Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

“They weren’t making any attempt to hide the body,” Nergui said. It was a comment rather than a question.

“If they’d wanted to conceal it, they wouldn’t have chosen this spot.” He gestured up at the rows of gers visible above the ravine. “There are people down here all the time. People with their dogs. Children playing.”

“Lucky it was a dog found it, then,” Nergui said grimly.

Doripalam nodded. “But you have to say,” he added, “that it’s as if they wanted it to be found.”

“That seems a potential link between the three killings,” Nergui said. “The bodies were left in places where they were bound to be found quickly, even though in two cases the murders took place elsewhere. But the killer has gone to great lengths to make sure we can’t easily identify the bodies. So why not hide the bodies as well?”

Doripalam shrugged. “I couldn’t begin to imagine the thought processes of someone who does this.”

Nergui had been peripherally involved in a couple of serial killer cases while liaising with his Russian counterparts, and he was well aware of the confused psychology that underpinned such acts. That, of course, was to assume that these murders were indeed the work of a psychopath. Taken in isolation, the apparent professionalism of the murders would have suggested something more cold-blooded, more calculated; a commercial transaction. But three professional hits in two weeks seemed unlikely.

“Do you seriously think they’re linked?” asked Doripalam, reading Nergui’s thoughts. He knew well enough why the Minister had requested Nergui’s return. And, as Nergui had half-suspected, while Doripalam had been far from pleased at the implied judgment of his own abilities, he had to admit some private relief that if they really were facing a serial killer, it would be Nergui’s handling of the case under scrutiny. “I mean, the second body as well?”

Nergui shrugged. “I don’t know any more than you,” he said. It was always worth saying that, even though Doripalam wouldn’t believe him. The police always assumed that the Ministry was privy to information denied to ordinary officers. If only they realized how rarely that was the case, Nergui thought. “It’s difficult to imagine that this one isn’t linked to the first, but the second-who knows? But, given the timing, I guess there are enough similarities for us to at least bear it in mind until we’ve got some better ideas.”

They trudged back up the steep slope to where the gers were clustered. After the gloomy shadows of the ravine, the bright morning sunshine created at least an illusion of warmth. A group of middle-aged women, mostly dressed in dark-colored felt robes and heavy boots, were standing talking, watching the two policemen with apparent suspicion. Other women were sitting at the south-facing doors of their gers, washing clothes in plastic bowls or carefully chopping vegetables, peering at the two men from under their tightly bound head scarves.

There was a man, a heavyweight brown del pulled tightly around his body, a gray beret clamped firmly on his head, crouching by the engine of an old Russian IJ Planeta motorbike, carrying out some kind of work on the engine. He had a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, apparently unconcerned about his proximity to the bike’s fuel tank. A small group of children, dressed mostly in Western-style jeans and thick sweaters, were gathered around him, watching intently as if he were some form of street entertainment. There was a radio playing in the distance, a keening traditional tune probably playing on the state channel. In counterpoint to the plangent music, a dog barked shrilly and incessantly. From somewhere, there was the rich smell of roasting meat and the softer scent of wood smoke. It was difficult to imagine a psychopath stalking this community.

“You’ve made inquiries among this lot?” Nergui asked.

“We’ve started,” Doripalam said. “Nobody saw or heard anything last night, so they say.”

“Nothing?”

“So they say.”

Nergui nodded. It was always the same. It had, apparently, been the same at the hotel. No one had seen or heard anything. “Still, we have to keep asking. We may get something eventually.”

“You never know,” Doripalam said.

Nergui shook his head. This was going nowhere. It was all just routine stuff, which Doripalam would handle as well, if not better, than he could. Forensic examination of the victims’ bodies. Attempts to gather any relevant data they could from the records. Links to any previous killings-though Nergui could think of no obvious ones. Routine questioning of possible witnesses. The usual grind of investigative work. But, unless they could begin to unravel the mystery of who the victims were, Nergui couldn’t see them making any headway. It wasn’t the kind of thing he would say to the Minister, but the best hope of their making further progress would be for the killer to strike again. Ideally, he added to himself as an afterthought, without actually succeeding.

As it turned out, Nergui’s unexpressed wish was soon granted, though only in part. The killer struck again, and unexpectedly quickly. Unfortunately, he was all too successful.

The call came at around eleven the following morning. Nergui was in his new office in police HQ, reading and rereading through the police reports on the previous killings. He had not thought it appropriate to turf Doripalam out of the office that had previously been his own, and had been quite happy to lodge himself in a small, unused room at the end of the corridor, with only a cheap desk and an empty filing cabinet for company. He hoped that this was at least sending the right message to Doripalam and the rest of the team.

Even before he picked up the phone, his instincts were telling him that this was not good news.

“Nergui? It’s Doripalam.”

“What is it?”

“There’s been another one.”

“Already? The Minister was right for once-this is getting a dangerous place to live. Where?”

“The Chinggis. In one of the bedrooms.”

“You’re joking.”

“I don’t hear you laughing.”

Nergui was silent for a moment. The Chinggis Khaan was one of the city’s newest hotels, built in response to the growing business and tourist trade in the city. Any incident there would have major repercussions, maybe even international repercussions. The Minister, it was safe to predict, would not be happy.

“Do we think it’s linked to the others?” Nergui asked.

“It’s difficult to say,” Doripalam said, after a pause. “This one’s different.”

“Different how?” Nergui asked, already dreading the answer.

“I think you’d better come see for yourself.”

It took only minutes for Nergui to reach the hotel in an official car, sirens screaming. The Chinggis was a striking building, a successful attempt to bring Western-style service and luxury to the city. Some of the other hotels, including the Bayangol, had subsequently emulated its style, upgrading their previously basic facilities to something that might begin to meet Western expectations.

Nergui waved his ID pass at the reception and was directed across the expansive lobby to the elevators. He glanced around him at the dark mirrored walls, the thick piled carpet, the clusters of Japanese and Western tourists waiting to start their morning’s excursions. He’d been in the place a few times before for conferences and formal meetings, but hardly knew his way around. Nevertheless, it wasn’t hard to find the room number that Doripalam had given him. There were officers dotted throughout the lobby and by the elevators, discreetly deflecting guests to ensure they didn’t approach the crime scene accidentally. They nodded to him as he passed.