‘Was he really still alive when you found him?’ Mitchell asked.
I nodded.
‘Christ, I can’t imagine having my throat cut.’
That brought a fresh lull to the conversation and everyone focused on their food.
‘Why do you want to know about Jason?’ Carroll asked.
‘Just wondering. I was with him when he died and I don’t know a thing about him.’
‘He was a good lad,’ Nevin said.
‘He didn’t know a wing nut from a hand job when he started out with us,’ Price said.
‘But he was a fast learner,’ Nevin said.
The crew shared half a dozen stories about how Jason had either screwed up or saved the day, but none of it helped me explain why he’d been killed and who would have done it.
‘The thing that confuses me,’ I said, ‘is what he was doing hanging around our transporter.’
My remark brought the conversation to a screeching halt. Everyone looked to Rags for guidance.
‘Time to wrap this up. We’ve still got a lot of road to cover and this conversation is getting a little morbid for my liking.’
And that was that. At least I had one answer. When it came to skeletons in the cupboard, Ragged Racing operated on a code of silence.
Rags sent Haulk and me out on drills for the afternoon session. We practised slipstreaming with the cars running nose to tail with no gap between us. The first car made a hole in the air, which reduced the wind resistance on the cars behind. We’d use this practice when it came to setting qualifying times. Next, Rags had me practise blocking. I drove ahead of Haulk and protected my position by keeping to my lines and making myself as wide I could to keep him behind me. Then we swapped. We finished off the day with a dogfight. Rags told us to pull off the gloves and go for it. The two of us went at each other for twenty-five laps like we were in a real race. It was a serious affair. Haulk didn’t want to finish second to the new boy and I didn’t want come off second best. I deserved my spot on the team and I wanted to prove it. And I did. For the most part, nothing separated us. I rode Haulk’s bumper for five laps before I blew by him. But my lead didn’t last. Haulk pulled an audacious move, out-braking me on the back straight and muscling his way past. Naturally, I blew it on the following lap and spun out on the hairpin trying to regain my position.
‘Don’t prang that car on your first day,’ Nevin said over my headset.
‘It’s not a real racecar if it doesn’t have some dents.’
A glint of something caught my eye. Off in the field, someone was watching us with binoculars. It could be just a race fan, but a spy wasn’t out of the question. Rags was top dog and naturally other teams would be interested in his progress.
‘C’mon, get your arse in gear,’ Nevin said.
I grabbed first and stamped on the accelerator. ‘Hey, we’ve got a spy out by the Bentley Straight.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a guy with binoculars watching us.’
‘Don’t spook him. Keep driving.’
I did as I was told. I kept racing. Every time I came around, I checked for the spy. He was there for the next two laps. On the third time around, I saw three of my pit crew manhandling him into Rags’ Mercedes.
Rags called us in a lap later. I brought my car to a halt in front of my pit garage. I couldn’t park it inside because Rags had the spy suspended from a mobile engine hoist with his hands duct taped together. His feet dangled a clear six inches above the ground.
‘Boys, you’ve arrived just in time,’ Rags said to Haulk and me. ‘Do you know who we have here? Nick Ronson, a grease monkey from Townsend Motorsport.’
And a grease monkey from the same team as Jason Gates. Maybe I was looking at a motor-racing espionage angle here.
‘I don’t like spies,’ Rags said, then drove a fist into Ronson’s stomach. Ronson folded up and swung like a heavy bag. ‘Tell Russell Townsend that if he wants to know what I do, come ask me and if he wants to know how to beat my cars, be more inventive. Am I clear?’
Ronson coughed, then nodded.
‘I can’t hear you,’ Rags said and drew back his fist.
I grabbed his wrist. ‘I think he got the message.’
Rags whirled around on me. ‘This is my team. I’ll decide when he’s had enough. Not you. All right?’
‘Yeah. I just don’t want anyone getting hurt.’
‘Listen, son, this tosser is getting off light. If the tables were turned, my guy would be coming back with broken fingers. Cut him down and everyone get the hell out of here.’
Rags walked off in disgust.
Nevin dragged me out of the garage by the bicep. ‘Don’t do that again,’ he said. ‘He makes the rules and we follow them.’
One of the techs tried handing Rags a pile of printouts, but Rags just knocked them away, sending them scattering to the ground.
‘You’re in the big leagues now, Aidy,’ Nevin said. ‘We play fair, but we play serious. Take that home as today’s lesson.’
Lap Seven
The crew worked in silence as they loaded the racecars on to the transporter. I gave them the space they needed to work and went to change. As I wriggled out of my overalls, I watched Nick Ronson trudge across the paddock. Rags emerged from the pits and climbed into his Mercedes. He churned up mud as he pulled away.
‘Oh, shit,’ I murmured.
Rags was cutting across the paddock straight for Ronson. My heart skipped as I imagined him mowing Ronson down. Instead, he dropped two wheels off the paddock road and sprayed Ronson with dirt as he passed.
Rags had proved he wasn’t someone to be messed with.
Considering the sombre mood that had descended over the team, I got into my car and left without saying my goodbyes. I followed the paddock road and crossed over the bridge that separated the paddock from the spectators. On the other side of the bridge, I found Ronson. If he and Jason had been working together, then he’d have a pretty good idea of what got Jason killed. I pulled up next to him and powered down my window.
‘Need a lift?’
‘Piss off.’
I frowned. I should have expected that reply. ‘Do yourself a favour, swallow your pride and get in the sodding car.’
‘Bollocks,’ Ronson mumbled to himself and got in.
‘Where are you parked?’
He pointed at a field used for spectator parking that ran along the newly renamed Bentley straight. A lone car, a Honda Civic hatchback, sat at the end. As a spy, my passenger was no genius at the art of concealment. I drove across the field, bumping over the damp, uneven surface.
‘Nick, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Aidy Westlake. I hope Rags didn’t hurt you too much.’
Ronson rubbed at his wrists where the tape had burned them. ‘I’ve had worse.’
I pulled up next to his car. ‘Who sent you — Russell Townsend?’
Ronson sneered at me. ‘Thanks for the ride, but that’s as far as my gratitude stretches.’
He reached for the door and I hit the central locking button, locking us in.
He whirled on me. ‘You want to take your shot at me? Give it a go and we’ll see how far you get.’
I raised my hands in surrender. ‘I just want to know why you’re here. It doesn’t go any further.’
I unlocked the doors. Ronson made no move to leave.
‘You found Jason?’
I nodded.
‘Did you see who did it?’
‘No, but I think I heard the killer running away.’
‘Did Jason say anything to you?’
‘Hey, I’m the one questioning you. Not the other way around. Now, who sent you?’
‘No one sent me. I came on my own.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think? I want to know which one of you fuckers killed Jason.’