge on the snoopers who had upset his beloved mother. Without me knowing he rallied his troops – Harry and their cousins – and they set about constructing two sites in readiness for the return of the press boats.

It didn’t take me long to find out what they were up to. When I told the Princess what her sons were planning for the media she thought it was hilarious and approved it immediately. I was dispatched to supervise the battle plans, feeling rather like Captain Mainwaring from the British comedy
Dad’s Army
, in charge of a unit of the Home Guard. I even adopted his catchphrases – ‘Now gather round, everybody’ and ‘There’s a war on, you know’ when addressing my troops. Within hours, true to form, the press boats appeared on the horizon, which sent the children into frenzy. ‘Steady lads,’ I said, ‘don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.’ It was not quite Britain in 1940, but to the two princes it was just as vital to defend their post from invaders.

As boats carrying the hardcore paparazzi approached, I gave the children the order to unleash their stack of coloured water bombs. The unfortunate photographers did not know what had hit them, and after twenty minutes and several direct hits they retired hurt and did not return. To be fair, they had the grace to see the funny side. For William, protecting his mother was a matter of personal pride, and he rushed back to tell her of his victory, very much a hero in her eyes.

Everyone was in high spirits. The Princess, revitalised by her holiday, wanted to bid farewell to Necker in style, and to that end arranged a lavish beach party. That night, clad in a diaphanous blue silk dress, she was in real party mood. As the reggae band, the Bitter End Steel Orchestra, played, she grabbed me, looked me straight in the eyes and ordered, ‘Ken, let’s tango!’

As we swept away to the music of the steel band the rest
of the party joined in. Diana’s brother, Charles Spencer, had no choice but to follow our lead, being hauled onto the dance floor by his mother, Frances. Then, one after the other, Diana’s sisters teamed up with the other detectives. Just to infuriate my Scotland Yard superiors even further, one of the band members sold the story of our last-night party to the
News of
the World
. An article about our merrymaking appeared on the following day, under the banner headline ‘Di Tangos with Cop on Necker Island’, and the accompanying text described me as a ‘smoothie’ who ‘sees more of her than Charles’. For once, Diana joked when she saw the article, the Sunday tabloid had got it right.

FORMAL FLOWERBEDS led out into an area of unkempt grass; green paths between tall cypresses planted at regular intervals ushered us into the cool darkness of the wood, where even the statues placed here and there were transformed. Outside in the formal garden statues of gods and heroes and characters from classical Greek drama stood in the carefully contrived vistas. Doubtless these sights were almost unchanged since they had been enjoyed by the ancestors of the noble Rizzardi family who, centuries earlier, had approved the original design of the grounds and the Roman-style garden theatre set within them. In the wood, however, the statues were of lions and wild boars, evoking memories of the wild animals which in classical times, wealthy Romans had kept in parks beside their villas.

‘I am sure the air is different here, Ken. It tastes cleaner – crisper,’ the Princess remarked as we strolled around
magnificent grounds after our secret flight from London. The Villa Rizzardi, near Negrar, a few miles from the ancient city of Verona was, for Diana, the ultimate sanctuary, a place where she could abandon her innermost fears and just be herself – even if it was for only three days. I often thought that if she ever realised her dream and escaped from her life amid the palaces and courtiers and formal engagements, it would be to northern Italy that she would run, a place where she could find true happiness, if only she would let herself. It would have suited her perfectly, a place of great beauty, taste and culture.

The Princess and her mother, Frances Shand Kydd, were the guests of an old family friend, the Contessa Maria Cristina Guerrieri-Rizzardi, owner of one of the most respected family wine estates in the province.

To many she was known simply as the Countess of Verona. Frances and the handsome Contessa had been friends for some time, so when both she and her daughter were invited to hear Luciano Pavarotti perform in Verdi’s
Requiem
in the open-air Roman Arena di Verona, Diana leapt at the chance. She was desperate to break away from the constant pressure and politicking of the Palace, and the chance of even a few days away from that world was as attractive to her as even a trip to Italy and a performance by the great tenor. Nor did it take her long to persuade me to go along with her plan. Without discussing the details with anyone I booked the flights in early August under the assumed names of Mr and Mrs Hargreaves, one of our favourite pseudonyms, and we headed for Italy.

Throughout her life, but particularly towards the end,
Diana craved privacy. So on the occasions when we did ‘get away with one’, as she put it, it made the moment even sweeter. That weekend she was able to wander around the shore of the lake almost unnoticed and wholly unrecognised. She took the speedboat out on the lake and raced over the glass-like water. The family wine estate on the edge of Lake Garda was situated in the heart of the
classico
areas of the Veronese wines: Bardolino, Valpolicella and Soave (which we tasted and which were exquisite).

Yet the memory that will stay with me longest is of the night we spent in two of the most ancient cities in the world, Verona and Venice. Just before the performance was about to start Diana, Frances, the Contessa and myself slipped into the arena undetected and settled into our excellent – and expensive – seats, close to the front of the ancient theatre, which dates back many centuries to Roman times. In the minutes before the performance started, the Princess was tense with excitement – yet this was, apparently, the air-headed girl whom the media liked to dismiss as the ‘Pop Princess’.

Pavarotti was simply magnificent, his commanding voice holding everyone spellbound. Then disaster struck. Halfway through the
Requiem
the heavens opened, and even our umbrellas could not stop the torrential rain from soaking us to the skin. Nothing, however, could dampen Diana’s spirits that night. She was elated, by the music, the atmosphere, and the dramatic setting, and wanted the night to go on for ever. Sadly, however, the downpour meant that for the first time in the city’s recent history the concert had to be cancelled. Pavarotti had spotted the Princess during the performance, and as he left
the rain-drenched arena he invited our entire party back to his dressing room.

There, in his broken English, the great tenor wooed the already smitten Diana.

‘You were absolutely marvellous,’ she told him. ‘It was truly unforgettable. I was so profoundly moved.’

Then, even though her green flowered dress and matching hat were dripping wet, she spoke to the director and asked for the leaders of the chorus and the orchestra to be presented to her. After chatting with them for ten minutes, she turned to leave the Roman arena. Instead of the quiet exit she had imagined, however, she found her route lined by around one hundred and fifty members of the cast, who applauded her and sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

By now Diana was on fire. In contrast to her mood, the rain was still falling so heavily that the emergency services had been called out to deal with serious flooding in the area. But nothing could deter the Princess. As we stood beneath a tarpaulin, sheltering from the rain, waiting for the cars, she suddenly declared that she wanted to go to Venice.

‘Ken, we’ve got away with it. Nobody knows we’re here, not even the local press. Let’s live a little,’ she beamed. It was close to ten o’clock, but I knew from her expression and her manner that nothing was going to stop her seeing Venice that night, even if she had to walk there. Much to the consternation of the local police assigned to us for the evening (I had contacted the Carabinieri on our arrival), I sanctioned it. The Italian officers said the rain made driving conditions dangerous and it would take at least two and a half hours to get there, although the
distance was about seventy miles. They might just as well have saved their breath, for nothing was going to stop the Princess.

Within minutes, Diana, her mother, the Contessa’s chauffeur, Tony Pezzo, who himself was related to the Rizzardi family, were heading for Venice, along with Sergeant Dave Sharp and myself. The flabbergasted British Consul, Martin Rickerd, also joined the party, somewhat bemused by our lapse into what appeared to be insanity. The Carabinieri provided an escort in a Saab, and I did my best to keep up with them all in a Fiat Punto, aquaplaning most of the way. After one of the most treacherous drives of my life we arrived at the headquarters of the Carabinieri in Venice just after midnight. The entire place was flooded with about a foot of water, and as the escorting police car turned the corner on the approach to the building the driver lost control and crashed into a brick wall. The Princess burst out laughing, which did not amuse the police officers who had gathered to greet her.

At that precise moment it stopped raining and the clouds obligingly parted to let the moon through. Diana jumped out of the Contessa’s car and starting kicking the puddles, as if she were Gene Kelly in
Singing in the Rain
. The Venice Carabinieri then arranged for two motor boats to take us off to enjoy the astonishing beauty of Venice by moonlight. As we sped off along the canal, the driver of the crashed police car at last broke into a smile.

‘I thought it was only we Italians who are crazy,’ he said, his ill-humour evaporating in the wake of the Princess’s mood.

There was no one else around. For the next hour we saw Venice as few have ever been privileged to do. We sailed along
the Grand Canal, with the ancient city silhouetted against a stormy sky pierced by a full moon. Armed with a flask of coffee and a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio, from which Diana would take the occasional swig as we had no glasses, we were midnight tourists in an empty city. She then announced that she wanted to walk through Saint Mark’s Square. The Italian police, who by now had embraced the mood, agreed. We docked our launches at the Hotel Danieli and, still with the tarpaulin over our sodden heads since it had started to rain again, walked towards Saint Mark’s Cathedral at the end of the square. It was an enchanting, if almost surreal experience. With the exception of a couple of vagrants dossed down above the water level near the famous landmark, we were the only people there. Then, from nowhere, Sergeant Dave Sharp appeared with a tray of hot croissants and small loaves of freshly cooked bread, which earned him a round of applause from the by now ecstatic Princess.

As she took another swig from the bottle of white wine, Diana, her eyes alight with pleasure, turned to me and said, ‘Ken, if only I could have this freedom once a month, it would make the job worth it all the more.

At last we had to depart. The Princess took graceful leave of the Venetian police officers who, being Italian, were equally charming in return. We returned to Lake Garda just in time for breakfast, snatched two hours’ sleep, and set off for Milan’s Linate airport for the flight home. It was there that the press finally caught up with us. A lurking paparazzo snatched shots of the Princess, still animated after her three-day holiday, kissing the Contessa’s chauffeur, Tony Pezzo, on the cheek as she made her goodbyes.

The Sun
, which had printed the pictures, dispatched reporter Mike Sullivan (later to become one of Fleet Street’s most respected crime correspondents) to Italy to find out anything he could about our trip. By this time, however, Diana was back at Kensington Palace, her private memories locked safely away. Sullivan did well, given that there was no real story for him to uncover. He talked to Pezzo, and wrote an exclusive based on their conversation. The paper was, of course, trying to suggest that Diana had tried to woo the handsome, thirty-one-year-old Italian. The story was as crass as it was untrue, for the truth was that the Princess had treated the Contessa’s chauffeur with courtesy, and nothing more.

Sadly, moments of escape like these were rare, not only because of the pressures of Diana’s duties and of her marriage, but because, in reality Diana craved public recognition almost as much as she cherished her privacy.

Since the start of her affair with James Hewitt, Diana had followed a demanding fitness regime, designed to tone her body and (she hoped) invigorate her soul. She swam most mornings, and worked out two and sometimes three times a week as she honed herself into shape. There was also a seemingly endless stream of health instructors, gurus and alternative therapists in and out of Kensington Palace whose fields of expertise seemed to cover every inch of the body. She seemed to delight in parading around her apartment in front of staff in just her thong leotard, purely to invite a reaction. She would regularly clear her diary for what she called ‘pamper days’, when experts, from masseurs to manicurists would work on her, sometimes for hours.

At the end of 1989, a few days after Hewitt departed for Germany and the military life, the Princess told me that she wanted to detoxify herself, and fancied a visit to Champneys, one of the country’s leading health resorts. With twenty complementary daily activities, more than a hundred treatments and therapies, and what many say is arguably the finest spa cuisine in the world, Champneys boasted that ‘Nowhere else makes you feel this good’. Its treatments aim at addressing the whole person – mind, body and spirit – something almost calculated to catch Diana’s interest.

So in January 1990, accompanied by three of her closest friends – Julia Samuel, Kate Menzies and Catherine Soames – and me, we booked into the resort, which is set in 170 acres of parkland near Tring in Hertfordshire, about an hour’s drive north-west of London. It was bitterly cold when we arrived, but the local police were present in force and as vigilant as ever. In the event, however, I told their local commander to stand them down, as we wanted to avoid such a high-profile security presence. The truth was that, despite the Princess’s good intentions, this was a girls’ weekend rather than a concerted effort to keep fit, lose weight or tone up.

But one incident left the Princess and her girlfriends in fits of laughter. We had not been there long when the legendary singer Dame Vera Lynn, the British ‘Forces’ Sweetheart’ of World War II who was there with her husband, came over to introduce herself to Diana. I thought that Dame Vera was being a little over-friendly, at least at first, but she soon got the message that the Princess was here to relax alone with her friends and left us. For the first time on a trip with Diana I remember dressing
down, for we were in tracksuits in order to blend in with the other guests at the spa.

Later that morning, as I stood by the door of the reflexology room while the Princess was inside having treatment, I suddenly felt somebody touching my bottom. Startled and more than a little annoyed, I whirled around to find a man standing there, looking decidedly sheepish.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ I said. ‘Don’t touch me.’

‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I’m Vera Lynn’s husband.’ Quite why he might have thought that this explained everything mystifies me to this day.

‘Does that give you any right to touch my backside?’ I demanded.

‘No, you’re quite right,’ he said, just as the Princess emerged from the reflexology room.

‘I’m sorry, I was just testing to see where you kept your gun,’ he said nervously, before scurrying off to join his wife.

‘What on earth is going on, Ken?’ Diana asked, glowing after having had her toes played with for an hour.

‘I’ve just been touched up by Vera Lynn’s husband,’ I said indignantly. ‘He was searching for my gun.’

Diana burst out laughing, as amused by my aggrieved manner as by the oddness of the incident. She regaled her girlfriends with the story over dinner that evening and they dissolved into laughter. Perhaps we were overheard, for a little later, an abashed Dame Vera came over and apologised to me for her husband’s bizarre attempt to frisk me.

Diana’s brave decision to be photographed sitting in on therapy sessions for the marriage-guidance counselling service Relate whenever she made official visits to the charity sent out a clear message. For her part, she felt that her involvement in sessions actually helped her cope with her own problems. I accompanied her on a number of private visits to Relate, during which she learned counselling skills, and took part in ‘role-play of marital conflict’ and discussions. Obviously her active participation had to remain secret, since the press, already alert to the strains in her marriage, would have plastered ‘Diana Seeks Marriage Guidance’ all over the front page.