Prefecture D Read online

  Prefecture D

  Also By

  Also by Hideo Yokoyama

  Six Four

  Seventeen

  Title

  Copyright

  First published in the Japanese language as Kage no kisetsu (Season of Shadows) by Bungeishunju Ltd in Tokyo in 1998

  This ebook edition first published in 2019 by

  An imprint of

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 1998 Hideo Yokoyama

  English translation copyright © 2019 Jonathan Lloyd-Davies

  The moral right of Hideo Yokoyama to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 78648 463 5 (HB)

  ISBN 978 1 78648 464 2 (TPB)

  ISBN 978 1 78648 465 9 (EBOOK)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  businesses, organizations, places and events are

  either the product of the author’s imagination

  or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or

  locales is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook by CC Book Production

  Cover design © 2019 Nathan Burton Design

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Contents

  Season of Shadows

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Cry of the Earth

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Black Lines

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Briefcase

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Season of Shadows

  1

  The room was shut away from the wind and the myriad sounds of spring. The windows were permanently closed, concealed behind heavy, tightly drawn curtains. The air conditioning seemed to be on, but a brief session at a desk was enough to realise that it barely worked, despite the racket.

  The Administration annexe was a little over sixteen square metres, located on the first floor of the north building of the Prefecture D Police Headquarters. To mark the fact that it was not in common use, it was often referred to as ‘the spring house’ or ‘the retreat’. These terms were, of course, only used by the staff of Administration. The rest of the force chose to feign disinterest and call it simply ‘Personnel’, some with a knowing grin, others with a hint of trepidation in their eyes.

  They’ll be up there now, barricaded in Personnel.

  That was what they all said.

  With internal notification due in five days, the work on compiling the annual list of transfers was in its final stages. With no more than 3,000 career and non-career officers under review, and an even smaller number of these actually up for transfer, the pieces of the puzzle would, in any normal year, have already fallen into place.

  But there had been a delay, following an inauspicious call from Internal Affairs that afternoon. The captain of Station S in the north had, it seemed, pressured a landscaper from a resort in his jurisdiction to construct a garden at his wife’s family home, for a fee that essentially amounted to nothing.

  Bloody fool.

  Shinji Futawatari cursed at the image of the man now pictured on his monitor.

  The captain, whose oval features suggested a gentle nature, had only assumed the post the previous spring. As such, he had not been included in the list of candidates up for transfer. The knowledge of his transgression, however, meant it would no longer do to leave him visible to the public as the station’s representative. The director of Administrative Affairs had left Futawatari with specific instructions to redraft the plans by the following morning, to make sure they included the captain’s reassignment.

  Futawatari had a long history with Personnel. For a total of six years as assistant inspector and inspector, then two more following his promotion to superintendent and subsequent assignment to overseeing the broader management of the force as Administration inspector, he had always been involved in the process of drafting transfers. It was unlikely the executive would consider letting someone of his experience move on. Not, at least, until the section – which scraped by on a minimal headcount – was upgraded to a division.

  He was no stranger to situations like this.

  He’d worked under a captain who had been particularly susceptible to flattery. Like a foolish prince, the man had ordered one incredible promotion after another. He’d seen a succession of Administrative Affairs directors, each of whom had sought to flex their authority in order to interfere with the pieces of the puzzle, paying no heed to local realities or conventions. There was, he realised, no point in getting worked up whenever something like this cropped up. The often arbitrary requirements of these self-centred bureaucrats meant it was all but tradition for the process to require a series of all-nighters.

  Still, this was the first time he’d been forced to consider a change just when he’d been preparing to send the list across to Welfare and Officer Development for printing, having already obtained the captain’s stamp of approval. There was also the fact that it was not simply due to the whim of some career bureaucrat but rather the reprehensible actions of a captain, someone who was supposed to be on the same side.

  It was enough to stoke even Futawatari’s anger.

  Have him sleep it off somewhere, maybe Licensing or Training.

  Futawatari dragged his mouse across the organisational chart on the screen, searching for a suitable destination.

  Whenever a front-line member of the executive did something to cause a loss of face, it was usual to reel them in to some out-of-sight post in headquarters, to box them up and let them cool off for four or five years. You had to avoid transfers that were an obvious step down – that would risk catching the attention of the press – and Futawatari realised that some of the veteran reporters knew the inner workings of the force better than many of the officers themselves. That brought the danger that the transgressions would be made public. Fortunately, it was a particular strength of Personnel to nurture posts that were both impenetrable and obscure, enabling transfers that were recognisable from the inside as punitive yet justifiable to the outside as existing to ‘strengthen department X
or Y’.

  What would be the best move?

  Assuming, then, that the captain was bound for Licensing or Training, the next step would be to transfer a suitable management-level officer to the newly vacant position in Station S. A straight swap would be preferable, but it would be too big a step up for the current chief of Licensing to assume a captain’s post. Even more of a problem was the chief of Training. His age and experience were good, but his hometown was in the station’s jurisdiction. Such a move was taboo and would bring questions. Futawatari would have no choice but to offer special justification for the transfer.

  Asshole.

  Futawatari cursed again. He took a deep breath, then set about tearing apart the pieces of the already approved puzzle. He would, after all, have to do this one step at a time. Move the chief of Licensing to Station G, one grade below Station S. Return the captain of Station G to Juvenile Crime in the Prefectural HQ. Take the chief of Juvenile Crime and slide him over to Community Safety. Move the chief of Community Safety to . . .

  ‘Futawatari. A minute, if you don’t mind.’

  He looked up, still scowling, to see Administration Chief Shirota beckoning from behind the half-open door of the main entrance. There were no phones in the annexe. This was mostly for show, the idea being to stop information leaking out while simultaneously preventing anyone from calling in for special treatment. Shirota was the highest-ranking division chief in the Prefectural HQ, yet even he had to make his way down multiple corridors to get here from Administrative Affairs, which was located on the first floor of the main building, and take the long walk over the tiled passageway that connected the two buildings. Futawatari nodded and got to his feet. For the first time in hours, he glanced at the clock on the wall.

  It was a little after nine in the evening.

  ‘Something’s come up. If you’d be kind enough to accompany me to the director’s office?’ That Shirota was frowning was obvious even in the dim light of the corridor.

  Trouble?

  ‘Sir, if this is related to the captain, I’ve already started—’ Futawatari stopped partway through the ill-considered sentence. Shirota had already been apprised of the issue of the captain, meaning something else would have brought him all this way. And he’d intimated that the director of Administrative Affairs was still in his office, at a time when he would usually be at home, tipping back a glass of brandy. Futawatari hurried back to his desk. He closed the windows still open on his screen and took out the disk and he locked it in the safe. He hurried out to follow Shirota’s nervous-looking figure down the corridor.

  Futawatari looked pale, even away from the computer.

  Something more urgent than this?

  They made their way towards the main building, walking along corridor after corridor until they reached the red carpet which stretched all the way to the captain’s office in the distance. There was a glow, ahead and to the right, coming from the window of the director’s office. Straightening his posture, Futawatari followed Shirota in. The tread of the carpet was immediately thicker. Director Oguro, who was sitting on a couch, turned his head to greet them. His eyes were narrow and displeased.

  ‘Something’s come up.’ Oguro motioned a hand at a second couch, not waiting for them to sit as he growled the same words as Shirota.

  ‘Trouble, sir?’

  Shirota’s eyes rose, hesitant to meet Futawatari’s gaze. Futawatari, for his part, was already braced for bad news.

  ‘It’s Osakabe. He has informed us that he doesn’t intend to step down.’

  ‘What?’ Futawatari blurted, failing to mask his surprise.

  ‘It seems he intends to make trouble,’ Oguro said, not even trying to hide his irritation as he fixed a glare on Futawatari’s stunned eyes.

  But that’s . . . unthinkable.

  Michio Osakabe. One of the force’s more prominent alumni, the man had been director of Criminal Investigations when he’d taken voluntary retirement three years ago, settling thereafter into an executive position created by Administrative Affairs. His tenure had been set to expire before the upcoming batch of transfers. His successor had been pegged as Director Kudo in Community Safety, now scheduled for retirement himself.

  The puzzle will fall apart.

  Shirota had called Osakabe at home, just an hour earlier, to discuss the details of the handover. When he’d broached the topic, however, Osakabe had told him he wouldn’t be leaving and unilaterally ended the call.

  Futawatari’s heart was racing. Osakabe refusing to step down. That would leave Kudo with nowhere to go. One of the key roles of Administration was to develop positions for executives to take upon retirement from the force. It was a chance for the division to prove its worth. Personnel would become a laughing stock should they fail to procure a post for someone as high-ranking as the director of Community Safety, leaving him without a position for a year. And any failure of Personnel would reflect badly on the division as a whole.

  Damn it.

  ‘Did he say why?’ Futawatari asked. He’d tried to sound composed but his voice had come across as strained.

  ‘If he had, this would be easy,’ Oguro snapped.

  Oguro both despised and feared failure at any level. Born in the southern reaches of the prefecture, he’d made police sergeant at his local headquarters and spent time manning a nearby substation. Some years later, perhaps due to some personal epiphany, he’d decided to take – and subsequently passed – the promotion exams, securing himself a future as a career officer. Yet he remained in many ways a kind of hybrid. While he could throw his weight around in the prefectures, he was still small fry as far as Tokyo was concerned. Sectioned off from the purebred bureaucrats and their race to the top, he had been transferred from region to region, occasionally landing himself an unexceptional role in Tokyo but suffering the whole time the particular anguish that came with having no faction of his own. At his age, he had maybe one or two postings left. He would hope to secure a captain’s post before he had to hang up his uniform. A small station would do – maybe somewhere in the plains, where the climate was good.

  Don’t you fucking mess this up for me.

  To Futawatari, the threat was almost audible.

  ‘Section Chief Uehara can take over the work on the transfers. I want you to find out what’s behind Osakabe’s change of heart.’

  It was clear that Shirota had heard the warning, too; his eyes had been pleading as he instructed Futawatari to investigate.

  2

  As he made his way back along the dark corridor, Futawatari felt like burying his head in his hands. While Shirota hadn’t exactly said as much, it was evident that he wanted Futawatari to fix the situation. Osakabe’s plans aside, those of the force were already in motion. Futawatari would have no choice but to hand the man his notice. That much was unavoidable. Isn’t this your job? Futawatari had suppressed the urge to comment. He’d already known how Shirota, always quick to protect his own interests, would have responded: You, more than anyone, know the background to this post.

  Six months prior to Osakabe’s scheduled retirement a group of construction companies had approached Administration with a proposal to establish a foundation to monitor industrial dumping. It hadn’t been chance that the timing had coincided with a spate of corruption charges being made against the industry. Having wracked their brains as to how to improve relations with the Prefectural HQ, the companies had come up with the idea of establishing a foundation and offered up the post of executive.

  Administration had, for its part, welcomed the idea. They were always in need of good executive-level positions and that year had in fact been struggling to place a number of senior officials who were due for retirement but had nothing in the pipeline. While the division did not expect to grant any special favours should the industry suffer an investigation, its discomfort at having consciously ingested poison was real, obscu
red only by the fact that the subject was never openly discussed.

  The director of Administrative Affairs had appointed Osakabe as the first managing director of the foundation on the condition that his term would be a maximum of three years. In Prefecture D, the usual tenure for this kind of post ranged between three and six years. Osakabe’s term had been set at the shortest end of the scale in order to balance the number of executives due for retirement in the next five years against the number of positions that were expected to become available.

  Had Osakabe been unhappy with this? It was the first thought to come to mind. Back when the post had been announced, Futawatari had been a section chief in Personnel. He’d run the numbers himself. He’d handed in the conclusion.

  Or . . .

  A second, more disconcerting scenario crept into view. A private office; a secretary; a car and chauffeur; a salary at least as good as his old one. What if it had all become too comfortable to give up? It wasn’t, Futawatari supposed, entirely unthinkable. If Osakabe had become greedy, that would complicate the matter. While his term was fixed at three years, the contract was only verbal. As with any gentleman’s agreement, it was effective only until one side announced their intention to tear it up.

  This had, of course, never happened.

  The force, more than any other organisation, existed within its own, closed community. You issued your first cries the moment you entered police school. You committed your life to the organisation and you remained a part of it until the day you died. Retirement meant nothing more than the end of your time on active duty. It had no bearing on your status as a member of the force. In this context, the gentleman’s agreement came to symbolise more than just a promise. It became law. For Osakabe to ignore this and turn his back on the force – the idea seemed absurd. It would be akin to suicide, marking the end of his life with the police.

  Having returned to Personnel, Futawatari informed Uehara that he was to take over the rebuilding of the puzzle. He issued a few brief pointers then sat at his own desk. He slid a disk marked ‘Alumni’ into the computer drive, took a deep breath then brought Michio Osakabe’s file up on the screen.