The Dark Detective: Venator

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Out of the corner of his eye, Max saw some glowing grey eggs. This demon, whatever it was, had spawned! Feeling revolted, Max destroyed the demonic young as they tried to hatch from their shells. They were small and desperate and seemed to sense that they were already orphans. Max had to steel himself, refusing to take pity on the writhing serpent-like creatures that would grow up rapidly to be fully-fledged monsters. Even so, after the extended extermination, Max found himself throwing up in the nearest bathroom. He was glad that Sophie hadn’t been there to see his moment of weakness; no doubt she would have been amused.

  Max found only two other demons in the servants’ wing and both were dim Level Ones who had worked, he guessed, as some sort of lower-order scullery maids.

  “They’re going to be a bit short staffed after this,” said Max. “You just can’t get the staff these days.”

  The sunlight was growing brighter. Max checked his watch.

  “Oh no!”

  It was already after 7am and he’d let Sophie have the run of Buckingham Palace for over two-and-a-half hours.

  He hurried back down the stairs, half expecting to have to search for her. But she had followed his orders to the letter and was sitting at the kitchen table, applying fresh make-up to her already lovely face.

  “Max, darling!” she smiled, as if delighted to see him in one piece. “I was beginning to think I’d been stood up. But here you are. My! You do look a fright.”

  Max caught his reflection in the tiny mirror of her compact. She was right – he looked scarier than Ralph on a bad night: dead or undead.

  Max shrugged. There was nothing he could do about it now except straighten his tie, wash some of the slime from his shoes and come up with a way to stop the Summoner from raising the Mother of All Evil, the route of Original Sin. And all he had to help him was a wayward Level Two demon and an empty water pistol.

  “If I live through this day,” he said to himself, “I’m going to ask for a raise.”

  Sophie had encountered a few of her old ‘friends’ during her rounds.

  “And not one of them asked me how I’ve been,” she said. “They were very rude: it really was a pleasure to see them terminated. No manners, some demons.”

  Max smiled tiredly.

  “So, no problems then?”

  “Well, I did happen to find myself in the Royal bedroom.”

  Max groaned.

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “Yes. It was all rather amusing, really.”

  “What happened?” said Max, feeling certain that any hope of promotion had just been terminated, too.

  “Well, it turned out to be Prince Harry’s bedroom.”

  “Oh no. And? Did he say anything to you?”

  “He said, ‘What the devil’s going on?’ And I said, ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, Your Highness, just checking for cockroaches’.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Well, yes. I smiled at him. Then he winked at me and said, ‘Good Hunting!’ We parted the best of friends,” said Sophie, nonchalantly.

  Max put his head in his hands. He didn’t like to admit that HRH Princess Anne had mistaken him for a stable-hand, and that he’d been ordered to muck out the Royal horseboxes. Admittedly, she hadn’t been wearing her glasses at the time.

  “Well done, Sophie,” he muttered. “Just don’t forget to refill your water pistol before we head out. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it.”

  “Oh, I’m glad you said that, Max, darling. Does this mean we have a plan now?”

  “Not exactly,” said Max.

  “Oh.” Her face fell. “Not even a little teensy weensy bit of a plan?”

  “Well, we suspect the Bruce woman has the other half of the amulet; we’re guessing she’s the Summoner – and demonic; and we’re hoping that it’s not the end of the world as we know it. To tell you the truth, Sophie, the only thing I can think of is somehow to try and get the President Elect by herself and if she truly is demonic, hit her with every weapon we’ve got.”

  “I always thought that the truth was over-rated,” sighed Sophie. “Now I know I was right.”

  10 Downing Street

  As the palace’s elderly central heating throbbed into life, the first of the Royal servants arrived in the kitchen for their morning duties.

  They were rather surprised to see the dishevelled and grimy-looking Max sitting at the kitchen table next to a beautiful and immaculately dressed woman in turquoise chiffon. Luckily Royal servants are trained to ignore odd behaviour and merely supplied them with freshly brewed coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade for Max.

  “Sophie, can I ask you a question?” said Max, half way through his meal, whilst Sophie sipped a scalding cappuccino.

  “Why, of course, Max, darling,” said Sophie, looking mildly surprised.

  “Aren’t you the least bit hungry after all that?”

  “Of course,” said Sophie, with a smile that revealed just the tiniest glimpse of snow-white fang, “but I really enjoy my meat a little more... rare... and fresh... than most humans like, or approve of. I didn’t think you’d object if I enjoyed a little... take-away meal whilst I cleared out some of those lower demon orders... in private. ”

  “Oh,” said Max, pushing the unfinished breakfast plate from him, his stomach suddenly lurching at the thought of food.

  Sophie smiled to herself and sipped delicately at her cappuccino, throwing amused glances at Max over the rim.

  Max’s embarrassment was saved by PC Baldwin and the rest of the special guard duty team spilling into the kitchen, on the hunt for hot coffee.

  “Morning, Max, DC Smith,” said Eric, throwing a mock salute.

  He looked more closely at Max.

  “Crikey, mate! You look a bit rough. Busy night?”

  “Yeah, you could say that – you could definitely say that, Eric.”

  “Anything to with the President Elect’s visit?” said Eric, looking serious.

  “Yes,” said Max tiredly. “DC Smith had an – informant – who alerted us to a potentially dangerous infiltration of palace staff. We spent the night checking and have... removed some suspects for questioning. We’re pretty certain that we’ve scoured the palace but we know at least one of the staff had been using a pass key to let in others. We’ve confiscated that, too.”

  “You have been busy,” said Eric, looking impressed. “Where are the suspects now? Have they been interrogated for further intelligence?”

  “Yes, they’ve been interrogated,” said Max, side-stepping the question, “and it seems certain that the President Elect’s party has been infiltrated, too.”

  “Blimey!” said Eric. “Does the Super know?”

  “Not yet,” said Max, mentally kicking himself that he hadn’t prepared for this question. “I’ll do it now.”

  He stood outside in the clean morning air, staring at his mobile phone.

  Sophie came to stand next to him and Max caught a whiff of her favourite perfume, ‘Poison’.

  “You’re not really going to tell that Superintendent woman, are you?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Because whatever back-up she sends, they won’t be prepared for demons – it’ll just be more silly humans getting in our way – and that will mean more fatalities – this time human ones.”

  “I know that,” said Max, shortly, “but if I don’t tell her that there’s been a problem and she finds out later – which she will – I’ll be finished as a cop – and probably prosecuted for withholding vital information.”

  “Oh dear, Max, darling, you are in a pickle,” said Sophie, sounding amused. “Whatever will you do?”

  Max had to admit there was something invigorating about Sophie’s lack of sympathy; it had the same effect as a swift kick up the backside.

  “I’m going to tell her something of what’s happened and that the press conference needs to be moved. Hopefully that’ll put the Bruce woman on the back foot because she’ll have to change her own plans. And, I hope
, that will mean the back-up squad will be safer.”

  “You are so much cleverer than you look, Max, darling,” said Sophie, her voice rich with irony.

  “Takes one to know one,” he shot back, and had the enjoyment of seeing Sophie frown with annoyance.

  Max made his call.

  The Superintendent was not amused. Max was glad he’d omitted to mention the fact that he’d been found drinking coffee in the palace kitchens when he should have been reporting in.

  “I’m not happy, Detective,” she said. “Not happy at all. When this is all over I’ll want to see you in my office.” She paused. “We’ll have to move the whole press conference to another location – the Yard is probably the safest place. I’ll inform the Prime Minister of the change.”

  She rang off and Max heard the police radios of his colleagues fizz into life.

  He listened intently. Half of the police left immediately and the rest stationed themselves around the palace’s entrances, fingering their weapons nervously.

  Max was thankful that Eric and his other colleagues at the palace would probably be safe now. He didn’t know how many demons Lily Temple Bruce would have with her, but he knew that they would be vicious; he didn’t want to see any of his friends hurt or killed – or worse.

  His police radio crackled again. Max listened to the instructions.

  It seemed that the Prime Minister had taken matters into his own hands and ignored the Superintendent’s advice to hold the press conference at Scotland Yard. Max guessed the PM thought the extra publicity would help his ratings, and that helping a damsel in distress – even if she was the most powerful woman on the planet – would make him look heroic.

  Max shook his head at the eternal folly of a vain man.

  “Well, the Super isn’t happy,” he muttered to Sophie. “The new location for the press conference is 10 Downing Street. At least there’ll be plenty of security there.”

  “Yes, but not the right kind,” said Sophie softly, getting ready to leave.

  She was right. Guns and strong-arm tactics were no use against demonic forces.

  “We’d better get over there,” said Max, at length.

  “Oh? Have you caught up now, Max, darling?” said Sophie.

  Max ignored the jibe and fished around in his pocket for his car keys.

  “Looking for these?” said Sophie, smugly, dangling them from her purse.

  “We’re really going to have to talk about your kleptomania,” said Max.

  “Oh, Max. Where’s your sense of humour?” retorted Sophie, with the same annoying air of superiority.

  Max snatched the keys and stalked off to his car, leaving Sophie trotting along in her high heels and stumbling over the cobbles.

  “Max! You are an absolute beast!” she called after him.

  Several police officers turned to frown at Max but the black looks simply bounced off his coat. It could have been the protection of the Eye of Horus, or the fact that he just didn’t give a damn.

  Sophie sank into the passenger seat, refusing to look at him and refusing to speak.

  Max revved the engine and they careered out of Buckingham Palace in a shower of gravel, zoomed down Birdcage Walk, took Parliament Square on two wheels, and screeched to a halt on Whitehall.

  A police officer marched towards them.

  “You can’t park there, sir,” he said firmly.

  Max flashed his warrant card.

  “You still can’t park there,” said the constable. “I’ve had special orders. Not even the Queen herself, God Bless Her, can park here today. I’ll have to ask you to move it, Detective Darke.”

  “Have you met my charming colleague, Detective Smith?” said Max, looking pointedly at Sophie.

  “Pleased to meet you, miss,” said the constable. “Now I’m not going to have to introduce you to my colleague, the Custody Sergeant, am I, Detective?” said the constable, warningly.

  Max was flabbergasted. He’d never yet met anyone, other than himself, who was immune to Sophie’s charms. Then he realised why: she’d refused to charm the constable; she was sitting in the car with her arms folded and her lips pursed. She had that come-near-me-and-I’ll-bite-your-eyeballs-out look that he’d come to recognise.

  “Sophie, please?” he whispered. “I’m sorry, okay? Just be your usual charming self, will you?”

  “Oh, very well!” she said huffily. “I do have feelings, you know, Max. I’m your assistant, not your verbal punch-bag.”

  Max was taken aback. It was a new idea that Sophie might actually have feelings. Perhaps she’d been spending too much time with humans of late.

  Sophie smiled at the constable and his annoyed frown melted, replaced by a surprisingly sweet smile.

  “There, that’s better!” said Sophie.

  They abandoned the car and made their way around to the back of Number 10. Security was at the top level, but none of the officers could withstand the force of Sophie’s charming personality.

  They were ushered into the hastily prepared conference room with a few harried-looking reporters. The Downing Street cat tried to wrap itself around Max’s legs. He bent down to stroke it but one look at Sophie and the creature backed away, hissing loudly.

  Sophie smiled benevolently as several curious reporters looked round.

  Most of them were sleek young things in good suits and groomed hair but taking a seat next to Max was a grizzled, old-school reporter. He recognised Max as being one of the Old Bill as soon as he came in.

  “’Ere,” he said. “What’s all the rush? Why has the press conference been moved from Buck House?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Max, glibly. “I’ve only just come on duty.”

  “Yeah, you look like it,” said the reporter disbelievingly, as he stared at Max’s rumpled clothing, five o’clock stubble and tired eyes. “Come on, you can do better than that, officer. Want to give me a quote, off the record?”

  “Sorry,” smiled Max. “Right now you know as much as I do.”

  Which was half true.

  The reporter snorted and made a few shorthand notes in his notebook.

  A few minutes later the Prime Minister’s press officer marched in.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentleman,” she said smoothly. “Apologies for the sudden change of venue and the earliness of the hour. We had intelligence of a potential security breach at Buckingham Palace, so for the safety of Miss Bruce, and of course our Royal Family, the Prime Minister decided to hold the press conference here instead. I must say it was a brave and selfless act on his part...”

  She watched with hawk-like eyes as the waiting reporters dutifully wrote down every word.

  “The safety of Miss Bruce is paramount – and the Prime Minister assures you all that he will do everything in his power to protect the democracy of the free world. The canapés are on the way, so I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”

  There was a polite ripple of laughter at her little joke.

  The reporter next to Max raised his hand.

  “What was the nature of the security breach?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that,” the press officer replied, smoothly.

  “Well, what was the nature of the threat? Was it against Miss Bruce or against the Royal Family?”

  “Once again, I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” she said politely but firmly.

  “Is there anything you can tell us?” he said testily.

  “Press packs are being prepared for you now,” she said. “I’m sure they’ll answer all your questions.”

  “I doubt it,” muttered the reporter under his breath. “What a waste of bloomin’ time. I should have stayed out front and tried to get a word with Lily Bruce on her way in, but I didn’t like the company she keeps.”

  “What do you mean?” said Max suddenly alert.

  “Well, I thought I’d get a few off-the-cuff remarks from her when I was ordered away by her security staff. Some heavy-duty villai
ns she’s got on her team. And I’ll tell you another thing,” said the old reporter, “some of them were definitely not Secret Service. I don’t know who they were, but they gave me the creeps big time. The last time someone made my hair stand on end like that was when I was covering the Kray brothers’ trial. That Ronnie Kray just looked at me and I nearly spewed my guts. You know some people just feel, well, evil.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” said Max grimly.

  The Prime Minister marched into the room and waved at the assembled reporters as if he’d just scored the winning goal at White Hart Lane.

  “Good morning! Good morning! Welcome all,” he said in ringing tones. “I’m delighted to be here today to welcome a very special person.”

  His voice dropped to a warm, practised, personal tone that was designed to make everyone there feel like he was a man who could be trusted with your aged mother, little sister and the vicar’s wallet – probably all at the same time.

  He grinned at the jaded audience then put on his serious, ready-for-business face.

  “Today was supposed to be a happy occasion but the forces of evil are massed against us...”

  Max sat up, suddenly interested.

  “Terrorists have forced us to relocate this press conference at the last minute,” said the Prime Minister. “I was, of course, delighted to offer sanctuary to Miss Bruce at this most trying time.”

  His chest swelled proudly.

  “This sceptre’d isle, this England, we know what it’s like to stand firm in the face of those who would bring darkness to our land...”

  Dear God, thought Max, he’ll be talking about fighting them on the beaches in a moment.

  The Prime Minister took a noble breath then broke into his trademark smile once more.

  “Of course, I had hoped to accompany Miss Bruce on a sightseeing tour of London but we’ll have to save that for a safer, more opportune time. What a pity. I’m sure she’d have enjoyed our historic city – rather more ancient than Washington DC, I believe! But enough of all that. I know you’ll all want to join me in welcoming our honoured guest – with whom we will stand shoulder-to-shoulder, come what may. Ladies and gentleman, the President Elect of the United States of America, Miss Lily Bruce.”