With Garland not due to die until Saturday, the Ragdoll murders had taken a backseat on the late-night news programmes, which were more concerned with the capsized oil tanker off the coast of Argentina that was leaking over three hundred gallons of oil per hour towards the Falkland Islands. Garland had grown on her a little over dinner, but she had to admit that, even on Saturday, he would have been upstaged by the poor little penguins retreating from the encroaching sludge.
Only when they had exhausted every conceivable topic of conversation relating to the oil spill, share prices, the assorted wildlife of the Falklands, the unsubstantiated possibility of terrorist involvement, the likelihood of the oil travelling across the Atlantic Ocean to pollute British shores (none whatsoever), did they return to the murders to debate the rationale behind Garland’s very public approach to the threat against him. Doing nothing to calm her nerves, Baxter switched the television off and read a book into the early hours.
Just after 6 a.m. she opened up her laptop and went to the newspaper’s website. Due to the unprecedented demand for Garland’s Dead Man Talking column, the paper had been uploading the latest edition every morning at the same time, turning the web page into a prime piece of cyber real estate. An irritating video either selling perfume, make-up or a Charlize Theron movie refused to close down in the centre of the screen. When it eventually disappeared of its own accord, the short statement that she and Andrea had prepared together materialised. It had already had over a hundred thousand hits:
One hour exclusive interview to the highest bidder (by 09:30 BST), to take place Saturday morning at an undisclosed London hotel. 0845 954600.
Despite Garland’s openness in his articles throughout the week, Andrea had been confident that the lure of a worldwide exclusive with the man fated to die would prove too enticing to resist. Baxter’s plan was no more than a simple diversion. With Andrea’s assistance they would pre-record a half-hour interview with Garland, which would then be broadcast ‘live’ on Saturday morning. When the worldwide media inevitably descended upon their chosen hotel in the capital, erroneously advertising Garland’s whereabouts to the killer, he would already be safe in the hands of Protected Persons on the other side of the country.
The effectiveness of the plan was routed in its banal plausibility: the greed and self-exploitation of the opportunistic journalist, the ensuing dogfight between the infinitely powerful news companies and the assumed anonymity of a ‘secret’ rendezvous. They had set up a recorded message requesting that bidders state their offer and leave contact details. This was futile, of course, but would justify Andrea’s presence, television camera on hand, at the hotel. Garland had chosen the lobby of the ME London in Covent Garden as the setting for the deception. When Baxter had asked why, he simply answered that it was going to look ‘mind-blowing’ on camera.
She checked the time, shut down her laptop and got changed into her workout clothes. The sun had just risen high enough over the city to blaze through the living room windows as she stepped onto the treadmill. Closing her eyes against the blinding sun, she put in her earphones and turned up the volume until she could no longer hear the rhythmic thudding of her steps.
Sam was already getting Garland set up when Andrea arrived at the freshly graffiti-tagged door to StarElf Pictures. She had received a call from Garland late the previous night, in which he had begged her to help him.
‘You know we can pull this off,’ he had said.
‘I’m sure Emily has her reasons for saying no,’ reasoned Andrea.
‘Her hands are tied by the police, yours aren’t … Please.’
‘I could speak to Emily again.’
‘She’ll stop us.’ Garland sounded desperate. ‘Once it’s done, she’s got no choice but to play along. She knows as well as we do it’s my best shot.’
There was a long pause before Andrea replied.
‘Be at StarElf by eight,’ she sighed, praying that she was doing the right thing.
‘Thank you.’
Andrea stepped inside. Garland was unbuttoning his shirt while Sam fiddled with the transmitter.
‘Morning. That’s some exquisite new artwork on the door,’ she complimented Sam.
‘Those bloody skater kids trying to get in again,’ he muttered, heading back across the room to Garland. ‘I’ve told Rory to stop letting them in here.’
‘Pass us the padding, will you?’ said Sam, gesturing to the thick protective belt on the desk behind her, which would absorb the force of the modest explosion.
She picked it up, feeling the hard rubber lining beneath the thin material, and handed it to him. Without his shirt on, Garland was surprisingly skinny, and the entire left side of his body was peppered in unattractive moles. He had replicated David Beckham’s famous guardian angel tattoo across his upper back, which looked absurd mounted on such an unsubstantial canvas.
‘Breathe in,’ said Sam, who wrapped the material around Garland’s ribcage and fastened it up at the back.
He then attached the condom filled with fake blood, one of the squibs from the box and the watch battery receiver. While Garland got dressed again, Andrea made Sam check and double-check the gun and blanks. It felt wrong to be going behind Baxter’s back like this, so she figured the least she could do was ensure that no detail was overlooked.
Sam had bestowed some last-minute acting advice upon Garland regarding how to die convincingly. She hoped he was not listening, having already endured his disembowelled ogre making a rambling ten-minute speech and his rookie police officer sneezing at his own funeral.
Sam left twenty minutes before Baxter arrived, a balaclava, the transmitter and the blank-loaded gun concealed on his person.
‘Nervous?’ asked Andrea, hearing Baxter’s car crunching over the gravel outside.
‘About tomorrow, yeah,’ replied Garland.
‘Well, if this morning goes to plan …’
‘That’s what I’m nervous about. We’ve got no way of knowing, do we? We’ll only know whether he bought it or not when he either tries to kill me – or not.’
‘Which is why Emily’s getting you as far away from London as possible tonight – unless she’s killed us both herself before then, of course,’ joked Andrea anxiously.
Baxter walked in through the door and checked her watch: ‘Time to go.’
Baxter had not known what she was expecting, but it definitely was not this. On arrival at the hotel, she and Garland had been ushered into a black lift, which took them up to the lobby. The doors slid apart and she had only taken a few steps across the glossy black floor before pausing to gawp in wonder at the surreal reception area.
They were standing in the mood-lit base of a huge marble pyramid. A curiously oversized book lay open on a stand in front of them, while white sofas reflected in the dark floor, as though they stood in water. The scattered side tables and substantial reception desk, like flawless blocks of obsidian, looked to have grown naturally up out of the floor. Animated jellyfish were projected onto the polished marble walls, swimming against gravity as they climbed the inside of the pyramid and fading into oblivion where the sun burned through a triangle of natural light over a hundred feet above.