She nodded.
‘I was told the satellite people destroyed the master recording by request. Any idea who asked for that?’
‘Why would the recording be destroyed?’
‘I’m guessing you didn’t request it, then.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Could Mr Fanning have requested it?’
‘I suppose, but I don’t know. I’ll ask him. But if the recording has been destroyed, there’s no way anyone can prove Derek killed Alex.’
‘Not quite. Redline wasn’t the only one to record the crash. Do you know Paul at Chicane Motorsport?’
Alison shook her head.
‘He records all the races and he captured the crash. He’s going to let me see his tape. The quality won’t be as good as the TV coverage, but I’m hoping it will be good enough for what I need.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
I’d pushed her to her limit for one night and I quickly finished up my coffee. ‘Can I see the car?’
Alison pulled out a set of keys from her pocket and put them on the table. ‘It’s in the garage. I can’t look at it.’
I nodded.
Alison picked up our mugs and took them to the sink. I took that as my signal. I walked out the back door and over to the detached garage towards the rear of the garden. I unlocked the doors and swung them open, then I flicked on the light. Alex’s crumpled car sat on a pair of sawhorses.
A set of headlights lit up the garage and me. I put a hand up to shield my eyes from the light. A car rolled down the long driveway next to the house and stopped a car length from me. Alison’s parents stepped into the light.
‘You’ve come to take the car?’ Mr Baker asked.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I’ll help you.’
‘I’ll check on Alison,’ Mrs Baker said.
Alison’s dad pulled his car back onto the street while I brought the van over. He guided me down the narrow driveway while I reversed the van up to the garage. A racecar isn’t that heavy in the scheme of things, but shifting the wreck was tough with just the two of us lifting. Having the car on sawhorses helped. It was at the perfect height for the van’s cargo bed. We slid the car off the sawhorses and manhandled it inside. We loaded the boxes of broken components and bodywork next. I wanted every scrap of the car so I could reconstruct it to prove what happened to it. Call it a crash post-mortem.
I closed up the van while Alison’s dad locked the garage. We stood in the red glow of the van’s taillights. I put out my hand to him.
‘Thanks for your help, Mr Baker.’
He glowered at me instead of taking my hand.
‘Now that you’ve got what you wanted, I’d appreciate it if you left my daughter alone. Is that clear?’
It was more than clear.
Lap Twelve
The following night was a big night for me. I was meeting Hancock to discuss and hopefully secure sponsorship for next season. I liked the proposal package I’d put together. It looked professional in spite of my limited resources.
Hancock understood I had a day job so he scheduled our meeting for seven p.m. in the lobby of the Brands Hatch Double Oak hotel. For him, the Double Oak was a twenty minute drive from the Hancock Salvage headquarters. I had to slog my way around the southern half of the M25 motorway during rush hour. Not a fun prospect.
Steve picked me up from work in the Capri and we swapped driving duties because I wanted something to do other than obsess about my meeting with Hancock. As we trickled along with our fellow commuters on the overpopulated M25, my mind played over the previous night’s events. Mr Baker’s angry face filled my mind. He wasn’t the first hostile dad I’d encountered. I put his hostility down to a protective father looking out for his daughter. He had nothing to fear from me. I wouldn’t be bothering Alison again.
A driver leaned on his horn when I let the Capri drift into his lane.
‘Focus, son,’ Steve said.
Steve was right. My train of thought needed to be on convincing Hancock to give me a budget for next season. The break from thoughts of murder would do me good. Alex’s death was fast approaching an obsession.
‘You want to go over what you’re going to say?’ Steve asked.
‘Not really.’
‘But you’re going to anyway.’
I flashed Steve a begrudging smile. I went over my talking points and Steve reminded me of any I’d forgotten. We role-played, with Steve playing the part of Hancock. It helped kill the monotonous drive.
I arrived at the hotel with a few minutes to spare. The Double Oak is located outside of the Brands Hatch circuit’s main entrance. I turned into the hotel’s car park and parked. I reached for my document case and went through it to make sure I had everything.
‘I remember going to meetings like this with your dad. Seems like yesterday.’
‘Did he enjoy them?’
‘Tell me what driver does.’
‘None. Seeking sponsorship is glorified begging. It’s never fun, unless you’re already at the top. Then you have to beat their advances off with stick.’
‘You want me to come in with you?’
‘No, I’ll be fine. You’re only here as muscle to make sure no one takes me for a ride.’
He sighed theatrically. ‘How tragic it is to be wanted for my body and not my mind.’
I laughed and double-checked I had everything before swinging the door open. ‘I’ve got everything, so wish me luck.’
‘No luck needed. What’s your opening line to Hancock?’
I thought for a second. ‘I am an asset to your marketing campaign. Now give me your damn money, Hancock.’
‘Smart arse.’ He jabbed a finger in my side. ‘You’re more than ready for this. Now get in there. You’ll do fine.’
Heading into the hotel, I put on my game face. I was here to sell the benefits of motorsport sponsorship to Hancock. He might be a race fan, but at the same time, he was a businessman and I had to appeal to that side of him.
I looked around the hotel lobby and spotted Hancock amongst the sea of businessmen milling around. He waved and cut his way through the crowd.
‘Have you eaten, Aidy? I’ve gotten us a table. Tonight’s on me.’
He ushered me into the hotel’s restaurant and we sat at a window table with a partial view of Brands Hatch. A waitress presented us with menus and asked us what we wanted to drink.
‘Whisky,’ Hancock said. ‘Anything from your single malt range will do.’
‘Diet Coke.’
‘You can have a drop of the hard stuff,’ Hancock said.
Booze sounded good. It would take the edge off, but tonight was too important to hand the reins over to alcohol. I wanted Hancock’s sponsorship pounds and I didn’t want to say the wrong thing because drink had gotten the better of me.
‘No, Diet Coke is fine.’
After the waitress left, we got down to business. I’d brought copies of my proposal, but Hancock had the one I’d already sent to him. He flicked through its contents.
‘This is very impressive.’
I’d gone to town on the proposal. I outlined the benefits of motorsport sponsorship, essentially cribbing from an article I’d found on the Internet. I included a profile of myself and my short racing career as well as one for Steve. His achievements added some legitimacy to my claims. I listed the activities I would assist Hancock’s company with, things like corporate events, media appearances — all the usual guff. I added a nice little touch of a mock-up shot of the car in the company colours with the Hancock Salvage logo down the side. I’d Photoshopped the thing together in my lunch hour at work. Of course, I ended with the ugly stuff: my budget needs. In the scheme of things, it was pretty good value for money. Steve would act as mechanic and engine builder for a full assault on the Formula Ford national title. My budget was a third of what it would cost to run with a top professional team, but, with Steve’s expertise, we were just as good.