‘What have you found?’
I showed her the tyre burns down the side of the car. I slid the photos from the envelope, careful to hide the images from her. ‘Now you might find these disturbing, but we can—’
‘Stop trying to protect me,’ she interrupted, frustration edging her words. ‘Everyone is trying to wrap me in cotton wool and I want it to stop. I’m not that fragile.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not trying to.’
‘Yes you are. You’re just trying to be kind. And while that’s nice, it doesn’t help me. I’m going to get upset. I’m going to cry. But that’s OK. I lost someone very close to me. It’s only natural.’
Alison impressed me. She was a fighter. No wonder Alex was willing to give up racing for her.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll treat you like anyone else and I won’t worry if you cry from time to time.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you. You’d be the first.’
I smiled and showed her the photos. I explained their relevance, but also pointed out their lack of meaning without more proof.
‘So you don’t have anything.’
‘I have pieces. I can show that Alex and Derek interlocked wheels. I have a room full of people who heard Derek say he was going to kill Alex. What I don’t have is proof that he made the manoeuvre on purpose.’
‘You need the footage of the race?’
I nodded. It was such a big part of the puzzle. ‘Did you speak to Alex’s dad about the film?’
Alison turned her back and nodded at the car. ‘He told them to destroy the tape.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Does he have to?’
He didn’t. Who wanted their son’s final, tragic moments immortalized for all time? But destroying the tape was such an unfortunate move. Those moments of tape, adding up to only seconds of time, would have answered so much. It would have been enough to nail Derek, but now it was all ashes. I just hoped Paul had captured the moment. All my faith was in him now.
‘It’s not too much of a setback. I’m still hoping to get Paul’s camcorder tape.’
‘Let’s hope he’s a good cameraman.’
We stood in silence staring at the wrecked car. Then I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. I’d been too wrapped in looking for the big piece of evidence and I’d missed the significance of the little things.
Alison noticed me looking. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing really. Just bad workmanship.’ I pointed to the Allen head bolts holding the lower suspension wishbone on the right rear corner of the car. The two bolts connecting the wishbone to the brackets on the gearbox assembly were installed bolt head down.
‘What’s wrong with the bolts — wrong type or something?’
‘No. The bolts were put in upside-down. You want the bolt head on the top so if the nut shakes loose the bolt remains in place. With the bolt head down, gravity takes over, the bolt falls out and the suspension falls off.’
‘Won’t the bolt come out anyway because of the bumping and bouncing?’
‘Probably, but it’s a lot harder and it will buy you a few laps before that all happens.’
I checked the other corners of the car. The bolts had been put in correctly. I supposed Alex and his mechanic had rushed at some point and made the mistake. It’s somewhat academic these days which way the bolt goes. With Nyloc nuts, it’s really hard for a nut to shake loose.
‘It’s an amateur’s mistake,’ I said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Alex wasn’t an amateur,’ Alison said with a hint of irritation.
‘No, but we all make mistakes,’ I said with a smile. ‘Can I get you something to drink? We’ve got some things in the fridge upstairs and I can make coffee.’
‘Coffee would be nice.’
I put my private investigation on hold, tossed the photos back on the workbench and covered the car with the drop cloth again.
I led Alison up to the office. While I got the coffee going, she checked out all the pictures and posters hanging from the curved walls.
‘Racing is really in your blood.’
I moved next to Alison. ‘It’s hard for it not to be. Steve, my grandad, worked the pits for Lotus during the golden age of racing and my dad raced. Whereas most kids grew up on fairy-tales about princes slaying dragons, I grew up on tales of great drivers like Stirling Moss, Mike Hawthorne, Jim Clark, Graham Hill and Nigel Mansell, all doing battle with Juan Fangio, Alain Prost and Ayrton Senna.’
‘Do you have a favourite driver?’
‘Jim Clark.’ I pointed to a photo of Steve working on Jimmy’s Lotus as he climbed into the cockpit. ‘He won the Formula One world title twice, and the Indy 500. He started on pole five out of six races and won a third of his F1 races. But he raced in about everything from NASCAR to rallying. He just liked to race. It’s hard to find anyone who’ll say a bad word about him and Steve says he was the nicest guy in the pit lane. For me, he’s the greatest driver who ever lived.’
I felt the heat of Alison’s gaze on me. I turned to her. She was grinning at me. I blushed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go on.’
‘It’s OK. I know Alex talked about him. He died, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. April 7th, 1968 at Hockenheim in Germany. It was in a Formula Two race. There’s a stone marker where he crashed.’ I stopped myself then. I was crossing the bounds of sensitivity. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’ She smiled. ‘No cotton wool, remember?’
The coffee maker beeped and I filled two mugs.
Alison took her coffee and sat in Steve’s chair. ‘Why do you race?’
‘I never planned on it. Considering all the sacrifices my parents made, my grandparents weren’t keen that I follow on in the family tradition.’
‘But you did.’
‘I was in karts for a couple of years when I was a lot younger, but I grew out of it. I was happy to do something else with my life. Then, last year, something clicked. A Westlake gene fired or something and I wanted to race. I told Steve and he said he’d help me. Now, I can’t see myself doing anything else with my life.’
Alison shook her head. ‘I don’t get you or Alex. I never saw the point of it, just going around in circles. I asked Alex and never really got a straight answer.’
The question stumped me for a second. I could describe the sensations — the thrills, the speed, the competition and the danger that came with it. But none of these justifications would have been worthy answers. Then, I had my answer for her.
I picked up a blank sheet of paper and a pen and placed it on the table before her. I handed her the pen. ‘Draw me the most perfect circle you can draw.’
‘What has this got to do with motorsport?’
‘Indulge me. This will explain all. Trust me,’ I said and tapped the paper.
She looked at me quizzically then drew a circle. It was pretty good. It wasn’t perfect. It was more tomato-shaped than a true circle.
‘What do you think?’ I asked and nodded at her attempt.
‘I can do better, but what’s this—’
‘Go on. Try again.’
She sighed and gave it another go. This time her circle was rounder, but it was still a long way from perfect.
Without asking me she drew a third and fourth circle. These were improvements on her previous attempts, but still none were perfect. She went to do a fifth and I grabbed the pen from her.
I tapped the paper with her attempts on it. ‘That’s motor racing. It’s about the pursuit of perfection. For me to win the race, I have to go around the track the fastest. For me to go around the track the fastest, I have to put in the fastest laps until hopefully I set the lap record, but even if I do that, it’s not good enough. I’ve set the lap record and now I have to break it again because for every tenth of a second faster I go, the better I am. But the kicker is, I can always go faster if I do better. So for all my attempts for perfection, I’ll never attain it because I can always do better.’