Hot Seat

Lap Three

O’Neal lived up to his mute status during the drive back to Earls Court. I wondered if his silence was a tactic designed to force me into opening up. If it was, it failed. I didn’t feel any compunction to talk.

He handed me back my mobile. Jason’s blood had been cleaned off. It had been covered in the stuff when Huston had claimed it as evidence. She’d no doubt checked my call log to see if I’d had any contact with him.

We arrived at Earls Court to an active crime scene with investigators combing every inch of space around the transporter for evidence. The cordon included my new car. I heard O’Neal speak for the first time when he cleared the way for me to collect it. A crime-scene technician gave O’Neal the all clear and he drove it off the hallowed land of the crime scene.

‘Aidy. Aidy!’ It was Rags jogging around the cordoned area. It didn’t surprise me to see him here. He ducked under the cordon tape, shook my hand and squeezed my shoulder with his free hand. ‘They told me what happened. How you doing, son?’

‘OK.’

‘Did you see the killer?’

‘No. Heard him. I think.’

‘Christ, you were lucky.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A minute either way and you could have walked in on this prick. If you had, I’d be identifying your body right now.’

That thought hadn’t occurred to me and my naivety left me cold.

‘I need to get out of here,’ I said.

‘Yeah. Of course.’

‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘No, you’re done. Stay home. As soon as I get the all clear from this lot —’ he jerked a thumb at the police at work — ‘I’m pulling the team from the show. I don’t want a circus forming over this, especially around you. OK?’

It was probably the best thing to do.

‘You stay out of the limelight. Anyone comes sniffing around for a comment, refer them to me. Got it?’

‘Got it.’

‘Good, now get off home. Put this behind you and take it easy. I want your head in the right place for testing on Monday.’

Rags managed to pack concern for me and the needs of the team into a single statement. It just went to prove that life did go on, kindness and callousness coexisting in perfect harmony.

O’Neal held my car door open for me as I slipped behind the wheel. He’d been watching my exchange with Rags with his customary silence. ‘We just want to find the killer, Mr Westlake. No offence intended.’

I said nothing, closed the door and drove away.

I threaded my way through the London streets. At one a.m. on a school night, the traffic was light and I drove on autopilot. I opened my mind to white noise and random thoughts. I hoped the monotony of shifting gears and dancing between the clutch, brake and accelerator would put me in a Zen-like mood of vacant thought, but images of hot blood on cold tarmac and Jason Gates’ burning gaze filled the void. There was no forgetting. It was too raw. Too fresh.

I picked up the M4 motorway and pushed the Accord up to seventy.

O’Neal wanted to let me know that he and Huston were just doing their jobs. I wondered how seriously they viewed me as a suspect. Cops being cops, they weren’t going to tell me. I’d know in the next couple of days. If Huston came with handcuffs in hand, then I’d know how she viewed me. I didn’t bother contemplating that one any further.

I replayed Jason’s final moments again in my head. I couldn’t believe that I’d been so caught up in myself that I’d missed a man bleeding to death just a few short feet from me. That single thought stalled my mind’s replay. How long had I been standing there revelling in my success? Two minutes? Five? If I’d gotten to him the second I returned to the transporter, could I have saved him? Would those extra couple of minutes have made a difference? No, I didn’t think so. Jason was dead the moment the killer sliced his throat open.

It wasn’t worth contemplating what I couldn’t change, but maybe I could still help. What had I seen? What had I heard? Any detail could be vital. I replayed my steps from the moment I’d entered the Earls Court car park, but came up with nothing. No one had passed me. I hadn’t heard an argument. I didn’t remember anything out of place. One thought did hit me hard. The killer would have been close when I discovered Jason. He had to be. At best, Jason had minutes to live after his throat had been slit. So how close was the killer? His footfalls had been loud as he escaped. Had he watched me trying to save Jason? My skin prickled at the thought.

I didn’t remember hearing a car engine start after the footsteps. That meant the killer was on foot or parked a long way out of earshot. So did he live local or use public transport as a means of escape? If he’d jumped on the tube, security cameras would have picked him up. Huston might find that information useful.

Before I knew it, the Slough and Windsor junction came up and I followed the slip road down to the roundabout and took the Windsor Relief Road. Almost home. I lived with Steve off Maidenhead Road across from the horse track. Since I’m only five foot four, Steve always said I could have been a jockey if I hadn’t wanted to go into motorsport. Despite having grown up across from the racecourse, I never had any desire to ride. Racecars were in the family blood, not horses.

A BMW 5-Series flew by me. A few years earlier, I would have chased after the car. As soon as I got my licence at seventeen, I trawled the streets looking for a street race. Oddly, ever since I’d gotten into motorsport, I’d lost the desire for it. No street race could ever emulate the raw adrenaline rush of a motor race.

I followed the BMW off the Windsor Relief Road. By the time I turned on to Maidenhead Road, my speedy friend was long gone.

Just as I drew level with the entrance to Windsor Racecourse, a bang rocked my car. The steering wheel turned to lead in my hands and pulled to the left. It was a blowout. I knew it without even having to get out. I let the car go where it wanted to go and pulled over. I climbed out and prodded the flat tyre with my foot. I’d had the car less than twenty-four hours and I’d already picked up a flat. It was the icing on a very shitty day.

Something stuck from the tyre and I jerked it free. It was an eight-inch length of laminate flooring with nails hammered into it. Obviously, someone thought it was funny to shred people’s tyres.

‘Wankers,’ I murmured.

I looked back down the road. Three more nail strips sat in a row in the roadway. I gathered them up. No one else deserved my luck tonight.

Headlights from the opposite direction lit me up. The BMW that had passed me a few minutes earlier stopped next to me. The driver, a middle-aged guy in a suit, leaned out of his window.

‘You all right?’

‘Puncture.’ I held up the nail strips. ‘Somebody left these out.’

‘Some people are real shitheads. I’ll give you a hand changing the wheel.’

‘Nah, it’s OK. I live a couple of streets away. I’ll change it in the morning.’

‘Don’t be daft. You drive anywhere and you’ll shred the tyre and ruin the rim. It’s not worth it. We can have the spare on in ten minutes.’

He was right, so I nodded.

The BMW driver pulled over while I tossed the nail strips in the boot and dragged out the spare tyre.

My good Samaritan jogged across the empty street. ‘What’s your name, mate?’

‘Aidy Westlake.’

‘I’m Dominic Crichlow.’

He put out his hand. I went to shake it, but as I extended my hand, Crichlow ignored it and pressed something against my stomach. I heard a click-click sound before electricity coursed through me. Every muscle in my body clenched. My jaw slammed shut, my hands balled into fists, my back arched and my neck snapped back. I tried to pull away, but I remained frozen until I finally gave out and collapsed to the tarmac.

Feeling leaked back into me. I tried moving, but my body still vibrated to the stun gun’s tune.

Crichlow rolled me on to my back and taped my hands together in front of me. He produced a hood from his suit jacket pocket and pulled it over my head.

‘Stop! You don’t have to do this. You want the car? Take it.’

‘Sorry about this, Aidy, but it has to be done.’

He wrapped his arms around my neck, cutting my breath off. I kicked out, but the strength hadn’t returned to my legs. The sound of my blood pumping roared inside my head. I fought for breath, but the air in my lungs turned sour and burned. My grip on consciousness melted, then I saw blackness darker than the inside of the hood.