Read Online Hot Seat by Simon Wood - Free Book Online Page A

jumped from the car and slammed the door.
    I clambered from the car. ‘I’m just trying to understand what’s going on. You say someone from Ragged killed Jason, but you’ve got nothing to back it up.’
    â€˜Like I said, believe what you want. Just know that your team doesn’t play fair and when it catches up to Rags, you’ll suffer the consequences,’ Ronson said.
    â€˜What’s that supposed to mean?’
    â€˜When your team gets caught out, you’ll all get painted with the same brush. You’d be wise to get out while you can.’
    Ronson got behind the wheel of his Civic and churned up the field as he pulled away.
    I slipped back into my car and pulled out the envelope Crichlow had left for me containing Jason Gates’ door keys. I looked at the address written on the envelope. Northampton wasn’t exactly on the way home, but it was close enough. I programmed the address into the sat nav and set off.
    Just as I reached Cambridge, my mobile rang. It was Dylan.
    â€˜How did your first day as a hotshot racing driver go, matey?’
    â€˜Pretty good,’ I answered, focusing on my track performance instead of Ronson’s spying.
    â€˜You want to celebrate?’
    â€˜I can’t. I’m tied up here.’
    â€˜Oh,’ Dylan said. ‘That’s OK.’
    Disappointment shaded his reply and I felt bad. As racing asked more and more of me, I’d be disappointing my friend more and more often.
    â€˜How about tomorrow?’ I offered.
    â€˜Sure, I’m not working tomorrow. You want to do a pub for lunch?’
    â€˜Sounds good. Meet me at Archway.’
    â€˜See you at noon,’ Dylan said and hung up.
    I arrived in Northampton just before seven in the evening. The address led me to a housing development on the edge of town. It was a typical, modern development consisting of narrow streets and every type of housing option from flats to large, detached houses. Jason had lived on the top floor of a three-storey block of flats. I let myself into the building using the security code written on Gates’ note.
    Despite having the permission to enter – sort of – from the family, I felt like a thief. I raced up the stairs to the top-floor landing and quickly let myself in with the key.
    The acrid tang of smoke, like a fireplace left to burn itself out, hit me before I flicked on the light.
    â€˜Not good,’ I said to myself.
    I followed the smell down the hallway and flung open the doors to the living room, bedroom and bathroom. The story was the same in each. Someone had ransacked them. Furniture was overturned. Drawers had been yanked out and the contents dumped. Cupboards and wardrobes had been flung open and cleared out. The smoke detector in the living room clung to the ceiling with its cover and battery missing. I guessed that the police didn’t know about this carnage or there would have been crime-scene tape or something to mark their presence. That probably meant the ransacking was very recent.
    The smell of burning was strongest in the bathroom. Flakes of ash and soot stained the sink. A half-arsed attempt to clean the sink had resulted in a grey-black swirl. The sink might have served as the makeshift fireplace, but the toilet bowl had served as the disposal for the ashes. Fortunately, not every fragment wanted to do as it had been told. Small pieces of singed paper floated on the water in the soot-stained bowl.
    The smart move for me would be to call the police. That notion fell apart when I pictured myself trying to explain why I was in the home of a murder victim I’d discovered. Instead, I sighed, reached down and fished out the charred paper fragments with my hand. The biggest piece I recovered was a thumbnail-sized corner piece. I flicked on the strip light over the sink and peered at it. Even through the charring, it was easy to tell it was a photograph, but being a corner piece, it provided no