She jumped to her feet and started down the narrow, crumbling footpath that led to the beach. She could hear voices away to her right: occupants of the cottages and holiday lets along the lane she’d walked up earlier, roused by the explosion and venturing out to investigate. The village was stirring.
She pressed on down the path, slithering on loose patches of earth, but determined to intercept Nick Miller before he reached the spot where his father had died.
As Nick walked along the beach, he was aware of a growing level of movement on the shore. He could see people standing out on the balconies of houses, craning and pointing. Someone was hurrying down the footpath from the headland ahead of him. He heard the roar of a car engine. A pick-up truck barrelled past the lifeguard station and came to a halt on the sand. A guy who looked as though he could be a lifeguard himself, dressed in a red wetsuit, jumped out and ran towards the smoking crater.
He’d turned back and was shouting into a phone by the time Nick was within earshot. ‘An explosion, that’s right. Like a bomb’s gone off. And … there are body parts. Everywhere. People have been killed.’
Nick looked past the guy and saw in the middle distance something lying on the sand. It was too far away for him to identify. But within a few more paces—
‘Nick Miller?’
He pulled up and, turning, saw a small, spryly built middle-aged Asian woman running towards him. She was wearing jeans, an orange and red sweater and a thin yellow anorak. A white canvas bag was looped over her shoulder.
She stopped a few metres from him, breathing heavily. Her hair was short – black streaked with a few strands of grey. Her face was round, her features unremarkable. But something in the way she held herself contrived to convey a strength greater than her slender frame implied. And Nick knew at once who she was.
THIRTY
NOW SHE’S ACTUALLY caught up with nick miller, wada can’t seem to find the right words to express what she wants to say to him.
While she’s still tongue-tied, he says, ‘You’re Umiko Wada, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she manages to reply. ‘I am Wada.’
‘If you’re here, you must have known’ – he gestures ahead of him – ‘that this was going to happen.’
‘No. But, now it has, I understand why Driscoll-san decided it had to.’
‘You knew him?’
‘A little.’
‘That’s more than I did, even though …’
‘He was your father.’
‘Yes. He was.’
‘You should not go any closer, Miller-san. You will gain nothing except bad memories.’
People are spilling on to the beach now. The man from the pick-up truck is waving and shouting for them to stay back, but they’re not taking a lot of notice.
‘The police will come soon, Miller-san. Before they do, you should call your wife and tell her you are free.’
‘I don’t have a phone.’
‘Use mine.’ She takes it from her bag and offers it to him.
As she does so, it starts ringing. Holgate, she assumes. Will he never give up? But, when she looks at the number, she sees it isn’t Holgate after all. It’s the only other person who knows the number: Driscoll.
‘Hold on,’ she says to Nick, raising the phone to her ear and wondering what exactly she’s going to hear.
It’s a recording. Of Driscoll’s voice. ‘I’m betting you’re at Porthtowan this morning, Wada. I’m also betting everything’s gone according to plan. In which case Nick and Dr Morrisette are free. And Nishizaki and I are on our way to the afterworld. In the end, there was no other way to go. To save Nick, I had to guarantee Nishizaki’s elimination. And this was the only way to do it. There was no reasoning – no bargaining – with Nishizaki. I should have realized that sooner. His son will take over the business, but there’ll be nothing to fear from him. Tell Dr Morrisette Vinod will give her all the assistance she needs to dissociate herself from the Emergence fraud. The evidence he supplies will point the finger of blame at Nishizaki and me. As for Nick, you’ll let him hear this message, won’t you? I want him to know I’m sorry – truly sorry – that I was nothing as a father to him except an absence built on a lie. I’m sure he had a better upbringing with Caro and April than I’d ever have given him. I take some comfort from being able to make sure he has a life to go on with. It’s the least I can do for him. And also the most. I was really looking forward to meeting him, but it wasn’t to be. Nanoq will return the kage-boshi file to you. I don’t think you’ll need to use any of the contents to protect yourself, but, just in case, it’s yours. Try to get Mimori Takenaga released from that psychiatric clinic her family consigned her to, will you? She’s just another innocent victim, after all. Like your late husband, I’m afraid. There’s nothing I can do about any of that now. The only thing I can do … is what I hope I will have done by the time you hear this.’
‘What’s wrong?’
Looking at Nick, Wada has the impression he may have asked her that question several times. She gathers her thoughts as best she can. ‘Nothing,’ she says, trying to smile. ‘You should not delay calling your wife any longer.’ She hands him the phone. ‘I have often dreamt of hearing good news about my husband rather than the bad news that came. For your wife, good news will not be a dream. So, call her, Miller-san. Now.’
Wada follows Nick as he walks slowly back along the beach, away from the people milling around the crater in the sand, away from the smoke and the gaggle of voices and the dying crackle of the flames. He has her phone clapped to one ear and a hand pressed to the other so he’ll be able to hear clearly when his call is answered.
She can tell the moment it is by a sudden relaxation of the set of his shoulders. Then he starts speaking. ‘It’s me, Kate … Yes … Yes, I’m free and I’m fine … Everything’s all right … I know, darling, I know …’
Wada falls further back. She doesn’t want to listen to what Nick is saying. That is between him and his wife. She’ll tell him about the message from Driscoll later. How much later she’s not sure, but she thinks she’ll know when the moment is right.
There’ll be quite a few more right moments to judge beyond that. But Wada hasn’t yet looked too far ahead. She gazes left at the broad blue expanse of the ocean. The waves are rolling gently in. The rising sun is warm on her face. She’s not sure why, but she feels more alive than she has in years, maybe decades.
RE-EMERGENCE
Ten months later
UMIKO WADA ISN’T a private detective. at least, she says she isn’t. She says she doesn’t even work for a private detective any more. But, strangely, in the process of tying up loose ends in the cases ongoing at the time of the death of her late employer, Kazuto Kodaka, she found herself hired by several of his former clients to deal with their problems in her characteristically discreet, low-key, effective manner.
She’s still based in Kodaka’s office in the Nihonbashi district of Tokyo and it seems she’s now widely regarded as his professional successor. The work keeps on coming. She’s never idle.
Mimori Takenaga has been released from the psychiatric clinic her family had consigned her to. It didn’t prove as difficult to achieve as Wada had anticipated. She suspected the original arrangements had been made at Hiroji Nishizaki’s request and probably his expense. Following his death in England in mysterious circumstances, the Takenagas suddenly found it convenient to distance themselves from his affairs, so they put up little resistance to Mimori being discharged. She’s left her husband and moved to Tokyo. Wada’s met her a couple of times and told her as much as she feels she can about her father’s death, almost certainly at Nishizaki’s hands, back in 1977.
What Wada hasn’t disclosed to her is the full story behind Driscoll’s death in the explosion on Porthtowan beach that also claimed Nishizaki’s life. There was speculation in the Japanese media at the time that they’d been the targets of a yakuza assassination. Many who’d have thought twice about saying so while Ni
shizaki was alive suggested there’d always been a sinister side to his business operations. As predicted by Driscoll, Hiroji Nishizaki junior has shown himself to be a very different proposition from his father, setting the company back on a legitimate footing and emphasizing that in future its activities will be free of the remotest taint of scandal. How he appeased the victims of the Emergence fraud has remained unknown for the simple reason that the Emergence fraud itself has remained unknown to all but those directly involved in it. Wada’s made no effort to find out the details. She assumes large amounts of money must have changed hands. Where the Nishizaki Corporation is concerned, she’s more than happy to leave well alone.
She entirely understands, therefore, why Michaela Morrisette decided not to report her kidnapping to the police. It’s much safer for her if the fallout from Emergence stays between Nishizaki junior and his father’s aggrieved clients. They’re united in one thing at least: an extreme aversion to publicity.
Nick Miller helped Dr Morrisette stay out of the picture by telling the police he’d been kidnapped and held alone by captors who’d never said who they were working for or why they were holding him, although the fact that Driscoll was his natural father obviously had something to do with it. The British and Icelandic police are still supposed to be investigating the tangled web of connections between the explosion at Porthtowan and the fire at Stórí-Asgarbær, but there have been few signs of progress. Driscoll has covered his tracks well, even in death.
Wada hasn’t seen Nick Miller since she returned to Tokyo a week after the deaths of Driscoll and Nishizaki senior. Recently, though, he emailed her with the news that he and his wife were planning to visit Japan. Apparently, he wants to see something of the country where his father spent most of his adult life. She’s due to have lunch with the couple tomorrow, before they move on to Kyoto. But she’s due to see Nick even sooner, because he’s arranged to call round at the office to speak to her late this afternoon.
What about, he preferred not to explain in an email. Which, naturally, has aroused Wada’s curiosity.
She won’t have to wait long for her curiosity to be satisfied, though. Because it’s late afternoon already. And Nick is due to arrive at any moment.
Wada notices the light change over the city beyond the office window. Glancing out, she sees clouds rolling in from the east. They look as if they might be rain-bearing. The time of day and the quality of the light remind her of Mimori Takenaga’s visit to Kodaka last spring. She tries to dismiss the coincidence from her mind. But it lodges there, portentously, as she hears the lift rumbling up through the building and guesses Nick is on his way. She can almost smell Kodaka’s cigarette smoke in the air, almost believe he’s still there. But she knows he isn’t.
Nick looks well, more relaxed than when she last saw him, lighter in his mind, perhaps lighter physically as well. There’s an awkward moment when she thinks he’s going to try to kiss her. It ends with something between a handshake and a hug. They smile at each other a little nervously, uncertain how much of what they shared a year ago still binds them together.
Wada brews tea while Nick makes light conversation about the flight and first impressions of Tokyo. Kate, it transpires, is window-shopping in Ginza. It’s not entirely clear to Wada whether Kate knows Nick has come to see her, since he mentions he’s just come from a brief visit to the nearby Bridgestone Museum of Art. She doesn’t press the point, however. He’s here for a reason. And soon she’ll know what it is.
‘Something’s happened,’ he says, after the small talk has died and Wada’s poured him a cup of tea. ‘Something I need your advice on.’
‘You did not travel all the way from England to ask me for advice, I hope.’
‘I suppose … in part … I did.’ He smiles sheepishly.
‘What is it that has happened?’
‘About six weeks ago, I got a newspaper cutting in the post. Sent anonymously. Typed address. London postmark. Eerily reminiscent, you might think, of how my mother alerted Martin Caldwell to the fact that my father wasn’t dead. The cutting was an article that appeared in a Swedish newspaper, Aftonbladet, last October. I didn’t know what to make of it. I had to get a Swedish friend of a colleague to translate it for me.’ Nick fishes a plastic wallet containing the cutting out of his bag. He lays it on Wada’s desk. ‘I’m guessing you can’t read Swedish?’
‘You are correct.’
‘OK. I’ll give you the gist, then. The article’s basically an interview with a woman whose husband disappeared in early April last year. Karl-Erik Fagerholm, aged sixty-four, a retired university lecturer. He left his home in Uppsala, north of Stockholm, supposedly travelling to Malmö to visit an elderly aunt living in a retirement home there. He normally went to see her every six months or so, but this visit was only four months after the last one, which was slightly odd. Odder still, he never showed up at the retirement home and hasn’t been seen or heard of since. Nor has he taken any money out of the joint bank account he holds with his wife. He hasn’t contacted anyone who knows him, either. And there’s no record of him leaving the country.’
‘Does his wife have any idea what’s happened to him?’
‘Well, he’d recently been diagnosed with leukaemia and the prognosis wasn’t good. She said he was very strong-minded. Quite capable of deciding he’d prefer to die on his own terms rather than lingering in a hospital.’
‘She suspects suicide, then?’
‘Yes, but she’s puzzled by the fact that a large sum of money was deposited in their bank account a few days after his disappearance.’
‘How large?’
‘She was coy about that. But a lot, that’s clear. And she couldn’t account for it. He’d done nothing likely to generate such a sum. He wasn’t a gambler or a speculator. She described him as completely unmaterialistic. The interviewer asked her if it was enough for her to live comfortably for the rest of her life and she said it was enough for her and their children.’
‘Who paid the money in?’
‘That’s where it gets really odd. The money was transferred from an account held by Fagerholm in his name only at a bank in Nicosia, Cyprus. His wife didn’t even know he had such an account. He’d been to Cyprus on a bird-watching holiday shortly after he was diagnosed with leukaemia. She said he’d wanted to go while he was still well enough to make the trip. She hadn’t accompanied him. It looks like he opened the account then. The Cypriot bank declined to give her any information about it on the grounds of client confidentiality, so she’s no idea where the money came from originally.’
‘She could think of no explanation at all?’
‘Only that it was payment for something he’d done that she knew nothing about.’
‘What could that be? And why should someone think you needed to be told about it?’
‘Exactly. What? And why?’
There’s something in Nick’s expression that suggests to Wada he already has answers to both questions. She says nothing, but looks at him expectantly.
He slides the cutting out of the plastic wallet and pushes it across the desk towards her. ‘Take a look at the photograph of Karl-Erik Fagerholm printed with the article. It was a recent picture, according to his wife.’
Wada picks the cutting up and turns in her chair so the light from the window is behind her. Karl-Erik Fagerholm, retired university lecturer, of Uppsala, Sweden, gazes out of the photograph, smiling faintly. He’s wearing a brown jacket and open-necked cream shirt. He’s thin, white-haired and slightly haggard, the haggardness – perhaps a sign of his illness – accentuated by the squareness of his jaw.
‘You see it, of course,’ says Nick. ‘I can tell by your frown.’
She puts the cutting back on the desk and looks Nick in the eye. ‘Tell me what you think.’
‘I think the similarity would be enough to carry him through the few minutes he needed to manoeuvre Nishizaki into position on the beach. And enough to convince you, up on the cliff, that the man dr
essed in Driscoll’s clothes, behaving like Driscoll, really was Driscoll. I think the money was payment by Driscoll to a dying man to die in place of him. Last April, at Porthtowan.’
Wada is about to argue with Nick, to point out all the reasons why his theory doesn’t make sense. But, glancing down at the photograph, she finds there are no reasons. Or, rather, those reasons aren’t sufficient. There is a similarity. It could have been enough. It’s not impossible. And what’s not impossible … is possible.
‘If I’d simply come across this story by chance,’ Nick continues, ‘I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But the cutting was sent to me. The article was drawn to my attention. Someone wanted me to know.’
‘You think this came from Driscoll?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You think he wants you to find him?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Is that why you are here?’
He smiles. ‘I only know one private detective. And she’s ideally equipped for the job.’
‘I am not a private detective.’
‘You could have fooled me.’
‘And even if I was …’
‘Remember, I can prove whether Driscoll really did die in the explosion by asking the authorities to test my DNA against the remains they found on the beach. But if I did that and there was no match …’
‘They would start looking for him.’
‘Yes. And not just the authorities. So …’
‘Does your wife know about this?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But you will tell her?’
‘If and when there’s something to tell.’
‘You truly want me to start down this road? It was over. We can leave it like that. Maybe we should.’
The Fine Art of Invisible Detection Page 33
