by Simon Wood
I walked over next to Crichlow and followed his aim. A row of sports cars sat in the spacious gravel driveway in front of the house. Steve’s Ford Capri RS2600 was amongst them. Gates was Steve’s morning client? I snatched the pair of binoculars off the bonnet of Crichlow’s car. Steve and Gates were standing over a Jensen Interceptor. Steve had the bonnet up and was leaning over the engine compartment. He had his back square to Crichlow’s aim.
‘The wind is nice and steady.’ Crichlow adjusted a knob on the scope. ‘That makes it so much easier to predict the trajectory.’
I tossed the binoculars and lunged at him, striking the rifle with both hands, destroying his shot. I left my midsection exposed and he drove an elbow into my stomach just below my ribcage. I lost the ability to breathe and crumpled to my knees. He drove his heel into my chest and sent me sprawling on to my back, then he whipped the rifle around and aimed it at my face.
‘This is a demonstration to remind you of how serious we are about finding Jason’s killer and how easily we can follow through on our threat to hurt the people you care about.’
‘The demonstration isn’t necessary. I know what you can do.’
‘Isn’t it? It’s been days and we haven’t heard one damn word from you.’
My fear evaporated. I was sick of being pushed around. ‘Do I look like a cop? No. I’m one person. If you were looking for instant results you should have asked a genie. Now get that sodding rifle out of my face.’
Crichlow slung the rifle over his shoulder and helped me to my feet. ‘You know this isn’t personal. It’s business.’
‘Like that makes a difference.’
Crichlow ejected the unspent round from the rifle and put it in his pocket. ‘Get in the car.’
I picked up the binoculars and climbed into the BMW’s passenger’s seat alongside him.
‘What have you found out?’ he asked.
Being upfront with Andrew Gates and Crichlow was now an issue after talking to Carrie. I had to keep them at a distance until I knew one way or another how involved they were with Jason’s death. That meant keeping some of what I knew to myself.
‘Someone turned over Jason’s flat. The place is a mess.’
‘Shit. Anything taken?’
‘Hard to tell. I don’t know what he had beforehand. It wasn’t a robbery, that’s for certain. His TV and DVD player weren’t taken.’
‘So, someone was looking for something.’
‘Yeah, I think they found what they were looking for. Jason’s laptop is gone. You should probably have it cleared out just in case.’
‘Yeah. Good point.’
Through the binoculars, I looked down the hillside. Steve and Gates stood in front of the assembled cars. They were laughing and joking like all was good with the world, except Gates knew Crichlow was up here with his rifle. Gates claimed he’d gone straight, but he obviously hadn’t lost his nasty side.
‘Look, can I talk to you about Jason? I want an outsider’s opinion and not one coloured by family devotion.’
‘Are you saying Andrew can’t be honest when it comes to Jason?’
‘When it comes to family, who can?’
‘Ask away.’
‘Was Jason as honest as Andrew thinks he was?’
‘Jason was a straight arrow.’
‘He was trying to break into that transporter, so his arrow had a little kink to it.’
‘Watch your mouth.’
‘What was he up to that night?’
Crichlow was silent for a long moment. ‘I don’t know, but Jason would have had his reasons. Look, if you want to know more, you need to take this up with Andrew.’
But I couldn’t. Gates was still wrapped up with Steve and Crichlow wouldn’t let me spoil the surprise. Steve was in his element. Although I couldn’t hear him from inside Crichlow’s car, I knew what he was saying. He was regaling Gates with an insider’s knowledge of every car, from who worked on the design and manufacture to their racing pedigree. It was there in Gates’ rapt expression. I’d seen that look on many people’s faces over the years when they brought cars to Steve. He always knew more about the vehicles than the owners did. He gave their car a historical context and sold them their place in it. Despite the situation, I smiled.
‘What’s that smile for?’ Crichlow said.
‘For Steve. Your boss is going to write him a blank cheque.’
‘You think?’
‘I know.’
It was an hour before Steve left in the RS2600, cheque in hand. I followed Crichlow back out to the road and to the main entrance of the property. Security consisted of a wrought-iron gate that Crichlow opened with a remote. I was half expecting to see a bevy of bouncer types on show, but there was no one except Crichlow. Maybe there was something to Gates’ claims that he’d left the violent side of his past in the past. The lack of security said as much.
Gates emerged when we pulled up in front of the house. He stood with his hands in his pockets. ‘I hope my demonstration made its point felt,’ he said as Crichlow and I crossed the drive.
‘I hope you’re paying Steve well.’
‘Consider it my payment for your services. I just hope Steve gets the chance to enjoy the money.’
‘He will,’ I said, and walked into his house without being invited.
Gates and Crichlow followed me inside and Crichlow closed the door. I followed Gates across the marble-floored foyer into the living room with an attached conservatory. There were a couple of family portraits hanging on the walls. One was of Gates with an attractive woman. The other was of a couple of kids, both girls, not quite teenagers. I hadn’t thought of Gates as a family man. There was certainly no sign of them around at the moment. I was sure he didn’t expose them to the ugly side of his business.
We took seats at a bar and Gates poured whiskies for all three of us without asking us what we wanted. I never drank and drove. My race licence relied on a clean driver’s licence and it was already in jeopardy with the reckless-driving charges looming.
‘What have you got for me?’ Gates asked.
‘Jason was breaking into our transporter when he was killed.’
Andrew Gates smacked his glass down on the bar top with a crack. Whisky slopped over the marble and on to his hand. ‘Jason wasn’t a thief.’
‘I didn’t say he was, but he must have been on to something. I don’t know what, but it’s connected to the Ragged team. I think he thought the proof was in that transporter and I think it got him killed.’
I was being vague with my information. I wanted to feed Gates enough to keep him satisfied, but after talking with Carrie, I was wary about what I shared with him. At the same time, I had to give him something to show him that I was making progress with the investigation.
‘And you’ve got no idea who killed him?’ Gates said.
‘Not yet. It could be anyone at this point, but Jason spooked whoever killed him.’
‘Someone turned over Jay’s flat,’ Crichlow said.
I let Gates digest that for a moment. ‘I think Jason was collecting evidence against someone, but it’s gone. His computer’s been taken and his papers burned.’
‘What was Jason playing at?’ Gates said more to himself than to us. ‘He shouldn’t have been doing this alone. Why didn’t he come to me for help?’
I dodged the question by shaking my head. Jason wouldn’t have turned to his brother since there was a trust issue.
‘So we’ve got nothing and they’ve got everything.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ I said. ‘The cops gave you back Jason’s things, right?’
Gates capped the bottle and looked at me quizzically. ‘Yeah.’
‘Did they return his mobile?’
He was quiet for a moment. ‘No.’
‘Can I see what you got back?’
‘Yeah. Wait here.’
Gates returned with an expandable paper envelope and I used it to push my unwanted whisky aside. The sight of Jason’s possessions emptied ou
t over the bar affected Gates. His features slackened and tears welled in his eyes. He was human, after all.
I picked through Jason’s things. It was the usual collection of items we carry with us. There was nothing that actually defined him. Just keys, loose change, a pen, a handkerchief, a cheap digital watch, a signet ring, a cross on a chain and a wallet stained with his blood.
‘Anything missing?’ I asked.
‘Besides the phone? No, I don’t think so.’
‘Did the cops keep anything back as evidence?’
‘Not as far as I know. Not that anyone would have said if they did. The bastards wouldn’t tell me. Straight for over a decade, but they still see a villain.’
After the treatment he’d given me, he didn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt.
‘Are you looking for something specific here?’ Crichlow asked.
‘Hard to say, but I thought there might be gloves or tools or something for breaking into the Ragged Racing transporter.’
Gates’ grip tightened on his whisky glass. He looked disgustedly at it and tossed the contents down the sink. ‘Tell me you’ve got ideas.’
If Jason hadn’t brought any tools to break into the transporter, how was he planning to get inside? I picked up Jason’s keys. In addition to the keys to his flat and car, I recognized the red anodized keys to the Ragged Racing workshop. As a former employee, he shouldn’t still possess them. So how had he come by them?
‘I do. Can I borrow these?’
‘Yeah. Sure.’
I got up to leave. ‘And just so that we’re clear, I’m going to find your brother’s killer, not because you’re threatening me, but because your brother deserves justice, so don’t ever pull a stunt like this again. And just so you know, if you lay a finger on my grandfather, I’ll cut you off at the knees. Got me?’
Lap Twelve
I left Gates’ house in one piece. He’d just smirked at my threat. Crichlow hadn’t. Maybe he recognized the dangers of dealing with a cornered person.
As I drove back, I thought about Jason’s mobile phone. That phone held a lot of potential in its memory. Any pictures or video could explain a lot of things. If there were ever any calls between the killer and Jason, the phone log could also prove damaging.
I played over the possibilities as I drove back to Archway. The noise of the road and existing in the limbo between places always soothed me. No matter how big the problem, there was always a big enough road to solve it.
So where was Jason’s phone? Neither DI Huston nor Gates had it. The killer might have taken it after he’d cut Jason’s throat, but I had my doubts. There hadn’t been much time for searching Jason between the time his throat was cut and I found him. Another factor at play was the ransacking of Jason’s flat. If the killer had the phone, there would have been no reason to turn the place over. Of course, this was all dependent on the phone being valuable. Was that why his flat was ransacked? If Jason knew he was going to be attacked, he could have ditched it before the killer got to him. I thought about Jason pointing just before he died. I thought he’d been pointing in the direction of his killer. What if he was pointing at something else?
I left the car at Archway, then took the train into London and the tube over to Earls Court. While driving helped me think, driving into London didn’t. It was a bottlenecked fortress.
The exhibition centre was between events, so the place was closed. Without the hubbub, the monolithic building resembled a forgotten ruin. I slipped unnoticed into the parking area. Despite not having the rows of vehicles from that night to guide me, I located the spot where Jason had died. I could have found the place with my eyes closed. Some moments in time are indelible.
I stared down at the ground where I’d done what I could to save a dying man. Blood no longer provided an epitaph. It had either been removed by the Earls Court staff or washed away by the rain. I dropped to one knee and touched the asphalt. It was cold and unfeeling, like the murder itself.
I stretched out on the ground, positioned myself like Jason and pointed in the same direction that he had. I looked beyond the end of my arm for my aim to strike something. I hit nothing but the street beyond. That wouldn’t have been true the night of the murder. My aim would have struck vehicle after vehicle. I closed my eyes to bring that picture to my mind’s eye. Cars, vans and transporters appeared, but the vision failed to take on a definite outline. I remembered some of the landscape that night, but I couldn’t be certain about what had been parked where. If Jason had ditched his phone under someone’s car or truck, I wouldn’t know which one. Parking was first come first serve, so I couldn’t rely on assigned parking.
‘Bollocks,’ I said and opened my eyes.
I realized I’d been wrong about my assumption. I was pointing at something – just not something above ground.
I jumped to my feet and jogged over to the drain cover. It was one of many unassuming grates littered across the car park. I peered into its depths. The drain ended in a sediment trap filled with silt, leaves, rubbish and something resembling a phone.
‘Sorry it took me so long, Jason.’
I dropped to my knees and yanked on the grate, but the cast-iron cover failed to budge. It was welded in place with dirt and months of neglect. I heaved and felt muscles ping in my back. Each tear burned, but I kept pulling and received my reward. The grate slipped an inch, then another and another, finally popping up on its hinge.
I dropped on to my chest and reached down and pulled the phone from the soupy concoction of wet litter and dirt.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ a voice said from behind me.
I turned to find a security guard standing over me. I held up the dirt-covered phone.
‘I dropped my bloody phone, didn’t I?’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Couldn’t drop it on the ground. No, I had to drop it down the drain.’
For an on-the-spot cover story, I thought it was inspired. So inspiring, it immediately disarmed the guard’s suspicions. The crossed arms and stiff stance relaxed.
‘You should have gotten one of the crew to pop the grate. Look at you. You’re covered in crap.’
I didn’t care. I had Jason’s phone. ‘These things are too expensive to leave down there.’
‘If it’s been down there in that cesspool, I doubt it works.’
That was my fear. I pressed the on button. Nothing happened. ‘Shit.’
‘No joy?’
I shook my head.
‘Yeah, thought as much. Did you take the insurance option?’
‘No. No insurance.’
‘You should think about it. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who end up dropping their phones down the bog at this place.’
‘It could just be the battery. Any phone shops around?’
The guard named one.
I thanked him and headed for the street. I didn’t get ten feet before he called me back.
‘What were you doing here anyway?’
‘Taking a shortcut to the tube.’
‘Let that be an expensive lesson. In life, there are no shortcuts.’
Didn’t I know it.
As soon as I was out of sight of the guard, I opened up the phone and removed the battery. The phone wasn’t waterlogged, but droplets of water clung to the inside of the battery compartment. I did my best to dry it out with my shirt.
I found the phone shop and held up the component pieces to the guy behind the counter. ‘Can you help?’
Obviously I wasn’t the first person to drench a phone because Mick, according to his nametag, knew exactly what to do. He produced a hairdryer and ran it over the phone’s internals.
‘This doesn’t always work, but you never know. I suppose your life is in here.’
More than you know, I thought.
After five minutes of warming the phone into life, the shop guy installed a new battery. ‘Moment of truth,’ he said and pressed the on button.
The phone burst into life, but that wa
s as far as it went. Either the keypad or the electronics were fried, because I couldn’t access any of the phone’s functions. I couldn’t even make a call.
So much for technology. Just like paper, once it got wet, it was ruined. It held the answers to why Jason was killed. I was convinced of that, but it was all gone, washed away by the rain. I couldn’t believe I was this close to the truth only to have Mother Nature destroy it for me.
‘Sometimes you get lucky,’ Mick said.
And sometimes you don’t, I thought.
Lap Thirteen
The next morning, I was eating breakfast in the kitchen when Steve poked his head through the door.
‘You got much on today?’ he asked.
‘No. Do you need a hand with something?’
‘I have to take a run out and I could do with the company.’
‘Sure. No worries.’
‘Good. Be ready to go in half an hour.’
By the time I finished up breakfast and grabbed a shower, Steve was waiting for me in the Capri.
‘Where we going?’ I asked as I got into the car.
He smiled and reversed on to the street. ‘I’m taking you to see someone I think you should meet.’
Steve had a surprise for me. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken me on an excursion like this. He was so plugged into the motor-racing scene that a call from him opened doors. The week before my first go-kart race, he’d taken me to the Williams Formula One factory for a personal tour. When I was growing up, I was forever getting to visit F1 teams at their factories or the circuit, and getting to hang out with drivers I admired. It had been a while since he’d set one of these up. While there hadn’t been a special occasion to justify one of these jaunts, I guessed this one was meant to pep me up after Jason’s murder.
Steve peeled off the M4 to take the clockwise loop of the M25. ‘How’d your test session go?’
‘Not bad. Nothing special. Still adapting to the car.’
‘You’ll get there. The key is not to expect instant results.’
‘You want to tell the team that?’
Steve laughed. ‘Gave you a hard time, did they?’
‘No, not really. It’s just a very serious environment.’
