Soul Cage--A Mystery

by Tetsuya Honda

  My heart was pounding so hard my chest hurt.

  I didn’t need to ask. I knew that Tobe was behind it.

  “Akimoto at the building suppliers told me. He thought there was something not quite right about it. Apparently this guy turns up on site, and you can see from the get-go that no way is he a pro. He’s there a couple of weeks, mainly carrying pipes and fittings and shit around the place, driving the dump truck, whatever, then—splat, sayonara baby.”

  I remembered the way Tadaharu Mishima had died. It had been ugly, brutal.

  “It turns out—I got this from Shimatani, the architect—that, surprise, surprise, the poor bastard who did the high dive had debts. Classic mistake: he’d acted as guarantor on a friend’s personal loan. Guy’s name was Nakagawa; Shimatani knew him from this real estate developer where he’d worked in sales. So Shimatani’s like, ‘Never expected to run into you here,’ and Nakagawa makes a quick exit. Whoosh! Gone! Shimatani thought that was odd, so he does a little asking around. One of the managers at the developer said he had to give Nakagawa the boot. He’d found him with his hand in the corporate cookie jar.”

  The skin on the back of my neck broke out in prickly goose bumps and my armpits were drenched with sweat.

  “I don’t know exactly what happened next, but I’m guessing that Nakagawa ended up in hock to loan sharks. It’s exactly the same thing that happened to Kosuke’s dad, right? Up shit creek without a paddle. So they fix him up with a job at Kinoshita and tell him to throw himself off the scaffolding when no one’s watching, then they dress it up as an accident and pocket the insurance money themselves. Officially it goes to Kinoshita, but Nakabayashi’s in on it too, I reckon.”

  “What’s this ‘same thing’ that happened to my dad?”

  Kosuke was standing in the passage just outside the room, holding a plastic bag from the convenience store.

  “Oh, nothing, Kosuke.”

  Kosuke wasn’t going to be fobbed off like that. He ignored me and started peppering Matsumoto with questions.

  “What did you mean about him throwing himself off the scaffolding when no one’s watching?”

  Kosuke grabbed Matsumoto by the shoulders and shook him. The electrician was distraught. “Mean?” he croaked. “Nothing.”

  “Getting fixed up with a Kinoshita job when there was no way out—what was that about? Huh? Tell me.”

  “Stop it, Kosuke,” I said, trying to pull him away.

  Slapping my hands off, he wheeled on me in a fury.

  “Did you know about this, boss?”

  “No,” I eventually stammered.

  “Now that I think about it, you were working for Nakabayashi when my dad died, weren’t you? Was it really an accident, or did my dad get the job at Kinoshita just so he could kill himself too? Did you fucking know, boss? Did you know what he was going to do?”

  I couldn’t say anything. Even when Kosuke grabbed hold of me and started shaking me, I couldn’t utter a word.

  “You fucking answer me! Did you know that my dad had been told to kill himself to clear his stupid debts? You knew, but you didn’t try to stop him?”

  “Kosuke, that’s enough,” Matsumoto pleaded.

  “You said you were my dad’s friend. I don’t think so, man. You just stood to one side and let him die. Or, what, were you in on it? Were you? Huh?”

  “Kosuke,” shouted Matsumoto. “That’s enough.”

  The electrician grabbed Kosuke in a full nelson and pulled him off me.

  “Kosuke, you mustn’t speak like that to Takaoka. Never speak like that to this man. Never, you hear.”

  Kosuke was on his hands and knees on the plywood subfloor. He looked dazed, bewildered.

  “Think about everything Takaoka’s done for you, about how he’s trained you. It’s not his fault. And it wasn’t just him—it was the whole lot of us, we all knew what was going on.”

  I grabbed the electrician by the elbow.

  “Matsumoto, stop it.”

  “No, Ken, let me have my say. You’ve got no idea, kid. Ken here, who’s not even family to you, he made the rounds, visited everyone in the trade. ‘Please look out for the boy,’ he says. ‘Any problems with him, you tell me first. He’s my responsibility, one hundred percent. I’m going to train him up right, so let’s not worry about teething problems.’ This man here’s done a ton of things for you—a ton of things—that few real fathers would do for their own flesh and blood. I won’t stand by and hear you insult Ken. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Kosuke slowly pulled himself to his feet and stumbled out of the house.

  Neither Matsumoto nor I made any move to go after him.

  I went and picked up the shopping bag Kosuke had dropped in the passage. It contained three drinks, a packet of soy-sauce-flavored rice crackers, and a little bag of chocolates. There was a can of Pokka coffee for me, Ito-en green tea for Matsumoto, and a Coke for Kosuke. When we asked Kosuke for “the usual,” that was what he’d get us.

  Matsumoto sighed.

  “Maybe I was too aggressive with the boy.”

  I was hardly in a position to criticize.

  I handed Matsumoto his tea, and the two of us sat down and had a smoke.

  The cigarette had a vile, bitter taste.

  2

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7

  10:40 A.M.

  They were sitting in a diner not far from Mishima’s apartment.

  “Sorry to bother you on your day off,” said Kusaka.

  Mishima gave a jerk of his chin but kept his eyes fixed on the tabletop.

  “Not a problem,” he murmured.

  It was an ordinary working-class diner of the kind you could find anywhere in Tokyo. It served bacon and eggs on toast for breakfast and spaghetti or rice omelet for lunch. Most of the customers came alone and ate with their noses buried in newspapers or manga.

  All three men—Sergeant Satomura was there too—were having bacon and eggs.

  “We talked about Michiko Nakagawa in our last interview. I’d like to ask you a few more questions about her.”

  Kusaka watched Mishima carefully. He couldn’t detect any visible reaction.

  “Michiko’s father, Noboru Nakagawa, died two months ago. He was killed in a fall at one of Kinoshita Construction’s building sites.… Did you know that?”

  Mishima reached for the pack of cigarettes that was sitting on the corner of the table. He lit one with a disposable lighter. His hand was steady.

  “No, I had no idea.”

  That was an important statement.

  Mishima’s father and Michiko Nakagawa’s father had both been killed in accidents on construction sites that belonged to Kinoshita. Mishima had categorically stated that he knew nothing about the circumstances of Nakagawa’s death.

  He has to know.

  Everyone on the task force was convinced of the fact. Whether Mishima was guilty of Takaoka’s murder was another matter, but Kusaka now knew that the boy was happy to perjure himself.

  There’s definitely more to this than meets the eye. I need to be careful.

  “Okay. Now, on another matter. Kenichi Takaoka had a life insurance policy that named you as the beneficiary. Can you tell us anything about that?”

  Kusaka noticed a flicker in Mishima’s eyes this time. It looked like he’d been prepared for questions about Michiko’s father, but the topic of life insurance had caught him off guard.

  “I remember the old man saying something about it.”

  “Did he give you any documentation?”

  Their search of Takaoka’s apartment hadn’t turned up anything insurance related.

  “Uhm. I don’t recall him doing so.”

  Takaoka had taken out both life insurance policies four and a half years ago. According to Kusaka’s calculations, that was roughly a year after Mishima had begun working with him.

  “All right. Now, have you ever heard of a woman called Kimie Naito?”

  Again his eyes darted to one side. This time t
he movement was even more pronounced. Despite Mishima’s denials, Kusaka’s conviction that he knew about Noboru Nakagawa’s death was getting stronger all the time.

  “I’m sorry, Naito who?”

  “Ms. Kimie Naito.”

  Mishima cocked his head. He took a drag on his cigarette, then swiveled in his seat so that he could blow the smoke away from Kusaka and toward the nearby tables.

  “Does she live in Shimoshakuji?”

  “You think you know her?”

  Mishima took another pull on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the ashtray.

  “Not sure. We once did a job at the house of a Mr. Naito. Perhaps his wife’s name is Kimie. I really don’t know.”

  “They lived in Shimoshakuji?”

  “Yeah. It was a big place, so we nicknamed it ‘Chateau Naito’ as a joke.… Or were they called Saito, not Naito? I’m starting to get confused.”

  “How long ago was this job?”

  “Two … maybe three years back. We can check it in Takaoka’s notebook easily enough.”

  The person of interest for Kusaka was a Kimie Naito who lived in Kitasenju in Adachi Ward. Whoever this person in Shimoshakuji, Nerima Ward, was, it definitely wasn’t her.

  Kusaka scrutinized Mishima’s face.

  In response to his first question about Noboru Nakagawa, the young man had coolly denied any knowledge of him. With the life insurance, he had admitted to being aware of the policy but claimed not to know where the documentation was. In response to the question about Kimie Naito, he’d thought hard and dug up a job he’d done for someone with the same name.

  If Mishima was playacting, the guy was quite a performer; otherwise, he’d genuinely not heard of Kimie Naito. Kusaka had the sense that it was the latter. Of course, that was just a supposition.

  “Fine. Feel free to call me anytime at all, if you remember anything.”

  Mishima promised he would and added that he’d have a look at his journal to see if he’d mentioned anything about the Naito job in it. That was a bit of a surprise. Kusaka hadn’t pegged Mishima for a journal-keeping kind of guy.

  * * *

  In the afternoon of the next day, Monday, Kusaka and Satomura went to visit Kinoshita Construction in Todoroki, Setagaya Ward.

  The office was in a modest four-story building surrounded by a low wall. Its reddish-brown exterior looked run down, and from the lived-in feel of the windows and balconies of the upper floors, Kusaka guessed they were used as apartments.

  The Kinoshita office occupied the front part of the first floor.

  Kusaka pushed open a glass door decorated with the company name and came to a counter. There were three people in the room: two women in uniform and a man in a suit. There was a large whiteboard on the right-hand wall. It seemed to be for assigning and scheduling work.

  “Excuse me?”

  “How can I help you?”

  The woman who was seated nearest to the counter got to her feet. She was on the young side and wore glasses.

  “We’re from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. Apologies for dropping in unannounced like this. Is the president here by any chance?”

  The girl bowed, gave a watery smile and, after asking them to please wait a minute, headed for a door on the left side of the room. She knocked and popped her head inside.

  A few seconds later, a fattish man who appeared to be in his midfifties stuck his head around the door.

  “Can I help you?”

  He was frowning but not in a hostile way.

  “Very sorry to barge in on you like this,” began Kusaka politely, displaying his badge. “We’re from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police. We need to ask you a few questions. Is this a good time?”

  “Sure, sure. My name’s Kinoshita. I’m the president of the firm. What do you need to know?”

  “We’d like to ask you some questions about Noboru Nakagawa, who died in a fall a couple of months ago, and Tadaharu Mishima, who died the same way nine years ago.”

  Kinoshita began to look a little uneasy.

  “Uh, I see. Well, why don’t you come right on in?” He gestured for them to come into his office. “Ms. Yashiro?” he asked, turning to the woman who’d announced their arrival. “Would you make us some tea?”

  Kinoshita’s office was big, with one of those old, solidly built partner’s desks and a suite of armchairs in it. The lounge part of the office was decorated with an oil painting of Mount Fuji, while behind the desk hung a framed calligraphy scroll with four hand-painted ideograms. “Carry through your original idea,” it said. The only bad feature was the windows. The next building over was so near that they admitted almost no natural light.

  After the ritual exchange of name cards, Kinoshita indicated for them to sit down, and Ms. Yashiro brought in the tea. She caught Kusaka’s eye when he thanked her. For a moment she looked as if she was about to say something, but she just bowed and slipped out of the room.

  Frowning and sipping his tea, Kinoshita spoke without being prompted.

  “Those incidents you mentioned … I should say that the police conducted a full investigation both times and deemed them to be accidents.”

  “We’re aware of that, sir. We’re actually here today to ask you some questions about events after the accidents took place.”

  “After?”

  Kusaka nodded, his eyes fixed on Kinoshita.

  “Kinoshita Construction received a payout of twelve million yen for a life insurance policy it had on Tadaharu Mishima.”

  “Oh, that’s quite—”

  Kinoshita was obviously about to launch into an explanation that insuring workers was no more than standard practice. Kusaka held up his palm to silence him.

  “Yes, I know. The construction business being what it is, on-site accidents are a fact of life, and insurance payouts help compensate and support the bereaved families.”

  Kinoshita was looking at the edge of the coffee table in an effort to avoid eye contact.

  “Something I’m wondering about,” Kusaka went on breezily. “When he died, Tadaharu Mishima had debts of nearly ten million yen. Did you know?”

  Kinoshita swallowed nervously.

  “Yes, the police told me.”

  “And what about Noboru Nakagawa? Did you hear anything about him having money troubles?”

  An anxious sigh.

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “No? Even though the accident only occurred a couple of months back. Can you think of anyone here who might know?”

  Kinoshita raised his head in surprise, taking care to avoid eye contact.

  “Is there somebody we could talk to here who’s better informed than you?”

  Kinoshita’s eyes were darting frantically this way and that. The man was a soft touch compared to the bastards over at Nakabayashi.

  “You’re the company president. Do you personally handle welfare and benefits for your staff?”

  “No.”

  He replied more from reflex than intention.

  “So who does?”

  Kinoshita made incoherent spluttering sounds.

  “Seventeen people work at this company,” said Kusaka. “Twelve of them are construction workers who work on site. Ms. Yashiro, the lady who served us this tea—does she handle health and welfare benefits?

  “No, she—”

  “All right, what about the second woman? Or the man in the suit at the back of the room?”

  Kusaka lapsed into silence. Kinoshita contemplated the expanse of the empty coffee table. He seemed to be thinking.

  Kusaka noticed a shogi board about fifteen centimeters high on the floor in the corner of the room behind the big desk. He imagined that Kinoshita was reviewing his options like a shogi player mulling his next move.

  “It’s my wife who handles insurance,” was his next gambit.

  “Is she here?”

  “No, she’s out.”

  “When do you expect her back?”

  “She won�
�t be in again today.”

  “Where’s she gone? Is she out of town?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Mr. Kinoshita?”

  Kinoshita was looking increasingly distraught. He thrust a hand into his inside jacket pocket, rifled around, then clucked his tongue fretfully when he couldn’t find what he was looking for.

  “Excuse me,” he stammered.

  He got to his feet and went to his desk to fetch a pack of cigarettes. There was only one left. After sticking it between his lips, Kinoshita crumpled the cream-colored packet in his fist. He lit the cigarette with a desktop lighter and breathed out a thick cloud of smoke.

  “Where were we? Uhm, oh yes, insurance.… Insurance is handled by the general affairs department, by Mr. Tobe.”

  “Is that the gentleman next door?”

  “No, Tobe’s not in today.”

  “Taking the day off?”

  Kinoshita brusquely shook his head.

  “He only handles insurance for us, nothing else, so he has his own … uhm … unique style of working.”

  “When do you expect him in the office?”

  “Gosh. Well, probably not today.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “I really can’t say.”

  Kinoshita insisted that he was unable to get in touch with Tobe and had no idea when he would come in, either. Although Kusaka found it hard to believe, he decided not to press him any further and asked for Tobe’s details instead.

  His full name was Makio Tobe, he was forty-one, and he lived in Yutenji, Meguro Ward.

  * * *

  Kusaka and Satomura left the offices of Kinoshita Construction with a promise to return.

  “Why didn’t you put the squeeze on him, Lieutenant?” Satomura asked in a low, tense voice, looking intently at Kusaka.

  “I don’t think Tobe’s been in the office for more than a week,” Kusaka replied.

  “What? How come?”

  “I took a good look at the magnetic scheduling board on the way out,” continued Kusaka. “There were three nameplates in the ‘Currently in the Office’ section: Yashiro, Kawakami, and Niki. The Niki nameplate was red like the Yashiro one, so I’m guessing red is the color for female employees and Niki is the name of the second woman we saw. Kawakami’s got to be the fellow in the suit. I couldn’t see a nameplate for President Kinoshita. Most of the other employees’ nameplates were in boxes representing different building sites. There was one nameplate right at the edge of the board, outside the grid entirely. The name on it was Ito. I’m guessing that the edges of the board are for people on leave or away on vacation. Did you notice Tobe’s nameplate?”