by Simon Wood
Steve jumped up, grabbed me and pulled me to him. ‘You’re right. I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
‘Christ, you should have seen the blood. There was so much and I couldn’t stop it.’
‘It’s OK, son. You did what you could. It’s over.’
I burst into tears and my body rocked as I let the pain out. Steve just held me and, like always, he didn’t let me fall. It took several minutes before I was cried out.
Steve made coffee and we talked. Jason’s murder never made it back as a topic. We talked about my hopes and dreams, football, Mum and Dad and how much we missed them. I remembered the night’s sky turning from black to blue as dawn approached, but at some point, fatigue must have gotten the better of me because the next thing I knew it was morning and I woke up stretched out on the sofa. Strictly, it wasn’t morning. The clock on the satellite TV box said it was coming up on one in the afternoon. I sat up and a note rolled off my chest.
Gone to work. I put the spare on and took your wheel. I’ll get the tyre changed.
Catch you later, kid.
Steve
I showered and made breakfast. I didn’t know if my body clock was off or if my nerves had killed my appetite, but the sight of breakfast turned my stomach. I choked down half of it before tossing the rest in the bin.
I drove across town to Archway, Steve’s classic-sports-car restoration business. I parked by the workshop entrance next to Steve’s pride and joy, a 1972 Ford Capri RS2600. Never released in Britain, Steve owned one of a handful of right-hand-drive models.
I spent most days at Archway. Since picking up the ESCC drive meant I didn’t have room for a day job, I’d handed my notice in last month. I could have made it work, but it wouldn’t have been fair to the company. I missed the wages and access to the CAD design software I’d used to design parts for my racecar and for Steve’s restoration jobs in my off hours. But when one door closed, another opened. Picking up the title of Pit Lane’s Young Driver of the Year put me in hot demand at the driving schools. Three times a week, I was instructing at tracks across the country.
The roar of a Ford Cosworth DFV-V8 engine greeted me as I let myself in. It was a glorious sound. An automotive symphony.
For the last two months, Steve, with a little help from Jack Brabham himself, had been restoring a Brabham BT/26A grand prix car that Jacky Ickx raced in 1969. Steve knew Lotuses inside out, but not Brabhams, so he’d been calling the Australian at home for advice. I’d been reduced to a total fanboy when I’d picked up the phone to find the oldest living Formula One world champion on the other end of the line. My dad had raced against his sons, David and Gary, and we’d talked about Dad until Steve got on the line.
Steve cut the engine. ‘How you doing? You look like you’ve been hung out to dry.’
I felt it. ‘You don’t look much better. Did you sleep after I woke you?’
Steve shook his head. ‘Wasn’t much point after you nodded off. The alarm was about to go off.’
‘Shit, I’m sorry for keeping you up.’
‘Don’t be daft. Someone died in front of you last night. A sleepless night comes with the territory.’
It was a territory I wished I knew nothing about.
‘You eaten?’
‘I made breakfast.’
‘But you didn’t eat it, if I know you. I’ve got something in the crow’s-nest.’
We went upstairs into the office overlooking the workshop. The crow’s-nest was more of a gallery for racing memorabilia than an office. Framed pictures of some of racing’s greatest drivers and posters from some of the great events of the past fifty years hung from the curving walls. Amongst the bric-a-brac were pictures of my greatest hero, Jim Clark, and my dad. If someone looked closely, they’d find me amongst the ranks, standing on the shoulders of giants. Steve had hung a photo of me winning a heat at the Formula Ford Festival last October.
He opened the mini fridge that sat between our two desks and tossed me a sandwich he’d bought from Marks and Spencer. ‘Eat that. You need something to give you some colour. You look like a ghost.’
I fell on to the sofa Steve kept for clients and peeled open the sandwich. I bit into it and while it tasted fine, it failed to ignite my appetite.
Steve put his feet up on his desk and broke open his sandwich. Before he took a bite, he picked up a padded envelope on his desk and tossed it to me.
‘That came for you this morning.’
With just my name scrawled on the front and no stamps or address written on the envelope, it hadn’t been posted. I tore it open and peered inside. It contained only a door key and a note. The note was from Gates. It was Jason Gates’ home address in Northampton and the simple message: You might find these useful.
I supposed I’d just been given my first task – to check out Jason’s place, but the subtext to this message came written in big, bold letters a mile high. Gates hand-delivering an envelope to Archway said that he knew where to find Steve. It was a crude message, but got its point across. ‘What’s that?’ Steve asked.
‘Just something from a friend.’
‘What’s your plan for today?’
‘I have to deliver the Van Diemen later this afternoon, so I need to get it ready.’
The Van Diemen was the Formula Ford I’d raced last season. There was no point holding on to the car. I wouldn’t be racing Formula Ford again, so I’d put it up for sale and landed a buyer straight away. My third place finish in the Formula Ford Festival had put a premium on the car’s valuation and helped lift the price by five hundred quid. It was certainly worth the extra money. Steve and I maintained a top-notch car and the price I’d offered it for was a fair one. I was glad I didn’t have to haggle.
We spent the next hour on my Van Diemen. Steve went around the chassis, tightening all the joints while I made copies of my set-up notes and the gear ratios I’d used at different circuits. I boxed up the spare parts and bodywork I was throwing in with the deal. Together, we loaded the Van Diemen on to my trailer and hooked it up to Steve’s Transit van.
‘You want some company?’ Steve asked.
‘No, I’m good,’ I answered and took off. I didn’t have far to go. Selling a racecar isn’t like selling an ordinary car. There aren’t that many buyers, so I was lucky that my buyer lived just twenty miles away in Walton-on-Thames. I chose the scenic route instead of going on the motorway.
The guy who was buying it, Ryan Green, was new to racing. He was in his thirties and indulging a whim. His eyes had lit up when he’d come to Archway to see the car a few weeks earlier. My multi-generational racing bloodline had helped close the deal. Whatever got the job done, I thought.
I arrived at his house, a very nice four-bedroom affair with a double garage in an upscale neighbourhood. I doubted his neighbours would be very happy when he fired up the engine.
He helped me unload the car and we wheeled it into his garage. He’d done a nice job of setting up a workspace for the car. He was taking the pursuit seriously, which was the only way.
I spent an hour going over the car’s operation, its idiosyncrasies and the best way of setting it up. At the end, he asked if he could hire Steve and me to work the pits during his first race. I said I’d take it up with Steve. The money would be nice, but I think he was looking forward to having his weekends back now that he didn’t have to run my car. His girlfriend, Maggie, would certainly like having him back. Steve bore a passing resemblance to Steve McQueen, which made him popular with the ladies. It was a look that hadn’t been passed down to my father and me.
By the time I got away, it was after four and I hit rush hour. My progress slowed to a crawl. As I inched along with all the other automotive rats in the trap, my thoughts turned to Jason Gates.
Ignoring who had killed him, what had been he doing next to the Ragged Racing transporter that night? Huston had floated the idea that I’d killed Jason because he was trying to nick my car. What if he’d been trying to break into the transporter and got
caught? That seemed likely. But if Rags or any of the other Ragged Racing crew had caught Jason, they would have given him a slap or called the police. A lot more would have to be at stake for someone to cut his throat.
That thought turned everything on its head. What if Jason had witnessed something he shouldn’t have or was trying to steal something so important or valuable that killing him was the only possible course of action?
That was a scary thought with plenty of implications. What was that valuable? Ragged Racing’s cars. Rags’ cars were wiping the floor with the competition. I was sure one or two of the team owners wouldn’t mind getting their hands on them to understand Rags’ alchemy. Townsend Motorsport stuck out as an obvious contender. They’d been the big loser when Honda had dropped them a year ago and put their backing behind Ragged. The team had struggled for results ever since. Now, I was sure they’d do almost anything to get their hands on Rags’ tweaks or expose any technical infractions. But as much as that picture fit, it also didn’t make sense. If Townsend Motorsport wanted to know what Rags was doing, they just had to throw money at a crew chief to make him defect. And the idea of Rags or anyone else at the team killing someone over it was beyond ridiculous.
My mobile rang. It was Claudia.
‘Aidy, Rags told me what ’appened last night. Are you OK?’
‘Shaken, but fine.’
‘It’s a terrible thing. I’m so glad you’re OK. ’Ave the media been in touch?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Word is out at the show. I made a statement on behalf of the team.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I just stated the facts as we know them. A man was killed last night near the Ragged Racing transporter. You discovered the man and attempted to save ’im.’
‘Did you know the victim is a mechanic for Townsend Motorsport?’
‘No. I didn’t know that. What do you think ’e was doing?’
I preferred to keep my thoughts to myself at this point and told her I didn’t know.
‘Maybe ’e tried to stop someone from breaking into the transporter,’ she suggested.
That wasn’t something I’d considered. I’d seen Jason as a potential thief, not a hero. That put a different complexion on everything.
I’d reached Staines and traffic was thickening up with vehicles pouring off the M25 ahead. I needed my full attention on the road with the trailer hanging off the back of the van.
‘Look, I’m on the road at the moment. I have to go.’
‘OK. I’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself.’
I hung up on Claudia and descended into the crush at the Runnymede Roundabout. The multi-lane roundabout turned into a dogfight at rush hour. It was a direct feed on and off the M25 for anyone coming from or going to Staines, Ashford, Egham, Windsor and a half a dozen other London bedroom communities. Me driving Steve’s Ford Transit with the attached trailer upset the natural balance of cars merging as they approached the roundabout. Combined, I was driving a forty-foot mobile roadblock and everyone seemed eager to get in front of me. I wasn’t in a hurry, so I played submissive and let people pass me until I reached the busy roundabout.
A thick tide of cars flowed around it and I needed a little cooperation to join the flow. It was hard to sneak my way in, especially when I had to go more than halfway around the roundabout to pick up the Windsor Road. I bided my time, much to the frustration of the cars behind me, and when I saw a gap, I went for it.
I slipped in behind a Vauxhall and guided the van and trailer around the roundabout. Despite the congestion, traffic moved fast. When my turnoff came into view, I indicated and eased over into the exit lane. Just as I did, a Renault hatchback darted out from behind me to squeeze by, but there was no squeezing by me. I was halfway between lanes with nowhere to go. The Renault driver and I both slammed on the brakes. The trailer wavered but it didn’t jackknife. If it had, it would have wiped out cars like bowling pins. The Renault and I ground to a halt, inches from each other. Cars behind did the same as we managed to turn all the traffic on the Runnymede Roundabout into gridlock.
The woman behind the wheel of the Renault screamed muted obscenities from inside her car. I waved her on, but she continued to mouth off.
Horn blares made any chance of hearing her impossible. I imagined the traffic building up behind us.
I wound down the window. ‘Go. If you want this exit so much, you take it.’
Still she didn’t move.
‘Go!’ I yelled.
She powered down her window and leaned across her seat.
‘You’re in my way!’ she yelled.
I pointed at the exit for Windsor Road. ‘It’s right there. Take it.’
‘I’m trying to get on the M25. You’re in my way, you dickhead.’
She was in the wrong lane for the exit she wanted and I was the dickhead. Typical. She might want to play games, but I wasn’t in the mood. I eased the van and trailer forward. The Renault driver jumped on the horn as the trailer came within an inch of her front bumper. It was a tight manoeuvre, and to avoid tearing the front of her car off, I mounted the island on the Windsor Road exit. As soon as I was clear, I stepped on the accelerator and the van and trailer lurched forward.
I hadn’t gone more than two hundred yards when a blaring car horn from behind caught my attention. I checked my mirrors and God help me, the Renault was behind me. After all her bitching and whining about wanting to get on the M25, she was following me, flashing her lights as well as leaning on her horn.
She was waving her arms and mouthing words I couldn’t hear. Obviously, she still wanted to give me a piece of her mind. Did she really think I was going to pull over just to get into an argument? If she wanted to burn her horn out, flash her lights and scream, so be it. I wasn’t going to get involved.
Then a half-arsed sense of déjà vu hit me. Someone was trying to waylay me again. A ten-year-old Renault hatchback didn’t quite fit Crichlow’s image, but I looked beyond the Renault for Crichlow’s BMW anyway. I didn’t see it behind me or in front. Still, he seemed too smart to use the same car twice.
I didn’t see any vehicles that caused my neck hairs to stand on end, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I wasn’t stopping for anyone, unless it was a police car, and I wasn’t so sure about that.
I kept my foot planted on the accelerator until Miss Angry Renault’s temper tantrum had run out of steam. She gave up by the time we reached Old Windsor.
Rags had told me to stay out of the limelight. I wasn’t doing a great job.
Lap Six
The following Monday, I drove down to Snetterton in Norfolk for my first official test session with Ragged Racing. Weekday testing is when the circuits open their doors so that teams from all classes and divisions of motorsport can practice between races. It can be a real zoo out there because you can be sharing the track with anything.
Excitement and anxiety joined me on my drive to the circuit. I wasn’t playing at being a racing driver anymore. I was the real thing now. That realization had kept me awake most of last night. I couldn’t screw up this opportunity. I had to believe in myself. If I maintained my confidence, I’d do fine.
I tempered my excitement. I had an additional job to do today. This test session would also give me a chance to check out the transporter. I hoped it would provide some insight into why Jason Gates was killed and give me something to get Andrew Gates off my back.
I arrived to find the team already in place and working on the cars. They were the only team in the pits.
Rags shook my hand. ‘Good. You’re on time. I like that. Come with me. Driver briefing. How are you doing .?.?. since, you know?’
‘OK.’
‘Good. You witnessed a terrible thing. But you can’t let it distract you. You ready for this?’
‘Yes,’ I said and meant it.
Rags took me into one of the unused garages where Kurt Haulk was already waiting with Barry Nevin. Nevin was the Ragged Racing crew chief. He
was short, squat and built like an oil drum with Popeye-like forearms. He almost broke my hand when he shook it.
‘Aidy, Barry will be running your car with his guys. He might look like he just escaped from Middle Earth, but he knows his stuff.’
Rags’ joke got a laugh.
‘I’ll expect you to get the best out of each other as well as the car. I think you two will do well together.’
Nevin grinned at me. ‘I watched you during the shootout. You have a good technical head on your shoulders, so we’ll do great.’
Rags clapped his hands together. ‘OK, chaps, with the arse kissing over, here’s today’s menu. I want to give these cars a thorough workout. The ESCC has a new tyre compound for this season, so I want to see how it compares to last year’s tyres. Aidy’s new and I want to see how well he slots in with Haulk. I also want to run some exercises. Finally, we’re getting to play on the new track. That will be a great leveller, so I’ll get to see how good Aidy is and how rusty Kurt is.’
Snetterton had gone through a major redevelopment. The track’s profile had always looked like a slightly wonky exclamation mark, but the track’s owner, Jonathon Palmer, had redesigned the layout and installed a fantastic in-field section that added a mile to the track’s length, making it a very challenging three-mile circuit.
‘OK, I think that’s it. Everyone get suited up and let’s get out there. We’ve got the track to ourselves.’
‘Ourselves?’ I said.
‘Rags doesn’t play well with others,’ Haulk said. ‘He always books exclusive test days.’
Exclusive test days were commonplace for Formula One teams with deep enough pockets to rent the track for themselves, but not teams in the ESCC. The sponsors had to be pumping in some serious cash for Rags to afford this. I reckoned I was going to like racing for Ragged.
‘We can’t keep a competitive edge if everyone gets to see what we’re doing,’ Rags said. ‘Before you get out there and impress me, I have a quick announcement. Come with me.’
We followed Rags out to the pit lane.
‘Can I have everyone’s attention?’ Rags called across the pit garages. ‘Everyone gather around, please.’