Hot Seat (2 page)

Easter hit me with a couple more questions and eventually wrapped up the interview. The crowd applauded and Easter went down the line shaking everyone's hand. When he reached me, he said, ‘I'm looking forward to keeping up with your progress. If you can emulate your old man, you'll go far.'

‘Let's hope so.'

Rags dropped an arm over my shoulder. ‘Nicely done.'

We all filed off the stage. Claudia was there to welcome us.

‘You did very well, gentlemen. Performances like that make my job very easy.'

As I went to pass, Claudia hooked an arm in mine and guided me away from the others. ‘Aidy, can I 'ave a second? Your story and the Westlake name 'ave a lot of media potential. I want you to be the face of the championship this year. You represent the next generation in this sport.' She grinned at me. ‘Expect to be at my beck and call.'

I didn't know if I should read something into that last remark. I can read a track I've never seen before, but I'm clueless when it comes to women. She pulled out her mobile, punched a number into it and disappeared before I could find out.

Steve and Dylan walked up to me.

Dylan grabbed me in a bear hug and since he's a foot taller and four stone heavier than me, he lifted me off the ground. ‘I knew this would happen. I'm so pleased for you, mate.'

‘Put him down,' Steve said.

Dylan released me and I straightened my clothes.

‘I think Madame Touchy-Feely likes you,' Dylan said.

‘She's not married, so that would make her Mademoiselle Touchy-Feely.'

‘Pardon my French.'

‘Ignore him,' Steve said. ‘You did well up there.'

‘You didn't make a tit of yourself,' Dylan said.

‘Classy. Thanks.'

‘Just trying to keep you grounded before you forget who your real friends are.'

‘You got time to wander through the exhibition?' Steve asked.

‘No. I'm booked solid with one publicity thing or another. I'll be back at the ESCC stand later this afternoon. I can talk then.'

I saw the disappointment on Steve and Dylan's faces. This was a bittersweet moment. Up until now, they'd been there for every part of my racing career, from karts to Formula Ford last season. It had seemed as if we'd always be a team, but after one season, I was leaving them behind. Growing up. Moving on. As much as the upcoming season was going to be a full and fun one, I could see it being a lonely one.

‘Go do your thing and we'll see you at home,' Steve said.

I left the guys and headed for the exit. Next up for me was a private luncheon with Honda at an Italian restaurant a few streets from the exhibition hall. As I reached the main concourse, I was walking towards Brian DeYoung and Chloe Mercer who were coming the other way. They were the Brad and Angelina of motorsport. Brian was tipped to have a ride with Lotus F1 next season and Chloe was the top female driver in European motorsport. She'd been the only female driver in the
Pit Lane
driver shootout last November.

I put out my hand and said, ‘Hey, Chloe.'

They ignored me and kept walking.

‘Ouch,' someone said from behind me.

I turned. My predecessor, Tim Reid, was standing there. I hadn't seen him since the shootout either. Like Haulk, he'd put me through my paces during the competition.

‘That was awkward,' Reid said. ‘I guess not everyone is excited about your success.'

I glanced over at Brian and Chloe, who were striding away through the crowd. ‘It sure looks that way.'

‘She really thought she had the shootout in the bag,' Reid said. ‘But not everyone is like her. I'm so pleased for you.'

‘Thanks. How are you set this season?'

‘I've got some very interesting offers on the table.'

‘That's great.'

‘Enough of that,' Rags said, appearing behind me with Haulk in tow. ‘You're back on the clock, my boy.'

The rest of the day descended into a blur of meetings, interviews and greeting the public at the ESCC exhibit. The day's highlight was the head of marketing for Honda presenting me with my privately leased Accord. It would have been even sweeter if I got to keep the car and not hand it back Cinderella-style in twelve months. Up until now, I'd been underwriting most of my racing costs, which meant sacrificing luxuries like home ownership, holidays and a personal vehicle. If I needed a car, I either borrowed Steve's much-cherished Capri RS2600 or his Transit van. Tonight, I'd be driving home instead of taking the train back to Windsor.

The day ended with a team dinner that stretched into the night. Rags told us to enjoy it because after tonight it was work, work, work. By the time he settled the bill, it was after ten p.m. Everyone headed back to their hotels and I walked back to Earls Court to collect my new car. I could have stayed at a hotel, but with Windsor so close, I preferred to spend the night in my own bed. The European season was going to keep me away from home a lot over the next six months.

I walked past my car and stopped in front of the massive Ragged Racing transporter. It was big enough to hold two cars. A larger-than-life representation of the Honda Accord covered each side of the trailer in full racing colours. Painted on the rear door were two names – Kurt Haulk's and mine. I choked up at the sight of my own name. The drive was real. Not a fairytale. I didn't give a shit what Chloe Mercer thought. I deserved this.

The big question was where it would all lead. A good showing could result in a renewed contract or a contract with a different team. If I wanted to realize my dream of following my father into grand prix racing then I couldn't afford to dawdle too long in tin tops. I'd be turning twenty-two in April and I was already behind in the age stakes with my peers. Chloe had two seasons on me and was a year younger than me. If I worked this opportunity to my advantage, I could use it to land a Formula Renault or Formula Three drive next season. It was all pie in the sky stuff, but it looked pretty delicious from where I was standing.

I reached up and touched my name on the transporter. I closed my eyes and said, ‘Please be a good year.'

The sound of choking snapped me from my moment. A rush of embarrassment washed over me at my display and I jerked my hand away.

A scrape of heels drew my gaze downward to an outstretched leg sticking out from under the rear of the transporter. It kicked at the ground but the person it belonged to never got to their feet. The sound of the choking intensified.

‘Hey, are you OK?'

A gurgling that turned my stomach came as a reply.

I ran to the rear of the transporter. A man lay on his back, clutching his throat. Street lights caught the steady stream of blood leaking from his fingers.

‘Jesus Christ,' I murmured.

I dropped to my knees at the guy's side. I did my best to ignore the stark contrast between the cold asphalt and the man's warm blood seeping through my chinos.

‘It's going to be OK,' I said, believing my words until I saw the source of the man's bleeding. Someone had cut his throat. A combination of blood and air bubbled up from the ugly and efficient wound.

I didn't know what to do. Apply pressure? Not apply pressure? I tried to pull his hands away, but he fought me.

‘Let me help.' I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it against the gash. I felt his blood and breath through the cotton.

He fixed me with a stare that turned my heart to stone in my chest. The fear in his eyes terrified me. He was on the edge of death and he was willing me to save him.

He tried to speak, but only a distorted gurgle made it out.

‘Don't speak. Save your strength.'

Pointless words for a pointless situation.

‘Help!' I yelled. ‘I need help here. Please help.'

The sound of a single pair of feet striking the asphalt like a thunderclap split the night-time silence. The dying man swung an arm in the direction of the receding footfalls and pointed. I whipped my head around and saw no one.

‘Help!' I yelled again, so loud my single plea burned my throat. Where the fuck was security?

I removed a hand, reached inside my pocket and pulled my mobile out. My bloody fingers slipped on the buttons, but I pressed nine-nine-nine.

By the time someone answered the phone and asked me the nature of my emergency, security guards were swarming towards us and the man was dead.

‘J
ason Gates. The name means nothing to you?' Detective Inspector Joan Huston said. She was slim, about my height and wore her hair in a style a good ten years out of date. She looked more like someone's mum than a cop, but she was much tougher than that. It was there in her eyes. ‘He's a mechanic for Townsend Motorsport. Sure you don't know him?'

‘I've never met him before.'

‘I find that hard to believe.' She glanced over at Detective Sergeant Robert O'Neal sitting in the corner. He was a typical-looking cop, tall and broad-shouldered, and he hadn't said a word since introducing himself.

I was in a police station interview room not far from Earls Court. I didn't know which one. I'd been in a daze since finding Jason Gates. I'd never seen someone die before, not like that, not up close. Last October, I'd seen Alex Fanning's fatal crash at the Stowe Park circuit, but that had been a death at arm's length, insulating me from its horrors. Jason had been different. I'd been there for pretty much every step of his brutal death. I'd felt his blood spill between my fingers and heard his last breath leave his body. I'd been so ill-equipped to handle the situation that I'd kept pressure on the wound long after he was dead. Paramedics had to peel me off him when they arrived. I'd washed the blood off my hands when I reached the station, but I still felt it buried deep under my nails.

My clothes were a mess. A scenes of crime officer at the station had given me a pair of trousers to replace my blood-soaked chinos, as they were evidence, but I still wore my Ragged Racing polo shirt with Jason's blood speckling the front.

Huston said something, but I didn't catch it.

‘Sorry. What?'

‘I was just saying that Jason's throat was cut with a cutthroat razor or a knife with a finely honed edge. Did you see anything like that?'

I shook my head.

‘For the tape, Mr Westlake.'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘OK. Maybe you can answer me this instead. What were you doing there? The exhibition had closed for the night, but for some reason you were hanging around.'

This was a new tack for Huston. Until now, her questioning had been preoccupied with what I'd seen and done after discovering Jason. She hadn't been warm and friendly, but this latest question came with a hard, accusing edge that got my attention.

‘You wouldn't understand,' I said.

‘Try me. You'd be surprised by my powers of understanding. This job makes you very open-minded.'

I noticed she didn't sit, despite the free chair. This forced me to look up at her at all times. I guessed there was some psychology to that.

‘Today was a big day for me. This is my first time with a major team and the unveiling was a special moment.'

Huston cocked her head to one side. ‘Correct me if I'm wrong, but wouldn't that have happened inside the exhibition hall when the public was there?'

‘It did.'

‘So that still doesn't explain why you were in the Earls Court car park after hours.'

‘I wanted to see my name on the side of the transporter.'

‘You wanted to see your name,' Huston said, her sarcasm beginning to show.

I knew I was struggling to get my point across. ‘Seeing my name made it real.'

‘And inside the exhibition wasn't real enough?'

‘I told you that you wouldn't understand.'

‘Try harder.'

I sighed. The demand drained me of every drop of energy. ‘I wanted a private moment away from the crowds, the team and sponsors. So when I came back to collect my car, I stopped to look at my name painted on the side of the transporter.'

‘A chance to gloat about how good you are?'

Huston was being purposely combative, but she wasn't far off the mark. I was being prideful of my luck and success. It was petty of me, but it felt good to do it. ‘You usually have to have someone around to gloat.'

Huston flashed a nasty grin that robbed her of her maternal looks. I'd said something wrong, but I didn't know what.

‘The car you came by to collect – that's the one Honda gave you?'

‘Yes.'

Huston leaned against the wall and made a big production of processing what I'd told her. ‘I suppose the thing I don't like is that you chose to have your private moment at the same time someone cut Jason Gates' throat.'

‘That's just coincidence. Someone was going to find the poor sod at some point. If it wasn't me, it would have been a security guard on his rounds, the clean-up crew emptying the bins or someone parking their car. I was just the unlucky twat who found him first.'

A knock at the door broke the moment.

‘Interview suspended, twelve sixteen a.m.,' Huston said and hit stop on the recorder.

She opened the door. A uniformed officer stood in the doorway holding a T-shirt.

‘I got Mr Westlake a shirt. Sorry, it's a little on the large side.'

‘That's OK,' I said and stood.

The officer held out the shirt, but before I could cross the cramped interview room, Huston snatched it and lobbed it at me. Reflexively, I caught it left-handed.

Huston and O'Neal exchanged yet another look. I must have been emerging from my state of shock because I caught the significance of the moment.

‘I'm going to need your shirt,' the officer at the door said.

I peeled off my polo shirt and dropped it into an evidence bag the officer held out. He sealed it without touching the shirt and left.