Did Not Finish

Lap Six

The first part of our investigation was to examine the scene of the crime. Saturday morning, I drove out to Stowe Park.

I went down in Steve’s pride and joy, a 1972 Ford Capri RS2600. When it came to affordable coupes of yesteryear, the Americans had the Mustang and the British had the Capri. Steve had bought it new and he’d kept it in mint condition. He’d made a number of modifications that ensured it kept up with its more modern counterparts. I got to drive it when he needed the van, which was pretty often.

For my cover, I went armed with a laundry list of replacement parts I needed to rebuild my car. Like most tracks across the country, someone ran a parts and equipment business on the track’s premises. The stores all did a roaring trade on race days and survived the rest of the time through mail order. Chicane Motorsports, located in the paddock at Stowe Park, was the most reasonably priced outfit across the country.

I ignored the signs for the paddock entrance and followed the ones for the flea market. On non-race weekends, Myles rented the general parking area out to the market. The track was acres and acres of overhead and the income earned from ten race meetings throughout the year wasn’t going to cut it. He needed other sources of revenue and the market was a great moneymaker.

I parked and cut through the market. There was no security on hand to stop me from exploring the track.

It took me fifteen minutes to cover the distance from the start-finish line to the spectator area at Barrack Hill. During a race, I would have covered the same distance in less than thirty seconds. You don’t really understand how fast you’re travelling until you have to cover the same distance on foot.

I climbed the dirt embankment at Wilts and followed it to where Alex had crashed at Barrack Hill. The concrete wall he hit is built into the embankment. Spectators are allowed to watch from the mound. Last Saturday, anyone there got a close-up view they weren’t expecting.

I looked to see if anyone was watching me before bringing out my digital camera and snapping a couple of shots of the track from the embankment. I wanted pictures of the skid marks before the weather and other cars ruined them. I climbed down the embankment and over the gate onto the track.

Alex’s tyre marks were impossible to mistake. There was the usual array of skid marks where drivers locked up their brakes before going into the turn. Only one set of skid marks started in the middle of the bend. Alex’s skid marks. You don’t brake in the middle of a turn. It’s suicidal.

These skid marks might not have meant much to most people, but they told me a story. The marks were in two parts. The first set occurred part-way through the bend. It was a heavy, violently drawn S-shape. This came from the initial contact with Derek which kicked Alex’s car onto two wheels. The second set of skid marks began just as the first ended. A set of four ugly black lines slewed off the track at an angle and dead ended into the wall. These short skid marks indicated Alex’s futile gesture. He would have scrubbed little to no speed off before hitting the wall.

Alex had to have known the impact was going to be serious. Had he had time to pull his knees up and take his hands off the wheel to prevent the shock wave from going through his body? Hopefully, but in a big shunt, panic takes over and you ignore the correct course of action.

I followed Alex’s fatal trajectory, snapping close-up shots of the marks until I reached the wall. Cars striking the wall over the years had left their mark in the form of gouges in the concrete. Amongst the collection of gashes, it was easy to recognize the fresh impact left by Alex’s car. Red paint and fragments of fibreglass were embedded in the gash left behind. I took a final shot.

I’d seen enough and returned to my car. No one seemed to have noticed my excursion. I drove out of the flea market over to Chicane Motorsports. I walked inside the cramped building filled with mannequins dressed in racing overalls and holding steering wheels. Chicane’s is big, but the customer area is small. The majority of the space is taken up with floor to ceiling racks filled with car parts.

At the end of one of the aisles, I waved to Chris who was sitting at his desk typing away at his computer. Chris owned Chicane’s, but never looked the part. I’d never seen him in a pair of jeans. He always dressed in designer clothes. Considering the oil and grease content of his business, it was a mistake to be that well-attired, but somehow, he never managed to get a drop of oil on him.

‘Hi, Aidy, what can we do you for?’

I held up my list.

‘I’ll get Paul.’

Chris called out for Paul, his only full time employee.

‘Coming,’ Paul’s familiar voice called back. He climbed down from a ladder and came out to the counter.

Paul was the antithesis of Chris. He was always grubby. His hands were black from oil and his complexion was leathery from a lifetime spent in the elements.

‘Watcha, Aidy. Is it that time of year already?’

‘It is. Time to make up for all the damage I’ve done this season.’

I pushed a box containing my rear shocks over to Paul. Oil from their leaking seals stained the cardboard. Paul looked them over.

‘For rebuilding?’

I nodded.

‘I’ve got everything on your list on the shelf, but the shocks will take me a week to turn around. That OK?’

‘No worries. I’ll take what you’ve got and I’ll be back for the rest.’

Paul grinned and scurried off to find the bearings, rose joints and everything else on the list.

Chris called out, ‘You go to Alex’s funeral yesterday?’

I peered down the aisle to see him. ‘Yeah.’

Chris shook his head. ‘Too bad. I can’t remember there being a death here.’

‘I can,’ Paul chimed in. ‘Barry Telfer, August bank holiday, 1972. He rolled a Ford Cortina at Church corner, broke his neck. Nasty.’

Chris rolled his eyes and I smiled. Paul was an encyclopedia of motorsport. He absorbed every race result, fact and rumour. If there was something he didn’t know, then it wasn’t worth knowing.

‘I sent flowers, but I didn’t go,’ Chris said. ‘It didn’t seem right.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I said.

‘Did many go?’

‘Most of the regulars.’

Chris nodded. ‘Did Derek?’

‘No.’

Chris shrugged in a ‘what are you gonna do’ gesture.

‘Are you coming to the championship bash?’ he asked.

There was an end-of-the-season banquet to celebrate the season and to present awards, including the championship trophy. Under the circumstances, I hadn’t intended on raising a glass to honour Derek Deacon, but I changed my mind. I saw some value in attending. The dinner was an excuse for everyone to get dressed up, drink too much and forget how much money they’d spent on a season of racing. It meant people would be more forthcoming than usual.

‘Yeah, I’ll be there.’

Paul emerged from the shelves with everything I’d requested. He checked it all off against my list and when he was sure all was good, he rang it up on the register.

‘I hear Alex’s car is here.’

Paul stopped punching numbers into the till and shared a look with Chris.

Chris got up from his seat and came up to the counter. ‘Yeah, it’s locked up in the scrutineering bay.’

‘I know you’ve got keys to the bay. Do you think I could take a look?’

‘Why would you want to do that?’ Myles Beecham said from behind me.

Shit. Another minute and I would have pulled it off. Was dumb luck biting me in the arse or had he been watching me walk the track from the control tower? I turned to face him. He looked ready to throttle me. Obviously, he hadn’t gotten yesterday out of his system.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

‘Some of the drivers agreed that no one should drive Alex’s car again. We’re looking to buy it to have it crushed.’ While that was true, I wasn’t planning to melt the car down until I’d gone over it. Just like the skid marks, the car would help me construct a case against Derek.

My explanation worked. The tension in the room broke and Myles seemed to shrink by a few inches as his suppressed anger bled out of him.

‘But why do you want to see the car?’ he said.

‘So I can make a realistic offer. We want to make a gesture, but none of us are made of money.’

Myles chewed that one over for a moment. I guessed he was deciding whether I was bullshitting him or not.

‘Come with me. I’ll show you.’

We crossed the paddock to the scrutineering bay in silence. This was no good. If I wanted to get to the bottom of Alex’s death, I needed everyone’s cooperation. That included Myles. ‘Look, I’m sorry about what I said at the funeral. It was uncalled for.’

Myles kept walking without looking at me. ‘That’s OK. Nerves are a little frayed at the moment. It’s a sensitive time for everyone.’

‘Sensitive times or not, I was rude.’

‘I appreciate you saying that.’

Myles unlocked the double garage doors to the scrutineering bay and swung them open. What remained of Alex’s car sat ruined in the middle of the bay. My mouth went dry at the sight.

The car was a mess. The impact had flattened the aluminium nose box, snapping off the brake and clutch master cylinders in the process. A pool of fluid stained the floor. Splintered fibreglass bodywork exposed the chassis underneath. A Formula Ford’s chassis is a spiderweb of tubular steel. It’s immensely strong, especially in a head-on collision, but Alex’s chassis had buckled. Only one tyre remained inflated. The other three were either punctured or hanging from buckled rims. The front wheels only remained attached to the car by the brake cables and the wishbone suspension assembly was nothing more than a knot of folded steel.

Despite the devastation, Alex should have survived. Formula cars are one giant safety cage. The wheel and suspension arrangement is designed to shear off so that it reduces the energy during a crash. The cars fold up like a garden chair, allowing the driver to walk away in one piece.

Crouching down to examine the cockpit, I discovered what had killed Alex. The harness mounts over his shoulders had sheared off during the high speed impact. Unrestrained from the waist up, his momentum hurled him head first into the steering wheel. Even with his crash helmet, he didn’t stand a chance. When the car hit the wall, physics took over. The deceleration was massive. His body went from one hundred and thirty to zero in the blink of an eye. The resulting force at which he would have hit his head on the steering wheel would have been staggering. I climbed to my feet, unable to speak.

‘How much do you think you’ll offer?’

There was thousands in damage here. The car wasn’t worth much in this condition. The chassis wasn’t salvageable and most of the ancillaries were write-offs. There was very little of value. The whole thing was worth a grand at most, but that wasn’t a figure to toss out at a grieving family. Nobody wants to hear their son’s life could be reduced to a few hundred pounds.

‘How much do you want?’ I asked.

‘It’s not down to me. You’ll need to deal with Alex’s family.’

That wasn’t going to be a fun call.

‘You’re making a very nice gesture here, but I don’t think they’ll be interested in receiving offers for it. I talked to Alex’s father yesterday about returning the car. He doesn’t want it back.’

‘I don’t want to see any part of this car back on the track next season, Myles.’

‘I don’t disagree. I think the family will give you the car if you ask. Have you raised any money?’

‘I have commitments from several of the drivers.’

‘It’s a shame for that money to go to waste.’

‘We could start a fund and put the money towards upgrading the crash team’s equipment or something.’

Myles smiled. ‘I like that. It’s a fitting memorial.’

And it gave me an excuse to stay close to the activities at Stowe Park.

‘Come back to the office,’ Myles said, ‘and let’s make some phone calls.’

Eva Beecham fixed me with a disapproving glare when I followed Myles into the administration building. Myles diffused the situation quickly.

‘Aidy is putting a fund together in Alex’s name and I think we should help. Pull out the list of registrants for the Clark Paints Championship and we’ll make some calls.’

Eva printed off a list of drivers with their contact information. The list consisted of names, addresses, phone numbers and emergency contacts. Alex’s was there alongside Derek’s and my own. It also listed the name and number for emergency contacts. Next to Alex’s home address was his father’s name and mobile phone number.

We decided amongst us that it was best the money was sent care of Myles and Eva. Any donation was fine, but we would push for a donation matching a race entry fee, which was two hundred pounds. Getting that from every person seemed steep, but it was possible considering the emotional weight attached to the request. Every driver would like to think others would cough up the price of a race entry if they should die on the track. With two hundred multiplied by just the forty drivers registered to the series, we were looking at an impressive sum.

‘I’ll call Alex’s father to get the go ahead,’ Myles said.

‘You should call Pit Lane magazine, Motorsport News and the TV stations about what we’re doing,’ Eva said. ‘They should talk to you two about this.’

I liked the idea of the press attention, specifically from anyone at Redline. I wanted to see the uncut footage from the race.

For the next couple of hours, the three of us called dozens of drivers from across the country. The support was fantastic. About two-thirds agreed to donate the price of a race entry and none but a distinct minority refused to donate anything. It was a fulfilling, yet draining experience. I hung up on my last call and sat back in my seat. Eva was smiling at me.

Myles finished his call. ‘Aidy, that was Alex’s father. He’d like to meet with you tomorrow to talk about the fund-raising and the car. I said that would be OK. If it’s a problem, give him a call back.’

‘No, that’ll be OK.’

Myles handed me a post-it note with a phone number, an address and two p.m. circled.

‘Your father would be very proud of what you’re doing.’

‘Thanks,’ I said and wished someone had done something like this for him. Dad had died without receiving his Formula One signing bonus or taking out a life insurance policy.

The door opened and Derek Deacon walked in. He smiled at us. I felt like we were being sized up by a shark.

Derek’s appearance unsettled Myles and Eva. Despite being on their own property, they looked as if they’d been caught stealing. They didn’t have anything to feel guilty about. None of us did, but I tensed up along with them.

‘Eva, I got a message that you called. I was in the area and thought I’d drop by. What’s going on?’

Even though the question was aimed at Eva, Derek’s gaze was fixed on me.

I returned his gaze. I’d been glad when Eva had called Derek. He, more than anyone, had reason to give something back after he’d taken so much.

‘We’re putting together a fund in memory of Alex,’ she said.

‘That’s nice,’ Derek said in a sneering tone. ‘Whose idea was that?’

‘Aidy’s,’ Myles said.

‘That’s very good of you.’

I shrugged.

‘I’d like to do my bit. How much is everyone putting in?’

‘The price of a race entry,’ I said.

Derek smirked. ‘I like that. I’ll tell you what. I’ll go one better. I’ll donate my prize money for winning the championship.’

The championship winner received a thousand pounds. Derek looked to be trying to buy his innocence.

‘Are you sure?’ Myles said.

‘Deadly,’ he said turning his attention to Myles then back to me. ‘I don’t race for the money.’

‘That’s very generous,’ I said.

Derek shrugged the compliment away. ‘I’m a generous kind of guy. See you at the banquet,’ he said on his way out.

It was a nice performance. He was responsible for Alex’s death and he was acting magnanimous. His philanthropic gesture would get back to the racing community. He was going to come out smelling like a rose.

It was getting dark, so I stood up. ‘Look, I’d better go. I need to settle up at Chicane’s before they close.’

Myles shook my hand before seeing me out.

By the time I got back to Chicane’s, Chris and Paul had boxed up my order. I paid them and carried the purchases out to the Capri. Derek was leaning against the driver’s door.

I unlocked the boot and put the box inside. As I came around to the driver’s side, Derek made no move to stand aside.

‘That’s a really decent thing you’ve masterminded,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize you were so philanthropic.’

Masterminded was an unusual choice of word. Philanthropy is never masterminded. I didn’t point out his poor choice of words.

‘It seemed the right thing to do.’

Derek nodded his agreement. ‘I saw you and Alex chatting on race day. You looked very chummy. I didn’t know you two were so tight.’

‘We weren’t.’

‘So why the big effort?’

‘I know what it’s like to lose someone close.’

‘That’s right, your mum and dad. I remember your dad well. I raced against him here in Formula Fords. Did you know that?’

I shook my head.

‘Nice guy. Terrible what happened to your parents. It just goes to show you can’t avoid accidents. Your parents couldn’t and Alex couldn’t.’ Derek stepped out from in front of my driver’s door and opened it for me. As I slid into the seat, he leaned in close and whispered, ‘Careful how you go, Aidy. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you too.’

I’d just received my first warning.