The Shadow Walker in-1

by Michael Walters

  He was not surprised that the Minister, looking for a trustworthy ally in an increasingly turbulent political world, should have seen Nergui as one of the few individuals with the necessary abilities and personal integrity. And, in the circumstances, he could hardly be surprised that Nergui had found the offer impossible to refuse. But he suspected that, for all the prestige and material rewards associated with his new role, the old man would never be comfortable shuffling papers.

  “For what it’s worth,” Doripalam said, in response to Nergui’s question, “I don’t think the murders are linked. I think it’s probably just coincidence. It’s unusual to have two such murders in close proximity, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Or maybe it’s some small-time feud. If so, I don’t think anyone other than maybe their mothers will be grieving too hard.”

  So, in the face of this summary dismissal, Nergui’s interest had remained casual. There were no evident tie-ups with the other cases that his team in the Ministry was currently investigating-the largest of which was a complex corruption case in the taxation office. In truth, there was no reason to justify even the limited amount of time he had spent on the murder cases. He told himself that it was useful to keep in touch with developments in other areas of the Ministry. But he knew he was fooling himself, trying to find some justification for dabbling again in his old area of expertise.

  But that all changed when they found the third body.

  It was discovered three days after the second, and Nergui took the call within thirty minutes of the body being found. It was not merely the usual routine passing on of information, but the Minister himself, clearly agitated. Nergui spoke with him frequently, often two or three times a day, and he knew that the Minister was not easily rattled. On the whole, Nergui had little sympathy with either the Minister’s politics or his ethics, but he had already learned to be grateful for the politician’s calmness in the face of crisis.

  “You’ve heard they’ve found another body, Nergui?”

  “Another body? When?” Nergui assumed that the Minister had only just learned about the second killing. His staff tended to brief him only on the day’s essentials, and it was reasonable to assume that a sordid street murder would not rate highly in the Minister of Justice’s priorities.

  “This morning.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard yet.” He wondered how long it would be before the neatly typed scene of crime report dropped unbidden on to his desk.

  “This is becoming a dangerous place to live, Nergui.”

  Nergui sighed inwardly. He knew that the Minister’s primary interest would be how this would play in the media. Under the old regime, this would not have been a problem. These days, although the state still owned the radio and television, the clusters of privately owned newspapers made old style censorship virtually impossible. There were times when Nergui wondered whether this was entirely a positive outcome. At least in the old days you knew where you stood, even if it was in a state of blind ignorance. Today, the media agenda was more subtle but equally pernicious, as a multitude of owners-from individual entrepreneurs to political parties-made sure that their own perspectives were appropriately represented.

  “Does there seem to be a link to the other murders?” Nergui asked.

  “To the first, anyway,” the Minister said.

  “The decapitation?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Any clues on identity?”

  “None, apparently. Just like the others.”

  “Right. I assume you’ve spoken to Serious Crimes-”

  “Nergui,” the Minister said. “You know as well as I do that the state police department, Serious Crimes or otherwise, is divided pretty equally between the corrupt and the inept. They could barely cope with the theft of a tourist’s bicycle. Why do you think I was so keen to co-opt the one decent brain I found in the place? From where I’m sitting, this is a priority. No, this is the priority. Forget all the banking and state corruption stuff. We can afford to let them steal a bit more. I want you back there to sort this one out.”

  Despite himself, Nergui momentarily felt his spirit lighten, but his better judgment prevailed. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea. And, with respect, your comments aren’t entirely fair. Doripalam’s an excellent man-”

  “Which is why, if I recall, he got the job as your successor with barely five years’ experience under his belt. As I understand it, he was the only one there with a degree of integrity and two brain cells to rub together. But he’ll be out of his depth with this, and I want it sorted quickly. I’ve already told them you’re going back. I’ve told them to give you whatever you need. But get it dealt with.”

  Thanks, Nergui thought. The police always love being told what to do by politicians. Especially when it’s the prodigal son returning from his cushy billet as the Justice Minister’s favored lackey. And for all their friendship and mutual respect, Doripalam was unlikely to be first in the welcoming committee. He was already fighting an uphill struggle to gain credibility with the longer-serving but much less able officers who were now reporting to him. The enforced return of Nergui at the first sign of difficulty was hardly likely to strengthen Doripalam’s position in the team.

  Nergui couldn’t help feeling some irrational guilt. In his heart, he knew-and he suspected that Doripalam would also know-that this was exactly the development that he’d been quietly fantasizing about throughout the whole of the last six mind-numbing months.

  “Okay,” he said at last. “If you say so, Minister. I’ll do my best.”

  The Minister hung up. Nergui stared for a moment at the receiver, wondering why it was that the politician judged it appropriate to dispense with all the standard courtesies in his dealings with others. Then, hesitating only momentarily, he dialed Doripalam’s number.

  “It’s okay,” Doripalam said, before Nergui could launch into an explanation. “I’ve already been told. At least now I know why you were so keen to meet for coffee.” “Doripalam, that’s not-”

  “No, I know. I was joking. I’m not exactly overjoyed, but I don’t imagine this is your fault. At least I hope not. We have to make the best of it.”

  “I’ll try to make it as painless as possible,” Nergui said. “Really.”

  “Yes,” Doripalam said. “I’m sure you will.”

  An hour later, Nergui stood silently with the young man, examining the desolate spot where the third body had been found. The body itself had been taken away for the post mortem. Nergui had seen it briefly, but it had told him nothing except how disgusting a mutilated human body can look. Which was something he already knew too well.

  They were on the edge of the city, the dark green mountains rising behind them. This was one of the areas where the population still lived largely in the traditional round nomadic tents, rather than in the endless rows of faceless apartments that had grown during the Communist era. The presence of the tents was commonplace, even in this urban environment, but Nergui, after his time in the West, found it jarring.

  It was tradition, of course, a way of life uniquely appropriate to the climate and lifestyle of the country. But it was a strange way to live, he thought, as though the inhabitants were trying to deny the city’s existence, desperate to be up and on the move instead. Or perhaps that was not so odd. In this land, it was the city, the presumption of permanence, that was the aberration. And there was no question that the tents were solid and comfortable enough with their wooden frames and brightly painted doors, the thick felt and canvas of the walls. With the central stove burning, a few glasses of vodka, and the shared body heat of a family, it was possible to repel even the harshest of Mongolian winters. And Nergui had to acknowledge that the clusterings of family groups, the ails, offered a sense of community that was different from anything he had ever known.

  But the body had been found outside all of this, dumped in a scrubby knot of fir trees in a small ravine. It was a bleak spot, especially so late in the year when, even at midday, the low
sun barely penetrated its shadows. There had been a stream running through here, but the dry autumn had left the ground parched and cracked. The trees and bushes were scattered with garbage, rusting tins and rotting cardboard discarded from the camp above.

  Earlier that morning, an aging guard dog, left prowling by the edge of the camp while its owner sat outside his tent boiling water for tea, had suddenly raced off into the ravine, barking endlessly. By the time the owner had caught up, the dog had been snarling at a bundle dumped in some bushes. Even without touching the object, the owner had had some premonition about its contents and had backed up the slope to track down the local police.

  It was fortunate that he had not looked more closely. The state of the body was even worse than that of the first. The head and hands had been removed, the severed neck and wrists yawning bloodily, and there were similar large knife wounds to the chest, this time cut savagely down to the bone. There was little blood and the body had not yet begun to decay. The murder had clearly happened in some other location, and relatively recently. The pathologist had quickly concluded that death had been caused by the stab wounds, but that again the removal of the limbs had taken place after death. Given the cold weather, it was difficult as yet to pinpoint the time of death precisely, but the killing had probably taken place overnight or even earlier that morning, perhaps only some six or seven hours before. It was not clear how the body had been transported to this spot, although it would not have been difficult to get a van or truck close to the edge of the ravine.

  The victim was dressed in a heavyweight burgundy del, the traditional garb of the herdsmen out on the steppes, a heavy robe wrapped around the body, tied with an ornate but faded belt, designed to combat the rigors of the Mongolian winter. Such clothing was still commonplace even in the city, particularly among the older residents.

  “Can we identify the clothing?” Nergui asked. “This isn’t one of those mass-produced Chinese suits.”

  Doripalam shrugged. “We might. But I’m not optimistic. The del and the boots are both years old, though they’ve worn well. The labels have been removed. That stuff could have been made or purchased anywhere in the country. Probably goes back to Soviet times.”

  “So what else do we have?”

  “Not much. Another male, probably in his late forties, fairly short and stout, and definitely Mongolian. There are no other identifying features. No other possessions. In a word-nothing.” Doripalam shook his head and then kicked at the hard ground in frustration. “Just another nameless corpse.”

  It was a cold clear morning, and the temperature had dropped from the brief Indian summer of the previous week. Winter was on the way, and the young man had a heavy black overcoat pulled tightly around him. He was a slight figure, constantly full of nervous energy. He took several steps out into the scrubby wasteland and then turned back, as though pacing a room. His dark hair, Nergui noted, was perhaps slightly too long.

  “They weren’t making any attempt to hide the body,” Nergui said. It was a comment rather than a question.

  “If they’d wanted to conceal it, they wouldn’t have chosen this spot.” He gestured up at the rows of gers visible above the ravine. “There are people down here all the time. People with their dogs. Children playing.”

  “Lucky it was a dog found it, then,” Nergui said grimly.

  Doripalam nodded. “But you have to say,” he added, “that it’s as if they wanted it to be found.”

  “That seems a potential link between the three killings,” Nergui said. “The bodies were left in places where they were bound to be found quickly, even though in two cases the murders took place elsewhere. But the killer has gone to great lengths to make sure we can’t easily identify the bodies. So why not hide the bodies as well?”

  Doripalam shrugged. “I couldn’t begin to imagine the thought processes of someone who does this.”

  Nergui had been peripherally involved in a couple of serial killer cases while liaising with his Russian counterparts, and he was well aware of the confused psychology that underpinned such acts. That, of course, was to assume that these murders were indeed the work of a psychopath. Taken in isolation, the apparent professionalism of the murders would have suggested something more cold-blooded, more calculated; a commercial transaction. But three professional hits in two weeks seemed unlikely.

  “Do you seriously think they’re linked?” asked Doripalam, reading Nergui’s thoughts. He knew well enough why the Minister had requested Nergui’s return. And, as Nergui had half-suspected, while Doripalam had been far from pleased at the implied judgment of his own abilities, he had to admit some private relief that if they really were facing a serial killer, it would be Nergui’s handling of the case under scrutiny. “I mean, the second body as well?”

  Nergui shrugged. “I don’t know any more than you,” he said. It was always worth saying that, even though Doripalam wouldn’t believe him. The police always assumed that the Ministry was privy to information denied to ordinary officers. If only they realized how rarely that was the case, Nergui thought. “It’s difficult to imagine that this one isn’t linked to the first, but the second-who knows? But, given the timing, I guess there are enough similarities for us to at least bear it in mind until we’ve got some better ideas.”

  They trudged back up the steep slope to where the gers were clustered. After the gloomy shadows of the ravine, the bright morning sunshine created at least an illusion of warmth. A group of middle-aged women, mostly dressed in dark-colored felt robes and heavy boots, were standing talking, watching the two policemen with apparent suspicion. Other women were sitting at the south-facing doors of their gers, washing clothes in plastic bowls or carefully chopping vegetables, peering at the two men from under their tightly bound head scarves.

  There was a man, a heavyweight brown del pulled tightly around his body, a gray beret clamped firmly on his head, crouching by the engine of an old Russian IJ Planeta motorbike, carrying out some kind of work on the engine. He had a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, apparently unconcerned about his proximity to the bike’s fuel tank. A small group of children, dressed mostly in Western-style jeans and thick sweaters, were gathered around him, watching intently as if he were some form of street entertainment. There was a radio playing in the distance, a keening traditional tune probably playing on the state channel. In counterpoint to the plangent music, a dog barked shrilly and incessantly. From somewhere, there was the rich smell of roasting meat and the softer scent of wood smoke. It was difficult to imagine a psychopath stalking this community.

  “You’ve made inquiries among this lot?” Nergui asked.

  “We’ve started,” Doripalam said. “Nobody saw or heard anything last night, so they say.”

  “Nothing?”

  “So they say.”

  Nergui nodded. It was always the same. It had, apparently, been the same at the hotel. No one had seen or heard anything. “Still, we have to keep asking. We may get something eventually.”

  “You never know,” Doripalam said.

  Nergui shook his head. This was going nowhere. It was all just routine stuff, which Doripalam would handle as well, if not better, than he could. Forensic examination of the victims’ bodies. Attempts to gather any relevant data they could from the records. Links to any previous killings-though Nergui could think of no obvious ones. Routine questioning of possible witnesses. The usual grind of investigative work. But, unless they could begin to unravel the mystery of who the victims were, Nergui couldn’t see them making any headway. It wasn’t the kind of thing he would say to the Minister, but the best hope of their making further progress would be for the killer to strike again. Ideally, he added to himself as an afterthought, without actually succeeding.

  As it turned out, Nergui’s unexpressed wish was soon granted, though only in part. The killer struck again, and unexpectedly quickly. Unfortunately, he was all too successful.

  The call came at around eleven the following morning
. Nergui was in his new office in police HQ, reading and rereading through the police reports on the previous killings. He had not thought it appropriate to turf Doripalam out of the office that had previously been his own, and had been quite happy to lodge himself in a small, unused room at the end of the corridor, with only a cheap desk and an empty filing cabinet for company. He hoped that this was at least sending the right message to Doripalam and the rest of the team.

  Even before he picked up the phone, his instincts were telling him that this was not good news.

  “Nergui? It’s Doripalam.”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s been another one.”

  “Already? The Minister was right for once-this is getting a dangerous place to live. Where?”

  “The Chinggis. In one of the bedrooms.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I don’t hear you laughing.”

  Nergui was silent for a moment. The Chinggis Khaan was one of the city’s newest hotels, built in response to the growing business and tourist trade in the city. Any incident there would have major repercussions, maybe even international repercussions. The Minister, it was safe to predict, would not be happy.

  “Do we think it’s linked to the others?” Nergui asked.

  “It’s difficult to say,” Doripalam said, after a pause. “This one’s different.”

  “Different how?” Nergui asked, already dreading the answer.

  “I think you’d better come see for yourself.”

  It took only minutes for Nergui to reach the hotel in an official car, sirens screaming. The Chinggis was a striking building, a successful attempt to bring Western-style service and luxury to the city. Some of the other hotels, including the Bayangol, had subsequently emulated its style, upgrading their previously basic facilities to something that might begin to meet Western expectations.