Nergui waved his ID pass at the reception and was directed across the expansive lobby to the elevators. He glanced around him at the dark mirrored walls, the thick piled carpet, the clusters of Japanese and Western tourists waiting to start their morning’s excursions. He’d been in the place a few times before for conferences and formal meetings, but hardly knew his way around. Nevertheless, it wasn’t hard to find the room number that Doripalam had given him. There were officers dotted throughout the lobby and by the elevators, discreetly deflecting guests to ensure they didn’t approach the crime scene accidentally. They nodded to him as he passed.
The bedroom also had an officer stationed outside. Nergui was glad they were doing this by the book, but hoped that the police presence didn’t itself stir up concerns. Still, the hotel had more than its share of high profile visitors from overseas. Probably the other guests would simply assume that some international celebrity was among them.
Doripalam waved him in. The room was impressive, Nergui thought, and compared favorably with those he had seen on his travels in Europe and the US. In other circumstances, he would have thought it luxurious, with its wooden paneling and plush king-size twin beds. As it was, his attention was entirely dominated by what lay on the nearest of those beds.
For all his experience, Nergui almost found himself gagging. The rich smell of blood was overwhelming, even though the scene of crime officers had thrown open the windows in an attempt to render the atmosphere of the room bearable. The two officers had stationed themselves, understandably enough, by the open window.
The white cotton sheets of the bed were thoroughly soaked with blood, and there were further splashes on the carpet and pale walls. The blood was beginning to turn from red to brown, but clearly the killing was relatively recent. The chambermaid had discovered the body when entering to clean the room in the midmorning. Nergui thought that she could never have imagined how much her cleaning skills might be required, though he guessed she wouldn’t willingly be back in this room for a long time.
The body was spread-eagled on the bed, dressed in blood-caked cotton striped pajamas. Nergui would have described the body as lying face up, except that the face was definitely not looking upward. The head had been severed from the body, but this time had not been removed from the scene. Instead it had been placed neatly on top of the television set, gazing impassively at its former owner on the bed.
Nergui opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say. Doripalam and the other officers stood silently, looking almost smug that for once there was a sight that had rendered the legendary Nergui speechless.
In fact, Nergui had been struck by two overwhelming thoughts almost simultaneously. The first had been sheer mindless horror at the enormity of the sight that lay before him. The second was to realize that the mutilated figure before him was a Westerner.
What, he thought before he could stop himself, would the Minister have to say about this?
CHAPTER 3
“I’m impressed,” Drew said. “This is excellent. A lot better than most of the hotels I get to stay in.”
Nergui gestured him to sit down. “I hope beer’s okay. We still have good contacts with Eastern Europe, so can get some decent stuff.” He lifted the glass and gazed thoughtfully at the contents. “Czech. They know how to make beer.”
“Beer’s perfect,” Drew said, with complete sincerity. His early morning departure from Manchester seemed a lifetime away, and the long and fragmented journey had only compounded his sense of disorientation. And now, in a country where half the population lived in tents, he was drinking beer in the kind of anonymous hotel bar that might be found in any capital city in the world. Soft piped music was playing in the background, a piano version of some pop tune that Drew half-recognized.
“Your room is okay?”
“Fine,” Drew said. “Excellent.”
Nergui nodded. “I should not say this, perhaps. But your room is very similar to the one where-well, where we found the body.”
Drew nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. It was difficult to imagine the plush bedroom despoiled by the scene he had read about. He looked at Nergui, sitting magisterially in the corner of the hotel bar, and wondered how seriously he should take him. He was an impressive figure, heavyset and tall by Mongolian standards, with a stillness and physical presence that somehow enabled him to dominate the room. His even features were distinctively Mongolian, wide-eyed and broad cheeked, his clean-shaven skin dark and almost leathery, as though it had been burnished by the sun and wind of the desert. His dress was mildly eccentric-a plain, dark, good quality suit contrasting with a shirt and tie both in what Drew supposed was salmon pink. But it would not be difficult, Drew thought, to imagine him, centuries before, riding out as a member of Genghis Khan’s armies, leading the conquest of the known world.
Nergui’s bright blue eyes watched Drew intently, his blank face giving no clue to his thoughts or feelings. Doripalam sat beside him, a slighter and paler figure, toying aimlessly with a menu from the table, apparently disengaged from the conversation.
“I’m sorry,” Drew said. “Is it okay if we speak in English?”
Doripalam glanced up, smiling faintly, brushing his thick hair back from his forehead. He had the same wide-eyed features, but on this young face the effect was of openness and eagerness, perhaps even naivety. “We will teach you some Mongolian while you are here,” he said. “My English is not so good as Nergui’s but if you speak slowly I can follow.”
“I can translate for Doripalam if we need to,” Nergui said. “But he is too modest. His English is really very good. More and more of us are trying to learn, since it seems now to be the international language.” He turned to Doripalam. “We should tell Drew what we know so far about our fourth victim.”
“Well,” Doripalam said, “as you know, his name was Ian Ransom. He was a geologist in the mining industry, with a contract with one of our mining consortia. He had been in the country before, on two occasions I think, working on contracts. We spoke to the company involved. They say he was an excellent employee-a specialist in his field, a hard worker, all of that. But we see no motive for the killing. He was not robbed-there was a wallet with currency and credit cards in his jacket in the wardrobe.”
“What about the work he was engaged in?” Drew said. “Any possible motive there?”
Nergui shrugged. “Mining is a difficult industry here. Rapid growth. Lots of money to be made. New players coming into it all the time. Massive foreign investment, not all of it particularly legitimate. We’re a mineral rich country and everyone would like a slice of it. So, yes, it’s possible. But we can see no real evidence in this case. Ransom was a specialist, a scientist. He wasn’t senior enough to get involved in anything risky, I would have thought.” He took a mouthful of his beer. “But we’re keeping an open mind.”
“There’s not a lot I can add,” Drew said. “We looked at Ransom’s domestic circumstances, in case that shed any light. He was divorced, two children-two girls who live with his wife, who’s remarried. He lived in Greater Manchester-decent house, decent area so presumably did all right financially. He seemed to have lived alone and, as far as we know, wasn’t in any kind of relationship, maybe because he traveled so much. He had a doctorate in geology, and started his career after university with British Coal-that was our state mining industry, now largely closed down-”
“Ah. Your Mrs. Thatcher,” Nergui said.
“Our Mrs. Thatcher,” Drew agreed. “Ransom took early retirement from British Coal about fifteen years ago, and has worked as a consultant since then, largely overseas. Worked in India, Australia, South Africa, China and, of course, here. Seems to have been a bit of a loner.”
“But nothing there that would provide a motive?” Nergui said.
“Not that we can see. I suppose when someone travels like that there’s always the possibility that they might have got involved in something dodgy-”
“Dodgy?” Nergui asked. It was
the first time he had shown any uncertainty in following Drew’s English.
Drew laughed. “Dodgy. Um-dubious, criminal. That kind of thing.”
“Ah,” Nergui said. “I understand. Dodgy,” he repeated slowly, as though committing the word to memory.
“So, yes, it’s possible. But there’s no evidence of it. He didn’t seem to be living above his means, for example, so there’s no sign of him having an income from another source.”
Nergui nodded slowly. “So we both seem to have arrived at the same conclusion,” he said. “It’s quite possible that there’s no significance at all in Mr. Ransom’s unfortunate involvement in this.”
“You mean he was just selected at random?”
“Well, of course that is possible. If we really are dealing with a psychopath here, then it may be that the killings are simply opportunist. Perhaps the killer just spotted Ransom in the street. He would have-how do you say it? — stood out in the crowd here.”
“He certainly would,” Drew said. It was an unnerving thought, given that his own Caucasian features would presumably draw the same attention. He looked around the bar. Four men, all Mongolians, dressed in Western-style business suits, had come in and were drinking beers at the far end of the room. One of them glanced over and smiled vaguely in Drew’s direction. Drew looked down at his beer, feeling inexplicably vulnerable.
The restaurant maintained the standard of the rest of the hotel. The food was nothing special, but certainly comparable with that provided by most business hotels in Europe. The atmosphere was pleasant enough-dark wood, dim lights, pleasant service, even a cocktail pianist meandering through a selection of familiar melodies. Nergui remained an entirely charming host, advising on the food, suggesting they stick with beer rather than moving on to the mediocre and highly priced wine list. “It’s your choice,” he said. “But the beer is better.”
In other circumstances, Drew would have found the experience thoroughly enjoyable. Here, though, it was impossible to ignore the looming presence of the killer. Drew looked uneasily around the busy restaurant, with its chattering mix of locals and Westerners, and hoped that the presence was only metaphorical. He couldn’t understand why he felt so rattled-after all, in his time he had strolled willingly, if not always comfortably, around some of the rougher parts of inner city Manchester. It was odd to feel this level of discomfort in an upmarket hotel dining room.
Nergui carefully dissected his prawn starter. “I suppose that is the place we have to start-whether there is any significance in Ransom being the victim.” He shook his head. “If he was simply chosen at random, then our difficulty is even greater.”
Drew could see the problem. The worst possibility, from the police perspective, was that they were dealing with a psychopath with no rational motive but a high level of lethal professionalism. There would be no way of knowing where the killer might strike next, and the likelihood was that the killer would be adept at minimizing any potential leads or evidence. The only hope would be to wait until the killer made an error. And with the earlier victims still unidentified, at present the only possible lead lay with Ransom.
“You’re not likely to identify the earlier victims?” Drew asked.
Nergui glanced at Doripalam, who shook his head. “Who knows? We have gathered the forensic information. Perhaps there are more sophisticated tools in the West, but I do not know that they would tell us much more. We know as much as we can about the bodies, but we have no identities to link them to.”
“But you’ve had coverage in the media? Surely someone must know who these people are?”
Nergui smiled. “This is not like your country. A quarter of our population is nomadic. Of course, there are close family ties in many cases, and these days most people are formally registered with the state for voting and social security purposes. It’s easier than it used to be. But with all the troubles we’ve had over the last decade, there has been a lot of movement. In both directions. Nomadic people coming to the cities seeking work. And unemployed city dwellers moving out to try their hands at herding or farming-usually without much success. Some of those have lost touch with their families or friends. Some have drifted into crime or more marginal ways of surviving.” He finished the prawns and placed his knife and fork, with some precision, across the plate. “It is most likely that the victims here were not from our stable middle classes. They will probably be from our growing underclass-criminals or those on the edge of criminality. We are trying to match them up with our missing person records and we may hit lucky, but I’m not too optimistic. If someone was missing these people, we’d have heard from them by now.”
It was a desolate but logical conclusion. “And you’re sure the four deaths are related?”
“Again, who knows? It’s reasonable to assume that the first and third are related-the characteristics of the killings were identical. And the characteristics of the Ransom killing are sufficiently similar for us to assume a link. But the second killing was different-really, the only common factor was the timing and the anonymity of the victim. If you’re asking whether we have only a single killer-well, I hope so. I don’t like the idea of one murderer stalking the city, let alone two. But, yes, it’s quite possible that the second killing was simply a coincidence, and we have to keep that in mind.”
“There’s no possibility that the later murders were copycat killings?”
“Copycat killings?” Nergui frowned, puzzled at the terminology. “That is one of your tabloid phrases, no?” He translated the phrase briefly for Doripalam’s benefit.
Drew laughed. “I suppose so. I just meant, well, that a second killer might have copied the characteristics of the first killing. It’s not unknown.”
“No, I imagine not,” Nergui said. “But it sounds unlikely in this case, unless we have two psychopaths on the loose.”
“Or someone who wants you to think that the subsequent killings were random,” Drew said. But even as he spoke he was aware that this was becoming fanciful, the terrain of crime fiction rather than real life. “No, forget it. It’s nonsense.”
Nergui shook his head. “No, we need to remain open to every possibility, no matter how unlikely. As your Sherlock Holmes so rightly says.” He laughed. “Although I think this is verging on the impossible, in fact. We have not published the full details of the earlier killings-the decapitation and so on. No doubt rumors have leaked out, but no one could have the full details except from the police. Though, of course,” he added, as an afterthought, “the police themselves do not always demonstrate the highest levels of integrity. Another legacy of our recent history, I’m afraid.”
“What about some sort of gangland feud? Is that a possibility?”
“Of course. That may be the most likely explanation. Crime here has not tended to be that organized, but we cannot discount the influence of our friends across our two borders. Real organized crime is, sadly, becoming more prevalent. And it brings us back to Mr. Ransom. If this is the fallout from some sort of feud, how did an apparently unimportant geologist get caught up in it?”
“There’ve been no further murders or similar assaults since Ransom’s death?” Drew asked.
“Nothing. We have four brutal killings in less than two weeks, and then nothing. I’m glad to say,” Nergui added, in a tone that suggested this was perhaps only half true. Another killing or assault would be dreadful, of course, but might at least help to provide some further leads. “No, I’m glad there have been no more, but it makes me uneasy. I’m waiting for-” he paused.
“For the second shoe to drop?”
“A graphic expression. Yes, precisely that. A sense of something incomplete.” He shook himself, and began to attack the mutton dish which had just been placed before him. “We should stop talking shop and find something more pleasant to discuss. You enjoy soccer? Manchester United?”
“Manchester City, I’m afraid,” Drew said. “The bitter rivals.”
“Ah, but not so successful, I believe?�
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“You could say that. But we’ve had our moments. Do you play soccer here?”
Nergui nodded. “Yes, we play. It’s becoming more and more popular. And rugby. People still like the traditional sports-horses, archery, wrestling. The three manly sports, as we call them. But every day we become more part of the global community.”
“Do you want that?”
Nergui shrugged. “What I want is neither here nor there. Compared with the vast majority of people in this country, I am a global citizen. I’ve lived in Europe and the US. I’ve traveled regularly across Asia, the Middle East, Australia. I can see all the benefits of the changes that are taking place here. But I also see many losses.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Well, the losses are obvious. We’re losing our traditional ways of living, of thinking. We’re losing traditional family ties. This country has been through many changes over the last century. Things are improving now, but these are still difficult times. We have the potential to be a wealthy, successful economy, but we live in poverty and we are surrounded by predators. Not just Russia and China, but the West, too.”
“Predators?”
“Maybe I exaggerate. But I think not. I’m a patriot at heart, probably all the more so since I have traveled so widely. Most of my fellow countrymen take this country for granted. They have seen nothing else. They complain about the government. They complain about the police. They complain about the economy. All very understandable. They have been through difficult times. But I think they do not realize how much they could still lose.” He laughed suddenly. “I am sorry. We start to talk about soccer, and immediately I plunge you into despair.”
“You get used to that,” Drew said, “supporting Manchester City.”
Nergui laughed appreciatively. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I am being selfish. You must be tired and I just sit here rambling on about the state of our nation.”
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