The Shadow Walker in-1

by Michael Walters

  Drew resisted the temptation to ask whether this ambassador thought this was a good thing. “So what’s he doing dealing with this case?”

  “Well, when the civilian police was formed in the 1990s, he moved from the old militia to become head of the new serious crimes team. Then some months ago he moved back into the Ministry in what appears to be an intelligence role. He seems to have an awful lot of authority across all parts of the Ministry, and across the government in general. He appears to be trusted to get on with things in the interests of the government and the state-assuming that those are congruent, which isn’t always the case. The Minister in particular uses him as a kind of right hand man to deal with problems as they arise.”

  “You make it sound slightly sinister,” Drew said. “As if he were a Mafia hitman.”

  The ambassador smiled, faintly. “Do I? I’m sorry, that’s not intentional. I don’t think there’s anything particularly sinister about Nergui’s role, though of course we always have to bear in mind that he’s an agent of the state.”

  “And therefore not to be trusted?”

  “Well, no, I wouldn’t say that. But, as the Gospels say, no man can be the servant of two masters. If there were a conflict of interest, it’s clear where Nergui’s duty would lie.”

  “Is there likely to be conflict of interest?” Drew asked, finding himself repeating his question from the previous evening. “In this case, I mean?”

  “I shouldn’t think so for a minute, Chief Inspector,” the ambassador said. “I’m talking generalities here.”

  “Of course. So what kinds of cases does Nergui get involved in? From what you’ve said, it seems a little odd to find him caught up in a murder case, even one on this scale.”

  “Well, I think this is where you have to recognize that priorities here are probably different from those you’re used to. As I understand it, Nergui’s remit covers anything that’s a potential threat to the state. In the UK that would mean things like terrorism, subversion and so on. Lesser crimes-if I can call them that-although serious would not be construed as a threat to the state, and so would be handled by the police.”

  “The police handle terrorists,” Drew pointed out.

  “In terms of arresting suspects and so on, yes, of course,” the ambassador said. “But you would be working on the basis of information and guidance from Special Branch, MI5 and so on.”

  If only, Drew thought, but didn’t bother to interrupt.

  “But here, you see, in what is still an emerging country, any kind of large scale or serious crime can be a threat to the state-fraud, corruption, industrial sabotage-”

  “And murder?”

  “Well, not usually, because most of the murders are pretty mundane affairs. But this is different. Just the sheer scale of it. They don’t know what they’re dealing with, and my guess is that the Minister has intervened personally, which is why Nergui’s involved.”

  Drew sipped on his coffee, mulling this over. “Do you think they know something they’re not sharing with us?”

  “I was hoping you might be able to give me some insights into that one. Not immediately, of course-I realize you’ve just got here. But it would be helpful to know how your thinking develops.”

  I bet it would, Drew thought. At least now he knew why the ambassador was being so open with him.

  “My guess, though,” the ambassador went on, in the tone of one accustomed to having his guesswork taken seriously, “is that that’s not the case. Of course, they’re quite capable of not sharing information with us.” He shook his head, as if overwhelmed by the enormity of such behavior. “But I’ve got one or two sources of my own, and my impression is that they’re as baffled as we are by this.” He paused. “What’s your take on the whole thing, anyway?”

  “So far? Well, I’ve not yet been through the case notes in any detail-they sent me over some stuff but most of it would need translating, of course. I’m meeting with Nergui after this to go through it all with him. But, on the face of it, it seems an odd one. The most straightforward explanation is that we’re simply dealing with a psychopath, someone who’s just picking victims at random. A Brady or a Sutcliffe.”

  “But do-those kinds of people genuinely pick their victims at random?”

  “I’m not a psychologist, but I think there’s generally more of a common pattern than would seem to be the case here. Though of course we don’t really know if there is any pattern given that the first three victims are still unidentified.”

  “And if it’s not just a psychopath killing at random?”

  “The odd thing, I think, is how professional the earlier killings seemed to be. The removal of the identifying marks, emptying of pockets. The removal of the limbs apparently done with some precision-not that we’re looking for a skilled surgeon, but I understand it doesn’t look like the work of someone in a hurry, panicking at the scene of the crime. It’s strange behavior for a psychopath, but then I guess that psychopathic behavior is strange by definition. Equally, the scale of the killings would be odd if this were some sort of professional hit-unless we’re looking at some sort of tit for tat feud.”

  “What, organized gangs battling for turf? That kind of thing?”

  Drew smiled. “Well, it happens in Moss Side all the time. It must be a possibility. But it does raise the question of why so much trouble was taken to hide the victims’ identities. If you’re sending a message, you’d surely want to make it as unambiguous as possible. Although, of course, the identities may be crystal clear to those involved. But, as Nergui rightly pointed out to me last night, this does take us straight back to the question of Ransom’s involvement. From what we know of him, he doesn’t seem the type to get caught up in a Mafia turf war.”

  “Stranger things have happened, I suppose.”

  “Of course. But if we are talking about some kind of local internecine struggle, I can’t imagine that the parties would be keen to draw the attention of the Western media. Why go to all that trouble concealing the earlier victims’ identities, then brutally murder a Westerner in his bed in the best hotel in town?”

  “Perhaps that was the unambiguous message you were talking about?”

  For the first time, Drew looked closely at the ambassador. Behind the externally amiable old duffer, there was a very sharp and no doubt highly political brain. Maybe it was the ambassador who knew something about this that he wasn’t sharing. “Why do you say that?”

  The ambassador shrugged. “Just my Foreign Office training, Chief Inspector.” He laughed, though without obvious mirth. “If someone kills one of your citizens, particularly in this kind of brutal way, your first assumption is that they’re trying to tell you something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I haven’t a clue in this case. Our relationships with the government are generally good. There’s no great resentment to the presence of Westerners among the general population. On the contrary, they tend to see us as a source of prosperity and stability-better the West than the Russians or Chinese. I’m sure there are those who think differently, but not many. No, ignore me, Chief Inspector, like you I’m just floundering around in the dark trying to find a narrative that fits this dreadful set of incidents. In my role, I naturally gravitate toward a political interpretation first, but I suspect that in this case the truth will turn out to be much more mundane.”

  Drew was left with the sense that he’d just been given some sort of coded message but lacked the insight to decipher it.

  “Well, Chief Inspector, I suppose I’ve taken up enough of your time. But I’m sure you’ll agree that we need to keep in contact. Will you join me for dinner later in the week? Nothing fancy, but a change from the hotel. Thursday?”

  “Yes, of course.” It didn’t sound like the kind of invitation one could easily refuse.

  “I’ll get someone to pick you up from the hotel-around seven? You’re off to the police HQ now? Do you need a car?”

  “Nergui suggested I call and he’d
send one of theirs.”

  “Ah, very good. And do let Nergui know that he will be welcome to join us.” The ambassador rose and led Drew toward the door. “I think it’s very important that we keep all the lines of communication open here, don’t you?”

  Drew nodded, but with a strong sense that most of the current communications were probably going over his head. There were times when he was grateful to be nothing more than a policeman.

  The ambassador stopped in the doorway, his hand on Drew’s arm. He paused for a moment, as though considering the most appropriate form of words, then said: “Stick close to Nergui, won’t you? And watch your own back.”

  Well, Drew thought as he made his way slowly down the embassy stairs, that sounded like another unambiguous message.

  CHAPTER 5

  “One of our local heroes,” Nergui said, striding quickly ahead. Drew was finding it hard to keep up with him. Doripalam strolled some way behind them, clearly accustomed to Nergui’s ways and apparently unconcerned by any need to match his pace. “Hero of the revolution.”

  “Ah. Right.” Drew looked around the expanse of Sukh Bataar Square, dominated by the equestrian statue of the eponymous revolutionary hero. It was perhaps not one of the world’s great squares, he thought, but impressive enough. Here, Soviet-style functionality was replaced by something approaching grandeur-the squat white Parliament House, the palatial Government buildings, the imposing bulk of the city Post Office. The square was expansive but busy with people, some standing talking in the morning sun, most striding purposefully to or from the nearby shops and or the open-air Black Market. The majority were dressed in Western clothes although the older ones were often clothed in traditional robes and sashes. A group of young people, dressed in baggy sweatshirts and jeans with familiar designer labels, were gathered at one end of the square, eating ice creams from cardboard cones, outfacing the chill of the late autumn morning.

  At this time of day, the streets were busy but free flowing, the traffic moving slowly without the freneticism of a European capital. There were noisy buses, UAZ trucks and some old stuttering Lada or IZH vehicles, but also some newer looking Korean Daewoos, Hyundais and Kias. Now and again, Drew caught sight of shiny Western cars-a BMW or Mercedes-indicative of the rising wealth of at least one category of Mongolian citizen.

  “And our real hero,” Nergui said, still walking. He gestured toward a large hoarding depicting the squat image of Genghis Khan. “He’ll be watching you everywhere you go.”

  Drew had already noticed this. The standard image was everywhere-in pictures in the hotel lobby, painted in large murals on the sides of buildings, inked in tiny faded posters pasted across concrete walls. Here in the city center his ubiquitous image competed incongruously with the lingering emblems of communism and the familiar global logos, neon signs and advertising hoardings that, as capitalism had taken hold, had come to dominate the city skyline.

  “I think he still has something of a negative public image in the West, no?” Nergui said over his shoulder. “But not here. And in part perhaps rightly so. He was a ruthless conqueror, but a remarkable man.”

  Drew was feeling too breathless to respond. He had already discovered that it was difficult to keep up with Nergui, both figuratively and literally. He had called Nergui on leaving the embassy that morning, and a car had been sent over with remarkable efficiency to take him to the police HQ.

  He had found Nergui and Doripalam sitting in a small, anonymous office, with a desk full of files and papers in front of them.

  “Welcome,” Nergui said. “Please, sit down. How was the ambassador?”

  “Fine,” Drew said, warily. He was still mulling over the implications of the ambassador’s final words. “He sends you his regards. Oh, and we’re invited to dinner on Thursday. He made a point of inviting you.” Drew looked across at Doripalam with mild embarrassment. “Just Nergui, I’m afraid.”

  Doripalam made a mock grimace of disappointment, then laughed. “I will contain my disappointment,” he said. “Although if you could arrange an invitation for my wife she might appreciate it.”

  Nergui smiled at him. “It is the British way, of course. There is no situation so bad that it cannot be remedied with a good dinner. But I am invited only because he hopes for some gossip from the Ministry.”

  “So long as it is a good dinner,” Drew said. “I have my standards.”

  “The ambassador will not let you down,” Nergui smiled. “Not with regard to dinner, anyway.”

  Nergui had carefully prepared all the files, and Drew was impressed by the Mongolian’s detailed familiarity with all aspects of the case. The three men worked painstakingly through all the material, Nergui translating as necessary, highlighting any points which seemed significant or interesting. Despite their scrutiny, the process appeared to add little to their understanding of the case. Drew had expected this, he was far too experienced in such matters to imagine that some major lead would have been overlooked. Equally, though, he knew that this kind of repeated, exhaustive examination of the facts was the only practical way to proceed. Even if there were no new leads at this stage, there was always the possibility that some new development might provide some illumination to the mass of material in front of them.

  “The other question,” Drew mused as they finished working through the papers, “is where did the first and third murders actually take place?”

  Nergui nodded. “It could be anywhere in the city. There are plenty of deserted or partially demolished buildings where you could commit an act like that. We’ve had a couple of officers investigating some places, but it’s an impossible task. Unless someone stumbles on it accidentally, we’re not likely to find it. And it could have been in the back of a van or truck, somewhere like that. Or some old slaughterhouse or yard that could easily be hosed down. Anywhere.”

  “So not likely to be much help there, then. I suppose the next thing for me would be to have a look at the sites where the bodies were found. I don’t know what it’s likely to tell me, but it would be helpful to get a sense of the places.”

  “Of course,” Nergui said. “I could arrange a car, but it might be better for us to walk. We can try to give you a feel of the city.”

  If Drew had realized quite how quickly Nergui walked, he might not have taken him up on this suggestion. As it was, he found himself almost jogging behind him as they strode through the city streets, Doripalam ambling casually behind both of them. The city itself was initially unremarkable-a mix of blank-faced low-rise commercial buildings, concrete tower blocks, and the occasional striking new building. They passed stalls selling snacks and, around the square, tourist souvenirs such as the traditional brightly colored loovuuz hats, apparently identical to that sported by Sukh Bataar’s statue. Beyond, there was a large mural, formed in muted shades of brown, depicting stylized martial and equestrian images with, bizarrely, the words “Welcome to Mongolia” emblazoned in English across the top.

  But the overall effect was typical of a former Soviet satellite making its painful way into the free-enterprise world of the twenty-first century. They passed through Sukh Bataar Square, and then walked down one of the side streets. Nergui moved quickly ahead, and then stopped suddenly, turning to face Drew. “There,” he said, pointing.

  Drew caught up with him and followed the direction of Nergui’s finger. Another, smaller street led off from where they stood, dark between what appeared to be a residential tower block and an abandoned factory, its large windows long boarded up.

  “That was where the first body was found,” Nergui said, walking slowly into the dim side street. He walked twenty or thirty yards, then stopped.

  “Just here,” he said. “You can still see some of the bloodstains.”

  Drew looked down. The street was paved at the junction with the main road, but within yards degenerated into hard-packed earth. But Drew could make out the darker stains on the ground in front of them. He looked up and around at the looming building on each si
de of the street and shivered inwardly. It was not pleasant, even for an experienced policeman, to think of the headless, handless corpse being found in this bleak spot.

  “And nobody from there witnessed anything?” he said, gesturing at the tower block. Rows of blank windows stared down at them.

  “It seems not,” Doripalam said, arriving behind them. “We have had officers going door to door, of course, but so far nobody saw or heard anything. It may just be true. This street is not lit at night. The streetlighting only goes as far as there.” Doripalam pointed to the larger road they had just left. “So if the body was dumped in the hours of darkness, there is no reason why anyone should necessarily have witnessed anything.”

  “What’s this place?” Drew asked, nodding toward the commercial building on the other side.

  “Nothing now,” Doripalam said. “It used to be a clothing factory. A state run place. Made suits-like this one.” Doripalam gestured ironically at his own cheap-looking blue outfit, visible beneath his heavy overcoat. “Not exactly your Savile Row, but the best we can get. But when the government pulled out of this one, it closed. So now the place is empty.”

  “And no sign of any activity inside?”

  Doripalam shook his head. “We searched the place, of course. But no sign that it has been disturbed for months.”

  There was nothing else to be seen here. Drew and Doripalam followed Nergui as he strode swiftly back through Sukh Bataar Square, past the edifice of the Post Office building and down Lenin Avenue. Nergui pointed to the square tower of the Bayangol Hotel. “The second body was found by the hotel there,” he said. “We concluded that the victim had fallen from the roof.”