by Nick Tanner
‘Which photos do you mean?’ Ozawa had asked mischievously? He’d known precisely which photos she’d been referring to.
‘The nude ones,’ she’d answered, her voice not wavering.
Ozawa had raised an eyebrow and grinned. ‘Nude! And in a man’s world that’s the way to succeed, is it?’
Eri Yamada had blushed. ‘Like I said, I didn’t agree with everything she did-’
‘You wouldn’t stoop so low, then – despite your fine figure?’
Eri Yamada had blushed again. ‘Of course not!’ she’d simply added.
Ozawa had helped her out. It had been, of course, a calculated move on his part to introduce a slither of innuendo into their conversation. Her replies had made him want her even more but he’d returned to the topic of the unfortunate Kumi Kizaro. ‘And now she’s dead! Is that succeeding pretty well?’
‘You don’t understand the pressures we women face.’ She’d rested her light brown eyes squarely upon him.
‘True, I can’t comment on that,’ Ozawa had deferred. ‘But drug taking is surely an avoidance of reality. It doesn’t sound like someone working hard to reach their potential. It doesn’t sound like someone using her life or working with reality. It’s spineless. She doesn't deserve any sympathy.’ He’d sat back emphatically in his seat.
‘And what about if she’d been murdered?’
‘Murdered?’
‘Yes.’
‘I understood you to say that there were no suspicious circumstances.’
‘That’s right, but-’
‘She died of an overdose – by her own hand. Cowardice, like I said.’
‘I still think you are very harsh Ozawa san.’
Kenji Ozawa had sat back in his seat once again and sucked his teeth loudly. He’d considered once more his thoughts on life and death. It was true that he despised those who wasted their time. ‘I believe,’ he’d started again, ‘that if you constantly keep in mind the fact that we all will die and that our existence is as impermanent as the morning frost or the dew of the evening and if we are also mindful that death might come upon us unexpectedly, then it is imperative that we must live to the full and use our time effectively. That woman wasted her life and yet you mourn. It’s all a waste.’
‘And do you go open-armed to death Ozawa san?’
Ozawa had pulled a wry smile wondering whether he’d been caught in a trap of his own making. ‘I’ve achieved a lot in my life so far. I have few regrets, so yes, I can meet death face on, but I still have some things I wish to accomplish-’
‘Hence the meeting today-’
‘Exactly! And I believe when you see what you like you should go for it, without hesitation,’ he’d whispered discreetly to her.
‘And are you seeing what you like?’
‘I’m seeing what I like!’
They had paused for a second both looking at each other keenly in the eye once more. ‘And you Yamada san? Can you meet death face on?’
She’d remained looking him in the eye and then just as quickly looked away. ‘I’ve not thought about it before. Death is not something you really think about at my age,’ she’d smiled.
Her final comment had stung him. It was obviously a dig at his age and as such a calculated comment on her part. She’d really been a worthy opponent.
What Ozawa had quickly come to realise over the weeks succeeding that meeting was that he liked her, was attracted to her, was energised by her presence and that he consistently sought excuses to be near her. He couldn’t quite explain it but he knew deep down that he’d also continually sought to impress her. He’d also had to admit that he physically needed her. He’d been steadily falling in love but he couldn’t ever admit it.
This one fact perhaps explained his growing chivalric attitude towards her. It had surprised him that he’d not taken the opportunity, the many opportunities, that had presented themselves over the weeks to ‘assert’ his authority, control and power.
He hadn’t even attempted a clumsy fumble as she’d sat in his office chair or a jokey grope in the limousine. He’d remained physically distant despite feeling as frenzied as a baboon in spring with his androgens screaming at him to take immediate and unadulterated action.
There had been the Bonenkai party on the 18th December. This had taken place at a favourite Izakaiya much frequented by management and workers alike at Niigata Kyubin. As expected the beer and sake had flowed generously and at his table everyone was soon quite drunk. There had been some flirting, some of it quite outrageous, but all quite harmless. He’d noticed that she’d flirted with all the men and not just him which finally resulted in just annoying him. He hadn’t wanted to admit to being jealous but the evidence had been there in front of him slithering across the table.
He’d ended up leaving early. He’d ended up with a prostitute.
Then, only two days after they had been locked together, late at night, in an intense discussion concerning the merger. They had worked on, accompanying their talks with food and alcohol while in addition littering their talk with rather unsubtle innuendo. And yet he had held back, despite his desire to rip off her clothing and take her there and then across the board room table.
He’d suspected she’d been toying with him. He’d suspected she’d been prick-teasing him, but somehow he’d enjoyed it. It had made him feel young once more.
He recalled one further moment that had crystallised his feelings.
‘Come on Yamada san,’ he’d said, gently touching her forearm.
She’d turned and smiled at him. ‘Before we do Ozawa san, I just wanted to thank you for giving me this opportunity.’
‘Don’t be silly. You deserve it,’ he’d replied gruffly.
‘Well, all the same. Thank you.' She’d touched his forearm, too.
Ozawa had almost felt his heart miss a beat.
As he’d led her out of the foyer and into yet another meeting room he knew that he was desperate for her. Somehow he had promised himself that he would have to see to it before the week was out.
He’d had that thought on Wednesday 29th December.
33 - In which inspector Saito meets his match
Monday 3rd January 8:30pm
Needless to say Inspector Saito hadn’t expected it.
He had hoped however, that he’d shown enough presence of mind to exit the hall when he’d had the chance but the man he'd caught the eye of was obviously as equally as alert and had followed him outside, coming upon him quickly from behind, smacking him over the head, dropping him to the ground and leaving him dazed.
Inspector Saito turned round, his hands and knees on the ground and received another abrupt smack to the face courtesy of his attacker’s heavy boot.
It was in a semi-state of shock that he saw a drop of crimson blood drip from his nose onto the pristine white of the snow but even so Inspector Saito managed to pull himself up before his attacker came again.
In the next moment his assailant advanced forward and Saito instinctively twisted to the side. He escaped by a hairs breadth another smack to the head and then quickly backed up two or three paces to take himself out of reach and got his arms up in a defensive position. Saito was no boxer but he knew the rudiments.
The attacker regarded this move from Saito with amusement. He was not here to play by the rules.
Saito saw, too late, a foot swinging up. He’d not been expecting a kick. It felt as if a sledgehammer had hit him just above the knee and pain ran right through his leg. He buckled, staggered backwards and then fell to the ground once more, this time landing on his back. He then suddenly experienced the feeling that those who find themselves caught up in a fight often dread – the feeling of not being quite good enough, or in Saito’s case the realisation of just being too old, too slow and too defenceless. He lay on his back, his hands trying to gain purchase in the cold snow and was overcome by the sensation of feeling extremely vulnerable. There was that alarming apprehension that no matter what he did he was goi
ng to lose and then the sudden horror surrounding what the consequences of losing might be – a gentle beating or a clubbing to death. There was never any way of telling.
He turned onto his front and vainly tried to crawl away – unable this time to get to his feet in time. It was a pathetic move and he could hear his assailant laughing. In that precise moment, aside from blood rushing around his confused head the main sensation he experienced was the bite of the crystalline fresh air catching at the back of his throat and the sight of his breath evaporating in clouds in front of him. His assailant laughed again and followed this up with two swift kicks to the belly leaving him winded and then three further kicks to the head and just for good measure one to the groin.
He had several cuts to his face now and blood was dribbling freely. He was conscious enough just to see the figure bend over him and mutter into his ear, but what those words were he had no idea.
Not soon after he blacked out, vaguely wondering if this was the final release.
*
Inspector Saito looked miserable lying there on the hospital bed. Mori had waited an hour to be allowed to see him. Saito's nose was hidden behind a bandage. His left eye was covered, too and one eyebrow had surgical tape over four stitches. In addition he had a bandage wrapped around his chest and bruises all over his body.
Mori inspected his face critically. ‘You look like the man who lost to Mohammed Ali. Are you in any condition to tell me what happened?’
Inspector Saito nodded his head gently. ‘Yakuza – that’s what happened.’
‘And did you see who attacked you – a description?’
‘I don’t think I’ll forget in a hurry. Young, tanned, cocky-looking…’
Mori frowned. ‘Is that it? That could describe almost any foot-soldier.’
Saito just looked glumly back.
‘I don’t know?’ Mori shook his head. ‘You’ve only been back on the job one day and look at you. Are they keeping you in by the way?’
‘I hope not. Amazingly nothing broken they said, except my nose. If you can help me up I’m free to hobble out under my own steam.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure!’ snapped Inspector Saito.
‘I’m glad to hear it. We can’t waste time with you lying around in here,’ Mori laughed. ‘But you haven’t told me why you’re in such a mess. What did you do to incite this attack?’
‘I wish I knew. It came from nowhere. It was completely unprovoked.’
Mori gave Saito a sceptical look.
‘No it was! All I did was glance at the man – and overhear his conversation. Saito then explained what he’d heard and his conclusions based upon it.
‘It doesn’t really take us any nearer to solving what happened to Yamada Eri,’ said Mori despondently. ‘All it does is shed more and more light on some pretty brutal Yakuza methods and whatever 'business' the Yoshihara have with the YBP.’
‘Unless the Yoshihara are somehow sponsored by Niigata Kyubin in some way.’
‘What, you mean-’
‘It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. Maybe Niigata Kyubin have some long-standing Yakuza connection and with the merger deal breaking down they enlist their contacts in an attempt to persuade YBP back to the table.’
‘Sokaiya?’
‘It’s possible. It’s happened before.’
‘I thought there were laws against that.’
‘Don’t be so naïve Mori. The changes to the Commercial Code in particular have had absolutely no effect.'
‘Okay – so how does this help with our case?’
‘Come on Mori, you may have a head cold but that’s nothing to what my head is feeling right now. Isn’t it enough to know that Niigata Kyubin are up to their armpits in under-the-table business and immoral practices?’
‘You don’t have any proof of that and anyway even if you did it still doesn’t actually explain who killed Yamada Eri and why. But there is one thing I agree on and that’s about the way in which Niigata Kyubin carry out their business. In all your drama I’ve not had chance to tell you what we found.’
‘Go on.’
Mori told his story.
‘Interesting,’ said Inspector Saito. ‘I wonder who it was that Ozawa and Yamada Eri were meeting. Do you think it’s significant?’
‘I don’t think we can afford to rule anything out, do you?’
‘And did young Saito find anything on the computer?’
‘Nothing on the computer but she did find this.’ Mori pushed over the slim appointment diary. ‘What do you suppose it means?’
Saito squinted his one eye at the book in front of him and then after several seconds passed it back to Mori. 'What do you think?'
‘You know that's not my kind of thing, sir. I was rather hoping you could make sense of it. As for me I’m in no condition to concentrate. I may not be trussed up like an Egyptian mummy but my head is pretty thick all the same. I need to get home and then hopefully after a good night’s sleep I’ll be better able to think. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
Saito smiled to himself. He too was tired and in agony and just wanted to get home but at least he thought he knew exactly what Eri Yamada's notes referred to. It gave him the strength he needed to muster the energy to leave the hospital.
34 – Where a mafia clansman reaches the end of the road
Monday 3rd January 10:00pm
Kenta Fujiwara had spent a lot of the day drunk, some of it high but most of it drunk – too drunk. He’d told himself it was medicinal, but his drinking had become too habitual for this pretence to adequately register, but non-the-less he'd attempted to persuade himself that the alcohol was medicine for his conflicted mind and the unending throbbing of his head which had been slow to relent, had not relented, despite the cocktail of pain-killers and alcohol attempting to do what it could to ease him through the days.
Thump… thump…thump…
It reminded him of something else - a similar noise that he couldn’t begin to smother.
Parallel to the physical pain he was experiencing there was an even deeper groove of dissatisfaction that was carved across his soul. It had caused him as much agony as his bodily wounds. He had thought, had hoped, that through action would come redemption, or if not that then hard work and diligence would be able to mask his feelings of discontent, but he had soon come to realise that his futile attempts to shake some sense into his life were coming to nothing.
None of his plans had resulted in the breakthrough he needed.
Rumi too, had gone and this caused him as much pain as everything else put together.
He recognised that he had messed up his ‘relationship’ with her badly and recognised too, that a misplaced use of force had betrayed him. Force had always been his answer - force had been his only, repeated answer and rape had been his one and only mechanism. It was the only way he understood. He had convinced himself that it was the only way that they understood too, although no such debate had ever really taken place in his mind. There had been no discussion as to the rights and wrongs of his actions after all they were all prostitutes, high class, but prostitutes all the same. He would have been mad not to treat them roughly. He needed to keep them afraid and dependent otherwise the whole enterprise would crumble. How else would they comply? How else would they stay where they were?
But despite this force Rumi had gone – driven away by that which was designed to keep her put.
Initially he had viewed Rumi how he had viewed all the other girls. She was pretty and if he wanted her, he would take her. But as time had passed by he had wanted so much more. Suddenly she was the only one he had turned to – not that they'd really talked, not that he would have ever really confided in her. That had been out of the question.
But now she was gone and if passivity had been a feature of his life before she’d left it was certainly a feature now. The mere fact that he’d done so little to get her back emphasised the point that he was a broken ma
n. Presently he was emotionally as well as physically crippled.
