‘Hey, are you OK?’
A gurgling that turned my stomach came as a reply.
I ran to the rear of the transporter. A man lay on his back, clutching his throat. Street lights caught the steady stream of blood leaking from his fingers.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I murmured.
I dropped to my knees at the guy’s side. I did my best to ignore the stark contrast between the cold asphalt and the man’s warm blood seeping through my chinos.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ I said, believing my words until I saw the source of the man’s bleeding. Someone had cut his throat. A combination of blood and air bubbled up from the ugly and efficient wound.
I didn’t know what to do. Apply pressure? Not apply pressure? I tried to pull his hands away, but he fought me.
‘Let me help.’ I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it against the gash. I felt his blood and breath through the cotton.
He fixed me with a stare that turned my heart to stone in my chest. The fear in his eyes terrified me. He was on the edge of death and he was willing me to save him.
He tried to speak, but only a distorted gurgle made it out.
‘Don’t speak. Save your strength.’
Pointless words for a pointless situation.
‘Help!’ I yelled. ‘I need help here. Please help.’
The sound of a single pair of feet striking the asphalt like a thunderclap split the night-time silence. The dying man swung an arm in the direction of the receding footfalls and pointed. I whipped my head around and saw no one.
‘Help!’ I yelled again, so loud my single plea burned my throat. Where the fuck was security?
I removed a hand, reached inside my pocket and pulled my mobile out. My bloody fingers slipped on the buttons, but I pressed nine-nine-nine.
By the time someone answered the phone and asked me the nature of my emergency, security guards were swarming towards us and the man was dead.
Lap Two
‘Jason Gates. The name means nothing to you?’ Detective Inspector Joan Huston said. She was slim, about my height and wore her hair in a style a good ten years out of date. She looked more like someone’s mum than a cop, but she was much tougher than that. It was there in her eyes. ‘He’s a mechanic for Townsend Motorsport. Sure you don’t know him?’
‘I’ve never met him before.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’ She glanced over at Detective Sergeant Robert O’Neal sitting in the corner. He was a typical-looking cop, tall and broad-shouldered, and he hadn’t said a word since introducing himself.
I was in a police station interview room not far from Earls Court. I didn’t know which one. I’d been in a daze since finding Jason Gates. I’d never seen someone die before, not like that, not up close. Last October, I’d seen Alex Fanning’s fatal crash at the Stowe Park circuit, but that had been a death at arm’s length, insulating me from its horrors. Jason had been different. I’d been there for pretty much every step of his brutal death. I’d felt his blood spill between my fingers and heard his last breath leave his body. I’d been so ill-equipped to handle the situation that I’d kept pressure on the wound long after he was dead. Paramedics had to peel me off him when they arrived. I’d washed the blood off my hands when I reached the station, but I still felt it buried deep under my nails.
My clothes were a mess. A scenes of crime officer at the station had given me a pair of trousers to replace my blood-soaked chinos, as they were evidence, but I still wore my Ragged Racing polo shirt with Jason’s blood speckling the front.
Huston said something, but I didn’t catch it.
‘Sorry. What?’
‘I was just saying that Jason’s throat was cut with a cutthroat razor or a knife with a finely honed edge. Did you see anything like that?’
I shook my head.
‘For the tape, Mr Westlake.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘OK. Maybe you can answer me this instead. What were you doing there? The exhibition had closed for the night, but for some reason you were hanging around.’
This was a new tack for Huston. Until now, her questioning had been preoccupied with what I’d seen and done after discovering Jason. She hadn’t been warm and friendly, but this latest question came with a hard, accusing edge that got my attention.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ I said.
‘Try me. You’d be surprised by my powers of understanding. This job makes you very open-minded.’
I noticed she didn’t sit, despite the free chair. This forced me to look up at her at all times. I guessed there was some psychology to that.
‘Today was a big day for me. This is my first time with a major team and the unveiling was a special moment.’
Huston cocked her head to one side. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but wouldn’t that have happened inside the exhibition hall when the public was there?’
‘It did.’
‘So that still doesn’t explain why you were in the Earls Court car park after hours.’
‘I wanted to see my name on the side of the transporter.’
‘You wanted to see your name,’ Huston said, her sarcasm beginning to show.
I knew I was struggling to get my point across. ‘Seeing my name made it real.’
‘And inside the exhibition wasn’t real enough?’
‘I told you that you wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try harder.’
I sighed. The demand drained me of every drop of energy. ‘I wanted a private moment away from the crowds, the team and sponsors. So when I came back to collect my car, I stopped to look at my name painted on the side of the transporter.’
‘A chance to gloat about how good you are?’
Huston was being purposely combative, but she wasn’t far off the mark. I was being prideful of my luck and success. It was petty of me, but it felt good to do it. ‘You usually have to have someone around to gloat.’
Huston flashed a nasty grin that robbed her of her maternal looks. I’d said something wrong, but I didn’t know what.
‘The car you came by to collect — that’s the one Honda gave you?’
‘Yes.’
Huston leaned against the wall and made a big production of processing what I’d told her. ‘I suppose the thing I don’t like is that you chose to have your private moment at the same time someone cut Jason Gates’ throat.’
‘That’s just coincidence. Someone was going to find the poor sod at some point. If it wasn’t me, it would have been a security guard on his rounds, the clean-up crew emptying the bins or someone parking their car. I was just the unlucky twat who found him first.’
A knock at the door broke the moment.
‘Interview suspended, twelve sixteen a.m.,’ Huston said and hit stop on the recorder.
She opened the door. A uniformed officer stood in the doorway holding a T-shirt.
‘I got Mr Westlake a shirt. Sorry, it’s a little on the large side.’
‘That’s OK,’ I said and stood.
The officer held out the shirt, but before I could cross the cramped interview room, Huston snatched it and lobbed it at me. Reflexively, I caught it left-handed.
Huston and O’Neal exchanged yet another look. I must have been emerging from my state of shock because I caught the significance of the moment.
‘I’m going to need your shirt,’ the officer at the door said.
I peeled off my polo shirt and dropped it into an evidence bag the officer held out. He sealed it without touching the shirt and left.
I noticed Huston checking out my body as I pulled on the clean shirt. I knew she wasn’t ogling. She was looking for cuts or bruises picked up from a fight.