‘But you didn’t eat it, if I know you. I’ve got something in the crow’s-nest.’
We went upstairs into the office overlooking the workshop. The crow’s-nest was more of a gallery for racing memorabilia than an office. Framed pictures of some of racing’s greatest drivers and posters from some of the great events of the past fifty years hung from the curving walls. Amongst the bric-a-brac were pictures of my greatest hero, Jim Clark, and my dad. If someone looked closely, they’d find me amongst the ranks, standing on the shoulders of giants. Steve had hung a photo of me winning a heat at the Formula Ford Festival last October.
He opened the mini fridge that sat between our two desks and tossed me a sandwich he’d bought from Marks and Spencer. ‘Eat that. You need something to give you some colour. You look like a ghost.’
I fell on to the sofa Steve kept for clients and peeled open the sandwich. I bit into it and while it tasted fine, it failed to ignite my appetite.
Steve put his feet up on his desk and broke open his sandwich. Before he took a bite, he picked up a padded envelope on his desk and tossed it to me.
‘That came for you this morning.’
With just my name scrawled on the front and no stamps or address written on the envelope, it hadn’t been posted. I tore it open and peered inside. It contained only a door key and a note. The note was from Gates. It was Jason Gates’ home address in Northampton and the simple message: You might find these useful.
I supposed I’d just been given my first task — to check out Jason’s place, but the subtext to this message came written in big, bold letters a mile high. Gates hand-delivering an envelope to Archway said that he knew where to find Steve. It was a crude message, but got its point across. ‘What’s that?’ Steve asked.
‘Just something from a friend.’
‘What’s your plan for today?’
‘I have to deliver the Van Diemen later this afternoon, so I need to get it ready.’
The Van Diemen was the Formula Ford I’d raced last season. There was no point holding on to the car. I wouldn’t be racing Formula Ford again, so I’d put it up for sale and landed a buyer straight away. My third place finish in the Formula Ford Festival had put a premium on the car’s valuation and helped lift the price by five hundred quid. It was certainly worth the extra money. Steve and I maintained a top-notch car and the price I’d offered it for was a fair one. I was glad I didn’t have to haggle.
We spent the next hour on my Van Diemen. Steve went around the chassis, tightening all the joints while I made copies of my set-up notes and the gear ratios I’d used at different circuits. I boxed up the spare parts and bodywork I was throwing in with the deal. Together, we loaded the Van Diemen on to my trailer and hooked it up to Steve’s Transit van.
‘You want some company?’ Steve asked.
‘No, I’m good,’ I answered and took off. I didn’t have far to go. Selling a racecar isn’t like selling an ordinary car. There aren’t that many buyers, so I was lucky that my buyer lived just twenty miles away in Walton-on-Thames. I chose the scenic route instead of going on the motorway.
The guy who was buying it, Ryan Green, was new to racing. He was in his thirties and indulging a whim. His eyes had lit up when he’d come to Archway to see the car a few weeks earlier. My multi-generational racing bloodline had helped close the deal. Whatever got the job done, I thought.
I arrived at his house, a very nice four-bedroom affair with a double garage in an upscale neighbourhood. I doubted his neighbours would be very happy when he fired up the engine.
He helped me unload the car and we wheeled it into his garage. He’d done a nice job of setting up a workspace for the car. He was taking the pursuit seriously, which was the only way.
I spent an hour going over the car’s operation, its idiosyncrasies and the best way of setting it up. At the end, he asked if he could hire Steve and me to work the pits during his first race. I said I’d take it up with Steve. The money would be nice, but I think he was looking forward to having his weekends back now that he didn’t have to run my car. His girlfriend, Maggie, would certainly like having him back. Steve bore a passing resemblance to Steve McQueen, which made him popular with the ladies. It was a look that hadn’t been passed down to my father and me.
By the time I got away, it was after four and I hit rush hour. My progress slowed to a crawl. As I inched along with all the other automotive rats in the trap, my thoughts turned to Jason Gates.
Ignoring who had killed him, what had been he doing next to the Ragged Racing transporter that night? Huston had floated the idea that I’d killed Jason because he was trying to nick my car. What if he’d been trying to break into the transporter and got caught? That seemed likely. But if Rags or any of the other Ragged Racing crew had caught Jason, they would have given him a slap or called the police. A lot more would have to be at stake for someone to cut his throat.
That thought turned everything on its head. What if Jason had witnessed something he shouldn’t have or was trying to steal something so important or valuable that killing him was the only possible course of action?
That was a scary thought with plenty of implications. What was that valuable? Ragged Racing’s cars. Rags’ cars were wiping the floor with the competition. I was sure one or two of the team owners wouldn’t mind getting their hands on them to understand Rags’ alchemy. Townsend Motorsport stuck out as an obvious contender. They’d been the big loser when Honda had dropped them a year ago and put their backing behind Ragged. The team had struggled for results ever since. Now, I was sure they’d do almost anything to get their hands on Rags’ tweaks or expose any technical infractions. But as much as that picture fit, it also didn’t make sense. If Townsend Motorsport wanted to know what Rags was doing, they just had to throw money at a crew chief to make him defect. And the idea of Rags or anyone else at the team killing someone over it was beyond ridiculous.
My mobile rang. It was Claudia.
‘Aidy, Rags told me what ’appened last night. Are you OK?’
‘Shaken, but fine.’
‘It’s a terrible thing. I’m so glad you’re OK. ’Ave the media been in touch?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Word is out at the show. I made a statement on behalf of the team.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I just stated the facts as we know them. A man was killed last night near the Ragged Racing transporter. You discovered the man and attempted to save ’im.’
‘Did you know the victim is a mechanic for Townsend Motorsport?’
‘No. I didn’t know that. What do you think ’e was doing?’
I preferred to keep my thoughts to myself at this point and told her I didn’t know.
‘Maybe ’e tried to stop someone from breaking into the transporter,’ she suggested.
That wasn’t something I’d considered. I’d seen Jason as a potential thief, not a hero. That put a different complexion on everything.
I’d reached Staines and traffic was thickening up with vehicles pouring off the M25 ahead. I needed my full attention on the road with the trailer hanging off the back of the van.
‘Look, I’m on the road at the moment. I have to go.’
‘OK. I’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself.’
I hung up on Claudia and descended into the crush at the Runnymede Roundabout. The multi-lane roundabout turned into a dogfight at rush hour. It was a direct feed on and off the M25 for anyone coming from or going to Staines, Ashford, Egham, Windsor and a half a dozen other London bedroom communities. Me driving Steve’s Ford Transit with the attached trailer upset the natural balance of cars merging as they approached the roundabout. Combined, I was driving a forty-foot mobile roadblock and everyone seemed eager to get in front of me. I wasn’t in a hurry, so I played submissive and let people pass me until I reached the busy roundabout.