Prefecture D Page 13

  Tomoko’s head reeled at the thought. She realised she hadn’t yet eaten lunch. She angled her wrist to check her watch. It was already three thirty.

  I should get something in my stomach.

  She walked to the first shop she could see and picked up a random selection of pastries. She was about to head back to the station when she saw a phone box. Still edgy from nerves, she punched in a number. The unwelcome sound of her own voice came on after a few rings, informing her that she was out.

  She left a brief message.

  ‘Yacho. I’m going to be late. There’s curry in the freezer.’

  She put the phone down and noticed Futawatari standing behind her, holding a can of coffee.

  ‘Your son is in year nine?’

  ‘Year ten, now,’ Tomoko answered, blushing a little.

  ‘So he’s got exams. That’ll be tough on the lad.’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s kind of given up on them. Your daughter, she . . .?’

  ‘Started secondary school this spring. She’s cheeky, always looking for trouble.’

  Futawatari had already heard from Morishima that there was nothing in the car to suggest that a crime had taken place. He told Tomoko he was going back to headquarters and asked what she was planning. She considered waiting but thought she would be too conspicuous in her uniform. Forensics, too, would be a while yet. She told him she’d come back with him, at least for the time being, and took the wheel for the return journey.

  ‘How did it go at the bank?’

  ‘She hasn’t touched her account. No activity at all.’

  ‘Meaning she can’t have gone far.’

  ‘Perhaps. Although she could probably take money out en route, if she needs it.’

  ‘And she might not even need to, if she’s with someone.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Not for the first time, Futawatari’s reaction seemed a little muted. Perhaps he’d already concluded that Mizuho was by herself. That would be perfectly normal. He didn’t know about the perfume in her room or about the reporter who had given it to her. Tomoko began to worry that his judgement was being affected by the lack of information. She should probably bring him up to speed. There’d been the development of the cigarettes in the car, too. Considering there were no other men she knew about in Mizuho’s life, she decided it was probably time to mention the reporter.

  ‘Sir . . .’

  She told Futawatari everything she had learned: about the perfume and about the man. Futawatari did seem a little surprised but his tone was as relaxed as before when he answered.

  ‘I suppose we should look into that.’

  7

  Tomoko changed in the locker room before returning to Administration, where she saw Press Director Genichi Funaki at Futawatari’s desk. The two men were locked in a heated discussion.

  ‘What if it turns out not to be the reporter? Look, we have to be careful. If the press catch wind of the fact that Officer Hirano has gone missing . . .’

  Tomoko caught the man’s trademark body odour as she overheard part of their conversation. Funaki was a contemporary of Futawatari’s. Equally aggressive in their pursuit of advancement, they had made inspector together. Yet Futawatari’s promotion to superintendent had come two years ahead of his colleague’s. Their relationship, Tomoko had heard, had never been the same since. This made it difficult to gauge how much the press director’s refusal to cooperate stemmed from his fear of tipping off the press and how much from his personal issues with Futawatari.

  Tomoko bit into a pastry, using her free hand to pull out a binder marked ‘Female Officers Network’. Inside were the phone numbers of all forty-eight female officers posted across the headquarters and the prefecture’s seventeen district stations. She had decided it would be useful in gathering more information on Mizuho. Tomoko had hesitated until now, not wanting to be the source of gossip, but it was already four thirty. She couldn’t allow herself to sit back and do nothing while she waited for Mizuho to return.

  She dialled the first number on the list.

  Police Sergeant Saito. Criminal Investigations. Station W.

  Officer Saito had worked with Tomoko in Administration until her transfer out last year.

  ‘I’d like you to make some calls.’

  Tomoko brought Saito up to speed, leaving her with instructions to call the officers at the substation near Train Station M if she learned anything new, anything at all. Putting the phone down, Tomoko turned around.

  Futawatari and Funaki were still sniping at each other.

  ‘You must know the brands your reporters smoke. You are the press director?’

  ‘Of course I am. That’s why I’m telling you: this is dangerous.’

  Tomoko waited for an opening then informed Futawatari that she was going back to the train station. She left the office and walked down the corridor. Making quick work of the stairs, she left via the building’s main entrance. It was already growing dark outside, mirroring the half-light inside the building.

  Tomoko kept her foot on the accelerator and arrived at the station just as the Mobile Forensics team were packing up.

  ‘Watch duty, Sniffer?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Tough break.’

  She sat on a pavement bench a little away from the drop-off point. It was now past five thirty. Crowds emerged from the station every fifteen to twenty minutes, indicating the start of the evening rush. The majority were in dark suits, so a cream dress would stand out.

  Where on earth are you?

  It was dark by seven. With most of the cars gone, Mizuho’s was left by itself. Once she was confident she’d grasped the timing of the trains, Tomoko got to her feet. She walked to the phone box outside the store and dialled the number for home.

  ‘Hello?’ The uninterested tone of her son’s voice, recently broken, was just like his father’s.

  ‘Yacho. Have you had dinner yet?’

  ‘Stop calling me that,’ he protested.

  ‘Sorry. Ya-chi-o. Look, I’m going to be late after all.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Try to get some studying done, won’t you?’

  The line clicked off.

  Her watch showed eight, then nine, and still there was no sign of Mizuho. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as she waited there alone. She realised it would be the same for her son. Waiting was the only constant he’d had, growing up.

  Tomoko checked her watch again, noting the time as nine thirty when an officer in uniform jogged up to her from the substation. They’d had a call from one of her female officers, a Mitsuko Adachi from Juvenile Crime in headquarters. She’d called after hearing of Mizuho’s disappearance via the network.

  ‘This is Tomoko. Do you have something for me, Officer Adachi?’

  ‘Yes. I saw Mizuho’s car, early this morning.’

  ‘Her car? Where?’

  The news came as a shock. Mitsuko went on to tell Tomoko that she’d seen Mizuho’s car a little before eight that morning, parked outside the Prefectural HQ. I’m pretty sure it was her. She always parks in the same spot and the grille kind of stands out. Her tone had left little room for doubt. Tomoko found it hard to regain her calm, even after she ended the call.

  Mizuho had come to work. She’d made it as far as the parking area but driven off instead of coming in.

  It didn’t make sense.

  Tomoko slumped back into her metal chair inside the substation. She could at least be certain now that Mizuho had not made her decision to disappear until early that morning. She’d been out of sorts the previous evening, perhaps, but she’d come all the way to the Prefectural HQ. She’d intended to come to work as usual. Something had happened in the parking area to change her mind. But what? Had Mild Seven called
her while she was in the car? That didn’t seem likely. As far as Tomoko knew, Mizuho didn’t own a mobile phone. Which left . . . what? Tomoko felt suddenly afraid, as though she’d peered into an old, dark well.

  ‘Excuse me. Sir?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Sir . . .?’

  Coming back to herself, Tomoko looked around to see the officer in uniform once again holding up his phone.

  ‘We’ve just been informed that Officer Hirano is back with her family.’

  8

  Her hurt and concern were mixed with relief, leaving Tomoko confused as to what it was she was supposed to be feeling. She pressed on the accelerator and made sure it stayed down. There was no point in hurrying but there was nothing she could do to stop herself.

  What the hell had it all been about?

  Mizuho’s home was located deep in the mountains. Tomoko had been there before, when she’d first met her parents, and for certain administrative tasks, but this was the first time she’d had to make the trip at night. The area was mostly farming villages, all alike, and there were no street lights or signposts worthy of the name. The date was on the verge of changing when, after a good deal of backtracking, Tomoko finally reached her destination.

  The main building had a thatched roof with a chimney and had probably been used for sericulture in the past. Lights were on in the building next to it, a two-storey home with stone walls. Mizuho’s mother appeared, head dipped in apology, when Tomoko called from the entrance. She kept repeating that she was sorry then turned to call for her daughter, barely managing to conceal her anger.

  ‘Mizuho, could you come to the door?’

  A cream dress appeared at the end of the hallway. At first, the impression was that of something inanimate. Mizuho shuffled forwards, her eyes and nose red. It seemed she’d been crying for a while.

  Mizuho . . .

  Tomoko breathed a deep sigh of relief. She set her chin and filled her lungs before looking up again. ‘I’m so glad you’re safe.’ The anger was gone. All that remained was a boundless sense of relief.

  ‘Officer Nanao . . .’ In the hallway, Mizuho’s voice sounded brittle. Nasal and congested, it was the voice of someone trying not to burst into tears.

  Tomoko fought her own urge to cry. She found herself pulling Mizuho into a tight hug. ‘Silly. You had us all worried.’

  ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Where on earth have you been?’

  In place of an answer, Mizuho buried her face in Tomoko’s chest. She smelled of sweat. Tomoko understood. It was hard work to cry.

  Entering the front room, Tomoko saw Morishima next to Mizuho’s father, the two men looking deadly serious. She’d seen the former’s car so had known he would be there.

  Mizuho huddled up next to her mother.

  ‘She refuses to tell us what this is all about.’ The woman gave her daughter a look of total exasperation. Yet she did not let go of Mizuho’s hand, continuing every now and then to massage her fingers.

  Mizuho’s head stayed down. Her expression was like stone, devoid of emotion.

  ‘Mizuho!’ Her father, cigarette smouldering and tipped in the direction of the floor, yelled her name.

  ‘Perhaps we can reconvene another time,’ Morishima suggested before Tomoko had a chance to interject. ‘It’s late and Mizuho should get some rest. We should probably call it a night, too, Officer Nanao?’

  Tomoko nodded. She desperately wanted to know what was going on inside Mizuho’s head but realised it was probably futile, at this stage, to keep trying for information. She was happy enough to celebrate the fact that Mizuho was home and safe.

  ‘Give me a call when you feel better.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘I’ll take you for that anmitsu I promised.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Morishima grumbled. He gave Tomoko a look that told her it was time to leave.

  They got to their feet and Mizuho stood, too, angling herself into a deep bow. Tomoko caught sight of a framed photo behind her. A beaming smile, standing in salute before one of the prefecture’s substations.

  Mizuho came with them to the door, keeping in the shadow of her parents. For a moment, Tomoko thought she saw a pleading look on the girl’s face.

  An incredible number of stars greeted them as they left. Walking back to their cars, Tomoko dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Did she come back alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On the train?’

  ‘That’s right. She got on at Train Station M. Called home when she got to the station closest to here.’

  ‘It’s strange, though. Why not just drive here?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Morishima said, sounding uninterested as he clambered into his car.

  It was all still a mystery.

  Perhaps Mizuho had suffered a broken heart. Tomoko had never seen the girl looking so dejected. Halfway into her seat, Tomoko turned back towards the house. On the first floor, the lights had come on. She thought she could sense Mizuho looking out from the bedroom window.

  Get some sleep.

  Tomoko managed the return trip without getting lost, making it home in just forty minutes. It was already two in the morning. The lights were on in the hallway, the front room and the bathroom. The TV was on, too.

  No different to usual.

  She crept forwards and poked her head into the back room. Yachio was asleep on the bed, still fully clothed. He looked as innocent as he had as a toddler, when, unable to properly pronounce his name, he’d proudly told her that ‘Yacho’ was doing this and ‘Yacho’ was doing that. His textbooks were strewn across the floor. His desk held his TV, stereo and computer, along with enough games and CDs to start a business. They were what he used to pass the time. To fill the gaps. To alleviate the worry.

  I’ll make it up to him, one day.

  She’d been saying it for fifteen years.

  She rearranged his sheets and went back to the front room. She warmed some curry and ate it with some bread.

  She started to cry.

  Her son, the female officers for whom she was responsible – they were all so far away. When she tried to help, they resisted. Knocked her back. Left her by herself. She felt betrayed by the ring on her finger. It could do nothing to help. It had no answers.

  The morning paper was still there on the table. Female Officer’s Triumph. Mizuho was looking out at her, dressed in uniform.

  Mizuho. Talk to me.

  The perfume. The cigarettes. The reporter.

  The images swirled randomly through her tired head. First the perfume. She’d picked up the scent in Mizuho’s room, yet it hadn’t been there in the car. Nor had she noticed it earlier, when she’d hugged Mizuho close. There’d been the smell of sweat but nothing to suggest the girl had been wearing perfume. Perhaps she hadn’t used it on herself. Perhaps she’d sprayed it, but only around her room.

  Why?

  Maybe it had been someone else. Someone other than Mizuho. But who? And why? The urge to sleep was becoming too strong. Tomoko decided to stop fighting it.

  Time for bed.

  Whatever happened, she would pay Mizuho another visit the following day. She got to her feet, cleared away the empty plates and was about to fold the paper in two when her hands came to an abrupt stop. A sentence from the page caught her attention. Something wasn’t right. She kept reading, unable to pin the feeling down. Her vision began to blur. She started again, this time scanning the article from the top. She read the whole thing, word by word.

  Her eyes opened wide.

  No . . .

  As the understanding dawned on her, she remembered Mizuho’s pleading look. A hypothesis formed in her mind. The various fragments of information in her head began to slot together, as though they’d always been part of the same puzzle. The perfume, too, fitted in neatly among them. The
hypothesis became fact.

  But that’s . . .

  Tomoko looked again at Mizuho’s drawing. The lines seemed darker, blacker than before. Her knees started to tremble. She tried to steady them but her hand began to tremble with them. A shudder ran through her.

  The conclusion she’d come to, the cruel act she’d seen in her mind’s eye was, in fact, the answer she’d been looking for.

  9

  It was, she discovered, surprisingly hard to justify a private meeting with a man who wasn’t your husband or partner, especially when the man in question was a member of the police. Having exhausted her options, Tomoko had finally opted to hold the secret talk in the station itself, and during the day. Her meeting was with Pomade, the bulldog.

  She lowered her voice. ‘The likeness was far from accurate. At first.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘That’s why you ordered her to redo it.’

  ‘What if I did?’ Morishima retorted, settling back to let the couch take his weight.

  He was clearly not planning to take this gracefully; the man seemed more annoyed than anything else. Tomoko had expected him to become defensive. If he’d been the kind of man who could apologise, he would never have issued such a callous order in the first place. He genuinely believed that it was no big deal.

  Tomoko had spent a week looking into what had happened.

  The starting point had come when she’d re-read the article and realised the shocking contradiction it contained.

  It hadn’t been possible.

  Mizuho could never have drawn something so accurate. The victim had had her bag snatched. At seventy, she was elderly, and it would all have been over in an instant. She could never have been expected to recall the man’s features to any degree of accuracy. It wouldn’t matter how talented Mizuho was at asking the right questions, or at drawing, when there was no foundation on which to work.