Did Not Finish

Lap Eight

I spent the rest of my Sunday at home with the photos I’d taken at Stowe Park. I printed out all the images I’d shot and spread the sheets out on the dinner table. I arranged them in storyboard fashion, showing the sequence of the crash from beginning to end.

‘So that’s how it happened,’ Steve said over my shoulder.

I’d been too absorbed to hear my grandfather come in. He’d been on a make-up date with Maggie.

‘Yeah,’ I said.

He nudged me aside to get a better look at the photographs. ‘How’d you get on with the Fannings?’

‘They gave me the car. I’ll pick it up next weekend. I should be able to see where Derek’s wheels made contact with Alex.’

Steve nodded. He picked up the picture of the wall showing the imprint of Alex’s impact. He examined it for a long moment. He’d witnessed a lot of fatal crashes working the pits. The sixties were a dark time. Safety measures were primitive to say the least, and track deaths were commonplace compared with today. He’d been there when Bruce MacLean died at Goodwood. It had been hard to get him to work the pits with me. The deaths of Mum and Dad were still too raw for him, but he relented. He needed to be there to watch over me like he had with Dad. He returned the picture to where he’d found it.

‘So you’ve got a public death threat, the car and these skid marks,’ he said tapping a picture. ‘It’s a start. What else have you got?’

The pictures looked damning, but only because of what Derek had said. To an outsider, the police, a jury, these were merely skid marks. They didn’t show malice. These pictures told a story, but without a narrator, the story was meaningless. ‘Nothing.’

He pulled out a seat alongside me and sat. ‘We can’t do this alone, Aidy. I understand this is important to you, but we don’t have all the answers and we have little influence over the outcome.’

I wanted to argue, but I’d never be able to twist Derek’s arm into confessing and I didn’t have the power to secure the raw video from Redline. I wasn’t trying to bring Derek down by myself. I just wanted to produce some evidence that would turn the investigation in the right direction. Looking at the photos now, I saw I had little capability of swaying anyone, even myself. I reached over and picked up the pictures.

Steve put a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re doing the right thing, Aidy. People are trying to make this all go away for some reason. That’s not right. Someone needs to speak up. It looks like it’s going to be you.’

‘So what do I do; call Derek out?’

‘No. Talk to the cops.’

‘They’ve closed the case.’

‘Because they don’t know any better most likely. They aren’t motorsport people. They need to be educated. Find the cop in charge and tell him what you know. It’ll turn things around.’

I nodded. It seemed like a smart plan.

‘Just know though, if you talk, it won’t win you many friends.’

It wouldn’t, but I didn’t see what choice I had. Alex’s death couldn’t go unpunished. Someone had to stand up for him. I just wished it didn’t have to be me.

‘Yeah, I know, but it has to be done.’

Steve smiled. His pale grey eyes sparkled under the ceiling light. ‘Good, lad. Call them tomorrow.’

‘I won’t have to. I’ll be able to do it in person on Tuesday after I finish the press conference.’ There’d been a message from Myles on the answering machine telling me to be at Stowe Park Tuesday morning for a press conference about the Alex Fanning appeal. He’d gotten the motorsport press and TV to turn out.

I arrived at the track Tuesday morning. Myles had set the press conference for ten thirty and I arrived just in time. A bunch of cars and a BBC news van were clustered around the race control tower. I parked next to the BBC Bristol news van. It didn’t appear there’d be any national coverage for this story and my hope that Redline would attend went unanswered too. As I got out of my car, two other vehicles stood out for me. Mr Fanning’s Range Rover and Derek’s aged Ford Granada.

Whose idea had it been to include Derek; Myles or Derek himself? I could see either being responsible for this move. Neither of them wanted me airing dirty laundry. They had nothing to fear. I wasn’t going to say anything. Steve was right. I didn’t have enough. Yet. I was biding my time.

It was a beautiful day. Bright, clear skies, but bitterly cold. A biting wind sliced across the track. I hurried inside the building and everyone looked my way. Mr Fanning and Alison were among them.

‘Now that Aidy’s here,’ Myles said, ‘I think we’re ready to start.’

Myles led everyone upstairs into the control tower. Once there, the BBC cameraman ordered us around. He put Myles in the middle with Mr Fanning, Alison and Vic Hancock on Myles’s right and Derek and me on his left. We were positioned with our backs to the track in order to have a panoramic view of the circuit in the background.

While the BBC set up, we ran through the interview with Pit Lane magazine and Motorsport News. These two publications accounted for everything motorsport related in the UK. I didn’t recognize Andrew Marsh from Motorsport News, but I knew Fergus Kane from Pit Lane. He raced VW Beetles and worked in the ad sales department at the magazine. He’d been hustling for a reporter gig and it looked as if he’d gotten his wish. He smiled at me.

Marsh got things rolling. ‘You want to tell us what’s going on here today?’

‘As you all know, we lost a promising competitor in Alex Fanning,’ Myles said. ‘It’s a loss we all share and one we’re not willing to forget. That’s why I’ve been collecting donations all weekend from drivers in the Clark Paints Formula Ford Championship in Alex’s honour. The money will be going towards safety improvements for our paramedic crews here at the track. The initiative was spearheaded by Aidy Westlake.’

‘What made you do this, Aidy?’ Fergus asked. ‘Does it have anything to do with your father’s untimely death?’

The second part of Fergus’s question stung for a second. ‘I know what effect a racing death has on a family and the racing community. We live in times where safety measures make driver deaths rare, but when they happen, we can’t ignore them. Raising funds to improve safety seems like the natural thing to do.’

‘How much have you raised so far?’ Marsh asked.

‘Over seven thousand pounds so far from the drivers in the series,’ Myles said, ‘but we’re looking for others to donate. We’re hoping that all drivers across the country will contribute.’

‘Is there a preferred donation sum?’

‘Two hundred pounds. That’s the equivalent of a race fee. But we will accept donations great and small. Derek Deacon, this year’s champion, donated his championship purse to the fund.’

‘Why the generosity, Derek?’ Fergus asked.

This was an answer I wanted to hear. Did it help him ease his conscience? Judging from Derek’s smirk, a guilty conscience wasn’t something that needed easing.

‘I won this championship because Alex died, so it’s a hollow victory. I could never enjoy the proceeds.’

Someone had been practising his lies in front of the mirror.

‘I wonder if I could step forward a moment,’ Vic Hancock said. ‘Hancock Salvage sponsored Alex. We miss him dearly. As a mark of our respect,’ Hancock said as he removed a check from his suit jacket pocket, ‘we’d like to add five thousand pounds to the fund.’

Hancock received a small round of applause as he handed the check to Myles Beecham.

‘How can others make a donation?’ Fergus asked.

‘Through us here at the circuit,’ Myles said.

‘Are there any events planned in honour of Alex?’ Marsh asked.

‘Yes,’ Myles said. ‘From now on, the last round of the Clark Paints Championship will be the Alex Fanning Memorial Trophy. Alex’s father will be putting up a trophy and an additional cash prize for the trophy’s winner.’

‘My son lost his life doing something he loved,’ Mr Fanning said, filled with pride. ‘While that hurts the ones he left behind,’ he said as took Alison’s hand, ‘I can’t turn my back on a community that has gone out of its way to honour him.’

Mr Fanning broke free of his spot in Myles’s seamless arrangement to shake my hand along with Myles’s and Derek’s. It disgusted me to see Derek enjoying the adulation for something he’d caused. I told myself to take it easy. Let him enjoy the applause because it wouldn’t last. His crimes would catch up to him sooner than he thought.

‘All those who have helped here are truly princes amongst men,’ Mr Fanning said, ‘and I thank them all for their kindness and camaraderie.’

We ran through it all again for the BBC, then the affair broke up into individual interviews. Each reporter got their sound bite from everyone concerned. The photographers from both magazines corralled us for pictures. What expression was I meant to show? Happiness for the good we were doing? Sadness for the loss of a comrade? I let the photographers guide me. The only shot where I could raise anything like a smile was when Alison brought out a framed photo of Alex. It was a head shot of him in his racing overalls, smiling. It killed the smiles that had been present until then. I looked over at Derek. Even he couldn’t grin his way through that one. I almost took pleasure from watching him squirm, but Alison killed it. The photographer lined her up in the front with Mr Fanning at her side. The shot reminded me of a photo taken at my parents’ graveside. It’s a pretty famous picture of me standing over their coffins holding my dad’s crash helmet with Steve standing behind me. This new pose, with a different face, but the same unquenchable sadness, smacked too much of déjà vu.

After my part in the affair ended, I hung around outside. I needed to talk to Fergus. I had a ten minute bone-chilling wait. When he came out, I caught him on his way to his car.

‘Fergus, got a sec?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Pretty screwed up about Alex, eh?’

‘Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about it.’

Fergus grappled for his recorder.

I placed a hand over his. ‘This is off the record, OK?’

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

‘Did you see the TV coverage of the race?’ I asked.

‘Yeah. What was that about? They didn’t mention Alex at all.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I have a favour to ask. Is your dad still friendly with some of the people over at Redline?’

‘A few.’

‘Do you think he can get a copy of the unedited footage of Alex’s crash?’

Fergus pulled back from me. ‘Why do you want that?’

‘A bunch of us wanted to see the accident to know what happened.’

‘Look, don’t bullshit me. I’ve heard the rumours of what went on during that race. Do you know something?’

‘I might, if I got to see the footage.’

Fergus frowned.

‘If I find out anything because of what I see on that tape, I’ll come to you and you only. Sound good?’

I was dangling a carrot in front of him. Obviously, he’d been given his break as a reporter and a big story would cement the position. If he wanted to be a full time reporter, he couldn’t turn me down and he didn’t.

‘OK. I’ll get my old man to ask, but I’m going to hold you to your word that you’ll give me everything you know.’

When I had all the proof, I wouldn’t hesitate telling Fergus everything. I told him we had a deal and we shook on it before he left.

I got as far as my car before I heard my name being called. Vic Hancock emerged from the control tower and jogged over to me.

‘Do you have a minute, Aidy?’

‘Sure.’

‘I just wanted to say you’re doing a great thing masterminding this fund-raiser in Alex’s honour.’

I tried to shrug the compliment away. The attention was embarrassing me.

‘Look, my company still wants to be in racing, so I was wondering if you would like to talk about sponsorship for next season.’

Normally, I’d be biting a potential sponsor’s arm off, especially one I didn’t have to solicit. Motor racing is a hard game. It’s not like any other sport where you can just kick a ball or pick up a bat. It takes resources just to get to the starting line. Hancock was piling the cash up in front of me and I wasn’t in a position to turn it down, but the circumstances felt more than a bit ghoulish. Alex hadn’t even been dead two weeks and here we were talking about replacing him. Worse still, I saw the business angle here for Hancock. He could earn himself some points with his clientele by parading me around as Alex’s replacement. If I said no, he’d find someone else. I would hate it if that someone else was Derek Deacon.

‘I’d like that,’ I said.

‘That’s great. Get a proposal and a budget together and give me a call to make an appointment.’ He handed me his card. ‘I look forward to it.’

I watched him go. The word budget sounded very nice. Racing with a solid budget was the air bag all drivers wanted in their cars. You could race with freedom and without the fear that an accident would keep you off the track for an indefinite period. Sadly, the circumstances of my good fortune sullied my excitement.

I checked the remaining cars for Derek’s Granada. It was still there. I needed to get away before Derek did. I didn’t want him seeing where I was heading next. I should have said goodbye to Mr Fanning and Alison, but I didn’t want my farewell to trigger an exodus.

I went to the Stowe village police station, but the duty officer directed me to the Chippenham station, since they were handling Alex’s case. I followed the officer’s directions into Chippenham and entered the station. There was no one in the waiting room. A Plexiglas partition separated me from the duty sergeant.

‘I’d like to speak to the officer in charge of the Alex Fanning case.’ When the officer didn’t react to Alex’s name, I added, ‘He was the driver killed at Stowe Park race track.’

‘You want Detective Len Brennan, but he isn’t here right now.’

‘When do you expect him back?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘Does he have a mobile number or something I could call?’

The officer dug out a business card and handed it to me through a slot in the Plexiglas. It had all I needed, an office number and an all important mobile number. I thanked the officer and left.

In my car, I dialled Brennan’s number on my mobile. The call was going unanswered and I expected it to go to voicemail when the rasping voice of a serious smoker came on the line.

‘Brennan.’

‘You’re in charge of the Alex Fanning case?’

‘I was. That case is closed.’

At least Myles hadn’t lied to me about the police involvement. ‘Would the case be reopened if you received new information?’

‘Yes, but let’s dispense with the hypothetical and stay with the facts. Let’s start with your name.’

I told him my name. I wanted the police to know it. It put me under their umbrella of protection. If Derek went after me, he’d play straight into their hands. It was scary to think in those terms, but my refusal to let Alex’s murder go put me in this position.

‘OK, Mr Westlake, what is it you know?’

‘Derek Deacon threatened to kill Alex Fanning the night before the race. He didn’t make a secret of it. He told plenty of people.’

‘I see,’ Brennan said.

It wasn’t quite the reaction I was expecting, but then again, I hadn’t been that fired up by Derek’s threat when he made it.

‘Why did Mr Deacon make this threat?’

‘Alex was going to win the championship if Derek didn’t stop him. He hadn’t been able to beat him straight, so he had to do it crooked.’

Brennan was silent for a moment. ‘That’s a pretty weak reason to kill a person.’

‘Is there ever a good one?’

‘Good point. OK, Mr Deacon says he’s going to kill Mr Fanning. How could he do it? The statements I have say Mr Fanning’s crash was an accident.’

I explained to Brennan how it’s possible to interlock wheels to force an opponent out of a race while making most people swear they’d seen a simple accident.

‘You were in the race?’

‘Yes.’

‘So with your trained eye, you witnessed this wheel locking manoeuvre, yes?’

I winced. I’d hoped Brennan wouldn’t ask this question. ‘No, I didn’t have a clear view.’

‘But you think you know better than the people who were actually witnesses?’

I saw where Brennan was going, but I’d be damned if I’d let him dismiss me. ‘The race was filmed for TV. Have you seen the footage?’

‘Yes.’

‘The actual crash?’

‘Yes.’

That was music to my ears. Brennan had seen the uncut video, which meant he could get his hands on it.

‘If we watch it together, I can show you what I mean. It’ll make total sense.’

Brennan cut me off. ‘I’ve seen the crash and it was what it was. An accident. Plain and simple.’

‘Yes, that’s how it looks to the uninformed person. If I were to go over it with you, then you’d be able to see.’

‘See what? Your version of events? I might be an uninformed person, but I’m not stupid.’

‘I didn’t say that you were.’

‘Didn’t you?’

Shit. This was all going wrong. ‘No.’

‘Look, let me explain a few things to you, someone who is uninformed about the ways of law enforcement. I investigated Mr Fanning’s death. I spoke to witnesses. I viewed the TV footage. And guess what? None of it matches your accusation, not one bit.’

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?’