The following morning, Victoria joined the Royal Family for breakfast in the dining room, while Ross went downstairs to the steward’s quarters where he enjoyed the same breakfast with the household staff.
As he sat down to a bowl of piping hot porridge sprinkled with salt and honey, he glanced at the headline in the Daily Telegraph before it was ironed by the butler and taken upstairs on a silver tray. ‘The Princess of Wales interrupts her holiday in Scotland to pay a surprise visit to HMS Cornwall.’
Victoria had once told him that Lord Deedes, a former editor of the Telegraph and a privy councillor, could always be relied on when offered a front page ‘exclusive’ for the paper’s first edition, confident it would make the second edition in every other paper, along with the grateful thanks of the royal household.
Only the Daily Mail stuck with its original banner headline reporting that its star royal photographer had mysteriously disappeared while on holiday in Mallorca. But as he wasn’t their photographer, no other paper bothered to follow up the story. The Palace already had the words ‘conspiracy theory’ ready in case it got out of hand.
Ross sat in the front seat of the Jaguar as the Princess and Victoria were driven to the Highland Games later that morning.
Once they’d arrived, he stood at the back of the royal box while Prince Charles and the Princess were driven around the track in an open Land Rover, returning the waves of an adoring crowd.
Ross enjoyed watching the Highland dancers as they performed the ‘Dashing White Sergeant’ reel, accompanied by the bagpipers of the band of the Scots Guards. He marvelled at the strength of the huge, brawny brutes who were trying to toss the caber, and at the six rather more lithe athletes who took part in the hundred yards dash, as they came sprinting down the grass track; the winner reaching the tape in under ten seconds. From time to time, Victoria glanced back and gave him a warm smile.
Ross was delighted when during tea Victoria broke away from the royal party to join him at the back of the box. He was about to ask her when she would be returning to London when one of the guests, dressed in a smart Lovat jacket and a kilt of blue and green tartan, strolled across to join them.
Ross had checked the guest list and the accompanying photographs over breakfast, so he knew the gentleman was Sir Hamish McTaggart, chairman of Aberdeen Oil, one of Scotland’s largest energy companies.
‘Hamish,’ Victoria said as he joined them, ‘this is Inspector Ross Hogan, who’s the Princess’s personal protection officer.’
‘Good to meet you, Hogan,’ said McTaggart as they shook hands.
‘Hamish,’ said Victoria, linking arms with him, ‘is my fiancé.’
It was some time before Ross managed, ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said McTaggart. ‘Will you be spending the rest of the weekend with us?’
‘No, sir. I return to London this evening, when one of my Scottish colleagues will take over.’
‘That’s a pity,’ said McTaggart. ‘You’ll miss the highlight of the games. The tug of war between the Scots and a visiting team from England.’
‘I think I already know who’s won that battle,’ said the visitor from England.
Chapter 36
‘Whenever you’re dressed up like a matinée idol,’ said Beth, ‘you’re either off to court or seeing your father.’
‘Both,’ said William as she straightened his tie.
‘Who’s in the dock?’
‘Miles Faulkner. He’s about to find out how many more years he’s going to have to spend in jail.’
‘I know your team run a book on the outcome of any trial they’re involved in. So when do you think he’ll be released — 2003? 2004? 2005?’
‘That will depend on how he pleads.’
‘But even if he pleads guilty,’ said Beth, ‘he escaped from custody, faked his own death and went on the run. Surely the judge will have to take that into consideration.’
‘True. But if the jury decide he was unlawfully abducted from his home in Spain, and taken to England against his will without an extradition order, it could be me who ends up in the dock.’
‘I promise to visit you in jail,’ said Beth. ‘From time to time, as I’m rather busy at the moment.’
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ said William. ‘Booth Watson will also claim that I removed a valuable painting from Faulkner’s house in Spain without his permission, brought it back to London and gave it to you.’
‘Loaned it to me,’ said Beth defiantly. ‘I can prove I’d already agreed with Booth Watson to return it the day the Hals exhibition closes, which I did, meaning you only borrowed the painting and had every intention of returning it to its rightful owner.’
‘But who is the rightful owner?’ asked William.
‘Christina. And she’s already agreed that the Fitzmolean can add it to their permanent collection.’
‘I suspect Booth Watson will dispute that,’ said William, ‘and claim that it belongs to his client.’
‘Which at least proves you never intended to steal the portrait in the first place.’
‘A nice point of law,’ said William, ‘as I’m sure my father would eloquently opine in my defence. But the judge might not agree with him, and you can be certain Booth Watson will keep reminding the jury, not to mention the press, that prosecuting counsel is my father, and perhaps the wrong man’s in the dock.’
‘That would be a pity,’ said Beth, ‘because I was looking forward to celebrating our wedding anniversary at Lucio’s this evening and it might not be quite as easy to book a table at Belmarsh.’
‘Where are you off to, my darling?’ asked Sebastian as he helped Christina on with her coat.
‘The theatre.’
‘At nine o’clock in the morning?’
She laughed as Sebastian opened the front door of her apartment.
‘The curtain rises at the Old Bailey at ten, but I’ll be taking my seat in the stalls long before then.’
As they walked towards the lift, Christina added, ‘The judge on this occasion will be played by Mr Justice Sedgwick, who will have to decide the fate of the lead actor, Mr Miles Faulkner. My ex may well be giving his farewell performance in front of an audience of twelve members of the public who hopefully, when the foreman is asked to deliver their verdict, will only utter one word.’
‘But if Miles pleads guilty,’ said Sebastian as they stepped into the lift, ‘there’ll be no need for a jury.’
‘Not Miles’s style,’ replied Christina as they stepped out onto the ground floor. ‘He’d rather go down all guns blazing than admit defeat. In fact, I have to confess I almost feel sorry for him.’
‘I can’t think why,’ said Sebastian. ‘After all, he tricked you out of your half of his art collection and then stole the ten million he paid you for it. Ten million that would have kept us in champagne and caviar for the rest of our lives.’
‘Don’t forget that Miles could be spending the rest of his life in a confined space with only bread and water to sustain him, while I’ll still have the apartment and an income of two thousand alimony a week, as well as the occasional bonus from my partnership with Beth Warwick,’ said Christina as they left the building and her chauffeur pulled up outside the front door. ‘So you don’t have anything to complain about.’
As the Mercedes moved off, she waved goodbye to Sebastian, having finally decided that he’d passed his sell-by date.