The Shadow Walker (22 page)

Nergui nodded, ignoring the undertone of sarcasm. “I understand your concerns. But this city is safer than almost anywhere else you could be, believe me.”

The words were reassuring, and Nergui's calm demeanor was even more so. But Drew wondered whether Nergui's claim was true. And, more importantly, whether Nergui himself really believed it.

“What about you, Drew, do you believe in it?”

“No, I don't. Well, what I mean is, I'm quite happy to accept that there might be more things in heaven and earth and all that, so I'm prepared to keep an open mind in principle. But I have to say that I've never seen it work in practice.”

“Have you ever used it?” Professor Wilson said. “In an investigation, I mean?”

It was nearly midnight, and they had become caught up in one of those conversations that only happen amongst strangers when too much alcohol has been consumed. Drew had noticed that the ambassador was adept at plying others with drink while minimizing his own consumption. No doubt an invaluable tool of the trade.

“Not personally, no. But I've been involved in cases where it's been tried.”

“What kinds of cases?”

“Oh, well, you know, usually missing persons—particularly missing children. When there's a child missing, after a while the parents will cling to any hope—anything that might bring them some news, even it's bad. They'd rather know.”

“But you've never seen it work?”

“No, never. I've always had mixed feelings about it. We wouldn't usually initiate it—though I know there are some senior officers who take it seriously—but we wouldn't stand in the way if, say, the parents wanted to try it. But I'm always afraid they're being
taken for a ride. There are unscrupulous people out there, who'll take advantage even in a situation like that.”

“So you think these people—mediums, whatever you choose to call them—are all charlatans?” There was something forensic in Professor Wilson's approach, as though he were a prosecuting barrister trying to get the better of a hostile witness.

“I wouldn't say that,” Drew said, though privately he thought he would probably say exactly that. “I mean, some of the people I've encountered seemed genuine enough. In the sense that they believed in what they were doing, at any rate.”

“But you never saw it work?”

“Never. There have been several occasions when we've all gone traipsing off, feeling slightly ridiculous, because one of these people had said we would find something in a particular location—a field or woodland or whatever. But we never did.”

“But there have been instances where the police have been guided accurately by mediums, haven't there?” Helena Wilson said.

“I believe so,” Drew said. “I've read press stories about them, and I've met some senior experienced policemen who give some credence to it. But it's not been my experience.”

He wasn't entirely sure how they'd got into this conversation. It had started with some comments—apparently humorous—from Helena Wilson about her own “second sight.” She had explained that she had grown up with a sense of being able to predict events or, on occasions, be aware of events happening elsewhere.

“It's one of Helena's hobby horses,” her husband said. “As a man of science, I struggle with it a little.”

“Rubbish, I'm not suggesting anything unscientific. I'm not even suggesting that it's necessarily true. It's not something I can turn on or turn off at will.” This was obviously an argument that they had rehearsed on many occasions, and there was no rancor in her voice. “But I have had certain experiences, which I'd struggle to explain.”

“What kinds of experiences?” Nergui said, sitting forward.

“Oh, well, you know, having a sense that something's going to happen before it does.”

“Like predicting 9/11? There were, inevitably, people who claimed to have done that,” the ambassador said.

She shook her head hard. “No, in my experience, it's something much more personal, much closer to home. It's the sense of—oh, I don't know, things like meeting someone and feeling that something bad is going to happen to them. And then it does—they have an accident or whatever.”

“And this has happened to you?” Nergui asked.

“Yes, exactly that. I've also, on a couple of occasions, been aware of accidents or illnesses affecting people close to me before I've been told about them.”

“That could just be coincidence,” her husband pointed out. “It's the usual story. You factor out all the times you had that feeling but nothing happened.”

“I can't argue with that. But I honestly can't recall having that feeling without some resulting event. Which doesn't mean that there haven't been plenty of occasions when I've not had the feeling but the person's gone ahead and had an accident anyway.” She laughed. “I'm not making any serious claims for this, you understand, just telling you what I've felt.”

“What about you, Nergui? Have you ever been involved in using mediums?” Dr. Wilson turned to Nergui.

Nergui shook his head. Drew had noticed that although Nergui appeared to be accepting and consuming wine and port along with the rest of them, he was displaying no sign of inebriation. Drew wished he could say the same for himself. He was finding it increasingly difficult to string a coherent sentence together. “I'm afraid not,” Nergui said. “Though perhaps sometimes it would be better if we did. It might improve our success rate. I also think that attitudes are a little different here. We would not use a medium in the sense you describe, but many of my colleagues would see a spiritual dimension to their role.”

“What sort of spiritual dimension?” Professor Wilson asked.

“It varies. Religion and spiritualism have a confused history here, mainly resulting from the Stalinist suppression of religion. So now we have some people who are genuinely Buddhists, others who have adopted some of the Buddhist or Taoist principles, some who are following older shamanist traditions, and so on. Not to mention the increasing number of evangelical Christians—one of the growing effects of Western influences. But I think it would not be unusual to find officers who used—well, let us call them spiritual methods, such as meditation, as part of their work. And some of that, I think, would not be too far away from what we have been talking about.”

It was after midnight by now, and he looked at his watch. “It is late,” he said. “We should perhaps be thinking about going home.”

The idea of going home seemed powerfully attractive to Drew. The idea of returning to the Chinggis Khaan was rather less so, but he was conscious of increasing tiredness and inebriation. “I think that would be a good idea, if you'll excuse us.”

The ambassador made a show of encouraging them to stay, but it was clearly little more than politeness. It had actually been a very enjoyable evening—not at all what he had been expecting, Drew thought. The Wilsons were not the kind of people he would normally spend an evening with, but their company had certainly been stimulating.

The ambassador led them back down the stairs to the main entrance hall. Outside, the air was icy, a thick frost already gathering on the street. Nergui had summoned an official car to take him back to his apartment—Drew noted that such transport seemed to be available without difficulty to Nergui at any time of the day or night. They stood at the top of the steps, looking down at the car, its engine running in the empty street.

“Can I offer you a lift?” Nergui said. The Wilsons, like Drew, were staying at the Chinggis Khaan. “It's a cold night.”

As the cold air hit him, Drew began to feel the effect of the alcohol. “If it's all the same to you,” he said, “I think I wouldn't mind the walk. It's only five minutes.”

The Wilsons looked at each other. “I wouldn't mind a lift,” Helena Wilson said. “These heels aren't ideal for an icy street, especially after a few drinks.”

“You're sure you don't want a lift, Drew?” Nergui looked at him closely. “You're okay?”

“I'm fine,” Drew said. “Should have taken a bit more water with it, that's all. Fresh air will do me good.”

He followed the others down the steps to the car. Nergui ushered the Wilsons into the back, and then climbed into the front by the driver. Helena Wilson started to close the rear door, then stopped, looking at Drew. “Chief Inspector. Drew,” she said. “Are you sure you won't come with us? There's plenty of room.”

“No, really, it's okay.” He had started to walk away, feeling unstable.

“Drew,” she said again. “I—” She stopped as if unsure how to go on. “Please. Take care, won't you?”

He turned, surprised by the sudden urgency in her tone. She closed the car door as the driver started to pull away, but was still watching him earnestly through the window. He thought, for a moment before the car moved, that there was a look in her eyes that was close to fear.

The car did a U-turn, and accelerated past him. He saw Nergui wave a farewell gesture through the front window. Helena Wilson was still watching him, looking back through the rear window. And then the car turned the corner, and was gone.

Drew straightened up, trying to maintain his equilibrium. He really had drunk much more than he had realized. That was the problem with whisky. The effects hit you suddenly, later. He stumbled slightly, and then began to walk slowly down the street, the large angular bulk of the hotel already visible against the clear night sky. The street was deserted and silent, white with the thickening frost.

He had walked only a few more feet when he heard a sudden tumble of footsteps behind him. He half turned, startled by the unexpected sound. For a moment, he caught sight of a shadow,
the glint of something in the pale streetlight. And then he was pushed, hard, the force of the blow sending him sliding across the icy pavement. He tripped and stumbled, trying to regain his balance, as something hit him again. He rolled over, his eyes filled first with the glare of the streetlight, then with a jumble of stars and a looming shadow. And then with darkness.

“Nergui?”

Nergui looked up. Through the narrow window, he could see the sky lightening outside. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting here, reading through the case files.

“Brought you this.” It was Doripalam, holding two mugs of coffee.

“Thanks,” he said. “I need it.”

“Well, I was making one,” the young man said. “And I saw that you were already in.” He placed the mug carefully down on Nergui's desk. “How was the ambassador's party?”

Nergui gestured him to sit down. “Alcoholic,” he said. “But otherwise better than feared. We met a couple of rather odd Brits. He was a chemist who was also a civil servant. She was an anthropologist doing some work on our folk traditions. Or something like that.”

“You're making my night at home sound more attractive by the second.”

“Just bear that in mind when they come to offer you a job in the Ministry,” Nergui said.

“That may be a little while yet.”

“Well, the way this case is going there could be a vacancy before long. Not that I'd necessarily recommend you take it.” “That why you're in so early?”

Nergui looked up at Doripalam, wondering quite what was going through the younger man's mind. He was probably feeling
some relief now that it was Nergui's reputation on the line in this case, but Nergui guessed that his feelings were likely to be more complicated than that.

“Not really. Didn't get home till late. Then I couldn't sleep so I thought I might as well come in. But all I've been doing is rereading the files. I keep hoping that something new is going to leap out at me, but of course it doesn't.”

“No news on our missing American?”

“Maxon? No, he's just vanished. Seems unbelievable. You'd imagine that a Westerner couldn't stay undetected for five minutes down there, but he seems to have managed it.”

“Maybe he's dead too?”

Nergui nodded. The same thought had, of course, already occurred to him. He had assumed that Maxon had been riding the motorbike he had heard accelerating away from the camp before he found the two bodies. But maybe it had been someone else. Maybe Maxon had been another victim, not the perpetrator. Certainly it would be much easier to hide a dead body down there than a living Westerner. But it still wasn't a straightforward explanation. If Maxon was dead, how had the killer managed to kill him and somehow dispose of the body, alongside the other two murders? They had searched the tourist camp very thoroughly, and Nergui was as sure as he could be that Maxon wasn't there, living or dead.

But Doripalam was right. It was a possibility they couldn't ignore. Though finding a dead body in the Gobi desert wasn't likely to be the easiest of tasks.

“I'm hoping he's alive,” Nergui said grimly, “because he's one of the few decent leads we've got in this thing. If he's dead—if he's another victim—we're no further forward.” He shrugged. “But I have a horrible feeling you may well be right. Nothing makes any sense here.”

“I think everyone's getting rattled about this one. There are all kinds of stories flying about.”

“Inevitably,” Nergui said. They had done their best to keep the
story under wraps as far as the general public was concerned. These days, it wasn't easy. The press was always keen to demonstrate its independence, and wouldn't take kindly to being excluded from a potentially major story. But the reporting of the initial murders had been low key, with no suggestion of any connection, and the Ministry had managed to ensure that none of the details were published. Delgerbayar's murder had been reported in a similar manner. It had been difficult to play down the Gobi murders, particularly given the need to try to track down Maxon, but they had not been linked to the murders in the capital city.