by Nick Tanner
He’d eyed up his new ‘companions’ - a bulky-looking man to one side and a Chinaman to the other. On that first night without too much of a do Yamada had laid out his futon close to the door not wanting to intrude on the space of the other two men. He didn’t know how they’d react. The days and nights of anxiety had only just begun. Despite his exhaustion it had been some time until he had finally felt secure enough to relax and relieved enough to sink into some much-needed sleep. He had closed his eyes and drifted into a broken slumber, wanting desperately to hide away in his dreams.
That had been three days and two nights ago. Now on the Monday morning, January 3rd he felt not much better despite becoming more accustomed to his circumstances.
Dark, disturbing images remained his one companion. He saw himself bending over the body of a woman. He saw himself releasing a ligature from around her neck. He saw her collapse lifeless to the ground.
That morning he had woken sweating and panting, like he had on every morning, shivering and shaken and found that once awake he couldn’t get back to sleep. Not that sleep offered any release from the strain he was now suffering and there was nothing he could do to escape the blinking, bright luminous strip that lit the room twenty four hours a day. It was officially ‘dimmed’ in the evening and finally ‘turned out’ at nine but it really didn’t make that much difference. There were the toilet and hall lights still to contend with. His cellmates seemed to have no trouble. They just turned over contentedly and continued snoring.
Time and again his dreams and thoughts returned to the repeating, probing questions. He was finding it hard to tell fact from fiction. He had been angry at the discovery of Eri’s affair. But had that been before or after he’d been arrested? There was a mysterious missing ten minutes in his statement. How had he filled that time?
In the pale translucent light he examined his hands. Had he really taken off his tie, tied a knot in it, wrapped it tightly around his hands and then looped the ligature around his wife’s throat until the life force had been squeezed out of her? Was he that consumed by jealousy and hatred?
He no longer knew. But the details seemed so real.
‘Cold again!’ The words swirled around his head along with three others that now added to his confused thoughts.
‘It was you!’
He found himself waking up at four a.m. to the sound of the guard’s squeaking boots patrolling up and down the hallway. The sound seeming to grow louder by the minute and playing to the tune of the snoring, the flicking strip light and the roar of the early morning cars taking to the streets – a symphony from hell. Once awake there was simply no going back to sleep.
Around six o’clock the hall lights came on and the sound of jingling keys could be heard. It was time to roll up the futons and fold up the drab, brown blankets and place them on top of the futon along with the small, hard pillow. After they returned their futons to the cupboard they filed out to the washbasins where eight taps above a long steel basin allowed eight men short-lived access to some refreshing cold water. At the same time a couple of vacuum cleaners and some cleaning products, a soapy spray and towel, were passed between cells for the inmates to clean the floor and the toilet.
He'd been instructed to buy a washing kit and at a cost of around ¥800 he got a polyester towel, a cheap toothbrush and a block of soap in a plastic case. The wash was just for their faces and teeth. Washing his feet or his now oily hair was strictly off limits. He soaped his face, neck and as much of his hair as he could without making it too obvious and also made an attempt to wipe the sweat and stink from his armpits, but it was futile. ‘Dame da yo!’ (Not allowed!) shouted the guard from behind him. He turned and saw an officious guard peering at him through thick circular glasses. The other guards stepped in and muttered under their breath to let Yamada get away with it, saying that he was only washing his face, which clearly he wasn’t.
As he waited for breakfast to be readied the duty warden walked along from cell 1 through to cell 6 and carried out a headcount. Every inmate’s number was called from a list and every inmate was expected to reply when their number was shouted. Only at the last minute did Yamada recall that he was number fourteen. Again he had the fleeting but very real feeling that he would have zero chance of ever leaving this cell. There was no way or reason for him to get out. He was trapped in this small space. It was claustrophobic and it stank.
Breakfast followed the count and a polystyrene tray with plastic bowls for a sachet of miso soup and hot water was passed through the hole. The rice was cold and stuck together making it particularly unappetizing but he had noticed that the other men put the cold rice into the hot miso soup and so he had followed suit. It resulted in a marginal improvement and was far more palatable than taking mouthfuls of the miserable cold gohan (rice) and trying to wash it down with the instant soup. Even after he’d finished he still felt hungry - and strangely dizzy.
After the breakfast, as usual, he was offered a cigarette which he declined and then took some exercise. Standing on the caged balcony with four other inmates and two guards, he took the chance to stretch while the guards quizzed him on who he was.
More questions.
He just wanted to be left alone. They asked a lot of questions but never breached the real reason of how he had got there.
When he returned to the block he found that the whole place was in turmoil. The Chinaman had suffered a heart attack of sorts. It was hard to tell if it was real or diversionary but eventually the guards fetched some medicine for him and fed him some pills as he rolled about on the floor. Yamada was temporarily transferred to another cell. The Chinaman was carried off to the hospital.
It turned out that there were at least six or seven Chinese in the cells and this added to his disorientation. He felt like he’d suddenly been transported to Hong Kong with all the chatter between the cells being in a foreign language.
Reality was being slowly twisted. He was tired, exhausted, confused and hungry. The only one thing he knew was that he had to get out.
23 - In which Inspector Saito returns and thoughts of retirement surface for the first time
Monday 3rd January 7:30am
Inspector Saito looked up at the building before him. It was familiar enough, one that he had been in a thousand times and yet he hesitated at its entrance. It had been almost three months since he had stepped through its doors. He had, of course, been suspended and in a way that only the 'system' knew, the time that it had taken for them to gather the relevant facts, to review and hear his case had been stretched out beyond that which was believable. Suffice it to say he had been going almost mad with impatience while the cogs within the ‘system’ slowly turned. The situation at times had not looked good but Saito’s position had been consistent and clear. Eventually they saw to it that he would be cleared of any charge but be that as it may the whole process had taken over three months to complete.
Needless to say it was with an element of trepidation that he entered HQ that Monday morning. In all his adult working life he’d never so much had more than a week off at one time, never mind three months.
Despite his impatience he had not been idle. Every cloud had a silver lining and so it was that he had applied himself to the permanent mystery in his life – the disappearance of his wife and children over seven years ago, a mystery that he had come nowhere near to solving.
They had left Yokohama during the Golden Week holiday intending to go on a hiking trip to Kamikochi in the North Alps but had never returned. He'd searched in vain for them, spent every spare moment treading and re-treading their intended route, even treading and re-treading their possible unintended routes. But to no avail. They were meant to head out to the Kappabashi, the Kappa Bridge, a wooden suspension bridge and symbol of the mountain resort. It was a superb scenic area with deep forests of Japanese larch all around. The Kappa Bridge trek was a popular one for Saito and his family.
But he wasn't even certain that they'd made it to the mounta
in resort of Kamikochi. Had they been abducted on the way? Had they wandered off the track? Had she simply just left him, taking the kids, with the whole hiking thing being just a ruse? He didn't know. Probably would never know, although he vowed never to give up until he had found out the truth about their disappearance.
The whole tragedy had effectively destroyed his life, although he did his best not to show it, but undeniably it had robbed him - of humour, of energy, but most importantly of hope. He had attempted to carry on as normal, but inside he was an empty, broken man. He knew he was often more distracted, distant and depressed. He couldn't help it. He knew that his drinking had exponentially increased since that day. And every dead body he found reminded him of his own loss.
The massacre and the mystery - was this all life had to offer?
He had travelled once more to Kamikochi, but this time stopped to focus the attention of his research in the city of Matsumoto. This picturesque castle town nestled in the gateway to the Japanese Alps and boasted a surprisingly metropolitan atmosphere whilst at the same time clinging to its history, mainly on account of the impressive black structure that stood proudly in its centre - the 400 year old castle. In spring, the cherry blossoms complemented beautifully its sloping black roof.
He knew that his family would have had to change trains in Matsumoto which was why he had decided to spend some time in the city. If truth be told he didn’t find much. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for. If nothing else his visit served to place another layer of memories on top of his previous visits - another layer which deadened the stabbing pain that he had first experienced at re-visiting favourite places where keen family memories were incessant in crowding into his mind. Now all he recalled were his previous solo visits which although sad and lonely came nowhere near to the initial pain at those first troubled searches. But as before, as with every occasion before, he found nothing, heard nothing and had no eureka moment where a flood of ideas or lines of enquiry flowed freely into his mind.
Once more he found himself back up at the Kappabashi throwing sticks into the cold water and watching them float effortlessly downstream. Sometimes he wondered if he wanted to become that stick – to float in freedom, without guile or worry, in essence, to retire. But he was too set in his ways to change his life now. It was only the job that really kept him sane, however maddening the various cases that were presented to him might be. His suspension had only really served to underline his belief that his place was back at work, behind his desk, behind the case, behind the thinking. In the final analysis it was only the briefest of flirtations with the idea of retiring. It was never really going to happen. Not yet anyway.
24 - In which Sergeant Mori considers motives and eventually guilt is confirmed
Monday 3rd January 8:30am
Sergeant Mori sat in the paper strewn office with his head in his hands.
His suspicions directed him towards the need to interview the management and staff of Niigata Kyubin, but with Sakamoto intent in his one-tracked detaining of Yamada he had little motivation to pursue his own course of action. In addition his slight indiscretion in questioning Eri Yamada’s parents and Hideki Yamada’s work colleagues and the subsequent delay in his bringing in of Yamada to the station was something that he did now regret. Not only had he disobeyed a direct order but he now admitted that he may have inadvertently opened a window of opportunity that presented the chance for Yamada to possibly cover his tracks.
But was it really feasible that Yamada had purchased a replica set of clothing and destroyed that which was incriminating?
He pushed this implausible but nevertheless troubling thought to the recess of his mind and instead concentrated on the important, but less demanding, task of writing up his notes which he’d not had time as yet to formally report on concerning the latest interviews with Yamada and his findings up at Yamada’s house – or rather his non-findings. He tapped away at his computer making more mistakes with his typing than he cared to admit, realising that his mind was really not on the task in hand – not one little bit.
Despite the variety of medicines and massages his head-cold was still streaming and for a fourth day in succession he faced the prospect of endlessly blowing his nose which was already pretty painful from its constant need of attention the days before. He had re-stocked his pile of tissue paper and was ready, once again, to concentrate.
He wondered how Inspector Saito would have approached the problem. They’d had their differences in the past and despite the palpable frostiness surrounding their final conversation Mori still held Saito in high regard. He knew that Saito’s approach was typically one based on intuition and often wild speculation and while he knew he could never hope to match him in this regard nor fully agreed with this general approach, he wondered if he might give it a go now, for surely the key matter at hand was not just the means that Yamada may or may not have had at his disposal, but more importantly his motivation. But what could his motivation possibly have been?
What could anyone’s motivation possibly have been?
His mind was still not really accepting of the task ahead of him but nonetheless he allowed himself to consider several possibilities working on the assumption that most murders that took place within a marriage usually centred around love, or more realistically the lack of love, jealousy and mistrust.
Firstly he speculated that Yamada may have murdered his wife on account of a jealous rage – a jealous rage ignited through the discovery of an affair. There was the faintest evidence that Yamada had a temper - there had, after all, been flashes of anger displayed during their questioning, but Mori’s instincts led him to believe that this was quite natural given the grief-stricken circumstances. From what he could determine of Yamada’s personality, which wasn’t much he had to admit, was that he didn’t come across as a jealous, angry or violent type. Yamada’s colleagues had confirmed as much and besides which Sakamoto had already played this card with his introduction of the fabricated Kubota and the factual evidence of semen in his dead wife’s body. This didn’t seem to have made much difference to Yamada’s countenance at all. He just didn’t seem the kind to submit to a jealous rage.
Not one that they’d yet uncovered, anyway.
Secondly Yamada may have murdered Eri as he was having an affair himself. Perhaps he’d asked for, but she’d refused, a divorce and murder was the only way to sever all ties with her. But again, as with scenario one, there was no evidence to suggest that he was having an affair. Yamada had been evasive about answering questions concerning his sex life. The most they could squeeze out of him was that their sex had been ‘the usual’. Beyond that Yamada had been reluctant to go. Perhaps this was entirely reasonable. Most people's sex lives could be described as functional and unremarkable, he guessed, and most people would be reluctant to disclose intimate detail concerning the frequency and nature of their love-making. And again, no-one at his work place had hinted to even the slightest piece of flirtatious action with any of the female staff. Yamada, it appeared, was a straight up and down sort of character – dependable, trustworthy and work-focussed. Mori as a consequence dismissed this scenario out of hand.
Thirdly could they have had an argument over the lack of children? Maybe she’d become pregnant and then aborted. It was a possibility. He’d known of cases where the male had sought revenge – a life for a life as it were, but this scenario, as with scenario one depended on violent undercurrents in Yamada and again, he thought this unlikely. It was still a possibility, however, and one worth checking.
Finally he considered any motives to do with money and he tapped his fingers on his lips as he poured over the potential of this new avenue. They’d not had chance to delve into bank accounts or the prospect of debt – not that this would necessarily lead a man to murder. Theft maybe, but not murder, and as he’d already discovered there was no money that would come to Hideki Yamada through inheritance or life insurance… Life insurance! He sat up abruptly in his chair.
Could that be a possibility? Debt and Life Insurance!
Pleased at his musings, having stumbled upon at least two motives where previously he thought he could see none, he committed himself to check out bank accounts and insurance policies and perhaps even to call in at Eri Yamada’s local doctor, before he returned once more to his report writing. He was halfway through his final one and was busy correcting yet another error when the door opened and looking up he saw the familiar face of Inspector Saito looming over him.
‘What have you done to the office?’ Saito demanded - an unconventional a re-introduction as Mori could recall. He looked around wondering what the Inspector could be referring to. ‘Nothing… nothing at all,’ he finally said.
Of all the phrases he thought he would utter on Saito’s return, ‘Nothing… nothing at all.’ had not been top of the list. Over the past few months he’d wrestled with no little guilt concerning his role at Saito’s suspension. The whole episode had been prickly to say the least and the two had not spoken since the day in Saito’s house when Mori had given his boss the unwelcome news.
