The Shadow Walker (10 page)

There was an external entrance to the building a few yards further along the wall, fastened with a chain and a large rusty padlock. Gradually, the group of officers edged toward it. Nergui peered for a moment at the door fastening, and then spoke quietly to Doripalam behind him, who inched slowly back to one of the cars and returned, moments later, with a crowbar.

It looked as if the wood was rotten. Doripalam inserted the crowbar between the door and the frame, and pressed his weight against it. The door burst open with a splintering of wood, and the chain and padlock fell uselessly to the ground. He peered cautiously around the frame, pulling a flashlight from his pocket. He shouted something loudly in Mongolian, and then shone the flashlight inside, flashing it around the empty factory space beyond, clearly ready to pull back immediately if there was any response.

Drew realized he had been holding his breath, and let it out steadily. Everything seemed to be quiet. Nergui signaled to the men behind him, and he slowly followed Doripalam into the darkness.

Drew shook his head. It wasn't possible for him to sit here quietly in this car while Nergui and his team were potentially risking their lives. He opened the door of the car, and slipped out to join the police officers still waiting to enter the building. The officer at the rear turned and looked at him in surprise, but then gave a grin of welcome. Drew pulled out the pocket flashlight he always carried and held it as if it were a weapon.

Nergui called out something from inside. Drew had no idea what had been shouted, but it didn't sound troubled. It was presumably an instruction to the rest of the team, because they all began to move slowly into the dark building.

Drew followed last. Stepping to one side so that he wouldn't stand out as a target in the doorway, he paused for his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom.

Inside, the building was largely a hollow shell, an enormous space which had at one stage housed manufacturing machinery, but which now echoed emptily. He could see the shadows of the other officers positioning themselves around the walls. Above them, there was some form of walkway running around the walls at the upper floor level—perhaps once intended for machine maintenance. Some pale light came in through the broken upper windows, but there was little to be seen.

Nergui and Doripalam stood poised at the far end, standing in front of a large double door, which presumably led into a storage room. There was a thin line of light coming from around the doors, indicating that there was illumination in the room beyond. It was difficult to be sure from where Drew was standing, but it looked brighter than daylight alone.

Doripalam signaled to two of the men to explore the walkways, reached by stairs in the corner of the factory space, although it seemed that the upper area was unoccupied. As far as Drew could see, there was nowhere else for anyone to hide, other than in whatever space lay behind the double doors.

The remaining men gathered at each side of the doors. Drew followed the officers across the oil-stained concrete floor, and stood beside them. Nergui reached out and tried the handle of the left hand door. It opened easily and a pale strip of light shone out across the concrete. Nergui raised his hand to Doripalam and another officer, who brought forward two handguns, handing one to Doripalam. Drew had not realized that the police were armed, but it was scarcely a surprise. He was slightly more surprised to see that Nergui himself was also holding a firearm.

Nergui motioned to the two armed officers to stand facing the door, so that between them they would be covering the whole area behind the door. Then shouting some kind of warning—probably the Mongolian equivalent of “Armed police,” Drew thought—he kicked back the door. A bright light flooded out into the factory space, momentarily blinding Drew.

There was silence. Then Nergui said something and walked cautiously into the room. Doripalam slowly lowered his weapon, staring into the brightly lit space, a blank expression on his face. At first neither he nor the other armed officer made any move forward. Then they slowly turned to look at each other, and followed Nergui.

Another officer started to follow them, but a shouted instruction from Nergui caused him to stop. The rest of the team looked at each other in bafflement, but no one moved.

Ignoring the command—after all, he told himself, he was not part of Nergui's team—Drew stepped out from behind the police officers, and moved around until he was directly facing the doorway. Then he walked forward cautiously.

Nergui was standing in the middle of the room, staring fixedly at the object spread out before him. Doripalam and the other armed officer stood to one side, both gazing at the ground. There was a bright spotlight shining across the whole area, illuminating the ghastly scene. Drew wondered irrelevantly what the power source of the light was.

The object of Nergui's gaze was a decapitated body, propped against the wall in the full glare of the spotlight, like a grotesque museum exhibit. Fixed between its two hands, as if mimicking some parody of a ghost, was the victim's own head.

Drew stood for a moment, transfixed. To his side, some of the other officers had begun to cluster around the door, their curiosity finally getting the better of them. One of them, one of the younger ones, moved forward to look at the scene, and then backed away, a look of shock on his face, his hand over his mouth. He turned and moved rapidly toward the entrance,
retching as he ran. Others began to move back similarly, as if the bright room were somehow contaminated.

Nergui looked up, and saw Drew. He nodded and beckoned Drew forward. Drew approached the room, uneasily but with less disgust than was evident amongst the police team. Although he had never seen anything quite like this, he had seen enough in his time to be able to cope.

“You do not need to come in,” Nergui said.

“It's okay,” Drew said. “I've seen—well, I can't say I've seen worse, but I've seen plenty.”

Nergui nodded. “We both have. But, like you, I have never faced anything remotely approaching this.”

Drew looked back at the officers outside, most of whom had now withdrawn from the room. “It must be a shock to your men.”

Nergui allowed himself a pale smile. “You have no idea how much of a shock.”

Drew looked around at the two armed men, then back at Nergui. There was clearly something else here, something he wasn't getting.

It was Doripalam who turned to Drew, a look of horror etched in his young face, his handgun hanging limply at his side. “You see,” he said, “this is not just a brutal murder. Not just one of the most brutal murders I have ever seen. It is much more than that. We all know this man. He is a police officer. A senior officer.” He paused, as though struggling for breath. “This is the brutal murder of one of our colleagues. And all set up here like some insane circus sideshow.”

And the most terrifying thing, Drew thought, is that we appear to have come here as the invited audience.

“This is really very good.” A long pause, broken only by the sound of their eating. “I'm sorry—I didn't mean to sound so surprised.”

Nergui laughed. “No, it is understandable. My country is not known for the quality of its cuisine. We are a nation of warriors, not chefs.”

“And, for that matter, senior police officers are not usually known for their culinary skills. I speak entirely personally you understand. But no, really, this is excellent.”

“Well, thank you,” Nergui said. “I will assume that your comments are more than mere British politeness. I enjoy cooking. It's something of a hobby of mine, but I rarely get the chance to try it out on others.”

Drew looked around Nergui's apartment, wondering what clues could be gained to the character of the man opposite him. A few, no doubt, although he had the impression that Nergui was not a man who would expend much energy expressing his character through home décor.

Still, the apartment was comfortable enough, and surprisingly spacious. The narrow hallway led to a small but well-appointed kitchen, two closed rooms which were presumably bedrooms, and the large living and dining area where they were sitting. To Drew's inexpert eye, the furniture looked moderately expensive, and he wondered vaguely whether these heavy dark wood tables and plush crimson seats were manufactured locally or had to be imported from Russia, China or even further afield.

He had initially been surprised when Nergui had invited him over for dinner, as they were finally driving away from the factory after their gruesome discovery. The scene of crime and forensic teams were still working away, but the body had now been taken away for examination, and Nergui felt that there was little to be added by their presence.

“I thought,” Nergui said, as they drove away, “you and Doripalam might perhaps join me for dinner at my home tonight? I would be honored.”

“Well, that's very kind of you.” Drew glanced back at the dark silhouette of the factory. “But—well, are you sure? I mean, you mustn't feel obliged to be my host. I realize this has been a shock.”

“A shock, professionally, yes,” Nergui said. “We have never experienced anything like this before. Of course, we have had policemen killed in the line of duty. But nothing like this.” Before Drew could respond he went on: “It is not that the victim was a personal friend, you understand. I knew him, had met him in passing a few times.” Nergui laughed, with an edge of bitterness. “The last time, I think, I was reprimanding him a little because he had failed to sort out some papers I needed for a case I was working on. But I understand he was a good officer. And he was, I imagine, a friend to some of those who were with us today.” He paused. “That is what is so horrific—that whoever did this tried to ensure that we would enter that place in force. He wanted to ensure that this body was found, not just by any passerby, but those who knew him best.”

Drew shuddered. Nergui was right. It was a horrific thought, suggesting an extraordinary cold-bloodedness to the murder. It also raised the questions of what had motivated the murderer to behave in this way, and—even more chillingly—where this motivation might lead him next. “But why?” he asked. “Why would anyone behave like that?”

“Who knows? We appear to be dealing with some kind of madman, though I can't begin to conceive what kind. But we still
don't know whether the victims, including this one, were selected randomly or deliberately targeted. Even in this last case, I suppose it is possible that the victim was selected randomly, but then the killer chose to expose the body in the cruelest and most spectacular way he could.”

“But equally it may not be a coincidence that the victim was a police officer?”

“As you say. In which case, perhaps the previous victims were also not selected randomly.”

It was like gazing into a pool of clouded water, Drew thought. Occasionally some object swam into view, and you began to feel that you could recognize the shape of it. But then the water clouded again, and there was nothing but grayness and uncertainty.

There was no doubt that even Nergui, calm professional though he appeared, had been shaken by the day's events. Nevertheless, he remained insistent that Drew should join him for dinner. “It is my duty as your host,” he said. “But, more importantly, I would welcome the opportunity to spend the evening with someone. It is not a day to be alone, I think.”

Drew was often grateful his domestic circumstances meant there was always someone to come home to. Sometimes he would share his experiences, but more often he would simply try to put them behind him. It made his working existence more bearable.

Ten years on from his marriage, he couldn't really envisage life any other way, and he wondered what it must be like for Nergui, coming home every day to this comfortable but sterile apartment. He also wondered why it was that having faced a trauma like today's, he could call on nobody other than his deputy and a total stranger.

As it turned out, Doripalam chose to excuse himself from the dinner invitation. Drew could not work out whether this was a tactful judgment on Doripalam's part or, more likely, it was simply that Doripalam had access to those domestic comforts which were so notably absent in Nergui's existence.

Still, Nergui was an excellent host. He had arranged an official car to bring Drew over to his apartment, and greeted him warmly at the door. He was dressed in what, to Drew's eyes, appeared to be a leisure version of the herdsman's robes, a brightly colored flowing gown wrapped with a gold sash, his feet enclosed in finely embroidered leather slippers. Drew wondered if this was the typical dress of the average Mongolian at home, or perhaps simply a more overt expression of the dandyism which, in his professional life, Nergui appeared to confine largely to his choice of ties.

As he entered the apartment, Drew had been surprised to find that Nergui was cooking the meal himself. He had hardly struck Drew as the domesticated type, so it was incongruous to see him standing before a cooker, stirring and tasting the contents of the array of pans.

“There. It is fine. It is all under control,” Nergui said, leading him into the lounge area. “Fifteen, twenty minutes, it should all be ready.”

Nergui offered him a beer, and also produced two bottles of red wine for the meal. “It's not bad,” he said, apologetically. “Bulgarian. It's difficult to get any better out here.”

Nergui was a relaxed host, and Drew felt no discomfort even though they initially sat in an amiable silence. It was clear that Nergui had much on his mind, and he said little until he had served the first course—a spicy soup containing chicken and prawns. Drew expressed his compliments on the quality of the food.

“I'm afraid it is far from authentic local cuisine,” Nergui said. “But then you should probably be thankful that it is not authentic local cuisine.”

“I wish I could produce food like this.”