Hot Seat by Simon Wood Read Free Book Online

my full attention on the road with the trailer hanging off the back of the van.
    â€˜Look, I’m on the road at the moment. I have to go.’
    â€˜OK. I’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself.’
    I hung up on Claudia and descended into the crush at the Runnymede Roundabout. The multi-lane roundabout turned into a dogfight at rush hour. It was a direct feed on and off the M25 for anyone coming from or going to Staines, Ashford, Egham, Windsor and a half a dozen other London bedroom communities. Me driving Steve’s Ford Transit with the attached trailer upset the natural balance of cars merging as they approached the roundabout. Combined, I was driving a forty-foot mobile roadblock and everyone seemed eager to get in front of me. I wasn’t in a hurry, so I played submissive and let people pass me until I reached the busy roundabout.
    A thick tide of cars flowed around it and I needed a little cooperation to join the flow. It was hard to sneak my way in, especially when I had to go more than halfway around the roundabout to pick up the Windsor Road. I bided my time, much to the frustration of the cars behind me, and when I saw a gap, I went for it.
    I slipped in behind a Vauxhall and guided the van and trailer around the roundabout. Despite the congestion, traffic moved fast. When my turnoff came into view, I indicated and eased over into the exit lane. Just as I did, a Renault hatchback darted out from behind me to squeeze by, but there was no squeezing by me. I was halfway between lanes with nowhere to go. The Renault driver and I both slammed on the brakes. The trailer wavered but it didn’t jackknife. If it had, it would have wiped out cars like bowling pins. The Renault and I ground to a halt, inches from each other. Cars behind did the same as we managed to turn all the traffic on the Runnymede Roundabout into gridlock.
    The woman behind the wheel of the Renault screamed muted obscenities from inside her car. I waved her on, but she continued to mouth off.
    Horn blares made any chance of hearing her impossible. I imagined the traffic building up behind us.
    I wound down the window. ‘Go. If you want this exit so much, you take it.’
    Still she didn’t move.
    â€˜Go!’ I yelled.
    She powered down her window and leaned across her seat.
    â€˜You’re in my way!’ she yelled.
    I pointed at the exit for Windsor Road. ‘It’s right there. Take it.’
    â€˜I’m trying to get on the M25. You’re in my way, you dickhead.’
    She was in the wrong lane for the exit she wanted and I was the dickhead. Typical. She might want to play games, but I wasn’t in the mood. I eased the van and trailer forward. The Renault driver jumped on the horn as the trailer came within an inch of her front bumper. It was a tight manoeuvre, and to avoid tearing the front of her car off, I mounted the island on the Windsor Road exit. As soon as I was clear, I stepped on the accelerator and the van and trailer lurched forward.
    I hadn’t gone more than two hundred yards when a blaring car horn from behind caught my attention. I checked my mirrors and God help me, the Renault was behind me. After all her bitching and whining about wanting to get on the M25, she was following me, flashing her lights as well as leaning on her horn.
    She was waving her arms and mouthing words I couldn’t hear. Obviously, she still wanted to give me a piece of her mind. Did she really think I was going to pull over just to get into an argument? If she wanted to burn her horn out, flash her lights and scream, so be it. I wasn’t going to get involved.
    Then a half-arsed sense of déjà vu hit me. Someone was trying to waylay me again. A ten-year-old Renault hatchback didn’t quite fit Crichlow’s image, but I looked beyond the Renault for Crichlow’s BMW anyway. I didn’t see it behind me or in front. Still, he seemed too smart to use the same car twice.
    I