Hot Seat by Simon Wood Page B

‘These things are too expensive to leave down there.’
    â€˜If it’s been down there in that cesspool, I doubt it works.’
    That was my fear. I pressed the on button. Nothing happened. ‘Shit.’
    â€˜No joy?’
    I shook my head.
    â€˜Yeah, thought as much. Did you take the insurance option?’
    â€˜No. No insurance.’
    â€˜You should think about it. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who end up dropping their phones down the bog at this place.’
    â€˜It could just be the battery. Any phone shops around?’
    The guard named one.
    I thanked him and headed for the street. I didn’t get ten feet before he called me back.
    â€˜What were you doing here anyway?’
    â€˜Taking a shortcut to the tube.’
    â€˜Let that be an expensive lesson. In life, there are no shortcuts.’
    Didn’t I know it.
    As soon as I was out of sight of the guard, I opened up the phone and removed the battery. The phone wasn’t waterlogged, but droplets of water clung to the inside of the battery compartment. I did my best to dry it out with my shirt.
    I found the phone shop and held up the component pieces to the guy behind the counter. ‘Can you help?’
    Obviously I wasn’t the first person to drench a phone because Mick, according to his nametag, knew exactly what to do. He produced a hairdryer and ran it over the phone’s internals.
    â€˜This doesn’t always work, but you never know. I suppose your life is in here.’
    More than you know, I thought.
    After five minutes of warming the phone into life, the shop guy installed a new battery. ‘Moment of truth,’ he said and pressed the on button.
    The phone burst into life, but that was as far as it went. Either the keypad or the electronics were fried, because I couldn’t access any of the phone’s functions. I couldn’t even make a call.
    So much for technology. Just like paper, once it got wet, it was ruined. It held the answers to why Jason was killed. I was convinced of that, but it was all gone, washed away by the rain. I couldn’t believe I was this close to the truth only to have Mother Nature destroy it for me.
    â€˜Sometimes you get lucky,’ Mick said.
    And sometimes you don’t, I thought.

Lap Thirteen
    T he next morning, I was eating breakfast in the kitchen when Steve poked his head through the door.
    â€˜You got much on today?’ he asked.
    â€˜No. Do you need a hand with something?’
    â€˜I have to take a run out and I could do with the company.’
    â€˜Sure. No worries.’
    â€˜Good. Be ready to go in half an hour.’
    By the time I finished up breakfast and grabbed a shower, Steve was waiting for me in the Capri.
    â€˜Where we going?’ I asked as I got into the car.
    He smiled and reversed on to the street. ‘I’m taking you to see someone I think you should meet.’
    Steve had a surprise for me. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken me on an excursion like this. He was so plugged into the motor-racing scene that a call from him opened doors. The week before my first go-kart race, he’d taken me to the Williams Formula One factory for a personal tour. When I was growing up, I was forever getting to visit F1 teams at their factories or the circuit, and getting to hang out with drivers I admired. It had been a while since he’d set one of these up. While there hadn’t been a special occasion to justify one of these jaunts, I guessed this one was meant to pep me up after Jason’s murder.
    Steve peeled off the M4 to take the clockwise loop of the M25. ‘How’d your test session go?’
    â€˜Not bad. Nothing special. Still adapting to the car.’
    â€˜You’ll get there. The key is not to expect instant results.’
    â€˜You want to tell the team that?’
    Steve laughed. ‘Gave you a hard time, did they?’
    â€˜No, not really. It’s just a