Journey Under the Midnight Sun

by Keigo Higashino

  They’d ended up at a hotel bar in Akasaka near the French restaurant where they’d eaten dinner.

  ‘No, I should thank you,’ she replied. ‘I just feel like years of bumbling around has been swept clean.’

  ‘What bumbling around?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s just I have a lot on my mind,’ she said, sipping on the straw of her Singapore Sling.

  ‘Me too,’ he said shaking the ice to stir his Chivas Regal. ‘I’m really happy I met you again. If I were a religious man, I’d praise God.’

  This, too, was a brazen admission. Chizuru smiled and lowered her eyes.

  ‘There’s something I have to confess,’ he said.

  She looked back up, her eyes shimmering.

  ‘I got married two years ago. But the very day before the wedding I made a decision, a huge decision, and it took me some place.’

  Chizuru raised an eyebrow. Her smile faded.

  ‘I need to tell you what happened.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Except,’ he said, ‘I’d rather that we were alone.’

  Her eyes widened slightly, and he held out his right hand, open. The hotel room key was on his palm.

  Chizuru looked down, silent.

  ‘The place I went,’ he said, ‘was the Parkside Hotel. The hotel where you were supposed to stay that night.’

  She looked up again. Her eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  She nodded yes, her eyes never leaving his.

  As they made for the room, Makoto told himself this is right. Everything up until now was the mistake. I’m getting things back on the right path.

  They stopped in front of the room and he put the key in the door.

  The client’s name was Yukiho Takamiya. She was a beautiful woman; she could have been an actress. But her face was just as dark as all the others.

  ‘So your husband’s asking you for a divorce, is that it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But he’s not telling you why, correct? He just doesn’t think it’s working any more.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why he’s making this move?’

  The client seemed to think for a moment before she said, ‘I think there’s another woman. I – I had someone look into it.’

  She pulled several photographs out of her Chanel bag. They clearly showed a man and a woman meeting in a variety of places. The man had a company-man haircut and a company-man suit, and the young woman had a short bob. Both of them looked happy.

  ‘Have you asked your husband who she is?’

  ‘No, not yet. I thought I should talk to you first.’

  ‘Right. Let me ask, do you want a divorce?’

  ‘Yes. I knew it wasn’t working, too.’

  ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘I think it’s been since he started seeing her, but sometimes he can be violent – only when he’s drinking, though.’

  ‘That’s no good. Does anyone know about this? I’m talking about a witness – someone who could corroborate this.’

  ‘I haven’t told anyone. Except once, when it happened, a girl from work had come to spend the night. She must remember.’

  ‘Right.’

  As she took notes, the lawyer thought there were a number of ways they could approach this. She took another look at the photograph. She knew the type: they looked like perfect gentleman, but treated their wives like dirt. It was her least favourite type.

  ‘I just – I just don’t believe it. I can’t believe he would do something like this. He was so nice before,’ Yukiho said, putting a white hand to her mouth and beginning to cry.

  TEN

  Imaeda frowned as he pulled into the car park. There were dozens of spaces, and nearly all of them were full. ‘I thought the market bubble broke already,’ he grumbled.

  He found an open space at the far back, parked his Honda Prelude, and took his golf bag out of the trunk. It had a light coating of dust on it from two years spent in the closet. He’d taken up golf at the suggestion of one of his former co-workers, and had been genuinely interested in it for a little while, but ever since he’d gone freelance, his clubs had languished inside their bag. It wasn’t that he was too busy; there just wasn’t any compelling reason for him to go. Golf was a pack sport – no fit pastime for a lone wolf.

  He strolled through the front entrance of the Eagle Golf Driving Range – the décor of the place always reminded him of a second-rate business hotel – and his shoulders slumped. The lobby was full of golfers in various stages of ennui, all waiting their turn on the range. He counted nearly ten.

  He considered leaving and coming back again later, but realised that he’d likely face the same scene unless he returned in the middle of the week, which wasn’t going to happen. Resigning himself to his fate, Imaeda went up to the front counter and put his name on the list.

  Finding a free sofa seat, he sat and absent-mindedly watched television. A sumo bout was on: the big summer tournament. It was still early in the day, so only the lower-ranked wrestlers were competing. In the past they hadn’t even shown these matches, but with the recent surge in sumo’s popularity, fans were watching earlier and earlier in the day, giving some of the up-and-coming wrestlers coveted time in the spotlight. The sport’s reversal of fortune could be largely credited to a handful of rising stars: Takatoriki, Uminomai, and the Wakataka brothers. Of the brothers, Takahanada had recently become the youngest wrestler in history to sweep all three sansho prizes awarded to top-division sumo wrestlers, before going on to defeat reigning yokozuna Chiyonofuji to become the youngest wrestler to ever win the Gold Star. Chiyonofuji was defeated by another of these up-and-comers, Takatoriki, only two days later, spurring the yokozuna to announce his retirement.

  The times are definitely changing, Imaeda thought as he watched the screen. The media had been announcing the end of the bubble economy for weeks, and people who had amassed fortunes in stocks and land were now standing with mouths agape, watching as it all vanished into thin air. He had expected things would quieten down a bit, and none too soon. When people were dropping five billion yen for minor van Gogh paintings, something had to give.

  And yet, a casual glance around the lobby was enough to tell him that young women were clearly still flaunting their cash. Traditionally golf had been strictly a men’s sport and one enjoyed only by people who had attained a certain status, at that. Recently, however, younger, female players were a common sight on the greens and nearly half the people waiting their turn in the lobby today were women.

  Which is precisely why I’m dusting off the clubs, he thought with a wry smile. He’d got a call from an old school friend four days earlier. His friend was taking two women, nightclub hostesses both, golfing, and had invited him along. Their planned fourth had backed out and his friend was looking to round out the number.

  Imaeda didn’t have a problem swallowing his pride and accepting the invitation. He needed the exercise and he never passed up an opportunity to meet girls. The only thing holding him back was the fact that he hadn’t swung a club in years. Thus his visit to the range today, to brush up on his technique. His date on the golf course was two weeks away and he wanted to at least get to the point where he wouldn’t embarrass himself.

  He only had to wait thirty minutes before his name was called, which he supposed was pretty good considering the number of people in line. The woman at the counter handed him coins for the ball machine and a card indicating his stall number and he headed out on to the driving range.

  His stall was at the far end of the first level. He put a coin into the nearest ball dispenser and got two baskets’ worth to get him started.

  He stretched a little bit to warm up before stepping into the stall, and decided to start with the seven iron – by far his favourite club. He wouldn’t be doing a full swing at first, just a nice controlled shot.

  It took him a little bit of trial and error, but he’d soon got the feel of
it back in his muscles. After about twenty balls, he was starting to loosen up and take bigger swings. His body was moving smoothly, and he was catching the ball with the sweet spot on the clubface. Imaeda figured he was hitting 150, maybe 160 yards with the seven iron, and was starting to feel pretty good about himself. Taking a break hadn’t set him as far back as he’d feared. Everything he’d learned in his lessons was coming back.

  He had just switched to a five iron and hit a few balls when he felt someone’s eyes on him – the man hitting from the stall beside his was watching Imaeda’s shots while taking a break on the chairs. Imaeda didn’t mind, but it did make it a little harder to focus.

  As he settled his grip on the new club, Imaeda glanced in the man’s direction. He was young, maybe not even thirty, and he looked oddly familiar. Imaeda stole another glance. Now he was sure he’d seen him somewhere before, but he couldn’t remember where. Judging by the way the man was looking at him, he didn’t recognise Imaeda at all.

  He moved on to practising with the three iron. A short while later, the man got back up and started hitting balls himself. He was pretty good, and his form was excellent. He was using a driver and hitting the balls straight into the net two hundred yards away.

  When the man twisted his neck a little to the right, Imaeda spotted two black moles on the back of his neck and the memories came rushing back.

  Makoto Takamiya. Tozai Automotive.

  Suddenly it all made sense. Seeing this particular man here hadn’t been a coincidence at all. The only reason Imaeda had known about this practice range was because of a job three years ago – the job on which he’d first seen Makoto.

  No wonder he doesn’t know me.

  Imaeda wondered what Makoto had been up to in the intervening years, and whether he was still seeing that woman.

  His three iron was giving him trouble, so Imaeda decided to take a break. He bought a soft drink at the vending machine, leaned back in his chair, and watched Makoto hit the ball. Makoto was practising his pitch shot, aiming for a flag fifty yards away. He hit a half-wedge and the ball floated upward, hung in the air for an instant, and finally dropped down right by the flag. It was impressive.

  Makoto turned around, perhaps sensing his eyes on him. Imaeda looked away and took a sip of his drink, noting by the shadows moving across the deck that Makoto was walking towards him.

  ‘Brownings, aren’t they?’

  Imaeda looked up. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Your clubs. They’re Brownings, right?’ Makoto was pointing at Imaeda’s golf bag.

  ‘Oh,’ Imaeda checked the brand marker engraved on the head of the irons. ‘Yeah, they are. I’d forgotten.’

  He’d bought them on impulse at a golf shop. The owner had recommended them, talking at great length about why they were the best clubs he had, perfect for someone with a slender frame – but Imaeda hadn’t really been listening. He’d bought them, he remembered now, because he liked the name Browning. It reminded him of a gun-obsessed phase he’d gone through.

  ‘Mind if I have a look?’ Makoto asked.

  ‘Go right ahead.’

  Makoto pulled out the five iron. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘one of my friends got really good all of a sudden, and he’s using Brownings.’

  ‘You think the club has much to do with it?’

  ‘Well, he’d been plateaued for ever, and then he shot right up after he switched, so maybe. I started thinking I should spend a bit of time looking for the right fit for me too.’

  ‘I’d say you’re good enough already, seeing you hit.’

  ‘Maybe out here, but not on a real course,’ Makoto said, assuming the stance and giving a light swing. ‘Hmm. The grip’s a little narrower than I’m used to.’

  ‘Why don’t you try hitting a couple?’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Makoto took Imaeda’s clubs over to his stall and started hitting a few balls. The balls zinged away, just the right amount of spin on them.

  ‘You’ve got it. That’s some fine hitting,’ Imaeda said. He wasn’t just being polite, either.

  ‘The club feels good,’ Makoto said.

  ‘Hit as many as you want. I need to practise with my woods anyway.’

  ‘Really? Thanks.’

  Makoto started swinging again. He hardly missed a shot. But that wasn’t because of the clubs – his form was solid. Which made sense, since he’d practised for years at this very range. That girl had been taking lessons with him, too, Imaeda recalled. It took him a little while to dredge up her name: Chizuru Misawa.

  Three years earlier Imaeda had been working at Tokyo General Research, a private investigations outfit with over seventeen offices throughout the country. Imaeda had been stationed at the Meguro office in southwest Tokyo.

  Though they did their fair share of domestic cases, Tokyo General Research was unusual for its large number of corporate clients. They would frequently be asked to look into the management and earnings of a potential trade partner, or check whether a particular employee had been talking to headhunters. Once, they were asked to find out who the brash young CEO of a particular company was sleeping with, only to discover, much to their amusement, that he was sleeping with all four female members of the board.

  Even with all this variety, the request that came from a man claiming association with Tozai Automotive was unusual: he wanted them to investigate a product by another company, a software developer by the name of Memorix. The product was a metallurgy expert system they had brought to market the year before.

  He wanted Imaeda’s team to look into the history of the software’s development, the personal histories of the core members on the development team, and everyone in their social circles. The client hadn’t mentioned why he wanted this information, but they had a vague idea. Clearly, someone suspected that Memorix had stolen code from Tozai’s software and required evidence of the theft to prove it. A route connecting someone at Memorix to a conspirator inside Tozai would be the smoking gun they needed.

  There were roughly twenty people at the Meguro branch of Tokyo General Research. Half of them were put on the job, including Imaeda.

  Two weeks into the investigation, they had uncovered pretty much everything there was to know about Memorix. It had been founded in 1984, with former programmer Toru Anzai as CEO. Including part-time workers, they employed twelve system engineers who developed systems to meet the needs of various parts manufacturers.

  There were several question marks surrounding the metallurgy expert system, the largest of these being the question of where Memorix had sourced the large volumes of metallurgical know-how and data. The story was that a certain mid-level metals manufacturer had given them technical assistance when they were developing the program, but when Imaeda and his team investigated further, they found that by the time Memorix had requested the assistance, the software was already complete – the manufacturer had only been hired to check the software.

  The most obvious explanation was that they had simply used data previously acquired from other clients. Memorix did a lot of work in cooperation with other companies, which gave them access to their partners’ data.

  Yet there was a problem with this theory. Whenever Memorix worked with another company, they drew up very precise contracts detailing exactly how information was to be handled, with severe penalties if any of their employees were found disseminating information outside of the company without permission.