Hot Seat (10 page)

‘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.

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 out 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?'

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.