by Simon Wood
I should have conceded defeat. My attempt to reopen Alex’s case had been shot to pieces, but I wanted an answer to one more question.
‘Did you speak to Derek about what he said the night before the race?’
Brennan let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Yes, I did. He even volunteered the information.’
‘And you didn’t think that was worth pursuing?’
‘Excuse me?’
I’d burnt my bridges with Brennan. Being rude to him now made no difference. ‘A person threatens to kill someone and when that someone dies, you don’t take it seriously?’
‘Let me ask you this. If you heard Mr Deacon make the threat, as did dozens of others, why didn’t you come forward until now?’
I didn’t say anything. Brennan had me. I couldn’t decide if Derek was lucky or a criminal genius. It was all playing into his hands and he didn’t need to lift a finger.
‘What’s that Mr Westlake? I don’t think I heard you.’
‘I didn’t think Derek was serious.’
‘Exactly. You can call Mr Deacon a poor sportsman, but you can’t call him a killer.’
Brennan was dead wrong. I didn’t care what he said. It was all too coincidental that Derek threatened to kill Alex, and then, as if he’d invoked a genie’s wish, Alex died.
‘Let me make a suggestion to you. I would keep your remarks about Mr Deacon to yourself. You’re leaving yourself open to a defamation suit.’
Brennan didn’t give me a chance to respond and hung up.
No, I wasn’t going to be brushed aside by Brennan. The man was going to listen to me whether he liked it or not. I jumped out of the car and shoved my way back into the police station.
‘You again?’ the duty officer said.
I bottled my frustration and put on a smile. ‘Yes, I spoke to Detective Brennan. He was very helpful. I did want to meet with him though. I was wondering if you know where I can find him.’
The duty officer frowned. I understood it. My story was full of holes.
‘I just need ten minutes of his time and I don’t want to do it over the phone. I drove all the way from Windsor to find someone to speak to. I don’t want to drive back empty-handed.’
The duty officer looked at his watch. ‘If he’s not on a call, he’ll be having lunch about now. Do you know Langley Hill?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ll find him at the Green Man. They do a good pub lunch there.’
‘Thanks,’ I said and walked to the Capri.
I floored it to Langley Hill. I was under no illusion that the duty officer wouldn’t be straight on the phone to Brennan. Brennan would either be conveniently gone or he’d be waiting there to read me the riot act. I hoped for the latter. He could bark at me all he liked, as long as he listened to my side of the story.
I slowed when I reached Langley Hill. It had a quaint thoroughfare and all the buildings were at least a couple of hundred years old. It looked to have been a highway rest stop for anyone on their way back from London. Despite its tourist trap possibilities, it remained a well-kept secret. I’d never seen a tourist within twenty miles of this place, just the locals. I don’t know if the locals wanted it that way, but it worked. I spotted the pub on the left and parked across the street.
I jogged across the street, which was free of traffic, and climbed the steps going into the pub. I stopped in the doorway. I realized I hadn’t asked the duty officer for the detective’s description. I searched the sea of faces for him, but no one’s manner screamed cop. My search came to an abrupt end. Derek Deacon sat next to a middle-aged guy in a suit playing with an unlit cigarette in his hand. Derek and his friend were laughing and Derek slapped his companion on the back.
I couldn’t walk in there. Derek couldn’t see me talking to Brennan. I needed Brennan to come outside. I pulled out my mobile and redialled the detective’s number while keeping my gaze on Derek. A sense of dread came over me seconds before Brennan answered the phone. The man sitting next to Derek, sharing a joke and a pint, reached inside his suit coat pocket and brought out his mobile. He eyed the caller ID for a moment before answering. As he spoke, Brennan’s voice came over the line in my ear.
‘Is that you again, Mr Westlake?’
Lap Nine
‘So the cops are in bed with Derek?’ Steve said.
‘It sure looks that way. Who interviews a suspect in a pub?’
‘Good point.’
Steve and I were sitting in the quiet and relative safety of the office at Archway. What I’d stumbled on to made so much sense. It explained why Brennan hadn’t interviewed any of us who’d been in The Chequered Flag the night Derek tossed his death threat around, the short reach of the investigation, and why a lid had been placed on the TV coverage.
But none of it explained why Brennan was protecting Derek. Were they friends? That was a pretty big favour to ask a friend, especially a cop friend. Was there something more? Did Derek have his hooks into Brennan? Anything was possible.
‘Now Derek knows you’re gunning for him.’
‘I don’t need reminding,’ I said. I’d driven back to Windsor with one eye permanently on the rear-view mirror fully expecting to see Derek there. If he was willing to kill to win a championship, he was going to tear me apart for informing on him.
‘I might have put Derek on the defensive, but he won’t stay that way. If he thinks I’m on to him, then he’s going to come after me and chances are I won’t see it coming.’
Steve nodded slowly. ‘I know. You’re going to have to watch your step.’
‘Oh, God. How can this be happening?’
‘It shouldn’t be, but it is. You’ve got two choices open to you now: walk away or take him down.’
‘Some choice.’
‘Be thankful you still have choices.’
‘Am I even in a position to walk away?’
‘I think so. Word can get back to Derek that you’re backing off.’
Walk away. The idea of it sounded appealing, but Alex’s death had been eating away at me for over a week. The thought of Derek getting away with murder burned a hole right through me. Alex deserved justice and he wasn’t getting it. If I didn’t finish what I’d started, the injustice would keep eating away at me.
‘I can’t walk away,’ I said.
A thin smile spread across Steve’s face. It lasted a moment before it fell away. ‘We have to decide what we’re going to do to protect you.’
I liked that Steve saw my problems as a joint issue.
‘So what do we do now? Talk to police here? The Windsor cops aren’t connected to the Wiltshire force. Derek and Brennan won’t have any influence over them. The police will want to get involved with a corruption scandal within their ranks, won’t they?’
‘They might,’ Steve said not sounding convinced. ‘Let’s say we go to the locals. What do we have to give them?’
All I had was hearsay, photos of skid marks and a belief. I already knew what would happen if we contacted the Windsor police. They would go straight to Brennan. He’d tell them how I’d accused Derek of killing Alex with nothing to back it up and what a monumental pain in the arse I’d been. If I told them about Brennan’s meeting with Derek, Brennan could easily dismiss it and I had no way of proving it. Even if Brennan did admit to meeting Derek, it still didn’t mean anything. Derek wasn’t a suspect. My claims were worthless. Telling the police would only make matters worse.
‘Nothing. So what do you suggest?’
‘Stay off Derek’s radar. Concentrate on working the information you have and don’t go off half-cocked. Tie up the loose ends and when you have something solid enough then go to the cops. They won’t be able to ignore you when you have something no one can refute, even this Brennan guy. In the meantime, give Derek a wide berth.’
‘I was going to pick up Alex’s car on Saturday. Should I wait?’
‘No, go. If we’re going to prove anything, we need that car. Just don’t go alone.’
S
teve was good. He made it all sound simple. ‘OK.’
Music from the Jumping Bean Mexican cantina next door bled through the brick wall. The management only turned the music up when they had a crowd. Considering it was only a Tuesday night, it looked as if people were having as rough a week as I was and were starting the weekend early.
Steve looked at the wall where the music threatened to crack the mortar holding the bricks in place. ‘Want to go next door to get some dinner? There’ll be some ladies there.’
‘What will Maggie say?’
‘Nothing if she doesn’t find out.’
I smiled. ‘You’re a terrible man. Let’s go.’
We went next door. It felt good to be surrounded by people who knew nothing about the racing world. We got a table and ordered food and drinks.
A group of a dozen hotties on a girls’ night out had a long table running down the centre of the restaurant to themselves. Every one of them was dressed to kill. Steve tried to distract me from the subject of Derek by pointing out their various attributes, but I wasn’t having any of it.
‘Do you know Derek?’ I asked.
‘By reputation. Why?’
‘He said he knew Dad and they’d raced against each other.’
Steve pondered, flicking through more than thirty seasons of pit lane memories. He nodded slowly when he struck upon something. A wry smile creased his lips. ‘Your dad did what Alex almost accomplished.’
‘He beat Derek for the championship?’
‘Not quite. The year your dad won the Formula Ford Junior series, the last race of the season was at Stowe. He double-entered, racing in the junior race and the Champion of Stowe Park race. It was a one-circuit series back then. Your dad won both races. Derek crashed in the Stowe race in a frustrated move to overtake your dad. The crash cost him the championship.’
Great. Another reason for Derek to hold a grudge.
For the next few days, I followed Steve’s advice and kept a low profile. From then on, after going to the office each day, I either worked on my Van Diemen at Archway or worked on my proposal for Vic Hancock. I mailed it out to him on Thursday and called him to let him know it was coming. We made an appointment to meet the following week. He sounded eager to put money in my hands. I tried to sound enthusiastic.
Thursday was also the day the new issues of Motorsport News and Pit Lane magazine came out. I turned to the pages with Alex’s tribute in them. Alex was being heralded as a lost star. Motorsport News even went so far as to suggest his death was the greatest loss in motorsport since my father. Both magazines patted me on the back for my good deed. Naturally, Derek got talked about in glowing terms. Reading it all just made me more determined to bring out the truth.
Keeping to myself seemed to work. Derek made no move on me. I wondered if Brennan had reined him in. A man in his position wouldn’t want Derek making life more difficult for him. Of course, Derek could be playing the same waiting game to see what I would do next. That put us in an uneasy stand-off, which sounded good, but wasn’t a permanent solution. Eventually, one of us would have to make a move. Hopefully, my inactivity had convinced him to lower his guard. It didn’t make me lower mine. I lived in fear that at any moment Derek would appear with a baseball bat trailing from one hand. Time dragged. I thought Saturday would never come.
I picked up Dylan in the morning and we drove down to Stowe Park in Steve’s van. I didn’t bother with the trailer. With so much of Alex’s car in pieces, we would easily be able to fit it inside the vehicle.
Part way through the drive, Bob Dylan’s ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’ came on the radio. Dylan immediately switched the radio off.
‘Hey, I like that song,’ I said with a smirk.
‘Ha-bloody-ha.’
Bob Dylan was a sore point with Dylan. His mum was a massive fan and named him after the singer. His school years hadn’t been fun since everyone teased him about his name. Even now when he introduced himself, most people asked him if he was named after Bob Dylan.
As I reached to switch the radio back on, my mobile phone rang. It was Fergus. I told Dylan to keep quiet. I didn’t want Fergus knowing I had someone with me. ‘Hey, Fergus. What have you got for me?’
‘Yeah. About that. I couldn’t get the tape from the race. I tried. I really did, Aidy, but . . .’ He trailed off.
‘But what?’
Dylan flashed me a worried look.
‘My dad put me in touch with a guy at the studio. I met with him and I thought things were OK.’ Fergus stopped talking for second. ‘Aidy, they put me in a room and grilled me. It was like a bad movie. They wanted to know why I wanted the footage.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing. What do I know? You’re the one with the ideas.’
‘Did you mention me?’
‘Of course not. I have to protect my sources.’
Fergus was taking the reporter thing way too seriously. Still, I owed him one for not mentioning my name, although I was positive they already knew. I’d hardly been keeping a low profile.
‘Do you think they believed you when you told them you knew nothing?’
‘I think so. They said the tape was gone. Destroyed.’
‘Why?’
‘By request.’
‘Whose?’
‘The family? I don’t know. They weren’t telling and I wasn’t asking. I just wanted the hell out. Aidy, you’re on your own.’
‘I’m sorry, Fergus. If I knew this was going to put you in hot water, I wouldn’t have dragged you in.’
‘Yeah, well, the damage is done. I’m out, OK?’
‘Yeah, sure thing. Look, if I find anything out, I’ll give you an exclusive or whatever.’
‘Sounds good, Aidy. Talk later, yeah? Gotta go. Bye.’
Fergus didn’t sound like he wanted to hear from me even if I had the map to the Holy Grail. I couldn’t blame him.
We arrived at Stowe Park around lunchtime. The circuit offices were dead, which wasn’t surprising on such a grim and overcast day. Myles had called the night before to tell me Chris or Paul at Chicane’s would be waiting for me.
I got out at Chicane’s and went inside while Dylan drove the van over to the scrutineering bay.
Chris was packing parts into boxes for mail orders. It would be boom time for him until the next season got going in March. He saw me and called out to Paul.
‘Aidy’s here. Will you open up for him?’
A moment later, Paul appeared jingling a set of keys. ‘Gotcha covered, Aidy.’
He ducked under the counter and led me out of the store. As he marched across the paddock, I struggled to keep up with his pace.
‘Isn’t it great about the collection for Alex? Mr Beecham says he’s received over twenty thousand. I donated. I put in a race fee donation like most people.’
Paul was a sweet guy. There was no other way of saying it. He didn’t make much money working for Chris and two hundred was a big deal. Luckily for the world, for every Derek Deacon, there was a Paul balancing out the scale.
‘That’s fantastic,’ I said, then something suddenly occurred to me. Paul was a true fan. He filmed every race on his camcorder. Paul’s coverage was often used for a montage at the end of season banquet. ‘Paul, were you up at Barrack Hill at the time of the crash?’
‘Yeah. I wish I hadn’t been. Normally, I’d be over at Wilts, but it was too busy and I couldn’t get a decent shot of the cars.’
‘So, you filmed Alex’s crash.’
‘Yeah, terrible. I can’t watch it. I wanted to record over it, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘Could I see the tape?’
Paul came to a dead stop. ‘Why would you want to see that?’
‘To help me come to terms with Alex’s death. We were chatting minutes before the race, wishing each other good luck, then he was dead. I can’t really believe it. I want to see it with my own eyes. The telly didn’t show the crash and if I could see it, it would he
lp me say goodbye to him.’
I didn’t like deceiving Paul. He was the most honest guy in motorsport and he believed everyone was just as trustworthy, even someone like Derek. Lying to him put me on thin ice with him. If he found out I’d betrayed his trust, I’d never win it back.
My dilemma reminded me of what Steve had said to me. If I kept digging into Alex’s death, it wouldn’t make me any friends. I was happy to lose people like Derek as friends, but not Paul. He might not thank me, but I hoped he’d understand what I had done.
Paul must have mistaken my distress for feelings about Alex. His expression changed into one of understanding and he patted me on the shoulder.
‘Sure, I understand, Aidy, and it’s OK. I’ll get you the tape.’
‘Thanks, but please keep it to yourself. I don’t want people knowing. OK?’
‘No worries.’
I pulled out my business card with my name, address and phone numbers. He took it and pocketed it.
A light rain had started coming down by the time we reached the scrutineering bay. Dylan jumped out of the van and jogged over to us.
‘Hey, Dylan,’ Paul said as he sorted through the keys for the one to the heavy padlock.
‘How’s it going, Paul?’
‘Straight up and down with a swirl at the end.’
Dylan and I smiled at each other. Neither of us knew what that meant, but Paul always said it.
Paul found the key and removed the padlock. Dylan helped him pull the doors open. The scrutineering bay was empty.
Lap Ten
I couldn’t believe it. The car was gone. I felt intense stupidity which quickly turned to anger. I looked at Paul. He just shook his head.
‘Where’s the car, Paul?’
‘I don’t know.’
I took two fast steps, putting me right in his face. Paul backed away from me into the scrutineering bay. I wasn’t about to give him any breathing space and I followed him inside.
‘C’mon, who’s been here?’
I didn’t need to ask. I knew. Derek had stolen the car out from under me, but I wanted someone to admit it.
‘I don’t know.’