‘Let’s get moving!’ the bodyguard yelled at Roach, the barrel of his gun now lodged painfully in the nape of Jackie’s neck.
Roach didn’t think this was the moment to let him know he was a SO19 and had never flown a plane in his life. He put on his headset and began to pray. A voice from above answered his prayer.
‘Follow my instructions carefully,’ said the real pilot. ‘Turn on the engines by pressing the start switches in the centre of the overhead panel.’
Roach obeyed the command. He rotated the two switches and the engines spooled up, reaching idle within moments.
‘Now you need to arm the autobrake. The switch is in the centre front panel. Rotate it to RTO. Now push the two thrust levers next to your right leg forward, to about half-way, and the plane will start to accelerate. Steer with your feet — you’ll have to ease the pedals gently if you hope to remain in a straight line.’
Roach looked left and right before tentatively easing the thrust levers forward a few inches. The plane started to move forward.
‘Everything on the runway in front of you has been cleared, Inspector,’ said the voice. ‘Now I want you to push the levers a little further forward but not suddenly. The plane will speed up, until you’re doing about ninety miles an hour.’
What then, Roach wanted to ask. The gunman placed a hand on the side of the cockpit door to steady himself as the plane began to gather speed.
‘Now, get ready to shut down the thrust levers in one movement, Inspector. When you do that, the brakes will automatically be applied violently. It will feel like hitting a brick wall. The gunman is certain to be thrown off balance, and that will be your one chance to disarm him.’
‘Understood,’ said Roach, who could see the runway ahead of him was coming to an abrupt end.
‘Now,’ said the voice firmly.
Roach slammed both thrust levers closed, and as the brakes came on, the gun went off. Roach watched as a body slumped to the ground.
‘They did what?’ said the Princess as the Jaguar turned right out of Bond Street onto Piccadilly, a pair of outriders making sure the traffic was held up until the car had safely crossed the junction.
Ross told HRH what he’d witnessed during lunch as the car continued on its uninterrupted journey, and why he hadn’t been able to do anything about it.
‘Poor Mr Carmichael,’ said Diana. ‘Surely there must be something I can do to help?’
‘Nothing short of searching every guest as they leave,’ said Ross. ‘That would only embarrass some of Asprey’s best customers, which wouldn’t exactly please Mr Carmichael.’
‘But he was such a nice man, and took so much trouble to make it a memorable event. Now he’ll only have bad memories of the occasion. Perhaps I could try to make it up to him by ordering a hundred silver frames from Asprey’s, and giving one to anyone I send a photograph to after an official function.’
‘That would only make the situation worse,’ suggested Victoria. ‘The last time you did that, ma’am, Asprey’s didn’t send you a bill.’
The Princess remained silent for some time before saying, ‘I know something that will put a smile back on Mr Carmichael’s face. I’ll ask Her Majesty to award him the MVO.’
‘But that’s only usually given to people who’ve served the Royal Family for several years,’ Victoria reminded her.
‘Precisely,’ said Diana. ‘Don’t forget that Asprey’s have served the monarchy for over a hundred years.’
‘Forgive me for asking, ma’am,’ said Ross, ‘but what is an MVO?’
‘A Member of the Royal Victorian Order,’ replied Victoria. ‘The equivalent of an MBE, but rarer because it’s in the personal gift of Her Majesty.’
‘So, if you take care of me for the next twenty years, Ross, you might even get one,’ said Diana.
That’s something to look forward to, thought Ross as the car drew up outside Kensington Palace, but he didn’t express an opinion.
William watched as four paramedics carried two stretchers down the steps of the plane and onto the runway. They walked slowly towards a waiting ambulance everyone had hoped wouldn’t be required, and gently placed the two stretchers next to each other. One figure had a sheet over its head.
Moments later, two men in handcuffs were bundled off the aircraft and led unceremoniously to separate police cars, the back doors of which were already open.
‘Brave girl,’ said Inspector Roach as the ambulance drove off. ‘She would have made a damn fine member of our unit.’
William didn’t comment, but if he’d been carrying a gun at the time he would have shot Khalifah there and then, and it would have taken a lot more than Inspector Roach to restrain him.
Chapter 16
Booth Watson recovered fairly quickly from what he tried to convince himself was no more than a temporary set-back, but was now resigned to putting off his trip to Seattle for a few months. While Faulkner was still in prison, with no chance of an early release, he would simply have to bide his time. And time was on his side.
He would need to arrange an early consultation with Miles, at which he would show him the handwritten letter Christina had left in the suitcase. That should ensure Miles’s anger was directed elsewhere, and prevent him from suspecting what his lawyer had been up to in his absence. He would recommend to Miles that an anonymous source should tip off the taxman about Christina’s windfall, thus killing two birds with one stone.
Despite Christina’s sleight of hand, Booth Watson felt all was not lost. There was still twelve million in cash lodged in the bank’s vault, and he was the only person Miles had entrusted with a key to the strongbox. He would just have to make a few more visits to the bank during the coming weeks. He would also carry out Miles’s instructions to the letter, and accept a bid of twenty-six million pounds for his fifty-one per cent holding in Marcel and Neffe, which he would then deposit in his client account for safekeeping, where it would remain until sentence had been pronounced, when the money would be transferred to Hong Kong the moment Miles was safely ensconced in Belmarsh — for the next fourteen years.
But that was a mere bagatelle compared with the amount Booth Watson would make when he sold Miles’s art collection, along with the Raphael, the Rembrandt and the Frans Hals he’d be claiming back from the Fitzmolean once their forthcoming exhibition had closed. That wouldn’t please Warwick’s wife, which he considered a bonus.
So, other than having to pay a redundant taxi driver who’d been booked to take him to Heathrow, and the deposit on a jet that never took off, it hadn’t been a complete disaster. He would just have to wait a little longer before he took early retirement. However, there was still one mystery he hadn’t yet solved: who was it who had been wearing the chauffeur’s uniform? And then he remembered that whoever it was hadn’t opened the car door for Christina when she left the bank, so it couldn’t have been his day job.
‘Why did Sir Julian Warwick roll over quite so easily?’ said Miles, when he sat down opposite Tulip and a guard handed him a steaming cup of black coffee and a copy of The Times.
‘Because if he hadn’t,’ suggested Tulip, ‘that precious son of his might well have ended up joining us for breakfast, rather than hobnobbing with Princesses.’
Miles scowled. ‘I’m missing something,’ he said as an inmate placed a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him.