‘Of course not.’ He grinned at her. ‘I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.’
Indeed he did. But early the following morning, however, as he was brewing his first coffee of the day, things took an unexpected turn. The phone rang. When he answered, he heard Caldwell’s distinctively soft voice on the other end of the line. Though there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there on Friday. He sounded either nervous or excited, or both. Nick had given him his mobile number, but it seemed he preferred to use the landline.
‘This is Martin Caldwell, Nick. Are you … alone?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean … are you free to talk?’
‘Just go ahead, Martin. What’s the problem?’
‘I’m not going to be able to keep our … appointment … this afternoon.’
‘You aren’t?’
‘I’m terribly sorry.’
So was Nick, to his surprise. ‘That’s a pity.’
‘Could we postpone it … by twenty-four hours?’
‘I, er, don’t see why not.’
‘Something’s come up … that complicates my travel plans.’
What might that be, Nick asked himself, in the reputedly empty life of Martin Caldwell? ‘OK. So, tomorrow afternoon, then?’
‘Yes. That … should be all right.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m really sorry … to mess you around.’
‘Never mind. By the way, I’ve remembered since we last spoke that you told me at the funeral you still live in the house you shared as a student with Caro and April and … my father.’
‘Not still. There was a gap of quite a few years … before I moved back in again. And … it had changed a lot.’
‘I guess it would have.’
‘We could arrange for you to see it … if you wanted. It might help you … get a clearer picture.’
‘A clearer picture of what?’
‘Did Caro ever talk about the other people who lived there?’
‘Not much. There was Miranda Cushing, of course.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of Miranda.’
‘Who, then?’
‘Peter Ellery and Alison Parker. Have their names ever cropped up?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘No. Neither do I.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t … say any more right now. I’ll, er … see you tomorrow. Say … five o’clock. Yes?’
‘I’ll be here.’
‘It’s, er … possible I might be … a little late. But, er … Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Is there something wrong, Martin?’
Long pause. Then: ‘I’ll explain everything … when we meet.’
And that was it. He’d hung up.
As he drank his coffee, Nick began to wonder whether Caldwell was playing some kind of perverse game, trying to make himself seem mysterious and important with all this switching of times and days and implications of great revelations to come. Exeter was only a couple of hours from London by train. What exactly was his problem?
That thought prompted Nick to check whether Caldwell had phoned from Exeter. But another surprise awaited him. Caldwell had withheld his number. And Nick could think of no reason why he would do that. Other than the obvious one, of course. He wasn’t in Exeter. And he didn’t want Nick to know where he’d gone. Or maybe … he couldn’t risk Nick knowing.
What the hell was going on? And who on God’s green earth were Peter Ellery and Alison Parker?
FIVE
WADA VISITED HER mother on sunday afternoon. she generally substituted a lengthy telephone conversation for an actual visit until Haha’s complaints about never seeing her daughter became so insistent there was nothing for it but to turn up in person.
It would have been impossible for Wada to explain that the primary reason for her reluctance to visit the tiny house in Koishikawa wasn’t a wish to avoid her mother but the depression that always settled on her when she went back there. She didn’t quite understand why returning to the scene of her earliest memories dragged her spirits down, but certainly it did, despite many of those memories, particularly if they involved her father, being happy ones.
Wada steered well clear, as ever, of a mother and daughter heart-to-heart. ‘You are a mystery to me,’ Haha often lamented. Which was as Wada preferred it. As she’d grown older, she’d found more and more comfort in the privacy of her thoughts. On this occasion, she was also able to plead professional confidentiality as a reason why she couldn’t say anything about her trip to London beyond the fact that it was taking place. Conversation was therefore largely confined to Haha’s complaints about inconvenient alterations to the ward refuse collection arrangements and confusing changes of stock location in her local minimarket.
Wada wondered if Kodaka would call her at some point on Sunday to report on what he’d been able to find out in Fukuoka. But no call came that day and she knew better than to call him. If he needed to be in touch, he would be.
No call came the following morning either. Still Wada wasn’t concerned. Kodaka always kept as much information as possible to himself. She was confident she’d hear from him after she reached London. He’d said he expected to be back in Tokyo by Monday evening at the latest.
Wada had decided to put the long flight to London to good use by brushing up on her English. She’d bought an English translation of her favourite novel, Sasameyuki, by Junichiro Tanizaki, to read on the plane. The title in English was The Makioka Sisters, which didn’t capture any of the allusive subtlety of the Japanese original. Understandably, the translator had failed to find any way to convey in English what the word sasameyuki – lightly falling snow – conjured up for a Japanese reader.
This didn’t surprise Wada. She found the differences between the two languages fascinating even when they were also frustrating. As for Sasameyuki, she’d first read it aloud, to Hiko, during the early months of the coma he’d never woken from. The doctors had told her recovery was out of the question, but it had taken her a long time to believe them and, during that time, Tanizaki’s leisurely tale had been the only source of consolation she could find.
She started reading the book on the train to Narita airport and continued after the plane had taken off. She felt too alert to follow the example of many other passengers and snatch a few hours’ sleep before the scheduled mid-afternoon arrival in London. Her view of jet lag was dismissive. She intended simply to view Monday as an unusually long day, but her resolve didn’t sustain her much beyond struggling through disembarkation, baggage reclaim and immigration checks at Heathrow. She actually fell asleep on the train into London and reached the Envoy Hotel, just off Russell Square, yawning uncontrollably and with her eyes watering in the spring sunshine.
The Envoy was a conventionally smart hotel for tourists and business travellers. As she checked in, Wada managed to register the fact that it had been thoroughly modernized. As Kodaka had surmised, she wasn’t going to learn much about what had happened there forty-two years in the past simply by being a guest in the present.
Her room’s bland but comfortable furnishings told the same story. Even if she could learn the number of the room Shitaro Masafumi had died in, it would make no difference. The Envoy Hotel of 1977 was out of her reach.
She’d checked her phone on landing for a message from Kodaka, but there’d been nothing. It was past midnight now in Tokyo, so it was likely he’d wait till morning to contact her.
That gave her the chance to get some of the sleep she needed. She could barely keep her eyes open by now. Unpacking could wait. She closed the curtains and lay down on the bed.
When she woke, it took her a few seconds to remember she was in London, not Tokyo. She had no idea what time it was. Checking her phone, she was appalled to discover she’d slept for more than seven hours. There was a glow of street lamps beyond the curtains and a shushing noise of traffic on wet tarmac. It must have rained while she was asleep.
There w
as a message on her phone, but not from Kodaka. She didn’t recognize the number. She opened it, even so.
It was a text message, from the lawyer Kodaka used whenever one of his cases became legally sensitive. Wada had never actually met Norifusa Dobachi, though she’d spoken to him and his secretary on the telephone quite a few times. Her impression of him was that he was a cautious, meticulous man. She was surprised he had her phone number. And she was even more surprised by his message.
Please excuse mode of contact. Please call as soon as possible. Very urgent.
If Dobachi said something was very urgent, Wada was inclined to believe him. She put a call through to his office number on the hotel phone, fearing her own phone mightn’t have enough charge left to sustain a lengthy conversation at international rates.
She half expected to be greeted by a recorded message, since it was only just past eight o’clock in the morning in Tokyo. But the phone was answered promptly, by Dobachi himself.
‘Dobachi-san. This is Wada.’
‘Wada-san. You are not calling on the number where I left the message?’
‘No. This is a hotel phone. I am not in the country.’
‘I know where you are. Kodaka-san notified me of your trip.’
‘He did?’
‘I will explain shortly. But in the present situation your choice of telephone is probably wise. You should take all precautions that Kodaka-san may have taught you.’
‘What has happened?’
She heard him sigh before replying. It was almost a groan. ‘Kodaka-san is dead.’
For a moment, Wada couldn’t speak. How could it be true? She’d seen and spoken to Kodaka only three days ago. How could his life – everything he amounted to – have ceased to exist since then?
‘Hit-and-run,’ Dobachi continued solemnly. ‘Near his apartment, last night. The police contacted me because they found my card in his wallet. He was crossing a street after leaving his local minimarket.’
‘I do not know what to say. This is … terrible.’
‘Indeed. Very terrible. According to the police it may have been deliberate. The car hit him twice. Witnesses said it knocked him down, then stopped and drove over him before speeding off. None of them recorded the registration number. Nor could any of them describe the driver, though they thought there were two men in the car.’
‘Why would anyone do such a thing, Dobachi-san?’
‘I cannot say. But a private detective makes enemies. It is the nature of the profession.’
‘There has been no threat to him that I am aware of.’
‘If he had been threatened, would he have told you? Knowing him as I do, I suspect not.’
‘When did he tell you I was leaving the country?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. After you had left. He came here to see me, without an appointment. He was … extremely anxious. He had just returned from a business trip to Fukuoka, he said, and had gone straight to his office. It had been broken into and searched. The computer had been stolen. Along with various paper files. He did not think it was a simple burglary. I asked about you, which was when he told me he had sent you to London … for reasons related to his journey to Fukuoka. This is true?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must judge whether it is wise for you to continue with whatever he asked you to undertake. You are no longer working for him, sadly. There is no contract you are bound by. Legally speaking, the Kodaka Detective Agency is no more. I will, of course, attend to the formalities of winding up the business. It would be easier to do so with your assistance, but … I would understand if …’
‘Did Kodaka-san tell you about the case that took him to Fukuoka?’
‘He gave me no details. But my impression was that he regarded the break-in at his office as a clear sign of danger. For himself … and you.’
The implications of what had happened swirled in Wada’s mind. Kodaka was dead. The office computer and assorted files had been stolen. And she was alone, on the other side of the world, with an appointment fixed for the following morning with a stranger. The shock of Dobachi’s news solidified into dread. What should she do? How should she react?
‘He mentioned another person, Wada-san. Mimori Takenaga. You know her?’
‘A client.’
‘The client? In the present case?’
‘Yes.’
‘I will make discreet enquiries about her present situation. As for you …’
‘If the danger is real, I cannot ignore it.’
‘You could … make it obvious you have abandoned the case. Go somewhere … for a holiday … before returning home. I will take no steps to cancel your company credit card.’
Was that why Kodaka had mentioned her brother Haruto to Wada during their last – their very last – conversation? To plant in her mind the idea of taking refuge with him in New York if she needed to? If so, he must have known they were playing with fire by taking on Mrs Takenaga as a client. Which surely meant he’d known far more about the background to the case than he’d revealed.
‘There is one other thing I have to tell you, Wada-san. While you consider what to do.’
‘What is it?’
‘Kodaka-san left a file with me. He took it with him to Fukuoka, so it was not there when the office was broken into. I received the impression that he had taken it with him to guard against such an eventuality.’
So much for the forgotten notebook, Wada reflected. This file was what he’d gone back to the office for on Saturday morning. Which meant it was central to the case. ‘What does the file contain?’
There was a delicate pause before Dobachi replied. ‘Numerous documents. I have not inspected them. Kodaka-san did not authorize me to do so. But he did authorize me to pass the file on to you. If you want me to.’
Wada assumed the file was one of the many bulging manila folders Kodaka lodged in his filing cabinet. ‘What is written on the front of the folder?’ she asked. Something always was, in Kodaka’s scrawled hand, though not always something helpful. Kodaka played little shorthand games with himself when it came to record-keeping.
In answer, Dobachi used the word kage-boshi, which meant a shadow, specifically a shadow of a person. And Wada instantly remembered what Kodaka had said to her about Hiroji Nishizaki and his business activities. Some cases I have handled bore his shadow. ‘You know what this means, Wada-san?’ Dobachi asked.
‘I think so, yes.’
‘You can direct me what to do with the file. Kodaka-san was very clear that it would be a matter for you … in his absence.’
A matter for her. Wada might have been angry with Kodaka for putting her in such a position. But anger never came easily to her. Her mother had often complained she was altogether too calm for her own good. Well, that was her nature. Just as obliqueness had been Kodaka’s.
‘If you wish,’ Dobachi continued, ‘I can store the file in my safe here. Or … I can destroy it.’
‘Please do not destroy it.’ Her reaction to the idea was instinctive. She couldn’t bear to think of the material Kodaka had carefully amassed being shredded or incinerated.
‘I will store it, then. Unless …’
‘Can you send it to me?’
‘Of course. Kodaka-san gave me the address of your hotel. But please consider carefully, Wada-san. You are not obliged in any way to pursue this matter. It could be argued that it is not even appropriate for you to pursue it now the Kodaka Detective Agency is no longer functioning. It might be altogether wiser for you to … drop it.’
‘By wiser you mean safer?’
It took Dobachi several seconds to summon an answer. But, when it came, it was unambiguous. ‘Yes.’
Wada thought for a moment, then said, ‘May I call you back later with a decision?’
‘Please do. I will be here most of the day.’
‘Thank you, Dobachi-san.’
Wada set her phone to charge, took two miniatures of gin and a can of tonic water out of the minibar and
poured the contents into a glass. She turned off the bedside light and opened the curtains. Rain was slashing across the glass in random tear-tracks. She sat down on the bed and took a deep swallow of the gin. Then she leant back against the headboard, cradling the glass in her lap.
She felt safe here, in the dark, in a hotel room, in a city where no one knew her. But safe for how long? If they’d gone as far as murder to stop Kodaka, wasn’t she likely to suffer the same fate once she returned to Japan? If Nishizaki had sokaiya connections, commissioning another hit-and-run or something similar wouldn’t be too difficult. In fact, it would make sense, as insurance against the possibility that she knew too much.
She worked her way steadily through the gin. The alcohol stilled some of her anxiety and helped her see her situation more clearly. She didn’t know too much. She knew barely anything, in fact. That was what she had to change. That was her only recourse.
She picked up the hotel phone and dialled Dobachi’s number. There was a gulf of silence before it began ringing.
Then he answered. ‘Wada-san?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you made your decision?’
‘Send me the file.’
Wada barely slept for the rest of the night. By asking Dobachi to send her the file, she’d committed herself to remaining in London for several days at least. And, in effect, she’d committed herself to continuing what Kodaka had so fatefully started. Every time she thought it through, it seemed that was what she had to do. Every course of action, even inaction, held its hazards. Yet still the timid, unassertive part of her longed to run away and hide. It might work, after all. It was possible Nishizaki didn’t even know she existed. It was possible Kodaka had been run over by some drunken salaryman – or the aggrieved husband in one of the divorce cases he’d been handling.
Yes, all of that was possible.
But she didn’t believe it.
And, come morning, she still didn’t believe it.
Her appointment with Martin Caldwell was for ten thirty. The British Museum was only a short walk from the Envoy Hotel. She wondered if Caldwell had arranged to meet her there for that very reason. He thought he was meeting Shitaro Masafumi’s daughter, after all. He probably reckoned she’d want to see the Envoy, even though, as Wada now knew, there was little to be gained by it.
The Fine Art of Invisible Detection Page 4
