A thick tide of cars flowed around it and I needed a little cooperation to join the flow. It was hard to sneak my way in, especially when I had to go more than halfway around the roundabout to pick up the Windsor Road. I bided my time, much to the frustration of the cars behind me, and when I saw a gap, I went for it.
I slipped in behind a Vauxhall and guided the van and trailer around the roundabout. Despite the congestion, traffic moved fast. When my turnoff came into view, I indicated and eased over into the exit lane. Just as I did, a Renault hatchback darted out from behind me to squeeze by, but there was no squeezing by me. I was halfway between lanes with nowhere to go. The Renault driver and I both slammed on the brakes. The trailer wavered but it didn’t jackknife. If it had, it would have wiped out cars like bowling pins. The Renault and I ground to a halt, inches from each other. Cars behind did the same as we managed to turn all the traffic on the Runnymede Roundabout into gridlock.
The woman behind the wheel of the Renault screamed muted obscenities from inside her car. I waved her on, but she continued to mouth off.
Horn blares made any chance of hearing her impossible. I imagined the traffic building up behind us.
I wound down the window. ‘Go. If you want this exit so much, you take it.’
Still she didn’t move.
‘Go!’ I yelled.
She powered down her window and leaned across her seat.
‘You’re in my way!’ she yelled.
I pointed at the exit for Windsor Road. ‘It’s right there. Take it.’
‘I’m trying to get on the M25. You’re in my way, you dickhead.’
She was in the wrong lane for the exit she wanted and I was the dickhead. Typical. She might want to play games, but I wasn’t in the mood. I eased the van and trailer forward. The Renault driver jumped on the horn as the trailer came within an inch of her front bumper. It was a tight manoeuvre, and to avoid tearing the front of her car off, I mounted the island on the Windsor Road exit. As soon as I was clear, I stepped on the accelerator and the van and trailer lurched forward.
I hadn’t gone more than two hundred yards when a blaring car horn from behind caught my attention. I checked my mirrors and God help me, the Renault was behind me. After all her bitching and whining about wanting to get on the M25, she was following me, flashing her lights as well as leaning on her horn.
She was waving her arms and mouthing words I couldn’t hear. Obviously, she still wanted to give me a piece of her mind. Did she really think I was going to pull over just to get into an argument? If she wanted to burn her horn out, flash her lights and scream, so be it. I wasn’t going to get involved.
Then a half-arsed sense of déjà vu hit me. Someone was trying to waylay me again. A ten-year-old Renault hatchback didn’t quite fit Crichlow’s image, but I looked beyond the Renault for Crichlow’s BMW anyway. I didn’t see it behind me or in front. Still, he seemed too smart to use the same car twice.
I didn’t see any vehicles that caused my neck hairs to stand on end, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I wasn’t stopping for anyone, unless it was a police car, and I wasn’t so sure about that.
I kept my foot planted on the accelerator until Miss Angry Renault’s temper tantrum had run out of steam. She gave up by the time we reached Old Windsor.
Rags had told me to stay out of the limelight. I wasn’t doing a great job.
Lap Six
The following Monday, I drove down to Snetterton in Norfolk for my first official test session with Ragged Racing. Weekday testing is when the circuits open their doors so that teams from all classes and divisions of motorsport can practice between races. It can be a real zoo out there because you can be sharing the track with anything.
Excitement and anxiety joined me on my drive to the circuit. I wasn’t playing at being a racing driver anymore. I was the real thing now. That realization had kept me awake most of last night. I couldn’t screw up this opportunity. I had to believe in myself. If I maintained my confidence, I’d do fine.
I tempered my excitement. I had an additional job to do today. This test session would also give me a chance to check out the transporter. I hoped it would provide some insight into why Jason Gates was killed and give me something to get Andrew Gates off my back.
I arrived to find the team already in place and working on the cars. They were the only team in the pits.
Rags shook my hand. ‘Good. You’re on time. I like that. Come with me. Driver briefing. How are you doing.?.?. since, you know?’
‘OK.’
‘Good. You witnessed a terrible thing. But you can’t let it distract you. You ready for this?’
‘Yes,’ I said and meant it.
Rags took me into one of the unused garages where Kurt Haulk was already waiting with Barry Nevin. Nevin was the Ragged Racing crew chief. He was short, squat and built like an oil drum with Popeye-like forearms. He almost broke my hand when he shook it.
‘Aidy, Barry will be running your car with his guys. He might look like he just escaped from Middle Earth, but he knows his stuff.’
Rags’ joke got a laugh.
‘I’ll expect you to get the best out of each other as well as the car. I think you two will do well together.’
Nevin grinned at me. ‘I watched you during the shootout. You have a good technical head on your shoulders, so we’ll do great.’
Rags clapped his hands together. ‘OK, chaps, with the arse kissing over, here’s today’s menu. I want to give these cars a thorough workout. The ESCC has a new tyre compound for this season, so I want to see how it compares to last year’s tyres. Aidy’s new and I want to see how well he slots in with Haulk. I also want to run some exercises. Finally, we’re getting to play on the new track. That will be a great leveller, so I’ll get to see how good Aidy is and how rusty Kurt is.’
Snetterton had gone through a major redevelopment. The track’s profile had always looked like a slightly wonky exclamation mark, but the track’s owner, Jonathon Palmer, had redesigned the layout and installed a fantastic in-field section that added a mile to the track’s length, making it a very challenging three-mile circuit.
‘OK, I think that’s it. Everyone get suited up and let’s get out there. We’ve got the track to ourselves.’
‘Ourselves?’ I said.
‘Rags doesn’t play well with others,’ Haulk said. ‘He always books exclusive test days.’
Exclusive test days were commonplace for Formula One teams with deep enough pockets to rent the track for themselves, but not teams in the ESCC. The sponsors had to be pumping in some serious cash for Rags to afford this. I reckoned I was going to like racing for Ragged.
‘We can’t keep a competitive edge if everyone gets to see what we’re doing,’ Rags said. ‘Before you get out there and impress me, I have a quick announcement. Come with me.’
We followed Rags out to the pit lane.
‘Can I have everyone’s attention?’ Rags called across the pit garages. ‘Everyone gather around, please.’
The crew stopped what they were doing and crowded around him.
‘As everybody is aware, Jason Gates was murdered last week.’
Several people looked my way.
‘Most of you know Jason started out with us.’
I didn’t. That put a fresh spin on events.
‘He started out as a grease monkey and left us an accomplished technician. He deserved better. As a mark of respect, I’d like to have a moment’s silence in Jason’s honour.’
We bowed our heads. There’d been so much fervour in our preparation before hitting the track that the sudden silence was haunting. The only sound was the wind gusting down the pit lane.