By PAT PRENTICE

Richard Dismore's list of his top stories reminds me of a scoop that matched any reporter's aspirations — even though I was a veteran sub editor at the time.

My trip to Paris with my partner and her young family was interrupted early in the morning when my Sony ICF 7600D shortwave radio woke me with the latest news: Diana had been killed.

My hangover was immediately rubbing its eyes on the edge of the bed.

Ben Macintyre, then The Times’ Paris Correspondent, was away on holiday and I was the paper's Foreign Copytaster and in the city.

A gulp of orange juice, family abandoned to a journey home, and I was in a cab to the Pont de l'Alma.

For a short time, the police had reopened the road before closing it again when the import of the accident became clear.

Cars sped through the dimly orange-lit tunnel, avoiding the small crowd standing by the chalk marks and sprays of flowers. The pillar which the large Mercedes had bounced off was little damaged, unlike years later when hacks covering Diana's inquest were conducted to it on a tour. I took a few pictures of it with my new Leica M6, which did not need the flash that had failed. Like any disorganised hack, much later I consigned them to a safe place — and they promptly disappeared.

I gathered quotes then urged the taxi driver to speed through the tunnel several times to recreate the earlier tragic trip. As I recall, the road bears left over a small rise just before the crash site, and at some point, as I sensed the steering lifting from the road surface, I announced that he was going fast enough.

The road had obviously seen many accidents, but there were no obvious new skid marks, and as someone who had covered many Lincolnshire driving disasters as a youth, I knew what to look for.

A few of the people gathered were very sad, some were cynical and one Frenchman was certain that Perfidious Albion was culpable. I wrote at the time that conspiracy theories would thrive, and was I ever right?

I then walked the tunnel, conscious that this was the equivalent to a stroll across Kennedy's grassy knoll.

Then it was to the Ile de la Cité police station where the seven ‘rats’ who had taken their pictures after the little grey Citroen had disappeared were prevented from cashing in on their triumph.

My vigil's schoolboy French was aided by a young BBC translator who told me she wanted to join the secret service. In return for her help and providing me with BBC drinks, I gave her a number which I thought might assist her aspirations. I never heard from her again, so she might have been successful.

I also interrupted her reporter several times when he announced on-camera that the skid marks were clearly visible. They were not. He had not been in the now-closed tunnel, and eventually ceased to mention them in his recording. But when I did a double shift at The Sunday Times later, the graphic artists insisted that their reconstruction of the disaster had bold black wavy tyre lines.

That is, apparently, how Paris police indicate a car crash, rubber marks or not.

I also managed to assist an American television crew who were standing near the tunnel.

"Hey, feller, can we interview you? The folks back home won't get this French talk."

I smiled apologetically: "Sorry, contractual obligations preclude me from such a discourse."

"Pardon me?"

"Fuck off."

After filing my page three lead and sharing a byline on page two with a generous Charles Bremner, who had abseiled in from his Brussels base, I returned to London the next day for a special morning and evening edition of The Times. I managed to buy a first edition in Paris, but there was not one paper of any kind available in London. I never knew how many other hacks had managed to get into the tunnel at that vital time.

When I returned to the office, some fellow subs seemed surprised that I had actually managed to report an event. By then, not all subs had cut their teeth as junior hacks.

Over the years, conspiracy theories have been abundant, encouraged by the fact that, like Elvis, any story with Diana in the title will always find an audience. (New Express passim).

I have followed them all with cynical interest, but never stooped to join in the profitable spray of speculation.

Occasionally someone will discover my humble role in the sorry tale and ask: "Did they kill her?"

I usually shrug resignedly and say that as someone who deals in fact, I obviously can't be certain.

The nearest thing to the truth I can be certain of is that from my experience, and in my deepest intuition, I cannot really think so.

30 August 2024