by P W Hillard
The shock sudden admission caught both detectives off guard, they hadn't expected it to be so easy. "So, tell us what you know then," said Jess, pressing her luck.
"Sure," Martin shrugged. "Those fuckers didn't lift a fucking finger to help me when I got nicked. All the talk of brotherhood and legionnaires together didn't mean fucking shit at the end of the day. I kept quiet because I keep my fucking promises, but if you got one anyway, I figure the game is up."
"Legionnaires?" asked Mark.
"Ah so the one you got isn't being talkative I guess. Lots of stoically staying silent and proclaiming they did the world a favour. Well, they did do that at least. Less of these fucking monsters knocking about the better," began Martin. "Yeah, legionnaires. They call themselves the silent legion. Group legend says that they were founded back in the early days of Rome as a sort of secret monster police. Hah, there's an irony for you pair. Anyway, the story goes they watch over mankind, dispatching monsters and the like. They're pretty useful. They recruit some sap who loses a loved one to a monster, trains them to hunt."
"Is that what they did with you?" Jess said, peering over her notes.
"Nah, I was already up and running when they recruited me. They aren't above recruiting existing hunters, but they do love themselves a grieving widow or parent. Easy clay to mould into the model hunter. Well their model hunter, I was always a little too independent for their liking. Lots of secret handshakes and funny-sounding codenames. Mine was Linus, like out of fucking snoopy. I hated it. Once you're in you've got your centurion, that's the boss of your group, and then your legionnaires beneath him. They call it a maniple, it's like Latin for group or regiment or some shit. There are a couple of little groups across the county. Last I knew there was one for Cornwall, that was mine. One for Wales. Two for England, north and south. I think there's two for Scotland, not sure how they split that one. No clue about Ireland or like, the Shetlands and shit. Guess that's Scotland's job, maybe that's why they get two?"
"Focus Martin," said Jess, frantically trying to keep up with her notes. "Your centurion does what, you didn't explain that."
"Oh right, your centurion dishes out the missions. Go here, kill this thing. They get all their information from somebody called the oracle."
"And the oracle is?" Mark said.
"No fucking clue. That shit is a secret guarded by the centurion. Secrets upon secrets. Like the Masons but with less charity fundraisers and drinking. Could be a person, could be a group, could be bullshit made up by the centurion. Doesn't matter regardless the oracle is basically monster hunter dispatch and they are never wrong. Never. Oracle says there's a werewolf in Stockport, well then there's a werewolf in Stockport," Martin declared.
"That's how you know about the super in here," deduced Mark. His face was a mask of smug satisfaction.
"Bingo. Got a letter in the post, in code, of course, fucking love them a code. Said there was a creature here. Didn't say what kind, which was unusual, but if the oracle says they're a super, then they are." Martin pressed his finger into the table as if physically pressing his point into the wood.
"So, this London job, would fall into the south of England crews' patch?" Mark continued. Martin nodded. "Know anything about them specifically?"
Martin shook his head. "Afraid not. The groups keep themselves separate, any information sharing goes through the oracles. It's like those, what do you call them? Like in dramas and war films and that? Oh, cells? Is that right? Like terrorists. That way if one group goes down they don't bring everyone else with them. If I were going to take them out I would find a way to get at the oracles, cut off the head. I find that works on a lot of things that. Decapitation. Messy though. A lot harder than telly makes it look."
"Holy shit," said Jess as she took her seat in the car. She looked at Mark, notepad still held in hand, slightly shaking.
"Holy shit indeed. I never expected that. He just told us everything he knew," replied Mark, adjusting the mirror. Happy with the rear-view, he pressed the buttons to adjust the wing mirrors. Jess had driven up, and as she was taller than Mark had everything adjusted to suit her.
"I just, wow, we've gone from almost no information to a good idea of what we're dealing with. This was the best idea you've had in a long time." Jess reached back and grabbed her seatbelt. She pressed it shut with a loud click.
Mark chuckled. "Can I get that in writing? I can frame it and put it on my fridge at home. I have good idea's sometimes, who would have thought?" He pushed the gear stick to reverse and craned his neck over his shoulder. With a shudder, the car began to move.
"One thing bothers me though…" Jess said.
"Go on, finish that thought."
"He said the oracle is never wrong. Martin was so sure that when he gets a letter nearly twenty years later supposedly from them he takes it at face value. So much so he goes and stabs another man on their say so. But we know the oracle can be wrong. Whoever this oracle is sent Linda into Lucille's expecting two demons. There's no way someone with supposedly always perfect information does that. They would have to know to expect an angel. Especially that angel." Jess held her notebook in her hand, its cover flipped closed. She flopped it about absentmindedly as she spoke.
"Maybe they aren't as perfect as he thinks?" questioned Mark. "Maybe they just get told their perfect and it's drummed in like in a cult? Dear leader and all that?"
"Maybe, but it still doesn't sit right. Think about it, the letter he got didn't contain what the super in the prison is. It should, right? That's what the oracles do according to Martin. Tell you what you're after and where it is? He only got half of that." Jess put her notebook back into the jacket of her navy-blue windbreaker. She adjusted her seatbelt slightly, then slid her seat back.
Mark drove, the clicking of the indicator punctuating the silence. After a moment, he finally spoke. "I think I see what you're saying. Do you think something's changed? Maybe a new oracle?"
"Or, maybe there's something we're missing. I think we have to take them up on their offer. I need to see for myself."
Chapter Nineteen
Jess held the small red handbag she had brought with her tight to her side. The address she had been given was for a large empty building in an industrial estate in Walthamstow. Bare red brick, thick green stains running in streaks from leaking untended gutters. The roof was worn corrugated metal. A large roller shutter was pulled shut. A sign hung above, faded from age, seemingly for a meat distributor of some kind. There was a faded blue metal door set above a single stone step next to the roller shutter. Jess took a deep breath and stepped towards the door.
She knocked twice loudly, rocking on her heels as she waited for a reply. Nothing. She knocked again, more forcefully this time. There was a shuffling noise from behind the door, followed by inaudible whispers.
"Hello?" came a man's voice from behind the door. "What do you want?"
"Hi, yeah, hello. I was given this address by a lady. She gave me a coin to bring?" Jess replied. The door creaked open slightly, a hand stretching out through the crack.
"Hand it over. The coin," demanded the voice. Jess did as instructed, the hand disappearing quickly once it had clasped the coin. There was another bout of fevered whispering, then the hand reappeared, this time holding two metal rods. One was a dark black, a shaft of wrought iron. The other gleamed, clearly silver. Jess placed her hand onto both rods. This was the right place, they were testing her, making sure she was human. "Good, good," said the voice. The door swung open, revealing two men stood behind it.
"Hi, I'm Je- "she started.
"No real names!" interrupted one of the men. He was clearly in his early forties, with a short-trimmed beard. He was wearing an astonishingly boring brown knitted jumper. The other man behind him was older, his face craggy and worn, thinning grey hair on his head. "I am Maximus, this is Anthony. The lady you met, that was Agrippina. You will get a name of your own, in time."
Jess giggled. "It's all a bit Spartacus i
sn't it?"
"It is our way. Come inside." Maximus beckoned to her. Anthony stood to the side, allowing the pair to pass. He shut the door behind him, placing several large bolt locks into place once he did.
Sat in his unmarked car, a black Vauxhall Corsa, Mark watched as Jess vanished into the building. He put down the binoculars, suddenly aware of how cliched he looked. He tapped his phone, attached to the dashboard by a magnetic clip. It began to dial. Mark drummed his fingers on the wheel as he waited for it to be answered.
"Weston," crackled the voice from the phone.
"An update Ma'am, Jess is in. Seems like this is the right place," said Mark. He leant forward and clicked the button on the side of his phone to increase the volume. "Everything all right on your end?"
"Yeah, techs say we have her on the GPS fine. Tracking insoles. Who would have thought? Feels a bit too James bond for me," rumbled Florence's voice from the phone.
"Don't do what I did and google it. You can just buy them online. Lots of adverts for either tracking your kids or people with dementia. The second one I can understand, first one is a little creepy," mused Mark.
"I think I agree, need to let kids do their own thing, probably an important part of growth. Or something. Not sure, never had kids myself. I want you to stay there and keep an eye on the place. We know these guys are killers, and we don't know that they won't hurt a human if needs be. Beecham and Clarke are standing by to assist if you need them. Thank you, Sergeant." There was the tell-tale clink of a china cup. "Keep me informed," said Florence between sips of tea.
"Yes Ma'am," replied Mark ending the call.
Commodus sat on the beach, his shoes removed, sand crusted to his heels. He watched the waves lazily strike the shore, before dribbling back into the ocean. This was the place, he knew it. He hated to admit it, but Drusilla's methods had worked. A little bit of digging around on social media had dragged up reports about bloodstains appearing on the monolithic stone steps that led from the beach above with a startling frequency. Local's had put it down to an injured animal, seemingly ignoring the fact that it had appeared around the same time every month like clockwork. It wasn't due again for a few days, but Commodus had come down to the beach to get the lay of the land.
Sat there, watching the waves, he wondered at what exactly was lurking below. It was bad enough that monsters prowled the land, the thought that more of them hid, unseen, waiting beneath the waves sat uneasily with him. His mind cast back to those old movies he saw as a child, of fish-men rising from the Amazon to steal people away. Commodus had loved monster movies as a child, but reality had turned out to be far darker and more terrible than any filmmaker could have imagined. He lifted himself to his feet, his hands pressing deep into the sand as he supported himself. The time for daydreaming was over, now he needed to get back to work.
Police force bureaucracy is a slow cumbersome thing. A lumbering giant, slow to rouse and ponderous when awake, bulldozing its way haphazardly around the countryside. A video, taken by petrol station forecourt cameras lazily worked its way through email chains and reports. It bounced across servers, dancing through ethernet cables. It hit the desks of several serious crime units before it was finally matched up with an existing description of two suspects. Once this match was made, it was launched at the department in question, before sliding almost casually into the inbox of one D.C.I Florence Weston.
Florence skim-read the accompanying email, before opening the attached video. She watched as two men who did indeed fit the descriptions of the suspects in the blood theft case-knock a woman out. They bundled her, and a large amount of ice, into the back of a van. The ice made sense, they would need it to keep the stolen blood cold in transit. Florence knew that the missing woman was dead. It was likely that these pair were vampires, like the one they had arrested in the act. There was only one reason they would take someone like that, and it was not a fate Florence would wish on anyone. The common romantic idea of two long fangs delicately leaving small holes was nonsense. Vampire teeth were horrid serrated things, designed to tear. They would rip out thick wet chunks, like a shark, to get at the blood beneath. She had seen the aftermath once, on a case in her early career. It was still one of the many images that plagued her dreams.
Mental health. That was the biggest problem for her department. Despite all the strange creatures, supernatural beings and just plain ordinary criminals her people faced, injuries and casualties were thankfully low. No, it was the constant onslaught of nightmare images, of long-held beliefs upturned and encounters with unspeakable unknowable things. Doing this job had the tendency to grind away at a detective, working their sanity down into a blunt stub. Other departments had similar issues but had the ability to rotate staff. Certain departments, especially those that dealt with the internet, had a maximum length of service instated. Special Investigations had no such luxury. They couldn't even recruit staff naturally, having to rely on existing police officers stumbling onto something supernatural. Even if they could recruit openly, the department wouldn't be able to pay them. For its size, the department took an inordinate amount of money to run. Its regular purchase of magical reagents, ancient relics and esoteric tomes was extremely expensive, and that was before the costs of the large guarded vault that housed the worst of the objects they had recovered. Consequently, the department was chronically understaffed, especially as they covered all cases that involved the supernatural. Burglary, theft, murder, even petty crimes fell under their purview. The excessive workload didn't help the mental health situation at all.
Florence sighed, watching the video for the third time. The more she watched it, the more she was certain. Another case for the workload. She fired off a quick reply stating her department would cover it, another digital wanderer loosed into the labyrinth of bureaucracy. She lamented her lack of staff for the fifteenth time that day. Two of her detectives were in Scotland tracking sightings of an unnaturally large red-skinned stag that seemed to appear and vanish with the mists. Two others, plus the department's sole trainee, were presently acting as hosts to literal houseguests from hell. All her remaining detectives were either directly involved or standing by to support with the undercover operation. Her shoulders dropped, she picked up the phone and dialled.
Mark sat upright with a bolt, his ringing phone startling him. It had been three or four hours -the tedium was making it difficult to tell- since he had last spoken to Florence. He reached forward and swiped across his phone to answer.
"Yes Ma'am?" he said, his police gut somehow anticipating an order.
"Curren, I have something for you. Sorry, it's more on your plate, but everyone else is tied up at the moment. Put this on the back burner but I want you and Holden on it once this business is wrapped up. We've been forwarded some footage from Serious and Organized, two men kidnapping a young woman. They match the descriptions of the suspects in the blood theft case." There was a faint tapping faintly audible through the phone line. "I've forwarded the footage to you," Florence continued. "They snatched this poor girl from her job at a petrol station, you know as well as I do that didn't end happily for her." Her voice was low and solemn. "I hate having to put more stuff into your queue so quickly."
"That's just how it is Ma'am," said Mark. He swiped the phone call down to open his email, the green line across the top of his phone indicating the still open line. "I'm watching the footage now." Mark watched as the two men bundled the girl into a ratty van, its side panels rusted, its hubcaps missing. He glanced up, at the building before him. Then frantically down at his phone. His eyes flicked back and forth a few times, dashing between the screen and what he had spotted. How could I be so stupid? Why didn't I see that before? Mark thought to himself. At the far end of the street, almost opposite his car was a van. It had been there before Mark had arrived. He was sure, the small portion of the license he could make out in the video confirmed it. It was the same van. They were here, now. "Call in the back up Ma'am, we have an issue. A Big one."
>
"What kind of issue Curren?" Florence enquired.
"That van, those guys. They're here."
Huddled together, jammed into the rear compartment of a van were three men. They looked ridiculous, wearing heavy full-length padded raincoats. They had paired these with heavy boots and thick thigh-high woollen socks. On their heads, each wore motorcycle helmets, their faces behind further obscured with black woollen balaclavas. Each wore a scarf, it's wool also black, in an attempt to cover the gap between the helmet and the coat. Where possible each of the men had tried to block out any and all sunlight. Prior to donning their bizarre outfits, they had covered each other in a thick layer of the highest quality sunscreen they could find, it was a moment all three had agreed was best to never talk of again.
"You boys ready?" said Vlad, his voice muffled behind the helmet.
"What?" replied Carl. "I can't hear you, you’re all mumbled and shit."
Vlad slammed the visor up on his helmet. "I said are you ready?" Carl didn't reply, instead miming placing his hand to his ear. Vlad gripped the man's head, flicking his counterparts visor open. "I fucking said are you ready? You fucking shit stain. Fucking hell you are a right pain in my arse. You ready at least?" he said, turning to the third man.
Steve nodded. "I'm ready boss." Steve had raised his visor, eager not to get a verbal drumming of his own. "Are we sure this is a good idea?"
"Good idea? It's a great idea! They won't be expecting shit. We know those fuckers are in there and we are going to have some fun. I'm sick of waiting in here with you two bell ends. It's noon, the most dangerous time for us. The perfect time to strike won't you say?"
"I suppose," mused Steve. "I still think it's risky though. I'm not being funny boss those lights turned you into one Vesuvius looking dude."