‘I see a little anger in those eyes. Don’t waste your energy getting angry with me. Turn it into fuel for finding my brother’s killer and no harm will come to your family. Even better, you’ll have my undying appreciation.’
‘What happens when I find the person responsible?’
‘Hear that Dominic? “When”. Not if, but when. I like that. It shows confidence and determination.’ Gates examined the mallet in his hands and his mood changed from condescending to sullen. ‘I expect to be updated regularly on your progress and when you find the bastard responsible, you just tell me where I can find him and I’ll take things from there. Just make sure you don’t tell the filth first.’
I could only imagine what Gates would do to the culprit if and when he got his hands on him. That thought left me queasy. Jason’s killer deserved to be brought to justice, but not this way. I’d be delivering him to his death. That made me no different than Gates. I’d be a killer. It was a role I wasn’t sure I could play.
‘So we have a deal?’
Gates had proved that he could easily get to me at any time. He’d do the same with Steve. I didn’t have a choice. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Get him out of here, Dominic.’
Crichlow grinned, then pulled the hood back over my head.
Lap Five
Crichlow stuffed me back in the boot of his BMW and drove me back to my car, which he’d stashed on the service road to the Windsor Racecourse. My tyre was still flat. I drove home on it. I was definitely not in the mood to change it. Crichlow had let me go with the reminder: ‘Not a word to anyone. We’ll be in touch.’
No doubt, I’d thought.
I got as far as letting myself into the house before Steve appeared from the living room. He was still dressed, but his ruffled hair said that he’d fallen asleep waiting up for me.
‘Where you been, son? I expected you home hours ago. You have responsibilities now. You can’t go off partying when it suits you.’ He stopped and looked at my clothes. ‘What the hell happened to you? Are you OK?’
‘No, not really.’ It was nice not to have to pretend to someone that everything was normal and I was fine.
The lecture went out of Steve’s tone. ‘You’d better have a sit down then.’
I followed Steve into the living room. I held in a groan when I sat down on the sofa. My body wasn’t quite bolted back together after its tazing and Andrew Gates’ fists. I don’t think the sofa had ever felt as comfortable as it did at that moment.
Steve sat in his armchair and put his feet up on the corner of the coffee table. ‘What’s happened?’
I told him about finding Jason, the police interview and picking up a flat tyre. He didn’t need to know about Crichlow and the bargain I’d struck with Gates. Last year, I’d dragged Steve and Dylan into a situation that had almost gotten all three of us killed. I couldn’t risk putting him through that again. This time, it was my burden.
‘So how do you feel?’ Steve asked.
‘Shitty.’
‘Why?’
‘I was so caught up admiring my name painted on the side of a fucking truck that I missed that a man was bleeding to death at my feet. If I’d seen him straight away instead of having my head up my arse, I might have been able to save him.’
‘You don’t know that.’
A tremor started in my hands and crept up my arms. ‘I should have done more.’
‘You did your best. No one could ask more of you.’
Andrew Gates could and had. He had a noose around my neck now. ‘That’s easy for you to say. You weren’t there.’
‘OK. You’re right. What do you think you could have done?’
‘I could have chased after the killer. I heard him running away. But I stayed with Jason.’
‘And get yourself killed? Don’t be stupid.’
I was shaking all over now. ‘I’m not being stupid. If I’d had the balls to leave Jason, I could have seen the killer’s face or his car or something and the police would have the bastard right now.’
And I wouldn’t have Gates’ boot on my neck. I hadn’t known where this night would lead, couldn’t have known, but that simple act of identifying the killer would have sated Gates’ bloodlust.
‘Or you’d be dead. You did the right thing.’
I jumped to my feet and jabbed an accusing finger at Steve. ‘You don’t know that!’ I shouted. I was shaking all over now.
Steve jumped up, grabbed me and pulled me to him. ‘You’re right. I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
‘Christ, you should have seen the blood. There was so much and I couldn’t stop it.’
‘It’s OK, son. You did what you could. It’s over.’
I burst into tears and my body rocked as I let the pain out. Steve just held me and, like always, he didn’t let me fall. It took several minutes before I was cried out.
Steve made coffee and we talked. Jason’s murder never made it back as a topic. We talked about my hopes and dreams, football, Mum and Dad and how much we missed them. I remembered the night’s sky turning from black to blue as dawn approached, but at some point, fatigue must have gotten the better of me because the next thing I knew it was morning and I woke up stretched out on the sofa. Strictly, it wasn’t morning. The clock on the satellite TV box said it was coming up on one in the afternoon. I sat up and a note rolled off my chest.
Gone to work. I put the spare on and took your wheel. I’ll get the tyre changed.
Catch you later, kid.
Steve
I showered and made breakfast. I didn’t know if my body clock was off or if my nerves had killed my appetite, but the sight of breakfast turned my stomach. I choked down half of it before tossing the rest in the bin.
I drove across town to Archway, Steve’s classic-sports-car restoration business. I parked by the workshop entrance next to Steve’s pride and joy, a 1972 Ford Capri RS2600. Never released in Britain, Steve owned one of a handful of right-hand-drive models.
I spent most days at Archway. Since picking up the ESCC drive meant I didn’t have room for a day job, I’d handed my notice in last month. I could have made it work, but it wouldn’t have been fair to the company. I missed the wages and access to the CAD design software I’d used to design parts for my racecar and for Steve’s restoration jobs in my off hours. But when one door closed, another opened. Picking up the title of Pit Lane’s Young Driver of the Year put me in hot demand at the driving schools. Three times a week, I was instructing at tracks across the country.
The roar of a Ford Cosworth DFV–V8 engine greeted me as I let myself in. It was a glorious sound. An automotive symphony.
For the last two months, Steve, with a little help from Jack Brabham himself, had been restoring a Brabham BT/26A grand prix car that Jacky Ickx raced in 1969. Steve knew Lotuses inside out, but not Brabhams, so he’d been calling the Australian at home for advice. I’d been reduced to a total fanboy when I’d picked up the phone to find the oldest living Formula One world champion on the other end of the line. My dad had raced against his sons, David and Gary, and we’d talked about Dad until Steve got on the line.
Steve cut the engine. ‘How you doing? You look like you’ve been hung out to dry.’
I felt it. ‘You don’t look much better. Did you sleep after I woke you?’
Steve shook his head. ‘Wasn’t much point after you nodded off. The alarm was about to go off.’
‘Shit, I’m sorry for keeping you up.’
‘Don’t be daft. Someone died in front of you last night. A sleepless night comes with the territory.’
It was a territory I wished I knew nothing about.
‘You eaten?’
‘I made breakfast.’