The Queen Mother’s car came next. Again Crawfie waved, more frantically this time, but again no recognition came. The last Range Rover with detectives was passing now. She waved for the sake of it and got a reaction from someone in the back seat – an elderly man with a small moustache.

Was it … yes … Tommy. The name escaped her lips as a shout.

‘Tommy!’

He was level with her now and turned to see where the sound had come from.

‘Tommy!’ she shouted again.

She watched his face. He was trying to place her and then suddenly he knew and with slightly parted lips and a quickly raised hand, he was driven by.

She had stood at the bottom of her drive at the start of the royal family’s Balmoral holiday many, many times before. This was the first year she had been acknowledged.

Tommy had seen her and he had waved.

Crawfie walked slowly back up the drive to her front door. She had not felt this alive for a long time. She had missed Tommy, more than she had admitted to herself. She had read the obituary for his wife, Joan, in The Times – it must have been seven or so years ago. They had had a good marriage, and after he had retired in 1953, Joan had finally moved up to London and into the grace-and-favour home Tommy had been given. She imagined how happy they must have been.

Happier than her and George.

Tommy had warned her, and she had ignored the proof he’d given her of George’s lies, drinking and womanizing – all the things that had followed her into her marriage.

She had been a fool, so keen to prove everyone wrong about George, deluding herself that he was the love of her life, always and forever in her corner. What a joke.

He and the Goulds had coerced her into signing the damn contract for the book that changed her life in every way.

She had been labelled greedy, a fantasist, a liar. Her reputation and guts spilled and kicked into the dust and eaten by the vultures she had attracted.

And yet, did she regret the book?

No.

It was a good book, which opened the public’s eyes to the reality of life behind the red velvet curtains of monarchy.

She had given them a priceless place in the world’s heart.

She had that at least to be proud of.

Tommy and Alah had warned her that the royal family could ruthlessly dispense with anyone who spelt danger, but she hadn’t believed them. She had truly believed that her special place in the monarchical fold meant she was safe.

She hadn’t written to Tommy when Joan passed away, or when his beloved son, John, had died. She had been too bitter and too unforgiving to contact him.

It shamed her now that she had been so cruel. There were other reasons, of course. George had forbidden her to have any contact with the Palace and had arranged lucrative lecture tours around America, to feed the hunger for her revelations. She gladly took the money and was grateful.