While he waited, he plugged in the television and slid in the duplicate videotape of the Park Residences CCTV from Hawk Security. Grainy footage appeared on screen, split into eight boxes like a comic strip. Except for the concierge in the lobby reading his newspaper, each of the different angles showed stillness throughout the building.
The tape started at 23:59 on February 12, 2011, running as far as 23:59 on the fourteenth. As Iwata fast-forwarded through the tape, a flurry of life began to swarm around the building over the course of the day. When the timer read 02:11 on the fourteenth, Iwata pressed play. The building was still again, the concierge was at his desk.
One minute later, in the bottom right-hand box, the car park gate opened. A figure on a bicycle glided in, head down—without hesitation. He left the bike in a blind spot, then calmly walked to the elevator and got in, pressing the button for the top floor. His arms hung at his side, his head was lowered. He did not move as the elevator made its ascent. The doors slid open and the man stepped out. Then nothing.
Iwata jumped ahead to 02:31—the elevator doors opened at the top floor, and the man stepped back inside. His demeanor had not changed. His posture was the same. He seemed calm. When the elevator reached the car park, he walked unhurriedly back to the bicycle. Then he was gone. There was nothing after that until three hours later when the first few residents started to leave the building.
The tape cut out.
Iwata frowned at the black screen, and rubbed his lips with a closed fist. He rewound the tape to the start and watched the morning before Mina’s death unfold. He watched it several times and made notes of each of the movements of the residents up until Inspector Akashi’s arrival at 08:06. Nothing seemed out of place. On the fourth viewing, Iwata let it play out.
Akashi arrived on foot. He was tall but with a stooped gait. He walked languidly. It was the first time Iwata had seen him. Akashi’s head was completely shaven, but he had the face of a seasoned leading man—Ahn Sung-ki, perhaps. Masculine, well-built features, pleasing to the eye. It was the sort of face that could endorse quality whiskey or expensive Swiss watches.
Akashi shook out his umbrella and gave a winsome smile as he showed his badge to the concierge. He entered the elevator and leafed through some papers as he ascended. Iwata watched with fascination. He had followed this man’s footprints for so long that now it was hard to remember anything else. What an odd thing, then, to be able to see those footprints being made.
At 08:07, Hideo Akashi got out on Mina Fong’s floor and disappeared out of the frame.
Iwata pressed fast-forward. The timer showed 08:50 when Akashi appeared again in the elevator. He was talking on his phone this time. On the ground floor, he thanked the concierge and left by the main entrance, pausing to glance up at the sky. He was saying something to himself, cursing the rain perhaps.
Iwata again hit fast-forward, stopping at 16:22 of that same day when Akashi returned. The night concierge waved him through. Akashi thanked him cheerfully as he adjusted his bag, which was clearly very heavy. He had no umbrella now. He took the elevator back up to Mina Fong’s floor, getting out at 16:24.
Iwata jumped ahead. At 17:11, the elevator doors slid open and Akashi stepped in. He stopped the doors from closing several times with his foot as he carried on a conversation, though Iwata could not see Mina Fong in shot. He was smiling, nodding, and squinting in the last, desperate rays of the sun—blindingly bright. Iwata could not hear what Akashi was saying but it was evident that he spoke well. After less than a minute, Akashi bowed and the doors slid shut.
The last time anyone had seen Mina Fong alive.
“What the hell were you discussing with her, Inspector?” Iwata asked.
Akashi checked his nails on the way down, the smile slowly fading from his face. In the lobby, he waved good-bye to the concierge and was gone forever too.
Iwata closed his eyes, trying to get his time lines straight.
“Three hours later, you killed yourself,” he whispered.
Iwata rewound the scene several times and shook his head. The absurd thought that the video had somehow been doctored crossed his mind. That was next to impossible, but Iwata also knew something wasn’t right here.
* * *
Half an hour later, Iwata’s taxi was winding through the Sham Shui Po district. This was another Hong Kong—dirty metallic shutters and folded businesses. The farther in they went, the more run-down it got. Ripped awnings were filthy with grime. Trucks unloaded carcasses and blue crates to pitiable restaurants. Above them, broken neon signs were green and brown with rust. Steam hissed out of windows carrying the thick warmth of laundry.
Iwata got out of the taxi in front of a crumbling apartment block. The walls were crisscrossed with long-dead air-conditioning units. TVs blared, cooking hissed, residents argued. The lobby stank of urine. In the half-dark, cockroaches scuttled away from Iwata’s footsteps.
Cockroaches. Cockroaches. Kill the cockroaches.
Iwata thought about the dead family. He thought about Ezawa, limping away. Iwata had found him. And now he too was dead. All of them trodden underfoot.
The wind blew, the grass bent.
By the time Iwata reached the sixteenth floor, his legs were shaking and he was finding it hard to breathe. Knocking on Susan Cheung’s door, he heard crying inside. A thin, pale woman in an oversized vest opened the door. It was hard to tell her age. It was not hard to read her expression.
She held a cigarette between her fingers and a half-eaten apple in the other hand. She regarded Iwata without fear, only weariness.
“Police?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Well, yes but—”
“I’ve paid up this month.”
She shut the door sharply.
“This is about Jennifer,” he shouted.
At least ten seconds passed and the door opened a crack. An eye blinked.
“Jennifer who?”
“Jennifer Fong.”
Cheung chewed her lips.
“Talk.”
“My name is Kosuke Iwata, and I’m from Tokyo Metropolitan Police. I know Jennifer was your friend.”
“So?”
“I believe there’s a possibility that whoever killed Mina Fong was also involved in Jennifer’s death.”
Cheung bit deeply into her apple, then opened the door a little wider.
“Jennifer Fong killed herself.” She spoke with her mouth full.
“And if she didn’t?”
Cheung took a drag and shrugged.
“Okay, Mr. Tokyo. I’ll give you ten minutes. I’m tired.”
Iwata followed her into a shabby studio apartment. A little boy was crying on the floor. An elderly woman sat motionless in her chair, making soothing noises while looking out of the window.
The boy stopped crying to look at Iwata in amazement. His upper lip was crusted over with snot and he had deep red rings around his eyes. Piles of dirty clothes had built up and jagged towers of dishes filled the small sink. Red and black dresses hung in a plastic wardrobe next to a mattress on the floor.
Cheung placed a stool by the mattress for Iwata, and she sat down cross-legged. She smoked and ate her apple slowly.
“Ask your questions, policeman. You’re on the clock.”
“You were close to Jennifer?”
“I loved Jen. She loved me.”
“Around 2005, was she seeing anyone?”
“Yes.”
The little boy lost interest in Iwata and climbed into his grandmother’s lap. He began to curl his own hair.
“Who?”
“I don’t know specifics. I just saw her once or twice with an older guy. She introduced him, but we never really spoke about it or anything like that.”
“He was Japanese?”
“That’s right.”
“What was his name?”
“Ikuo. I only remember it because I thought it was a weird name. Didn’t suit the guy.”
&n
bsp; Iwata’s face didn’t flinch but his chest contracted and his heart began to soar. He recalled the note in Tsunemasa Kaneshiro’s calendar:
MEET I.
“Why weird? You think it was fake?”
“It didn’t suit him. He was so intimidating. He only ever spoke to me once when Jen introduced him, but I don’t know … it’s like he just looked through me. Doing what I do, I meet a lot of assholes or lonely guys putting up a front. But he was something else.”
“He was a big man?”
“Sure, huge, but it was more than that. He just had this hardness to him. Jen either didn’t mind it, or didn’t see it.”
“Can you describe him?”
Cheung clucked her tongue as though she had just been told by her mother to pick up her clothes from the floor.
“Tall, like I say. Prominent eyebrows. Not much hair. Big eyes, like he hadn’t slept in a long time. It’s hard to remember him clearly. It sounds strange, but it’s more the expression that I recall. Just so absent.”
Iwata took out the clipping of Igarashi and, trying not to hope, held it up.
“No. Definitely not him. He looks too bookish, too nice.”
“Susan, did you see much of Jen in the months before her death? Both Kelly Lund and Neil Markham said she fell off the map during that time.”
Cheung’s phone bleeped. She snapped it open, immediately scowled, and snapped it shut.
“I didn’t see her much around that time, no. That was probably down to me as much as her. But Kelly Lund? Look, honestly, I don’t think she ever really knew Jen. Or at least, Jen would never have opened up to her.”
“Why?”
“Just my opinion. Kelly is too much of a good girl. Always was. You can’t trust purity. I wouldn’t listen to what she has to say about this.”
Iwata raised his eyebrows.
“Kelly was of the opinion that Jen didn’t have a boyfriend.”
Cheung stubbed out her cigarette on a plastic baby plate.
“Like I said, she’s full of shit.”
“When did you last see Jen, do you remember?”
“She was talking to Charlie Choi—big-time dealer on the night scene here.”
“Where?”
“I can’t remember exactly, but he supplies a few of the hotels on Portland Street and the Wan Chai area. It’d be somewhere around there. Anyway, it struck me as strange that Jen would be talking to a man like that. But then she was with that Japanese guy, Ikuo, so I didn’t think too much of it. I assumed he knew Charlie and just wanted to pick up a little blow.”
“How did she seem at that time? Scared? Anxious?”
“Happy. Like she was having fun.”
Cheung’s phone bleeped again. Swearing, she stood and went through her wardrobe. She sniffed a pink cocktail dress and then took it out.
“You gotta get going, Mr. Tokyo. Work, work, work.”
“Where can I find Charlie Choi?”
“Five thousand is a fair price.”
“You said you loved Jen.”
“And I did. But she’s dead and I’m not. Five thousand. You think those things are free?” Susan Cheung pointed to the sleeping child in her mother’s lap.
“I don’t have that much on me.”
“I’ll walk you to the ATM; I need to pick up cigarettes anyway.”
“How will I recognize him?”
“Charlie? Trust me, you’ll know it’s him.”
CHAPTER 22: MISADVENTURE
IWATA WALKED BETWEEN EXPATS, STREET hawkers, and club promoters until he cut into the main artery of Lan Kwai Fong. It was 11 P.M. The grubby, narrow streets were clad in scaffolding that glowed with pink neon. Puddles were gray with stray cement. Bags of rubbish were piled high, glimmering like giant blackberries. Adverts for beer and cigarettes filled all the available space between the construction and bars.
Wet footsteps rang out behind Iwata. He turned to see a man in a leather jacket, no taller than four feet tall, approaching with his hand outstretched.
“Speak English?”
Iwata nodded.
“Charlie Choi?”
The man held his arms out—the one and only. Choi had a winning smile. His features were even and well taken care of. His hair was carefully tousled. His clothes bore no labels, but their expense was clear.
He led them to a corner bar called Jaguar, and the bouncer nodded respectfully. Inside, the walls were faux black fur and the décor was tacky night safari. Choi took them to the VIP booth at the back. The table was a wooden Maasai shield and the seats were made of zebra skin. Photographs of Choi posing with various celebrities hung on the wall in marula wood frames.
A waitress in a Tarzan-style loincloth appeared and greeted them as though it were a pleasure for her.
“Charlie! What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey?” Choi offered.
Iwata nodded.
“Whiskey for the gentleman and just San Pellegrino for me. I’m working.”
Tarzanette winked and left them to it.
Charlie Choi held his smile, though Iwata could tell he was uncomfortable.
“So. You’re Japanese?”
“That’s right.”
“And Susie is a friend of yours?”
“Well, I was a friend of Jennifer. That’s how I knew Susie.”
Choi nodded at the mention of Jennifer, though Iwata could tell it meant nothing to him.
“First time in Lan Kwai Fong?”
“First time.”
“Well, then.” He gestured around him. “Welcome to my office. Hawkers, hookers, ravers, dealers, gangsters—they’re all here, man. The shitterati.”
The drinks arrived and Choi watched Iwata as he downed his whiskey in one.
“So what are you after? Up? Down?”
Iwata took out the photograph from Jennifer’s yearbook and pointed to her young, smiling face.
“Fuck,” Choi hissed, looking over his shoulder. “You police?”
“This is personal. I’ll pay you.”
“I don’t sell that.”
“Look at her face.” Iwata leaned forward, his jaw hardening. “You’ve seen that face.”
Choi glanced down for a moment.
“Maybe, yeah. I dunno, man. I meet a lot of people.”
Iwata put HK$10,000 on the bill Tarzanette had left.
“I’d prefer it if you just accepted the money, Charlie. But there are other options.”
“All right, relax.” Choi glanced down at the money. “I think I saw her once or twice. But I can’t tell you shit. I don’t even know her name.”
“But you do know the name Ikuo.”
Choi nodded, suddenly interested.
“That was her guy? Yeah, I remember him, he was fucking weird. You know, I was wondering if anyone would ever come asking after him. And here you are.”
Iwata took out the clipping with Igarashi’s photo.
“Him?”
Choi shook his head.
“Similar build, but that’s definitely not him. He said he was a businessman. I didn’t believe him, though. He looked more like a gangster. Big, mean-looking bastard. I figured he was yakuza, maybe on the run. Anyway, you could see it in his fucking face, man. Like he’d seen a world of shit. He wore straight clothes—suits and loafers and all. But it was obvious that there was no way a guy like that sits at a desk and draws a steady salary.”
“Anything else?”
“Now that I think about it, he did have some kind of a scar on the palm of his hand. His left, I think. It felt weird to the touch.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know, man. A scar. Maybe it looked like a burn.”
Iwata thought about this.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Fucked if I know. We’re talking five years ago. But the last time I saw him, he was alone. That I do remember.”
“And he was buying?”
“LSD. He was only ever in the market for tripping. Never i
nterested in anything more family-friendly.”
“How did you meet? He just approached you?”
Choi snorted.
“Fuck that, man. That’s not how I do business. A guy like me stands out from the others, you dig? No, no, no. To dance with Charlie Choi, you gotta have a dance card.”
Iwata called Tarzanette over and ordered another whiskey.
“So, how did he get your dance card?”
“I don’t know, man. I never usually do. Just like you’re sitting here now. My guess would be that he knew my guy in Tokyo.”
“Who’s your guy in Tokyo?”
“Listen to my words, pal. I don’t fucking know this kind of stuff. That’s the point.”
The whiskey arrived and Iwata tried not to sink it in one.
“How would I find him?”
Charlie Choi sipped his water to disguise his irritation.
“Yeah, sure. Let me just get my address book. You think I’m stupid?”
“Charlie, listen to me, I have no interest in your setup.”
“So what’s your beef?”
“My beef is my beef. I’m just looking for Ikuo. You can help me.”
“I don’t sell that, I told you.”
Iwata leaned forward and spoke through gritted teeth.
“Do you want to see photographs of dead children? Because that’s what I’m working with here, Charlie. Or maybe you want me to resort to threats? One way or another, you’re going to tell me what you know. I’m not going away.”
Choi mulled over these words and nibbled a small thumbnail.
“Kids?”
“I can’t talk details with you. But if there’s a chance your guy in Tokyo might know where Ikuo is, you need to tell me.”
“If that’s even his real name.”
“If that’s even his real name,” Iwata echoed.
A group of young women walked in and called Choi’s name. His reflex grin was empty. When they were gone, he spoke.
“All right, look. You’ll find my Tokyo associate on 2CHAN. It’s a text board. User name is Coco La Croix. Leave a post and he’ll either get back to you, or he won’t. That’s the best I can do.”
Choi reached across and slipped the ten thousand into his inside pocket.
“Drinks are on the house.” Choi grinned, transaction complete. “Enjoy Hong Kong.”
Blue Light Yokohama Page 20
