‘OK, how about this: focusing on the fact that we managed to stop this Tate woman,’ suggested a lanky young man, who looked about fifteen years old to Simmons, ‘one less killer out on our streets, isn’t it?’
Simmons slowly turned round to face the three-person team, armed with their charts and graphs, highlighted sections of the morning’s newspapers glowing like the toxic waste that it was. He went to say something, shook his head in blatant disgust, and left the room.
CHAPTER 14
Wednesday 2 July 2014
11.35 a.m.
Baxter took a District line train to Tower Hill and unenthusiastically followed Jarred Garland’s vague directions away from the station. Keeping the Tower of London on her left, she set off down the congested main road. Why they couldn’t have met either at his home (where he should have been, sheltering under police protection), or at the newspaper offices, was beyond her.
In an unexpected turn of events, the amoral, self-publicising, rabble-rousing journalist had requested that she meet him at a church. She wondered whether Garland had turned to religion in his final days, as so many do. If she had believed in anything, she was sure that she would have found the brazen cheek of these curtain-call epiphanies mildly insulting.
The dark clouds overhead were beginning to break, allowing the sun to warm the city for a few intermittent minutes at a time. After ten minutes of walking she caught sight of a tall church tower and turned down the next side street. As she came round the corner, with bright sunshine flickering down on her, her mouth dropped open.
The pristine church tower of St Dunstan’s in the East loomed high above its own ruined walls. Thick, vibrant trees sprouted up through an imaginary roof and out through the tall arched windows, while climbing plants had tangled themselves up the stone walls only to spill back over the other side in dense formations that cast strange shadows across the intimate gardens. It looked like something plucked from a children’s story: the secret wood in the city, hidden in plain sight, invisible from the dull office buildings that stood with their backs to it.
Baxter entered through the metal gates, stepped into the ruined church and followed the gentle trickle of water beneath an enormous archway, strangled in thick vines, to a cobbled courtyard built around a small fountain. A couple were attempting to take a photograph of themselves and an overweight woman was feeding the pigeons. She walked over to the solitary figure sitting quietly in the far corner.
‘Jarred Garland?’ she asked.
The man looked up in surprise. He was a similar age to Baxter, dressed in a fitted shirt with the sleeves folded up and was moderately attractive with a clean-shaven face and overly styled hair. He looked her up and down with an arrogant smile.
‘Well, today just got a whole lot better,’ he said with a strong East End accent. ‘Have a seat.’
When he patted the space to his right, Baxter sat down to his left. Garland smiled broadly at this.
‘Why don’t you wipe that stupid grin off your face and tell me why we couldn’t meet at your office?’ Baxter snapped.
‘Newspapers don’t really like having detectives snooping around their offices if they can help it. Why couldn’t we meet at yours?’
‘Because detectives don’t really like having smug, shit-stirring, opportunistic journalists …’ She pulled a face as she sniffed the air, ‘wearing awful aftershave snooping around their offices, full stop.’
‘You’ve read my column, then?’
‘Not by choice.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘So what did you think?’
‘What’s that saying about not biting …?’ Baxter trailed off.
‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you?’
‘No, that’s not it. Oh yeah: don’t bite the hand of the only protection you’ve got standing between you and a prolific, ruthless, genius, serial killer.’
This time, a smirk formed over Garland’s boyish features.
‘You know, I’ve already started on today’s article. I begin by congratulating the Met on yet another successful execution.’
Baxter wondered how much trouble she would land herself in were she to punch the man that she was supposed to be protecting.
‘But that’s not entirely true, is it? You outdid yourselves. Detective Fawkes scored you a two-for-one!’
Baxter did not respond and glanced around the gardens. Garland must have thought he had hit a nerve; in fact, she was actually checking for witnesses should she lose her temper.
The sun had disappeared behind a cloud while they were talking, and the secret garden had taken on a more sinister appearance in the shade. Suddenly the image of a house of God being ripped apart from the inside out felt a little discomforting, its strong walls crumbling in the hold of the snakelike vines, dragging it piece by piece down into the earth, irrefutable proof that there was nobody left in this godless city that cared enough to save it.
Having thoroughly ruined her newest picnic spot for herself, Baxter turned back to Garland and spotted the top of a thin black box poking out of his shirt.
‘Oh, you arsehole!’ said Baxter as she snatched the mini-recorder from his pocket. A red recording light was flashing.
‘Hey, you can’t—’
Baxter smashed it onto the cobbled floor and ground it beneath her heel for good measure.
‘S’pose I deserved that,’ admitted Garland with surprising good grace.
‘Look, this is how this works: you’ve got two police officers posted outside your house. Use them. Wolf will be in touch tomorrow—’
‘I don’t want him. I want you.’
‘Not an option.’
‘Look, Detective, this is how this works: I am not a prisoner. I have not been arrested. The Metropolitan Police have no hold over me, and I am under no obligation to accept their help. And, in the nicest way possible, you don’t have the best track record so far. I will be willing to work with you on this, but on my own terms. First: I want you.’
Baxter stood up, in no mood to negotiate.
‘Second: I want to fake my own death.’
Baxter rubbed her temple and winced, as though Garland’s stupidity was causing her physical pain.
‘Think about it. If I’m already dead, the killer can’t kill me. We’d have to do it realistically, though, like in front of an audience.’
‘You could be on to something,’ said Baxter.
Garland’s face lit up as she sat back down beside him.
‘We could swap your face with John Travolta’s … Oh no, wait, that was a movie. How about we teleport … no. Got it: we hire a jet fighter, I think Wolf’s got that category on his licence, and we blow a helicopter out of the—’
‘Hardy-har-har,’ said Garland, a little embarrassed. ‘I feel you’re not taking me seriously.’
‘That’s because I’m not.’
‘My life’s at stake,’ said Garland, and, for the first time, Baxter thought she could hear fear and self-pity in his voice.
‘Then go home,’ she said.
She got back up and walked away.
‘Thank you so much, I really appreciate it. You too. Bye.’