by Nick Tanner
Not even the presentation of a falsely mocked-up affidavit from the fictitious Kubota testifying to a secret and steamy affair, and the real existence of semen in his wife’s body, had swayed Yamada from his position of self-proclaimed innocence and ignorance of his wife’s affair. As the screws turned without the expected result – a confession, so it was that the pressure grew on the team in exact and opposite proportion to the degree of blame that Sakamoto himself would accrue for the lack of progress. Either way it was a position that didn’t sit well with Mori.
He looked once more at the rising steam and condensation and did his best to try, once again, to switch off. It wasn’t long before he soon felt that the heat of the bath was too much. Already his skin had turned to a light shade of pink so he eased himself out of the water, stepped out of the bath and took a cool shower. Five minutes later he had dried himself off and was back in the living room just in time to see his mother bringing through a large plate of tempura and a dish of various sashimi was already on the table.
Sometimes it was just great to be home – to have your dinner served to you accompanied by an expensive bottle of sake. He needed his independence but the home comforts were appreciated when he took the time out to enjoy them.
‘So? Are you working on anything interesting?’ Mr Mori topped up his son’s glass for the umpteenth time.
Mori looked up noting a slight shake in his father’s hand as he poured the drink. He worried about the weight of the bottle and wished that the one he’d bought had been smaller. Next time he’d get two smaller ones rather than one large one. He also wondered how much he wanted to discuss the case. He preferred not to. His father had a habit of offering his own opinion and it was something he could really do without.
‘A murder in Kamioka,’ he replied hoping his tone of voice would deter his father from asking further questions.
‘Now come on O-to-san you shouldn’t be bothering Keita with questions about his work,’ chided Mrs Mori.
‘I was just asking – no harm.’
‘No, it’s okay. We’ve picked up the husband, so it should all be tied up quite quickly.’
‘Oh how awful.’ Mrs Mori put her hand to her mouth.
‘What? That we’ll tie it up quickly!’
‘No, I mean the husband. Fancy killing his own wife!’
‘Yes, well, it’s not unusual I’m afraid,' said Mori glumly. 'In ninety-nine percent of cases the murderer is usually someone close to the victim and husbands pretty much top that list.’ He drained his glass and his father immediately topped him up.
‘I’m more interested in Ren. How is she? You haven’t mentioned her all evening,’ asked Mrs Mori.
‘Yes, she’s fine. She’s away at the moment – on secondment down in Osaka.’
‘Oh really! For how long?’
‘Two months in total. She’ll be there for another three weeks.’
‘Will we be hearing wedding bells any time soon?’ asked his father grinning like a cheeky schoolboy.
‘Don’t crowd him O-to-san. He’s only just met the girl! Don’t listen to him, Keita,’ she added turning to her son.
‘We’ve no plans,’ mumbled Mori.
‘She’s a lovely girl. You should bring her round more often.’ Mrs Mori collected up the finished dishes. ‘Now do you want some dessert?’
Mori nodded and took another sip of his sake. It was doing wonders for his head-cold but he didn't want to drink too much.
‘How was the woman murdered?’ asked Mr Mori returning once more to the serious topic.
‘Strangled.’
‘Really. What with his bare hands? I don’t know how you could do that. You’d have to be pretty strong, wouldn’t you? Not sure I could do that myself. Not that I’ve had a mind to. Even in our darkest moments.’
‘What? You’ve had dark moments?’ Mori laughed.
Mr Mori smiled at his son. ‘Of course! She’s very demanding your mother. You should know that. Still…’ He looked at his hands and considered whether or not he had the strength if not the inclination.
Mori noticed again that his father's right hand slightly shook. He also thought about his father’s idle musings. It was true that you needed to be fairly strong. Of course in the case a ligature had been used, but even so, it still took some doing. Yamada didn’t strike him as the sort of man with strength in his arms. He looked a bit of a lightweight.
The conversation soon turned to more mundane matters mainly concerning the doings of his sister and his nephew. He felt guilty that he’d not had much to say to her over the past few years. There was no real reason for this. He just hadn’t had the time. His parents usually kept him up to speed with whatever news there was.
They all soon sat back and watched the traditional New Year’s Eve national singing competition in silence. Mr Mori quickly fell asleep and then excused himself to go to bed early. He usually turned in around nine thirty. Mori and his mother chatted some more.
‘He doesn’t seem too bad,’ said Mori referring to his father.
‘He’s been steady.’
‘He didn’t mention the numbers – he usually does.’
‘It’s probably because they’ve been quite steady and staying low. The last round of chemo-therapy seemed to do the trick. The Parkinson’s is better as you will have noticed.’
‘Yes – but I did notice him shake a bit when he was pouring the sake.’
‘Let’s talk about something more interesting. What’s happening with you and Ren?’
Mori gave his mother a despairing look. She was as bad as his father.
‘There’s nothing more to say, really.’
‘Have you met her parents?’
‘No. No I haven’t.’
‘And do they know you are living together?’
‘I suspect not. And anyway we aren’t living together. I just stay over at her apartment sometimes. It’s convenient.’
‘Well, so long as you are happy, I’m pleased for you, but remember you don’t want her neighbours gossiping about you both. The sooner you make it formal the better. You know that don’t you.’
‘It’s not the seventies now mother. Things have moved on a bit.’
‘Well, don’t you be so sure. You should know better than me that it only takes a few malicious phone calls or two and all sorts of damage can be done.’
‘Yes, well…’ Mori finished off his tea and placed his cup back on the table.
They chatted some more about nothing in particular and then at twelve o’clock wished each other a happy new year. The television was showing clips of various temples, shrouded in snow, encircled by tall pines with snow gently falling and the deep, resonant sound of the temple bell ringing out one hundred and eight times. For Mori, hearing the sombre, slow ringing of the bells was a restful, peaceful scene.
For the present though he still had his cold to worry about and so he took some cold medicine, Chinese in origin that his mother swore by. Before he turned in she insisted on giving him a foot massage – a particularly painful one, deliberately so. ‘It’ll help with your cold,’ she’d explained. She wasn’t far wrong. The pain his mother inflicted on his foot completely outweighed any discomfort in his head and nose.
He eventually hit the pillow just after twelve fifteen.
20 - In which Sergeant Mori partakes in the traditional New Year’s day festivities
Saturday 1st January 6:43am
As one of the most famous shrines in Kamakura, Tsurugaoka Hachimangu typically drew around two million people during the first three days of New Year and the Mori family were part of that two million as they executed their usual new year’s ritual. Of course this meant battling with the jam-packed Yokosuka Line and the slow stumble down the thronging streets that lead to the Shrine. It took Mori and his mother and father almost a full-hour to get to there after getting off the train. At any other time it would have taken them a brisk fifteen minute walk. Like almost everyone else he bought an arrow-like Hamaya (a go
od-luck amulet made of bamboo and feather) and also a red Daruma - a symbol of perseverance and good luck, which made them a popular purchase at this time of year. They bowed at the shrine and then meandered through the side stalls that sprung up to accompany the festivities. He had his fortune told, as he did every year, noting, as he always did that nothing was said concerning love, romance and marriage. He fancied buying a banana covered in chocolate and again, as per ritual, his mother had frowned at him and steered him away from the stall. She'd done the same for the past thirty years!
After returning back to his parent’s home exhausted from the crowds and also hungry they settled down to a traditional meal of O-zoni and Setchi-ryori washed down with special sake - with gold leaf floating within.
He thoroughly enjoyed the break.
21 - In which Watanabe considers the nature of hostess bars, Kinjo, the slut and his wife.
Sunday 2nd January 8:50am
Watanabe had spent the night of new year's day, not unusually, in a favourite club before repairing to the Faction apartment at just after midnight. It would be too early to say that he’d been celebrating, despite the fact that he’d selected a particularly fine Hakushika Sake to accompany him - that would be premature in the extreme, but none-the-less he’d become more optimistic in his belief that events would transpire in a way in which he predicted and in a way in which he desired.
The club was a high-class pole-dancing and hostess club – that is to say if the juxtaposition of ‘high class’ and ‘pole-dancing’ wasn’t something of an oxymoron. It was a place he’d been introduced to by Kinjo, in fact, on reflection, Kinjo had introduced him to a great many places, usually places of questionable repute or of expensive tastes – Kinjo liked to operate at both ends of the spectrum in his seemingly constant search for a hedonist’s utopia. He wondered who he could rely on now to lead him to these secretive little hidey-holes as what was undeniable was that Kinjo had an uncanny knack for ferreting out the next best thing in entertainment or the next best place on the ‘must be seen at’ social circuit. Watanabe however, was more considered in his choice of after-hours venue, he had to be, but this particular club, despite its arousing ‘entertainment’ was one frequented by a great many of his colleagues.
The atmosphere as ever had been subdued save for a constant hum of under-toned chatter coming from the private booths that hugged its perimeter and which were universally occupied by serious looking men attempting to relax. On a raised platform up front a number of semi-naked women gyrated in semi-erotic poses around a series of vertical chrome poles to a low pulsating beat and for an extra cost would complete the act by gyrating around your lap and your own semi-perpendicular pole – as Kinjo had put it.
Watanabe had felt odd sitting alone without the companionship of his ‘old’ partner. It was almost as if he was naked or shorn of a limb. Many of the girls who had approached his table had asked after Kinjo finding it surprising that the two men were not together.
What did that say for the nature of their relationship?
He’d had no adequate reply for them. It also struck him that Kinjo was quite popular and it had made him feel quite jealous.
Watanabe had remained sitting alone. He’d been in no mood for company and although one of his favourite girls had joined him for half an hour or so, he had soon grown tired of her company and ushered her away having no wish to listen to facile chit-chat or indulgent flattery. He had no wish, either, to go home - again! He'd been forced to run the gamut of the intrusive media on New Year's Eve and had no wish to go through that again. He understood the media to be still encamped outside his home in Den-en-chofu and on this occasion he had looked instead to escape to a place away from their eyes and ears. He was nothing if not a coward and had discovered over the years that calculated withdrawal was always more prudent than gallantry. He had wondered, on the other hand, if on this particular occasion that it would have been more sensible to continue to show his marital loyalty, to stay at home with his wife and to demonstrate normality and solidarity. Already Kinjo was being missed. He was sure to have advised Watanabe to stay within the bosom of his family.
He had, though, had words with his wife. It went without saying that these had neither been tender-filled nor even those of grovelling apology but simple instructions demanding that she concur with his assertions that he’d been with her on the night in question, if asked. She had obediently acquiesced.
He loved her after a fashion – like a man who loves a favourite golf club. She was there when he needed her, trusty and reliable – good when recovery was needed. There had never been any passion in their relationship. He had been far too busy and she was far too traditional and prissy and as his extra-marital affairs had mounted, affairs which until now he had managed to keep secret – at least from the media, she had resigned herself to reap the benefits of an attachment to a well-heeled politician. From deep within she had found the character to turn a blind eye to his wayward one.
He rarely gave a single thought as to whether or not she was hurt by his philandering. He rarely gave thought to anyone other than himself, but on this occasion he had. He had thought of her alone in their house, with the press camped outside having to face a shame and embarrassment that was none of her making. But then again it was all her doing. If she’d paid him more sexual attention over the years then he wouldn’t have had the need to chase after the other women. Yes – she had brought in on herself – the sexless bitch.
He’d spent a restless night, not surprisingly, considering the multitude of thoughts that were romping through his mind. He’d found himself making a long list of all the people that suddenly seemed to be suffocating him; Kinjo, The Ryozo, the slut, his wife… The list seemed to be growing. At one point, in his kaleidoscopic dreams, he’d had the disturbing vision of his wife and the slut making passionate love in front of him, with Kinjo laughing hysterically in the background. He’d found this to be so profoundly disconcerting that it forced him to surface from his sleep. Then around three in the morning he was dreamily aware of the call from his bladder, a bladder that was not as resilient as it used to be and so had trouped off to the toilet to relieve himself. Once awake he considered the need for a shot of whiskey to send him back to sleep. And so he had raided the drinks cupboard, tore off the seal and poured a modest measure. He’d then slugged it back and returned to bed.
That morning the walk from the apartment to headquarters had taken a little over the usual five minutes, due to the snow and ice. He picked up a newspaper on the way in and was relieved to see that the slut had been true to her word and had duly retracted her story saying that it had been Kinjo with whom she’d had the affair, not Watanabe as she’d previously stated. It had all been a case of mistaken identity.
It was therefore with an element of renewed vigour that he strode across the foyer and into the elevator. It would be wrong to say that events had fallen entirely as he’d have wished but at least as far as the ‘story’ went, his sacking of Kinjo was now entirely consistent – after all it had been Kinjo, not Watanabe who had brought disgrace upon the faction.
He considered once again if the rapprochement with the Ryozo should be sought again and it was with such an idea in mind that he instructed his staff to act.
22 - In which a detainee considers the meaning of reality
Monday 3rd January 7:00am
A mentally gruelling day had been followed by a mentally gruelling night - cat and mouse games of verbal jousting with Inspector Sakamoto followed by snatched, fitful sleep within the confines of a holding cell.
Hideki Yamada lay prone and exhausted in cell number four worryingly suspecting that it would become his permanent home for the rest of his life. It seemed a month since he had walked through the brightly painted cellblock for the first time, stumbling along as if in a dream, staring vacantly at each cell and at the dejected men lying on their futons within. Momentarily he’d experienced a strange sensation like he’d been caught in a movie, a
cting out a life that was not his own to an audience he could not see.
Already after just three days he was beginning to lose sight of reality.
After his signature and fingerprints had been dutifully logged on his official statement, a statement that had not shifted one iota since he’d first found himself staring eye-ball to eyeball with Mori and Sakamoto some seventy hours before, he’d been taken for further “processing” during which time the rules had been unemotionally explained to him.
He would no longer be addressed by his name and he would from that moment on be addressed as prisoner fourteen.
Again it sounded to him like he was in some alien movie set in the future. He was no longer Hideki Yamada, husband to Eri. He was a suspected murderer. He was number fourteen and to emphasise the point he’d been handed a pair of slippers with ‘14’ neatly stencilled on top. His world was now full of numbers - prisoner 14 in cell 4, 3 meters by 5 meters – big enough for 2 men and 1 murderer.
