Prefecture D Read online

  Had the whole thing even happened? As another three months went by, Futawatari could no longer be sure.

  He was in a bad mood on the day he found out.

  The various departments had been fighting over floor space, causing a delay in putting together the blueprints for the new building. The post-bubble economy was down, too, meaning lower tax revenues, which threw the whole existence of the project into doubt. On top of this, the NPA had made one-sided requests that the Department of Community Safety be renamed the Department of Public Safety and that the Patrol Unit be renamed the Community Unit. They had also suggested that the name of one of the prefecture’s dorms, Standby Hall, was too passive and asked that that be changed, too.

  And what the hell is wrong with ‘Standby Hall’? Isn’t that what the police do? Stand by until the shit hits the fan?

  Futawatari was venting his frustration on his memo pad, phone under his chin, when a familiar figure walked into his peripheral vision. He drew a sharp breath.

  Osakabe.

  The man glanced in Futawatari’s direction before disappearing into the director’s office with Shirota in tow.

  Had something happened?

  Futawatari’s heart was racing; he felt suddenly apprehensive.

  Osakabe was in the office for no more than five minutes. When he re-emerged, he left without even sparing Futawatari a look. Oguro and Shirota watched him go from the side of the office door. Futawatari overheard a quiet, bitter-sounding voice.

  ‘He could have at least apologised for all the fucking trouble.’

  Had he agreed to step down?

  Futawatari jumped to his feet. He made a beeline through the office and started to jog down the corridor.

  Why?

  He picked up speed as he made his way down the stairs, leaving the building via the main entrance. Osakabe was already inside the black sedan, which was still in its parking space.

  ‘Sir!’

  Futawatari pressed his hands on the window. Osakabe turned to face him.

  ‘Sir. What changed your mind?’

  ‘. . .’

  Osakabe’s eyes appeared to cloud over. In the next moment he issued an instruction for his driver to pull out. Something seemed out of place.

  It . . . isn’t Aoki.

  In his place sat a young man wearing silver-rimmed glasses. The maps, too, were gone. The back of the car held none of the towering stacks he’d seen before. The car pulled sharply away, as though to emphasise the youth of the new driver.

  Futawatari remained where he was. His pulse was pounding in his ears. The clouded-over look. The new driver. The disappearance of the maps. The images flashed by in quick succession. The discrete facts began to come together, as though magnetised, joining to form clumps and eventually coalescing into a single realisation that thumped against the inside of his skull.

  Impossible.

  Futawatari broke into a run, almost knocking over the stunned officer on entrance duty as he made for Media Relations. Apologising to the female officer in the room, he opened the file containing the day’s papers and put it on her desk. He scanned the obituaries. The papers all had a section now, hoping it would expand their readership.

  Two days. Three days. Four days ago.

  Futawatari’s eyes opened wide.

  There.

  He hurried back out of the building. He kept running, aiming for the phone box on the main road, and kept going when he saw it was taken. His hands were shaking when he finally inserted his phone card.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘You calling from the office?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m outside.’

  ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘The murder. There’s one last thing I need to know.’

  ‘Hey, haven’t I already—’

  ‘The colour.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I need to know the colour of the man’s hair.’

  11

  The transition to autumn was unmistakeable. The neatly trimmed hedges of photinia had grown withered and unattractive. They were, Futawatari supposed, at their best when newly blooming and vividly red.

  ‘Did you get what you wanted?’ In the tatami room, under the watch of the Shinto altar, Futawatari’s voice was muted.

  Osakabe was dressed in traditional attire. He sat with his arms crossed, his sunken eyes fixed on Futawatari.

  The sample of hair had been grey. Rather than tell him outright, Maejima had simply named a brand of hair dye.

  Genichiro Aoki had died from an overdose of sleeping pills. Judging by the number he took, I’d say it was probably suicide. An inspector from Forensic Autopsy, a colleague of Futawatari’s from his substation days, had shared his private opinion. The death had occurred not long after the newly wed Megu had returned from her honeymoon. The inspector, head cocked to one side, had seemed puzzled as to why the man would kill himself.

  ‘Sir, you drove him to . . . I guess I played a part, too.’

  ‘. . .’

  Osakabe’s poker face showed no signs of cracking. Futawatari let out a heavy sigh. Osakabe had found out the truth. All of it.

  It had begun with a coincidence.

  Aoki had given up his job as a taxi driver, opting instead to take the more comfortable role of driving for the foundation. He would never have expected that he would end up working for a retired police officer. He’d told Futawatari as much, that he’d discovered this only after he’d accepted the job.

  Osakabe’s curiosity would have been piqued. There were, of course, countless men with greying hair. Yet that would not have stopped him from focusing on one presented to him like this. It was a detective’s nature to follow every lead, however remote.

  Perhaps their meeting had been more than coincidence. Aoki had driven for Miyagi before his invitation to work for the foundation. It was possible Osakabe had had his eyes on Aoki from the start. If so, he might well have played a part in Aoki’s eventual employment.

  Whatever the case, it had become Osakabe’s routine to watch the man from his place at the back of the sedan. Then, one day, something had caught his attention. Aoki would have avoided taking a particular route. Or perhaps exhibited a subtle change in behaviour when driving past a particular area.

  One of the seven assault sites.

  Criminals don’t return to the scene of the crime. They do all they can to avoid it.

  Osakabe would have been sceptical at first. That was why he’d decided to make such an overwhelming number of trips. Miyagi had said that Osakabe had been making his daily excursions for a year. That fitted with the start of Aoki’s employment. Osakabe had compelled the man to drive, day after day after day. Through the mountains, through the cities, in every direction. The whole time, Osakabe had been keeping watch, tailing his suspect, staking him out. The assault sites would have been etched in his mind. Which route would Aoki take? When and where would he exhibit a change in behaviour? Observing it all with a keen eye, Osakabe had taken note of the man’s every gesture, glance and breath. He’d recorded the details on the enormous map in the foundation and in the stacks of maps in the car. And he’d done it all in front of Aoki so as to gradually dial up the pressure. Chemical analysis had robbed the force of the only evidence they’d had. Intimidation was the only way to close the case. Osakabe would back the man into a corner and force a confession.

  That was the conclusion he’d reached.

  But a year had gone by and Aoki’s guilt had remained in question. Osakabe had failed to turn up anything conclusive. That was when he’d decided to continue the investigation and to stay on at the foundation.

  What about Aoki’s take on all this?

  Shortly after his appointment he had found out that Osakabe had been in the force. He’d have been spooked. Yet he would not have known that Osakabe had led the i
nvestigation into the murder, nor that he was the father of one of the victims. It was possible he’d treated the threat lightly. Four years had passed since the last assault and the investigation had never closed in. He’d been careful, too, so as not to get caught. He hadn’t ejaculated. He’d worn a stocking to conceal his face and to stop any hairs from going astray. And chauffeuring was preferable to driving a taxi. He didn’t want to let the opportunity slip him by. That would doubtless have been part of his thinking.

  Approaching one of the assault sites, he would have opted wherever possible for an alternative route. When that wasn’t an option he’d have held his breath and driven straight on. Osakabe had been using maps to keep track of their routes. Aoki hadn’t known why but, over time, this had given rise to the unpleasant sense that he was being surveilled. He would have considered leaving the job. But his daughter had been due to get married in September the following year. He’d have needed the money. So he’d forced himself to keep going, despite the increasing anxiety. No doubt it had happened something like that.

  That was when Futawatari had appeared with his mission to talk Osakabe into giving up his position at the foundation. Osakabe had shunned contact at first, convinced he would only get in the way of his investigation. But Futawatari had persisted. He’d even begun to suspect that Osakabe’s desire to stay on was in some way connected to the murder. Osakabe had been forced into making a decision. He could continue his surveillance of Aoki, applying gradual pressure, as before, or he could take a risk and use Futawatari’s unscheduled appearance to his advantage.

  He’d decided on the latter.

  That was why he’d told Futawatari to continue when he’d seen his reluctance to talk in front of Aoki, making sure the subject of the murder came up. His next play had been taboo. He’d told Futawatari the force had a sample, a hair, when none existed. He’d said the case would be closed, and soon. The words had, of course, been for Aoki. And Futawatari’s blind stumbling had made him complicit in the entrapment.

  Aoki would have been terrified. A retired police officer and an on-duty inspector were discussing a murder that he’d committed. Osakabe was also claiming that the force had hard evidence in the form of a hair. That would have panicked Aoki. He’d have thought about leaving the job. But that would only arouse suspicion. He’d have realised that, too. His thoughts would have turned to disappearing. But that would be tantamount to confession. He would become a wanted man, spend the rest of his life on the run. What would become of his wife? Of his daughter and her wedding? He’d spent sleepless night after sleepless night. With each passing day, he’d increased the dosage of his sleeping pills. He’d have been haunted by images of Osakabe. By those sunken eyes, unwavering, fixated on his back.

  The eyes that were now trained on Futawatari, their only purpose, it seemed, to dig into a man’s soul. They had watched Aoki relentlessly for the six months following Futawatari’s return to everyday life in Administration.

  But was that all that Osakabe had done? There was one more question Futawatari felt he had to ask.

  Osakabe’s wife came in with tea and knelt on the floor to serve it. She would not, Futawatari knew, reappear until it was time for him to leave. He waited for her footsteps to fade before he broke the silence.

  ‘Did you get a confession?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Did he admit to his crimes?’

  Osakabe closed his eyes. He sat like that for some time. Futawatari sighed. Warm afternoon sunlight bounced off the water in the ashtray, flickering over the sliding doors.

  ‘What do you intend to do now?’

  Futawatari had meant to ask two questions with this. What will you do after the foundation? And: What will you do to process all that’s happened?

  ‘Sir, Aoki is dead.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘The bastard’s dead. There’s nothing more you can do.’

  ‘No,’ Osakabe whispered.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Maybe the bastard’s dead. The moment you say that is the moment you’re done as a detective.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘The bastard’s out there, having the time of his life. That’s what we’re here for. Understand?’ Osakabe closed his eyes again. He might have been asleep, except there was no peace in his expression.

  He hadn’t heard Aoki confess. Futawatari was sure of it now. Which meant that the man would live on, his guilt never proven.

  It was time to leave.

  Osakabe’s wife saw Futawatari to the door, remaining in a deep bow until he had disappeared from view. He walked to the patch of open land next to the river.

  Osakabe would not celebrate Aoki’s death. Despite his conviction that Aoki was the culprit, he had not requested a background check. He’d had Megu to consider. She was newly married, finally happy. News of an arrest would only drag her back into the nightmares of the past. Not wanting that, he would have perhaps chosen to run the man into a corner, force him into taking his own life. Perhaps that had been his plan all along. It was one he wouldn’t forgive himself for. Get the bastards in cuffs – that was the duty of a detective.

  Futawatari gazed up at a clear sky. The cost projections for the new helicopter would be on his desk in Administration. Their pilot was getting old. Perhaps, for the next one, they could train up someone in the force. Still, the safe bet was probably to arrange another transfer from the self-defence forces.

  He stretched up, reaching for the blue.

  Maybe I’ll pay Maejima’s ugly mug a visit, once today’s done.

  He remembered something. Hurrying back to the car, he began to rummage through his overstuffed briefcase. It was in there somewhere; it had to be. Forgotten until now, he looked for the gift his wife had given him six months earlier to celebrate Maejima’s eldest starting school.

  Cry of the Earth

  1

  Yamamoto declared over the FM radio that the weather wouldn’t last; that, come evening, there would be rain. Takayoshi Shindo glanced up and saw heavy clouds in the distance. Arranged like a recumbent Buddha, they obscured the strikingly beautiful line of the mountains, muddying the colours that stretched from the hills to the peaks.

  But it was the time, more than the weather or the view, that was dominating Shindo’s thoughts as he sat with his hands on the wheel. He had hoped to be back at the headquarters by three. The routine check-up following his operation to remove a stomach ulcer had taken longer than expected. The main building was already visible up ahead, yet construction work and a closed lane meant traffic was moving at a slow crawl.

  Despite all this, he managed to pull into the officers’ parking area as his watch, set a few minutes fast, changed to three o’clock. He climbed the gravel slope, jogged across the city road and was just passing behind the garage used by Transport’s mobile unit when the familiar music came into earshot.

  The daily exercises, funnelled over the crackle of the building’s tannoy.

  It was a time of day when the officers of the Prefectural HQ allowed their stern expressions to relax. Some slumped back in their chairs, dispensing eyedrops into bloodshot eyes. Others swayed in time to the music, moving flabby waists. A female officer clutching a bright-red purse gave Shindo an abbreviated bow as she hurried downstairs, shoes clicking loudly. Perhaps the stall in Welfare had been restocked with sweets.

  Three in the afternoon. It was a time of day Shindo had always enjoyed – until this year, and until he had turned fifty. It had been six years since his promotion to superintendent and, if all had gone to plan, he would have been appointed captain of a small district station in the spring. Instead, he had coughed up blood just before the transfers were due. Hospitalisation. Operation. Recuperation. The amended details of his transfer had been delivered to him while he was in bed at home. Inspector, Internal Affairs Division, Department of Administrative Affairs. He had started the post a month
behind schedule. Ever since, the time of day had become a bleak reminder of what might have been.

  It was also the time when, every day, the bike carrying the day’s post would roll up to the main entrance.

  Shindo pushed on the rust-coloured door and walked into Internal Affairs, not quite blending in with the calm around him. At the chief’s desk at the back of the room, a pair of white gloves were in motion.

  They’d had post today, too.

  ‘Sorry. The tests took a bit longer than expected.’

  Division Chief Takegami peered up in brief acknowledgement, but his eyes fell quickly back to the letter in his hands. The light reflecting in his glasses made it hard to read his expression. Shindo made a quick scan of the desk.

  Five letters.

  The first to catch his attention was an envelope with an address written in oversized characters. Captain, Prefecture D Police Headquarters. Judging by the shoddy penmanship, it was probably the usual from the butcher. Each week the man sent a list of complaints, bemoaning traffic management or the lack of patrols in the commercial shopping district. An ‘under consideration’ would suffice for him. That left four more.

  Takegami’s examination of the letter looked as though it would take a while longer.

  I’ll get on with my work.

  Shindo turned the key to his locker and extracted the bunch of papers relating to commendations and disciplinary actions. Information on both were collected here, in Internal Affairs.

  Commendations were fine.

  For someone who had made a significant contribution to closing a case, there were accolades such as the Captain’s or Director’s Trophy, awarded by the Prefectural HQ and National Police Agency respectively. It was in his remit to congratulate the general workforce for their tireless labour, too, those who engaged day and night in work that was far from glamorous. He could cast a spotlight, say, on the young married couple who had watched over a snow-blasted parking area in the middle of nowhere.