by Ashton, Hugh
“What do you mean? I sent you a message yesterday and you replied, saying that you understood and you and your people would be here today.”
“Yes, and it said 6 o’clock. You also said evening. If you don’t believe me, check the sent messages folder on your phone.”
Sharpe pulled out his mobile and pushed buttons. Holy shit, Kurokawa was right. He’d messed up his message and written the Japanese characters for PM instead of AM. What an idiot.
“I see,” he said, chastened. “Can you come here now? I think there’s a lot of explaining that needs to be done.”
“I’m on my way. I’ve called for a car on the other line, and we’ll be here as soon as we can. I’ll find out the answers to my questions when I see you. In the meantime, hand the phone back to the gentleman who’s taking care of you, and sit tight.”
Sharpe did as he was requested, and watched with amusement as Kurokawa barked orders down the phone.
As the police officer returned the phone to its cradle, he bowed deeply and then turned to face Sharpe.
“Coffee?” he asked with an ingratiating smile.
“Yes, please. That’s very kind of you.”
A shout down the corridor through the opened door for the coffee. “I am sorry that we might have been a little rough with you. We had no idea …”
“Not your fault,” replied Sharpe. “Of course you couldn’t be expected to know these things.”
The other relaxed a little. Down the corridor, Sharpe could hear the tinkle of crockery and the sound of coffee being made.
Sharpe’s would-be interrogator was obviously aching to find out what was going on, but Sharpe guessed that Kurokawa had told him to keep his mouth shut and not to ask too many questions.
Along with the kitchen sounds, Sharpe could hear other noises, which sounded as though a group of men was being brought in against their will, shouting and cursing. Tomiko’s gangsters? Sharpe wondered to himself. He strained his ears, but it seemed as though the Japanese had an impenetrable accent.
The policeman noticed Sharpe’s attention and also cocked an ear to listen. “Koreans,” he said.
Well that explained why Sharpe couldn’t understand them, and it pretty much confirmed that these were Tomiko’s men.
There was a welcome jingle of cups, and a young policeman arrived with two cups and saucers on a tray, together with some of the ubiquitous coffee whitener in tiny plastic containers and a couple of sachets of sugar. He carefully placed the coffee in front of Sharpe as if he were performing some part of the tea ceremony. He placed the other cup in front of Sharpe’s interrogator. Sharpe noticed that it contained Japanese green tea, not coffee.
“After you,” said the senior policeman when Sharpe had thanked the youngster, who looked as though he was just out of high school.
Sharpe sipped the lukewarm instant coffee. “Delicious coffee,” he said, taking another sip of the vile brew. The youngster smiled and withdrew, bowing.
“May I leave you until the Tokyo people get here?” the senior police officer asked Sharpe. “You’ll be comfortable?”
“This is fine,” Sharpe assured him. Actually, it was fine. It certainly didn’t appear that he was being treated as a prisoner, and that was OK by him.
“Feel free to use the phone,” he was invited.
“Thank you,” privately vowing not to use it at all. The odds were that all conversations were recorded, and he wasn’t going to leave anything behind that might conceivably be turned into evidence against him at some time in the future. He trusted Kurokawa’s good intentions, but only so far. They could easily be overruled by those above him.
The door closed, and he was left alone in the room. Time to catch up on some sleep – it seemed as though he’d been awake for hours, and hadn’t gone to bed at all the previous night. Idly he wondered how he’d managed all-night music and drinking sessions when he was younger. It wasn’t just lack of sleep that made him tired, he guessed. The emotional strain of the confrontation with Jon had probably had its effect, he reasoned. On that note, he dozed off, to be rudely awakened what seemed like hours later by someone shaking his shoulder.
-o-
“Mr Sharpe,” said Kurokawa. “Time to wake up and face the world.”
Sharpe rubbed his eyes and struggled to focus. He looked at his watch and realised that he’d been asleep for less than an hour.
“What the hell was the point of sending me that message in Japanese?” asked Kurokawa. “What a cockup. You’re a lucky bastard, you know.”
“Don’t tell me. I can’t believe I was that stupid. Why the hell wasn’t your phone answering? I tried several times and I couldn’t even leave a message on the voicemail.”
“The battery had run flat on my phone,” Kurokawa confessed. “I was charging the phone but hadn’t turned it on to connect to the network. I really don’t know about the voicemail, though. Not sure what end the problem was at – maybe my end, maybe yours. I got your text message as soon as I turned the phone on, and made all the arrangements for this evening.”
“All right, sorry. I really was lucky that there was a police car nearby. I was sure you’d sent it there, though. Lucky that the fishermen were there as well, I suppose. It gives me the creeps to realise I was facing that lunatic without your people in place to back me up. All the time I was coming down here to Enoshima, and while I was talking with Jon, the thing that stopped me from running away was the thought that you and your people were nearby.”
“The snipers were meant to start moving in about midday. I would never have expected a meeting at this time of the morning. I’d have expected him to prefer the dark.”
“Maybe he wanted to be able to see clearly if anyone was following him, or to give a clear view to Tomiko’s thugs? If anything happened to him, they’d have been able to come running. Which they did, of course.”
“Yes, it sounds from the little that I have heard that you were very lucky indeed that the car reached you before the gang members did.”
“Did the police arrest any of them?”
“For what? They hadn’t done anything wrong. There’s no way that they could have been arrested or held on any charges.”
“Anyway, thank you for coming down so quickly,” said Sharpe. “I really freaked out when the police car came by and they’d never heard of you.” He shivered.
“I really need to know exactly what happened,” said Kurokawa. “We have a dead man on our hands, and he is, or rather he was, a member of the British Embassy staff, which means that there are some diplomatic issues involved. I think we can rely on Barclay to sort out most of the unpleasant aspects of this matter connected with the embassy, but it’s vitally important that we know everything. I don’t want any comeback on this from anywhere. My government, the British government, Campbell’s relatives, whoever. I want this completely closed as soon as possible before there’s any chance at all of the thing escalating.”
“He’s dead, then?” There hadn’t really been any doubt in his mind that Jon Campbell would ever survive, but he had to ask.
“He was in shock when the fishermen pulled him out of the water. He died in their boat. Apparently he was bleeding like a stuck pig. He must have hit his head on the way down when you pushed him over the side.”
“Actually, that’s not at all what happened,” Sharpe said. He proceeded to start an account of the way that he and Jon had met and talked.
“Leave out what he told you for now,” said Kurokawa. “Right now, I’m much more interested in what actually happened. Then we’ll take the back-bearings on the whys and wherefores.” Sharpe went into some detail on how Jon had pulled the knife and how he’d found the wooden sword and used it. “So where’s this wooden sword now?” asked Kurokawa.
“I’ve no idea,” replied Sharpe. It was the honest truth. He had absolutely no idea of having left the stick anywhere – he supposed he must have dropped it at some time, but had no idea when.
“If that’s the murder
weapon, we have to have it available.”
Sharpe looked at him in horror. “Did you just say ‘murder’? I’m a bloody murderer now, am I?”
“Calm down, it’s a figure of speech. If you were ever to be brought to trial on this, which I can pretty much assure you isn’t going to happen, the charge almost certainly wouldn’t be murder. The police probably wouldn’t even hold you on the charge of abandoning a body if the facts are made clear.”
“Some sort of comfort,” Sharpe agreed. He was never quite sure how this crime of abandoning a body ever came to be on the Japanese books. He assumed it was used as a catch-all if the police were reasonably sure that the suspect had killed the victim, but hadn’t enough evidence to convict or indict on the murder charge.
“Calm down. I’m sure we can make sure that there is absolutely no fallout on this. It was self-defence, and there’s no way that anyone’s going to call it any differently by the time I’ve finished. But they are going to need the stick, if only for form’s sake.” He opened the door and called for the policeman who’d been with Sharpe earlier, Shimamura.
“Where’s the weapon?” he asked. “Mr Sharpe here has just told me that he used a wooden sword against the dead man,” (Sharpe was relieved to note that Kurokawa didn’t use the word “murdered” and had used the honorific -san to refer to him, implying that he wasn’t a suspect) “and didn’t push him over the edge as the fishermen reported.”
“We didn’t pick it up, sir,” confessed Shimamura. “No-one mentioned it, so we thought it wasn’t necessary.”
Kurokawa shook his head. “Mr Sharpe was probably holding it or had just dropped it, at any rate, when your people turned up. Did no-one really notice it?”
Shimamura bowed in apology. “Please allow me,” he said, and picked up the phone. Sharpe couldn’t make out exactly who he was talking to at first, but he worked out it was the driver of the patrol car which had picked him up. He was glad he wasn’t that driver. Shimamura, having had his backside kicked by Kurokawa, was now taking it out on his underlings. And, Sharpe had no doubt, the driver would now take it out on his partner.
“There really seems to be no need to bother yourself with the death of the other man any further.” Kurokawa, having established a tactical advantage with the non-discovery of Sharpe’s weapon, was moving in for the kill. “I think it’s fairly clear to me what happened, and there’s no need to take it any further on your side.” Sharpe noticed how Kurokawa had avoided any mention of Jon Campbell’s name.
“The dead man was a foreigner. I think we should at least fill in the proper forms and so on. Sir,” replied Shimamura, trying to regain some sort of standing.
“Not necessary,” said Kurokawa. “These things are better handled by Tokyo, rather than the provinces, don’t you agree?”
Sharpe actually felt a little sorry for Shimamura, but he had to admire Kurokawa’s handling of the situation, which definitely seemed to be moving to his advantage, if body language was anything to go by.
“So that’s all out of the way,” Kurokawa said, dusting his hands as if he’d just finished a strenuous job. Shimamura seemed to be slightly less than convinced by this conclusion, but he kept any doubts to himself.
“Thank you, Shimamura,” said Kurokawa. It was a clear dismissal of the provincial by the city slicker, and Shimamura obviously took it as such, bowing out (literally) with a bad grace.
“So, where is the wonderful gadget now?” asked Kurokawa, when he and Sharpe were alone together.
“What do you mean? Jon’s got it … had it, rather.”
“How do you mean?”
“I packed everything up in a rucksack, and passed it to Jon.”
“Everything?”
“The original disc that Katsuyama gave to me, a USB stick that Vishal prepared to make it into a turnkey system, a binder with all the instructions that Vishal and I could think of to make it work, and the hardware – the DSP array that Katsuyama made up.”
“Yes, I saw the rucksack. Those idiots in the patrol car picked it up, but left the stick or sword or whatever it was. Typical. Couldn’t find their own backside with both hands and a flashlight. But the rucksack was empty.”
“Yes, I was going to explain that. Jon searched me and the rucksack for recording devices before he took the things out of the rucksack and stuffed them in his coat pockets.”
“Ah.” Kurokawa called out for Shimamura, who entered, looking more than a little browbeaten.
“Did you find anything in the dead man’s pockets?” he asked.
“Please wait a moment.” He shouted down the corridor. Couldn’t they install some sort of system for summoning people? Sharpe asked himself. Mind you, Japanese people seemed to do a lot of shouting at any time. And when you got to the police or the military, it was probably obligatory at all times. Anyway, it seemed to work on this occasion. A few minutes later, the same young policeman who had brought Sharpe’s coffee earlier now entered with another tray. This time, instead of coffee, it held a miscellaneous collection of objects – keys, a handkerchief, a knife sheath, and other things, all neatly labelled. Sharpe examined the selection a little more closely.
“Here you are,” pointing to something on the tray. “This is the USB stick I gave him.
Kurokawa looked at the label. “Left hand outer coat pocket. Was he left-handed?”
Sharpe closed his eyes, trying to remember. “No, but he had his knife in his right pocket. He must have stuffed these things into the pocket on the other side.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, I’m sure of that. The disc and the hardware in a separate box went into the same pocket. Long loose leather coat.” He closed his eyes again. “There was a flap over the pocket, but the pocket was too small to hold the box, so the box was sticking out of the pocket a bit. The flap didn’t cover it.” He re-opened his eyes.
“Well, it’s not there now. Or rather, the things weren’t there when they searched his pockets, which means they weren’t in his pockets when they found the body.”
“Maybe they fell out into the boat when they pulled him out of the water?”
“It’s a thought,” Kurokawa admitted. “Shimamura, get that boat searched.” More of the same shouting down the hall procedure. “Thank you. That will be all for now.” No love was lost as Shimamura made his way out of the room, pointedly closing the door behind him.
“So, what else did Campbell tell you?” Kurokawa settled himself into the chair.
“Not an awful lot, I’m afraid. Well, not a lot that made a lot of sense.” He explained how Jon had told him that the photos he had found in Katsuyama’s wallet had been passed by Kowalski to Tomiko Katsuyama.
“But that doesn’t explain how they found their way to Katsuyama,” Kurokawa pointed out. “We had him pegged as leaving the country the evening that the body was found at Shinjuku station.”
Sharpe looked at him curiously. “You know that for a fact?”
“Yes. Don’t ask. And we are also pretty certain that he went back home to say good-bye to her before he took off for Vietnam.” Sharpe didn’t ask, but still marvelled at the exact extent of Kurokawa’s powers. They seemed to be extensive.
“Did anyone else leave Japan at that time? Someone connected with all this, I mean?”
“That is something we will have to work on. I am pretty sure that’s not the case, though.”
“Or they could simply have been posted to him? But that seems a little silly when the original digital files could have been e-mailed.”
“Assuming the original digital files were still in existence, or at least available for transmission, that is. We have to assume that Kowalski died the day after the burglary. You told me Kim gave you the key to the station locker that evening. That means he must have been killed and disposed of before then.”
“The night he did the burglary, then? Some time early in the morning?”
“Probably. That’s the ‘when’ part of it all. What about the �
�who’ and the ‘why’? Any ideas?” asked Kurokawa.
“I was told Kowalski was working for someone and wasn’t doing this as a freelance job. If he came back and reported empty-handed, the person who’d hired him to do the job would be pissed-off enough to dispose of him, if he was that sort of person. And then send the photos to Katsuyama just to let him know that whoever we’re talking about had you under observation. Just a friendly warning.”
“Agreed – sounds reasonable at any rate.”
“By the way, I was told that your late boss ordered the burglary.”
Kurokawa stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“I’m serious that I was told that, yes. It’s a load of crap, quite frankly. There would be much easier ways for you people to get hold of the Katsuyama technology than getting Al to burgle my flat, surely?”
“I can guess who told you that fairy story. And I can also guess that it was the same person who hired Al to do the job on your flat.”
“And the same person who killed him when he failed to deliver the goods. He as good as admitted all of these things.”
“Oh, did he? Surprising how many of these psychos seem to want to show off when they feel the end is in sight. And who was responsible for the head in the locker? The same person?”
“He said not. He said that he was responsible for the killing, but not for the garbage disposal. That seems like one of Tomiko’s little jokes. He passed Kowalski’s body to the Kims, and that was the result.”
Kurokawa nodded thoughtfully. “Can’t have British diplomats scurrying round the place at night disposing of dead bodies. Wouldn’t be cricket, would it?” There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” yelled Kurokawa. Sharpe mentally massaged his eardrums. Did they all have to shout all the time?
“There’s a foreigner who wants to see you, sir,” a young police officer said to Kurokawa.
“Show him in, then.”
Sharpe was puzzled. Who on earth was going to be coming to see Kurokawa at this time in the morning?
-o-
“Sorry to take so long,” said Tim Barclay to Kurokawa as he entered the room, stripping off his trench coat. “I started as soon as I got your message, but it took me hours to get down here. Bloody trains had stopped. Some silly bugger had thrown himself under a train at the next station. Selfish bastard. Good morning, Ken,” turning to Sharpe. “I hear things have been happening.”
