Shindo made his move during the first few weeks of the year.
It was night-time. He pushed the buzzer on the door of the police-issued apartment. The man’s wife answered without make-up, her hair pulled up into a bun. Looking a little startled, she scampered back indoors when Shindo introduced himself. He saw her lugging a cardboard box from one room to another. Judging by the markings, it contained components for an indicator light. A nearby factory had started subcontracting for a bike manufacturer and a number of the residents in the nearby apartments had opted to take up a lucrative sideline in assembling parts. Her husband appeared shortly, looking worried. Following his invitation, Shindo entered the apartment.
He took a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and slid it across the tatami so it rested in front of the man’s knees.
‘I believe this is yours.’
Division Chief of Public Safety, Station Q
Seeing Proprietress of Mumu
Hotel 6 9
Shindo watched Kazuo Sone’s red face turn crimson. It was difficult to look him in the eye.
He’d been behind it all. He’d typed the letter, framing himself and pushing Internal Affairs to launch an investigation. He’d cast a spotlight on his disgrace only to reveal a twist at the end, in his unmasking of the prostitution racket.
He had thought: I’ll be promoted. I’ll make damn sure of it.
His desperation must have been overwhelming. Somewhere along the line it had taken the shape of this all-or-nothing gamble.
Seventeen years had been too much.
Back when Shindo had conducted his raid on Station Q, Sone’s had been the only desk not to have a word processor. Mizutani had suspected the letter to be the work of someone who lacked experience with such machines. If Shindo had put the two facts together, they would have led him to Sone.
But he hadn’t. He couldn’t have.
The shame burned.
He’d been convinced that the claims were fabricated. That was why he’d cast his suspicion on Yanagi. He’d made it that far. Why, then, had he not seen the possibility that the very same idea might arise in the mind of the prefecture’s longest-serving inspector?
Shindo was one of those who had made superintendent and left Sone behind. He’d never spared a thought for the man. His focus had always been on chasing those still battling ahead of him. That was why he’d been unable to see it, the heartbreakingly flawed scheme of this man who’d contrived to betray his own decency.
Sone was trembling. From his hands and knees, all the way to the back of his bowed-down head, the man’s body depressingly betrayed his emotions. A uniform, freshly starched, hung on the lintel of the wall. There was a dull glint on the badge that denoted his rank as inspector. There was a water stain on the wardrobe door. Open that, and it would all be over.
The Model 36.
‘Sone.’
‘Sir, this isn’t . . .’ He collapsed forwards, his shaking fingers threading protectively around the letter. He buried his head in the tatami. ‘Sir, this isn’t what you . . .’
His voice seemed to well up from the ground.
Unheeded by the heavens for seventeen years, it was the cry of the earth.