Hot Seat

Lap Thirty-Three

The Dutch police disappeared into the sunset. In typical fashion, they left the carnage of their fruitless search behind them. Cars, parts, tools and tyres littered the side of the road with no apology or offer to help put everything back.

No one spoke or moved, because Rags hadn’t spoken or moved. He just stood stock still, glaring at the cop cars’ taillights.

‘Get this shit packed up,’ he said when the last of the cop cars was long gone.

I grabbed a couple of wheels.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he barked at me.

‘Helping.’

‘You’re not here to help. You’re here to drive. And you’re not driving right now. I want you and you —’ Rags pointed at Haulk and me — ‘out of here. You’ve got a plane to catch. Now, get in the damn car. The rest of you, I expect everything on the roadside back on the transporter.’

Barrington had overplayed his hand with the road stop, but not all was lost. He’d beaten the bushes, so it was likely that something would come flying out. I was interested to see what Rags did next.

‘See ya back home,’ I said to Dylan.

‘I’ll tell you if anything interesting happens.’

Haulk patted me on the back as he crossed behind me. We followed Rags to his car. He left a thick pair of rubber streaks as he pulled away.

‘What do you think that was about?’ Haulk asked. He was a brave man to ask considering Rags’ mood.

‘What the fuck do you think? Someone is fucking with my team. First, they stitch Aidy up on reckless-driving charges. Now they’ve called in a bullshit trafficking claim that casts a dirty light on our team.’

It was the first time Rags had showed any sign that he believed in my innocence. That threw me. Did he really believe what he’d just said? Was he unaware of the fact his team was being used as a drug-smuggling operation or was it just smoke for our benefit? Barrington saw the whole team as dirty, but that might not be true.

‘Who’s they?’ Haulk asked.

‘Another team. They can’t beat us on the track, so they want to ruin us off the track.’

‘Which one?’

‘Take your pick. Any one of these fuckers would like to take us down.’

The conversation was quelling Rags’ anger, but it wasn’t lightening his foot on the accelerator. We were hitting motorway speeds on the two-lane road.

‘What about Jason Gates?’ I asked. ‘Do you think his murder is part of this too?’

The vibe inside the car shifted awkwardly.

Rags eyed me in his rear-view mirror.

‘I find it hard to believe that someone would kill Jason just to fuck with the team,’ I said. I looked to Haulk and Rags to either agree or shoot me down and got nothing.

‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ Rags said.

And we didn’t talk about anything else until we reached the airport. Haulk and I grabbed our bags from the boot before Rags slammed the boot lid shut.

‘If anyone approaches you two for comment, play dumb and refer them to me. OK?’

We nodded.

Rags burnt more rubber rejoining the airport traffic and I wished I was going with him. I didn’t want him out of my sight.

‘Aidy, I hear the siren song of the airport bar calling our names,’ Haulk said. ‘We deserve a drink.’

There was no arguing with that point.

We passed through airport security and Haulk bought me a drink while we waited for our flight to be called.

‘If Rags wasn’t such a magician when it came to the cars, I’d be off this team,’ Haulk said. ‘I like my excitement on the track, not off it.’

‘Preaching to the choir,’ I said.

‘You’re the lucky one here. You’re on a one-year deal. This kind of crap won’t stick to you, but I still have another year on my contract.’

How little he knew. I’d count myself bloody lucky to come out of this one unscathed.

I spent the next hour listening to Haulk’s war stories from his racing career. It was an education for me. He’d done it all and I hoped I would too, if I could keep Andrew Gates, HM Customs and the police at bay. One of those might be doable. All three seemed impossible. Haulk’s stories continued during the flight, but ended when we reached Heathrow, where we went our separate ways.

Steve was waiting for me at the airport. He took my bag from me.

‘How’d it all go?’ he asked.

‘Good and awful. Barrington pulled the team over and found nothing. Everything’s in shambles.’

‘Where’s that leave us?’

‘I don’t know.’

Steve had just weaved his way through the airport road system when my mobile rang. Dylan’s name appeared on the screen.

‘Where are you?’ he asked. Excitement boiled over in his voice.

‘Just leaving the airport.’

‘Don’t go home.’

‘Why? What’s going on?’

‘I’m in Rags’ car. I’m driving it back. He’s on the next flight to Stansted.’

‘Why’s he flying?’

‘It has something to do with a phone call he got. He got back to us just as we’d pretty much loaded everything back on to the transporter; then his phone rang. He took the call in his car, but from his body language, it didn’t go well. Afterwards he tossed me his keys and said to drive him to the airport. He’s on an EasyJet flight that’s scheduled to land around nine thirty.’

‘He’s flying back to meet with someone.’

‘No shit. That’s why you need to follow him.’

That gave us a little over two hours to get from Heathrow to Stansted. The sixty-mile trip should only take an hour, but with the evening traffic, we could be unlucky.

‘You might have just saved us.’

‘I know, so don’t screw it up. Keep in touch.’

‘Will do. Thanks, mate.’ I hung up on Dylan and told Steve to drive to Stansted. ‘We have to get there before nine thirty.’

‘We’ll do it.’

Traffic was thick but flowing. Steve kept his foot down, cutting in and out of traffic. Every mile seemed to take an age to cover as the minute hand on the dashboard clock swept across its face. Despite my fears, we arrived at the airport with forty minutes to spare.

Steve parked in the short-stay car park. I told him to be ready to move when Rags touched down.

‘At nearly five pounds an hour, you bet your arse I’ll be ready to move.’

I smiled. Steve smiled back.

‘Just don’t let him see you,’ Steve said.

‘I won’t.’

I paced in the arrivals lounge, counting down the minutes until Rags’ flight arrived. I didn’t think we’d get another shot at this. Not after the road stop. Everyone was going to be cagey from now on.

I called Barrington’s number. He didn’t answer. I tried twice more over the next twenty minutes and still got no answer. I didn’t know what his game was, but it was pissing me off.

I called Claudia and she answered on the first ring. ‘Aidy.’

‘Claudia, can you get me Barrington? He’s not answering his phone.’

‘Aidy, what ’appened? John went ballistic. ’E said there were no drugs.’

‘I’m not sure, but I’m at Stansted waiting for Rags. He’s ditched his car and he’s flying back to meet with someone. This may be our chance to find out who he’s working with.’

‘John is still in ’olland. ’Is ’ole team is. Today was supposed to be the big bust.’

Yeah, don’t rub it in. ‘Shit. Rags will be on the ground in twenty minutes. Where are you?’

‘I’m in Norfolk with the ESCC.’

She was too far away to meet us in time.

‘I’m going to follow Rags to his meeting. Tell Barrington what I’m doing and to call me if he wants me to do anything.’

‘OK. Be careful, Aidy.’

She sounded like she cared.

‘I will. Thanks.’

I hung up and counted down the minutes as I watched the Arrivals screen for updates. I almost cheered when Rags’ flight went from ‘On time’ to ‘Arrived’.

I called Steve. ‘Rags’ plane is on the ground. Come around to Arrivals to pick me up.’

‘Keep an eye out for whoever is picking him up.’

I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Will do.’

I hung up and disappeared into the crowd in the lounge. I didn’t want Rags spotting me the second he appeared. I scanned the faces of the people waiting patiently. It was the usual mix of friends, family, business acquaintances and drivers with handwritten signs. No one stood out as a drug kingpin.

My heart hit the red zone when Rags poured into the lounge with a glut of passengers. I remained still, waiting for him to reach out to his connection. Instead, he slalomed between groups of people, acknowledging no one.

I gave him a twenty-yard head start before following him. I pulled out my phone and called Steve. ‘He’s here and he’s not got anyone waiting.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘He’s on his way to hire a car.’

‘I’ll keep circling until you need me.’

I hung up.

I watched Rags pay for the car and cross the terminal for a courtesy bus to take him to the vehicle. Steve picked me up and we followed his bus to the car depot. Still on the Terminal Road, we couldn’t pull over, so Steve overtook the bus, pulled off at the roundabout and parked on the grass. I jumped out of the car, backtracked up the road and watched for Rags.

I ran back to Steve and jumped into the passenger seat. ‘Red Ford Mondeo.’

Steve let Rags pass us by before rejoining traffic. Steve’s old Capri stuck out amongst the modern cars on the road, but considering Rags’ driving, he seemed to be a man on a mission who was paying little attention to his surroundings. I think I could have stood next to him in the terminal and he wouldn’t have noticed me. He certainly had plenty on his mind.

Rags picked up the M11 going south towards London. From there, he took the M25 anticlockwise. We were catching the M25 late, so traffic was light.

‘He looks like he’s going home,’ Steve said.

Steve’s words jinxed us. Rags joined the A1(M) and headed north.

‘He’s not going home,’ I said.

Rags went as far as Hatfield. He cut through the town, drove on to an industrial estate and stopped at a derelict factory. He climbed from his hire car armed only with his mobile phone and slipped through an open doorway.

Steve pulled up at the side of the road. ‘Looks like he’s first to arrive.’

I wasn’t so sure. Time would have been on the side of the person who’d demanded Rags fly back from Holland. ‘Make a loop.’

Steve followed the roads encompassing the warehouse. It was after eight p.m. and everyone at the neighbouring industrial units had finished their working day. There were no other cars parked. It looked as if Steve was right about Rags being alone.

Steve completed his loop and stopped. ‘You going in?’

‘Yeah. The place is big enough that I can hide and no one will see me.’

‘You want me to come?’

‘No. It’s just me and Rags at this point. You stay alert in case this party gets gatecrashers.’

Steve nodded. ‘Just be careful.’

‘Aren’t I always?’

‘No.’

I slipped from the car and jogged across the weed-ravaged car park. I circled around the building and entered on the far side from Rags. No fancy lock-picking skills were required. The door had long since been kicked in. From the look of this place, whatever this factory had once been, it was now the local punching bag for graffiti artists and vandals.

I used the backlight on my mobile to illuminate my way and found myself in the offices.

I could hear Rags talking to himself and cursing whoever had the audacity to keep him waiting. His voice helped guide me even better than my mobile. I reached a stairwell and climbed to the top. It opened out into a suite of offices overlooking the factory floor. The windows insulating the office workers from the factory noise were gone, so I kept quiet. I dropped to my knees and peered through a window frame.

Rags stood a hundred feet away, lit by his car’s headlights. He paced back and forth within the boundaries of the light, staring at his mobile, seemingly willing it to ring.

He kept up this performance for twenty minutes before dialling a number. His pace quickened as his call went unanswered.

‘I’m here. Just as you asked. Now where the fuck are you? The cops are on to us. The Dutch police had a warrant. How long before the cops here have a warrant to do the same? You can’t hide from me. Call me now.’

A call didn’t come. Rags called back two more times over the next hour before snatching up a length of pipe he found and hurling it across the warehouse. The sound of it clanging on the floor echoed off the walls.

‘I’d say you’ve been stood up, Rags,’ I whispered. ‘Worse luck.’

Rags stormed out of the factory.

I stood and winced at the sound of the Mondeo’s engine screaming in pain as Rags slammed the car into reverse and roared away. Just as he did, his headlights swept through the building and splashed across something familiar — a tubular steel chair with a broken wooden back. The sight of that chair brought back ugly memories.

My mobile rang. It was Steve.

‘Everything OK?’

‘Yeah. Rags got stood up.’

‘It happens to the best of us.’

‘Bring your car over. I need your lights. There should be a loading door close to where Rags parked.’

‘I see it.’

‘OK, I’ll meet you there.’

I raced down the stairs two at a time and across the factory floor. I found the loading door and raised it. Steve poked the nose of the Capri through the door and lit the place up with his high beams. His spotlights struck the chair I recognized. I picked it up and examined it. The last time I’d seen this chair, I’d been pinned to it.

I tossed the broken chair aside and dropped to my knees. I ran my hands over the concrete and found the gouges that a five-pound mallet had made.

Steve emerged from his car and crossed over to me. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’ve been here. Crichlow brought me here the night Jason was killed. This place belongs to Andrew Gates.’