I never met Princess Diana, although a friend of a friend, Victoria Underwood, married her brother. Diana would have been at the wedding. I never received an invitation. No great loss, because the Princess of Wales wasn’t my type, however I viewed her death as a blow against the empire of goodness.
I arrived in London the day of her funeral. The city breathed a respectful quiet reminiscent of JFK’s burial procession. Grown men cried, as if their mother had passed away and women sobbed like they had lost their best friend. That evening my good freind, Sam Royalle, and I laid a wreath before Kensington Palace. The wall of memorial flowers was chest-high. The scent of dying petals buried my senses and my eyes teared with sorrow. Sam was a bawling baby. We walked away with our arms over each other's shoulder
Diana had been a real princess.
Ten days later Sam Royalle and I were in Paris, drinking at the Ritz Hotel in Paris. I had left London to go on a road trip through the Loire Valley with my father. He went to sleep early. The next day I was putting my old man on a plane to Boston. Sam and I were taking the rented Fiat on a trip to the South of France.
"I got a problem." The Londoner whispered across the table. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth, so only I could hear him. My survival antennae perked into life. Only criminals talked in that manner..
"What?" It's usually better to not know what someone's problem is so you don't ever have to get involved, but Sam and I were friends.
"Some Brixton yardies suspect me of switching a bank destination for a money wire transfer." Sam explained how the yardies had an auntie working at the transfer accounts in a Scottish bank. He had arranged for another swift code for them from an off-shore account. "The money never showed up."
"And where is the money?" There were only three choices; with the yardies, Sam, or a 3rd unnamed party.
"I don't know." It was the right answer and Sam expressed his apprehensions about returning to London in order to discuss the matter with the Brixton yardies. They were habitual murderers. He ordered us another round of drinks. "On me."
"In that case make it a margharita with good tequila." The waiter took our order and I suggested to Sam that he take a long vacation in Thailand. "The food is good, the girls are friendly, and I've never seen a Brixton yardie in years that I've been traveling in Asia. Plus it's hard to get extradited from there."
"I didn't do anything wrong."
"Oh, I forgot about that." I said nothing about his arranging a different destination for the wire transfer. Our drinks came to the table. We drank them swiftly. Another two rounds and I mentioned that Diana had stayed at the Ritz only two weeks before.
"She left from this hotel for that fateful drive."
"From here?"
"From this very same hotel."
"No." Sam looked around the bar, as if to see Diana's ghost.
"Something about that accident isn't right." I felt like Oliver Stone filming JFK. The French police had blamed the crash on the driver. "Henri-Paul had been drinking and maybe doing drugs, but I've driven in that condition on more than one occasion and survived without a crash."
"Twice the speed limit."
"65 mph is not fast for an expert driver."
"The newspapers said 90."
"English newspaper love sensation. I'm surprised that they didn't get any naked photos of her corpse at the Quai de La Rapee." I had been to the Paris morgue to ID a friend. It wasn't a cheerful place.
"Stop joking." The English were loyal subject to their nobility.
"I'm not joking and I can prove it."
"How?"
"By driving my rented car through the same street at the same speed." I had drank enough margharitas for this evening. I needed to get back to my hotel on the Left Bank. "I'll re-create the accident.”
“Fuck you.”
“Someone killed her.”
The whys were too numerous to count unlike the four margharitas that I had downed in the ast hour. I downed in succession. Not cheap either at the Ritz prices, but the Londoner was true to his word. he covered the bill and tried to talk me out of my test..
"Tomorrow morning would be better."
"No way. This test needs the right conditions. Nighttime, Drinks. Speed. Tomorrow morning the quai will be jammed with traffic."
We walked outside to my Fiat Panda. Key in the ignition. Full tank of gas. I peeled from the valet without tipping him. Fuck the French. I blew the lights at Rue St. Honore and entered the chaotic merry-go-round of Place de la Concorde. 90kph.
I needed to go faster.
Diana’s Mercedes had paparazzi on her tail. A score of them on motorcycles. Strobe lights. Jodi telling the drunk driver. “Plus vite.”
Diana laughs. Jodi joins her.
I hit 110 and skittered onto the Quai like a billiard ball slice with extreme English. 120.
I don’t hear Sam’s shouting. The entrance to the death tunnel loomed ahead. I take it at 120. Airborne.
The Fiat bottoms out with a slight swerve. 130.
"See I told you the accident was no accident."
"It was a heavier car."
"It was no accident." I slowed down before I lost control of the car coming out of the the Place de l’Alma underpass.
Two more cars did the same. The look on their faces told us that they had just tried the same thing. Not everyone was convinced that Diana's death was an accident. I dropped Sam at his hotel. He checked the street for Brixton yardies. The coast was clear.
"See you in the morning."
"Thanks for the ride. It's always good to have a near-death experience before bed."
"Don't mention it."
We would meet in the morning after I drove my father to the airport. I parked the Panda on the street of the Hotel Louisiane. I went up to our room. My father raised his head from his pillow.
"You smell like you've been drinking." My father was no tee-totaler, but he didn't like drunks, especially if they were related to him.
"Just a few glasses of wine." I took off my clothing and fell into bed.
"Smells more like a vat. I hope you didn't do anything stupid."
"Nothing more than talking with a friend."
"Then good-night and see you in the morning."
I crashed without any further thought about Diana Princess of Wales.
Same and I traveled to the South. He booked a flight from Paris to Thailand. I went off to Ireland.
Three months later the paparazzi released the last photos of Diana. I saw them in The Times, while taking my breakfast at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin. The driver's face in aglow. I was convinced that he had been drugged like Teddy Kennedy at Chappaquiddick.
I have my suspects.
They know who they are too.
That crash was no accident and I'll prove it again if anyone wants to buy the drinks at the Ritz.
They still are expensive.
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