by Nick Tanner
As soon as she had witnessed him sobbing on the tatami matting, caught within his own self-inflicted prison, she considered that her moment might have come.
It was what she had been waiting for and what she was hoping for. With a movement swifter than he could credit her with she removed her hand from under the pillow and jabbed him painfully in the eye with a well selected dildo. As he fell back onto the matting in agony she rolled over and reaching to the side she grabbed hold of the more weighty, and therefore more damaging plant pot, and smashed it over his head. She did this a further two more times to ensure, emphatically, that he could not rise and finally she handcuffed him wrist to ankle. The totality of her actions came to no more than forty seconds but it left Fujiwara unconscious and bleeding on the floor.
She wasted no further time, dressed as quickly as she could, gathered her bags along with money that she’d been gifted by her clients and ran as quick as she could, through the door to freedom.
14 - In which Mori considers the process of corroborated suspicion
Friday 31st December 1:30pm
For Mori, the last hour would not be one that he would later treasure. Usually at the point of arrest he experienced an adrenaline rush, a veritable high based on the fact that the evidence had drawn him to a pinnacle of deduction - the final conclusion; but not so in the case of Eri Yamada. The minimal ‘excitement’ of having a suspect in the cells had dissolved quite rapidly when Sakamoto had proceeded with his questioning. It was a scene he was all too used to, but at the back of his mind he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable impression that he was looking at a completely innocent man added to which he couldn’t work out why Sakamoto was so determined to be entirely one-tracked.
He was relieved, therefore, to flee the questioning and to grab a bite to eat. Lunch for Mori was typically nothing much more than a couple of onigiri (rice balls) and an apple but today he felt he needed something a little more substantial and something that lay a little further up the culinary scale. It wasn’t so much a full, invigorating meal that he was after but more an escape from the current investigation in general and Inspector Sakamoto in particular.
It had been quite normal for him to be lead by the hand (rather than the nose) when it came to selecting places to eat. Inspector Saito seemed to possess an unending list of places he recommended - little back street noodle shops that he’d just discovered or fantastic emporiums of gastronomy that simply had to be savoured. Without Saito on hand to proffer a suggestion he was quite often at a loss. He’d even been known to consider a MacDonald’s. Inspector Saito would have died in shock.
Consequently he sat in a Japanese curry house that Saito had once introduced him to, had ordered a Katsu-kare (Pork cutlet & curry sauce on rice) and was attempting to enjoy the break in proceedings. He’d blown his nose three times before his meal arrived and as he waited, and blew, he’d read through his newspaper.
Unlike many of his colleagues he was never particularly eager to pounce onto the first, fresh news clipping that was pressed under his nose concerning whatever the present investigation was, but with time on his hands he found himself glancing down the journalist’s description of the case so far.
In truth not much had been released to the press – name of senior investigating officer, name of victim, location of crime but that notwithstanding the article continued liberally on its way, suggesting improbable and misleading theories surrounding possible reasons behind the unfortunate murder, none of which Mori felt had any grounding in truth. Probably with copious prompting from Sakamoto, a great deal of suspicion had been pointed in direction of the unfortunate Hideki Yamada.
In Mori’s experience usually a case surrounded the development of corroborated suspicion. A clue was found, its relevance pursued, a suspect targeted, an alibi checked, a motive weighed and a response to questioning interpreted as to whether or not it tipped the balance of suspicion. It was all a matter of accumulation with each piece of the jigsaw fitting neatly together to create a picture of unassailable guilt leading to a formal charge being brought.
That was the usual pattern and on most occasions Mori would proceed with earnest. Not so with this particular case despite the fact that it nearly fitted the pattern…
A suspect had been targeted, his alibi checked and a response to questioning interpreted with the balance of suspicion tipping quite clearly towards guilt – at least as far as Inspector Sakamoto was concerned. Two things concerned Mori, though. The sequence had not been followed – what had been the initial clue and more importantly what was the motive?
The irony that hadn’t failed to strike him was that his distaste for Sakamoto’s approach and consequently his desire to work once again with Inspector Saito couldn’t hide the fact that it was quite usually Inspector Saito’s approach to shun the heap-of-evidence approach and leap to mismatched conclusions. Mori had seldom, if ever, observed Saito finger through a detailed forensic report or rifle through a file of dutifully transcribed statements especially in the case of the latter where Saito quite rigidly stuck to his belief that since he found it difficult to remember what he was doing a week ago how on earth could he rely on anyone else to recall events in their life with greater, reliable, clarity.
No, Saito seldom worked that way. If anything the opposite was Saito’s preferred MO. He usually opted for hunch and supposition.
He flicked through the rest of the paper, glanced at his watch – 1:55 and decided it was time he got moving. The Katsu-Kare dish had been wolfed down – it usually took five minutes to prepare and less time to eat.
As he walked out of the restaurant he overheard a couple of women exclaiming their shock at the recent murder case.
‘Who could have done such a thing,’ one of them said.
‘Probably the husband,’ the other proclaimed with deadly conviction.
15 - In which Fujiwara begins to count the cost
Friday 31st December 2:00pm
Rarely had Kenta Fujiwara been bettered and even rarer still by a whore, yet the uncontrollable rage that whipped around his body merely seeped ineffectively into the tatami matting in a similar manner to the blood that dripped from his head.
The hard blows had knocked him out cold and he’d been unconscious for at least half an hour. As he came too he immediately sensed the growing lump on his head and spotted his congealed blood on the tatami. He groaned weakly and tried to roll over onto his back and instantly experienced the deep throbbing pain of a spreading headache as well as the depressing realisation that his wrist was manacled to his ankle.
A fit of vomiting followed. He’d had plenty of alcohol but precious little food and so it was only the thick yellow digestive juices of his stomach that he vomited up. He only managed to bring this fit to a stop by finding a resting position in which his body felt more comfortable although he still experienced an unsettling, cavernous nausea. He quickly found that even the slightest movement on his part caused the vomiting to start up again.
He felt completely helpless and equally incapable of calling for help. His groans were easily smothered by the silent air.
To add to his growing discomfort he felt an intense chill entwine around him and he began to shake violently. He fumbled for the remote, located it and then pointed it at the heater and turned it up to the maximum after which he dragged a blanket off the futon. Even this seemingly simple act drained him of all his energy. He covered himself in the blanket and felt the overpowering desire to fall asleep but some inner sense of survival though, told him that he had to ward against this. He was right! His brain was swelling. If he fell asleep he would probably have never woken up again. He fumbled once more, this time in the low, wooden bedside cabinet for the key to the handcuffs, which he instinctively knew had to be there, found it and released himself from their grip and then wrapping the blanket around himself managed to make it over to the window where the freezing air, leaking through the ill-fitting window frames finally managed to bring him around.
&n
bsp; After a further half hour he eventually regained some sense of energy and resolve, staggered back to his room, took some pain-killers and slumped into his chair still suffering the debilitating effects of the concussion. He head still ached, he still felt sick and his whole body felt drained and limp. He barely had enough energy to evaluate the situation.
But evaluate it he did.
The immediate problem was that his best girl had gone. She would of course need to be found and punished but in the meantime he needed a replacement. The place was on its knees as it was, without having one of its main assets slipping away to freedom. The course of action was simple. He had to find Rumi fast and he had to find a replacement even faster.
Finding Rumi might prove to be a problem, finding a new girl might prove to be even harder.
He felt the pain in his head throb again and foolishly decided to slug a measure of whiskey despite the obvious idiocy in doing so. He didn't care. He was in no mood to play the safe game.
He made a few calls to mobilise his team, those who he could rely on anyway, in order for them to start the hunt for Rumi and then he sat back once again in his chair. With some sort of action in motion he felt a little better and allowed himself to relax and close his eyes. He soon wished he hadn’t. A spiralling black and white dizziness imprinted itself onto his cornea and once more he felt sick. This time he stumbled into his bathroom, washed his face, submerging his whole head into the cold water and then gently dried himself. Still feeling out of sorts he resumed his place behind his desk before his eyes settled on the story in the paper, the one proclaiming the affair of Hiro Watanabe. In his confused and befuddled mind an improbable plan began to take shape – a simple plan that involved abduction, rape and servitude.
The usual plan!
He just needed to recover first, though.
16 - In which a slut counts her money
Friday 31st December 3:45pm
Junko Iida considered her day to have been a wholly profitable one, made effortless by the surprise instructions that she’d been given not four hours previously. Of course she’d already been paid handsomely by the press for her kiss-and-tell story - a payment which she’d deemed reasonable enough compensation for the small matter of having her ‘reputation’ laid bare for all to see.
Her mother, though, would perhaps never get over the shame.
She’d left the cosy warmth of the coffee shop and ventured out into the bitter cold of the day not daring to look inside the leather attaché case which she'd kept securely tucked under her arm. ‘Go straight home,’ he’d instructed. 'Don't hang around, don't wait to count it. It'll all be there!' Why she’d trusted him, she didn’t know, but then again he had more to lose by not effectively muzzling her and it was clear that he needed to snuff out at source her colourful re-telling of their love-making. So she was confident that the sum that he’d mentioned lay snugly within. On returning home she had dutifully followed her instructions to the letter, wondering from where it was that this sudden sense of duty had unexpectedly sprung from – perhaps there was a positive side to all her immoral dealings, and so she had put the press right by making a public 'about turn' stating that it was Kinjo that she’d had the affair with, not Watanabe - a simple case of mistaken identity. It rankled with her that she was now going to look like, not only the worst kind of slut, but an idiot as well. The leather case however, now firmly in her possession did mean that notoriety and fabrication could reap returns just as profitable as a journalist’s dirty cheque.
One unfortunate downside to her recent foray into intrigue and infamy was that her employment had been swiftly terminated. She’d been lectured in no uncertain terms that she had brought shame upon the hotel – the reporting on her sexploits had been quite explicit, after all. She hadn’t been too upset about this turn of events. She’d never really enjoyed working in the hotel anyway and she was confident that other work would soon flood in, modelling for example. To support this claim she’d already been offered work at the Millennium Massage Salon. Not that she was sure what that meant. The man on the phone, his voice slurred and insistent, had said he would like to meet up. He’d mentioned a whole range of work that she could do. It didn’t sound a million miles away from what she was already doing – that was until her sacking.
Her erstwhile employment as a receptionist-cum-bellhop in a downtown Tokyo business hotel had unintentionally forced her into the company of a great many men, mainly Japanese men, mainly older Japanese men, but it had only been recently that she’d had the presence of mind to work this position to her own advantage. She’d noted that a majority of these men were predictable in their habits and a lot of them had been ripe for a little gentle manipulation. The scenario had now become well practiced. In either serving drinks or attending to room service she’d found that these men sought a trouble-free ego trip. It was what they fully appreciated, it was what she was easily able to offer and it was what she was happy to receive back in turn. It was so easy to slip into a colossal game of over-indulgent flirting - it was also so easy to slip into something a little more revealing. Happily, she felt, she had plenty to reveal and happily the men were prepared to pay for the pleasure.
Watanabe had been no different and consequently since December the opportunities in her life had gently begun to burgeon.
Of course she'd recognised him as soon as he’d crossed the threshold of the hotel back in early December and of course she had understood that the meeting he'd conducted must have been one of great significance. She wasn’t stupid! Why else select a back-water hotel such as the one she worked in? What she hadn’t known was the identity of the second man. This had only become known to her when Kinjo san had inexplicably warned her not to reveal his name.
‘The fact that Hatoyama san and Watanabe san have met must remain a secret,' he’d warned.
Idiot!
If Kinjo hadn’t approached her then, she would never have known. If Kinjo hadn’t come onto her then she would never have been in a position to get closer to Watanabe and reap the rewards that she now had in her hands.
Of course she’d caught Watanabe looking at her chest, both when she had first entered his hotel room and during their initial conversations, but weren’t all men like that? She welcomed the looks and the flattery. It was all part of the game and formed an important part in her ability to judge her powers of attraction and suggestion. She hadn’t minded when Watanabe had eyed her up. She knew he was ready. From then on in it had been like knocking over a row of Mah-jong tiles.
The whole episode had excited her – this was the exercise of real power and to support her position she then had two aces in her hand – an illicit affair and an illicit meeting. Life couldn’t have been easier, and all she’d had to do was lie on her back and pretend to enjoy it!
The clock ticked round to three forty-five. She was sat on her sofa counting her money. In total she had counted fifteen million Japanese yen (£120,000) which was the exact amount of money she had been promised.
Silence really could be golden.
As she studied the packs of money in front of her, her eyes widened in child-like excitement - she’d never seen so much money in one place before.
Suddenly she felt uneasy. Suddenly whilst greedily passing her hands through the pile of money the reality of the game she was playing began to hit home - and up to now it had been a game. A delicious game, but a game all the same. Somehow now she saw it all quite differently. Quickly she tied up the money and shoved it back in the leather briefcase with her heart beating faster than she’d ever known.
Five minutes later she felt much better and much calmer. She checked the clock above her TV noting that the appointment time was nearly upon her – time to switch to a new career within the Millennium Massage Salon. As if to order the door bell rang, she skipped into the bedroom and pushed the leather bag into the futon cupboard and then turned to answer the door.
17 - In which a house is searched and guilt is momentarily elusive<
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Friday 31st December 4:00pm
Back in Kamioka Mori entered the home of Eri and Hideki Yamada. If anything it appeared to be even colder than it had the night before but this time he was relieved to be able to keep on his overcoat and gloves as he stiffly commenced his search. His nose was now red-raw from constant blowing and there appeared to be no let up in its interminable streaming. He took a deep sigh and as ever he tried to look at the apartment holistically to get a better sense of the people involved, for surely it was the personality of the main protagonists that lay at the heart of the matter. He was destined to be disappointed. The apartment would tell him exactly what he already knew. There was little by way of personality on display at all.
In total the whole house had five rooms – a kitchen, a main room, one large and one small tatami bedroom and a bathroom. It was a tidy place with a limited amount of furniture – enough to create a sense of homeliness but not enough to generate clutter. The main room could neither be said to capture the classic Japanese minimalism nor was it replete with excess luxury being caught in the uncomfortable middle ground of modern functionality. There were minimal ornaments on the sideboard and shelving units that encased the TV, perhaps testament of a couple who didn’t indulge in endless travel or at least if they did they didn’t treat themselves to the purchase of pointless local tat. The items in the room appeared to be entirely practical – there was no extravagance here at all. It simply pointed yet again to a wholly unremarkable couple. He could imagine them having a quite unexceptional, mechanical life. Sleep, work, TV, Sleep, work… It made him feel quite sad.
