Diana--A Closely Guarded Secret (3 page)

A few days after his death, exhausted and emotionally strung out after the frenzied atmosphere of the riots, I resolved there and then to hang up my blue inspector’s uniform, placing it in my police locker. I have not worn it since; not even on the day I was formally invested with an honour by the Queen.

As it happened, I didn’t need to. Not long afterwards I took that fateful drink with Jim Beaton, and some little while later I transferred to the Royalty and Diplomatic Protection
Department. From there on in my uniform was usually to be a Turnbull & Asser suit (paid for, I might add, from a special clothing allowance from the department), which covered my 9mm Glock self-loading pistol, supplied by the Firearms Department at Scotland Yard. The nature of the job meant my wardrobe had to be upgraded and had to include tailored suits and morning dress for accompanying members of the royal family to Ascot, weddings or funerals, and both types of evening dress, black tie for official or formal dinners, and white tie for the most formal of banquets. I was now a member of the elite Royalty Protection Department charged with guarding the ‘heir and the spare’ to the British throne.

In November 1986, a few days after joining the department, I was introduced to the Prince and Princess of Wales in person at Sandringham, the Queen’s estate near Kings Lynn, Norfolk, in the east of England. I first met Prince Charles while he was out shooting. He was charming; the epitome of the perfect English landed gentleman, although he struck me even then as perhaps a little eccentric. He was relaxed – after all, he had had policemen around him ever since he was a little boy – and he wished me well. As I walked back towards the main house with Superintendent Colin Trimming, the Prince’s protection officer, Charles and his fellow guns continued to knock a small proportion of the pheasant population from the crisp autumn sky.

On reflection, it seemed a trifle odd that our introduction should have been effected in a Norfolk field during a break in the Prince’s sport. My first encounter with the Princess, however, was an altogether different experience. It took place
in the entrance hall of the red-bricked main house, where Colin and I found the tall, elegant blonde waiting for us. She approached us to greet me. As Colin was about to make a formal introduction, the Princess giggled coquettishly:

‘You must be Ken. I have heard so much about you. I am Diana,’ she said, as though I had no idea who she was. There was no formality – she was completely natural.

‘Ma’am, I know who you are, I’ve heard so much about you, and it really is a pleasure to meet you,’ I fumbled in response, trying to sound bright.

She appeared to be in excellent humour, if perhaps a little overexcited, and, compared with Charles, seemed so fresh and young in outlook. I had no idea that our lives would become so closely entwined, believing then that my appointment as senior protection officer to Princes William and Harry would last a year, after which, if I continued in the force, I would be reassigned back to front-line policing.

‘I don’t envy your job, Ken,’ she said after Colin had told her that I had been appointed to head up security for her two sons. ‘They can be quite a handful – but remember, I am always around if you need me,’ she added reassuringly.

FEW JOBS REQUIRE MORE EXPERTISE, or more discretion, than that of a protection officer. I am not talking about the ample-bellied bouncers often seen guarding pixie-sized pop stars, or the phalanx of heavily armed US Secret Service agents sporting designer sunglasses and – at least as depicted in Hollywood movies – whispering into hidden microphones in their lapels. I am talking about the professionals in tailored suits who are as at ease mingling at a diplomatic reception as undergoing the training exercises at the Special Air Service (SAS) base in Hereford. There will be no bulges in his or her well-cut suit as the weapon will be neatly concealed in a holster in the small of the back. Yet even though professional protection officers may be armed, they know that their ultimate tool is information, and the skill and experience that allows them to use it.

For security reasons, how the officers for the elite Royalty and Diplomatic Protection Department are trained has to remain secret. What I can say, however, is that once an officer is selected, having demonstrated the right characteristics for the job, he or she then undergoes an extensive system of specialist courses. I know that, to be accepted on the course, an officer has to be of a very high standard because I have been an instructor on a number of courses, and was one of the instigators of the new Metropolitan Police protection course which, I am proud to say, has now been adopted nationally.

Once potential officers, men and women, have passed all these courses, and have mastered the specialist skills, including advanced driving, first aid, physical fitness and firearms proficiency, they are ready for the next stage. Only then, having attained an exceptionally high standard, are they invited to attend the national bodyguard course. It is there that the importance of interpersonal skills and communication is stressed.

To ensure the personal security of the two princes it was essential for them to trust me, which meant that I had to get close to them. Much has been made in the press about the relationship between the princes and their protection officers, often with exaggerated claims that they regarded ‘their’ policeman as some form of surrogate father. This of course was nonsense. To William and Harry the Prince of Wales was always ‘Papa’, and nobody could or would ever take his place. It is fair to say, however, that I had an avuncular relationship with the boys, which Diana actively encouraged.

In the months that followed my appointment I did not have many dealings with the Prince and Princess – certainly
not to the extent that I had at first anticipated – as I set about the task of drawing up an action plan for the young princes’ security. Even then, aged five and three years, they knew they were special, different from others, despite their mother’s determination that they should, as far as possible, be raised as ‘normal’ children. But they were also boisterous children, full of energy and surprises. In terms of security, developing a good rapport with the boys was essential because they had to trust me completely if I was to protect their young lives – with my own, if necessary. I impressed on them from the outset the need to tell me exactly what they were doing at all times. In time we came not only to like but to respect each other, and as a result they responded positively.

In the early days I had a fairly regular routine. On weekdays I would accompany William to Wetherby prep school in Notting Hill, a short distance from Kensington Palace, where I would spend the day until it was time for him to go home, and at weekends would look after both princes’ security, usually at one of the royal residences on a rota basis. I handed over to a static officer (one who guards a specific location rather than a person) once they were inside the secure Kensington Palace compound, where several other members of the royal family, as well as a number of senior courtiers, had grace-and-favour apartments. These accommodations are in the gift of the Queen and are usually rent-free or carry only a nominal fee. They are often given to more distantly related members of the family or loyal courtiers.

Weekends would usually be spent at Highgrove, the Gloucestershire estate Charles bought in August 1980, not
quite a year before his marriage, for over $1,125,000 (£750,000). Set in 348 well-wooded acres on the edge of the picturesque Cotswolds, about two hours’ drive west of London, it was here that Charles, in particular, felt most at home and able to forget for a time the pressures of public life; moreover, and despite claims to the contrary, the Princess too grew to like the place. Highgrove’s sweeping parkland lies within the country of the Beaufort Hunt, something that helped sway the Prince, a keen foxhunter, to buy it. Most significantly, perhaps, it was also just seventeen miles from the home of Camilla Parker Bowles, at Allington, near Chippenham.

Security at Highgrove was second to none, at least as private houses go in England. Equally impregnable was Paddy Whiteland, an inscrutable individual who to all intents and purposes was the heartbeat of Highgrove. Paddy, who sadly died a few years ago, knew exactly how the place ticked, and how to keep it ticking. I first met this blunt Irishman, a significant figure in Prince Charles’s life, in January 1987 when Charles and Diana were away skiing in the exclusive Swiss resort of Klosters. Since the Prince and Princess were accompanied by a team of expert police skiers, I remained in Britain with William and Harry, who continued their routine of weekends at Highgrove. As Paddy shuffled into the staff kitchen, his thick, unkempt white hair almost standing on end, he brought with him an overwhelming aroma of horses. Flashing a roguish grin, he stuck out his hand and introduced himself. I liked him immediately, but instinctively knew that he was someone who needed to be handled with care. His rustic simplicity belied his ruthless guile, for his rugged exterior was
simply the outer casing of probably the most cunning – and powerful – individual on Charles’s staff, the colour sergeant, if you like, of the Prince’s Praetorian Guard. If someone wanted gossip to reach Charles all they had to do was to tell Paddy and within hours the Prince would hear. Nobody was safe, and especially not Diana and her inner circle.

With Charles and Diana away there was a relaxed air about Highgrove. When they were there, the Highgrove staff lived and breathed the tension of their employers’ failing marriage, which they knew was doomed even if the press and the general public didn’t. The dressers, butlers, chef, and other indoor and outdoor servants had to live with the daily pressure and the endless rows when Charles and Diana were in residence, so when they were away they tended to treat the interlude like a national holiday.

The fun rubbed off on the young princes too, who from the first were quite relaxed about their parents’ absences, and seemed to accept me as much as I enjoyed being with them. At the weekends we really bonded. Even so they both missed their mother, William especially.

Diana had a very clear idea of how she wanted her sons raised. She had already axed their first nanny, Barbara Barnes, a traditionalist whose protestations that ‘the princes need to be treated differently, because they are different’ fell on deaf ears where their mother was concerned. Although I liked Barbara, and believed that she had William and Harry’s best interests at heart, I felt Diana was right to try to raise her sons as normally as possible. Moreover, despite their birthright, and largely thanks to their mother, they have developed into remarkably balanced young men.

Barbara left after a series of disputes with the Princess and increasingly Diana’s personal staff came to realise that the nanny was on a collision course with her employer, and was therefore a dangerous person to be allied with. Her power battle with Diana over the children could have only one victor, and it became just a matter of time before she was sent packing.

Diana felt that the way the royal family raised children was, at the very least, odd. Convinced that the reason Charles was cold and distant was due to a lack of physical and emotional love during his childhood, she determined that the same would not happen to her beloved boys. So when Olga Powell was brought in as a replacement, she was under no illusions about who was boss. Her nanny style had to comply with Diana’s style of mothering or she too would be out.

As far as the children were concerned Olga was a breath of fresh air. She very quickly saw the lie of the land. Privately, she explained to me that the Princess was a jealous mother, and as such had to be handled with care. As their protection officer it was essential that I did not fall into the same trap as Barbara. On numerous occasions when the princes and I were messing around together Olga would advise caution. It was imperative, she said, not to come between the Princess and her children, for if Diana felt she was losing control of her boys, she would step in and assert herself. Olga, who had not even taken on the job full-time, was happy to play it Diana’s way.

The deep, loving bond between Diana and her two sons, so often remarked upon, was truly wonderful to witness. When she was away in Klosters she missed them terribly, and was ecstatic when they were reunited. Her face lit up with
love when I returned with William and Harry from a lunch with Lord Vestey’s children, whose parents lived nearby. It was as though she had not seen them for years. I let an excited William toot the car’s horn as Diana, tanned from her skiing break, stood on the steps of Highgrove with her arms outstretched, ready to embrace her boys. That evening the family enjoyed a relaxed meal together, during which Charles and Diana appeared more comfortable with each other than they had for months. Although she had raised countless protests against going skiing, the break appeared to have done them both good.

Olga’s appointment coincided with William’s first day at Wetherby. From the start, however, Diana made it clear that wherever possible she would drive William to and from school each day, her official engagements permitting, so that they would, at the very least, start their day with a loving kiss. Perhaps the fact that she came from a broken home left a void in her that was never properly filled; she knew that this was so important in their development. Only illness or official duties would prevent her from doing what she saw as her parental duty.

Diana’s love for her sons was absolute and wholly consistent. Nevertheless, it brought with it some problems. Seeing her as
the
celebrity mother on parade, the well-to-do – and extremely competitive – mothers with sons at the school knew they had to try hard if they were to match up to the world’s most famous and glamorous woman. So the morning school run was like nothing so much as a catwalk show for thirty-somethings, and stunning mothers dressed to kill in designer clothes became
a standard feature. I remember one afternoon when I was standing on the steps of the school, waiting for the Princess to arrive to collect William, when one of the mothers, a tall, statuesque, aristocratic woman who was the sister-in-law of a famous billionaire, pounced. Just as she was in the process of planting a kiss of greeting on my ruddy cheek the Princess walked up the steps.

‘Having fun, Ken?’ Diana said, pointedly. I knew I would be teased about the incident later.

Prince Charles was, and no doubt still is, an extremely busy man. His hectic public schedule inevitably meant that I spent more time with his children than he did. As a result, when they wanted somebody to have a playful fight with, they turned to me. They were always great fun, and often their peculiar antics made me roar with laughter. On one occasion, however, a joke I made to William about his pronunciation led to a potentially embarrassing confrontation with Charles. William speaks with that slightly clipped upper-class English accent which, to many people, can sound a little odd. One day he persisted with pronouncing ‘out’ like ‘ite’, and when I teasingly corrected him he insisted he was right because his father always said the word like that. As I was walking through Highgrove’s sculpted grounds a few hours later, Prince Charles approached me.

‘Ken, I understand you have been giving William elocution lessons,’ he said, his tone suggesting a reprimand without actually saying so. I had clearly overstepped the mark, and this was the Prince’s gentlemanly way of telling me to keep my nose out of family business. I took the lesson to heart,
although when Diana found out about my telling-off she thought it was hilarious.

William and Harry loved to rough and tumble, and they always fought dirty. I had my own bedroom at Kensington Palace, so that I could sleep there when duty required. As regular as clockwork they would knock at the door, and a small voice would say, ‘Ken, do you want to fight?’

It was not really a request or even a question; it was a statement of what was going to happen. The two princes made the perfect royal tag team. One would go for my head and the other attack my more sensitive parts, landing punches towards my groin, which if they connected, would make me keel over in agony. For just a few minutes of mayhem these two boys, who were to become the focus of so much sadness and sympathy after their mother’s death, were just that, two boisterous little boys. So much now rests on their shoulders, not least the future existence of the monarchy as a viable and creditable institution, but at the time I was pleased to share and enjoy their moments of play. Certainly, both their parents seemed to appreciate it. Charles would pop his head around the door of whichever room we were in and, with a slightly quizzical look on his furrowed face, would ask; ‘They’re not being too much bother are they, Ken?’

‘No, sir, not at all,’ I would gasp as I recovered from another fierce royal punch. In fact the poor man looked a little relieved. It was not that he was not a good father, despite the black propaganda being circulated about him at that time; it was just that he found the kind of horseplay that his boys sometimes needed at that stage in their lives somewhat confusing. The
Prince loved his sons, of that there was no doubt, but he always seemed a little wrapped up in his work and the cares of his position to actually join in. William and Harry adored their father in return, while they regarded me as a jovial uncle who was always on hand to fight with.