Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

The bedroom also had an officer stationed outside. Nergui was glad they were doing this by the book, but hoped that the police presence didn’t itself stir up concerns. Still, the hotel had more than its share of high profile visitors from overseas. Probably the other guests would simply assume that some international celebrity was among them.

Doripalam waved him in. The room was impressive, Nergui thought, and compared favorably with those he had seen on his travels in Europe and the US. In other circumstances, he would have thought it luxurious, with its wooden paneling and plush king-size twin beds. As it was, his attention was entirely dominated by what lay on the nearest of those beds.

For all his experience, Nergui almost found himself gagging. The rich smell of blood was overwhelming, even though the scene of crime officers had thrown open the windows in an attempt to render the atmosphere of the room bearable. The two officers had stationed themselves, understandably enough, by the open window.

The white cotton sheets of the bed were thoroughly soaked with blood, and there were further splashes on the carpet and pale walls. The blood was beginning to turn from red to brown, but clearly the killing was relatively recent. The chambermaid had discovered the body when entering to clean the room in the midmorning. Nergui thought that she could never have imagined how much her cleaning skills might be required, though he guessed she wouldn’t willingly be back in this room for a long time.

The body was spread-eagled on the bed, dressed in blood-caked cotton striped pajamas. Nergui would have described the body as lying face up, except that the face was definitely not looking upward. The head had been severed from the body, but this time had not been removed from the scene. Instead it had been placed neatly on top of the television set, gazing impassively at its former owner on the bed.

Nergui opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say. Doripalam and the other officers stood silently, looking almost smug that for once there was a sight that had rendered the legendary Nergui speechless.

In fact, Nergui had been struck by two overwhelming thoughts almost simultaneously. The first had been sheer mindless horror at the enormity of the sight that lay before him. The second was to realize that the mutilated figure before him was a Westerner.

What, he thought before he could stop himself, would the Minister have to say about this?

“I’m impressed,” Drew said. “This is excellent. A lot better than most of the hotels I get to stay in.”

Nergui gestured him to sit down. “I hope beer’s okay. We still have good contacts with Eastern Europe, so can get some decent stuff.” He lifted the glass and gazed thoughtfully at the contents. “Czech. They know how to make beer.”

“Beer’s perfect,” Drew said, with complete sincerity. His early morning departure from Manchester seemed a lifetime away, and the long and fragmented journey had only compounded his sense of disorientation. And now, in a country where half the population lived in tents, he was drinking beer in the kind of anonymous hotel bar that might be found in any capital city in the world. Soft piped music was playing in the background, a piano version of some pop tune that Drew half-recognized.

“Your room is okay?”

“Fine,” Drew said. “Excellent.”

Nergui nodded. “I should not say this, perhaps. But your room is very similar to the one where-well, where we found the body.”

Drew nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. It was difficult to imagine the plush bedroom despoiled by the scene he had read about. He looked at Nergui, sitting magisterially in the corner of the hotel bar, and wondered how seriously he should take him. He was an impressive figure, heavyset and tall by Mongolian standards, with a stillness and physical presence that somehow enabled him to dominate the room. His even features were distinctively Mongolian, wide-eyed and broad cheeked, his clean-shaven skin dark and almost leathery, as though it had been burnished by the sun and wind of the desert. His dress was mildly eccentric-a plain, dark, good quality suit contrasting with a shirt and tie both in what Drew supposed was salmon pink. But it would not be difficult, Drew thought, to imagine him, centuries before, riding out as a member of Genghis Khan’s armies, leading the conquest of the known world.

Nergui’s bright blue eyes watched Drew intently, his blank face giving no clue to his thoughts or feelings. Doripalam sat beside him, a slighter and paler figure, toying aimlessly with a menu from the table, apparently disengaged from the conversation.

“I’m sorry,” Drew said. “Is it okay if we speak in English?”

Doripalam glanced up, smiling faintly, brushing his thick hair back from his forehead. He had the same wide-eyed features, but on this young face the effect was of openness and eagerness, perhaps even naivety. “We will teach you some Mongolian while you are here,” he said. “My English is not so good as Nergui’s but if you speak slowly I can follow.”

“I can translate for Doripalam if we need to,” Nergui said. “But he is too modest. His English is really very good. More and more of us are trying to learn, since it seems now to be the international language.” He turned to Doripalam. “We should tell Drew what we know so far about our fourth victim.”

“Well,” Doripalam said, “as you know, his name was Ian Ransom. He was a geologist in the mining industry, with a contract with one of our mining consortia. He had been in the country before, on two occasions I think, working on contracts. We spoke to the company involved. They say he was an excellent employee-a specialist in his field, a hard worker, all of that. But we see no motive for the killing. He was not robbed-there was a wallet with currency and credit cards in his jacket in the wardrobe.”

“What about the work he was engaged in?” Drew said. “Any possible motive there?”

Nergui shrugged. “Mining is a difficult industry here. Rapid growth. Lots of money to be made. New players coming into it all the time. Massive foreign investment, not all of it particularly legitimate. We’re a mineral rich country and everyone would like a slice of it. So, yes, it’s possible. But we can see no real evidence in this case. Ransom was a specialist, a scientist. He wasn’t senior enough to get involved in anything risky, I would have thought.” He took a mouthful of his beer. “But we’re keeping an open mind.”

“There’s not a lot I can add,” Drew said. “We looked at Ransom’s domestic circumstances, in case that shed any light. He was divorced, two children-two girls who live with his wife, who’s remarried. He lived in Greater Manchester-decent house, decent area so presumably did all right financially. He seemed to have lived alone and, as far as we know, wasn’t in any kind of relationship, maybe because he traveled so much. He had a doctorate in geology, and started his career after university with British Coal-that was our state mining industry, now largely closed down-”

“Ah. Your Mrs. Thatcher,” Nergui said.

“Our Mrs. Thatcher,” Drew agreed. “Ransom took early retirement from British Coal about fifteen years ago, and has worked as a consultant since then, largely overseas. Worked in India, Australia, South Africa, China and, of course, here. Seems to have been a bit of a loner.”

“But nothing there that would provide a motive?” Nergui said.

“Not that we can see. I suppose when someone travels like that there’s always the possibility that they might have got involved in something dodgy-”

“Dodgy?” Nergui asked. It was the first time he had shown any uncertainty in following Drew’s English.