‘It’s theft regardless of what we find.’
Townsend and Ronson shared a look. I’d made a verbal blunder and said we.
‘I’ll protect you.’
‘I’d like to know how.’
Townsend’s lack of a response gave me all the answer I needed when it came to his protection.
An alarm bell went off in the back of my brain. Townsend might be on a quest for truth and justice just the way Jason Gates had supposedly been. But who was to say Townsend was interested in proving Rags was a cheat? Motor racing was a competitive sport with a capital C. When one team fell upon an idea, all the others wanted it and they weren’t backward in coming forward when it came to discovering how. Rags had proved over the last five seasons that his kung fu was the best in Europe and it had cost Townsend his factory backing. My stealing one of Rags’ cars could be some scam to get me to hand over a car so that they could reverse engineer the answer to Rags’ performance or worse, so they could cripple it. I’d have to be mentally deficient to buy into this scheme regardless of the motives.
‘Why turn to me to help you?’
‘Because you were there when Jason died,’ Townsend said.
‘And you stepped in when Rags had me,’ Ronson said.
‘So you’ll help us,’ Townsend said.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘I thought you Westlakes had a reputation for honesty.’
I held up a hand and Townsend stopped. ‘What’s in it for me?’
‘The satisfaction that a cheat is exposed and a killer found.’
‘And that you’ll get your Honda factory backing back and a shot at the title for the first time in years?’
‘Hey, that’s not fair.’
‘Nor is the fact that if Ragged Racing gets disqualified, I’ll lose my drive and my reputation.’
‘So you won’t help?’
‘I’m not going to screw myself over to benefit everyone else,’ I said.
‘That’s self-serving of you,’ Ronson said.
‘I guess my family’s reputation has been exaggerated.’
‘Look, Aidy, you’re right,’ Townsend said. ‘You didn’t create this situation. You’re just caught in the middle, so I’ll make you a deal. You help me and I’ll do my best to run a third car.’
‘You’ll do your best?’
‘OK, I’ll talk Honda and Pit Lane into putting you up as our third driver. It’s not your fault they’ve hitched their carts to the wrong ponies, now is it?’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘So you’ll bring me one of Rags’ cars?’
‘No. I’ll help you, but I’m not stealing a car for you.’
‘Then what are you going to do?’
‘You have the specs on the cars — wheelbase dimensions, the layout for the suspension pickups, power curves — yes?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Good. I want them.’
‘Why?’ Ronson asked with a note of suspicion in his voice.
‘Because I will personally check every square inch of Rags’ cars down to the nuts and bolts and if they don’t match specs, then we have our cheater.’
Lap Twenty-Two
The next morning, I went into Archway with Steve. There was a message on the answering machine from the editor-in-chief of Pit Lane magazine. He was calling to let me know how disappointed he was in me over the reckless-driving charges. I called him back and spent forty minutes explaining myself, which went some way to smoothing the choppy waters between me and the man who’d recommended me for the driver shootout.
When I hung up, Steve appeared at the top of the stairs to the crow’s-nest. ‘You ready for this?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then let’s go.’
Breakfast would have been nice.
We rode in Steve’s Capri. He drove through Old Windsor to pick up the M25. Passing the spot where I’d had the run-in on the Runnymede roundabout brought a sour taste to the back of my mouth.
I didn’t like how quiet Steve was. Normally, he’d be the voice of reason talking me through my problems. His hands were tight on the wheel and his knuckles shone white against his skin.
‘Where are we going?’
‘The east end. I want you to meet someone. We need to get a feel for Andrew Gates. He’s no angel and we need to know who we’re dealing with. I think this person can help us.’
‘Who is this person?’
Steve’s grip on the wheel tightened until the leather squeaked. ‘A loan shark.’
‘How do you know him?’
Steve said nothing.
I didn’t like how much this meeting was getting to him. ‘Steve?’
‘Money is always an issue in motor racing. You can never have enough even when you have a lot. Another ten thousand can change everything. When you don’t have enough, it’s like you’re starving and no one will give you the scraps off their plates. You’ll do anything to get that money. Racing drivers and team owners aren’t the best credit risks. Banks will only follow you so far down the rabbit hole. Family will go a little deeper. But everyone will stop short of supporting your dream. You’ll take the money from whoever is willing to give it.’
A dream was an optimist’s view of motor racing. There was no middle ground in this sport. It either granted your dreams or crushed you under its heel. I remember Steve once likening racing to a drug habit and habits needed dealers.
Steve had kept his gaze rigidly ahead to avoid looking me in the eye when he was telling me all this. I knew that he’d made sacrifices to keep my dad in the game and even greater sacrifices after his death to cover his debts, but I’d never asked him how he’d come up with the money.
‘Steve, did you go to this loan shark?’
‘Your dad died owing a lot of money to a lot of people. I used every penny your grandmother and I had and we were still short, so I sharked the rest. I never told your nan about it, but I did what had to be done. I wish circumstances had been different.’
Hearing Steve’s anguish tore me up. I thought I’d known the extents to which he’d gone after my parents died, but I was wrong.
‘It wasn’t hard to get the money. You’ll find loan sharks hanging around races, especially at the club level. There are a ton of drivers who need a grand quick.’
‘Do you still owe?’
‘No. I paid off this fucker years ago. Your dad’s debts are clear.’
For what he’d done, I didn’t think I could love my grandfather more.
We didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. Steve cut his way through London until we ended up in an upscale part of Limehouse. Thirty years ago, the whole area had been in decline as the docks closed, but subsequent redevelopment had saved the place. Steve stopped the Capri in front of a warehouse conversion overlooking the marina and we walked up to the entrance. He pressed a button on the intercom.
‘Yeah,’ a gruff voice grunted.
‘Steve Westlake for Eddie Stores.’
‘Top floor.’
A buzz was followed by the snap of the door unlocking.
Bare brick and a faux industrial-steel staircase greeted us. We climbed the stairs to the top floor. At the top, a man in his fifties grinned at us. To call him heavyset was an understatement. He was a rhino in a leather jacket. The three-quarter-length coat, stretched to the limit, creaked when he moved. He smacked of Limehouse’s past, not its rejuvenated present.
Neither man made any attempt to shake the other’s hand. No, these men weren’t friends.
‘It’s been a long time, Steve,’ Stores said with a grin. ‘I see you’re still driving that RS. Christ, I love that car. You wouldn’t sell it. I still have that Mark I RS2000 you restored for me.’
Stores leaned hard on the word restored. I guessed that meant something to Steve.