Chapter 73

ZOMBIE MEMORIES

The assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police said, “This estate is in meltdown, Don.”

Wilks said nothing. He nodded like he was supposed to nod—with reverence. But he felt contempt.

The AC was a high-flying female in her forties who was scaling the heights at the Met. In Wilks’s opinion, she was doing a job a man could do better—all in the name of political correctness and the feminization of what he regarded as a man’s world.

Women weren’t meant to be coppers. They could do the civvie stuff. They could file. They could type. They could make tea. But in Wilks’s view, the dirty work should be left to men—and men like him.

Some would say his days were numbered. But Wilks knew his time was coming. Inside, he knew he only had to wait and be patient. He’d always known that. He sensed it. A voice within telling him, Everything you do has a reason; your actions have meaning.

It was hard sometimes to believe that voice, especially when you saw a dead man walking.

How the fuck was Faultless alive? He’d given him to Graveney on a plate. Not only was Wilks getting rid of Faultless, he was also making Graveney his bitch.

Graveney knew nothing about that. He had the brains of a gnat. But if he stepped out of line or decided not to contribute to Wilks’s pension fund, he might find himself facing a murder and kidnapping charge.

Sitting in his office in the incident room, Wilks now rested his elbows on the desk. The AC sat opposite him. Short, blonde, and stern, she reminded him of an old teacher of his. Miss Reilly. A real cow. She always picked on Wilks, making him look foolish in front of the class.

He fumed now, thinking about her, and transferred his hate of the old bitch onto the AC.

She said, “We are being made a mockery, Don. The murder of this child. It really is the final straw for people. Are you making any progress at all?”

“We’re following a number of lines of inquiry.”

“Don’t give me soundbites, Don. It just doesn’t suit you. Why haven’t you raided the squat where this Spencer Drake is said to live?”

He felt himself grow hotter. “There’s no evidence—”

“I thought breaking down doors was your style, Don. Break his down. You’ve got no excuse.”

He trembled with rage. He pictured himself laying her across the desk and showing her who was really in charge.

His anger had given him an erection. It happened a lot. He bunched his fists, trying to control the urge to spring at the AC, trying to ignore the voice in his brain.

“Seven murders in two days,” she said. “And two of them happen right under our noses. The community leaders are on my back—”

Wilks shuddered.

“—and now we’ve got the MP knocking on the Commissioners door with petitions and demands for his resignation. The press is having a field day.”

“Bollocks to the press,” he said.

Her brown eyes widened into a stare. “Our relationship with the press is important, Detective Chief Superintendent. It is our route to the public.”

Fuck them too, thought Wilks.

Fuck them all.

His mind whirled. His skin crawled. In his mind, memories that had been buried away were rising up like zombies.

Zombie memories.

Chewing him up from the inside.

Turning him into a zombie, too.

“In my experience, ma’am, it don’t matter much what you say to the newspapers. They always take the negative line.”

“It’s why we should manage our relationship with them, Don. Do you speak to our press office at all?”

“I don’t have time.”

“They are valuable members of the team, and they can advise you—”

“I don’t need to liaise with them, ma’am.”

“I think you do. I know you have a junior PR here as part of the investigation. Well, I’ve asked our senior press officer to come down. He’ll be here first thing tomorrow. Be nice to him, Don. He has a rank equivalent to yours, remember.”

“I don’t respect his rank. He hasn’t earned it.”

“You’re such an old school dinosaur.”

“Yes, I am.”

“That’s all very well, Don. I don’t mind. But if you intend to be a racist, misogynist artifact, could you please do so while actually solving these crimes?” She stood up. “And by the way, this afternoon, there’s a public meeting at the Andrew Mayhew Community Center. Do you know where it is?”

“I know where it is.” Andrew Mayhew had been a fourteen year old kid who died of stab wounds ten years previously. They said the kid never joined a gang and was a bright, popular pupil. They could say what they want; Wilks reckoned he was a little thug who deserved what he got.

The AC said, “Be there.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to be there with me. Answer some questions. Face these people.”

“I’m far too busy—”

“No you’re not. Good morning, DCS Wilks.”

She strutted out of the office.

He fumed. He hurled the desk aside. He punched the whiteboard. It split. He grabbed a chair. He swung it around. He smashed it against the wall. It splintered. He raged. He snarled. He sweated. His blood boiled. He was hot. As hot as he’d ever been.

He thought about Spencer Drake’s flat and the AC’s criticism. Although Drake officially lived with his mum, it was known he spent most of his time at an empty flat. His mother was a Christian and disapproved of his lifestyle. She’d kicked him out.

Very Christian, thought Wilks.

He slumped in the corner and put his head in his hands.

Something had prevented him from raiding Drake’s squat. That voice in his head. He called it instinct. But maybe it was something different. Maybe it was not really part of him and came from somewhere else. Maybe he was merely a host, accommodating the presence he felt deep in his brain.

He groaned.

Fucking AC, he thought. Fucking Spencer Drake. Fucking Charlie Faultless and Allan Graveney.

He had to do something. He had to take control. He had to be Don Wilks the monster again.

Right, he thought, getting to his feet. Right . . .