Free Hot Seat by Simon Wood Page B

Nine
    I had Archway to myself the following morning since Steve had gone out on a parts run. The problem with maintaining cars thirty and forty years after production has ceased is that replacement parts are a rarity, but luckily Steve had Grant Smith. Grant was a classic-car parts dealer. He was the Indiana Jones of lost car parts. If he didn’t have it, he’d make it his quest to track it down. He was worth his weight in gold to Steve.
    The Brabham was finished and back in the loving arms of its collector, so I cleaned up the workshop, sweeping the floor and returning tools to their rightful places. The task helped me think and I had plenty to think about. Yesterday’s revelations had served only to muddy my situation. I was wedged firmly between a rock and a nutcase. Rags could be dirty and so could Andrew. That left me in an ugly position. I had to watch myself with both of them. I could throw myself at DI Huston’s feet and plead for mercy, but she didn’t seem like the merciful type.
    I had my back to the workshop door when it creaked on its old hinges. I turned expecting to see Steve, but a uniformed police officer stood in the doorway instead.
    He smiled. ‘Hello. I’m Sergeant David Lucas, Surrey Police. I’m looking for Mr Stephen Westlake. Is that you?’
    I leaned the broom against a bench and picked up a rag to clean my hands. ‘No, that’s my grandfather. He’s out at the moment. Can I help?’
    â€˜Maybe you can. Does he own a white Ford Transit van?’ He flipped open a slim file folder and read off the number plate.
    â€˜Yes. Is there a problem?’
    â€˜I’m afraid so. The vehicle was involved in a traffic incident.’ Sergeant Lucas studied me for a second then referred to his notes. ‘The incident occurred last Friday evening at approximately four thirty p.m.’
    Suddenly, I understood the meaning of the curious look. ‘Where did the incident take place?’
    â€˜Staines.’
    â€˜With a Renault hatchback?’
    Sergeant Lucas took a step closer. ‘Yes.’
    â€˜Steve wasn’t driving the van. I was.’
    Sergeant Lucas smiled at my admission. I think my honesty passed his test. I didn’t see the need for a test, since I couldn’t see why my roundabout near miss warranted police intervention. I guessed that angry Renault woman must have been pissed off enough to report my number plate to the police. I supposed I deserved a slapped wrist for the inconvenience I’d caused.
    â€˜You were. Good. Then you’re the man I need to talk to. What’s your name?’
    â€˜Aidy Westlake.’
    â€˜Do you have somewhere we could talk, Aidy?’
    I led Lucas up to the crow’s-nest and we both took a seat.
    He looked up at the memorabilia on the walls. ‘You like motor racing, I see.’
    â€˜It’s what we do. My grandfather was a grand prix mechanic in his day. He restores racecars and sports cars now.’
    â€˜Really? Wow. And you work for him?’
    â€˜I just help out.’
    â€˜So what do you do?’
    â€˜I’m a racing driver.’ A blush followed my admission. I hadn’t gotten used to the idea that I’d graduated from someone who raced cars to a full-time racing driver. My chosen career sounded so pretentious without a championship title under my belt.
    â€˜Really? That must be exciting.’
    â€˜It has its moments.’
    Sergeant Lucas showed no sign of recognizing my name or a connection to my father’s career. It made for a refreshing change.
    â€˜Obviously, you know why I’m here, yes?’
    â€˜Over the traffic jam we caused on the Runnymede roundabout.’
    Lucas squeezed out a pained smile. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit more than that, Aidy.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    Lucas held up his hand and opened up a notebook. ‘I just have to get this part out of the way before we go any further. You do