by Nick Tanner
There were many emotions that he felt – the primary of which was anger. He usually considered himself to be a level-headed sort of man, a man more used to taking logical steps and making logical decisions rather than being ruled by raw, alcohol infused emotion. It had surprised him deeply at how emotional he had become. Looking back now, in a much calmer state of mind, he was disappointed at his initial reaction to his sacking. It was improper indeed to have been so hideously grovelling, in such a pathetic and whining way and he considered it now to be an insult to his samurai forebears and a shameful act which he now fully regretted. Consequently he was angry at himself. He was also, of course, angry with Watanabe, but this anger was tempered with pity. He knew Watanabe didn’t stand a chance without him. Admittedly it was clear that Watanabe had charisma and charm and some sort of goal in mind, but without Kinjo behind him Kinjo was sure that Watanabe would appear rudderless, idiotic and vulnerable.
Nevertheless he retained a seething anger regarding his former employer - an anger that, despite having worked through his emotions, propelled him recklessly into the clichéd temptation to drown his sorrows in a deluge of alcohol which he was now fully ready to embrace.
The alcohol, though, had helped to loosen his mind. Thoughts that had been previously tangled were bit by bit straightening out. The logical processes were ticking over nicely now – whirring away like the best oiled machine. He took alternate gulps of coffee and whiskey as the pieces began to slot into place. He was thinking about Watanabe, he was predicting what Watanabe would probably do next and he could see it all quite clearly in his mind. Suddenly a broad smile spread across his face. If he read the situation well he could see a neat outcome to all his problems. And all he had to do was to wait and all he had to do was to have one more drink.
10 - In which Hideki Yamada recounts his steps
Friday 31st December 11:30am
After talking to Eri Yamada’s parents Sergeant Mori had made the short journey to Hideki Yamada’s place of work. All of his work colleagues had confirmed that, to their knowledge, he was perfectly happy with his marriage. No-one implied the slightest possibility of a secret office romance or badly hidden personality disorders. He appeared to be a perfectly normal individual, working for a normal company in a normal role in a normal life.
The pattern was to repeat itself for the other people he'd managed to quickly interview that morning. No-one had a bad word to say about her, or him. No light could be shed on their relationship to suggest that there was anything remotely fractious about it. They seemed to be a perfectly happy couple, a bit limited, a bit boring perhaps, but even so, perfectly happy.
Eventually he'd made contact with Deguchi who'd informed him that to date the house-to-house checks for witnesses had turned up nothing what-so-ever and so as a consequence, with no other leads to follow and his head cold dimming any sense of individual drive or motivation, Mori decided to pull in Hideki Yamada as per Sakamoto’s request.
He made his way back to Kamioka on the Keihin Kyuko and re-traced the journey that Yamada would have taken the previous evening. The snow still lay heavy on the streets and on the railway embankments but its crisp, fresh whiteness was gradually being rimmed by a slushy brown hem. He noted the time the train took from central Yokohama to Kamioka and also the walking time up to his house from the station. The walk took in many twists and turns through the narrow residential streets finishing in a steep uphill stretch that flanked the park in which Eri Yamada had been murdered. In all it took about forty minutes – twenty-five walking up from the station, perhaps a little less in more forgiving conditions – his shoes had found it hard to gather purchase on the icy roads.
The brisk walk had warmed him up and he’d broken out in a sweat which together with his cold made him feel dizzy and momentarily weak. He simultaneously gathered his thoughts as well as his energy and approached Yamada’s house. Immediately he was alarmed to notice the absence of the uniformed Junsa who was not standing outside as had been ordered the night before.
‘Who’s on guard outside Yamada’s house?’ he demanded angrily down his mobile to HQ.
‘It should be Shimizu. I’ll just check.’ There was a ruffling of paper and then confirmation.
Mori cut the line and ruffled his hair trying to think quickly of what to do. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out how a guard could take it upon himself to wander off without being replaced. He examined the trail of footprints, relieved that the snow in front on Yamada’s house remained virgin white and untouched. Nonetheless his heart was still beating with an injection of concern. He rang the bell to Yamada’s house and the door was slowly opened by a dishevelled and pale-looking Yamada. He was clearly hung-over.
‘Everything all right, sir?’
‘Fine – well, no not really! I’ve just lost my wife. What do you think?’ he said irritably.
Mori didn’t really know what to say. He merely replied with a sympathetic look. ‘We kept a man on guard outside last night – just for your own safety.’
Yamada looked surprised and then glanced up and down the street. He raised an eyebrow at a sight of all the snow. He wasn’t all that concerned and showed little emotion either way.
‘I need to check a few things and then I’ll be back. You’ve had no communication with the guard?’
‘I didn’t know anyone was there and anyway…’
‘Yes, well, I’ll be back in a minute.’
Mori was still angry as he stepped away from the closing door and went back into the street. At least on the surface there appeared to be no harm done, nonetheless, it was unforgivable that there had been a breach in security.
A minute later Shimizu turned the corner ambling along without a care in the world, clasping his arms around his body in an attempt to keep warm.
‘Where have you been?’ spat out Mori.
Shimizu stood to attention seemingly caught off guard by the attitude of the senior man. ‘I’ve just been to the toilet.’
‘How long have you left your post for?’
‘Two-three minutes, sir?’
Mori looked at the floor in despair.
‘Come on – we’ve got a job to do.’ They returned to Yamada’s house and forty-five minutes later Yamada was safely in custody.
*
The small, windowless interview room was designed precisely to put the accused on the back foot. It was kept artificially bright making it difficult to track the passing of time. There was a mirror - a one way mirror, on the wall to the left, recently installed so that the interrogations could be monitored – in line with international recommendations.
Mori settled himself down in one of the chairs next to Sakamoto and indicated that he was ready to start.
‘Your full name is Yamada Hideki?’ Sakamoto started.
‘Yes,’ Yamada replied.
‘Date of birth?’
‘Showa 28 07 53.’
‘Place of birth?’
‘Fujisawa.’
‘Okay, let’s get straight to the point, then. Where were you last night between eight and nine o’clock,’ demanded Sakamoto.
‘I told you last night. I was coming home from work.’
‘And what time did you leave work?’
‘After seven.’
‘After seven – you can’t be more precise.’
‘No.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
‘Lots of people probably can – Nagai san, Iida san, Miura san… I probably left about quarter past – maybe twenty past. I don’t know.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Sakamoto raising his hands. ‘What train did you catch – the time?’
‘I usually catch the seven thirty three, sometimes the seven forty – JR line, then Keihin Kyuko from Yokohama.’
‘And last night?’
‘I can’t recall.’
‘It’s important that you do recall,’ interrupted Mori. ‘It might just save you!’
‘I don’t know.’ For the fi
rst time Yamada began to sound a little desperate and for a second, it appeared to Mori, he looked imploringly into his eyes.
‘I didn’t have to wait, that’s all I know. I ran down the steps and just managed to catch it. I don’t know which train I got. At the time I didn’t think it was important.’ Yamada ran his hands through his hair and looked down at the table in front of him.
‘And how long does your journey usually take?’
‘Usually about an hour on the trains and then twenty minutes walking up the hill from Kamioka station. It all depends on which train I get.’
‘So you got back home… when?’
‘About nine.’
‘About nine? Before or after?’
‘I don’t know – after?’
‘Surely that’s too late. If you left at seven thirty and arrived home at nine that’s an hour and a half commute. There’s a ten minute gap, isn’t there.’
‘I know. I may have got the seven forty – I guess.’
‘Did you see anyone at Kamioka station – can anyone verify your whereabouts?’
Yamada stared past Sakamoto with a mournful look in his eye. It was difficult to tell if he was thinking or just merely dulled by his hangover and general shock at finding himself in the position that he was. Sakamoto repeated the question.
‘I didn’t see anybody – not really.’
‘Not really?’
‘I mean no. I didn’t see anybody.’
‘You didn’t stop off anywhere – call into a bar or a convenience store?’
‘No.’
‘Fine, fine!’ Sakamoto sat back in his chair clearly pleased at the way the interview was progressing. The vagueness concerning the timings of Yamada’s journey was precisely what he wanted to hear. The existence of an uncertain ten minutes gave him ample time to attack and murder his wife – ample time indeed.
‘So… do you know what time you arrived at Kamioka station?’
‘I don’t know – about eight-thirty, I suppose.’
‘You suppose!’
Sakamoto sat back once again in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. For a minute or two they remained in this position - Sakamoto with his hands behind his head, Yamada staring resolutely at the table. ‘What did you wear yesterday?’ Sakamoto said suddenly, leaning forward.
‘What did I wear?’
‘Answer the question.’
‘You saw for yourself last night.’
‘Humour me!’
‘Well. I wore my usual dark green suit. It was cold so I also had a scarf and my overcoat.’
‘Colour?’
Once again Yamada looked perplexed.
‘Dark grey. Look I don’t understand-’
‘Tie?’
‘What?’
‘Did you wear a tie?’
‘Of course I did?’
‘I didn’t notice you wearing a tie last night.’
‘I took it off.’
‘Right, so… what? You left it on the sideboard or hung it back up on your tie rack – what?’
‘I guess I hung it back up?’
‘And your suit too?’
‘Actually yes. I changed and hung that up. It’s in my closet.’
‘Dark green you say.’
‘Yes.’
‘And the tie?’
‘Also dark green – with a flowery pattern.’
‘What colour flowers?’
‘Yellow.’
Sakamoto looked down at the notes he had been scribbling and flicked back a few pages
‘So you got back home at about 9:00.’
‘I told you that…’
‘I want you to recount your time backwards this time – starting from when you got back home. And give me timings for when you think these events happened. Okay?’
Yamada gave him a quizzical look but relented anyway, ‘I got home about nine. That Samurai drama had just started – the one on NHK, but I only noticed that after I’d changed. I took the usual route home, I think-’
‘You think!’
‘I took the usual route home – it usually takes twenty minutes. I guess I must have left Kamioka station at about twenty to nine, but I can’t be sure. Before that I took the Tokaido line from Tokyo to Yokohama and the Keihin Kyuko to Kamioka. The commute usually takes about an hour. I left work at after seven and probably boarded the Tokaido about half past seven.’
‘What time did you take the Keihin Kyuko from Yokohama?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There’s quite a lot you don’t know, isn’t there?’ said Sakamoto firmly. ‘And this still leaves out about ten minutes. You can’t explain this.’
‘No.’
Sakamoto looked across to Mori with a satisfied grin on his face. Mori had listened intently as Yamada had recounted his journey. It was a common gambit they often used. Liars had a habit of coming up with inconsistencies when they were forced to recount backwards. Not so with Yamada. There were no inconsistencies in terms of his re-telling of his journey. To Mori’s mind this indicated that he was telling the truth. But it was strange that he’d made no attempt to make up the missing ten minutes of time. He did though know that Yamada had left his office at twenty past seven, as had been confirmed by his colleagues that morning.
‘How long does it take from your office to Tokyo station?’ asked Mori.
‘About ten minutes. It depends how fast I walk.’
‘We’ve been looking into your wife’s phone records,’ lied Sakamoto. ‘Do you know who Kubota Ryuhei is?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Your wife made quite a few calls to him.’
‘She is – she was a busy woman.’
‘Even at one-thirty in the morning!’
‘Like I said – she was a busy woman.’
‘She wasn’t having an affair, then?’
For a moment Hideki Yamada flinched and similar to the evening before a slight flash of anger flickered across his tired features.
‘I wouldn’t blame you,’ consoled Sakamoto.
‘What?’
‘I wouldn’t blame you – I mean, if you’d lost it. Quite often in cases like this the woman brings it on herself.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She was having an affair! Isn’t that right? The phone records prove it and we can easily get this Kubota in and get him to confirm his sordid relationship with your wife. Just imagine it. I can. She’s having an affair right under your nose and you knew nothing about it. I can imagine how you’d feel. It would make me feel very angry, very angry indeed – disappointed, betrayed, angry, murderous!’ Sakamoto thumped the table as he uttered these last words.
Yamada visibly jumped.
Mori could spy anger behind his eyes, although he couldn’t determine whether this was aimed at Sakamoto or in agreement with what Sakamoto was saying.
‘That’ll do for now,’ continued Sakamoto. ‘We have Kubota to talk to and then we’ll come back and have another little chat. I’ll let you think.’ He smiled, got to his feet and exited the interview room.
Once out into the corridor Sakamoto turned to Mori. ‘Like I said – guilty,’ he stated firmly.
‘That’s fine, sir, but what’s your evidence?’
‘He has no firm alibi and by his own admission his journey home took longer than it should have, leaving him plenty of time to carry out the crime. All we need to do is find that tie and have it analysed and also check forensics for any trace evidence left at the scene. Simple!’ he said smiling and slapping Mori uncomfortably on the back. ‘When we confront him with the forensics watch him crumble. He’s put up a good act so far, I have to admit.’ And so saying he marched out of the room and into his own office.
11 - In which a night watchman considers
Friday 31st December 11:40am
Kuroki Akira, night-watchman at Nippon Denki had finished his shift at precisely six in the morning, having started at ten the night before. It was not unusual for him to act
ually stare fixedly on the second hand of the clock as it ticked around to the twelve and it would be fair to say that time, as a consequence, inescapably dragged its heels. Come six, or sometimes, irritably a little after six, he’d perform the solemn duty, as he always did, of handing over the main keys to the Estates manager when he started his own day. It had been policy that no one man retain possession of the keys, nor to leave them hanging invitingly on a peg within a convenient office.
