Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

“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.

“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.