“The carpet arrived earlier today, part of a consignment of support materials for the exhibition. You know … ?”
“I know about the exhibition,” Doripalam said. Everything there is to know about it and possibly more, he added silently to himself. “We can presumably track down the firm who delivered it?”
“We’re on to that,” Batzorig said. “It wasn’t specialist stuff, I mean, not part of the exhibits. Just things like lights and stands and background materials. So it would have been just a standard courier company, not one of the specialist firms.”
“And the carpet was part of the background material?”
Batzorig shrugged. “Presumably. They assumed that one of the specialist curators had ordered it. Anyway, all the stuff was unloaded. They’d moved most of the items up into the museum, but left the carpet—I think partly because they weren’t sure where it was supposed to go, and partly just because it looked awkward to move.”
Doripalam leaned over and peered down at the body. Most of it was still hidden by the carpet, but the eyes were staring blankly upwards, the face a ghostly white. “When did they find the body?”
“About an hour ago. Someone started messing about with the carpet, wondering why it was so badly rolled. It had been tied up with string, which was really all that was holding the body in there. They cut the string, the end fell back and—well, you can see.”
Doripalam nodded. “It presumably wasn’t intended to be hidden for very long?”
“It wasn’t even rolled into the centre of the carpet. The intention was clearly that it would fall out as soon as the ties were cut.”
“Nice. Any clues about the victim?”
Batzorig shook his head. “I haven’t wanted to disturb anything, so haven’t gotten too close. But he’s not a local.”
Doripalam looked up at him. “Not a Mongolian?”
“No. You can see if you look closer. Not sure what he is. Turkish, maybe. Or Middle Eastern.”
“And definitely a ‘he’?”
Batzorig smiled. “Well, again, I’ve not looked too closely. But there’s a moustache.”
Doripalam bit back an inappropriately facetious comment. “You’ve put out an enquiry for any missing persons?”
“Of course. The fact that he’s not a local may make it easier.” Or, as they both knew, might make it considerably harder. There were fewer illegal immigrants here than in many countries—not least because there was relatively little to come here for—but there were enough. And if this was one of those transients without documentation, without a history, without any official identify, they might never discover his name.
“Any ideas on the cause of death?”
Batzorig shook his head. “Not for sure. There’s some significant bruising on the face, but I don’t know what else there might be on the body.”
Doripalam nodded slowly. “And we’re still waiting for the pathologist as well, of course?”
Batzorig nodded apologetically. “I’m assured he’s on his way.”
“Or will be eventually. What about witnesses?”
“Well, apart from Solongo—”
“You’ll need to do the formal interview. We need to do all this by the book.” Which was true, but it didn’t entirely account for Doripalam’s reluctance to deal with his wife on what was now very much her home territory. “Who else?”
“Well, there are four or five assistants who were down here. It was one of them who actually found the body.”
“Museum employees?”
“One of them is, I think. The rest are volunteers—mostly students getting some experience by helping out with the exhibition.”
Doripalam knew all about these. He had heard plenty from Solongo about their inexperience, their incompetence, their general ability to disrupt the smooth implementation of her plans. “Are we likely to get anything useful from them?”
“I doubt it. They might be able to tell us something about the delivery. But even the one who first found the body—well, he’s not seen much more than we have.”
“Where are they?”
“I’ve put them in one of the meeting rooms upstairs. Made sure nobody left before you got here.”
That was Batzorig’s strength: simple reliability. You knew that everything that should have been done would have been. He was unlikely to have done anything very innovative or unexpected—though he had surprised Doripalam once or twice. But, for all his experience of working alongside Nergui, Doripalam still held the view that inspiration was over-rated. At least this way nothing would be missed.
“Okay,” he said, wearily, tasting in his mind the clean cold edge of the beer he had left behind in the Khanbrau. “Let’s get on with it.”
It was a smaller gathering even than Gundalai had expected—scarcely a dozen in total. Predictably enough, most of them were students, eager-looking young people with the light of idealism bright in their eyes. One of them, a young man in a fake Nike teeshirt, had brought a bottle of vodka, and two or three of them were taking covert sips and becoming increasingly rowdy. An old man, dressed in a thick grey del that looked far too hot for the summer weather, sat behind them, exuding disapproval. All of them were looking expectantly towards Odbayar.
Odbayar himself was sitting behind the desk at the front of the hall, an overhead projector beaming the familiar image of Genghis Khan on to a screen behind him. He seemed entirely unfazed by the low turnout. With this size of audience, the platform and microphone seemed absurdly superfluous, but Odbayar was impervious to potential ridicule. He tapped on the microphone and leaned forward slowly.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, not entirely accurately since there was only one woman in the room, “comrades. Thank you for taking the time and trouble to attend our meeting this evening.” He paused, as though expecting a smattering of applause. “We are a small gathering, but we are the start of a great movement. It may be that, in the years to come, this meeting will be seen as a turning point in the history of our great nation. You will be proud to tell your children, and your children’s children, that you were here tonight.”
In his way, Odbayar was an impressive orator. His style was unvarying—a string of platitudes and clichés designed to flatter whatever audience was in front of him—but the effect was genuinely impressive. Even the vodka drinkers had momentarily put aside the bottle and were listening intently.
“All of you know,” Odbayar went on, “that we are living in the midst of scandal. Our government has betrayed us. No, it is worse than that. Our government continues to betray us, hour by hour, day by day, week by week. Each sunrise brings a new scandal, a further betrayal. Each day another piece of our wealth, our history, our heritage is given away for little more than a handful of coins. Each day we hand over another part of our nation to those who lie beyond our borders; to those who wish only to exploit our wealth and resources, to diminish our power and, yes, perhaps to rule over us as we once ruled over half the world.” His voice had risen to something of a climax, although Gundalai knew from painful experience that there was plenty more to come. He had heard this speech twenty or more times over the preceding days as Odbayar had rehearsed his delivery. Odbayar would be delivering the same speech again and again in coming weeks, in student halls and public meetings, trying to drum up the level of popular activism that would match his own heart-felt indignation.
There was no question, at least in Gundalai’s mind, that Odbayar was sincere. Some would see him as an opportunist, an aspiring politician on the make. But Gundalai had known Odbayar for years—they had been schoolchildren and then students together—and, whatever faults he might have, hypocrisy was not among them. With Odbayar, what you saw was exactly what you got, often painfully so. He simply assumed that he was right and that his view should take precedence over everyone else’s. It was the kind of personality that might just be capable of changing the world.
Odbayar’s oration had increased in both volume and intensity, and he was lean
ing forward over the desk, jabbing his index finger towards the scattered figures in the audience. “This is the truth,” he said, in a tone which implied that he was providing them with access to verities previously undisclosed to mankind. “Over the past decade, the government—your government—has consistently failed to protect your interests. They have made deal after deal. They have talked about inward investment. They have talked about the vast wealth supposedly flowing into our country. They have talked about improving our standard of living. They have talked about creating a future that is the equal to our glorious past. But what have they really done? What have they really achieved? All they have done is sell our precious assets—our minerals, our mining rights, our copper and our gold—and gained nothing, or next to nothing, in return. All we have done is make the rich Western world still richer, and mortgaged our own future to those who wish us only harm.”
Gundalai couldn’t quite buy into all this rhetoric, though he agreed with the broad thrust of Odbayar’s words. Like many of his countrymen, his attitude towards the government—any government—was one of deep cynicism. He was just old enough to recall the dying days of the self-serving communist era, and he had seen little evidence that things had changed much since then. It was essentially the same party in charge now, and even when the parties and the individuals were shuffled, the personalities remained much the same. They were all in it for what they could get out of it. Sometimes the self-interest was naked—there had been a growing number of corruption cases in recent years, and probably countless more that went unreported or even undetected. But often it was more subtle, and perhaps more insidious. The old regime had created its own elite, its over-class, and the new order had quickly done the same, often with the same individuals benefiting.
He envied Odbayar’s clarity of focus, his unswerving belief that he could be the one who would finally change all this. But he didn’t believe that change was really possible. And even if it was, it was unlikely to be for the better.
Gundalai realised with a start that he had ceased to listen to Odbayar’s speech, lulled by the all-too-familiar cadences. Odbayar already reaching the climax of his speech, the rapt audience hanging on each word, eager to see how he would conclude.
As Odbayar raised his voice to embark on the final, climactic passage of his speech, there was a deafening explosion from the rear of the hall. Gundalai heard the sound of something shattering, and then screams, and suddenly he was pushed violently backwards and he heard nothing more.
CHAPTER FOUR
The interviews had seemed interminable, but had told them almost nothing. Between them, Doripalam and Batzorig had interviewed all the museum staff on duty that afternoon, including the volunteers working with Solongo. Most had been in other parts of the building and could tell them nothing of value. The small group who had been present in the loading bay when the body was discovered added their individual perspectives and colour but little of substance.
It wasn’t even clear who had actually discovered the body. At least two of the young men claimed this dubious honour, each reporting confidently that he had been the one to notice the odd bulging of the carpet and cut the restraining strings.
In the end, Doripalam had interviewed Solongo after all, deciding that it was cowardice rather than protocol that had prompted him to suggest Batzorig should take on the task. Even so, the interview had proved largely unilluminating. She seemed amused to find herself facing her earnest-looking husband in the untidy office they had commandeered as an interview room. “I’m obviously privileged if I’m being dealt with by the man in charge,” she said, her face betraying no expression. “Are you sure that’s quite in order?”
Doripalam shrugged. “Probably quite out of order. I just wanted to find out how you were.” He glanced across at the uniformed officer who was sitting at the side of the room, taking notes, but the other man studiously avoided his gaze.
Solongo said nothing for a moment, as though weighing up the significance of what he had just said, and then suddenly smiled with what seemed genuine warmth. “I’m fine,” she said. “Really. It takes more than a dead body to put my off my stride. And, to be honest, it’s the least of the problems we have around here.”
“How’s it going? The exhibition, I mean.” It was a question he hardly dared raise at home these days. He wondered whether she might be more forthcoming in this formal environment.
She smiled. “Oh, you know. Could be worse. I’m not sure how, though. But that’s not really what this interview’s about, is it?”
Doripalam nodded, understanding the unspoken message. Not in front of the junior officers. Well, fair enough. He did have a job to do. “Let’s get down to business, then. You were called when they found the body?”
She nodded. “Just because I’m the person in charge, I think. They didn’t know what else to do.”
“Who fetched you?”
“Batdorj. He’s one of the volunteers. A bit more experienced than some of them.”
“Did he actually find the body?” Batdorj was being interviewed by Batzorig, and was not one of the two young men who had so far laid claim to this distinction.
“He didn’t say so. There was a group of them down there. Once one of them opened the carpet, they’d have all seen it pretty much simultaneously, I imagine.” She paused. “I can’t say I reacted very calmly myself, even though I’d already been told that something was wrong.”
Doripalam glanced up at her. That was part of it, he thought, part of the reason she was reacting like this. She was disappointed with—ashamed of—her own reaction to finding the body, as if she had exposed some unacceptable weakness.
“Anyone would have been shocked,” he said. “Even in this job, it never gets any easier.” He hesitated. “Can you tell me what you saw? I mean, we can wait till later—”
“It’s not difficult now,” she said briskly, “but I can’t imagine I can add anything to what others have told you.”
He shrugged. “You never know. You might have seen something that the others didn’t.”
“I know. You’ve told me often enough: the need to be rigorous. Attention to detail.”
He smiled. “I’m glad you were paying attention.”
She glanced across at the uniformed officer, her smile unwavering. “I hang on your every word, darling. So let me think it through. Batdorj came to find me.”
“You were upstairs?”
She nodded, and he thought he detected an unfamiliar flush of embarrassment. “I was outside. Having a cigarette, actually.” For a second, she had the air of a schoolgirl caught out by a stern teacher. Then she laughed and the image was instantly dispelled. “Bloody typical, really. First time in the day I grab five minutes off, and they find a dead body.”
“Did he tell you what they’d found?”
“No. I think they were all a bit shocked. Didn’t quite believe it. Batdorj just told me I needed to come. I assumed it was another breakage.”
Doripalam had heard plenty about breakages over the past few weeks, along with Solongo’s broader litany of complaints about the incompetence of those charged with transporting, delivering and displaying the exhibits. He still couldn’t quite understand why she had allowed herself to get caught up in all this: the anniversary exhibition—the centerpiece of the summer’s celebrations of the founding of the Mongol empire. A pretty big deal, and somehow Solongo, with undeniable ability but limited experience, had found herself in charge of it after the museum director, a world-renowned expert in Mongolian history, had suffered some kind of minor nervous breakdown and had departed on indefinite sick leave, only weeks before the exhibition was due to open. “And, knowing what I know now,” she had added, “I can’t say I’m surprised he did.”
There had been no time to spare so they couldn’t re-advertise the job or take any formal steps to find a replacement so they’d turned to Solongo. Or, more accurately, Doripalam thought, she had realised how desperate they were and had offered her serv
ices. She was a trustee of the museum, and had been involved in various exhibitions. She had some experience in organising public events after leaving university. But she had never been involved in anything remotely like this.
As soon as she’d taken over, she realised that her predecessor had had no capacity for organising or managing an event of this magnitude. Solongo’s challenge, in the absence of any other willing volunteers, was simply to ensure that the exhibition actually happened. Which, when she’d taken over, had been far from a foregone conclusion.
Doripalam knew that it was the challenge that had attracted her. She was an extremely capable woman, who had felt wasted hobnobbing with the great and the good, and she had desperately wanted to prove that she could do something more than that.
“There are exhibits coming in from all over the world?” Doripalam said, mainly for the benefit of the note-taker. He had heard all about this too many times already. “How are the materials delivered?”
“There are specialist transport companies—people who are supposedly expert in dealing with this kind of material, though you wouldn’t always believe it when you see what they do. Most of the specialist stuff is transported like that—a complete nightmare in terms of insurance and so on.”
“And this carpet—that would just have been a standard delivery?”
“I presume so. A whole stack of background stuff turned up this morning: two or three deliveries. As always, it wasn’t clear who’d actually ordered what. I have an overview, but there are specialist curators who are looking after specific aspects of the exhibition. They have their own budgets to hire any background materials they need—stands, specific lighting—”
“So you wouldn’t be involved in those kinds of ordering?”
“Not usually. So long as they were in budget and weren’t ordering anything out of the ordinary.”
“And that might include carpets?”
She frowned. “I wouldn’t see a carpet as part of the standard requirements. I suppose I can envisage how it might be used but I’d expect it to be cleared with me first. I’m not even sure where it would come from—most of our stuff is organised through a small number of specialist suppliers.”
The Outcast Page 4
