by Simon Wood
The crew stopped what they were doing and crowded around him.
‘As everybody is aware, Jason Gates was murdered last week.’
Several people looked my way.
‘Most of you know Jason started out with us.’
I didn’t. That put a fresh spin on events.
‘He started out as a grease monkey and left us an accomplished technician. He deserved better. As a mark of respect, I’d like to have a moment’s silence in Jason’s honour.’
We bowed our heads. There’d been so much fervour in our preparation before hitting the track that the sudden silence was haunting. The only sound was the wind gusting down the pit lane.
‘OK, guys, let’s get back to it.’
‘Lads, a moment,’ Nevin said to his crew. ‘Aidy, these reprobates will be running your car. Say hello to Jim McLeod, Dalton Mitchell, Roy Carroll and Stephen Price. They’ll break their backs for you, but they’ll expect you to do the same for them.’
I shook hands with all of them.
‘OK, intros out the way, let’s impress the boss,’ Nevin said.
I jogged back to my car, grabbed my kit bag and changed into my race clothes. This consisted of flame retardant socks, long johns, a long-sleeved T-shirt, shoes and overalls. The clothing always seemed like overkill. Racecars rarely caught fire these days, but there was always the exception. I just hoped I’d never get to find out what it was like to be the exception. All dressed up, I jogged across the paddock back to the pits.
I stopped when I reached the team transporter. The doors were open, so I clambered up and stood inside. The transporter was a mobile workshop, all gleaming aluminium and polished steel. The cars sat on tracks inside. Storage compartments galore provided a home for replacement parts and tools. Everything that might be needed to strip and rebuild any of the cars was here. Jason had wanted something from here, but what? Nothing stood out at first glance. There was plenty worth stealing, but there’d be no point. Anything he’d find here he’d also find with his own team and certainly none of it was worth killing him over. If Jason had been breaking in to take something, it would be something very specific.
‘Aidy, what are you doing?’ Nevin asked from behind me.
I hadn’t heard him walk up on me. ‘Just looking. It’s a bit more than I’m used to.’
‘Well, you’re in the big leagues now, son. C’mon, we’ve got work to do.’
I jumped down from the transporter and the two of us walked back to the garage.
‘I know you’ve driven this car, but now you’ve got to race it. Remember, it’s a lot different from your Formula Ford, OK?’
‘Got it.’
‘The telemetry will feed us everything you’re doing, so don’t think you can bullshit me on what’s happening.’
I smiled. ‘I won’t.’
Nevin smiled back. ‘Good lad. I want you to go out and give me twenty. Use ten to get a feel for the car and then give me ten flying laps to let me see how you put it all together.’
‘No problem.’
‘Questions?’
I frowned. ‘More of a request.’
‘Shoot.’
I had pre-race customs, although Dylan called them superstitions. I was used to prepping my own cars and knew every inch down to the nuts and bolts. Before I climbed behind the wheel, I always checked each joint and torqued my wheels. It served a technical purpose, but it also calmed and focused me. I explained this to Nevin and he and his crew laughed their heads off.
‘We’re going to get on well,’ Nevin said. ‘Aren’t we, boys?’
His crew responded with thumbs-up and yeses.
‘You’re in a different world now, Aidy. These lads have got your back. We’ll forget nothing. You’re in safe hands, but I like someone who crosses t’s and dots i’s.’ Nevin handed me a checklist. ‘I run through this with the boys before any of my drivers hit the track. You call it out and we’ll do it.’
I liked Nevin’s military precision. I called out the checks and my crew carried them out, making sure everything was tight, locked down and operating normally, even down to retorquing the wheels.
When the checklist was completed, Nevin handed me my helmet, which was mic’d up. This was the first time I’d be driving with a headset.
‘I like drivers who talk to me,’ Nevin said. ‘I want your commentary. Your feedback is just as useful as the telemetry.’
I completed my final pre-race custom by kissing my mum’s St Christopher that I’d been wearing since her death. I pulled on my helmet and climbed into the car. Nevin belted me in, plugged in my headset, then sent me out.
Haulk had already joined the circuit and I accelerated hard on the pit lane. The car shuddered over the concrete surface on its stiff springs until I hit the track’s smooth asphalt. I wound the car up through the gears. With its interior stripped out, the roar of the engine echoed inside the cavernous cockpit.
As Nevin asked, I worked my way into the car, adjusting to its power and adapting to its idiosyncrasies. The extra weight and higher centre of gravity meant I couldn’t corner as fast as in my Formula Ford. I had to work the brakes hard before I entered every corner, but I also had the power to compensate on the straights. As I racked up the laps, the car lost its unfamiliarity and I felt it respond to me.
‘That’s ten laps,’ Nevin said through my headset. ‘Now show me what you can do.’
I pushed the car, but I didn’t go crazy. With each lap, I went a little deeper with the car, getting on the power earlier, braking later and refining my racing line. Nevin kept in contact the whole time. I liked having his voice in my ear, guiding and encouraging me. It reminded me of Steve, that voice of reason smoothing my reservations away.
At the end of my second set of laps, I came in. Nevin kept me in the car while the crew carried out checks and refuelled.
‘I like your times. They aren’t earth shattering, but you’re chipping away at them. Keep it up.’
I put in another thirty laps under Nevin’s tuition before Rags called in all the cars for lunch. I hated stopping for lunch. It meant losing the rhythm I was in, although it made sense to come in to refuel the body as well as the car. Most people would be amazed at how much energy a driver burns off during a race, considering he remains seated for all of it.
I came in to find the crew had converted two of the unused garages into a team canteen with tables and chairs. It was just one of the many perks of having the whole pit lane to yourself.
Nevin handed me a prepared lunch consisting of a pasta salad and roast chicken and I grabbed a bottle of water from an ice bucket. I took a seat at the table with everyone else and ate a forkful of the pasta salad.
‘Hmm, that’s weird,’ Price said to me.
‘What?’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t turn around three times before you sat down. You being a superstitious sod and everything.’
Everyone laughed.
‘Ha-bloody-ha,’ I said with a smile. I should have known I was going to take some ribbing over wanting to carry out my own spanner checks.
Haulk ruffled my hair as he passed by. ‘So what else are you superstitious about? You don’t sit down when you take a piss, do you?’
This got another laugh.
‘Leave the lad alone,’ Nevin said.
‘I’m sure I’m not the only one who has superstitions.’
‘Show him,’ Rags said to Haulk.
Haulk frowned.
‘Do it,’ Rags insisted.
Haulk reached inside his overalls and pulled out a tiny teddy bear. It was frayed and manky looking. ‘I never race without it.’
‘What’s everyone else got?’ I asked.
Nevin slapped his groin. ‘I’ve got my lucky underwear.’
‘Not so lucky from where I’m sitting,’ McLeod said.
‘Hey, at least you can find me in the dark,’ he said.
‘I don’t know why I have any of you working for me,’ Rags said, grinning.
<
br /> The crew spent the next twenty minutes taking pot shots at each other. I liked it. We felt like a family instead of a team and it was nice to be a part of the fun, but I had to get them talking about Jason.
‘I didn’t know Jason Gates worked for Ragged,’ I said.
The life went out of the crowd and frowns replaced smiles.
‘Yeah,’ Rags said. ‘He started with us four years ago, the year after Mike Whelan won his first championship for us.’
‘Jason left us about a year ago,’ Nevin said.
‘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.
&nbs
p; ‘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.’
‘You think one of us did it?’
‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Jason was killed next to your transporter.’
‘Yeah, but what was he doing hanging around our truck in the first place – spying, stealing?’
‘Fuck you. Jason wasn’t like that. Not everyone is a cheat.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Take a look at your team. There’s something very wrong there.’ Ronson pointed at the Ragged Racing fleet of transporters and support vehicles heading towards the exit. ‘What’s wrong with that picture?’
I shrugged.
‘Sponsorship.’
‘We’ve got sponsorship.’
‘Not enough to explain the amount your team is spending.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You lot have just rented Snetterton to yourself for the day and you do it all the time. Every square inch of your cars should be covered with sponsors’ logos to cover those running costs, so something bent is going on.’
Ronson had a point. The surface of a racecar was advertising real estate. Some locations were better than others and to get into those good neighbourhoods, you had to pay. Getting your company’s name or product splashed down the side of the car cost more than it did on the back bumper.
I watched Ragged’s transporters go by with the outline of the cars painted on the sides. Rags’ major sponsor was a men’s antiperspirant. Their sponsorship cash got them the rear door and quarter panel, boot lid and bumper. Pit Lane magazine had the front bumper and the Honda symbol covered the bonnet. I guessed that there was around a hundred thousand pounds in unused ad space on each car. Compared to the rest of the field, Ragged Racing looked like the poor relation. Ronson was right. The team shouldn’t have been in a position to be so lavish with its spending.
