by Simon Wood
I reached up and touched my name on the transporter. I closed my eyes and said, ‘Please be a good year.’
The sound of choking snapped me from my moment. A rush of embarrassment washed over me at my display and I jerked my hand away.
A scrape of heels drew my gaze downward to an outstretched leg sticking out from under the rear of the transporter. It kicked at the ground but the person it belonged to never got to their feet. The sound of the choking intensified.
‘Hey, are you OK?’
A gurgling that turned my stomach came as a reply.
I ran to the rear of the transporter. A man lay on his back, clutching his throat. Street lights caught the steady stream of blood leaking from his fingers.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I murmured.
I dropped to my knees at the guy’s side. I did my best to ignore the stark contrast between the cold asphalt and the man’s warm blood seeping through my chinos.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ I said, believing my words until I saw the source of the man’s bleeding. Someone had cut his throat. A combination of blood and air bubbled up from the ugly and efficient wound.
I didn’t know what to do. Apply pressure? Not apply pressure? I tried to pull his hands away, but he fought me.
‘Let me help.’ I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it against the gash. I felt his blood and breath through the cotton.
He fixed me with a stare that turned my heart to stone in my chest. The fear in his eyes terrified me. He was on the edge of death and he was willing me to save him.
He tried to speak, but only a distorted gurgle made it out.
‘Don’t speak. Save your strength.’
Pointless words for a pointless situation.
‘Help!’ I yelled. ‘I need help here. Please help.’
The sound of a single pair of feet striking the asphalt like a thunderclap split the night-time silence. The dying man swung an arm in the direction of the receding footfalls and pointed. I whipped my head around and saw no one.
‘Help!’ I yelled again, so loud my single plea burned my throat. Where the fuck was security?
I removed a hand, reached inside my pocket and pulled my mobile out. My bloody fingers slipped on the buttons, but I pressed nine-nine-nine.
By the time someone answered the phone and asked me the nature of my emergency, security guards were swarming towards us and the man was dead.
Lap Two
‘Jason Gates. The name means nothing to you?’ Detective Inspector Joan Huston said. She was slim, about my height and wore her hair in a style a good ten years out of date. She looked more like someone’s mum than a cop, but she was much tougher than that. It was there in her eyes. ‘He’s a mechanic for Townsend Motorsport. Sure you don’t know him?’
‘I’ve never met him before.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’ She glanced over at Detective Sergeant Robert O’Neal sitting in the corner. He was a typical-looking cop, tall and broad-shouldered, and he hadn’t said a word since introducing himself.
I was in a police station interview room not far from Earls Court. I didn’t know which one. I’d been in a daze since finding Jason Gates. I’d never seen someone die before, not like that, not up close. Last October, I’d seen Alex Fanning’s fatal crash at the Stowe Park circuit, but that had been a death at arm’s length, insulating me from its horrors. Jason had been different. I’d been there for pretty much every step of his brutal death. I’d felt his blood spill between my fingers and heard his last breath leave his body. I’d been so ill-equipped to handle the situation that I’d kept pressure on the wound long after he was dead. Paramedics had to peel me off him when they arrived. I’d washed the blood off my hands when I reached the station, but I still felt it buried deep under my nails.
My clothes were a mess. A scenes of crime officer at the station had given me a pair of trousers to replace my blood-soaked chinos, as they were evidence, but I still wore my Ragged Racing polo shirt with Jason’s blood speckling the front.
Huston said something, but I didn’t catch it.
‘Sorry. What?’
‘I was just saying that Jason’s throat was cut with a cutthroat razor or a knife with a finely honed edge. Did you see anything like that?’
I shook my head.
‘For the tape, Mr Westlake.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘OK. Maybe you can answer me this instead. What were you doing there? The exhibition had closed for the night, but for some reason you were hanging around.’
This was a new tack for Huston. Until now, her questioning had been preoccupied with what I’d seen and done after discovering Jason. She hadn’t been warm and friendly, but this latest question came with a hard, accusing edge that got my attention.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ I said.
‘Try me. You’d be surprised by my powers of understanding. This job makes you very open-minded.’
I noticed she didn’t sit, despite the free chair. This forced me to look up at her at all times. I guessed there was some psychology to that.
‘Today was a big day for me. This is my first time with a major team and the unveiling was a special moment.’
Huston cocked her head to one side. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but wouldn’t that have happened inside the exhibition hall when the public was there?’
‘It did.’
‘So that still doesn’t explain why you were in the Earls Court car park after hours.’
‘I wanted to see my name on the side of the transporter.’
‘You wanted to see your name,’ Huston said, her sarcasm beginning to show.
I knew I was struggling to get my point across. ‘Seeing my name made it real.’
‘And inside the exhibition wasn’t real enough?’
‘I told you that you wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try harder.’
I sighed. The demand drained me of every drop of energy. ‘I wanted a private moment away from the crowds, the team and sponsors. So when I came back to collect my car, I stopped to look at my name painted on the side of the transporter.’
‘A chance to gloat about how good you are?’
Huston was being purposely combative, but she wasn’t far off the mark. I was being prideful of my luck and success. It was petty of me, but it felt good to do it. ‘You usually have to have someone around to gloat.’
Huston flashed a nasty grin that robbed her of her maternal looks. I’d said something wrong, but I didn’t know what.
‘The car you came by to collect – that’s the one Honda gave you?’
‘Yes.’
Huston leaned against the wall and made a big production of processing what I’d told her. ‘I suppose the thing I don’t like is that you chose to have your private moment at the same time someone cut Jason Gates’ throat.’
‘That’s just coincidence. Someone was going to find the poor sod at some point. If it wasn’t me, it would have been a security guard on his rounds, the clean-up crew emptying the bins or someone parking their car. I was just the unlucky twat who found him first.’
A knock at the door broke the moment.
‘Interview suspended, twelve sixteen a.m.,’ Huston said and hit stop on the recorder.
She opened the door. A uniformed officer stood in the doorway holding a T-shirt.
‘I got Mr Westlake a shirt. Sorry, it’s a little on the large side.’
‘That’s OK,’ I said and stood.
The officer held out the shirt, but before I could cross the cramped interview room, Huston snatched it and lobbed it at me. Reflexively, I caught it left-handed.
Huston and O’Neal exchanged yet another look. I must have been emerging from my state of shock because I caught the significance of the moment.
‘I’m going to need your shirt,’ the officer at the door said.
I peeled off my polo shirt and dropped it into an evidence bag the officer held out. He sealed it without touching the s
hirt and left.
I noticed Huston checking out my body as I pulled on the clean shirt. I knew she wasn’t ogling. She was looking for cuts or bruises picked up from a fight.
‘Did I pass or fail the test?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Huston said.
God, she was a terrible actor. She pressed ‘record’ and announced that the interview was resuming.
‘What test, Mr Westlake?’
‘You wanted to see if I was left- or right-handed. I’m guessing you know which hand was used to cut Jason’s throat.’
‘That’s privileged information,’ she said.
‘Do you think I’m involved in this?’
‘You tell us,’ Huston said.
‘Let’s stop playing games. If you think I did it, then say it, charge me and stop wasting my time.’
‘Mr Westlake, I suggest you remember where you are.’
‘And I suggest you remember that I’m a witness. If I’d cut Jason Gates’ throat, why would I call nine-nine-nine, yell for help and try to save his life?’
‘That’s a good question and I think I know the answer. You and Jason Gates got into a fight for some reason. Maybe he found you in the middle of your private moment and embarrassed you—’
‘And I cut his throat?’ I finished for her. ‘That’s a weak reason for killing someone.’
Huston shrugged. ‘Maybe you found him trying to make off with that shiny new car you’d been given. Oh, that’s a motive I like because I understand you. Your big day. Your moment in the spotlight. You’re the next Nigel Mansell, Jenson Button and Lewis Hamilton rolled into one. You’re a cocky little sod because of it. You’re on top of the world. And guess what, some poxy grease monkey tries to half-inch your motor the day it’s given to you. Now, who wouldn’t forgive you for launching into one?’
You, I thought. ‘Detective Huston—’
‘Detective Inspector Huston,’ she corrected.
I knew that misquoting her rank would needle her and it gave me a little pleasure.
‘Detective Inspector Huston, ignoring what I did with the weapon and a thousand other holes in that stupid scenario, I think that statement says more about you than me.’
Huston burned me with a glare.
‘I came here as a witness, but if I’m a suspect, then charge me. Right now. If not, I’m going home.’
I knew she couldn’t charge me. She was trying it on. She didn’t know all the facts, so she was chancing her luck. Part of that process was giving me a hard time. I understood it, but I didn’t like it.
Huston walked over, leaned down, fixed me with an ugly stare and said into the tape recorder, ‘Interview suspended at twelve twenty-seven a.m.’
Lap Three
O’Neal lived up to his mute status during the drive back to Earls Court. I wondered if his silence was a tactic designed to force me into opening up. If it was, it failed. I didn’t feel any compunction to talk.
He handed me back my mobile. Jason’s blood had been cleaned off. It had been covered in the stuff when Huston had claimed it as evidence. She’d no doubt checked my call log to see if I’d had any contact with him.
We arrived at Earls Court to an active crime scene with investigators combing every inch of space around the transporter for evidence. The cordon included my new car. I heard O’Neal speak for the first time when he cleared the way for me to collect it. A crime-scene technician gave O’Neal the all clear and he drove it off the hallowed land of the crime scene.
‘Aidy. Aidy!’ It was Rags jogging around the cordoned area. It didn’t surprise me to see him here. He ducked under the cordon tape, shook my hand and squeezed my shoulder with his free hand. ‘They told me what happened. How you doing, son?’
‘OK.’
‘Did you see the killer?’
‘No. Heard him. I think.’
‘Christ, you were lucky.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A minute either way and you could have walked in on this prick. If you had, I’d be identifying your body right now.’
That thought hadn’t occurred to me and my naivety left me cold.
‘I need to get out of here,’ I said.
‘Yeah. Of course.’
‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘No, you’re done. Stay home. As soon as I get the all clear from this lot –’ he jerked a thumb at the police at work – ‘I’m pulling the team from the show. I don’t want a circus forming over this, especially around you. OK?’
It was probably the best thing to do.
‘You stay out of the limelight. Anyone comes sniffing around for a comment, refer them to me. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
‘Good, now get off home. Put this behind you and take it easy. I want your head in the right place for testing on Monday.’
Rags managed to pack concern for me and the needs of the team into a single statement. It just went to prove that life did go on, kindness and callousness coexisting in perfect harmony.
O’Neal held my car door open for me as I slipped behind the wheel. He’d been watching my exchange with Rags with his customary silence. ‘We just want to find the killer, Mr Westlake. No offence intended.’
I said nothing, closed the door and drove away.
I threaded my way through the London streets. At one a.m. on a school night, the traffic was light and I drove on autopilot. I opened my mind to white noise and random thoughts. I hoped the monotony of shifting gears and dancing between the clutch, brake and accelerator would put me in a Zen-like mood of vacant thought, but images of hot blood on cold tarmac and Jason Gates’ burning gaze filled the void. There was no forgetting. It was too raw. Too fresh.
I picked up the M4 motorway and pushed the Accord up to seventy.
O’Neal wanted to let me know that he and Huston were just doing their jobs. I wondered how seriously they viewed me as a suspect. Cops being cops, they weren’t going to tell me. I’d know in the next couple of days. If Huston came with handcuffs in hand, then I’d know how she viewed me. I didn’t bother contemplating that one any further.
I replayed Jason’s final moments again in my head. I couldn’t believe that I’d been so caught up in myself that I’d missed a man bleeding to death just a few short feet from me. That single thought stalled my mind’s replay. How long had I been standing there revelling in my success? Two minutes? Five? If I’d gotten to him the second I returned to the transporter, could I have saved him? Would those extra couple of minutes have made a difference? No, I didn’t think so. Jason was dead the moment the killer sliced his throat open.
It wasn’t worth contemplating what I couldn’t change, but maybe I could still help. What had I seen? What had I heard? Any detail could be vital. I replayed my steps from the moment I’d entered the Earls Court car park, but came up with nothing. No one had passed me. I hadn’t heard an argument. I didn’t remember anything out of place. One thought did hit me hard. The killer would have been close when I discovered Jason. He had to be. At best, Jason had minutes to live after his throat had been slit. So how close was the killer? His footfalls had been loud as he escaped. Had he watched me trying to save Jason? My skin prickled at the thought.
I didn’t remember hearing a car engine start after the footsteps. That meant the killer was on foot or parked a long way out of earshot. So did he live local or use public transport as a means of escape? If he’d jumped on the tube, security cameras would have picked him up. Huston might find that information useful.
Before I knew it, the Slough and Windsor junction came up and I followed the slip road down to the roundabout and took the Windsor Relief Road. Almost home. I lived with Steve off Maidenhead Road across from the horse track. Since I’m only five foot four, Steve always said I could have been a jockey if I hadn’t wanted to go into motorsport. Despite having grown up across from the racecourse, I never had any desire to ride. Racecars were in the family blood, not horses.
A BMW 5-Ser
ies flew by me. A few years earlier, I would have chased after the car. As soon as I got my licence at seventeen, I trawled the streets looking for a street race. Oddly, ever since I’d gotten into motorsport, I’d lost the desire for it. No street race could ever emulate the raw adrenaline rush of a motor race.
I followed the BMW off the Windsor Relief Road. By the time I turned on to Maidenhead Road, my speedy friend was long gone.
Just as I drew level with the entrance to Windsor Racecourse, a bang rocked my car. The steering wheel turned to lead in my hands and pulled to the left. It was a blowout. I knew it without even having to get out. I let the car go where it wanted to go and pulled over. I climbed out and prodded the flat tyre with my foot. I’d had the car less than twenty-four hours and I’d already picked up a flat. It was the icing on a very shitty day.
Something stuck from the tyre and I jerked it free. It was an eight-inch length of laminate flooring with nails hammered into it. Obviously, someone thought it was funny to shred people’s tyres.
‘Wankers,’ I murmured.
I looked back down the road. Three more nail strips sat in a row in the roadway. I gathered them up. No one else deserved my luck tonight.
Headlights from the opposite direction lit me up. The BMW that had passed me a few minutes earlier stopped next to me. The driver, a middle-aged guy in a suit, leaned out of his window.
‘You all right?’
‘Puncture.’ I held up the nail strips. ‘Somebody left these out.’
‘Some people are real shitheads. I’ll give you a hand changing the wheel.’
‘Nah, it’s OK. I live a couple of streets away. I’ll change it in the morning.’
‘Don’t be daft. You drive anywhere and you’ll shred the tyre and ruin the rim. It’s not worth it. We can have the spare on in ten minutes.’
He was right, so I nodded.
The BMW driver pulled over while I tossed the nail strips in the boot and dragged out the spare tyre.
