Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

Drew laughed. “Dodgy. Um-dubious, criminal. That kind of thing.”

“Ah,” Nergui said. “I understand. Dodgy,” he repeated slowly, as though committing the word to memory.

“So, yes, it’s possible. But there’s no evidence of it. He didn’t seem to be living above his means, for example, so there’s no sign of him having an income from another source.”

Nergui nodded slowly. “So we both seem to have arrived at the same conclusion,” he said. “It’s quite possible that there’s no significance at all in Mr. Ransom’s unfortunate involvement in this.”

“You mean he was just selected at random?”

“Well, of course that is possible. If we really are dealing with a psychopath here, then it may be that the killings are simply opportunist. Perhaps the killer just spotted Ransom in the street. He would have-how do you say it? — stood out in the crowd here.”

“He certainly would,” Drew said. It was an unnerving thought, given that his own Caucasian features would presumably draw the same attention. He looked around the bar. Four men, all Mongolians, dressed in Western-style business suits, had come in and were drinking beers at the far end of the room. One of them glanced over and smiled vaguely in Drew’s direction. Drew looked down at his beer, feeling inexplicably vulnerable.

The restaurant maintained the standard of the rest of the hotel. The food was nothing special, but certainly comparable with that provided by most business hotels in Europe. The atmosphere was pleasant enough-dark wood, dim lights, pleasant service, even a cocktail pianist meandering through a selection of familiar melodies. Nergui remained an entirely charming host, advising on the food, suggesting they stick with beer rather than moving on to the mediocre and highly priced wine list. “It’s your choice,” he said. “But the beer is better.”

In other circumstances, Drew would have found the experience thoroughly enjoyable. Here, though, it was impossible to ignore the looming presence of the killer. Drew looked uneasily around the busy restaurant, with its chattering mix of locals and Westerners, and hoped that the presence was only metaphorical. He couldn’t understand why he felt so rattled-after all, in his time he had strolled willingly, if not always comfortably, around some of the rougher parts of inner city Manchester. It was odd to feel this level of discomfort in an upmarket hotel dining room.

Nergui carefully dissected his prawn starter. “I suppose that is the place we have to start-whether there is any significance in Ransom being the victim.” He shook his head. “If he was simply chosen at random, then our difficulty is even greater.”

Drew could see the problem. The worst possibility, from the police perspective, was that they were dealing with a psychopath with no rational motive but a high level of lethal professionalism. There would be no way of knowing where the killer might strike next, and the likelihood was that the killer would be adept at minimizing any potential leads or evidence. The only hope would be to wait until the killer made an error. And with the earlier victims still unidentified, at present the only possible lead lay with Ransom.

“You’re not likely to identify the earlier victims?” Drew asked.

Nergui glanced at Doripalam, who shook his head. “Who knows? We have gathered the forensic information. Perhaps there are more sophisticated tools in the West, but I do not know that they would tell us much more. We know as much as we can about the bodies, but we have no identities to link them to.”

“But you’ve had coverage in the media? Surely someone must know who these people are?”

Nergui smiled. “This is not like your country. A quarter of our population is nomadic. Of course, there are close family ties in many cases, and these days most people are formally registered with the state for voting and social security purposes. It’s easier than it used to be. But with all the troubles we’ve had over the last decade, there has been a lot of movement. In both directions. Nomadic people coming to the cities seeking work. And unemployed city dwellers moving out to try their hands at herding or farming-usually without much success. Some of those have lost touch with their families or friends. Some have drifted into crime or more marginal ways of surviving.” He finished the prawns and placed his knife and fork, with some precision, across the plate. “It is most likely that the victims here were not from our stable middle classes. They will probably be from our growing underclass-criminals or those on the edge of criminality. We are trying to match them up with our missing person records and we may hit lucky, but I’m not too optimistic. If someone was missing these people, we’d have heard from them by now.”

It was a desolate but logical conclusion. “And you’re sure the four deaths are related?”

“Again, who knows? It’s reasonable to assume that the first and third are related-the characteristics of the killings were identical. And the characteristics of the Ransom killing are sufficiently similar for us to assume a link. But the second killing was different-really, the only common factor was the timing and the anonymity of the victim. If you’re asking whether we have only a single killer-well, I hope so. I don’t like the idea of one murderer stalking the city, let alone two. But, yes, it’s quite possible that the second killing was simply a coincidence, and we have to keep that in mind.”

“There’s no possibility that the later murders were copycat killings?”

“Copycat killings?” Nergui frowned, puzzled at the terminology. “That is one of your tabloid phrases, no?” He translated the phrase briefly for Doripalam’s benefit.

Drew laughed. “I suppose so. I just meant, well, that a second killer might have copied the characteristics of the first killing. It’s not unknown.”

“No, I imagine not,” Nergui said. “But it sounds unlikely in this case, unless we have two psychopaths on the loose.”

“Or someone who wants you to think that the subsequent killings were random,” Drew said. But even as he spoke he was aware that this was becoming fanciful, the terrain of crime fiction rather than real life. “No, forget it. It’s nonsense.”

Nergui shook his head. “No, we need to remain open to every possibility, no matter how unlikely. As your Sherlock Holmes so rightly says.” He laughed. “Although I think this is verging on the impossible, in fact. We have not published the full details of the earlier killings-the decapitation and so on. No doubt rumors have leaked out, but no one could have the full details except from the police. Though, of course,” he added, as an afterthought, “the police themselves do not always demonstrate the highest levels of integrity. Another legacy of our recent history, I’m afraid.”

“What about some sort of gangland feud? Is that a possibility?”

“Of course. That may be the most likely explanation. Crime here has not tended to be that organized, but we cannot discount the influence of our friends across our two borders. Real organized crime is, sadly, becoming more prevalent. And it brings us back to Mr. Ransom. If this is the fallout from some sort of feud, how did an apparently unimportant geologist get caught up in it?”

“There’ve been no further murders or similar assaults since Ransom’s death?” Drew asked.

“Nothing. We have four brutal killings in less than two weeks, and then nothing. I’m glad to say,” Nergui added, in a tone that suggested this was perhaps only half true. Another killing or assault would be dreadful, of course, but might at least help to provide some further leads. “No, I’m glad there have been no more, but it makes me uneasy. I’m waiting for-” he paused.