by Simon Wood
‘Staines.’
‘With a Renault hatchback?’
Sergeant Lucas took a step closer. ‘Yes.’
‘Steve wasn’t driving the van. I was.’
Sergeant Lucas smiled at my admission. I think my honesty passed his test. I didn’t see the need for a test, since I couldn’t see why my roundabout near miss warranted police intervention. I guessed that angry Renault woman must have been pissed off enough to report my number plate to the police. I supposed I deserved a slapped wrist for the inconvenience I’d caused.
‘You were. Good. Then you’re the man I need to talk to. What’s your name?’
‘Aidy Westlake.’
‘Do you have somewhere we could talk, Aidy?’
I led Lucas up to the crow’s-nest and we both took a seat.
He looked up at the memorabilia on the walls. ‘You like motor racing, I see.’
‘It’s what we do. My grandfather was a grand prix mechanic in his day. He restores racecars and sports cars now.’
‘Really? Wow. And you work for him?’
‘I just help out.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘I’m a racing driver.’ A blush followed my admission. I hadn’t gotten used to the idea that I’d graduated from someone who raced cars to a full-time racing driver. My chosen career sounded so pretentious without a championship title under my belt.
‘Really? That must be exciting.’
‘It has its moments.’
Sergeant Lucas showed no sign of recognizing my name or a connection to my father’s career. It made for a refreshing change.
‘Obviously, you know why I’m here, yes?’
‘Over the traffic jam we caused on the Runnymede roundabout.’
Lucas squeezed out a pained smile. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit more than that, Aidy.’
‘What do you mean?’
Lucas held up his hand and opened up a notebook. ‘I just have to get this part out of the way before we go any further. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘Are you arresting me?’
‘No, it’s just a caution at this stage, but I do have to make you aware of your rights.’
‘What’s all this about? I want to know why you’re cautioning me. What am I being accused of?’
‘Whoa, slow down. One thing at a time. The victim alleges—’
‘Victim?’
‘Please, Aidy. Just calm yourself. You’ll have all the time you need to respond, but let me get through the basics first. OK?’
What had Miss Angry Renault said that had brought the police to my door?
‘The victim in question alleges you crashed into her at the roundabout then drove off. When you didn’t stop, she pursued you and you proceeded to run her off the road.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Mr Westlake, please.’
‘I’m sorry, but nothing of the kind happened. She cut me off in traffic and I went around her. End of story. Do you think I’d drive off if I had clipped her, let alone run her off the road?’
‘Mr Westlake, I don’t know you.’ Unlike me, Sergeant Lucas kept his tone level, but he’d switched to using my last name. We were no longer buddies.
‘I’m a racing driver. I don’t take chances on the road. If I lose my driver’s licence, I lose my race licence. The risks are just too high.’
Lucas nodded thoughtfully.
‘This woman – what’s her name?’
‘I can’t divulge that information.’
‘OK. Whoever she is, she’s trying to get back at me over this roundabout thing. There’s nothing to it.’
Lucas nodded. ‘Maybe you should look at this.’
He removed a Polaroid from his folder and handed it to me. It was a driver’s-side shot of the Renault hatchback sitting in a field. The front windscreen was split and the side windows were missing, but that was the least of the damage. The car looked as if it had been dropped from a great height. Every body panel was bent and buckled. The door mirror dangled from a trail of wires. My mouth dropped open in shock.
‘What is this?’
‘I have to warn you that a number of charges are being levelled at you which include failing to stop after an accident, failing to give particulars or report an accident within twenty-four hours, driving without due care and attention, dangerous driving, furious driving and offences not covered by other codes. These are serious charges.’
‘I realize that. This is insane.’
Any two of these charges was enough to claim my driver’s licence. I didn’t have a clue how long I’d lose it for if all of them applied. My racing career was staring into an abyss.
‘I don’t get any of this,’ I said. ‘I swear to you that I didn’t put a scratch on this car, let alone the damage pictured here.’
Lucas produced the pained smile again and took the Polaroid from me.
‘Don’t give me that look. This is bullshit. If I’d done that, my grandfather’s van would be a mess and my trailer would be in pieces. But they’re not. My grandfather’s out in the van right now, but the trailer’s right outside. Go look. You won’t find a dent, scratch or repair.’
‘There’ll be time for that later. You’re getting excited again.’
‘Wouldn’t you be?’
‘Maybe I would. Let’s calm down and just go through the facts. I think if we take things logically, one step at a time, there’ll be less emotion and we’ll have everything we need to be able to make a judgement. Sound like a plan?’
I exhaled. I appreciated what Lucas was doing. He was working with me. ‘Yeah. Sounds like a good plan.’
‘OK, I need to get a formal statement from you. I need the one-two-three of everything that occurred as you experienced it and nothing else. Just your viewpoint. OK?’
I liked Lucas and the way he went about his job. He was impartial and balanced, which made sense. He wasn’t judge and jury. He just collected the information.
I nodded and proceeded to outline what happened from the moment I entered the roundabout until the woman in the Renault gave up on her chase. Lucas wrote down everything I said on a statement form, stopping me when he needed clarification on a point. Every time I tried to insert an assumption, Lucas reined me in and asked me to stick to the facts. At the end, he handed me three pages of paperwork.
‘Read that over, initial each page and sign the last page. If you need to make changes, just make them and initial.’
I looked the pages over. Sergeant Lucas had captured my account as I’d described it. A couple of additional things occurred to me as I read the statement. Lucas stood next to me while I hand wrote in additions and initialled the changes.
‘So, is this an accurate account, according to you?’
It was and it didn’t look like much. I put my faith in the facts. They were probably the only thing that could save me. This woman could say I’d driven her off the road, but her story didn’t hold water. Steve’s van didn’t have a scratch. Considering the damage to her car, she probably ran off the road all by herself in her rage, and was trying to squeeze some money out of Steve’s insurance to pay for it. ‘Yes, this is how it happened.’
‘Then all I need is your signature.’
I picked up the pen to sign, but Sergeant Lucas put his hand over mine. ‘Now you’re sure you want to sign this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Once you sign this statement, it goes on record, so if there’s anything you want to change, do it now. We can tear this up and start over. It doesn’t matter to me how long this takes as long as we get the truth.’
I tapped my statement. ‘This is the truth.’
He looked at me with disappointment. He didn’t believe me.
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘All I’m saying is if your cars collided, I understand the situation. You’re a raci
ng driver who can’t afford to lose your licence. Maybe you panicked and drove off. It’s totally understandable. I could see myself doing the same in your position.’
‘But I didn’t. I did exactly what’s written here. I don’t know why the other driver is saying what she’s saying, but it’s not the truth.’ I tapped the statement again. ‘This is the truth.’
Sergeant Lucas stood back from me. ‘If you sign that document, I can’t help you further. Charges will likely be filed against you.’
‘I don’t need your help,’ I said and signed the statement.
Lap Ten
Dylan poked his head through the door just after noon. ‘Ready for lunch?’
I was more than ready. I’d been stewing in my own thoughts since Sergeant Lucas had left. I couldn’t believe that Miss Angry Renault had lied. What did she want – revenge for the incident? No. She couldn’t be that bent out of shape over it. Maybe she’d seen the Archway logo on the back of the van and thought she could squeeze some money out of the business. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I said.
‘Rough morning?’ Dylan asked.
‘More than you know.’
I locked up Archway and Dylan drove us towards Ascot.
‘You want to lose the scowl and tell me what happened this morning?’
I hadn’t realized I’d been wearing my feelings for all to see. ‘Sorry. When I dropped off the Van Diemen the other day, I had a near miss with a car on the way back. The police just came by to question me because they’re investigating a claim that I ran a woman off the road.’
‘Has she got anything to back this up?’
‘Her word and her car. It’s a write-off.’
‘But you never made contact with her car?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’re golden. Did you show them the van?’
‘Couldn’t. Steve was out in it. The cops are coming back to check it out in the next week or so.’
‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, mate. The second they see the Transit hasn’t got a scratch, this bird is screwed.’
It was nice to have someone believe in me. My recent run-ins with the police showed they had little faith in anything I said.
‘Have you told Steve?’
‘Not yet. I’m not looking forward to that.’
‘Steve will have your back; you know that,’ Dylan said. ‘Let’s forget that crap. How’d testing go yesterday? Tell me all about it. I want to hear.’
‘It’s amazing, mate. I have five guys working on my car alone. If something needs replacing, it gets replaced. No scrambling for loose change to pay for it. You wouldn’t believe how many sets of tyres we burned through.’
Dylan beamed. ‘You are in a different world. You’re not trying to compete with the big boys – you are one of the big boys. I’m so proud of you.’
Dylan drove us out to one of his favourite haunts, The Coach and Horses. It was a pub restaurant where the local AC Cobra owners’ club held their meetings. Drive by the last Sunday of the month and the car park would be chocka with the king of muscle cars.
We ordered food and drinks at the bar. We grabbed a table by the window and Dylan went quiet. He fiddled with the beer mats on the table, stacking a bunch together, shuffling them, turning them around in his hands, only to shuffle them again.
‘You OK?’
‘If I say no, is that a problem?’
‘No. What’s up?’
‘It’s a weekday and I’m not working, and I’m not likely to be any time soon.’
‘What happened?’
‘Can you say economic downturn and housing slump? The building trade has dried up.’
Dylan was a bricklayer and plasterer.
I felt bad. I’d been so wrapped up with my own life over the last few months that I hadn’t kept up with Dylan’s situation. ‘I thought you were working on that housing development in Bracknell.’
‘They’ve finished with me and there’s little else going on right now. I’m trying to see if I can get on some plumbing or electrical crews, but that doesn’t really matter. I don’t want to be a bricky all my life.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To ask a favour.’
Last year, Dylan and Steve put their lives on the line to save me. Whatever he needed, I’d do my best to make it happen.
‘Look, I’m done with the building trade. My heart isn’t in it anymore. I want to work the pits. All I need is a break. Do you think you could ask Rags to give me a job?’
It seemed like a simple request, but it wasn’t. The days were gone where you could just be a good mechanic to get into motorsport. Technology was so ingrained in the sport, you needed to be junior rocket scientist and that meant qualifications, which Dylan didn’t have. He could claim that he’d worked alongside Steve, which carried some weight, but I doubted it was likely to sway Rags, especially since I’d pissed him off yesterday when I’d told him to leave Nick Ronson alone.
‘I can ask, but I’m the new guy. I don’t have any sway.’
‘I know you can’t make promises, but please do what you can. If I get on with a team, it’ll be my break from the building trade.’
That bittersweet feeling that I’d felt at Earls Court returned. If my motor racing continued on the upswing, I’d be forced to leave my friends behind. There was only room for one person in the cockpit, literally and figuratively.
The barman called out a number and Dylan got our food. Despite my limp promise, his spirits had lifted and his smile was back.
Two office workers walked into the pub. They went straight to the barman and pointed outside. The barman nodded and rang the bell for calling time to grab everyone’s attention.
‘Who’s got the Subaru WRX outside?’
‘Me,’ Dylan answered.
‘You’ve got a flat tyre, mate.’
‘Shit. That’s all I need.’
We left our food and went outside to check the car. Dylan didn’t have one flat tyre, he had two and neither were the product of bad luck. Someone had slit the sidewalls.
Dylan crouched in front of one of his ruined tyres. ‘What prick did that?’
A prick like Crichlow. His BMW was parked across the street and he was behind the wheel watching us. A moment later, my mobile vibrated in my pocket. I had a text with the simple message: Lose the friend.
I glanced Crichlow’s way and nodded.
‘I’ll call Steve,’ I said.
Replacing one flat wouldn’t have been a problem, but two turned our afternoon into a production. We jacked the car up and removed the wheels. When Steve arrived, he drove Dylan to a tyre shop for replacements. I stayed with the car to quell the pub manager’s fears that we were dumping it.
The second Steve and Dylan were out of sight, I walked over to Crichlow. ‘Was that really necessary?’
‘Consider it a reminder that you should be devoting your energies to the task you’ve been assigned and not getting lashed up in the pub with your mate.’
‘Duly noted,’ I said sourly.
‘Mr Gates wants to meet to discuss your progress,’ Crichlow said.
‘And so do I.’
‘Good. Maybe I won’t have to cut anything else.’
Lap Eleven
The next morning, I left for a Hertfordshire address Crichlow had texted me. Steve had already left for a meeting with a potential new client who was looking for someone to maintain his collection of classic British sports cars. It saved me the job of explaining where I was going.
The route took me into the countryside where the roads narrowed and the speed limits climbed. The address Crichlow had given me wasn’t strictly an address, just a location. My X marks the spot was a wrought-iron gate. It wasn’t hard to find. It was the only entrance on a long, winding road with nothing in between. I pulled over and stopped in front of the eight-foot-high gate. Brick columns on either side of it proclaimed: Private property. Keep out.
Another secluded spot. It failed to fill me with
confidence after my last run-in with Andrew Gates.
I got out of the car. A thick chain and combination lock protected the gate and there wasn’t a squawk box to announce my arrival, so I called Crichlow on my mobile.
‘I’m here,’ I said.
‘Good,’ Crichlow said. ‘The combination to the lock is nine-nine-nine.’
I supposed that was meant to be funny.
‘Follow the path to the end. You’ll find me waiting. Lock the gate after you. This is a private meeting.’
I did as Crichlow told me. I followed a narrow gravel path, made narrower by two walls of thick shrubbery. Eventually, it opened out on to a hillside. A hundred yards off, Crichlow leaned against the bonnet of his BMW. He looked very much the country gent in his Barbour jacket and corduroy trousers. He didn’t acknowledge my arrival, instead staring out across the fields at the manor house off at the bottom of the hill. Andrew Gates wasn’t on the scene. Did that mean I was in for another blindfolded ride in the boot of Crichlow’s car? Not if I had anything to do with it. In case of that eventuality, I pulled up behind the BMW to block him in and climbed out.
‘Where’s Andrew?’ I said, but the words lost their power when I saw the rifle in Crichlow’s hands. He carried it low across his stomach with the barrel tilted towards the ground. I made no sudden movements.
He held the rifle up for me to see. The walnut stock gleamed and the black barrel seemed to stretch forever. ‘The bolt action rifle. It’s been around for donkeys.’
‘What’s going on?’ I fought to keep my voice steady.
Crichlow removed a shell as long as his little finger from his jacket pocket, dropped it into the open breech, then drove the bolt home. He turned his back on me and sighted the rifle down the hillside towards the house.
‘Rifle makers hit the development ceiling when some clever fucker came up with this simple design. You don’t need a fancy scope to be accurate. If you know your trigonometry, you’re as good as gold. As long as you’ve got the guts to pull the trigger, you’ll hit your target every time.’
The display confused me, but there was a point to this. There always was with people who thought they held the power.
