‘What happened?’
‘Can you say economic downturn and housing slump? The building trade has dried up.’
Dylan was a bricklayer and plasterer.
I felt bad. I’d been so wrapped up with my own life over the last few months that I hadn’t kept up with Dylan’s situation. ‘I thought you were working on that housing development in Bracknell.’
‘They’ve finished with me and there’s little else going on right now. I’m trying to see if I can get on some plumbing or electrical crews, but that doesn’t really matter. I don’t want to be a bricky all my life.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To ask a favour.’
Last year, Dylan and Steve put their lives on the line to save me. Whatever he needed, I’d do my best to make it happen.
‘Look, I’m done with the building trade. My heart isn’t in it anymore. I want to work the pits. All I need is a break. Do you think you could ask Rags to give me a job?’
It seemed like a simple request, but it wasn’t. The days were gone where you could just be a good mechanic to get into motorsport. Technology was so ingrained in the sport, you needed to be junior rocket scientist and that meant qualifications, which Dylan didn’t have. He could claim that he’d worked alongside Steve, which carried some weight, but I doubted it was likely to sway Rags, especially since I’d pissed him off yesterday when I’d told him to leave Nick Ronson alone.
‘I can ask, but I’m the new guy. I don’t have any sway.’
‘I know you can’t make promises, but please do what you can. If I get on with a team, it’ll be my break from the building trade.’
That bittersweet feeling that I’d felt at Earls Court returned. If my motor racing continued on the upswing, I’d be forced to leave my friends behind. There was only room for one person in the cockpit, literally and figuratively.
The barman called out a number and Dylan got our food. Despite my limp promise, his spirits had lifted and his smile was back.
Two office workers walked into the pub. They went straight to the barman and pointed outside. The barman nodded and rang the bell for calling time to grab everyone’s attention.
‘Who’s got the Subaru WRX outside?’
‘Me,’ Dylan answered.
‘You’ve got a flat tyre, mate.’
‘Shit. That’s all I need.’
We left our food and went outside to check the car. Dylan didn’t have one flat tyre, he had two and neither were the product of bad luck. Someone had slit the sidewalls.
Dylan crouched in front of one of his ruined tyres. ‘What prick did that?’
A prick like Crichlow. His BMW was parked across the street and he was behind the wheel watching us. A moment later, my mobile vibrated in my pocket. I had a text with the simple message: Lose the friend.
I glanced Crichlow’s way and nodded.
‘I’ll call Steve,’ I said.
Replacing one flat wouldn’t have been a problem, but two turned our afternoon into a production. We jacked the car up and removed the wheels. When Steve arrived, he drove Dylan to a tyre shop for replacements. I stayed with the car to quell the pub manager’s fears that we were dumping it.
The second Steve and Dylan were out of sight, I walked over to Crichlow. ‘Was that really necessary?’
‘Consider it a reminder that you should be devoting your energies to the task you’ve been assigned and not getting lashed up in the pub with your mate.’
‘Duly noted,’ I said sourly.
‘Mr Gates wants to meet to discuss your progress,’ Crichlow said.
‘And so do I.’
‘Good. Maybe I won’t have to cut anything else.’
Lap Eleven
The next morning, I left for a Hertfordshire address Crichlow had texted me. Steve had already left for a meeting with a potential new client who was looking for someone to maintain his collection of classic British sports cars. It saved me the job of explaining where I was going.
The route took me into the countryside where the roads narrowed and the speed limits climbed. The address Crichlow had given me wasn’t strictly an address, just a location. My X marks the spot was a wrought-iron gate. It wasn’t hard to find. It was the only entrance on a long, winding road with nothing in between. I pulled over and stopped in front of the eight-foot-high gate. Brick columns on either side of it proclaimed: Private property. Keep out.
Another secluded spot. It failed to fill me with confidence after my last run-in with Andrew Gates.
I got out of the car. A thick chain and combination lock protected the gate and there wasn’t a squawk box to announce my arrival, so I called Crichlow on my mobile.
‘I’m here,’ I said.
‘Good,’ Crichlow said. ‘The combination to the lock is nine-nine-nine.’
I supposed that was meant to be funny.
‘Follow the path to the end. You’ll find me waiting. Lock the gate after you. This is a private meeting.’
I did as Crichlow told me. I followed a narrow gravel path, made narrower by two walls of thick shrubbery. Eventually, it opened out on to a hillside. A hundred yards off, Crichlow leaned against the bonnet of his BMW. He looked very much the country gent in his Barbour jacket and corduroy trousers. He didn’t acknowledge my arrival, instead staring out across the fields at the manor house off at the bottom of the hill. Andrew Gates wasn’t on the scene. Did that mean I was in for another blindfolded ride in the boot of Crichlow’s car? Not if I had anything to do with it. In case of that eventuality, I pulled up behind the BMW to block him in and climbed out.
‘Where’s Andrew?’ I said, but the words lost their power when I saw the rifle in Crichlow’s hands. He carried it low across his stomach with the barrel tilted towards the ground. I made no sudden movements.
He held the rifle up for me to see. The walnut stock gleamed and the black barrel seemed to stretch forever. ‘The bolt action rifle. It’s been around for donkeys.’
‘What’s going on?’ I fought to keep my voice steady.
Crichlow removed a shell as long as his little finger from his jacket pocket, dropped it into the open breech, then drove the bolt home. He turned his back on me and sighted the rifle down the hillside towards the house.
‘Rifle makers hit the development ceiling when some clever fucker came up with this simple design. You don’t need a fancy scope to be accurate. If you know your trigonometry, you’re as good as gold. As long as you’ve got the guts to pull the trigger, you’ll hit your target every time.’
The display confused me, but there was a point to this. There always was with people who thought they held the power.
I walked over next to Crichlow and followed his aim. A row of sports cars sat in the spacious gravel driveway in front of the house. Steve’s Ford Capri RS2600 was amongst them. Gates was Steve’s morning client? I snatched the pair of binoculars off the bonnet of Crichlow’s car. Steve and Gates were standing over a Jensen Interceptor. Steve had the bonnet up and was leaning over the engine compartment. He had his back square to Crichlow’s aim.
‘The wind is nice and steady.’ Crichlow adjusted a knob on the scope. ‘That makes it so much easier to predict the trajectory.’
I tossed the binoculars and lunged at him, striking the rifle with both hands, destroying his shot. I left my midsection exposed and he drove an elbow into my stomach just below my ribcage. I lost the ability to breathe and crumpled to my knees. He drove his heel into my chest and sent me sprawling on to my back, then he whipped the rifle around and aimed it at my face.
‘This is a demonstration to remind you of how serious we are about finding Jason’s killer and how easily we can follow through on our threat to hurt the people you care about.’