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CHAPTER 14

W ILLIAM HAD LEFT THE HOUSE that morning before anyone else was awake, aware this was one day he couldn’t afford to be late for work.

‘Good morning, Danny,’ he said as he climbed into the back of the waiting car.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Danny replied, switching on the ignition and joining the early morning traffic.

William sat back and tried to anticipate what could possibly go wrong. Best-case scenario, he would get home this evening with all the principals involved safely in bed and asleep. Worst-case scenario …

Beth was next up and was preparing breakfast when the twins walked into the kitchen, which took her by surprise as they were on holiday and she’d assumed they would want to lie in.

‘What have you got planned for today?’ she asked innocently.

‘Visiting friends,’ said Artemisia, delivering the line she and Peter had agreed on.

‘Anyone I know?’ enquired Beth.

‘Don’t think so,’ replied Artemisia, not wanting to go into any detail. ‘What about you, Mum?’

‘I’m having lunch with Christina, when we’ll be trying to work out what questions the board will ask her if she stands for chair of the Fitz,’ her mother replied.

‘She’s bound to get it,’ said Peter, determined to keep his mother off the subject of what they actually had planned.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ replied his mother, without explanation. ‘I’ll see you both for supper, but don’t expect your father to join us, as he’s unlikely to be back before you’ve gone to bed.’

We’ll be seeing him long before we’ve gone to bed, thought Artemisia.

···

Danny drove into Northolt just as Beth finished washing the dishes and the twins were going over the details of their plan for the last time.

William was pleased to find that the rest of the team were already in place, carrying out their different responsibilities in preparation for a royal visit. They were well acquainted with the protocol whenever the Queen or the Prince of Wales returned home following an overseas visit – they would escort them back to Windsor Castle, Buckingham Palace or Clarence House to be greeted by cheers from onlookers – but this was a foreign royal who would be visiting Windsor Castle and Number 10 Downing Street, when jeers were more likely than cheers from the public.

The next person to appear on the runway was the Defence Secretary, followed shortly by the Foreign Secretary, the Cabinet Secretary, the Permanent Secretary and Mr Trevelyan, the Permanent Secretary’s Permanent Secretary. The ministers formed a line to greet their foreign guests, while behind them hovered Chief Superintendent Warwick, Detective Inspector Paul Adaja and several armed officers.

Parked in a separate line and facing the opposite direction were seven police outriders from the Met’s special escort group, six chauffeur-driven Jaguars and three luxury coaches.

They all looked up as a private 747 descended through the clouds and landed on a runway used only by foreign heads of state and visiting royalty. The Chancellor of the Exchequer had recommended during Cabinet that – as three billion was at stake – Prince Majid bin Talal Al Saud, the King’s cousin, should on this occasion be afforded the same privileges as a visiting head of state. The Prime Minister had agreed.

Once the plane taxied to a halt and the steps had been wheeled into place, the aircraft door was finally opened. The first person to emerge was the Saudi Minister of Defence. As his entourage came down the steps, all dressed in identical white thawbs and keffiyehs, William wondered which one of them was the Minister’s son.

Standing on the balcony behind them, binoculars trained on the arriving party, Ross picked out the Black Prince immediately, and never let him out of his sight as he was accompanied to a waiting limousine.

The Foreign Secretary stepped forward, bowed, shook hands and welcomed His Royal Highness to Britain on behalf of Her Majesty’s government.

The Prince went down the line and shook hands with the greeting party before they all took their allocated places in the cavalcade of waiting limousines. On a signal no one other than a seasoned professional would have spotted, the special escort group set off. Their responsibility was to make sure the convoy didn’t stop moving until they arrived at Farnborough forty minutes later, where another greeting party was already waiting.

William, who was in the car bringing up the rear, picked up the phone in his armrest as the well-ordered convoy made its way out of Northolt onto the main road. He listened carefully.

‘There are only a few protestors at Farnborough and almost none at Windsor,’ reported Jackie. ‘Not least because they wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near our visitors. However, that doesn’t apply this end – a large crowd’s already gathering in Trafalgar Square, who I’m told plan to march down Whitehall and greet the Saudi delegation before they meet the Prime Minister. There is also a helicopter already hovering above Whitehall.

‘The march organizers have assured me,’ continued Jackie, ‘that it will be a peaceful demonstration. However, that won’t stop the usual bunch of thugs, who will turn up for any protest simply to cause trouble.’ Jackie paused. ‘Don’t you sometimes wish, sir, we had the authority to ban marches like these?’

‘No,’ said William. ‘On balance I still prefer democracy to dictatorship.’

He ended the call as the convoy continued its journey down the outside lane of the motorway. It always amused William that the sight of police outriders, lights flashing, sirens blaring, ensured that anyone on the outside lane slipped into the middle lane and quickly fell below the speed limit.

···

Peter and Artemisia crept out of the house a few minutes after ten and caught the number 14 bus to Piccadilly, climbed upstairs and took a seat near the back. They were so nervous that hardly a word passed between them.

When the bus came to a halt at the top of Piccadilly Circus, they got off and joined a large group of protestors who were carrying banners and chanting as they made their way towards Trafalgar Square.

With each step they took, Artemisia became more and more exhilarated by the thought of taking part in a demonstration that would surely leave both governments in no doubt how people felt about the treatment of Simon Hartley.

As she turned the corner at the bottom of Haymarket, her heart leapt when she saw what must have been a hundred thousand people gathered to add their voices to the cause. She stood on the fringe of the vast crowd and listened to speeches by Tony Benn, Tariq Ali and Dennis Skinner, whose words were regularly interrupted by prolonged cheers.

···

The long black convoy of nine vehicles drove into Farnborough thirty-nine minutes later and came to a halt on the perimeter of the runway.

As the visiting party made their way onto the parade ground, Company Sergeant Major Fletcher sprang to attention, and, in a voice that frightened away any stray pigeons that had dared to waddle onto his parade ground, bellowed, ‘Present arms!’

A platoon of Grenadier Guards in full dress uniform carried out the order.

The royal prince and his party were escorted to a small stand that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Royal Ascot, but had only been erected the day before.

No sooner had the visiting party sat down than they had to stand up again while the band of the Royal Marines played two national anthems – ‘God Save the Queen’ followed by ‘God Save the King’ – as a squadron of Tornados came out of the clouds and flew above them in a V formation, with the white and green colours of Saudi Arabia evaporating behind them.

There then followed two hours of parading the vast array of equipment that three billion pounds would acquire, should the Saudis decide to sign the British contract. William kept his eyes firmly fixed on the royal party as others watched the display.

When the demonstration finally came to an end, William had no way of knowing if the visiting Minister of Defence had been impressed. However, he couldn’t believe the French would possibly equal the sheer range of sophisticated battle equipment that had been on display, including Challenger 2 tanks and Tornados.

Ross continued to keep a close eye on Prince Ahmed, who he noticed yawning from time to time and making no attempt to hide the fact he was bored. Khalil had already advised the French to put a woman next to him, preferably a young woman. The French got the message.

After the Marines had presented arms a second time, William continued to shadow the Saudi Defence Minister as he was accompanied back to his car by the Foreign Secretary who, along with a select group, would join the Queen for lunch at Windsor Castle.

They left Farnborough a few minutes late but arrived on time at Windsor, where a private secretary escorted them to the audience room. Her Majesty was waiting to greet the King’s cousin. One of them bowed.

William remained in his car, munching a cheese sandwich, as he waited for the Foreign Secretary to reappear with the Saudi Minister by his side.

···

Peter and Artemisia took their place at the back of a long line as Tony Benn and Tariq Ali led the boisterous crowd out of Trafalgar Square. As they moved along Whitehall, carrying banners high in the air, they continued to chant Free Hartley and Arrest the Black Prince , while the police lined the pavements on both sides of the government buildings.

The slow march came to a halt when they reached Downing Street, where they crammed themselves together five deep like a football crowd.

Some of the organizers were handing out banners, while others offered eggs to eager onlookers. Peter held up a banner while Artemisia took a couple of eggs. Her heart was thumping, as she waited for the Saudi delegation to appear.

···

The extended convoy left the grounds of Windsor Castle at 2.59 p.m. and headed for the motorway. When they arrived in Whitehall at 3.58 p.m., they were greeted with screams of derision as the protestors surged forward, determined to make their presence felt. The police cordon only just managed to hold them back.

Peter held his banner high in the air just as Artemisia hurled her first egg, which landed in the middle of the road, unnoticed. She quickly pushed her way to the front of the crowd and took aim a second time, delighted to see her egg land on the windscreen of the third car, causing it to slow down before it turned into Downing Street.

She leapt up in triumph, but before she landed, two policemen’s arms encircled her, just as her father’s car swept by. They quickly bundled her away to a side street, where she was thrown into a waiting van along with half a dozen other protestors. She sat back, out of breath but proud to have played her part.

Peter watched as his father’s car disappeared into Downing Street, the vast iron gates slamming closed behind him. He dropped his banner and ran into the side street where his sister had been taken, only to see the police van being driven away. His heart hammering, Peter kept on running, heading for the Embankment in search of a red telephone box.

‘Scotland Yard,’ said a voice.

···

The Prime Minister was standing by the front door waiting to greet his guest when the Saudi Prince’s car pulled up outside Number 10 Downing Street.

If Prince Majid was surprised by the size of the press corps herded behind barriers on the far side of the road, or by the crowds of protestors they had driven past as they turned into Downing Street, he didn’t show it. But as he got out of the car, he was clearly disturbed by the journalists shouting questions that had nothing to do with the purpose of his visit. William suspected no one shouted at His Royal Highness when he was in Riyadh, and if he was ever asked a question, he would be given prior notice – in writing.

‘When are you going to release Simon Hartley?’ screamed the Daily Mirror.

‘Has anyone told you who the real murderer is?’ demanded The Observer .

‘Does your country believe in justice and a fair trial?’ hollered the Express .

‘Do you know why your son is known as the Black Prince?’ – the BBC.

After an unusually short photocall on the steps of Number 10, the Prime Minister hurriedly whisked his guest inside.

William assumed the Number 10 press secretary had warned the Saudi Minister’s opposite number what to expect, and told him that the Prime Minister had to face such an onslaught every day, even though the hacks knew he wouldn’t consider answering any of their questions.

When Prince Majid emerged from Number 10 an hour later, he quickly climbed into the back of his waiting car, which immediately sped off. When the gates at the end of Downing Street opened, having ignored the cries of the press corps, he was greeted once again with the screams of protestors, who made the journalists look restrained and polite.

William followed the Prince’s cavalcade as it made its short journey from Whitehall to the Saudi Embassy in Charles Street, where the visiting party was greeted by a smaller but equally vociferous group who screamed Free Hartley , Arrest the Black Prince , and Go home murderers , as the government’s guests disappeared inside their embassy.

···

Ross looked around before he picked up the phone and dialled a number he hadn’t called for some time. When the phone was answered, he said, ‘Please put me through to Superintendent Wainwright.’ He hoped he was still the station commander.

‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Detective Inspector Ross Hogan.’

Ross waited to be reconnected with an officer he’d walked the beat with in Lambeth when they’d first passed out of Hendon Police College as probationer constables.

‘If it’s you on the line, Ross, it can only mean trouble,’ were Wainwright’s first words, ‘because leopards don’t change their spots, particularly Irish leopards.’

‘Especially when it comes to protecting one of their cubs.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Wainwright. ‘Artemisia Warwick, the daughter of your boss.’

‘I’m her godfather,’ said Ross.

‘A nice kid,’ said Wainwright. ‘Spent most of her time taking care of one Robert Hartley.’

‘The elder son of Simon Hartley?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Wainwright. ‘I decided not to clap them both in irons, but I will be sending them home with a slap on the wrist. What I didn’t tell them is that, given half a chance, I would happily have joined them on the other side of the barricades.’

‘Me too,’ admitted Ross. ‘Let’s just hope Arte gets home before her father does.’

‘I only wish I could say the same for young Hartley,’ said Wainwright, ‘who had every right to protest his father’s innocence.’

‘Agreed,’ said Ross.

‘Will you be telling her father?’ asked Wainwright.

‘I don’t always tell the Chief Super everything,’ admitted Ross, ‘especially when he doesn’t need to know.’

‘If you did,’ said Wainwright, ‘you’d have been locked up years ago.’

···

Artemisia saw him crouched in a corner on the floor. He was about her age, maybe a year or two older, sitting with his head down, arms tucked around his legs, quietly sobbing.

She sat down beside him. ‘They don’t lock you up in England for throwing eggs at policemen,’ she said gently.

‘My father’s locked up in one of their prisons for a crime he didn’t commit.’

‘You’re Simon Hartley’s son?’ said Artemisia, unable to hide her surprise.

‘Yes … Robert,’ he mumbled incoherently.

‘Artemisia, but my friends call me Arte,’ she replied. ‘I’m so sorry about what’s happening to your father.’

‘You know about my father?’

‘It’s one of the reasons I was at the protest,’ admitted Artemisia. She looked up to see an officer talking animatedly on the phone. ‘You want to hear the bad news?’ she said, hoping to cheer him up. ‘My father is in charge of the Saudi Minister’s protection.’

‘I could kill him,’ said Robert.

‘My father or the Saudi Minister?’ asked Artemisia, as she placed an arm around his shoulder.

‘The Minister,’ said Robert, ‘though I must admit, I may have thrown an egg at your father.’

‘Me too,’ said Artemisia, laughing. ‘Do you think we’ll have to spend the night in jail?’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Robert. ‘It’s the least I can do for my father,’ he added as the officer put the phone down, walked across and smiled at the two of them.

‘Right, you two, shove off.’

‘But I want to be charged,’ said Robert, ‘and put in prison.’

‘It won’t help your father,’ said the officer quietly, ‘and believe it or not, we’re all on his side.’

‘Will you be telling my father?’ asked Artemisia.

‘That’s way above my pay grade,’ said Wainwright, ‘so why don’t you go home? By the way, both your fathers would be proud of you.’

Robert burst into tears.

Artemisia took his hand and led him quietly out of the police station.