The Broken Trust: Stirling Speed, Retired Racing Driver

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About the Author

Stuart Jones is a championship-winning race driver and a qualified international race driver coach. Whilst still at school, he was singled out for his writing. A number of his young scribblings found writing competition success. All assumed that his writing would continue after he left school. At 52 years of age, he picked up the pen again. A life of traveling the world, driving racecar exotica, and mixing with the fascinating people that populate the glamorous motorsport industry has provided him with fertile material that demanded that he should recommence his long-dormant writing.

About the Book

If your whole existence is based on the trust a woman puts in you, then you have two choices:

* You make sure you never break that trust. OR

* You make sure no one remains alive to tell of the broken trust! Content retired Formula One World Champion race driver Stirling Speed begins picking at the curled corner of billionaire Lawrence Troutman's perfect life with his serene wife, Kristianna, sole heiress of the Arias cosmetic empire. He soon starts to peel back a veneer that reveals the broken trust hidden below, but with that knowledge, Stirling again takes on his archenemy that he battled during his racing years--death!

Stirling Speed now finds himself in a new race to transform himself from being the hunted to being the hunter--a race that sees his E-type Jaguar in careering car chases and having to stretch its long legs to the glittering Monte Carlo and the green hell that is the Nürburgring Nordschleife.

Dedication

To my dad for creating my dreams and to my mom for giving me the skills to make those dreams come true.

Copyright Information

Copyright © Stuart Jones (2019)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Jones, Stuart

The Broken Trust: Stirling Speed, Retired Racing Driver

ISBN 9781641828000 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781641828017 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781641828024 (Kindle e-book)

ISBN 9781645366133 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number:  2019935956

The main category of the book — Fiction / Crime

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

mail-usa@austinmacauley.com

+1 (646) 5125767

Acknowledgements

To Lisa, my wife, for helping me to keep all the plates spinning and to Josh, my son, for always believing in me.

Prologue

The small but high revving engine noise spiked as the overworked rear tires broke traction for a split second; Roger Speed was starting to push hard. Despite the promise to his wife, Suzanne, that he would be taking it easy on the test, Roger knew that this was his chance to prove that he had what it took to rise to the very top of professional motorsport. For too long he had been known as a club racer, a journey man. Now, with the chance to test for a top team in a prototype Formula 3 car in front of the team owner, Lawrence Troutman, Roger had his chance, and he was going to grasp it with both hands.

Lawrence Troutman stood on the outside banking of the long, difficult climbing right-hander, aptly named ‘school’ corner, his back to the chopping sea, facing the small but tricky Anglesey race circuit as one of his own prototype Formula Three cars buzzed around the circuit. The lively F3 car appeared to carry a little too much speed into a combination corner that started with ‘Douglas In’ the understeering car resulting in a poor entry position for the important exit of the corner, ‘Douglas Out.’ Roger cursed his mistake and knew that he would now be delayed getting the power on through the mount view kink and out onto the fast downhill start / finish straight.

Roger gave himself a talking-to as he hurled down the straight, quickly responding to the requests from the engine for more gears.

Come on, Roger, you can do better than this. Come on, boy, slower in, faster out. Come on, Roger, get a grip.

The School corner rushed up without delay. The lone figure of Mr. Troutman clearly defined against the blue sky backdrop on top of the banking that rimmed the high speed, high grip corner.

Roger knew the start of the corner was the difficult bit, as the neutral camber offered no assistance to the wayward cornering racecar. Roger breezed across the brake pedal whilst blipping the throttle pedal at the same time to allow for a quick change from 5th gear to 4th. Happy that the car was settling, Roger loaded the throttle pedal up before the car could get too comfortable. The normally aspirated F3 Novamotor engine instantly responded. The car seemed to almost hunker down as the weight transfer and modicum of down force pressed the small F3-sized slick tires hard into the polished tarmac. Roger knew he had judged it just right. Mr. Troutman was witnessing one of his F3 cars on the limit.

The left front suspension failure was felt through the steering wheel before Roger actually saw, with his widening eyes, his left front wheel slam back into the aluminum tub he sat in. With a quarter of its grip gone, the F3 car got its way and abandoned the direction of the corner, heading straight for the banking at 120 mph. Roger tried to minimize the angle of impact, but his toolbox was empty. He let go of his steering wheel, crossed his arms, and gripped his safety harness. The huge impact had the mercy to take away Rogers consciousness so as to spare him the horror of the inferno as his fuel tank irrupted!

Chapter 1

Peter Smith felt out of proportion in the huge dimensions of the room in which he waited, almost like an ‘OO’ gauge character on a model railway that had mistakenly been placed on a much larger ‘O’ gauge model railway. A single immaculate plush, and, no doubt, heavy, gold-armed, purple-cushioned chair had been placed within the palatial waiting room on which Peter Smith now perched and awaited to be summoned. The pure white floor-to-ceiling oversized double doors swung open together, controlled by the opening arms of an immaculate usher. No words were spoken, but permission to enter was communicated by the standing position of the usher at the edge of the open door.

Sir.

Thank you for coming, Peter. Please sit. You have had time to study the file?

Peter Smith sat down at the ornate, old leather-clad desk and placed the file in question on the aged leather.

Yes, sir, I have.

And you agree this Troutman chap needs our treatment?

Yes, sir, indeed. Lawrence Troutman has become…

"One of our cases, Peter. He is a powerful public figure. You have a plan?

Peter Smith reached into his file and removed and slid across an A4-sized photo of a face, knowing his boss would instantly recognize that face. A raised eyebrow was the only giveaway.

Stirling Speed, he once attempted to show me how to drive my Aston around Brands Hatch. Since his sudden retirement, he seems to have dropped completely out of the limelight, your reasoning?

Mr. Speed, or Stirling, as he prefers to be called, has a connection with Troutman, and not the obvious one. Peter Smith hesitated, knowing his audience time was limited and information had to be kept concise.

His uncle, Roger Speed, was killed in a race car a number of years ago when Stirling was still a child, and he was killed in one of Troutman’s race cars. Our investigations show that Stirling has been asking questions about the accident for quite some time, and we strongly feel, sir, that Troutman was involved in Stirling’s Monza accident. We strongly feel that Troutman wants Stirling dispatched. Stirling Speed is the perfect bait to draw Troutman out.

Be sure to keep this clean, Peter. If we cannot cleanly bring Troutman down, then we need to let him go. We can never compromise our arrangement, Peter.

I know, sir, Stirling’s involvement would be critical. If we cannot get him involved, then we will have to postpone any action against Troutman.

As the large doors closed behind him, Peter Smith knew this was going to be a difficult case, and a sense of guilt pricked from deep inside. By all accounts, Stirling Speed was happily retired. Peter Smith knew that he was about to shatter that happy retirement.

Chapter 2

The bee’s striking colors seemed fluorescent in the bright English sunlight. The permanent knowledge that a bee is black and yellow seemed somehow distant now with the actual visualization of the vibrant colors of this industrious insect as it purposely visited each crisp, scented flower. To be lost in the moment, just watching, listening, and feeling the surroundings. Noticing that a bee is indeed black and yellow, instead of being told that was the case, were moments that Stirling never now took for granted. Taking an inquisitive interest in all things ensured that each moment of each day made life so much richer.

Relaxing on a beautiful summer afternoon, tucked away in the corner of the beer garden of his favorite country pub, situated in an idyllic country village, five minutes’ walk from his cottage, was the perfect Sunday afternoon for Stirling. The bee continued on its pollinating mission as its observer, Stirling Speed, retired race driver, took another considered sip of his pint and savored the chestnut undertones that complemented the creaminess of his chosen ale for today.

For so many years, from such a young age, Stirling knew only of things that fell within his focus. A focus so intense that, at times, Stirling would appear hard, ignorant, arrogant, with no knowledge of life that surrounded him, no interest in the day-to-day humdrum. For so many years, Stirling’s tunnel vision focused on his driving, focused on one day becoming a world champion racing driver, a quest that was initiated by his, now long-gone, innocent uncle.

Stirling’s uncle raced cars—not professionally, but for fun. Although Stirling was never taken to any race meetings, as a child of ten years old, his uncle could hold Stirling’s avid attention by explaining why a racecar would backfire and sometimes belch flames out of its rourty exhaust as its driver wrestled the errant racecar on the brakes into a corner. Stirling never really understood what his uncle was saying but loved being able to repeat the explanation to his beaming dad and falsely smiling mother. What really set the seed, the itch that had to be scratched, the quest that finally cost so much was the Friday night ‘pint’. Every Friday night Dad and his brother Roger would go out for a pint together, Roger and his apparently beautiful wife Suzanne, staying over to be willing recipients of a hearty Saturday morning breakfast from Mum. Whilst Dad and Roger visited the local public house Stirling was allowed to sit in Rogers’s sports car and dream. The day dreaming Friday evenings sat in the black leather clad interior of a fiery red Triumph TR4A set the obsession in place. Holding onto the hard, cold, Moto Lita wood steering wheel, engulfed in the scent of old car leather, bolstered with a hint of petrol no doubt from leaky twin SU carburetor’s, Stirling would dream of taking the checkered flag.

Then suddenly, Roger never came anymore; the dream machine that he would rumble up the road never came anymore. Roger was dead, and Suzanne, with her long auburn hair, just disappeared from our lives. In later years, Stirling was informed, ‘Killed in one of those wrong-place-wrong-time accidents on a race circuit’, and various vague stories surrounded Suzanne’s absence Mum had all race pictures removed, all race talk banned. Friday night dreams were to remain dreams, but dreams can become fuel for reality.

Can I get you anything else Mr. Speed?

Stirling please, I know both names sound ridiculous but just Stirling and no thank you, just the bill as they say.

The friendly and respectful waiter brought Stirling back into the now, and a very nice now it was, Stirling thought. From the day he had suddenly walked away from the transparent world of Formula One, he had managed to satisfy his driving addiction by testing racecars and coaching drivers whilst still keeping out of the limelight, even though his successes on the racetrack had made him a world-famous commodity.

Stirling looked across towards the door of the country pub and considered going to settle his bill inside, but his gaze halted at the car park. There it was again, a quite distinctive off-white Alpha Romeo GTA Junior with French plates. Stirling first noticed it when it was parked in the lower paddock in the Spa- Francorchamps circuit in Belgium. Stirling had been there testing brake duct designs for Bentley. The Alpha, maybe from the 1969 era, looked at home in the paddock, and Stirling had thought what a good picture it would have made.

On the way back from the circuit to home a stop off in Brussels was in the diary. A team was evaluating two drivers, one young, inexperienced. One older, experienced, but hard work to manage. They wanted Stirling’s wise input. Walking out from a top drive at the peak of your career does mean that your shelf life is longer. The perception is that you are still as fast, still as keen, still know what you are talking about. In reality, Stirling always felt a slight fraud as they threw money at him to consult. As Stirling walked out of the unofficial meeting, which was held at a humble but privately hired pizza restaurant not far from the Charlemagne building, Stirling’s eyes had fallen onto the pretty little Alfa again.

And now, here he was, deep in the English Cheshire countryside, at a pub chosen for its quietness, and there sat the very same Alfa, cooling its heals.

Thanks, you take cash, I presume? And do keep the change.

Yes, and thank you, M… errm, Mr. Stirling.

Just Stirling. The white Alpha in the car park with the French plates, you didn’t happen to see who was driving it?

No, sorry, I didn’t. I’ll just get your change.

Realizing the mistake he had made, the waiter hesitated to be bailed out.

No, please, keep the change.

Stirling was used to people getting flustered around him. It wasn’t every day that you served a pint and Ploughman’s lunch to an ex-Formula One triple world champion!

Entering the pub and heading for the loo, Stirling tried to seem interested in the pub’s décor whilst trying to spot who looked like a white Alfa Romeo driver. A difficult task whilst trying not to be obvious, and just calling everyone to attention and popping the question, ‘Excuse me, but could I ask who drives the Alfa?’ would be a tad too obvious!

Chapter 3

It had been a long but steady drive. The ’69 Alfa had, as always, purred along, but the Alfa’s unreliability stigma always lurked in the background when covering miles away from home.

The research had proved right. Pulling outside the gates of Drayton House, the slender, distinctive battleship-gray bonnet of a shapely E type could just be seen resting on the gravel drive, confirming this was indeed the residence of one Stirling Speed.

Now, sitting in the local pub, it was time to plan the next move. It was going to be difficult, and the timing needed to be right, as it was not a moment to look forward to. Unexpectedly seeing Stirling Speed actually walk into the pub, looking around at the décor, had caused a quickening of the pulse. To see him so close, in the flesh, so to speak, not from a distance, not from a place of concealment. Maybe five-feet-nine, dark hair now starting to lose some of its blackness, tailored jeans, crisp white casual shirt, structured, handcrafted shoes, and a man who clearly looked after himself, Stirling Speed certainly had a presence that was hard to define. Maybe a presence that could only be achieved by reaching the very top of one’s chosen profession, then choosing to walk away from it.

At one point, this followed man looked right across, but then his eyes settled on the vague painting behind and above of some long-lost farming scene of a bygone era. It was then pure luck that Stirling was stopped on his way out and invited to stay for a drink with a well-wisher not wanting to be too forward but still keen to be associated with Stirling’s presence.

Stirling politely replied, Thank you for the offer, but I need to still get some gear sorted out and then grab an early night. I have an early call tomorrow, as I have to be in Manchester City Centre for a breakfast meeting, which means a 6:30 start, then it is off to Monte Carlo for the Grand Prix.

The well-wisher made the obligatory answer, It’s a tough life, Stirling.

Who then replied with the standard follow on, I know. But, hey, someone has to do it.

At that, Stirling bid a pleasant farewell and made his way out of the pub door. So there it was, a plan had been formed. Up early, wait, and then follow Stirling Speed into the city. Just maybe the right situation would develop for the confrontation, and then there would be no turning back!

Chapter 4

Waiting for his alarm to go off, Stirling was well-rested and ready for his strange breakfast meeting. A workout in his exquisitely restored Victorian-styled gym, a light meal, a good read, and then melting into freshly laundered, white linen sheets had ensured a good night’s sleep.

His housekeeper had a relentless fine eye for detail yet managed to go about her housework without any fuss or inconvenience to Stirling. He ensured she wanted for nothing, and there was a fierce loyalty between them, but Stirling still got pangs of guilt for being the only beneficiary of her cosseting.

Savoring the start of a new day, he smiled to himself. A sharp shower awoke all the extremities up and prepared his face for a clean, close shave. A hot towel opened his pores, and a good lather, agitated with his solid silver badger hair shaving brush, prepped the overnight growth for obliteration. Stirling had various shaving implements, and today, he chose a twin-edged, reassuringly heavy matching silver razor that he carefully, almost surgically, maneuvered around the contours of his face. Removing a fluffy white towel from the neatly stacked pile, Stirling looked around ‘his’ bathroom. It was ‘his’ bath room, as he had gone to such lengths to research and restore the derelict Drayton House and had enjoyed the whole project that he had immersed himself in.

Looking across and out of his arched, plain glass bathroom window, which stretched to the floor, he could see his rolling meadow, edged by a tall, impenetrable hedge, hiding a single-track lane. A plain glass that allowed Stirling to look out but also allowed any one to look in! Stirling’s days of the paparazzi were long over. If anyone did choose to trespass, then what would they see? Maybe someone would appreciate that he worked hard to keep his body sharp. Maybe they would see the well-documented scars of his Monza crash? Either ways, Stirling liked the view and did not want it hiding away for the sake of a peeping tom!

As Stirling dried himself off, another early riser in a white Alfa waited patiently in the single-track lane, its occupant unaware of the view into Stirling’s private world just over the other side of the thick, impenetrable hedge.

Chapter 5

Mr. what was it again? Lawrence Troutman, head of the WMSO, World Motor Sport Organization, had not forgotten the name, but he wanted this little man to fully realize that he bore no importance in his multibillion-pound world. He was a mere irritant, to be flicked away.

Smith, plain, simple Mr. Smith. Mr. Peter Smith, actually, from Special Investigations. I am part of a team that looks for answers when questions have been asked. We operate…

I asked for your name, not your life story. Yes, I can confirm that I have been involved with the prototype racecars that you have stated. And, yes, it is a sad fact that there have been some unforeseen circumstances that have led to failures, resulting in fatal crashes. Motorsport can be so cruel. Troutman looked towards the floor and then out of his vast office window, into the skies of London. Is that not what anyone would do whilst contemplating tragic crashes?

Peter Smith could play the game as well, and so he paused to look at his notes, giving weight to his next statement.

You bankrolled the development of these prototypes and supplied the fuel tanks for them, manufactured at one of your subsidiaries. And the ‘some circumstances’ actually amount to five sets of circumstances that have resulted in five drivers losing their lives.

My world is a tough world, not like yours, Mr. Smith. You make a mistake and you press delete on your Apple laptop and start again. In the world of motorsport, risks are always risks. You make a mistake, and you pay the ultimate price. As ugly as that might seem to you, Mr. Smith, it is a fact of life. These guys chose to get into their cars, they were not forced at gunpoint. They died doing what they loved. I salute them for…

It was Peter Smith who interrupted this time, carefully placing five faces captured in photographs in front of Troutman. Steve Fields, Tony Flune, Mario Gostino, Louise Hopper, and Roger Speed. Do you remember them, Mr. Troutman? Do you remember their thinly concealed joy when you offered them a fully sponsored drive in one of your prototypes? In fact, Louise Hopper was just pregnant, did you know that?

"Why should I know that? I do