by Mark McKay
Chapter 14
Mariko made the phone call to Sotheby’s, in Tokyo. When she got through to Kate Suzuki there was a short interval while introductions were made in Japanese and then she handed the phone to Nick.
‘Clive Jameson told me you might call,’ said Kate. ‘I’m not sure if I can be of much help, though.’
‘Let’s talk anyway, if you don’t mind. You can give me some background on Takashi Yamada, if nothing else.’
‘Well, if you came all this way just to meet me…’
Nick laughed. ‘I’m doing an Aikido retreat, near Kiyosato, with Yoshi Mashida.’
‘Ah, I see. Of course, that was his daughter, Mariko. I should have realised. If you can get here for 2pm Friday, I can see you then.’
Nick felt he’d missed something where the Mashida family was concerned. He confirmed with Mariko and told Kate he was looking forward to it.
The training continued next day. It was much the same as Monday, with the addition of some practice with the short staff. It wasn’t something they did often in London and Nick had to concentrate to remember what little he knew about the use of the wooden staff as a weapon. There was a form, or kata, consisting of several moves performed in sequence. Once you got this, you could use it in pairs practice and then speed the whole thing up. The Japanese students were way ahead of him in their proficiency and he felt woefully inadequate each time he found himself paired with one of them. He persevered, and by Thursday it was getting easier. He was still tired by the end of each session though, both mentally and physically. It seemed they did nothing but eat, sleep and train. There was no energy left for anything else. He wasn’t even sure if they had the weekend off.
On the Friday, he and Mariko took the 11am train. He wanted to ask her about the history her father and Oyama had with Yamada, but thought it might be off limits. She had all the questions, wanting to know about London, then his job. Was he married? Why wasn’t Lauren here too? When they reached Tokyo, he realised he hadn’t discovered anything new about her. The train ran on time and the taxi from Shinjuku station dropped them at Sotheby’s with ten minutes to spare.
Kate Suzuki appeared almost immediately, once they’d announced themselves at reception. Her mixed heritage was evident in her face, which had a broad Anglo-Saxon aspect to it, with a wide mouth, a delicate Japanese nose and dark almond-shaped eyes. The hair was dark too, but not jet-black like Mariko’s. The effect, if not beautiful, was certainly striking. He couldn’t pick her age, somewhere near his own, maybe. She looked at Mariko with interest, before turning to him.
‘Come through to my office.’
‘I think I will go shopping,’ said Mariko. ‘Back in one hour?’
‘OK, see you then.’ He followed Kate down a carpeted corridor. She had a private office overlooking the street.
‘Don’t speak English very often these days,’ she said. ‘Most of our clients are Asian here in Tokyo.’
‘You seem very interested in Mariko Mashida,’ he said, once they were seated.
‘I was quite surprised to hear you were staying at her father’s retreat. He’s almost as reclusive as Takashi Yamada. How did you come by this honour?’
‘My teacher in London brought us over, his name’s Oyama. Is there something I don’t know about Yoshi Mashida?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Katsu Oyama?’ Nick nodded. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t been visited by the press, yet,’ said Kate. ‘You really know nothing, do you?’
‘It would appear not. Enlighten me.’
She told him the story. Ten or eleven years ago now, she couldn’t remember precisely, there had been a scandal involving the three men and Mashida’s wife, Yuki. They knew each other because they had attended the same Aikido school in Tokyo when they were young men. Katsu Oyama had gained a reputation as a swordsmith, having just finished an eight year apprenticeship. He was already known as an exceptional sword maker, even at that early stage of his career. Modern day swordsmiths could still make a good living from the craft and Oyama, who had little money but wanted to build and manage his own business, accepted a loan from Yamada. The security for this loan would come in the form of the first two swords to come out of the new forge. Once the loan was repaid the swords would be returned.
‘When the swords were produced, the experts began comparing Oyama to the greatest swordsmith in Japanese history, Masamune. It was extraordinary and enough to make him famous overnight,’ said Kate.
Oyama was happy enough to honour his obligation and handed the swords over as promised. Then things took a darker turn. Mashida was the only married man of the three and they often gathered at his house, with Yuki playing hostess. But unknown to Mashida, his wife and Yamada had started an affair. It went on for over a year, until Mashida tumbled to it. Shortly afterwards, Yuki’s naked body was discovered in a bedroom in the large rambling house on the Yamada estate. She had apparently committed suicide out of shame, and she did it with one of Oyama’s swords. An alternative version had Yamada murdering her in a drunken rage when she said the affair was over.
Suicide was the official verdict. Yamada pleaded contrition to Mashida, but it fell on deaf ears. Mashida publicly accused him of murder, but had no evidence. Oyama demanded his swords back and even sent Yamada money he’d raised from another source, but they weren’t returned. After some months, Oyama sold his fledgling business and left Japan. The shame of knowing his friend’s wife had been killed by a sword made by him, was too much to bear.
‘The Japanese public followed all this in the newspapers with great interest,’ said Kate. ‘Think it was in the English press, too.’
‘Well, I don’t remember it,’ replied Nick. He’d wondered about Mariko’s mother, where she might be. He would have asked Mariko on the way down here if she hadn’t been doing all the talking and he hadn’t felt so inhibited by not knowing about the customs in this country. It might be insensitive to ask.
‘I hope you won’t tell the press that Katsu Oyama is back,’ he said.
‘It isn’t something I would do. They have a way of finding out about these things, anyway.’ She got up. ‘I’ll get us some tea.’
When Kate returned, he asked her about Yamada.
‘Quite reclusive,’ she said. ‘In his late 40’s, a little overweight these days. He is still a good-looking man, though.’
‘If he never goes out, what does he do all day?’
‘I think he goes out. But he takes steps to make sure he isn’t seen in public very much. He can do a lot of what he needs to do for his business from home. And if he wants something, it comes to him.’
‘What’s your relationship with him?’ asked Nick, wondering if this wasn’t too direct a question.
Kate looked unoffended. ‘Purely professional. We buy and sell on his behalf. The painting he wants sold is a Picasso.’
‘What will that fetch at auction?’
‘We have a reserve on it at $40 million. It might fetch twice that.’
‘And what about the rumours? The works of art that are never seen by anyone but him. Are they true?’
Kate gave a soft smile of amusement. ‘I think perhaps they are. I know Oyama’s swords are stashed away in a private gallery beneath the house, but I’ve never been in there and I don’t know anyone who has. But people talk.’
‘Where exactly is this gallery?’
‘That’s the interesting part. Whatever they were taking off the lorry would have gone into the underground garage. The gallery, to the best of my knowledge, is down there.’ She opened a drawer. ‘I did you a little map of the place.’
He looked at the sheet of paper she passed across, on which was drawn a precise, almost draughtsman-like layout of the house and grounds from above.
‘There are some other detached buildings I haven’t put on there,’ said Kate. ‘And the house is on two levels. But you can see where the garage is.’
‘Thanks, this will be useful.’ He folded it and then placed
it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘Good. Now, my turn. Why do you think he has the golden lions?’
He laughed. ‘I have no evidence, just more rumours. And as I was in Japan, I thought it was worth a shot. I can’t exactly roll up and ask him though.’
‘Would you like to meet him?’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘How do I do that?’
‘Well, I said he’s reclusive. But once every few months he comes out of his shell and gives a party. The “Autumn Party” is happening on Sunday evening. You could come as my escort.’
Not an unpleasant prospect, he thought. ‘Who goes to these things?’
‘The great and the good of Tokyo. It’s not black-tie or anything like that, but you’ll need a good suit.’
‘Sounds a bit out of my league, socially. But yes, I’d love to come.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, smiling broadly now. ‘You just have to bow occasionally and look interested. I’ll do most of the talking, anyway.’
The phone on Kate’s desk rang. She picked up.
‘Mariko’s back. We will need to arrive at the party no later than 8pm. You can meet me at my place.’ She got out her card and wrote the address on the back of it. ‘Means another trip to Tokyo, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t mind. I don’t meet reclusive billionaires very often. It could be fun.’
Mariko had two shopping bags with her and he wondered what she’d bought. She looked quite elegant as she was, wearing a light blue mid-length skirt and a white cotton top with short sleeves. Most of the women on the streets of Tokyo were well dressed, they obviously had a keen sense of fashion.
‘I need to go shopping, now,’ he told her. ‘Need a suit.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘Really, you have a date? Come on, I will find you a very nice suit.’
They spent an hour browsing various stores before she chose something she deemed suitable for a man to wear at a classy party. It was clear she was enjoying the experience, she was more relaxed and open away from the retreat environment. She even teased him on his choice of tie. If she had any reservations about the fact it was Takashi Yamada’s party, she kept them to herself.
On the return journey, he read a sale catalogue that Kate had given him. Yamada’s painting was lot 35. He turned the pages idly, wondering how he, or anyone else for that matter, could get access to Yamada’s private gallery. He looked up, to find Mariko regarding him with a quiet intensity.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Did she tell you?’
‘Tell me… Ah yes, she did. I’m sorry about your mother.’
She said nothing in reply and averted her eyes, so he changed the subject.
‘Your father said he had a man inside. Do you know about that?’
‘Yes, he works as a chauffeur. Not that he is needed that much.’
‘That’s perfect. When we get back, could you ask your father if this man could prepare a list of Yamada’s movements? Last two weeks in August should do it.’
‘Yes, that should be possible. Why do you want to know?’
Nick shrugged. ‘I just want to know if he left Japan in that time, and if so, where he went.’
She looked interested now. ‘We should be able to find out quite quickly. I will speak to my father when we get back.’
It was early evening when they returned. At the lodge, Rory told him they would train tomorrow and have Sunday off. The Japanese students had invited them out for lunch in Kiyosato.
‘In fact, I think both the senseis are coming too,’ he said. ‘Might turn into a bit of a session.’
He could well imagine. There was no social stigma around drunkenness in Japan. No one would turn a hair at a bunch of foreigners and Japanese getting hammered together in a local restaurant. They might even join in.
On Sunday they arrived at the restaurant around midday. Kiyosato was a popular holiday destination and the place was humming already. Mariko had reserved a table for twelve and as soon as they were seated, bottles of beer appeared. Nick was placed between Mariko and Yoshi Mashida. He had decided to go straight from here to Tokyo at 4pm and had brought his clothes for the evening with him. They were now hanging in a walk-in closet area by the door, courtesy of the management.
After a couple of hours the traditional Japanese restraint had mellowed considerably. Oyama, who had always been quite controlled when drinking with his students in London, loosened up. He was joking in both languages and filling peoples’ glasses with beer. The recipients would then return the favour and that soon necessitated the arrival of more beer. Nick kept his glass full and sipped occasionally. He didn’t want to turn up at Kate’s place in a drunken stupor.
He asked Mariko to write Kate’s address in Japanese and then he could show it to the nearest taxi driver when he got to Shinjuku station. She took the card he’d been given and wrote below the English version, in tiny characters.
‘There,’ she said, handing it back with a smile. ‘I think Kate Suzuki must like you. Yes, I’m sure she does.’
Mariko looked a bit flushed, she had consumed a few bottles already. He grinned at her.
‘She’s just helping out, that’s all.’
She remained unconvinced. ‘You will see.’
Mashida had been quiet, up till now. He’d drunk as much as anyone, but apart from a little colour in the cheeks, seemed quite unaffected.
‘Before I forget,’ he said. ‘Here’s the list you wanted.’ He passed Nick a sheet of paper covered in Japanese characters, then he realised his mistake.
‘Mariko,’ he laughed. ‘Translate this.’
Nick gave her the list. She looked it over for a minute. ‘Nothing, really.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
She sighed. ‘OK. It’s a list for the whole month. He was driven to an address in Chiba district, every Wednesday afternoon.’
‘Doesn’t tell us much.’
‘Probably a woman. It isn’t unusual for a man of his status to have a mistress or two. Not quite every Wednesday though. On Tuesday 19th August he was driven to the airport, then he was picked up again on the Friday.’
‘A short holiday perhaps, with the mistress?’
‘No, he was alone. Perhaps it was a short holiday, though. He flew to Greece.’ She turned to her father. ‘He has no business interests in Greece, does he?’
Mashida shook his head. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Where in Greece?’ asked Nick.
Mariko took another look. ‘The airport is Heraklion, where is that?’
‘That’s in Crete. I’ll be damned.’ He took a long swig of beer and sighed deeply. ‘Tonight’s party just got a whole lot more interesting.’
Takashi Yamada’s estate was in the Azabu district, an affluent part of Tokyo which was home to the rich and famous. The house was modern in design, with high outer walls of smooth white stone, long terraces with equally smooth balustrades on the upper level, and lots of shiny glass windows and sliding doors. Several smaller houses of a more traditional construction were lined up along one side, about 30 metres from the main residence. This still left room for a spacious lawn occupied by cherry, poplar and pine trees. The place was enclosed by a ten foot high concrete wall topped with a spiked railing and the only way in was through a heavy-duty solid steel gate, which hinged inwards to admit visitors.
‘It’s a fortress,’ remarked Nick, as the taxi proceeded along the paved driveway leading to the front of the house. The driveway had been decorated with fluorescent paper lanterns strung between wooden posts hammered into the lawn, on either side. The taxi’s interior was bathed in a myriad of shimmering colours as they passed by.
‘A beautiful fortress,’ said Kate. ‘There’s a zen garden set inside a bamboo grove, out the back. One of the finest in Japan.’
They pulled in behind a number of other taxis and then stepped out. He noted a couple of Bentleys and an Aston Martin parked a short distance away, but it seemed most guests had chosen to
arrive by cab. He checked out a couple who had just emerged from the taxi in front. The man was Japanese and in his fifties, wearing a well-fitted pinstripe suit. His companion was much younger, a slim woman not much more than twenty, wearing a sheer white dress that clung in all the right places. He wondered if his own attire would pass muster. Kate had thought so when she’d answered the door an hour earlier, looking stunning in a simple white cotton jacket worn over a backless blue silk dress. They’d decided he should be a travel writer and friend from London for the purposes of this evening. That was better than admitting he was a cop, which in his experience often inhibited people in their choice of conversational topics.
Kate presented her invitation at the front door and they were in. They went straight up a marble stairway to a huge reception room running the full width of the house. The sliding glass doors were all open and most people were out on the terrace. The soft breeze up here made the humidity quite bearable and he walked across the wide expanse of the terrace to take in the view. A waiter stopped to offer him a glass of champagne from a tray. Kate had excused herself and moved towards a group of people she obviously knew, so he stood sipping the drink, which was very good, and watched the paper lanterns sway. She wasn’t away too long.
‘Come and meet some people. They’re not all stuffy bankers and politicians and gangsters. Some of them are quite normal.’
‘Pleased to hear it. Where’s the garage?’
She came and stood next to him, and put her arm through his. Then she gestured towards the front gate, as if pointing out something of interest.
‘It’s actually below us, and to the right,’ she said. ‘You’re not thinking of going down there, I hope.’
He didn’t answer that. He was acutely aware of her hip pressing against him, and her perfume. She didn’t move.
‘Hello Kate, I didn’t know you were bringing someone.’
They turned. Takashi Yamada was indeed a good-looking man. Carrying a little extra weight as Kate had said, but his tailored suit took a few pounds off him and he was tall enough to carry a little extra, anyway. Hard, dark eyes and a decadent twist to the mouth gave him an almost piratical look that Nick supposed women might find attractive. He had his arm around a young western girl, who was small but endowed with full breasts and well-shaped hips, which her tight jeans and clinging top showed to full advantage.
‘Takashi,’ said Kate. ‘This is Nick, a friend from London.’
They shook hands. ‘Welcome to my house,’ said Yamada. ‘This is Jenna.’
‘Hi there,’ said Jenna. She was pretty. Her expression was glazed though and the pupils of her eyes were huge. Nick wondered what else was on offer here, besides champagne.
‘Kate tells me you’re an avid art enthusiast,’ he said to Yamada.
‘Yes, I like beautiful things. Perhaps later on Kate can show you some of the paintings I have. She knows where most of them are.’ He smiled enigmatically, then said something to Kate in Japanese.
‘Business,’ said Kate to Nick. ‘Excuse us for a minute or two.’
He was left with Jenna, who smiled and stood next to him at the balustrade. ‘How long have you known Takashi?’ he asked.
‘Oh, just a week or two,’ she replied. She had a lovely American accent, from somewhere in the south. ‘I came here for a break and a mutual friend introduced us. I’m from the States.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, I thought so.’ He grabbed another drink for both of them from the same passing waiter.
‘He keeps threatening to show me his etchings,’ said Jenna. She giggled. ‘Think he wants to get me drunk, first.’
Seems to be working, thought Nick. They chatted for a bit until Yamada’s business was concluded and then Kate reclaimed him and took him to meet the ‘normal’ people.
The evening became more animated as the champagne flowed and inhibitions eased. Nick could feel the booze kicking in and he knew he should retain some sense or he’d say something stupid, sooner or later. Everyone else seemed to be right into the party spirit, except for two men who sat away from the others at one end of the terrace, drinking what looked like orange juice. They were young and well-built and observant. Watchers, ensuring that nobody overstepped the bounds of propriety or messed with Mr Yamada’s art work. He saw Yamada and Jenna leave the terrace and go downstairs. He looked at his watch and then got up and moved over to the balustrade. He took out his phone and hit speed dial. It was answered straight away.
‘He’s gone downstairs. He might be going to the gallery. Now would be a good time,’ he said and then hung up.
A minute later there was the sound of an explosion from behind the house. Everyone got up at once and ran to both ends of the terrace to see what was going on. The two watchers went straight inside and down the stairs. Nick stayed where he was, suddenly tense. He saw Kate staring at him from one end of the terrace, a look of confusion tinged with disbelief. People started to go inside, with the intention no doubt of going outside. Then the phone rang.
‘Come to the garage,’ said Oyama.
He got up as casually as he could and went downstairs. Many of the other guests were already outside, but going in the other direction. When he got to the garage the big iron gates were wide open but there was no one to be seen until he got further inside. It was huge down here, the sloping approach ramp ended in an expanse of concrete floor stretching the full width of the house. There wasn’t much light, but he could see a group of people clustered around the back wall. As he got closer, he saw what had happened.
