Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

And now, on top of all that, Nergui’s return had made everything ten times worse. He didn’t entirely blame Nergui himself, though he knew full well that Nergui would have been unable to resist the prospect of returning to the scenes of his former glory. But that didn’t help his own position. To the rest of the team, Nergui’s arrival had simply confirmed their view that Doripalam had never been up to the job in the first place. Solongo had tried hard to conceal her disappointment when he had informed her, but he was clear that she too now assumed that his promotion was only a stopgap and that Nergui would be kept in the role until a more suitable candidate was found. She had never really believed that her husband was senior management material.

In the face of all that, he should have told them what to do with their job. Or at least he should have ceased putting in all the extra effort that had become the norm over the past few months. And yet here he was again, stumbling into the building at six thirty in the morning, the day not even light, preparing for another day of minimal achievement.

As he made his way along the corridor, he was surprised to see that the lights were already on in one of the other offices. The night shift would have been on duty, of course, but they were unlikely to have ventured up to the management offices. Then he realized. Even now, it seemed, Nergui couldn’t resist demonstrating that he was always one step ahead of everyone else. Knowing Nergui’s domestic circumstances, though, Doripalam wasn’t sure whether to feel irritated or pitying.

He tapped lightly on Nergui’s door and poked his head around. “Good morning, Nergui. See you haven’t changed your habits.”

Nergui looked up from the mass of paperwork. “Usual story about old dogs and new tricks, I’m afraid.”

Actually, Nergui was sorry that Doripalam had found him here so early in the morning. He had always had a reputation for working absurdly long hours, which others found intimidating and which he knew wasn’t particularly justified. There was nothing wrong with intimidating people now and again, but Nergui didn’t want Doripalam to think he was engaged in some egotistical game. There was enough tension between the two men already.

The truth was that Nergui needed little sleep. He had a suspicion that he could probably survive with virtually no sleep at all. But over the years he’d gradually settled for around four hours a night, generally between around one and five a.m.

This morning, he had thought it worth getting in early. Although he had been through the case papers countless times, he wanted to reread them before they met Drew again later in the morning. Nergui had no illusions as to why Drew had been sent here. He knew it was a token gesture aimed largely toward the victim’s family and the UK media. He also recognized that there was probably little that Drew could add to the investigation in the limited time he was here.

However, his years of working in this environment had taught Nergui that it was worth making best use of whatever resources were thrown in his direction. At the very least, Drew would bring another perspective to the case-and a fairly astute one, as far as Nergui could judge-which might complement his own experience and Doripalam’s perspicacity. More importantly, Drew was an experienced investigating officer, of a kind all too rare in this country. Nergui wanted to extract whatever value he could from his brief presence.

Since arriving in the office at five thirty, he had read painstakingly through the case documents, highlighting apparently important points, making detailed notes, producing short English translations of anything he felt might be of interest to Drew, and reviewing again the innumerable, largely unpleasant photographs.

Doripalam gestured to the mounds of papers and files in front of Nergui. “Surprised you managed to keep awake,” he said. “Find anything new?”

“What do you think?” At least Nergui now felt that he was thoroughly up to speed with everything in the notes. Nevertheless, the overwhelming impression that he was left with was an absence of any serious leads, nothing they could pursue with any feeling of confidence. “Apart from the usual routine stuff, which you’ve clearly got well in hand, I can’t see anywhere else to go.”

Doripalam nodded. “Well, I’m disappointed to hear you say that, but I wouldn’t have been pleased if you’d found something I’d missed.”

“I’d have been astonished. I didn’t see it in the notes, but I take it we’ve done DNA testing on the victims’ clothes?”

Doripalam raised an eyebrow in mock reproach, though he accepted that Nergui was only checking that all avenues had been covered. “Official reports aren’t back yet,” he said, “but unofficially they’ve told me there’s nothing. There is some extraneous matter on the clothes but nothing that’s consistent between the victims or that matches any of our records.”

Nergui nodded and sat back in his chair, looking vaguely around the office as though seeking inspiration. His temporary office here was smaller and more functional than his room in the Ministry, but only marginally so. He was not a man who sought comfort or domesticity in the workplace, or, for that matter, even in his home life, but just for a moment he was struck by the bleakness of the room-the cheap functional desk, the pale green Ministry-issue paint on the walls, an old metal filing cabinet, a two-year-old calendar on the wall. Suddenly he felt as if the state of this room simply demonstrated how thin their resources were, how pitifully ill equipped they were to face whatever it was that lay out there.

Nergui did not underestimate his own capability, he knew he was ideally suited to the role to which he had, for the moment, returned. He hadn’t always been successful. But where he had failed he was confident that few could have done more.

So normally, even in these circumstances, he would be approaching this job with relish and optimism, particularly after the deadening experience of recent months. He knew the pressures he was under; he knew that the Minister’s job-and therefore his own-might depend on the outcome of this case. That didn’t worry him. It was the price of entry to this level of the game.

But what did worry him, as he sat here looking at Doripalam’s tired but still enthusiastic face, were the implications of this case for the city, maybe for the country. This was a fledgling nation in its current form, struggling to find an identity. It was still a primitive state in many ways-its people fearful after decades, even centuries of repression and hardship, where for generations life had been scraped daily from the bare earth, where nothing lay between man and heaven except a thin protection of wood and felt.

There was something about these killings that stirred a primordial unease in Nergui. It was not simply that the streets of the city might be stalked by a psychopath, killing randomly and brutally, Nergui could deal with that. Such a killer would eventually make an error, and might even choose to reveal himself. But what really disturbed Nergui about the killings was the sense of purpose. The sense of deliberate, planned savagery. The sense of some narrative, moving slowly toward its dark resolution.

He slammed shut the file in front of him. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get some coffee. I think we both need it.”

“I’m a United man myself, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, well, we all have our crosses to bear.” Drew wasn’t surprised. Like all City fans, he believed that Manchester United had been invented for people who didn’t really like soccer.

The ambassador laughed. “I thought it was you lot who bore the stigmata.” Which, Drew noted, was exactly the kind of thing you would expect a United fan to say. Upper class private school preppies who had never even visited Manchester, except maybe for a champagne dinner in the executive box at Old Trafford.