Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

At this time of day, the streets were busy but free flowing, the traffic moving slowly without the freneticism of a European capital. There were noisy buses, UAZ trucks and some old stuttering Lada or IZH vehicles, but also some newer looking Korean Daewoos, Hyundais and Kias. Now and again, Drew caught sight of shiny Western cars-a BMW or Mercedes-indicative of the rising wealth of at least one category of Mongolian citizen.

“And our real hero,” Nergui said, still walking. He gestured toward a large hoarding depicting the squat image of Genghis Khan. “He’ll be watching you everywhere you go.”

Drew had already noticed this. The standard image was everywhere-in pictures in the hotel lobby, painted in large murals on the sides of buildings, inked in tiny faded posters pasted across concrete walls. Here in the city center his ubiquitous image competed incongruously with the lingering emblems of communism and the familiar global logos, neon signs and advertising hoardings that, as capitalism had taken hold, had come to dominate the city skyline.

“I think he still has something of a negative public image in the West, no?” Nergui said over his shoulder. “But not here. And in part perhaps rightly so. He was a ruthless conqueror, but a remarkable man.”

Drew was feeling too breathless to respond. He had already discovered that it was difficult to keep up with Nergui, both figuratively and literally. He had called Nergui on leaving the embassy that morning, and a car had been sent over with remarkable efficiency to take him to the police HQ.

He had found Nergui and Doripalam sitting in a small, anonymous office, with a desk full of files and papers in front of them.

“Welcome,” Nergui said. “Please, sit down. How was the ambassador?”

“Fine,” Drew said, warily. He was still mulling over the implications of the ambassador’s final words. “He sends you his regards. Oh, and we’re invited to dinner on Thursday. He made a point of inviting you.” Drew looked across at Doripalam with mild embarrassment. “Just Nergui, I’m afraid.”

Doripalam made a mock grimace of disappointment, then laughed. “I will contain my disappointment,” he said. “Although if you could arrange an invitation for my wife she might appreciate it.”

Nergui smiled at him. “It is the British way, of course. There is no situation so bad that it cannot be remedied with a good dinner. But I am invited only because he hopes for some gossip from the Ministry.”

“So long as it is a good dinner,” Drew said. “I have my standards.”

“The ambassador will not let you down,” Nergui smiled. “Not with regard to dinner, anyway.”

Nergui had carefully prepared all the files, and Drew was impressed by the Mongolian’s detailed familiarity with all aspects of the case. The three men worked painstakingly through all the material, Nergui translating as necessary, highlighting any points which seemed significant or interesting. Despite their scrutiny, the process appeared to add little to their understanding of the case. Drew had expected this, he was far too experienced in such matters to imagine that some major lead would have been overlooked. Equally, though, he knew that this kind of repeated, exhaustive examination of the facts was the only practical way to proceed. Even if there were no new leads at this stage, there was always the possibility that some new development might provide some illumination to the mass of material in front of them.

“The other question,” Drew mused as they finished working through the papers, “is where did the first and third murders actually take place?”

Nergui nodded. “It could be anywhere in the city. There are plenty of deserted or partially demolished buildings where you could commit an act like that. We’ve had a couple of officers investigating some places, but it’s an impossible task. Unless someone stumbles on it accidentally, we’re not likely to find it. And it could have been in the back of a van or truck, somewhere like that. Or some old slaughterhouse or yard that could easily be hosed down. Anywhere.”

“So not likely to be much help there, then. I suppose the next thing for me would be to have a look at the sites where the bodies were found. I don’t know what it’s likely to tell me, but it would be helpful to get a sense of the places.”

“Of course,” Nergui said. “I could arrange a car, but it might be better for us to walk. We can try to give you a feel of the city.”

If Drew had realized quite how quickly Nergui walked, he might not have taken him up on this suggestion. As it was, he found himself almost jogging behind him as they strode through the city streets, Doripalam ambling casually behind both of them. The city itself was initially unremarkable-a mix of blank-faced low-rise commercial buildings, concrete tower blocks, and the occasional striking new building. They passed stalls selling snacks and, around the square, tourist souvenirs such as the traditional brightly colored loovuuz hats, apparently identical to that sported by Sukh Bataar’s statue. Beyond, there was a large mural, formed in muted shades of brown, depicting stylized martial and equestrian images with, bizarrely, the words “Welcome to Mongolia” emblazoned in English across the top.

But the overall effect was typical of a former Soviet satellite making its painful way into the free-enterprise world of the twenty-first century. They passed through Sukh Bataar Square, and then walked down one of the side streets. Nergui moved quickly ahead, and then stopped suddenly, turning to face Drew. “There,” he said, pointing.

Drew caught up with him and followed the direction of Nergui’s finger. Another, smaller street led off from where they stood, dark between what appeared to be a residential tower block and an abandoned factory, its large windows long boarded up.

“That was where the first body was found,” Nergui said, walking slowly into the dim side street. He walked twenty or thirty yards, then stopped.

“Just here,” he said. “You can still see some of the bloodstains.”

Drew looked down. The street was paved at the junction with the main road, but within yards degenerated into hard-packed earth. But Drew could make out the darker stains on the ground in front of them. He looked up and around at the looming building on each side of the street and shivered inwardly. It was not pleasant, even for an experienced policeman, to think of the headless, handless corpse being found in this bleak spot.

“And nobody from there witnessed anything?” he said, gesturing at the tower block. Rows of blank windows stared down at them.

“It seems not,” Doripalam said, arriving behind them. “We have had officers going door to door, of course, but so far nobody saw or heard anything. It may just be true. This street is not lit at night. The streetlighting only goes as far as there.” Doripalam pointed to the larger road they had just left. “So if the body was dumped in the hours of darkness, there is no reason why anyone should necessarily have witnessed anything.”

“What’s this place?” Drew asked, nodding toward the commercial building on the other side.

“Nothing now,” Doripalam said. “It used to be a clothing factory. A state run place. Made suits-like this one.” Doripalam gestured ironically at his own cheap-looking blue outfit, visible beneath his heavy overcoat. “Not exactly your Savile Row, but the best we can get. But when the government pulled out of this one, it closed. So now the place is empty.”

“And no sign of any activity inside?”

Doripalam shook his head. “We searched the place, of course. But no sign that it has been disturbed for months.”

There was nothing else to be seen here. Drew and Doripalam followed Nergui as he strode swiftly back through Sukh Bataar Square, past the edifice of the Post Office building and down Lenin Avenue. Nergui pointed to the square tower of the Bayangol Hotel. “The second body was found by the hotel there,” he said. “We concluded that the victim had fallen from the roof.”