“But you’ve never seen it work?”
“No, never. I’ve always had mixed feelings about it. We wouldn’t usually initiate it-though I know there are some senior officers who take it seriously-but we wouldn’t stand in the way if, say, the parents wanted to try it. But I’m always afraid they’re being taken for a ride. There are unscrupulous people out there, who’ll take advantage even in a situation like that.”
“So you think these people-mediums, whatever you choose to call them-are all charlatans?” There was something forensic in Professor Wilson’s approach, as though he were a prosecuting barrister trying to get the better of a hostile witness.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Drew said, though privately he thought he would probably say exactly that. “I mean, some of the people I’ve encountered seemed genuine enough. In the sense that they believed in what they were doing, at any rate.”
“But you never saw it work?”
“Never. There have been several occasions when we’ve all gone traipsing off, feeling slightly ridiculous, because one of these people had said we would find something in a particular location-a field or woodland or whatever. But we never did.”
“But there have been instances where the police have been guided accurately by mediums, haven’t there?” Helena Wilson said.
“I believe so,” Drew said. “I’ve read press stories about them, and I’ve met some senior experienced policemen who give some credence to it. But it’s not been my experience.”
He wasn’t entirely sure how they’d got into this conversation. It had started with some comments-apparently humorous-from Helena Wilson about her own “second sight.” She had explained that she had grown up with a sense of being able to predict events or, on occasions, be aware of events happening elsewhere.
“It’s one of Helena’s hobby horses,” her husband said. “As a man of science, I struggle with it a little.”
“Rubbish, I’m not suggesting anything unscientific. I’m not even suggesting that it’s necessarily true. It’s not something I can turn on or turn off at will.” This was obviously an argument that they had rehearsed on many occasions, and there was no rancor in her voice. “But I have had certain experiences, which I’d struggle to explain.”
“What kinds of experiences?” Nergui said, sitting forward.
“Oh, well, you know, having a sense that something’s going to happen before it does.”
“Like predicting 9/11? There were, inevitably, people who claimed to have done that,” the ambassador said.
She shook her head hard. “No, in my experience, it’s something much more personal, much closer to home. It’s the sense of-oh, I don’t know, things like meeting someone and feeling that something bad is going to happen to them. And then it does-they have an accident or whatever.”
“And this has happened to you?” Nergui asked.
“Yes, exactly that. I’ve also, on a couple of occasions, been aware of accidents or illnesses affecting people close to me before I’ve been told about them.”
“That could just be coincidence,” her husband pointed out. “It’s the usual story. You factor out all the times you had that feeling but nothing happened.”
“I can’t argue with that. But I honestly can’t recall having that feeling without some resulting event. Which doesn’t mean that there haven’t been plenty of occasions when I’ve not had the feeling but the person’s gone ahead and had an accident anyway.” She laughed. “I’m not making any serious claims for this, you understand, just telling you what I’ve felt.”
“What about you, Nergui? Have you ever been involved in using mediums?” Dr. Wilson turned to Nergui.
Nergui shook his head. Drew had noticed that although Nergui appeared to be accepting and consuming wine and port along with the rest of them, he was displaying no sign of inebriation. Drew wished he could say the same for himself. He was finding it increasingly difficult to string a coherent sentence together. “I’m afraid not,” Nergui said. “Though perhaps sometimes it would be better if we did. It might improve our success rate. I also think that attitudes are a little different here. We would not use a medium in the sense you describe, but many of my colleagues would see a spiritual dimension to their role.”
“What sort of spiritual dimension?” Professor Wilson asked.
“It varies. Religion and spiritualism have a confused history here, mainly resulting from the Stalinist suppression of religion. So now we have some people who are genuinely Buddhists, others who have adopted some of the Buddhist or Taoist principles, some who are following older shamanist traditions, and so on. Not to mention the increasing number of evangelical Christians-one of the growing effects of Western influences. But I think it would not be unusual to find officers who used-well, let us call them spiritual methods, such as meditation, as part of their work. And some of that, I think, would not be too far away from what we have been talking about.”
It was after midnight by now, and he looked at his watch. “It is late,” he said. “We should perhaps be thinking about going home.”
The idea of going home seemed powerfully attractive to Drew. The idea of returning to the Chinggis Khaan was rather less so, but he was conscious of increasing tiredness and inebriation. “I think that would be a good idea, if you’ll excuse us.”
The ambassador made a show of encouraging them to stay, but it was clearly little more than politeness. It had actually been a very enjoyable evening-not at all what he had been expecting, Drew thought. The Wilsons were not the kind of people he would normally spend an evening with, but their company had certainly been stimulating.
The ambassador led them back down the stairs to the main entrance hall. Outside, the air was icy, a thick frost already gathering on the street. Nergui had summoned an official car to take him back to his apartment-Drew noted that such transport seemed to be available without difficulty to Nergui at any time of the day or night. They stood at the top of the steps, looking down at the car, its engine running in the empty street.
“Can I offer you a lift?” Nergui said. The Wilsons, like Drew, were staying at the Chinggis Khaan. “It’s a cold night.”
As the cold air hit him, Drew began to feel the effect of the alcohol. “If it’s all the same to you,” he said, “I think I wouldn’t mind the walk. It’s only five minutes.”
The Wilsons looked at each other. “I wouldn’t mind a lift,” Helena Wilson said. “These heels aren’t ideal for an icy street, especially after a few drinks.”
“You’re sure you don’t want a lift, Drew?” Nergui looked at him closely. “You’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Drew said. “Should have taken a bit more water with it, that’s all. Fresh air will do me good.”
He followed the others down the steps to the car. Nergui ushered the Wilsons into the back, and then climbed into the front by the driver. Helena Wilson started to close the rear door, then stopped, looking at Drew. “Chief Inspector. Drew,” she said. “Are you sure you won’t come with us? There’s plenty of room.”
“No, really, it’s okay.” He had started to walk away, feeling unstable.
“Drew,” she said again. “I-” She stopped as if unsure how to go on. “Please. Take care, won’t you?”
He turned, surprised by the sudden urgency in her tone. She closed the car door as the driver started to pull away, but was still watching him earnestly through the window. He thought, for a moment before the car moved, that there was a look in her eyes that was close to fear.
The car did a U-turn, and accelerated past him. He saw Nergui wave a farewell gesture through the front window. Helena Wilson was still watching him, looking back through the rear window. And then the car turned the corner, and was gone.
Drew straightened up, trying to maintain his equilibrium. He really had drunk much more than he had realized. That was the problem with whisky. The effects hit you suddenly, later. He stumbled slightly, and then began to walk slowly down the street, the large angular bul
k of the hotel already visible against the clear night sky. The street was deserted and silent, white with the thickening frost.
He had walked only a few more feet when he heard a sudden tumble of footsteps behind him. He half turned, startled by the unexpected sound. For a moment, he caught sight of a shadow, the glint of something in the pale streetlight. And then he was pushed, hard, the force of the blow sending him sliding across the icy pavement. He tripped and stumbled, trying to regain his balance, as something hit him again. He rolled over, his eyes filled first with the glare of the streetlight, then with a jumble of stars and a looming shadow. And then with darkness.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 13
“Nergui?”
Nergui looked up. Through the narrow window, he could see the sky lightening outside. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting here, reading through the case files.
“Brought you this.” It was Doripalam, holding two mugs of coffee.
“Thanks,” he said. “I need it.”
“Well, I was making one,” the young man said. “And I saw that you were already in.” He placed the mug carefully down on Nergui’s desk. “How was the ambassador’s party?”
Nergui gestured him to sit down. “Alcoholic,” he said. “But otherwise better than feared. We met a couple of rather odd Brits. He was a chemist who was also a civil servant. She was an anthropologist doing some work on our folk traditions. Or something like that.”
“You’re making my night at home sound more attractive by the second.”
“Just bear that in mind when they come to offer you a job in the Ministry,” Nergui said.
“That may be a little while yet.”
“Well, the way this case is going there could be a vacancy before long. Not that I’d necessarily recommend you take it.” “That why you’re in so early?”
Nergui looked up at Doripalam, wondering quite what was going through the younger man’s mind. He was probably feeling some relief now that it was Nergui’s reputation on the line in this case, but Nergui guessed that his feelings were likely to be more complicated than that.
“Not really. Didn’t get home till late. Then I couldn’t sleep so I thought I might as well come in. But all I’ve been doing is rereading the files. I keep hoping that something new is going to leap out at me, but of course it doesn’t.”
“No news on our missing American?”
“Maxon? No, he’s just vanished. Seems unbelievable. You’d imagine that a Westerner couldn’t stay undetected for five minutes down there, but he seems to have managed it.”
“Maybe he’s dead too?”
Nergui nodded. The same thought had, of course, already occurred to him. He had assumed that Maxon had been riding the motorbike he had heard accelerating away from the camp before he found the two bodies. But maybe it had been someone else. Maybe Maxon had been another victim, not the perpetrator. Certainly it would be much easier to hide a dead body down there than a living Westerner. But it still wasn’t a straightforward explanation. If Maxon was dead, how had the killer managed to kill him and somehow dispose of the body, alongside the other two murders? They had searched the tourist camp very thoroughly, and Nergui was as sure as he could be that Maxon wasn’t there, living or dead.
But Doripalam was right. It was a possibility they couldn’t ignore. Though finding a dead body in the Gobi desert wasn’t likely to be the easiest of tasks.
“I’m hoping he’s alive,” Nergui said grimly, “because he’s one of the few decent leads we’ve got in this thing. If he’s dead-if he’s another victim-we’re no further forward.” He shrugged. “But I have a horrible feeling you may well be right. Nothing makes any sense here.”
“I think everyone’s getting rattled about this one. There are all kinds of stories flying about.”
“Inevitably,” Nergui said. They had done their best to keep the story under wraps as far as the general public was concerned. These days, it wasn’t easy. The press was always keen to demonstrate its independence, and wouldn’t take kindly to being excluded from a potentially major story. But the reporting of the initial murders had been low key, with no suggestion of any connection, and the Ministry had managed to ensure that none of the details were published. Delgerbayar’s murder had been reported in a similar manner. It had been difficult to play down the Gobi murders, particularly given the need to try to track down Maxon, but they had not been linked to the murders in the capital city.
Nergui was unsure how long this relative quiet would prevail. While there were strict rules on police confidentiality, someone, somewhere, would eventually talk about this case to friends and family. Too many people-in the police, in the Ministry and other government departments-were aware of what was going on. And all of these people would themselves be anxious, perhaps feel the need to share their worries with someone else. Gradually the story would filter out, maybe in even more lurid form than the reality, if that were possible. And then the panic would begin.
Nergui knew that they had to make some progress, some real progress, before then. But for the moment progress continued to elude them.
“We’re still working through all the routine stuff,” Doripalam said. “All the door to doors, looking through all the missing person reports, combing the areas where the bodies were found-you name it. But it doesn’t look promising.”
“No. Mind you, with that stuff, there’s no way of knowing. We just have to keep hoping.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re too optimistic to be a policeman?” Doripalam said.
“Oddly enough, no. Though they’ve found many other grounds for disqualifying me for the role.” Nergui smiled, palely. “There’s no other way, though, is there? We can’t give up.”
Once the young man had gone, Nergui continued reading through the papers. He was painstaking, but there really was nothing new, nothing he hadn’t seen before. He had combed through every detail, every nuance of the report. Maybe another eye would see something different, though he doubted it. But there seemed to be nothing more that Nergui could contribute.
He looked at his watch. It was already eight o’clock. He felt as if he had been up all night, which was almost the case. It wasn’t physical tiredness, more a sense of mental, even spiritual, exhaustion, as if he really was at the limits of his endurance.
There was no one here that he could talk to, not even Doripalam. They’d kept their relationship positive, despite everything, but it wasn’t the time to start unloading his personal feelings on the younger man. He had enough to cope with. Was it too early to call Drew? He thought not. Drew had given the impression that he was an early riser, so even after the previous late night, he would almost certainly be up by now. He picked up the phone and called the Chinggis Khaan, asking to be connected to Drew’s room. He heard the ringing tone, but the call was not answered. He looked at his watch again. Probably Drew was at breakfast.
Eventually, the operator came back on the line. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s no reply. Can I take a message?”
“Just let him know that Nergui called,” he said. “He’s got the number.”
He put the phone down, feeling unaccountably anxious. There was no reason to feel concerned. Drew would be having breakfast or had gone for a stroll. It was even possible he was still sleeping and had not heard the phone.
But Nergui could not shake off a feeling of concern. It was that silly Wilson woman. Nergui was not, by the standards of his countrymen, a superstitious individual. But her talk of premonitions and psychic powers, however rational the articulation, left him feeling uneasy. There was something about the way she had looked at Drew as the car had driven away.
Looking back, Nergui thought that he should have insisted on Drew coming in the car with them. Not, he told himself, that there was any danger in the city at that time of the night. It was only a few hundred meters to the hotel, after all.
But the thought kept nagging at him. Maybe his fears weren’t wholly irrational. After all, there
was a killer-maybe more than one killer-at large in the city. There had already been an apparent attempt on his or Drew’s life. And, of course, one policeman was already dead. In the circumstances, maybe leaving Drew to walk home wasn’t his finest decision.
And there were more rational concerns. Drew had been pretty drunk. It was a cold night, icy underfoot. Maybe Drew had slipped, hit his head. Temperatures last night had fallen many degrees below zero. It was beginning to reach the time of the year when those without homes were all too commonly found dead in the streets in the early mornings.
Nergui rose and paced across the office. This was idiotic. He was behaving like a mother whose son is late coming home from a drinking session.
Despite himself, he picked up the phone and dialed the number of Drew’s cell, which he had scribbled on a pad on the desk. There was a long, empty silence while he waited for the roaming signal to connect. Finally, there was a click and the sound of the overseas ringing tone. The ringing stopped suddenly, and for a moment, as the familiar voice reached his ears, Nergui thought Drew had answered it. But then he realized that, from apparently immeasurable distances, this was simply the sound of Drew’s prerecorded voicemail message. “I’m sorry I’m not available at the moment, but if you’d like to leave a message-”
Nergui left a message, but somehow with no confidence that it would be picked up. His tiredness had fallen away, but it had been replaced by a yawning anxiety, an insuppressible sense that something was dreadfully wrong.
Blackness. Silence. Nothing.
Death must be like this. Perhaps, after all, he was dead. Or perhaps he had been buried alive. His body felt numb, and he couldn’t tell if the numbness was internal or somehow imposed upon him.
But he must be alive. He was thinking. His mind was confused, uncertain, but he was slowly, step by step, piecing together a train of thought. Images. People. Voices. A cold white hard sheet. A burning orange light. Something unexpected. Something frightening.
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