There’s no need to get flustered. Once this is done, it’ll be like nothing ever happened.
It was as Osakabe had predicted. The calm in the office seemed to suggest that the whole debacle had never even taken place. Neither Oguro nor Shirota mentioned the subject again. The fruits of Uehara’s labour were officially announced and the transfer season quickly passed. The only event of note was when the disgraced captain of Station S came by, dipping his head in gratitude as he made the rounds to thank everyone for his new post as chief of Licensing.
Administration had a transfer of its own. Officer Saito was reassigned to Criminal Investigations in Station W. She had a stubborn streak that belied her appearance, and Futawatari suspected she might give Maejima a run for his money. Futawatari, too, had started to move on. In the weeks and months that followed, the plans to rebuild the headquarters were beginning to come together. He was busy negotiating with the various departments, as well as laying the groundwork in the prefectural assembly, and the memories of Osakabe’s face and voice were beginning to fade.
Yet every now and then Futawatari still found himself asking the question.
Is he out there now? Working on the case?
Osakabe had been on his mind in June, too. Someone had told him that Megu had looked stunning in her dress. Maejima had got blind drunk and failed to notice whether Osakabe had actually shed tears. And, despite Futawatari’s suspicion that that would be the end, he continued to hear nothing of Osakabe stepping down.
Had the whole thing even happened? As another three months went by, Futawatari could no longer be sure.
He was in a bad mood on the day he found out.
The various departments had been fighting over floor space, causing a delay in putting together the blueprints for the new building. The post-bubble economy was down, too, meaning lower tax revenues, which threw the whole existence of the project into doubt. On top of this, the NPA had made one-sided requests that the Department of Community Safety be renamed the Department of Public Safety and that the Patrol Unit be renamed the Community Unit. They had also suggested that the name of one of the prefecture’s dorms, Standby Hall, was too passive and asked that that be changed, too.
And what the hell is wrong with ‘Standby Hall’? Isn’t that what the police do? Stand by until the shit hits the fan?
Futawatari was venting his frustration on his memo pad, phone under his chin, when a familiar figure walked into his peripheral vision. He drew a sharp breath.
Osakabe.
The man glanced in Futawatari’s direction before disappearing into the director’s office with Shirota in tow.
Had something happened?
Futawatari’s heart was racing; he felt suddenly apprehensive.
Osakabe was in the office for no more than five minutes. When he re-emerged, he left without even sparing Futawatari a look. Oguro and Shirota watched him go from the side of the office door. Futawatari overheard a quiet, bitter-sounding voice.
‘He could have at least apologised for all the fucking trouble.’
Had he agreed to step down?
Futawatari jumped to his feet. He made a beeline through the office and started to jog down the corridor.
Why?
He picked up speed as he made his way down the stairs, leaving the building via the main entrance. Osakabe was already inside the black sedan, which was still in its parking space.
‘Sir!’
Futawatari pressed his hands on the window. Osakabe turned to face him.
‘Sir. What changed your mind?’
‘. . .’
Osakabe’s eyes appeared to cloud over. In the next moment he issued an instruction for his driver to pull out. Something seemed out of place.
It . . . isn’t Aoki.
In his place sat a young man wearing silver-rimmed glasses. The maps, too, were gone. The back of the car held none of the towering stacks he’d seen before. The car pulled sharply away, as though to emphasise the youth of the new driver.
Futawatari remained where he was. His pulse was pounding in his ears. The clouded-over look. The new driver. The disappearance of the maps. The images flashed by in quick succession. The discrete facts began to come together, as though magnetised, joining to form clumps and eventually coalescing into a single realisation that thumped against the inside of his skull.
Impossible.
Futawatari broke into a run, almost knocking over the stunned officer on entrance duty as he made for Media Relations. Apologising to the female officer in the room, he opened the file containing the day’s papers and put it on her desk. He scanned the obituaries. The papers all had a section now, hoping it would expand their readership.
Two days. Three days. Four days ago.
Futawatari’s eyes opened wide.
There.
He hurried back out of the building. He kept running, aiming for the phone box on the main road, and kept going when he saw it was taken. His hands were shaking when he finally inserted his phone card.
‘It’s me.’
‘You calling from the office?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m outside.’
‘What is it this time?’
‘The murder. There’s one last thing I need to know.’
‘Hey, haven’t I already—’
‘The colour.’
‘Huh?’
‘I need to know the colour of the man’s hair.’