by Nick Tanner
Four heartbreaking eyes stared dolefully back. It was an awful question to ask anybody and it was painfully clear they had no-one or no event in mind. They had no need to speak.
Mori blew his nose, not for the first time, and then tried again. 'Was your daughter happily married Mrs Tsuchida?'
'As far as I know.'
'She didn't confide in you at all? No little secrets?'
'No secrets, no. I'm sure they were quite happily married.' Mrs Tsuchida's tone suggested that even if there were any minor indiscretions she didn't appreciate being asked. 'I'm quite sure they were happy!' she repeated again for emphasis. Mori looked across to Mr Tsuchida who stared passively back - his thick, black-rimmed spectacles making his eyes look unusually blank and glassy. Mrs Tsuchida, it appeared, spoke for both of them and was quite clearly the ruler of the roost.
'Do you know why they didn't have any children? Do you know of any specific reason?'
'None that we know of.'
It was becoming a tiring refrain.
'No issues in their sexual relationship?'
'Look! I don't think that is any of your business! And it certainly wasn’t any of ours.' It was Mr Tsuchida who had unexpectedly stepped in, glancing nervously at his wife as he did so.
'My apologies,' bowed Mori. 'But I do need to ask the question, however impertinent or painful it might be. I just need to be certain that there were no problems in their marriage, that's all.'
'My wife's already told you. As far as we are concerned they were a very happy, hard-working couple.'
‘Okay, okay, I understand.' Mori thought quickly again about other angles that may have led to problems or motives. 'Was your daughter a wealthy woman? Had she inherited any money at all, from you from-’
‘No she wasn’t,’ came the firm reply, this time from Mrs Tsuchida. ‘She was a good girl, she worked hard. She was a good wife-’
‘And you have absolutely no idea why such a good, hardworking wife and daughter might have been so brutally murdered?’ interrupted Mori, losing his patience more quickly than he would have imagined. He blew his nose once more.
‘No, no idea at all.’
'And Mr Yamada... There's nothing you can tell us about him?'
'No nothing. Not really.'
Mori sighed and felt as empty handed as he had the evening before.
7 - In which a scandal is unveiled
Friday 31st December 9:30am
‘You don’t look so good Kinjo. Anything the matter? Are you ill?’ Hiro Watanabe slapped his number two on the back, in a manner soaked in over-indulgent bonne-homme.
Kinjo looked flushed – more so than usual.
'I'm fine, fine. Just a cold coming on, I think,’ he mumbled from within his briefcase.
Watanabe looked around the group. 'Where's Ito san?'
'She phoned in earlier… said she was ill… sent her apologies.' Kinjo took out a wad of papers which he placed on the table.
'Oh really? She seemed okay yesterday. Anything serious?'
'Chicken Pox she said. Doctor's put her in quarantine... said she'd send the sick note through to us...'
But Watanabe was no longer listening. He didn’t like Ito anyway. 'Okay, then. We're all here,' he said looking around the group once more and pulling his chair up to the table. He was however, grateful that the banal chit-chat had once again helped him to shift into a more confident and focussed direction. 'Let's get on, this is an important meeting and the Ryozo are due here in a few minutes.’
A minor discussion took place reminding all of the overall strategy and ensuring that all points of view were taken in. Watanabe was satisfied at what he was hearing and beamed in pleasure at his colleagues around him. He could feel everything coming together nicely.
Nothing, it seemed, could stop him now – not even a strangled, dead women in Kamioka – or at least, that is what he believed.
Ten minutes later The Ryozo group, headed by their Chairman Matsuhiro Shimizu, filed wordlessly into the room and sat stern-faced around the table. Equally as stern-faced sat Watanabe and his faction chiefs. This was no convivial meeting between firm friends and mature allies but the first tentative forays into un-mapped territory. It appeared that no ground would be gained or given easily. The stakes were too high for either side to allow events to get away from them, but both sides knew that their future, quite possibly, might lie together.
Each man had a glass of water to hand, sitting on a lace doily and a few rice crackers had been placed in the middle of the table. Without exception these meagre refreshments remained untouched until that is the leaders lead by example, after which the rest of the men gradually followed suit, took hesitant sips of their water and munched surreptitiously on the rice crackers. There was still a great deal of strain in the room with neither side wanting to stray too far from strict protocol. Watanabe glanced across to Kinjo who looked nervously back, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. Watanabe had more important matters on his mind than the lack of composure in his colleague and so, for the moment, let this brief lapse in equanimity slide. Later he would regret not picking up on these tell-tale signs a lot earlier – something was not quite right.
‘I think we all know the reason why we are here,’ began Watanabe clearly. ‘The time has come for us to forge a new Japan – together. One based on truth, openness and honesty.’
There were murmurs of agreement around the table. Shimizu however, pursed his lips and looked doubtful. If his look was designed to throw Watanabe off his stride, it didn’t. ‘I’m sure that we can agree on some common goals and common ground,’ continued Watanabe. ‘I’m sure we can stand united together and shift Japanese politics into a new and more effective era. Now-,’ he said, reaching to his left where his hand rested on a folder of documents and from which he pulled out a wad of typed papers and distributed them around the group. ‘I have some proposals here that my team and I have been working on. I’d like you to read through them and tell me what you think.’
The collected group proceeded to read quietly through the documents that they'd been given and the only sound that could be heard within the room was the turning of the pages and the occasional cough or sniff. Watanabe examined everyone carefully, on the look-out for signs of agreement or dissention. He had no need to read the document himself – after all he and Kinjo had spent hours putting it together – well Kinjo had anyway! Despite his analysis he could perceive nothing of consequence in the inscrutable faces of the Ryozo.
Eventually after ten minutes or so it was apparent that most of the men around the table had completed their reading as one by one they sat back with their hands clasped waiting for their colleagues. Some took sips of their water, others looked around the room or at each other. The atmosphere was still tense.
‘Of course, we need further time to read through your ideas more thoroughly before we commit to anything,’ said an unsmiling Shimizu directly.
‘Of course,’ agreed Watanabe. ‘That is only to be expected. The purpose here was only to lay on the table the broad areas for discussion. There will be a lot of details that will need ironing out. I’m sure of that.’
‘There is one thing that we would like to add-’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Watanabe warmly. ‘Anything at all.’
The thunderclap burst out of a clear blue sky.
‘We want you to resign as Chairman of your faction.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘We demand that you resign!’
Watanabe attempted to remain calm. He couldn’t for the life of him understand where this had come from. What on earth were they thinking of to ask such a thing? ‘It’s out of the question,’ he said simply, hoping to avoid a stutter in his voice.
‘Then there will be no deal.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Either you go or we do.’
‘I don’t understand – on what grounds?’
‘We believe you to be a liability and scandals l
ike this hardly help.’ As he spoke Shimizu slapped down one of the many national tabloids ‘Nikkan Gendai’ onto the table. In huge script on the front page was the statement, ‘Watanabe sex fiend’ beneath which was a huge picture of Watanabe next to one of a scantily clad young woman.
‘I don’t understand,’ spluttered Watanabe again. ‘What are these fabricated lies?’
‘You deny this?’
‘Of course I do. Who do you take me for? I’m a happily married man. And this paper – it’s a left-wing tabloid. They'd stop at nothing to undermine me, even if it means printing lies. The picture there is a complete invention.’ He looked around his group for some support, but none came, not even from Kinjo, who had turned a pale shade of green.
‘Look! I think in the circumstances we need to adjourn this meeting until I’ve got to the bottom of this… this nonsense!’ said Watanabe slapping the newspaper.
Matsuhiro Shimizu stared coolly back. ‘I agree. Until this is resolved it would be foolish for us to enter into any public agreement with you at this time. I’m sure you understand.’
‘I understand.’ Watanabe gritted his teeth and ushered out the men who not fifteen minutes before had entered the room. Once again his political ambitions appeared to be lying in tatters on the floor around him.
He dismissed the wider team and only Kinjo remained to field his anger.
‘Damn that slut!’ shouted Watanabe kicking the wall. ‘I should have suspected that something was wrong. She was far too eager – far too ready to push herself onto me.’
His mind quickly flashed through the series of events, seeking meaning – or blame.
It had been Kinjo who had introduced them. It had been Kinjo who had pointed him in her direction, or her in his direction - he didn’t know which now. One phrase stuck in his mind – a pivotal phrase that had him panting like an idiot.
‘She gives excellent head,’ Kinjo had lustily explained. Watanabe had been in no mind to refuse. He had few principles and even fewer scruples.
Whatever his own failings Watanabe concluded that he had been placed in this position because of one man – and one man only! His mind was working overtime now. When he was cornered, as he quite often was, he had a tendency to lash out. He was quite incapable of attributing culpability to himself or taking responsibility for his own actions. Without doubt the man to blame was Kinjo!
Also within the dark recesses of his mind - in the secluded, distrustful and paranoid places where he dared not often tread but often found himself alone and wandering – and wondering, the thought stabbed at him that Kinjo might well have engineered this whole honey-trap deliberately for his own political ends and ambitions.
He looked at Kinjo who was sat blank faced on one of the office’s comfy chairs. He had said nothing, explained nothing – had shown no emotion what-so-ever, except perhaps a snivelling disregard for the fortunes of his leader. Watanabe’s thoughts bounded from one to another leaping effortlessly like a mountain goat. It was Kinjo who had suggested the link up with the Ryozo - they weren’t Watanabe’s natural partners. It was Kinjo who had negotiated the meeting, established the connections and smoothed the path. But perhaps this was all for himself. Perhaps this was all a simple coup by his erstwhile close companion.
Watanabe looked upon his colleague with different eyes.
‘You are responsible Kinjo!’ Watanabe shouted, pointing an accusatory finger in Kinjo’s direction. ‘You said that the hotel was discreet and you said the woman was safe! You said a link with the Ryozo would be beneficial! I blame you and no-one else!'
‘I can explain.’
‘No Kinjo – I don’t think you can!'
‘Gomenasai.’ Kinjo fell to the floor.
Watanabe paced around the room. Kinjo remained wretched, his face ill-looking, reduced to a shade of pearl, glistening with moisture and appearing as if he was about to throw up.
‘You’re fired!’ said Watanabe suddenly.
‘W-what?’
‘You heard! Get out of my sight. I never want to see you again.’
8 - In which we experience a drunken interlude, the delights of pachinko and the prostitutes dilemma
Friday 31st December 9:45am
Kenta Fujiwara drained what was left of his whiskey and slumped back into his chair. He was blind drunk, as he had been for most of the previous night. He derived little pleasure from it. His head was thumping and his office seemed to have the unnerving habit of billowing back and forth in front of him. He spat into a spittoon that he kept nearby his desk, topped up his glass, downed it in one, topped it up again and then threw the now empty whiskey bottle against the wall. It simply thudded loudly and then dropped to the carpet without smashing. He couldn’t even get that right!
It would be quite fair to suggest that his numerous dilemmas had forced him to slip involuntarily into alcoholism but he couldn’t admit to it. He was completely unaware that he had come to depend more and more on the drink to see him through his day.
And one prime cause of his dilemma was that he was becoming less and less confident that the faint trickle of money that was currently dribbling into his coffers would soon turn into a free-flowing stream even once the real pressure had begun to tell on all those who persisted in their late payments. He desperately needed the cash and was anxious to call in a few favours. The trouble was that the few friends that he knew had suddenly deserted him.
He took out his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and dialled a number but it remained unanswered and he was in no mind to leave a message. He pondered on a few other people he could phone, tapping his mobile in the palm of his hand as he did so, but then thought against it, so he switched off his phone and returned it back to his pocket.
It wasn’t quite what he’d imagined when he’d first signed up.
Fujiwara openly recognised that in terms of the hierarchy he was still well down the pecking order, in fact he was just one level above the shop floor - and was grateful for that meagre fact, but even so life had become a little wearisome. Not even the gorgeous creatures who routinely adorned his office and paid him no little sexual attention, attention that his repulsive features as a rule would not warrant – not even they could distract him from the underlying feeling that all was not well in his life.
The pressure was beginning to tell.
He recalled his spell on the shop floor which if anything, at the time, had seemed even worse than his current predicament. It had all been a world away from his romanticised dreams that had prompted him to volunteer in the first place. In the numbing reality the foot soldiers of the organisation were forced to handle almost everything that was needed to be done: driving, manning telephones, patrolling, cleaning, enforcing – every dirty and degrading menial job that could be conceived of and due to the working hours, sometimes from six in the morning to midnight, and there being virtually no salary, he’d only survived, like every other shop floor worker, through a system of patronage and gifts, where the organisation supplied what they could at their own discretion. It had taken a long time to be accepted and it wasn’t unusual for new, voluntary starters to remain in their positions for over a decade. It had been tough and uncompromisingly boring work. At the time there was little else to do but to knuckle down and hope to be admitted more formally onto the organisation’s first rung of the hierarchy but even then, after being moved up in rank, the salary was barely above the minimum wage.
It would be wrong to suggest that Fujiwara was seriously questioning his career decisions but he was certainly becoming tired of the position he had found himself in.
And he was certainly becoming stressed! Not that he would articulate how he felt in such a feeble way. After all he was Yakuza!
He looked across to a small sake cup artfully displayed on the shelf opposite and above him. This cup was enormously special to him - a cup that had been used during his adoption ceremony known as the sakazuki-goto - the sakazuki being the small sake cup on the shelf and which was handed
over to him after the ceremony. In the ceremony itself, which had its origins in Shinto ritual, he had taken turns with his Oyabun, father, to drink from the cup, an act which symbolised a physical contract between the two. It had been a cementation of his elevation from shop floor onto the first rung. The cup had to be returned or destroyed in case of his expulsion. He had experienced nothing but exaltation on that day.
Much like the rest of Japanese society, his Oyabun placed a strong emphasis on loyalty and the importance of seniority. All members of the organisation were expected to obey without question, sacrificing themselves without hesitation should the need arise, acting as teppodama (bullets) to be fired, whenever and wherever by their boss. To foster this kind of blind loyalty his Oyabun offered him protection and advice on how to maintain and run his organisation and in addition he provided entertainment and gifts. In return he expected complete and utter servitude from Fujiwara and the payment of regular tribute money. While Fujiwara sometimes struggled for a decent existence his boss by comparison lived luxuriously off the tribute money. This siphoning of funds from the lower ranking members meant that his Oyabun no longer actually had to commit any crimes at all and instead could lead an indolent and lavish lifestyle owning expensive foreign cars and elegant houses in fashionable residential areas.
