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a novel by Peter Whitehead

It goes without saying that Diana was a security risk"

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Volume 3: the MEMOIRS of MI5 Agent Milton Crookshank Edited by Peter Whitehead.

The true story behind MI5's recording of the "Squidgy" tapes Renegade MI5 agent Milton Crookshank reveals the sordid and shameful story of his most notorious assignment, recording the erotic mobile 'phone calls of our Once and Future Queen. Showing the dubious methods of the British Secret Services as protectors of the realm, this sinister book confirms the threat posed by Princess Diana to the House of Windsor. Colluding with MI5, who else could gain by having Milton's recordings 'hacked' from his super-computer and released 'inadvertently' into the public domain, other than the British Royal family'?

Milton tells us of the assassination attempt by the glamorous 'literary-journalist' Rachel Bishop, seducing him with a treacherous sadomasochistic scenario - MI5 never suspecting the erotic situation would get so out of hand. Was it the poetry or the opium?

Since the subversive revelations in "Spycatcher" by Milton's ex-boss, Peter Wright, other MI5 agents have ended up on the run, leaking more scurrilous facts to the press. Milton's Gothic disappearance came soon after MI5 learnt he was close to completing his Memoirs, telling of his recruitment from Cambridge University (he was acting Professor of English) and his subsequent career as a part-time spy. None of his fellow agents doubted he'd been 'taken out' by the luscious Ms Bishop in a fabulous act of sexual theatre, but would David Shayler and Richard Tomlinson be next'? MI5, meanwhile, searching for the body of Rachel Bishop ...

But while Milton was operating his exotic super-computer with its jade-green X-ray laser 'eyes' scanning all the air-waves known to man and beast, entrapping Squidgy chattering about secret trysts with her lover in a cottage on the Wuthering Edge of the Yorkshire moors, did he record other spectres, ancestral lovers wandering those moors in the ghostly moonlight, still making love, whispering occult sweet-nothings into the listening winds? Was it the ghost of Emily Bronte herself, or Cathy, or Princess Diana, in the cruel savage arms of a swarthy, dark-eyed Heathcliff, the pitiless Gypsy predator of innocent young English girls?