The Way to Dusty Death

opinions of police and spectators. Angrily twirling his racing helmet by its strap, he was clad in racing overalls identical to those that Harlow was wearing: Nicolo Tracchia was, in fact, the No. 2 driver in the Coronado racing team. Tracchia was almost outrageously handsome, with dark curling hair, a gleaming perfection of teeth that no dentifrice manufacturer would ever dare use as an advertisement and a sun-tan that would have turned a life-guard pale green. That he wasn’t looking particularly happy at that moment was directly attributable to the fact that he was scowling heavily: the legendary Tracchia scowl was a memorable thing of wonder, in constant use and held in differing degrees of respect, awe and downright fear but never ignored.

Tracchia had a low opinion of his fellow-man and regarded the majority of people, and this with particular reference to his fellow Grand Prix drivers, as retarded adolescents.

Understandably, he operated in a limited social circle. What made matters worse for Tracchia was his realization that, brilliant driver though he was, he was fractionally less good than Harlow, and even this was exacerbated by the knowledge that, no matter how long or desperately he tried, he would never quite close that fractional gap. When he spoke now to MacAlpine he made no effort to lower his voice which in the circumstances mattered not at all for Harlow could not possibly have heard him above the baying of the crowd: but it was quite clear ‘that Tracchia would not have lowered his voice no matter what the circumstances.

‘An act of God!’ The bitter incredulity in the voice was wholly genuine. ‘Jesus Christ! Did you hear what those cretins called it? An act of God! An act of murder, I call it.’

‘No, lad, no.’ MacAlpine put his hand on Tracchia’s shoulder, only to have it angrily shrugged off. MacAlpine sighed. ‘At the very outside, manslaughter. And not even that. You know yourself how many Grand Prix drivers have died in the past four years because their cars went wild.’

‘Wild! Wild!’ Tracchia, at a momentary and most uncharacteristic loss for words, gazed heavenwards in silent appeal. ‘Good God, Mac, we all saw it on the screen. We saw it five times.

He took his foot off the brake and pulled out straight in front of Jethou. An act of God! Sure, sure, sure. It’s an act of God because he’s won eleven Grand Prix in seventeen months, because he won last year’s championship and looks as if he’s going to do the same this year.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know damn well what I mean. Take him off the tracks and you might as well take us all off the tracks. He’s the champion, isn’t he? If he’s that bad, then what the hell must the rest of us be like? We know that’s not the case, but will the public? Will they hell. God knows that there are already too many people, and damned influential people as well, agitating that Grand Prix racing should be banned throughout the world, and too many countries just begging for a good excuse to get out. This would be the excuse of a lifetime. We need our Johnny Harlows, don’t we Mac?

Even though they do go around killing people.’

‘I thought he was your friend, Nikki?’

‘Sure, Mac. Sure he’s my friend. So was Jethou.’

There was no reply for MacAlpine to make to this so he made none. Tracchia appeared to have said his say, for he fell silent and got back to his scowling. In silence and in safety — the police escort had been steadily increasing-the four men reached the Coronado pits.

Without a glance at or word to anyone Harlow made for the little shelter at the rear of the pits.

In their turn nobody — Jacobson and his two mechanics were there also — made any attempt either to speak to or stop him, nor did any among them do even as much as trouble to exchange significant glances: the starkly obvious requires no emphasis. Jacobson ignored him entirely and came up to MacAlpine. The chief mechanic — and he was one of acknowledged genius — was a lean, tall and strongly built man. He had a dark and deeply lined face that looked as if it hadn’t smiled for a long time and wasn’t about to make an exception in this case either.

He said: ‘Harlow’s clear, of course.’

‘Of course? I don’t understand.’

‘I have to tell you? Indict Harlow and you set the sport back ten years. Too many millions tied up in it to allow that to happen. Isn’t there now, Mr. MacAlpine?’

MacAlpine looked at him reflectively, not answering, glanced briefly at the still scowling Tracchia, turned away and walked across to Harlow’s battered and fire-blistered Coronado which was by that time back on all four wheels. He examined it leisurely, almost contemplatively, stooped over the cockpit, turned the steering wheel which offered no resistance to his hand, then straightened.

He said: ‘Well, now. I wonder.’

Jacobson looked at him coldly. His eyes, expressing displeasure, could be as formidable and intimidating as Tracchia’s scowl. He said: ‘I prepared that car, Mr. MacAlpine.’

MacAlpine’s shoulders rose and fell in a long moment of silence.

‘I know, Jacobson, I know. I also know you’re the best in the business. I also know that you’ve been too long ‘in it to talk nonsense. Any car can go. How long?’

‘You want me to start now?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Tour hours.’ Jacobson was curt, offence given and taken. ‘Six at the most.’

MacAlpine nodded, took Dunnet by the arm, prepared to walk away, then halted. Tracchia and Rory were together talking in low indistinct voices but their words didn’t have to be understood, the rigid hostility in their expressions as they looked at Harlow and his bottle of brandy inside the hut were eloquent enough. MacAlpine, his hand still on Dunnet’s arm, moved away and sighed again.

‘Johnny’s not making too many friends today, is he?’

‘He hasn’t been for far too many days. And I think that here’s another friend that he’s about not to make.’

‘Oh Jesus.’ Sighs seemed to be becoming second nature to MacAlpine. ‘Neubauer does seem to ‘have something on his mind.’

The figure in sky-blue racing overalls striding towards the pits did indeed seem to have something on his mind. Neubauer was tall, very blond and completely Nordic in appearance although he was in fact Austrian. The No. 1 driver for team Cagliari — he had the word Cagliari emblazoned across the chest of his overalls — his consistent brilliance on the Grand Prix tracks had made him the acknowledged crown prince of racing and Harlow’s eventual and inevitable successor. Like Tracchia, he was a cool, distant man wholly incapable of standing fools at any price, far less gladly. Like Tracchia, his friends and intimates were restricted to a very small group indeed: it was a matter for neither wonder nor speculation that those two men, the most unforgiving of rivals on the race-tracks were, off-duty, close friends.

Neubauer, with compressed lips and cold pale-blue eyes glittering, was clearly a very angry man and his humour wasn’t improved when MacAlpine moved his massive bulk to block his way.

Neubauer had no option other than to stop: big man though he was MacAlpine was very much bigger. When he spoke it was with his teeth clamped together.

‘Out of my way.’

MacAlpine looked at him in mild surprise.

‘You said what?’

‘Sorry, Mr. MacAlpine. Where’s that bastard Harlow?’

‘Leave him be. He’s not well.’

‘And Jethou is, I suppose? I don’t know who the hell or what the hell Harlow is or is supposed to be and I don’t care. Why should that maniac get off scot-free? He is a maniac. You know it.

We all know it. He forced me off the road twice today, that could just as well have been me burnt to death as Jethou. I’m giving you warning, Mr. MacAlpine. I’m going to call a meeting of the GPDA and have him banned from the circuits.’

‘You’re the last person who can afford to do that, Willi.’ MacAlpine put his hands on Neubauer’s shoulders. the last person who can afford to put the finger on Johnny. If Harlow goes, who’s the next champion?’

Neubauer stared at him. Some of the fury left his face and he stared at MacAlpine in almost bewildered disbelief. When his voice came it was low, almost an uncertain whisper. ‘You think I would do it for that, Mr. MacAlpine?’

‘No, Willi, I don’t. I’m just pointing out that most others would.’

There was a long pause during which what was left of Neubauer’s anger died away. He said quietly: ‘He’s a