He opened the back door, slid inside and lay flat on the back seat as the car sped off. He didn’t move until the prison was out of sight.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Lamont, without looking around.
‘Morning, Bruce,’ Miles replied, sitting up and pulling a freshly ironed white shirt over his gym vest. ‘Is everything ready?’
‘They’re all waiting for you. Time is our only problem,’ he added as he pressed his foot down on the accelerator.
‘Don’t break the speed limit,’ Miles warned him as he slipped off his shorts and pulled on a pair of grey flannel trousers. ‘Don’t forget, if we’re stopped by the police, I won’t be the only person going back to prison.’
Chapter 30
Mr and Mrs Smith were the last passengers to board the aircraft. But few of their fellow travellers were fooled as they took their places in the back row, leaving four unoccupied seats in front of them.
She had told Ross she wanted to remain anonymous — ‘melt into the crowd’ were her exact words. But by wearing dark Gucci shades, a Chanel silk scarf and Louboutin high heels on a package holiday flight to Mallorca, she couldn’t have made herself more conspicuous. Ross had advised her against the whole idea, but she wouldn’t listen. It didn’t help him to relax when he spotted the snapper he’d recently thrown out of Chalabi’s home, sitting just a couple of rows in front of them. He wasn’t in any doubt that Jamil Chalabi must have told him which flight she’d be on.
When the plane landed at Palma de Mallorca, the other passengers remained in their seats. A hundred pairs of eyes stared out of the cabin windows as she disembarked from the rear exit. If anyone hadn’t realized she was on board, they certainly knew now. A Rolls-Royce was waiting for them at the bottom of the aircraft steps, two small Union Jacks fluttering on the front wings. Now the whole of Spain knew HRH the Princess of Wales was in town.
Ross took his place in the front seat, and glanced in the wing mirror to see his other problem hurrying down the aircraft steps. At least they would have an hour’s start on him. Once they’d sailed off into the sunset, he’d be none the wiser. Or had he already been told where the sun would set?
Motorcycle outriders escorted them through the airport’s private exit and on towards Palma, only stopping when they reached the port where Lowlander, Jamil’s private yacht, awaited them. Unusually, Diana didn’t address a single word to Ross during the journey, well aware he didn’t approve of her going on this holiday with Chalabi, after what had happened when she’d spent the weekend at his country home. Ross still hadn’t told her his side of the story.
The only concession he’d managed was to make sure Lady Victoria was also invited on the trip.
Ross had come to accept that the Princess was even more of a handful than Jojo, another young woman whose slightest whim he obeyed without question.
The car finally came to a halt beside the largest yacht in the harbour. Diana had leapt out before Ross even had a chance to open the back door. She ran up the gangway, where a man wearing a gold braided peaked cap was standing on the deck waiting to greet her.
As she threw her arms around him, Ross checked for photographers, and was relieved to find no sign of any. Her host introduced HRH to the captain, who saluted her before the senior steward accompanied the couple to the recently renamed ‘royal suite’ on a lower deck.
‘Any hope of getting out of here as quickly as possible?’ Ross asked after he’d introduced himself to the captain.
‘I’m afraid not, Inspector. We won’t be sailing until after dinner.’
‘Of course,’ said Ross. ‘Giving the snapper more than enough time to catch up with us,’ he muttered under his breath. He smiled for the first time when Victoria emerged from below deck wearing a light yellow summer frock and white sandals. She was obviously determined to enjoy the holiday.
‘I’m your tour guide, Inspector,’ she teased, before showing him around the yacht, which she described as a vulgar floating gin palace. Ross checked every inch of the vessel from the engine room to the crew’s quarters to the galley, where the chef was preparing dinner, and finally the helicopter pad perched high on the aft deck. Everything except the royal suite, which was locked from the inside.
Once Victoria had completed the tour, Ross began to think this just might turn out to be an enjoyable fortnight after all. But when they emerged back on deck he caught sight of the rogue photographer, standing on the dockside, taking pictures of everything in sight as he waited for the Princess to appear. He didn’t need to be back in Fleet Street; one particular picture desk would be waiting for his exclusive.
When Diana came up on deck a couple of hours later she was barefoot, wearing a white T-shirt and shorts, her high heels abandoned. She looked more relaxed and content than Ross had seen her for a long time. But he couldn’t help wondering how the Prince of Wales would react when his private secretary placed the papers on his breakfast table in the morning.
The Princess and Jamil sat down for dinner just as the sun began to set, but the photographer had already left by then, as he needed to catch the first edition before the presses began to roll.
Ross didn’t relax until he heard the engines turn over, followed by an order piped down from the bridge to the engine room, ‘Slow ahead.’ They eased away from the dockside and set course for a secluded bay where, the captain had assured him, no one would ever find them. Ross was pretty sure there was one person who would.
Ross was the last to go below deck, but not before he’d double-checked that all that could be seen in any direction was a calm sea with no other vessel in sight.
He walked quietly past the royal suite, no light coming from under the door, before retiring to his cabin on the same deck. Something he’d insisted on. He showered and climbed into bed, sinking down into the fresh crisp cotton sheets, his head resting on a feather pillow. If it hadn’t been for the quiet murmur of the engines, and the gentle movement of the boat, he wouldn’t even have known they were at sea.
‘Don’t get used to it,’ the Hawk had warned him, ‘or you’ll lose your edge.’ The last thing he did before switching off his bedside light was to look out of the port window to confirm one more time that no one was following them. No one was.
Lamont turned off the main road and followed a signpost pointing to a large storage facility near Gatwick.
Miles, now dressed in a dark grey suit, white shirt, highly polished black shoes and a striped tie, had completed the transformation from escaped prisoner to respectable businessman. He checked the bulging wallet in his inside pocket. It would be empty by the time he climbed into bed that night. But which bed would he be climbing into?
Lamont parked on the far side of a large removal van, so they could remain out of sight of prying eyes. He then made his way across to the nearest building and disappeared inside.
He reappeared a moment later and indicated with a nod that it was safe for Miles to join him. Inside, a squat heavily built man wearing brown overalls, an open-necked shirt and a baseball cap was standing in front of a large reinforced door with two large padlocks.
‘Reg,’ said Lamont, ‘this is Mr Booth Watson, who I told you would be coming to collect his paintings in person.’
‘I’ll need to see some ID.’
Miles took out his wallet and handed over £500 in cash, which quickly disappeared into a deep pocket. Identity established.
‘Sign here,’ said Reg, producing a transport authority form. ‘Then my lads can get started on the loading.’
After Miles had squiggled an indistinguishable signature on the dotted line, Reg touched his cap and announced, ‘We’ll see you in Lambeth in a couple of hours’ time, Mr Booth Watson, when...’