Did Not Finish (12 page)

‘It’s evidence. I think the car could prove how Derek killed Alex. I’ve taken photographs of the crash site and, in combination with Alex’s car, they’ll paint a picture. It’ll reopen the investigation.’

She stared at me. I didn’t flinch from her gaze. I wanted her to see I was speaking the truth.

‘No one asked you to get involved.’ There was no malice or accusation in her remark.

‘No, they didn’t.’

‘Then why do it?’

‘It was the right thing to do. If any of us at The Chequered Flag that night had stepped in, Alex would be alive.’

‘You honestly believe that?’

‘I do.’

‘OK, then I want to show you something. Hold on a second.’ She left the table and returned a few moments later with a framed photo. She placed it before me. I expected it to be of Alex. It wasn’t. It was of a girl in her early twenties. She looked like Alison, but it wasn’t her. The hairstyle dated the picture back to the nineties.

‘That’s my sister, Jennifer. She died four years ago. I wish I could say she looked that happy when she died.’

‘How’d she die?’

‘Drug overdose.’ She picked up the frame to stare at the picture more closely. ‘Jen was Nick Jensen’s girlfriend. Do you know who he is?’

I did. Nick Jensen was a Brit Pop superstar for all of two albums in the late nineties. I had both in my CD collection. He would have gone on to bigger and greater things if he’d stayed off heroin. When the drugs sang louder than his lyrics, a string of arrests and trips to rehab followed. Incoherent live performances and well-publicized fights at sell-out gigs killed his career. He tried a comeback a few years back, but the fan base wasn’t there anymore.

‘Nick and Jen went to school with each other. If I’m being kind, she got hooked on drugs when he did. If I’m being honest, Nick got Jen hooked on drugs and got her killed because of it. Our family tried to help her, but she wasn’t interested. When Nick’s fame deserted him, Jen didn’t, but we deserted her. I understand loss and I understand guilt, just like you do. We could have done more. We should have done more. Sometimes, you have to accept you’re not God. You can’t save everyone.’

‘Do you want me to stop?’ I asked, still not sure that I could.

She shook her head. ‘No. If you can prove Derek killed Alex, do it. I just can’t help you. It’s too much for me.’

I nodded. ‘That’s OK.’

‘I want to stay informed, though.’

‘Sure.’

She smiled and raised her coffee mug. She was close to tears, but her determination kept them from spilling. I guessed she’d free them after I left. Her strength moved me. I smiled back and clinked coffee mugs with her.

‘Are you OK with answering some questions for me?’ I asked.

She sipped from her mug. ‘Ask away.’

‘Tough one first, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘Did you see the satellite TV footage of the crash?’

Her hands tensed around her coffee mug.

‘I hate to ask, but it was cut from the broadcast.’

‘No, I didn’t. Couldn’t. The TV people assured me there was nothing traumatic in their footage, but I couldn’t watch it knowing I was watching Alex’s last moments.’

‘Did anyone see the film? Your parents?’

‘Alex’s dad.’

‘Does he have a copy? I’m hoping the cameras caught the crash. That’ll prove whether Derek intentionally forced Alex off the track.’

Alison shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I just want this to be over.’

‘I do too and it will be soon. I’m sorry about this. I just have a few more questions. Is that OK?’

She nodded.

‘I was told the satellite people destroyed the master recording by request. Any idea who asked for that?’

‘Why would the recording be destroyed?’

‘I’m guessing you didn’t request it, then.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Could Mr Fanning have requested it?’

‘I suppose, but I don’t know. I’ll ask him. But if the recording has been destroyed, there’s no way anyone can prove Derek killed Alex.’

‘Not quite. Redline wasn’t the only one to record the crash. Do you know Paul at Chicane Motorsport?’

Alison shook her head.

‘He records all the races and he captured the crash. He’s going to let me see his tape. The quality won’t be as good as the TV coverage, but I’m hoping it will be good enough for what I need.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

I’d pushed her to her limit for one night and I quickly finished up my coffee. ‘Can I see the car?’

Alison pulled out a set of keys from her pocket and put them on the table. ‘It’s in the garage. I can’t look at it.’

I nodded.

Alison picked up our mugs and took them to the sink. I took that as my signal. I walked out the back door and over to the detached garage towards the rear of the garden. I unlocked the doors and swung them open, then I flicked on the light. Alex’s crumpled car sat on a pair of sawhorses.

A set of headlights lit up the garage and me. I put a hand up to shield my eyes from the light. A car rolled down the long driveway next to the house and stopped a car length from me. Alison’s parents stepped into the light.

‘You’ve come to take the car?’ Mr Baker asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I’ll help you.’

‘I’ll check on Alison,’ Mrs Baker said.

Alison’s dad pulled his car back onto the street while I brought the van over. He guided me down the narrow driveway while I reversed the van up to the garage. A racecar isn’t that heavy in the scheme of things, but shifting the wreck was tough with just the two of us lifting. Having the car on sawhorses helped. It was at the perfect height for the van’s cargo bed. We slid the car off the sawhorses and manhandled it inside. We loaded the boxes of broken components and bodywork next. I wanted every scrap of the car so I could reconstruct it to prove what happened to it. Call it a crash post-mortem.

I closed up the van while Alison’s dad locked the garage. We stood in the red glow of the van’s taillights. I put out my hand to him.

‘Thanks for your help, Mr Baker.’

He glowered at me instead of taking my hand.

‘Now that you’ve got what you wanted, I’d appreciate it if you left my daughter alone. Is that clear?’

It was more than clear.

Lap Twelve

T
he following night was a big night for me. I was meeting Hancock to discuss and hopefully secure sponsorship for next season. I liked the proposal package I’d put together. It looked professional in spite of my limited resources.

Hancock understood I had a day job so he scheduled our meeting for seven p.m. in the lobby of the Brands Hatch Double Oak hotel. For him, the Double Oak was a twenty minute drive from the Hancock Salvage headquarters. I had to slog my way around the southern half of the M25 motorway during rush hour. Not a fun prospect.

Steve picked me up from work in the Capri and we swapped driving duties because I wanted something to do other than obsess about my meeting with Hancock. As we trickled along with our fellow commuters on the overpopulated M25, my mind played over the previous night’s events. Mr Baker’s angry face filled my mind. He wasn’t the first hostile dad I’d encountered. I put his hostility down to a protective father looking out for his daughter. He had nothing to fear from me. I wouldn’t be bothering Alison again.

A driver leaned on his horn when I let the Capri drift into his lane.

‘Focus, son,’ Steve said.

Steve was right. My train of thought needed to be on convincing Hancock to give me a budget for next season. The break from thoughts of murder would do me good. Alex’s death was fast approaching an obsession.

‘You want to go over what you’re going to say?’ Steve asked.

‘Not really.’

‘But you’re going to anyway.’

I flashed Steve a begrudging smile. I went over my talking points and Steve reminded me of any I’d forgotten. We role-played, with Steve playing the part of Hancock. It helped kill the monotonous drive.

I arrived at the hotel with a few minutes to spare. The Double Oak is located outside of the Brands Hatch circuit’s main entrance. I turned into the hotel’s car park and parked. I reached for my document case and went through it to make sure I had everything.

‘I remember going to meetings like this with your dad. Seems like yesterday.’

‘Did he enjoy them?’

‘Tell me what driver does.’

‘None. Seeking sponsorship is glorified begging. It’s never fun, unless you’re already at the top. Then you have to beat their advances off with stick.’

‘You want me to come in with you?’

‘No, I’ll be fine. You’re only here as muscle to make sure no one takes me for a ride.’

He sighed theatrically. ‘How tragic it is to be wanted for my body and not my mind.’

I laughed and double-checked I had everything before swinging the door open. ‘I’ve got everything, so wish me luck.’

‘No luck needed. What’s your opening line to Hancock?’

I thought for a second. ‘I am an asset to your marketing campaign. Now give me your damn money, Hancock.’

‘Smart arse.’ He jabbed a finger in my side. ‘You’re more than ready for this. Now get in there. You’ll do fine.’

Heading into the hotel, I put on my game face. I was here to sell the benefits of motorsport sponsorship to Hancock. He might be a race fan, but at the same time, he was a businessman and I had to appeal to that side of him.

I looked around the hotel lobby and spotted Hancock amongst the sea of businessmen milling around. He waved and cut his way through the crowd.

‘Have you eaten, Aidy? I’ve gotten us a table. Tonight’s on me.’

He ushered me into the hotel’s restaurant and we sat at a window table with a partial view of Brands Hatch. A waitress presented us with menus and asked us what we wanted to drink.

‘Whisky,’ Hancock said. ‘Anything from your single malt range will do.’

‘Diet Coke.’

‘You can have a drop of the hard stuff,’ Hancock said.

Booze sounded good. It would take the edge off, but tonight was too important to hand the reins over to alcohol. I wanted Hancock’s sponsorship pounds and I didn’t want to say the wrong thing because drink had gotten the better of me.

‘No, Diet Coke is fine.’

After the waitress left, we got down to business. I’d brought copies of my proposal, but Hancock had the one I’d already sent to him. He flicked through its contents.

‘This is very impressive.’

I’d gone to town on the proposal. I outlined the benefits of motorsport sponsorship, essentially cribbing from an article I’d found on the Internet. I included a profile of myself and my short racing career as well as one for Steve. His achievements added some legitimacy to my claims. I listed the activities I would assist Hancock’s company with, things like corporate events, media appearances – all the usual guff. I added a nice little touch of a mock-up shot of the car in the company colours with the Hancock Salvage logo down the side. I’d Photoshopped the thing together in my lunch hour at work. Of course, I ended with the ugly stuff: my budget needs. In the scheme of things, it was pretty good value for money. Steve would act as mechanic and engine builder for a full assault on the Formula Ford national title. My budget was a third of what it would cost to run with a top professional team, but, with Steve’s expertise, we were just as good.

Hancock was smiling. I liked that. Smiling was good. Then he had to ruin it by speaking.

‘From this, you’re planning to take a shot at the national series.’

‘Yes, I think it’s time for me to stretch my wings.’

‘Looking to follow in your dad’s tyre tracks?’

‘Yes,’ I said with a nervous smile. I felt I was losing this guy.

‘That’s great. The thing is, I was looking to sponsor you as a replacement for Alex in the south-west.’

‘Oh.’ Crap.

‘Considering all the great work you’ve done to honour Alex, I thought it would be good if we banded together in his memory and tried to win next year’s championship for him.’

I didn’t want another season in the Clark Paints series for two reasons. First, a race driver’s career is short. Dad was twenty-nine when he made it to Formula One and that was old. Most F1 drivers enter Grand Prix racing in their mid-twenties. At twenty-one, I was a long way from having the skills and experience to race Formula One. Staying in a regional championship for another year wasn’t going to enhance my career path. Second, I’d ruffled way too many feathers at Stowe Park. I’d lost a lot of friends over recent days and who knew how many I’d lose by the beginning of next season. By then, Derek might not be the only one willing to push me into a wall.

‘I see,’ I said.

‘Would you be willing to stick around in the Clark Paints Championship for another season, for Alex’s sake?’

He was trying to guilt me into this. Oh, that was a low blow. Especially when he was dangling money in front of me. I didn’t like how Hancock was boxing me in, but it was business.

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Please give it serious thought. I was hoping to put out a two-car team next year.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, you and Derek Deacon. Together, you’d make the perfect tribute to Alex’s memory.’

Was he serious? Not only had Derek won the championship at Alex’s expense, but he was also going to get Alex’s sponsorship money. Where was the justice? I did well not to show my shock.

Hancock jerked a thumb over at the track. ‘Are you racing in the Festival?’

Held every year at Brands Hatch, the Formula Ford Festival and World Cup is Formula Ford’s only international event. Two hundred drivers from around the world take part in a knockout event held over three days. Dad won it in ‘93.

‘No, I wasn’t planning on it.’

‘I want to reward your act of kindness towards Alex. He was slated to race, so I have a car leased for the Festival. I’d like you to take his place. Will you do it?’