Hot Seat by Simon Wood Page B

interested in his progress.
    â€˜C’mon, get your arse in gear,’ Nevin said.
    I grabbed first and stamped on the accelerator. ‘Hey, we’ve got a spy out by the Bentley Straight.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜There’s a guy with binoculars watching us.’
    â€˜Don’t spook him. Keep driving.’
    I did as I was told. I kept racing. Every time I came around, I checked for the spy. He was there for the next two laps. On the third time around, I saw three of my pit crew manhandling him into Rags’ Mercedes.
    Rags called us in a lap later. I brought my car to a halt in front of my pit garage. I couldn’t park it inside because Rags had the spy suspended from a mobile engine hoist with his hands duct taped together. His feet dangled a clear six inches above the ground.
    â€˜Boys, you’ve arrived just in time,’ Rags said to Haulk and me. ‘Do you know who we have here? Nick Ronson, a grease monkey from Townsend Motorsport.’
    And a grease monkey from the same team as Jason Gates. Maybe I was looking at a motor-racing espionage angle here.
    â€˜I don’t like spies,’ Rags said, then drove a fist into Ronson’s stomach. Ronson folded up and swung like a heavy bag. ‘Tell Russell Townsend that if he wants to know what I do, come ask me and if he wants to know how to beat my cars, be more inventive. Am I clear?’
    Ronson coughed, then nodded.
    â€˜I can’t hear you,’ Rags said and drew back his fist.
    I grabbed his wrist. ‘I think he got the message.’
    Rags whirled around on me. ‘This is my team. I’ll decide when he’s had enough. Not you. All right?’
    â€˜Yeah. I just don’t want anyone getting hurt.’
    â€˜Listen, son, this tosser is getting off light. If the tables were turned, my guy would be coming back with broken fingers. Cut him down and everyone get the hell out of here.’
    Rags walked off in disgust.
    Nevin dragged me out of the garage by the bicep. ‘Don’t do that again,’ he said. ‘He makes the rules and we follow them.’
    One of the techs tried handing Rags a pile of printouts, but Rags just knocked them away, sending them scattering to the ground.
    â€˜You’re in the big leagues now, Aidy,’ Nevin said. ‘We play fair, but we play serious. Take that home as today’s lesson.’

Lap Seven
    T he crew worked in silence as they loaded the racecars on to the transporter. I gave them the space they needed to work and went to change. As I wriggled out of my overalls, I watched Nick Ronson trudge across the paddock. Rags emerged from the pits and climbed into his Mercedes. He churned up mud as he pulled away.
    â€˜Oh, shit,’ I murmured.
    Rags was cutting across the paddock straight for Ronson. My heart skipped as I imagined him mowing Ronson down. Instead, he dropped two wheels off the paddock road and sprayed Ronson with dirt as he passed.
    Rags had proved he wasn’t someone to be messed with.
    Considering the sombre mood that had descended over the team, I got into my car and left without saying my goodbyes. I followed the paddock road and crossed over the bridge that separated the paddock from the spectators. On the other side of the bridge, I found Ronson. If he and Jason had been working together, then he’d have a pretty good idea of what got Jason killed. I pulled up next to him and powered down my window.
    â€˜Need a lift?’
    â€˜Piss off.’
    I frowned. I should have expected that reply. ‘Do yourself a favour, swallow your pride and get in the sodding car.’
    â€˜Bollocks,’ Ronson mumbled to himself and got in.
    â€˜Where are you parked?’
    He pointed at a field used for spectator parking that ran along the newly renamed Bentley straight. A lone car, a Honda Civic hatchback, sat at the end. As a spy, my passenger was no genius at the art of concealment. I drove across the field, bumping over