Diana--A Closely Guarded Secret (4 page)

They knew, however, that I was also there to protect them and their mother. Boys, whether they are princes destined to be kings or not, are invariably enthralled by the whole business of security. Harry, in particular, was fascinated by all the equipment police use in carrying out protection duties. He longed to join in, and plagued me daily to let him do so. On one occasion after I had become the Princess’s protection officer, he arrived unannounced in my room.

‘Ken, can I use the radio? I just want to see how it works,’ he said. Harry was and still is an endearing character, and I relented, handing him a police radio and showing him how to use it. Then I gave him specific instructions to go to several designated points and check in, using the radio. He was ecstatic. Here was his chance to be a real police officer, using real police equipment. For the next few minutes I received regular check calls from Harry as he followed my instructions to the letter. We agreed that he could visit Lady Jane (Diana’s sister) in the stable block, a short distance from the entrance to Kensington Palace, but with CCTV coverage. I spoke with Lady Jane who confirmed that he had arrived. Soon after, Lady Jane rang me to say that Harry was on the way back. I informed the police at the barrier. Harry didn’t show. Growing anxious, I contacted the police box, but the officer on duty told me he had not seen Harry. Faced with a potential security disaster – of my own
making – I was about to send out a search party when Harry radioed in.

‘Harry, can you hear me? Where the hell are you?’ I said as calmly as possible, desperately trying to appear untroubled by his disappearing act.

‘Ken, I am by Tower Records in the high street,’ he explained. Oh God – he’d left the palace grounds altogether and had walked east along Kensington High Street. Thank heavens the radio had the range to transmit over the extra distance.

‘What on earth are you doing there? Harry, come back to the Palace immediately,’ I barked. I ran to meet him.

Within minutes he was safely back, although what shoppers in the busy high street thought when they saw the Queen’s grandson walking along the pavement clutching a police radio I have no idea. Harry apologised and promised he would not do it again. In truth, some of the blame was mine – and I certainly would have been blamed if something had happened. The Metropolitan Police would have taken a very dim view indeed – although that would have been nothing compared with the Princess’s likely reaction. (Luckily, she never found out.)

As I have said, despite their birth and position, William and Harry at heart were just brothers in search of adventure. Like their parents they are both thrill seekers who love speed. Here I was in luck, for through a friend of mine I was able to satisfy their craving. Martin Howells ran Playscape, an excellent go-kart-racing track in Clapham, a place that allowed men the chance to be boys again, and boys the chance to dream of being Formula I drivers. Both the princes loved visiting the track and constantly pestered their mother to take them. One weekend
at Highgrove when Diana could take no more, she begged me to call Martin and ask him to bring down two of the go-karts, which were capable of speeds of up to 40 mph. He agreed and in due course arrived with the machines, then helped me to set up a course around Prince Charles’s beloved grounds. The go-karts tore up the garden, with William and Harry imitating their racing heroes as the Princess howled with laughter and cheered them on. I think she privately enjoyed the fact that Charles’s grounds were being used as a track, his secret garden transformed into a chicane as his sons battled for supremacy. The Prince, of course, knew nothing about it.

There was another incident at Highgrove of which he remained blissfully unaware. The Princess might easily have remained in her ivory tower, but that was not her style. Instead, she would wander into the staff kitchen where she would pick at the latest creation of her chef, Mervyn Wycherley, and the three of us would often chat for hours over a bottle of wine from her husband’s cellar. She would kick off her shoes, sometimes putting her feet up on the large wooden table, and talk about her day or catch up on gossip, often roaring with laughter at one of the irrepressible Mervyn’s mordant remarks.

The kitchen was no place for the faint-hearted, however, and certainly not for animals, particularly Charles’s beloved Jack Russell terriers. On one occasion his favourite, Tigger, dared to venture into Mervyn’s kitchen when I was there talking to him. Mervyn, a stickler for hygiene, had just finished cooking, and took exception to this canine intrusion. He scooped up the unfortunate animal and placed it in the oven which, although switched off, was still warm. Just at that
moment Charles poked his head round the door and asked, ‘Has anyone seen Tigger?’

As the dog scratched furiously at the oven door, Mervyn told the Prince that he had seen the dog heading for the garden. Charles set off in search of his ‘best friend’, whereupon Mervyn quickly opened the oven and sent the dazed – and rather hot – terrier on its way.

FOR SOME INEXPLICABLE REASON I was feeling apprehensive as I approached Kensington Palace. I had been summoned there for what was termed a ‘cosy fireside chat’ with the Princess. It was not, of course, the first time that we had talked; in fact we knew each other reasonably well by then, not only because I had been in charge of protection for her sons, but also because I had acted as her protection officer on a number of occasions throughout 1987 as a back-up to her team, and we had worked well together.

That morning, however, my composure had deserted me. Still, no good would come of delaying, so I pressed the polished brass bell push next to the imposing black door and waited. Seconds later I was greeted by the uniformed butler, the imperturbable Harold Brown, who politely asked me to wait while he informed the Princess of my arrival. The hall was surprisingly gloomy for
a palace, although comfortable, with a deep lime-green carpet throughout. After telling the Princess that I had arrived Harold ushered me into her sitting room, where she stood waiting to greet me, her bright eyes matching her smile of welcome. This room was her sanctuary, a very feminine space with elegant antique furniture on which stood ornaments and countless framed photographs of her sons. Tall windows opened out on to a delightful walled garden, which I would later come to know as one of her favourite places to hide on summer evenings, when she wanted to escape the almost constant attention that went with her position. She politely suggested I sit on one of the two sofas upholstered in plain pink fabric that flanked the fireplace, and asked her butler to fetch some tea. With a soft, ‘Very good, ma’am,’ he left and we were alone.

Sitting on the other sofa, she looked every inch a princess. Her blonde hair was immaculately dressed, and she wore a smart navy Catherine Walker dress in cream and blue with white high-heeled Jimmy Choo two-toned shoes. She had just returned from an official engagement in London and was, as she called it, ‘chilling out’, with Mozart’s Mass in C playing on her stereo. Then she suddenly giggled, which led me to laugh too. It was her way of setting someone at their ease in such enforced intimacy. After seven years in her royal job, the Princess had learned how to break the ice with easy grace.

‘Ken, I am so glad you have decided to take me on,’ she said, then added, ‘I’m sure I am seen as a poisoned chalice by you boys,’ referring to the protection team. I laughed, slightly uncomfortably, but assured her with a commendably straight face that this was not the case. I insisted that I really was
looking forward to my new position; nobody had put a gun to my head to force me to take up the post, I said.

‘You’re clearly not a very good liar, Ken,’ she joked, ‘You’re going to have to improve on that technique if you’re going to survive in this madhouse.’

I was saved from having to reply to this rather loaded remark by Harold, who just at that moment knocked on the door and entered bearing a tray. He set it down and began pouring tea from a silver teapot into two delicate china cups.

‘How do you like yours, Ken?’

‘Builder’s please, ma’am,’ I replied. She looked quizzically at me. ‘Very strong, ma’am – you know, as builders take it.’

Harold quietly departed, and for the next half hour the Princess and I chatted like old friends. Inevitably the subject kept returning to her sons and how quickly they were growing up.

‘You see them nearly as much as me, Ken – certainly more than their father,’ she said. But I was not going to take the bait. Under no circumstances was I going to be drawn into the Waleses’ private battle, and I said nothing. She pulled back. It was, after all, too early in our relationship for her to launch into a full-scale assault on her husband, and she knew it. Changing tack, she told me how very proud she was of her sons, and how much she wanted them to grow up with a genuine sense of normality, even though she knew that their status made them different from other young boys.

‘I know it is going to be tough, Ken, given who they are, but it is so, so important to me that they grow up not only knowing who they are, but what the world is really like.’

Even then, I knew that she meant what she said. In my time with them I had already accompanied her on the London underground, and she had even taken them to visit down-and-outs living rough on the streets of the capital. She was a woman of action, not idle talk, and she was as good as her word.

We did not really discuss my approach to security, and in particular her personal protection. I think we both took it as read that we were experienced professionals and knew what our respective roles would be, and that what we did not know we would have to learn as we went along.

On paper, my job was simple – to keep her safe at all costs. This meant that either I or one of my team would be on duty with her from the moment she got up to the moment she went to bed – without fail. (At night, she was guarded by static protection officers inside the palace, or other royal residences in which she might be staying.) I would travel with her wherever she went, at home or abroad, in public or in private. I would be her shadow, walking a pace away, constantly searching the faces in the crowd for the one that might be a potential threat. Both the Princess and I knew the form, but, typically, when she did raise the subject of her security, she joked about it.

‘So, Ken – basically, you are my last line of defence?’ She looked me up and down critically as she said it, but there was a hint of laughter in her eyes. ‘So does that mean you will take a bullet for me?’ she went on. This was typical Diana, testing, half joking but still serious. I was ready for her, however. Looking straight back at her I replied, ‘Only one bullet, ma’am. I find more than one a little uncomfortable.’

For a moment she was silent, then she laughed – I had
responded, as it turned out, in exactly the right way. Naturally, I then assured her that I would do everything in my power to avoid any such drastic action, adding that, with her assistance, I hoped to be around for a very long time.

I had met the Princess before, of course, many times, but never for such an intimate conversation. I found her immensely engaging. She was compassionate, interested, funny and streetwise, with a keen intelligence that belied her lack of academic qualifications. I knew my new job was going to have its ups and downs, but I found that I was looking forward to riding this royal roller-coaster at her side.

‘I am sure we are going to get along just fine, Ken,’ she said, as I stood to leave, before adding, ‘We’ll make a good team.’

With that vote of confidence I turned and left, making my way through the palace complex and back across Kensington Gardens before catching a taxi back to the department’s headquarters close to Buckingham Palace. The meeting had gone well, I felt, and I was delighted. A few days later I was formally confirmed as Personal Protection Officer to Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales.

If you are not born to it like ‘blood’ royals, having a bodyguard around you twenty-four hours a day can be tough to take. I suppose my being there must have been an ever-present reminder to Diana that she was different; that she had become a potential target for faceless terrorists or deranged stalkers, or any one of the thousands of cranks out there (and any policeman can tell you just how many there are). Before I joined, she had already attended an anti-terrorist course at
Stirling Lines, then the headquarters of the Special Air Service Regiment at Hereford; we would return there periodically for refresher courses, which included her taking a driving course on how to handle possible terrorist attacks, during which she drove through smoke bombs tossed in front of her car. I also took her to the police range at Lippitts Hill in Loughton, Essex, where officers licensed to carry firearms, myself included, have to complete regular proficiency tests on the range to ensure we qualify for the job. If a personal protection officer failed to meet the necessary standard he or she would be immediately switched to other duties. On one occasion she brought William and Harry with her, who revelled in firing a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, under the close supervision of a police instructor.

For all her mood swings, her unpredictability and occasional outbursts of frustration or rage – and I have to emphasise that this was an exceptionally difficult time for her both in terms of her marriage and her place within the royal family – the Princess recognised that we had to be with her, and while at times she must have found our presence claustrophobic, we knew that she appreciated our diligence. Although she had joked about me being her last line of defence, she knew that it was in fact true. We both recognised that if I was to keep her safe, then there could be no secrets between us.

For members of the British royal family, life can never be completely private. Rank and title bring with them great privilege, wealth and prestige, but rank and title also mean that their secrets are never truly their own. There have always been – and always will be – over-attentive servants eavesdropping on
conversations, or maids who survey personal correspondence too closely while tidying a desk, or even housekeepers paying rather too much attention to clothes or bed linen. That is not to say that such people are not honourable or discreet, but they still
know
. Then there are people who have to know, in order that the whole business of royalty can be run smoothly and without scandals, as well as others, often senior courtiers, who make it their business to know. So for royalty, even the most cherished private moment must, by the very nature of the job, be shared, or at the least be on somebody else’s ‘need-to-know’ list.

In addition, the more senior the royal, the greater the need for their every movement and action to be – discreetly – known, since otherwise it becomes almost impossible to protect them. Being both the wife of the Prince of Wales and a very high-profile figure in her own right, Diana was no exception and, as her protection officer, I was perhaps the one person with whom she needed to share those secrets without constraint. If she was planning to visit the theatre with friends, or to dine privately with a male admirer, it was imperative that I should know in advance who these people were, and where she intended meeting them, in order to protect her effectively.

Within days of joining the Metropolitan Police Royalty Protection Department in 1986 I had become party to many of Diana’s most intimate secrets, passed to me semi-officially. A handover was arranged in the kitchen at Highgrove; nobody else was present as Chief Inspector Graham Smith, Diana’s senior police protection officer, and I sat down and chatted over a cup of coffee. What he told me was of no real surprise;
indeed, gossip being what it is, I had already heard much of it at second or third hand. The principal subject of our conversation was the Princess’s love affair with Captain James Hewitt. Graham spelt out the situation calmly and clearly. The wife of the heir to the throne was having an affair with an officer of the Household Cavalry, and it was not for us, as her police protection officers, or for me in particular, to moralise, or even to have an opinion about it. Our job was simply to ensure above all that she remained safe, which in turn meant that the affair had to remain secret. Graham told me that in his professional view Hewitt would never compromise the Princess’s security. He was co-operative, sensible and happy to be guided by the police; moreover, he fully accepted that the safe houses in which he met his lover had all to be checked for security and rated as being safe, before an assignation could take place.

The Princess first met James Hewitt in London in the summer of 1986, a few months before I joined the department, at a party thrown by her lady-in-waiting, Hazel West. For Hewitt, it clashed with a dinner engagement and he almost did not go – in which case, one of the most celebrated love affairs of the latter part of the twentieth century might never have started. Diana later told me of this first meeting, and although the sadness that followed their eventual parting tainted the telling of it, it was clear that she always adored Hewitt. She said that their first conversation was completely natural, and it was this that first attracted her to him – he helped to make the whole experience of meeting and talking more enjoyable, and they got on famously from the start.

At some point during the conversation Hewitt told her that he was a riding instructor; when she in turn spoke of her long-held fear of riding, he offered to help her overcome it. As a result, another meeting was arranged, and before long what has become one of the most notorious affairs in recent royal history had started. At this time, although nobody ever confirmed it to her, Diana knew in her heart that Prince Charles was still seeing Camilla Parker Bowles. Shattered by her husband’s betrayal, the Princess was ready for an affair. Hewitt, a natural womaniser, appreciated her emotional and physical needs. From the first, he gave her the attention and affection she relished, and would later provide the passion she yearned for.

The private friendships of both Charles and Diana were common knowledge to those on the inside, but not to the public. Of course, there had been murmurings in the press, but no one had come close to exposing either of them. At this stage I did not have to cope with the added tension of covering Diana’s tracks; that responsibility fell to Graham Smith (or ‘Smudger’, as I called him), who headed up her security until he fell ill with the cancer that eventually killed him. But throughout 1987, while I was overseeing security for Princes William and Harry, ‘Smudger’ called on me to assist her protection team, and I stood in for him as senior officer on a number of occasions. I suppose it was a natural transition, as my duties with the young princes meant that I was in daily contact with Diana, and we had already established an easy rapport. When acting as her protection officer, my duties varied from carrying out reconnaissance for her police team ahead of her official visits, to accompanying her on engagements. These ranged from
film galas in London’s West End (occasionally with Prince Charles) to the more mundane opening of a civic centre in Harrow or accompanying her to the wedding of a friend. It was all good experience and, in retrospect, it is clear that I was unknowingly being groomed for the next stage in my Scotland Yard protection career.