by Simon Wood
Everyone formed back into their groups. Myles and Eva Beecham herded the racing fraternity to one side.
Mr Fanning emerged from the church and shook hands with the vicar before heading over to us. ‘I just wanted to say thank you to all of you for coming here today. It means a lot.’
‘We’re honoured,’ Myles said.
He shook each of our hands and I saw in his eyes that he was barely holding it together. He thanked us again before moving on to other mourners.
Alison went by, cosseted by her parents.
Myles took his wife’s hand. ‘We’re moving on to the burial. I wanted to thank you all for attending too.’
He turned to leave, but I stopped him with a question. ‘What’s the latest on the investigation?’
‘The police made a thorough investigation and have reached their conclusion.’
‘Which is?’ I asked.
Myles looked confused. ‘That it was a terrible accident.’
‘An accident?’ I said. ‘They didn’t think Derek’s threat was suspicious?’
Myles’s expression tightened and he grabbed my arm and dragged me to a far corner of the graveyard. ‘What are you inferring?’
‘Don’t play dumb, Myles. We all heard what Derek said that night.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Don’t pretend you didn’t hear him say he’d kill Alex.’
Myles leaned in toward me. ‘I heard him. It was talk.’
‘It’s funny how talk turned into reality.’
‘You need to watch your mouth, Westlake.’
‘If threatening someone’s life and making good on the threat has no consequences, I’ve got nothing to worry about.’
Myles’s cheeks flushed with anger. I knew I was pushing too hard, but I couldn’t help myself. I was angry too. I was sick and tired of everyone trying to rewrite events.
‘Considering what happened to your parents, I thought you would be more sensitive.’
I wouldn’t let Myles distract me with my parents. ‘Why did Redline edit the coverage and not even mention Alex’s death?’
‘Why’d you think?’ Myles snapped. ‘Some people understand the meaning of respect.’
‘Respect for whom – Derek or Alex?’
‘You’re a piece of work.’
‘Have you seen the TV coverage?’
‘I’ve seen the footage. It showed nothing. You should get your facts straight before you start mouthing off.’
Myles knew the dirty tricks of the racing trade. He was either lying or deluding himself. Alex’s car hadn’t simply spun out. It was launched into the air from locking wheels with Derek’s car.
‘Yes, Derek said something stupid, but it was just words. Alex died as a result of a terrible accident. You’d do well to remember that. I have to go now. I’m attending the burial on behalf of people like you.’ Myles couldn’t have injected any more disgust into his words if he tried.
He turned away from me to leave, but I grabbed his wrist. ‘Does this mean you’ll be installing a tyre wall and gravel traps at all the bends now?’
Stowe Park was one of the only tracks not to have installed gravel traps. In Myles’s opinion, dragging stranded cars from gravel traps slowed down the action for the spectators. It was a fair point, but gravel traps saved lives and drivers’ money.
My backhanded remark struck a nerve. Myles put his face in mine, but kept his voice down to a growl. ‘You little shit.’
Eva grabbed his wrist. She was a small, squat woman but she knew how to handle her husband. ‘Leave it. He isn’t worth it.’
Myles didn’t let go of his anger, but he obeyed his wife and headed toward his car. I’d lost the support of my fellow drivers. They’d already started walking away. If I had any backing for getting to the truth, it was gone now.
Our little row had failed to reach the other mourners, except for Alison. She was looking directly at me as she climbed into the idling Bentley.
Dylan waited until Myles walked away before approaching. He passed Myles and Eva on his way and gave them room as they hurried past.
‘That looked like it went well,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m sick and tired of this crap.’
‘You’re preaching to the choir, mate. You just need to be careful. There are more people than just you involved in all this.’
I nodded and remembered Alison looking my way. ‘Did anyone overhear us?’
‘No, you got lucky, although any louder and you would have been in trouble.’
‘I’m glad to see everyone stuck around to back me up.’
‘What do you expect, Aidy? People are scared. They’ve seen something and they’re not sure they can believe it. They don’t know what to do. Hell, I don’t know what to do.’
‘Well, I do.’
I pulled out my mobile phone and dialled Steve’s number.
‘I’m not sure it’s respectful to make a call in a graveyard.’
I knew Dylan was trying to lighten the mood, but it wasn’t working.
When Steve answered, I switched the call over to speaker. ‘You’re on speaker with me and Dylan.’
‘What’s up?’ Steve asked.
‘I just found out that the police have completed their investigation. They’re calling it an accident. Case closed.’
‘And that bothers you?’
‘Yes, it bothers me. The TV coverage was cut, Myles is pretending nothing happened at The Chequered Flag and the cops closed the case. Unless someone steps up, Alex’s lasting memorial will just be a Did Not Finish classification on the official race record and that isn’t right.’
‘Why is this so important to you, son? Alex wasn’t a friend.’
Steve was testing me. I felt him pushing me from the other end of the phone line. There was no sidestepping the answer he wanted to hear.
‘Because I don’t want to see someone get away with murder again,’ I admitted. ‘They did with Gran. The hospital closed ranks to protect the surgeon who killed her.’
‘But he never worked again.’
‘He should have gone to prison.’
Six years ago, Gran died from blood poisoning after a routine replacement hip operation. It was obvious something was wrong during recovery. The excessive bruising should have told the surgeon something, but he ignored it and first signs of septicaemia. By the time he finally acted, it was too late. The post-mortem revealed a catalogue of mistakes that had occurred during the operation. Instead of this sparking a criminal investigation, acceptable risk got plastered over all the mistakes.
Steve exhaled. ‘God, you sound just like her. She was a terror when it came to injustice. She always fought for what was right and she instilled that in you.’
‘And is that such a bad thing?’
‘No. She’d be very proud of you.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘So what do you want to do about this situation?’
‘Build a case against Derek and take it to the cops.’
‘Then let’s do it,’ Steve said.
Lap Six
The first part of our investigation was to examine the scene of the crime. Saturday morning, I drove out to Stowe Park.
I went down in Steve’s pride and joy, a 1972 Ford Capri RS2600. When it came to affordable coupes of yesteryear, the Americans had the Mustang and the British had the Capri. Steve had bought it new and he’d kept it in mint condition. He’d made a number of modifications that ensured it kept up with its more modern counterparts. I got to drive it when he needed the van, which was pretty often.
For my cover, I went armed with a laundry list of replacement parts I needed to rebuild my car. Like most tracks across the country, someone ran a parts and equipment business on the track’s premises. The stores all did a roaring trade on race days and survived the rest of the time through mail order. Chicane Motorsports, located in the paddock at Stowe Park, was the most reasonably priced outfit across the country.
I ignored the signs for the paddock entrance and
followed the ones for the flea market. On non-race weekends, Myles rented the general parking area out to the market. The track was acres and acres of overhead and the income earned from ten race meetings throughout the year wasn’t going to cut it. He needed other sources of revenue and the market was a great moneymaker.
I parked and cut through the market. There was no security on hand to stop me from exploring the track.
It took me fifteen minutes to cover the distance from the start-finish line to the spectator area at Barrack Hill. During a race, I would have covered the same distance in less than thirty seconds. You don’t really understand how fast you’re travelling until you have to cover the same distance on foot.
I climbed the dirt embankment at Wilts and followed it to where Alex had crashed at Barrack Hill. The concrete wall he hit is built into the embankment. Spectators are allowed to watch from the mound. Last Saturday, anyone there got a close-up view they weren’t expecting.
I looked to see if anyone was watching me before bringing out my digital camera and snapping a couple of shots of the track from the embankment. I wanted pictures of the skid marks before the weather and other cars ruined them. I climbed down the embankment and over the gate onto the track.
Alex’s tyre marks were impossible to mistake. There was the usual array of skid marks where drivers locked up their brakes before going into the turn. Only one set of skid marks started in the middle of the bend. Alex’s skid marks. You don’t brake in the middle of a turn. It’s suicidal.
These skid marks might not have meant much to most people, but they told me a story. The marks were in two parts. The first set occurred part-way through the bend. It was a heavy, violently drawn S-shape. This came from the initial contact with Derek which kicked Alex’s car onto two wheels. The second set of skid marks began just as the first ended. A set of four ugly black lines slewed off the track at an angle and dead ended into the wall. These short skid marks indicated Alex’s futile gesture. He would have scrubbed little to no speed off before hitting the wall.
Alex had to have known the impact was going to be serious. Had he had time to pull his knees up and take his hands off the wheel to prevent the shock wave from going through his body? Hopefully, but in a big shunt, panic takes over and you ignore the correct course of action.
I followed Alex’s fatal trajectory, snapping close-up shots of the marks until I reached the wall. Cars striking the wall over the years had left their mark in the form of gouges in the concrete. Amongst the collection of gashes, it was easy to recognize the fresh impact left by Alex’s car. Red paint and fragments of fibreglass were embedded in the gash left behind. I took a final shot.
I’d seen enough and returned to my car. No one seemed to have noticed my excursion. I drove out of the flea market over to Chicane Motorsports. I walked inside the cramped building filled with mannequins dressed in racing overalls and holding steering wheels. Chicane’s is big, but the customer area is small. The majority of the space is taken up with floor to ceiling racks filled with car parts.
At the end of one of the aisles, I waved to Chris who was sitting at his desk typing away at his computer. Chris owned Chicane’s, but never looked the part. I’d never seen him in a pair of jeans. He always dressed in designer clothes. Considering the oil and grease content of his business, it was a mistake to be that well-attired, but somehow, he never managed to get a drop of oil on him.
‘Hi, Aidy, what can we do you for?’
I held up my list.
‘I’ll get Paul.’
Chris called out for Paul, his only full time employee.
‘Coming,’ Paul’s familiar voice called back. He climbed down from a ladder and came out to the counter.
Paul was the antithesis of Chris. He was always grubby. His hands were black from oil and his complexion was leathery from a lifetime spent in the elements.
‘Watcha, Aidy. Is it that time of year already?’
‘It is. Time to make up for all the damage I’ve done this season.’
I pushed a box containing my rear shocks over to Paul. Oil from their leaking seals stained the cardboard. Paul looked them over.
‘For rebuilding?’
I nodded.
‘I’ve got everything on your list on the shelf, but the shocks will take me a week to turn around. That OK?’
‘No worries. I’ll take what you’ve got and I’ll be back for the rest.’
Paul grinned and scurried off to find the bearings, rose joints and everything else on the list.
Chris called out, ‘You go to Alex’s funeral yesterday?’
I peered down the aisle to see him. ‘Yeah.’
Chris shook his head. ‘Too bad. I can’t remember there being a death here.’
‘I can,’ Paul chimed in. ‘Barry Telfer, August bank holiday, 1972. He rolled a Ford Cortina at Church corner, broke his neck. Nasty.’
Chris rolled his eyes and I smiled. Paul was an encyclopedia of motorsport. He absorbed every race result, fact and rumour. If there was something he didn’t know, then it wasn’t worth knowing.
‘I sent flowers, but I didn’t go,’ Chris said. ‘It didn’t seem right.’
‘I know what you mean,’ I said.
‘Did many go?’
‘Most of the regulars.’
Chris nodded. ‘Did Derek?’
‘No.’
Chris shrugged in a ‘what are you gonna do’ gesture.
‘Are you coming to the championship bash?’ he asked.
There was an end-of-the-season banquet to celebrate the season and to present awards, including the championship trophy. Under the circumstances, I hadn’t intended on raising a glass to honour Derek Deacon, but I changed my mind. I saw some value in attending. The dinner was an excuse for everyone to get dressed up, drink too much and forget how much money they’d spent on a season of racing. It meant people would be more forthcoming than usual.
‘Yeah, I’ll be there.’
Paul emerged from the shelves with everything I’d requested. He checked it all off against my list and when he was sure all was good, he rang it up on the register.
‘I hear Alex’s car is here.’
Paul stopped punching numbers into the till and shared a look with Chris.
Chris got up from his seat and came up to the counter. ‘Yeah, it’s locked up in the scrutineering bay.’
‘I know you’ve got keys to the bay. Do you think I could take a look?’
‘Why would you want to do that?’ Myles Beecham said from behind me.
Shit. Another minute and I would have pulled it off. Was dumb luck biting me in the arse or had he been watching me walk the track from the control tower? I turned to face him. He looked ready to throttle me. Obviously, he hadn’t gotten yesterday out of his system.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘Some of the drivers agreed that no one should drive Alex’s car again. We’re looking to buy it to have it crushed.’ While that was true, I wasn’t planning to melt the car down until I’d gone over it. Just like the skid marks, the car would help me construct a case against Derek.
My explanation worked. The tension in the room broke and Myles seemed to shrink by a few inches as his suppressed anger bled out of him.
‘But why do you want to see the car?’ he said.
‘So I can make a realistic offer. We want to make a gesture, but none of us are made of money.’
Myles chewed that one over for a moment. I guessed he was deciding whether I was bullshitting him or not.
‘Come with me. I’ll show you.’
We crossed the paddock to the scrutineering bay in silence. This was no good. If I wanted to get to the bottom of Alex’s death, I needed everyone’s cooperation. That included Myles. ‘Look, I’m sorry about what I said at the funeral. It was uncalled for.’
Myles kept walking without looking at me. ‘That’s OK. Nerves are a little frayed at the moment. It’s a sensitive time for everyone.’
‘Sensitive
times or not, I was rude.’
‘I appreciate you saying that.’
Myles unlocked the double garage doors to the scrutineering bay and swung them open. What remained of Alex’s car sat ruined in the middle of the bay. My mouth went dry at the sight.
The car was a mess. The impact had flattened the aluminium nose box, snapping off the brake and clutch master cylinders in the process. A pool of fluid stained the floor. Splintered fibreglass bodywork exposed the chassis underneath. A Formula Ford’s chassis is a spiderweb of tubular steel. It’s immensely strong, especially in a head-on collision, but Alex’s chassis had buckled. Only one tyre remained inflated. The other three were either punctured or hanging from buckled rims. The front wheels only remained attached to the car by the brake cables and the wishbone suspension assembly was nothing more than a knot of folded steel.
Despite the devastation, Alex should have survived. Formula cars are one giant safety cage. The wheel and suspension arrangement is designed to shear off so that it reduces the energy during a crash. The cars fold up like a garden chair, allowing the driver to walk away in one piece.
Crouching down to examine the cockpit, I discovered what had killed Alex. The harness mounts over his shoulders had sheared off during the high speed impact. Unrestrained from the waist up, his momentum hurled him head first into the steering wheel. Even with his crash helmet, he didn’t stand a chance. When the car hit the wall, physics took over. The deceleration was massive. His body went from one hundred and thirty to zero in the blink of an eye. The resulting force at which he would have hit his head on the steering wheel would have been staggering. I climbed to my feet, unable to speak.
‘How much do you think you’ll offer?’
There was thousands in damage here. The car wasn’t worth much in this condition. The chassis wasn’t salvageable and most of the ancillaries were write-offs. There was very little of value. The whole thing was worth a grand at most, but that wasn’t a figure to toss out at a grieving family. Nobody wants to hear their son’s life could be reduced to a few hundred pounds.
