‘You need the footage of the race?’
I nodded. It was such a big part of the puzzle. ‘Did you speak to Alex’s dad about the film?’
Alison turned her back and nodded at the car. ‘He told them to destroy the tape.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Does he have to?’
He didn’t. Who wanted their son’s final, tragic moments immortalized for all time? But destroying the tape was such an unfortunate move. Those moments of tape, adding up to only seconds of time, would have answered so much. It would have been enough to nail Derek, but now it was all ashes. I just hoped Paul had captured the moment. All my faith was in him now.
‘It’s not too much of a setback. I’m still hoping to get Paul’s camcorder tape.’
‘Let’s hope he’s a good cameraman.’
We stood in silence staring at the wrecked car. Then I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. I’d been too wrapped in looking for the big piece of evidence and I’d missed the significance of the little things.
Alison noticed me looking. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing really. Just bad workmanship.’ I pointed to the Allen head bolts holding the lower suspension wishbone on the right rear corner of the car. The two bolts connecting the wishbone to the brackets on the gearbox assembly were installed bolt head down.
‘What’s wrong with the bolts – wrong type or something?’
‘No. The bolts were put in upside-down. You want the bolt head on the top so if the nut shakes loose the bolt remains in place. With the bolt head down, gravity takes over, the bolt falls out and the suspension falls off.’
‘Won’t the bolt come out anyway because of the bumping and bouncing?’
‘Probably, but it’s a lot harder and it will buy you a few laps before that all happens.’
I checked the other corners of the car. The bolts had been put in correctly. I supposed Alex and his mechanic had rushed at some point and made the mistake. It’s somewhat academic these days which way the bolt goes. With Nyloc nuts, it’s really hard for a nut to shake loose.
‘It’s an amateur’s mistake,’ I said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Alex wasn’t an amateur,’ Alison said with a hint of irritation.
‘No, but we all make mistakes,’ I said with a smile. ‘Can I get you something to drink? We’ve got some things in the fridge upstairs and I can make coffee.’
‘Coffee would be nice.’
I put my private investigation on hold, tossed the photos back on the workbench and covered the car with the drop cloth again.
I led Alison up to the office. While I got the coffee going, she checked out all the pictures and posters hanging from the curved walls.
‘Racing is really in your blood.’
I moved next to Alison. ‘It’s hard for it not to be. Steve, my grandad, worked the pits for Lotus during the golden age of racing and my dad raced. Whereas most kids grew up on fairy-tales about princes slaying dragons, I grew up on tales of great drivers like Stirling Moss, Mike Hawthorne, Jim Clark, Graham Hill and Nigel Mansell, all doing battle with Juan Fangio, Alain Prost and Ayrton Senna.’
‘Do you have a favourite driver?’
‘Jim Clark.’ I pointed to a photo of Steve working on Jimmy’s Lotus as he climbed into the cockpit. ‘He won the Formula One world title twice, and the Indy 500. He started on pole five out of six races and won a third of his F1 races. But he raced in about everything from NASCAR to rallying. He just liked to race. It’s hard to find anyone who’ll say a bad word about him and Steve says he was the nicest guy in the pit lane. For me, he’s the greatest driver who ever lived.’
I felt the heat of Alison’s gaze on me. I turned to her. She was grinning at me. I blushed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go on.’
‘It’s OK. I know Alex talked about him. He died, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. April 7th, 1968 at Hockenheim in Germany. It was in a Formula Two race. There’s a stone marker where he crashed.’ I stopped myself then. I was crossing the bounds of sensitivity. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’ She smiled. ‘No cotton wool, remember?’
The coffee maker beeped and I filled two mugs.
Alison took her coffee and sat in Steve’s chair. ‘Why do you race?’
‘I never planned on it. Considering all the sacrifices my parents made, my grandparents weren’t keen that I follow on in the family tradition.’
‘But you did.’
‘I was in karts for a couple of years when I was a lot younger, but I grew out of it. I was happy to do something else with my life. Then, last year, something clicked. A Westlake gene fired or something and I wanted to race. I told Steve and he said he’d help me. Now, I can’t see myself doing anything else with my life.’
Alison shook her head. ‘I don’t get you or Alex. I never saw the point of it, just going around in circles. I asked Alex and never really got a straight answer.’
The question stumped me for a second. I could describe the sensations – the thrills, the speed, the competition and the danger that came with it. But none of these justifications would have been worthy answers. Then, I had my answer for her.
I picked up a blank sheet of paper and a pen and placed it on the table before her. I handed her the pen. ‘Draw me the most perfect circle you can draw.’
‘What has this got to do with motorsport?’
‘Indulge me. This will explain all. Trust me,’ I said and tapped the paper.
She looked at me quizzically then drew a circle. It was pretty good. It wasn’t perfect. It was more tomato-shaped than a true circle.
‘What do you think?’ I asked and nodded at her attempt.
‘I can do better, but what’s this—’
‘Go on. Try again.’
She sighed and gave it another go. This time her circle was rounder, but it was still a long way from perfect.
Without asking me she drew a third and fourth circle. These were improvements on her previous attempts, but still none were perfect. She went to do a fifth and I grabbed the pen from her.
I tapped the paper with her attempts on it. ‘That’s motor racing. It’s about the pursuit of perfection. For me to win the race, I have to go around the track the fastest. For me to go around the track the fastest, I have to put in the fastest laps until hopefully I set the lap record, but even if I do that, it’s not good enough. I’ve set the lap record and now I have to break it again because for every tenth of a second faster I go, the better I am. But the kicker is, I can always go faster if I do better. So for all my attempts for perfection, I’ll never attain it because I can always do better.’
Alison shook her head. ‘You’ve described a fool’s errand. If that’s true, then racing is a futile pursuit.’
I grinned. ‘But what exercise in futility has ever been so much fun?’
She laughed. It was nice to see. I couldn’t imagine she’d laughed much over the last couple of weeks.
‘Aidy, that’s the closest I’ve gotten to a sensible answer, but it’s still a bad one.’
I balled up the sheet of paper she’d been drawing on and tossed it in the waste-paper bin. ‘Really? I thought it was pretty good.’
It was quiet in the workshop and there was no thumping baseline from the Jumping Bean. I was enjoying this intimate moment. It had been a long time since there’d been a lady in my life. Veronica was my last girlfriend and she’d dumped me when racing took over my life. I didn’t blame her. Motorsport demanded everything from you and only the right kind of person would stick by you.
Alison stood up and hugged me. The move took me by surprise, but I hugged her back. Suddenly, she stiffened in my arms and pushed me away.
The about-face didn’t shock me. I knew what had just happened. For a moment, she’d forgotten about Alex’s death and indulged in a normal life. Guilt had crept up on her and held up a funhouse mirror to her. Here she was hugging me when her fiancé had only been dead for two weeks. There shouldn’t have been any guilt involved. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but it gets all distorted when you’re grieving. I knew that from bitter experience.
‘I should be going,’ she said. ‘It’s getting late.’
Or way too early for something else, I thought, and watched her go.
Lap Fourteen
W
ith Alex’s car now in my possession, I needed an excuse to go back down to Stowe Park to see Paul about his recording. I could make another parts run, but I was pushing the limits of believability. Having the parts mailed to me was far cheaper than a two hundred mile round trip. But a reason presented itself in the form of Tony and Pete Hansen. They needed me to fill in as an instructor at the racing school.
Pretty much every circuit in the UK operated a school. The schools operated by the high profile circuits like Silverstone, Donington and Brands Hatch were well respected. Stowe Park’s school wasn’t in the top echelons, but that didn’t matter. The majority of the people attending the classes were only doing it for one of those adrenalin-filled days they’d always remember.
On Friday, I drove down to Stowe Park. I liked being an instructor. It was a chance to play on the track and meet some new people while I got paid for my time. If I’m being honest, it was also good for the ego. I got to play racecar driver to people who didn’t know any better and they revered me for it. Call me shallow, but it’s nice to be adored once in a while.
Tony had called Graham Linden in to help out too. Tony had a sizeable class of twenty-five or so punters for the morning session and the same again in the afternoon. These were pretty good numbers for the Stowe Park school. I wondered if the bump in numbers had anything to do with Alex’s death. It had brought the circuit increased notoriety because of the press coverage associated with the fund-raising, which probably explained my call up today. My presence raised the school’s profile.
Tony gave the in-class instruction, but the on the track duties would be split between Tony, Pete, Graham and me.
While Tony went through braking, clipping points, and accelerating through bends, Graham and I helped Pete prepare the cars. The half day session broke down like this. They got thirty minutes of in-class instruction, then went out for a fifteen minute session on the track in a modified Ford Focus before getting ten laps in a Formula Ford. The three of us picked a Focus, made sure it had fuel and the tires were pumped up to the right pressure. The road cars are pretty self-sufficient and don’t need much preparation. The Formula Fords are far more sensitive and need checking out fully before a novice driver gets behind the wheel.
I needed more people like Paul on my side to force the police into reopening the investigation. Graham’s involvement made for an unexpected windfall. He’d had the closest view of the crash. He had to have seen something, despite what he’d said at Alex’s funeral. He’d make for a powerful witness when combined with Paul’s recording. I took a clipboard with the student scorecard attached to it and tossed it on the passenger seat. I grabbed my helmet and followed Graham over to the Formula Fords.
‘How’s it going, Graham?’
‘Pretty good.’
‘It’s going to be weird getting back on the track after Alex’s crash.’
Graham looked out across the track in the direction of the Barrack Hill bend and nodded. He went to climb into one of the Formula Fords when I stopped him.
‘You know you told me about Derek’s threat the night before Alex’s shunt?’
I felt Graham retreat from me without moving. ‘Yeah.’
‘I know we’ve talked about this before, but you were behind Derek and Alex before the crash, right?’
‘Yeah, I told you, I didn’t see anything.’
‘You were right behind them. Are you sure?’
‘Of course, I’m sure.’
‘Is it possible that Derek moved into Alex to put him out of the race?’
‘They collided. That’s all.’ Graham’s hands were balled into tight fists. ‘Don’t go trying to make more of it.’
‘Everything OK there?’ Pete asked from behind one of the Focuses.
Graham got an answer in before I did. ‘Yeah. Just talking.’
‘Well, get those cars on the track. Our clients will be out soon.’
Graham shot me a withering look and pulled on his helmet.
I guessed that was the end of that. This was a different Graham than the one who’d gloated to me in the clubhouse the night before the race. Despite his outburst, he was scared. He was a local, unlike me, and within Derek’s reach. Derek had to know Graham was an eyewitness to what he’d done. He wouldn’t have let that loose end go untied. Had Derek threatened him? Shoved a shotgun in his face? I could see it. Derek was bullying everyone into silence.
I torqued the wheels and kissed my mum’s St Christopher before pulling on my helmet and belting myself into one of the Formula Fords. I guided the car onto the track and focused on driving. I pushed the car, but I wasn’t trying to set any lap records. This was a quick check to make sure the engine, brakes and tires functioned properly. The engine is a minefield of potential problems from sticking throttle linkages to misfiring ignition systems. Tyres have a limited shelf life and, once it’s reached, the grip degrades. Silicon brake fluid absorbs water and destroys braking performance. Any deficiency in these three areas is dangerous. Any and all of these factors might send a student flying off the track. I settled into putting in some consistent laps to watch the oil and water temperature gauges rise and the oil pressure drop into safe running conditions.
I maintained a safe distance from Graham. He wouldn’t have appreciated me hounding him on the track as well as off.
As I passed the pit lane, Pete joined the circuit behind me. Normally, he let the hired help like Graham and me handle the cars on the track while he worried about logistics. I put his presence down to the numbers of people we had to get through today. It also explained his pace. He was eating up the track behind me. He looked as if he was on a flying lap and not a warm up.
Seeing Pete catch up to me, my competitive streak kicked in and I upped my pace, but he still reeled me in. Ahead, Graham peeled off into the pit lane, but I stayed out for one more lap with Pete. With everything that had been going on, I needed to blow off some steam. A dogfight with Pete was just the remedy.