And don’t bother coming back.
The unhappy childhood memory – of being caught stealing from his father’s wallet, of being pushed out of the front door – resurfaced. Administration felt far away. Osakabe had treated him like a kid on an errand. He had spoken in riddles and thrown up a smokescreen. Futawatari had left without the slightest understanding of what the man was thinking.
He raced down the pitch-black of the prefectural highway. His plan was to visit W Block and Yasuo Maejima, one of his contemporaries. Maejima knows Osakabe. Anything would do. He just needed something he could use as leverage. He understood that he was acting on impulse but his indignation kept him going regardless.
W Block was a four-storey building containing police apartments. Its name derived from the fact that it accommodated executives from Station W. Whereas the area had previously hosted four executive bungalows, a project to make better use of the land had resulted in the construction last spring of the new complex, which had capacity to house sixteen families.
Maejima gave Futawatari a warm, enthusiastic greeting. It was before seven, but he was already in checked pyjamas and reeking of the hair oil he used after showering. As division chief of Criminal Investigations in Station W, it was something of a miracle for him to be home this early, but it hadn’t been intuition alone that had allowed Futawatari to catch him in this rare moment of downtime. He’d called ahead to check, loath to wait yet one more time for someone to arrive home. Don’t worry, it’s not business. Futawatari had made sure to emphasise this before hanging up.
‘Come on in. It’s nice and quiet inside.’
Maejima was alone; he explained to Futawatari that his wife and kids were out visiting the family home. It seemed a little odd, considering it was his wife who had answered the phone only five minutes earlier, but it was, if anything, a welcome development. Osakabe had acted as a go-between for the couple. Maejima’s wife would want to listen in if she heard the name in conversation.
The apartment was the standard layout for police accommodation. In the corner of the tatami room, which became a bedroom at night, was a brand-new desk that looked as though it had just been delivered. There was a glossy black satchel hanging from a hook on the wall. It dawned on Futawatari that the eldest of Maejima’s kids, the ‘little one’ he always talked about, must be ready to start school. It made sense, Futawatari supposed. It had been a few years since he’d received the card announcing another addition to the family. It struck him that he didn’t even know whether Maejima still called his eldest ‘little one’ or not.
‘How’s things on your side?’ Maejima called from the kitchen, then appeared under the noren – probably a souvenir from a family trip – with a beer in each hand.
‘Same as usual,’ Futawatari said, sighing as he refused the glass, saying he couldn’t drink but for Maejima to go ahead anyway.
‘Black and White still an item?’
Maejima grinned, pouring himself a frothy glass of beer. It was the sort of wisecracking that went on in Criminal Investigations. Futawatari had never heard the joke mentioned in Administrative Affairs, which poked fun at Oguro and Shirota, based on the fact that their names contained, respectively, the characters for black and white.
‘Kikyo’s mum wants to catch up with you, too, by the way. Complains you’re a bit standoffish these days.’
Maejima was as chatty as ever. He skipped from topic to topic, mixing opinion with comic anecdotes, yet never once did he mention any of the cases he was working on. It was impressive. The man had become a stalwart cog in the investigative machine.
It was common for officers who had come through police school together to become like siblings. There was the shared sense of community, the unified sense of purpose. You lived in cramped dorm rooms with little in the way of privacy and submitted yourself to a harsh regimen of training. You comforted one another, shed tears and pledged to keep the peace. Futawatari and Maejima were no exception to the rule. They had since taken their own paths, been separated by rank now Futawatari was superintendent while Maejima was still inspector, yet a single meeting was all it took to take them back to the sweat-infused dorms of the school. The only change was that they no longer discussed work. They’d fallen naturally into this new pattern. And while it brought an increased sense of distance, it felt like nothing more than brothers having become cousins.
‘So, you said you’d spoken with the director?’ Maejima looked at Futawatari, his face already turning pink. Osakabe had been the man’s go-between but he was still ‘the director’.
‘We had the chance to catch up.’
Maejima leaned in, hungry for more. ‘And? How is he?’
‘Just the same.’
‘I heard he had some problems with his liver last year.’
‘Do you visit him?’
‘Once or twice a year, sure. Gives me a dressing-down each time. Tells me not to bother, that I need to keep my head focused on work,’ Maejima said, chuckling. He seemed to remember something. ‘I heard he’s going to be staying on at the foundation?’
Caught off guard, Futawatari had to struggle not to choke.
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘From my wife’s cousin. She works there. I think it was last week when she came over and gave us the news. Maybe the week before.’
Maejima would never suspect that this was the reason behind the visit. And news of the arrangements for Kudo to take over upon his retirement from Community Safety would not have reached Criminal Investigations in Station W. Feeling vaguely underhand, Futawatari attempted to pad out the conversation.
‘He told me his youngest daughter is getting married.’
‘Megu. Right, in June.’
‘June. Huh.’
Megu Osakabe. Futawatari had taken notes from Osakabe’s file. Attended a private university. Works for a travel agency in Tokyo. Thirty. The wedding seemed a little late coming, although Futawatari realised it was no longer uncommon for women to tie the knot in their thirties. There was something else that bugged him, though, about the fact that the wedding was coming up in June. She was Osakabe’s youngest. There was no doubt it would be a hugely significant event for the director.
‘Will you be going?’
‘Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss the chance to see Osakabe tear up.’
‘Osakabe?’
‘He might not look that way, but he dotes on his kids.’
‘I can’t see it happening. Doesn’t seem possible.’
‘It’ll happen, I guarantee it. He’s got a particular soft spot for Megu. She was always a bit delicate. And, well, there was all that other shit that happened.’ The casual tone was suddenly gone from Maejima’s voice.
‘“All that other shit”?’
Maejima blinked, looking shocked as Futawatari quoted the words. ‘Yeah, well.’
‘What other shit?’
‘Anyway . . .’ Maejima looked at him as though to suggest he hadn’t said a thing.
Futawatari held the man’s gaze for a moment then averted his eyes and reached for a handful of peanuts. He knew he couldn’t outstare a detective, but his mind was racing. Could this have something to do with the man’s daughter? A new scenario unfolded in his mind. Her wedding – Osakabe’s youngest daughter’s wedding – was coming up in June. Could it be that he simply wished to hold on to his title of managing director until afterwards?
As far as reasons went, it seemed ridiculous. Osakabe’s stepping down would have no impact on the fact that he’d been director of Criminal Investigations and managing director of the foundation. He could stand tall as he fulfilled his role as father of the bride.
Futawatari realised, of course, that this was his own objective viewpoint, insufficient, perhaps, to give any insight into the workings of a man like Osakabe, who had devoted himself so completely to his career.
Futawatari’s father had been the same. A typical example of the fiercely committed salaryman, he had launched himself headfirst through the years of rapid economic growth, destroying his stomach and liver in the process. His had been a protracted suffering. He had lost his job, become withdrawn, grown old. The one ritual he maintained was that of browsing the classifieds in the morning paper. Futawatari remembered hurrying home after his graduation from police school. You don’t need to worry about me any more. I can look after myself now. He’d planned the words for his father but his mother had beaten him to it. Darling, Shinji did it. He’s going to be a fully-fledged member of society. His father hadn’t so much as grinned. And where does that leave me? His eyes had clouded under a mix of bitterness and envy of his own son. It was the moment Futawatari came to see clearly the flaws of man. The moment he pledged never to let himself become like that.
There was something in Osakabe that reminded him of his departed father. It was part of the reason behind his antipathy for the man.
There was, perhaps, a part of the man’s sentiment that was understandable. Osakabe’s interest was not in the title, nor was it in having gainful employment. His focus was on being in active service. His insistence on staying on made sense, at least in that context, and particularly with the upcoming wedding complicating matters. Getting married at thirty was late, whatever the current trend. Something had happened to Megu and this had brought about the delay. When the subject was a young unmarried woman, there were, Futawatari suspected, very few scenarios that could be summed up in the way Maejima had expressed it. All of them involved a man, and all ended in tears.
Megu was Osakabe’s most cherished daughter. She’d suffered and was now finally on the verge of attaining happiness. Overwhelmed with emotion, Osakabe wanted to give her the best celebration possible. He would stand proud, in active service, as he guided her through her special day.
Futawatari’s throat was dry. It was possible he was on the wrong track. Yet Osakabe had himself said the words only two hours earlier. It’s none of your concern. Had he wanted to say it didn’t concern the force? That it was, instead, a family matter? That – because she’d gone through hell – it was all for Megu?
Could the wife of an officer ever be happy? The question was one Futawatari had decided to ignore. He lacked the courage to ask it of his wife, who lived under the constant scrutiny of those inside and outside the force, who had given her life to him and the closed-off community, where the claustrophobia could push you over the edge. That was why the wish was there: At least, for my daughter. She was in her fifth year of primary school, chest already developing. She would be asleep by now, breathing softly through her metal braces. Futawatari wished her a life free from such constraints, one in which she could explore the world as she saw fit, never knowing the smothering pressure the force had exerted on her parents. He wished for it with all his heart.
‘He’s a father, too,’ Futawatari muttered to himself. For the first time, Osakabe came across as a flesh-and-blood human, as something more substantial than an ogre locked up in the confines of Criminal Investigations.
‘Of course,’ Maejima said, speaking for the first time since his slip of the tongue, his voice freeing up, cracking a little.
‘Still, I’m pretty sure family wasn’t a major factor when he was in the force.’
Maejima muttered another ‘of course’, his tone darkening just a little.
‘What was he like when he was director?’
‘Glorious.’
‘How so?’
‘In every way.’
‘So, some kind of superman?’
‘Pretty much.’ Maejima was kind enough to skip the part that said, Not that anyone from Administrative Affairs would understand. Instead, he said, ‘Here’s something: criminals never return to the scene of the crime.’
‘What’s that? Something he said?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But they do, don’t they?’
‘Truth is, they don’t. I checked ten years of case history. Not once did the perpetrator go back to the scene of the crime.’
‘So he shares this revelation and stuns you all. That it?’
‘You’re missing the point,’ Maejima said, sounding a little worked up. ‘You grow up watching detective shows and you’re conditioned, like you, to think it’s in a perp’s nature to return to the crime scene. Now, imagine you’ve just committed a crime. There’s no way in hell you’re going back. Why? ’Cause you’re scared shitless you’ll be caught. Make sense?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘What he was telling us was that, in our line of work, we can never take anything we know for granted. It’s hard to fathom just how much information is leaked to the outside these days. Investigative techniques. Forensics knowledge. There are people out there who have more know-how than us detectives. Osakabe was telling us that we had to let go of our pride, let go of our preconceptions. That only then could we truly call ourselves detectives.’
Encouraged by the drink, Maejima became increasingly talkative. The anecdotes he gave concerning Osakabe were all fascinating. Futawatari realised, noting as he did a twinge of envy, that Maejima had in Osakabe a superior officer whom he adored without question, one whom he could talk about with nothing but respect.
With the vague promise that he’d come again soon, though unsure as to when that might be, Futawatari left the apartment. His chest felt warm as he walked against the cold wind. Gone were the jagged sensations of anger and humiliation from his visit to Osakabe. He’d told himself he’d come here to gain leverage, but it was possible he’d simply wanted to catch up with a friend. Maybe that was the real reason he’d come.
Cutting through the parking area, Futawatari came to a sudden halt. Under the glow of the mercury lamps, he saw a woman’s face in the window of an estate car he recognised by the gaudy strips on the side. He saw two small heads bobbing playfully alongside her. Maejima’s ‘little ones’. The engine was off but there was no sign of anyone getting out. You sly bastard. Futawatari turned to face the light coming from Maejima’s apartment. The man had asked his family to wait outside. He’d set it up so he could talk in private with Futawatari. It was transfer season. It was only natural that he would want to know what was in store for him. Would he be up for transfer? Would he be staying? Did he need to pack, get ready to move? Did he need to think about which school his kid would attend?
Futawatari’s work had consequences.
Perhaps the kids had been taken for a chocolate sundae.
Futawatari put his foot on the accelerator and kept it there, holding his breath until the estate car had disappeared from the rear-view mirror.