The transition to autumn was unmistakeable. The neatly trimmed hedges of photinia had grown withered and unattractive. They were, Futawatari supposed, at their best when newly blooming and vividly red.
‘Did you get what you wanted?’ In the tatami room, under the watch of the Shinto altar, Futawatari’s voice was muted.
Osakabe was dressed in traditional attire. He sat with his arms crossed, his sunken eyes fixed on Futawatari.
The sample of hair had been grey. Rather than tell him outright, Maejima had simply named a brand of hair dye.
Genichiro Aoki had died from an overdose of sleeping pills. Judging by the number he took, I’d say it was probably suicide. An inspector from Forensic Autopsy, a colleague of Futawatari’s from his substation days, had shared his private opinion. The death had occurred not long after the newly wed Megu had returned from her honeymoon. The inspector, head cocked to one side, had seemed puzzled as to why the man would kill himself.
‘Sir, you drove him to . . . I guess I played a part, too.’
‘. . .’
Osakabe’s poker face showed no signs of cracking. Futawatari let out a heavy sigh. Osakabe had found out the truth. All of it.
It had begun with a coincidence.
Aoki had given up his job as a taxi driver, opting instead to take the more comfortable role of driving for the foundation. He would never have expected that he would end up working for a retired police officer. He’d told Futawatari as much, that he’d discovered this only after he’d accepted the job.
Osakabe’s curiosity would have been piqued. There were, of course, countless men with greying hair. Yet that would not have stopped him from focusing on one presented to him like this. It was a detective’s nature to follow every lead, however remote.
Perhaps their meeting had been more than coincidence. Aoki had driven for Miyagi before his invitation to work for the foundation. It was possible Osakabe had had his eyes on Aoki from the start. If so, he might well have played a part in Aoki’s eventual employment.
Whatever the case, it had become Osakabe’s routine to watch the man from his place at the back of the sedan. Then, one day, something had caught his attention. Aoki would have avoided taking a particular route. Or perhaps exhibited a subtle change in behaviour when driving past a particular area.
One of the seven assault sites.
Criminals don’t return to the scene of the crime. They do all they can to avoid it.
Osakabe would have been sceptical at first. That was why he’d decided to make such an overwhelming number of trips. Miyagi had said that Osakabe had been making his daily excursions for a year. That fitted with the start of Aoki’s employment. Osakabe had compelled the man to drive, day after day after day. Through the mountains, through the cities, in every direction. The whole time, Osakabe had been keeping watch, tailing his suspect, staking him out. The assault sites would have been etched in his mind. Which route would Aoki take? When and where would he exhibit a change in behaviour? Observing it all with a keen eye, Osakabe had taken note of the man’s every gesture, glance and breath. He’d recorded the details on the enormous map in the foundation and in the stacks of maps in the car. And he’d done it all in front of Aoki so as to gradually dial up the pressure. Chemical analysis had robbed the force of the only evidence they’d had. Intimidation was the only way to close the case. Osakabe would back the man into a corner and force a confession.
That was the conclusion he’d reached.
But a year had gone by and Aoki’s guilt had remained in question. Osakabe had failed to turn up anything conclusive. That was when he’d decided to continue the investigation and to stay on at the foundation.
What about Aoki’s take on all this?
Shortly after his appointment he had found out that Osakabe had been in the force. He’d have been spooked. Yet he would not have known that Osakabe had led the investigation into the murder, nor that he was the father of one of the victims. It was possible he’d treated the threat lightly. Four years had passed since the last assault and the investigation had never closed in. He’d been careful, too, so as not to get caught. He hadn’t ejaculated. He’d worn a stocking to conceal his face and to stop any hairs from going astray. And chauffeuring was preferable to driving a taxi. He didn’t want to let the opportunity slip him by. That would doubtless have been part of his thinking.
Approaching one of the assault sites, he would have opted wherever possible for an alternative route. When that wasn’t an option he’d have held his breath and driven straight on. Osakabe had been using maps to keep track of their routes. Aoki hadn’t known why but, over time, this had given rise to the unpleasant sense that he was being surveilled. He would have considered leaving the job. But his daughter had been due to get married in September the following year. He’d have needed the money. So he’d forced himself to keep going, despite the increasing anxiety. No doubt it had happened something like that.
That was when Futawatari had appeared with his mission to talk Osakabe into giving up his position at the foundation. Osakabe had shunned contact at first, convinced he would only get in the way of his investigation. But Futawatari had persisted. He’d even begun to suspect that Osakabe’s desire to stay on was in some way connected to the murder. Osakabe had been forced into making a decision. He could continue his surveillance of Aoki, applying gradual pressure, as before, or he could take a risk and use Futawatari’s unscheduled appearance to his advantage.
He’d decided on the latter.
That was why he’d told Futawatari to continue when he’d seen his reluctance to talk in front of Aoki, making sure the subject of the murder came up. His next play had been taboo. He’d told Futawatari the force had a sample, a hair, when none existed. He’d said the case would be closed, and soon. The words had, of course, been for Aoki. And Futawatari’s blind stumbling had made him complicit in the entrapment.
Aoki would have been terrified. A retired police officer and an on-duty inspector were discussing a murder that he’d committed. Osakabe was also claiming that the force had hard evidence in the form of a hair. That would have panicked Aoki. He’d have thought about leaving the job. But that would only arouse suspicion. He’d have realised that, too. His thoughts would have turned to disappearing. But that would be tantamount to confession. He would become a wanted man, spend the rest of his life on the run. What would become of his wife? Of his daughter and her wedding? He’d spent sleepless night after sleepless night. With each passing day, he’d increased the dosage of his sleeping pills. He’d have been haunted by images of Osakabe. By those sunken eyes, unwavering, fixated on his back.
The eyes that were now trained on Futawatari, their only purpose, it seemed, to dig into a man’s soul. They had watched Aoki relentlessly for the six months following Futawatari’s return to everyday life in Administration.
But was that all that Osakabe had done? There was one more question Futawatari felt he had to ask.
Osakabe’s wife came in with tea and knelt on the floor to serve it. She would not, Futawatari knew, reappear until it was time for him to leave. He waited for her footsteps to fade before he broke the silence.
‘Did you get a confession?’
‘. . .’
‘Did he admit to his crimes?’
Osakabe closed his eyes. He sat like that for some time. Futawatari sighed. Warm afternoon sunlight bounced off the water in the ashtray, flickering over the sliding doors.
‘What do you intend to do now?’
Futawatari had meant to ask two questions with this. What will you do after the foundation? And: What will you do to process all that’s happened?
‘Sir, Aoki is dead.’
‘. . .’
‘The bastard’s dead. There’s nothing more you can do.’
‘No,’ Osakabe whispered.
‘Sir?’
‘Maybe the bastard’s dead. The moment you say that is the moment you’re done as a detective.’
‘. . .’
‘The bastard’s out there, having the time of his life. That’s what we’re here for. Understand?’ Osakabe closed his eyes again. He might have been asleep, except there was no peace in his expression.
He hadn’t heard Aoki confess. Futawatari was sure of it now. Which meant that the man would live on, his guilt never proven.
It was time to leave.
Osakabe’s wife saw Futawatari to the door, remaining in a deep bow until he had disappeared from view. He walked to the patch of open land next to the river.
Osakabe would not celebrate Aoki’s death. Despite his conviction that Aoki was the culprit, he had not requested a background check. He’d had Megu to consider. She was newly married, finally happy. News of an arrest would only drag her back into the nightmares of the past. Not wanting that, he would have perhaps chosen to run the man into a corner, force him into taking his own life. Perhaps that had been his plan all along. It was one he wouldn’t forgive himself for. Get the bastards in cuffs – that was the duty of a detective.
Futawatari gazed up at a clear sky. The cost projections for the new helicopter would be on his desk in Administration. Their pilot was getting old. Perhaps, for the next one, they could train up someone in the force. Still, the safe bet was probably to arrange another transfer from the self-defence forces.
He stretched up, reaching for the blue.
Maybe I’ll pay Maejima’s ugly mug a visit, once today’s done.
He remembered something. Hurrying back to the car, he began to rummage through his overstuffed briefcase. It was in there somewhere; it had to be. Forgotten until now, he looked for the gift his wife had given him six months earlier to celebrate Maejima’s eldest starting school.