Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(102)

The eleven terrorists had already been buried at sea, as if the incident had never taken place. Victoria’s nanny would have advised her, had the subject ever arisen, ‘Least said, soonest mended.’

The Lowlander was all ‘shipshape and Bristol fashion’ by the time she sailed back to Mallorca, where Davenport handed the keys back to the charter company. Twenty men, who certainly hadn’t been on board when she sailed out of that picturesque bay a few days earlier, made their way back to London on separate flights, before taking the train to SBS headquarters at Poole, to prepare for their next skirmish.

? ? ?

Ross was helicoptered to HMS Cornwall at first light the following morning, only to be told when he arrived on board that the Princess and Lady Victoria were having breakfast in the officers’ mess with the captain.

When four bells rang out, the ship’s company assembled on deck in full dress uniform to welcome their royal visitor. The Princess spent the rest of the morning being shown around the carrier, while thanking the crew for the vital job they were doing for Queen and country. After lunch with the ship’s full complement of officers, she was helicoptered to Valetta, from where she would take a flight to Scotland.

The cheers and throwing of caps into the air that accompanied her departure rather suggested that this myth would become legend, as the SBS were nowhere to be seen, and HMS Cornwall wouldn’t be returning to Portsmouth for another couple of months.

Ross accompanied the Princess and Victoria on the flight to Balmoral, where his royal charge was due to attend the Highland Games the following day.

Ross was hoping to have a few moments alone with Victoria, but the opportunity didn’t arise, because royal protocol dictated that he slept in the bothy on the Balmoral estate, while she remained in the castle. Lying in bed on his own only reminded him how close he and Victoria had become, the only woman he’d taken any interest in since the death of his wife. Perhaps the time had come to tell her how he felt. He fell asleep.

? ? ?

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.’