Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

But this was different. His curiosity aroused, Nergui took the opportunity to set up an informal meeting with his former deputy, Doripalam. Doripalam was young and relatively inexperienced, at least compared with his predecessor, but Nergui respected his intelligence and judgment. He had tried to keep some distance since Doripalam’s promotion, anxious not to be seen as interfering, but offering support and advice when requested.

For his part, Doripalam seemed happy still to treat Nergui as a mentor, and was keen to draw on the older man’s experience. They had developed a routine of meeting once a month, in one of the new American-style coffee houses that were beginning to spring up around the city center. Nergui was intrigued that, despite the chaotic state of the economy, money was still available to spend in places like this.

They had arranged to meet early, but the place was already busy with a mix of young people-students, for the most part, chatting and smoking between lectures-and serious-looking businessmen in dark suits, earnestly discussing business deals or making apparently urgent calls on cell phones. There was a rich smell of coffee and the cloying scent of baking pasties.

Outside the sun was shining and the sky was an unsullied blue. Across the street, at the edge of the square, crowds of men clustered around tables, playing chess or checkers, taking advantage of what might turn out to be one of the last temperate days of the year. Some of the older ones were dressed in traditional robes, but most were in heavy overcoats, with berets or American-style baseball caps pulled down over their eyes against the glare of the midmorning sun. The fug of countless cigarettes hung around them like a localized cloud.

Nergui looked with some displeasure at the large foaming cup that Doripalam placed in front of him. “This isn’t coffee,” he said. “It’s a nursery drink.”

Doripalam shrugged. “It’s what the Americans drink. Apparently.”

“So we must get used to it.” Nergui took a mouthful and grimaced. “Though that may take some time, I think. But thank you anyway.”

Doripalam sat down opposite and sipped at his own drink. “So how are you finding life in the corridors of power?”

“I think the power must be in another corridor. All I do is attend meetings and sign forms. While you get all the good fortune.”

“Do I? Remind me.”

“Two homicide cases in a week. And both of them more interesting than anything I had to deal with in the last five years.”

“Oh, yes, that good fortune. How could I forget?”

“What’s your view? Do you think they’re linked?”

Doripalam looked at Nergui for a second, then he smiled. “This is a fishing expedition?” he said. “Surely the Minister isn’t interested in anything as trivial as murder?” He was still smiling, and his wide-eyed features seemed innocent of anything more than mild curiosity, but Nergui knew better than to underestimate him.

“This is purely on my own account,” Nergui said. “I’d like to be able to claim some official justification, but it’s just idle curiosity. Wishing I was back in the old routine.” He stared gloomily down at the absurd coffee, and, for a moment, Doripalam felt some sympathy for his former boss. Sitting here, his austere dark gray suit offset by a characteristically garish orange tie, his large body hunched awkwardly over the table, Nergui looked uncomfortably like a man who no longer had a purpose in life.

Nergui’s detachment to the Ministry of Justice and Internal Affairs had been a substantial promotion, requested by the Minister himself. Nergui had always been an aloof figure in the police department, well respected but not widely liked among the team. There had been too many rumors about his past, too much suspicion about his real motives. And, of course, Nergui had always made very clear his intolerance for the incompetence and petty corruption that was endemic in the civil police.

For many in the team, Nergui’s transfer to the Ministry had been a confirmation of their long-held assumptions-that all along he had been an authority lackey, delegated to strip away the few meager perks associated with their thankless job. Or, worse, that he was simply another opportunist, adept at riding the waves of political change, with no loyalty except to his current paymaster.

But Doripalam hadn’t shared these views. He had no doubt about Nergui’s professional commitment or dedication, and he shared the older man’s distaste at the endless petty corruption that seemed to be taken for granted by most of his colleagues. On a personal level, he had always found Nergui straightforward and trustworthy, if enigmatic, and he had been grateful when Nergui had actively endorsed his own promotion to head of department.

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.