Read The Dark Detective: Venator Online
Authors: Jane Harvey-Berrick
The Dark Detective: Venator
Jane Harvey-Berrick
The Dark Detective:
Venator
Table of Contents
Chapter One – A Really Bad Day
Chapter Two – The Best Hotel in Town
Chapter Three – A Rock and a Hard Place
Chapter Seven – The Circle Line and the Crypt
Chapter Ten – The Beast of Bodmin
Chapter Eleven – North of Chelsea
Chapter Thirteen – Changing the Guards
Chapter Fourteen - 10 Downing Street
Chapter Fifteen – Mother Dearest
THE DARK DETECTIVE: VENATOR
Jane A. C. Harvey-Berrick has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
First published in Great Britain in 2012
ISBN 97809553150-4-6
Harvey Berrick Publishing
Copyright © Jane A. C. Harvey-Berrick 2012
http://www.janeharveyberrick.com
Cover design by Nicky Stott
Photograph: Shutterstock, with permission
Formatted by
Perfectly Publishable
BOOKS BY JANE HARVEY-BERRICK
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The Education of Caroline
Dangerous to Know & Love
Lifers
At Your Beck & Call
Playing in the Rain
Summer of Seventeen
Dazzled
Exposure
The New Samurai
The Dark Detective
To Steve, who was there when Max was born.
The man stared at the small, blue gemstone in his hand. It felt cold and looked just like a piece of coloured glass, but he knew it wasn’t – it was azurite – a rare gemstone. And it had power.
A shiver ran through him as he picked up his phone.
He drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently, willing the person he was calling to answer.
Finally, he heard the line crackle into life: “Good morning, Scotland Yard, D Division.”
“Max! Good to hear your voice. How’s London these days? Keeping you busy and out of trouble?”
“Hello, Walter! How’s Langley? Have the CIA managed to catch any villains lately?”
Laughter. He was relieved to hear the relaxed voice at the other end of the end of the line. It meant things were still normal. Or what passed for normal in their business.
“You working on anything in particular?” he said.
“Hmm. Got some Level 2 activity,” came the reply, “but nothing serious, I don’t think. What about you?”
“Actually, there is something. I don’t want to say too much at the moment but I thought I’d just check in with you, see if you’d heard anything on the street.”
“No. Just the regular stuff. What have you heard?”
The man took a breath.
“Nothing concrete. Some whispers on the wind, you know the kind of thing. Right now I’ve got a routine security job going on – some protection for a big cheese. They probably don’t need me but you never know. Say, what’s the score on azurite?”
There was a pause.
“Not much. It’s a low grade gemstone, similar to lapis lazuli, said to enhance mystical powers, I think. Why do you ask?”
The man was disappointed. He’d hoped to learn more.
“Oh, no special reason. I was just wondering...”
“I know someone who’s an expert on mystical gems – I could find out?”
“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks. Well, better go and earn my bucks – keep in touch, okay?”
“Okay, Walter. Will do. Bye.”
With the phone call ended, the man stared d at the receiver. He was surprised to find his hand was shaking ever so slightly.
“Pull yourself together,” he told himself sharply. “You’re a CIA agent!”
He stroked the azurite gemstone. It wasn’t just cold to the touch now – it had become icy. The man looked around him uneasily. He’d been too preoccupied, too slow. And now it was too late.
Suddenly the lights flickered out. Shadows rushed forwards. The man screamed.
A Really Bad Day
Max Darke was about to have a really bad day, although he didn’t know it yet as he pushed his way through the crowds of early morning commuters in London’s Victoria.
The businessmen and women with their sharp suits and expensive watches gave Max a wide berth, their eyes flicking up and down at the tall, broad-shouldered man with the unusual bronze-coloured hair and his long, heavy overcoat. It wasn’t the shabbiness of his clothing that made him stand out particularly, or the weary expression on his youthful face, but the whiff of barely concealed violence that seemed to cling to him. Which was a pity, really, because Max enjoyed the company of people: it wasn’t something he got a lot of in his job.
He lowered his wide, grey eyes to the pavement and tried not to step on the cracks – it gave his gait an odd, skipping-shuffling rhythm.
“Don’t step on the cracks or the bears will get you... never can be too sure,” he muttered to himself, startling a woman who was striding past in the opposite direction.
Max continued carefully down Broadway, passing the ugly, modern building of New Scotland Yard: a grey, concrete monolith, ill at ease with the many Georgian and Victorian buildings that surrounded it. He glanced up briefly but didn’t see anyone he recognised. The triangular sign – announcing that you had arrived at the offices of London’s Metropolitan Police – revolved slowly. It was a favourite backdrop for journalists and public relations staff organising impromptu press conferences. Tourists liked it, too.
Scotland Yard is the headquarters of London’s police force and is famous across the world. But it had a secret – a big, dark, nasty secret.
Max was the guardian of the secret.
He turned right and dodged down a narrow alleyway. An unnumbered, unnamed blue door was set back from the kerb. If you hadn’t known it was there, you would hardly have noticed it as you walked past. There was no knocker and no bell. Max used his key to let himself in, making sure that nobody was watching. Better safe than sorry.
Not many of his colleagues used the backdoor entrance and Max preferred to keep a low profile. In fact, if he thought about it, his bosses were rather insistent that he kept a low profile: sometimes Max felt that he was almost invisible. He shrugged his shoulders – there were times when it would have been useful in his job.
He made his way down a brightly lit corridor. A few ‘Wanted’ posters were pinned to the wall along with fire notices and a pair of fading health and safety memos that had remained unchanged for the last four years. The police at New Scotland Yard had too many criminals to catch without worrying about minor things like how to change a light bulb safely, or the correct way to climb a ladder.
Max’s office was small and gloomy. It was as insignificant as possible, tucked away next to the Traffic Division and behind building maintenance. There was no name on the door, just the number 13 and the sign that told people they had reached ‘D Division’.
Most people ignored this door and walked straight past it. If anyone had bothered to stop, knock politely and look inside, this is what they would have seen: three small desks, two telephones, three computers and Max. And if you had asked Max who he was, he’d give you the ghost of a smile and say,
“I’m Detective Darke, Demon Division.”
It is a well-known fact that most cities have a problem with demons. Of course, the tourist boards don’t advertise this fact but demons, and other creatures of the night, are drawn to the most populated areas like party-goers to an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Most of these are Level One demons: not something you would invite to your granny’s birthday party, but not out-and-out evil (although this does depend on your definition of ‘evil’ – Max liked to think of himself as a tolerant man). Level One demons steal the washing from clothes lines and leave litter on the street. Sometimes they eat small children who should have known better than to go out alone after dark. They’re not too much of a problem.