Hot Seat (3 page)

I noticed Huston checking out my body as I pulled on the clean shirt. I knew she wasn't ogling. She was looking for cuts or bruises picked up from a fight.

‘Did I pass or fail the test?' I asked.

‘I don't know what you mean,' Huston said.

God, she was a terrible actor. She pressed ‘record' and announced that the interview was resuming.

‘What test, Mr Westlake?'

‘You wanted to see if I was left- or right-handed. I'm guessing you know which hand was used to cut Jason's throat.'

‘That's privileged information,' she said.

‘Do you think I'm involved in this?'

‘You tell us,' Huston said.

‘Let's stop playing games. If you think I did it, then say it, charge me and stop wasting my time.'

‘Mr Westlake, I suggest you remember where you are.'

‘And I suggest you remember that I'm a witness. If I'd cut Jason Gates' throat, why would I call nine-nine-nine, yell for help and try to save his life?'

‘That's a good question and I think I know the answer. You and Jason Gates got into a fight for some reason. Maybe he found you in the middle of your private moment and embarrassed you—'

‘And I cut his throat?' I finished for her. ‘That's a weak reason for killing someone.'

Huston shrugged. ‘Maybe you found him trying to make off with that shiny new car you'd been given. Oh, that's a motive I like because I understand you. Your big day. Your moment in the spotlight. You're the next Nigel Mansell, Jenson Button and Lewis Hamilton rolled into one. You're a cocky little sod because of it. You're on top of the world. And guess what, some poxy grease monkey tries to half-inch your motor the day it's given to you. Now, who wouldn't forgive you for launching into one?'

You, I thought. ‘Detective Huston—'

‘Detective Inspector Huston,' she corrected.

I knew that misquoting her rank would needle her and it gave me a little pleasure.

‘Detective Inspector Huston, ignoring what I did with the weapon and a thousand other holes in that stupid scenario, I think that statement says more about you than me.'

Huston burned me with a glare.

‘I came here as a witness, but if I'm a suspect, then charge me. Right now. If not, I'm going home.'

I knew she couldn't charge me. She was trying it on. She didn't know all the facts, so she was chancing her luck. Part of that process was giving me a hard time. I understood it, but I didn't like it.

Huston walked over, leaned down, fixed me with an ugly stare and said into the tape recorder, ‘Interview suspended at twelve twenty-seven a.m.'

O
'Neal lived up to his mute status during the drive back to Earls Court. I wondered if his silence was a tactic designed to force me into opening up. If it was, it failed. I didn't feel any compunction to talk.

He handed me back my mobile. Jason's blood had been cleaned off. It had been covered in the stuff when Huston had claimed it as evidence. She'd no doubt checked my call log to see if I'd had any contact with him.

We arrived at Earls Court to an active crime scene with investigators combing every inch of space around the transporter for evidence. The cordon included my new car. I heard O'Neal speak for the first time when he cleared the way for me to collect it. A crime-scene technician gave O'Neal the all clear and he drove it off the hallowed land of the crime scene.

‘Aidy. Aidy!' It was Rags jogging around the cordoned area. It didn't surprise me to see him here. He ducked under the cordon tape, shook my hand and squeezed my shoulder with his free hand. ‘They told me what happened. How you doing, son?'

‘OK.'

‘Did you see the killer?'

‘No. Heard him. I think.'

‘Christ, you were lucky.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘A minute either way and you could have walked in on this prick. If you had, I'd be identifying your body right now.'

That thought hadn't occurred to me and my naivety left me cold.

‘I need to get out of here,' I said.

‘Yeah. Of course.'

‘I'll see you in the morning.'

‘No, you're done. Stay home. As soon as I get the all clear from this lot –' he jerked a thumb at the police at work – ‘I'm pulling the team from the show. I don't want a circus forming over this, especially around you. OK?'

It was probably the best thing to do.

‘You stay out of the limelight. Anyone comes sniffing around for a comment, refer them to me. Got it?'

‘Got it.'

‘Good, now get off home. Put this behind you and take it easy. I want your head in the right place for testing on Monday.'

Rags managed to pack concern for me and the needs of the team into a single statement. It just went to prove that life did go on, kindness and callousness coexisting in perfect harmony.

O'Neal held my car door open for me as I slipped behind the wheel. He'd been watching my exchange with Rags with his customary silence. ‘We just want to find the killer, Mr Westlake. No offence intended.'

I said nothing, closed the door and drove away.

I threaded my way through the London streets. At one a.m. on a school night, the traffic was light and I drove on autopilot. I opened my mind to white noise and random thoughts. I hoped the monotony of shifting gears and dancing between the clutch, brake and accelerator would put me in a Zen-like mood of vacant thought, but images of hot blood on cold tarmac and Jason Gates' burning gaze filled the void. There was no forgetting. It was too raw. Too fresh.

I picked up the M4 motorway and pushed the Accord up to seventy.

O'Neal wanted to let me know that he and Huston were just doing their jobs. I wondered how seriously they viewed me as a suspect. Cops being cops, they weren't going to tell me. I'd know in the next couple of days. If Huston came with handcuffs in hand, then I'd know how she viewed me. I didn't bother contemplating that one any further.

I replayed Jason's final moments again in my head. I couldn't believe that I'd been so caught up in myself that I'd missed a man bleeding to death just a few short feet from me. That single thought stalled my mind's replay. How long had I been standing there revelling in my success? Two minutes? Five? If I'd gotten to him the second I returned to the transporter, could I have saved him? Would those extra couple of minutes have made a difference? No, I didn't think so. Jason was dead the moment the killer sliced his throat open.

It wasn't worth contemplating what I couldn't change, but maybe I could still help. What had I seen? What had I heard? Any detail could be vital. I replayed my steps from the moment I'd entered the Earls Court car park, but came up with nothing. No one had passed me. I hadn't heard an argument. I didn't remember anything out of place. One thought did hit me hard. The killer would have been close when I discovered Jason. He had to be. At best, Jason had minutes to live after his throat had been slit. So how close was the killer? His footfalls had been loud as he escaped. Had he watched me trying to save Jason? My skin prickled at the thought.

I didn't remember hearing a car engine start after the footsteps. That meant the killer was on foot or parked a long way out of earshot. So did he live local or use public transport as a means of escape? If he'd jumped on the tube, security cameras would have picked him up. Huston might find that information useful.

Before I knew it, the Slough and Windsor junction came up and I followed the slip road down to the roundabout and took the Windsor Relief Road. Almost home. I lived with Steve off Maidenhead Road across from the horse track. Since I'm only five foot four, Steve always said I could have been a jockey if I hadn't wanted to go into motorsport. Despite having grown up across from the racecourse, I never had any desire to ride. Racecars were in the family blood, not horses.

A BMW 5-Series flew by me. A few years earlier, I would have chased after the car. As soon as I got my licence at seventeen, I trawled the streets looking for a street race. Oddly, ever since I'd gotten into motorsport, I'd lost the desire for it. No street race could ever emulate the raw adrenaline rush of a motor race.

I followed the BMW off the Windsor Relief Road. By the time I turned on to Maidenhead Road, my speedy friend was long gone.

Just as I drew level with the entrance to Windsor Racecourse, a bang rocked my car. The steering wheel turned to lead in my hands and pulled to the left. It was a blowout. I knew it without even having to get out. I let the car go where it wanted to go and pulled over. I climbed out and prodded the flat tyre with my foot. I'd had the car less than twenty-four hours and I'd already picked up a flat. It was the icing on a very shitty day.

Something stuck from the tyre and I jerked it free. It was an eight-inch length of laminate flooring with nails hammered into it. Obviously, someone thought it was funny to shred people's tyres.

‘Wankers,' I murmured.

I looked back down the road. Three more nail strips sat in a row in the roadway. I gathered them up. No one else deserved my luck tonight.

Headlights from the opposite direction lit me up. The BMW that had passed me a few minutes earlier stopped next to me. The driver, a middle-aged guy in a suit, leaned out of his window.

‘You all right?'

‘Puncture.' I held up the nail strips. ‘Somebody left these out.'

‘Some people are real shitheads. I'll give you a hand changing the wheel.'

‘Nah, it's OK. I live a couple of streets away. I'll change it in the morning.'

‘Don't be daft. You drive anywhere and you'll shred the tyre and ruin the rim. It's not worth it. We can have the spare on in ten minutes.'

He was right, so I nodded.

The BMW driver pulled over while I tossed the nail strips in the boot and dragged out the spare tyre.

My good Samaritan jogged across the empty street. ‘What's your name, mate?'

‘Aidy Westlake.'

‘I'm Dominic Crichlow.'

He put out his hand. I went to shake it, but as I extended my hand, Crichlow ignored it and pressed something against my stomach. I heard a click-click sound before electricity coursed through me. Every muscle in my body clenched. My jaw slammed shut, my hands balled into fists, my back arched and my neck snapped back. I tried to pull away, but I remained frozen until I finally gave out and collapsed to the tarmac.

Feeling leaked back into me. I tried moving, but my body still vibrated to the stun gun's tune.

Crichlow rolled me on to my back and taped my hands together in front of me. He produced a hood from his suit jacket pocket and pulled it over my head.

‘Stop! You don't have to do this. You want the car? Take it.'

‘Sorry about this, Aidy, but it has to be done.'

He wrapped his arms around my neck, cutting my breath off. I kicked out, but the strength hadn't returned to my legs. The sound of my blood pumping roared inside my head. I fought for breath, but the air in my lungs turned sour and burned. My grip on consciousness melted, then I saw blackness darker than the inside of the hood.

A
bump in the road woke me as my head bounced off the carpeted floorboard. The hood was still on and my wrists were still duct taped. The world was moving underneath me. I was in the BMW's boot.

My body ached and I still felt on the verge of throwing up, but the stun gun's jolt had helped me wise up. It was a shame I hadn't seen through Crichlow's little stunt. It was obvious that he'd set the nail strips for me to drive over since his car hadn't been affected and he had no reason to come back my way. Not that it mattered anymore. He'd gotten what he wanted – me. Now, what did he have planned for me?

I listened. The engine revved at a constant speed. I felt no rapid acceleration or deceleration. We were on either the motorway or a dual carriageway travelling fast away from my home and safety.

It was hot under the hood. The thing was sodden from my breathing. He'd taped my hands in front of me, so it wasn't hard to tug the hood off. It was a relief to breathe unhindered and the rolling nausea and pounding headache eased. I didn't know if breathing through the hood or Crichlow's Vulcan death grip had caused the symptoms, but I felt a hell of a lot better with the hood off. I let out an involuntary groan of relief.

‘You alive in there?' Crichlow said. ‘Almost there.'

What the hell was going on? How had the best day of my life descended into this mess? I didn't bother him with my questions. I knew they wouldn't be answered.

The BMW slowed. It turned right and we left the road for uneven ground judging by the choppy ride. Dirt and gravel peppered the underside of the vehicle.

The 5-Series rolled to a halt. My heart quickened when the engine stopped. This was it, whatever it was.

‘Aidy, do you have the hood on?' Crichlow asked. ‘It's important that you don't know where you are.'

Unless we were somewhere near famous landmarks, I wouldn't know where I'd been taken, but I didn't bother arguing the point and pulled the hood back on. ‘It's on.'

Crichlow popped the boot and pulled me from the car. His hands fell on my shoulders. ‘I'm going to guide you. Just walk and I'll steer you.'

The whine of a door sliding back told me I was somewhere industrial. I went forward and my footfalls rang out on a concrete floor. It took a couple of seconds before the echo of my footfalls came back to me. This building was big.

The door drew back behind me and Crichlow tugged the hood off. We were alone in a disused factory.

Crichlow removed a flick knife. I stiffened at the sight of the four-inch blade. He flashed a hint of a smile at my fear before cutting the tape around my wrists. I peeled it off.

A bank of fluorescent tubes lit up a portion of the factory. Disabled and derelict machinery stood silently in the shadows and debris covered the floor. A tubular steel chair with a cracked wooden back sat under the lights.