Hot Seat (18 page)

‘Jason didn't like cheaters,' Ronson said. ‘He believed in doing things the right way without exception.'

‘He was a dying breed – an idealist,' Townsend added.

I didn't bother pointing out Townsend's unfortunate wording. I wondered if Jason's sense of right and wrong had anything to do with growing up around his brother.

‘What do you think he was doing that night?' I asked.

‘I think he wanted to look at one of the cars. If he found something bent, then he had Rags.'

‘Or he was meeting someone from Ragged,' Ronson added. ‘He knew most of the crew.'

It would explain how Jason had gotten a set of Ragged's keys. If he was such a straight arrow, he wouldn't break the law to find justice. He'd ask someone to help him open the transporter. I thought of the sound of feet running away when I'd been calling for help. They could have belonged to Jason's helper. Maybe Jason had asked someone to turn a blind eye for a few minutes and disappear while he searched the transporter, and when he came back, he found me crouched over Jason's body and ran.

‘Like who?' I asked.

‘Don't know. Like I said, he knew most of the crew.'

I wondered who Jason would turn to for help. Someone he was close to at Ragged? Or would he go straight to the top and confront Rags? I knew so little about Jason that I didn't know how he would act. His brother would though.

We arrived at our destination – the Townsend Motorsport workshop located within arm's reach of Silverstone circuit. Instead of a faceless unit on an industrial park, a farmhouse and a barn was home to the team.

Ronson parked in front of the farmhouse and we walked through the house into the barn. The agricultural motif ended with the exterior. Inside, the farmhouse had been converted into a modern office space and the barn was a well-equipped and organized workshop, just as you'd expect with a professional motor-racing outfit. The mismatch gave Townsend's operation charm. I bet it had won over a lot of sponsors in its time.

‘Impressed?' Townsend asked.

I nodded.

‘You should be. I'm the best in this business and so are my cars. That's how I know Rags is cheating.'

I looked from Townsend to Ronson and back. ‘You keep saying Rags is cheating, but you haven't said how.'

Townsend slapped a roll of paper towels off a workbench next to him, sending it flying. ‘I don't know how, but he has to be.'

‘Why?'

‘Because he's wiping the floor with us,' Townsend barked.

Sour grapes really were at the heart of this and I resisted the urge to point out that just because you're losing doesn't mean the other bloke is cheating. Half of winning was confidence and Rags was eating away at Townsend's confidence every time he took to the track. I picked up the roll of paper towels and handed it back to Townsend.

‘I don't see how Rags is cheating.'

‘Well, you wouldn't, would you?' Ronson said.

I sighed. ‘I haven't been with the team long, but I haven't seen anything dodgy going on and it's pretty hard to get away with something major in the ESCC. The engines are sealed and there are only two tyre choices.'

‘Then explain how he's getting that performance out of his cars.'

I shrugged. ‘It's in the gear ratios he's selecting and the suspension setup. It's the only place where he's got room to play.'

‘If he's on the up and up.'

‘Yes, if he's on the up and up, and you haven't proven otherwise.'

‘You disappoint me,' Townsend said. ‘I didn't take you for a dirty driver. Then again, there is that reckless-driving charge pending against you.'

If Townsend hoped to needle me with that remark, he failed. I was tiring of his anaemic pressuring. ‘What is it you want from me?'

‘Your help in proving Rags is a cheat.'

Here we go again. Why did everyone think I could solve their problems at my own expense? ‘And exactly why would I want to help you do that?'

‘You seem like the kind of driver who wants to win and win clean. Now, I intend to prove Rags is a cheat one way or another, with or without you. If I do it without your help, the tar brush is going to splash you too.'

Townsend's intimidation play wasn't going to work. I could see how he thought it would. My twenty-second birthday was a couple of months away and I was still green in this sport. But, life had put me on the fast track for growing up. I'd seen more than my fair share of life already and while I didn't consider myself the sharpest of the sharp, I wasn't a child who could be pushed around with idle threats.

‘So far, you haven't proved anything except your own bitterness.'

‘You little shit.'

Townsend's hands balled into fists and he lunged for me. Ronson grabbed him and kept him from throwing a punch.

‘See,' I said, ‘we can both be rude to each other, but it doesn't solve anything.'

‘You really are an arsehole,' Ronson said.

‘No, I'm just tired of your petty threats. You're looking for my help. So, how can I help?'

Townsend stepped back and Ronson released his hold. Townsend's fists disappeared.

‘I want one of Rags' cars.'

‘What?'

‘Just for the night. You drop it off and I'll examine it. We'll document everything we find and then you return the car. No one need know.'

I was already shaking my head. ‘You've got to be joking. Car theft is not what I need at the moment.'

‘It's not theft if we prove he's cheating.'

‘It's theft regardless of what we find.'

Townsend and Ronson shared a look. I'd made a verbal blunder and said we.

‘I'll protect you.'

‘I'd like to know how.'

Townsend's lack of a response gave me all the answer I needed when it came to his protection.

An alarm bell went off in the back of my brain. Townsend might be on a quest for truth and justice just the way Jason Gates had supposedly been. But who was to say Townsend was interested in proving Rags was a cheat? Motor racing was a competitive sport with a capital C. When one team fell upon an idea, all the others wanted it and they weren't backward in coming forward when it came to discovering how. Rags had proved over the last five seasons that his kung fu was the best in Europe and it had cost Townsend his factory backing. My stealing one of Rags' cars could be some scam to get me to hand over a car so that they could reverse engineer the answer to Rags' performance or worse, so they could cripple it. I'd have to be mentally deficient to buy into this scheme regardless of the motives.

‘Why turn to me to help you?'

‘Because you were there when Jason died,' Townsend said.

‘And you stepped in when Rags had me,' Ronson said.

‘So you'll help us,' Townsend said.

‘I didn't say that.'

‘I thought you Westlakes had a reputation for honesty.'

I held up a hand and Townsend stopped. ‘What's in it for me?'

‘The satisfaction that a cheat is exposed and a killer found.'

‘And that you'll get your Honda factory backing back and a shot at the title for the first time in years?'

‘Hey, that's not fair.'

‘Nor is the fact that if Ragged Racing gets disqualified, I'll lose my drive and my reputation.'

‘So you won't help?'

‘I'm not going to screw myself over to benefit everyone else,' I said.

‘That's self-serving of you,' Ronson said.

‘I guess my family's reputation has been exaggerated.'

‘Look, Aidy, you're right,' Townsend said. ‘You didn't create this situation. You're just caught in the middle, so I'll make you a deal. You help me and I'll do my best to run a third car.'

‘You'll do your best?'

‘OK, I'll talk Honda and
Pit Lane
into putting you up as our third driver. It's not your fault they've hitched their carts to the wrong ponies, now is it?'

‘No, it's not.'

‘So you'll bring me one of Rags' cars?'

‘No. I'll help you, but I'm not stealing a car for you.'

‘Then what are you going to do?'

‘You have the specs on the cars – wheelbase dimensions, the layout for the suspension pickups, power curves – yes?'

‘Naturally.'

‘Good. I want them.'

‘Why?' Ronson asked with a note of suspicion in his voice.

‘Because I will personally check every square inch of Rags' cars down to the nuts and bolts and if they don't match specs, then we have our cheater.'

T
he next morning, I went into Archway with Steve. There was a message on the answering machine from the editor-in-chief of
Pit Lane
magazine. He was calling to let me know how disappointed he was in me over the reckless-driving charges. I called him back and spent forty minutes explaining myself, which went some way to smoothing the choppy waters between me and the man who'd recommended me for the driver shootout.

When I hung up, Steve appeared at the top of the stairs to the crow's-nest. ‘You ready for this?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Then let's go.'

Breakfast would have been nice.

We rode in Steve's Capri. He drove through Old Windsor to pick up the M25. Passing the spot where I'd had the run-in on the Runnymede roundabout brought a sour taste to the back of my mouth.

I didn't like how quiet Steve was. Normally, he'd be the voice of reason talking me through my problems. His hands were tight on the wheel and his knuckles shone white against his skin.

‘Where are we going?'

‘The east end. I want you to meet someone. We need to get a feel for Andrew Gates. He's no angel and we need to know who we're dealing with. I think this person can help us.'

‘Who is this person?'

Steve's grip on the wheel tightened until the leather squeaked. ‘A loan shark.'

‘How do you know him?'

Steve said nothing.

I didn't like how much this meeting was getting to him. ‘Steve?'

‘Money is always an issue in motor racing. You can never have enough even when you have a lot. Another ten thousand can change everything. When you don't have enough, it's like you're starving and no one will give you the scraps off their plates. You'll do anything to get that money. Racing drivers and team owners aren't the best credit risks. Banks will only follow you so far down the rabbit hole. Family will go a little deeper. But everyone will stop short of supporting your dream. You'll take the money from whoever is willing to give it.'

A dream was an optimist's view of motor racing. There was no middle ground in this sport. It either granted your dreams or crushed you under its heel. I remember Steve once likening racing to a drug habit and habits needed dealers.

Steve had kept his gaze rigidly ahead to avoid looking me in the eye when he was telling me all this. I knew that he'd made sacrifices to keep my dad in the game and even greater sacrifices after his death to cover his debts, but I'd never asked him how he'd come up with the money.

‘Steve, did you go to this loan shark?'

‘Your dad died owing a lot of money to a lot of people. I used every penny your grandmother and I had and we were still short, so I sharked the rest. I never told your nan about it, but I did what had to be done. I wish circumstances had been different.'

Hearing Steve's anguish tore me up. I thought I'd known the extents to which he'd gone after my parents died, but I was wrong.

‘It wasn't hard to get the money. You'll find loan sharks hanging around races, especially at the club level. There are a ton of drivers who need a grand quick.'

‘Do you still owe?'

‘No. I paid off this fucker years ago. Your dad's debts are clear.'

For what he'd done, I didn't think I could love my grandfather more.

We didn't speak for the rest of the drive. Steve cut his way through London until we ended up in an upscale part of Limehouse. Thirty years ago, the whole area had been in decline as the docks closed, but subsequent redevelopment had saved the place. Steve stopped the Capri in front of a warehouse conversion overlooking the marina and we walked up to the entrance. He pressed a button on the intercom.

‘Yeah,' a gruff voice grunted.

‘Steve Westlake for Eddie Stores.'

‘Top floor.'

A buzz was followed by the snap of the door unlocking.

Bare brick and a faux industrial-steel staircase greeted us. We climbed the stairs to the top floor. At the top, a man in his fifties grinned at us. To call him heavyset was an understatement. He was a rhino in a leather jacket. The three-quarter-length coat, stretched to the limit, creaked when he moved. He smacked of Limehouse's past, not its rejuvenated present.

Neither man made any attempt to shake the other's hand. No, these men weren't friends.

‘It's been a long time, Steve,' Stores said with a grin. ‘I see you're still driving that RS. Christ, I love that car. You wouldn't sell it. I still have that Mark I RS2000 you
restored
for me.'

Stores leaned hard on the word restored. I guessed that meant something to Steve.

‘C'mon in.'

We went inside. The place had simple laminated flooring and plain white walls. The fifty-year-old office furniture looked dated against the space's modern, clean lines.

Stores sat behind a long office desk. A computer took up one side while a tower of file trays took up the other. Instead of a phone, a neat line of six mobiles sat by his right hand. Front and centre on the desk sat a receipt spike. It was the old-fashioned kind with a wooden base and stiletto-like spike sticking out of it.

‘Take a seat, gents.
Mi casa es su casa
. I picked up a little bit of Spanish since I bought a villa in the Canaries in the nineties. It's a gorgeous part of the world, but hot as fuck in the summer. It's great for when this country goes through five months of winter. So is this your lad, Steve?'