Junko Hayashi seemed a little taken aback to see Tomoko show up in her everyday clothes.
Tomoko led her away from her desk and sat her down on a bench in the courtyard. Once they were sitting next to each other, Tomoko reclaimed the advantage in height. As they both met the height restrictions set out for female officers, what this meant was that Junko had remarkably long legs. She sat with her knees together, her double-lidded eyes – the kind men found hopelessly attractive – looking disoriented at being called out so abruptly. She appeared not to have known about Mizuho’s absence.
‘But, that’s . . . I mean, she was dressed to come in.’
‘I know. Did you leave with her?’
‘No. I left before her.’
‘Had she been acting strangely?’
‘Strangely? I don’t think so. No different to usual.’
‘How about last night?’
‘Let’s see. I had an early night. Didn’t hear her get back, actually. I was out like a light, don’t think I heard a thing.’
Junko was the type who, in any lengthy conversation, tended to lose sight of the fact that she was an officer of the law. Tomoko was frustrated by the lack of new information but it wasn’t the only reason she felt like stamping her foot. She had been a teacher at police school at the time of Junko’s graduation.
You just make sure you don’t end up being exploited for your looks.
Seeing the potential for this in her, Tomoko had given the warning on the day of her graduation. The girl was, as feared, already becoming a trophy-like figure in Traffic Planning. She was a hit with the senior officers. Fetching tea. Running errands. Playing hostess at drinks parties. She had a penchant for flaunting her brilliant white teeth, even at work, appearing to completely forget the fact that she was in uniform.
It was, Tomoko reasoned, one way of getting on. The force was dominated by men, so it was probably the path of least resistance. And yet she knew that every one of her officers had, at some point, made the conscious decision to become an officer of the law. She didn’t ask that they put themselves in direct competition with the male officers but she did hope that they at least carve a niche for themselves, something they could be proud of, however modest. It was the only way to forge a path for their successors and the only way to silence those in the force who argued for their expulsion.
Catching sight of a female guidance officer from Juvenile Crime, Junko moved her hand in a small wave next to her abdomen. Look who’s got me. Perhaps she’d pulled a face to signal something like that, too.
Tomoko shook off her disappointment and returned to the subject at hand. ‘Mizuho owns a bottle of Chanel.’
‘Really?’
Junko’s expression showed that she was nervous. And, if she was getting apprehensive, that probably meant she knew something. Tomoko realised it would be hard to get anything out of her if she let her slip into a girls protect girls mindset. She eased in closer, up to the point where she was almost choking on the smell of shampoo.
‘Look, I’m trying to find her but I need something I can work with. Do you understand?’
‘Sure.’
‘Tell me, then, did she buy the perfume? Or did someone give it to her?’
‘She said it was a present.’
‘Do you know who from? Don’t worry, I can keep a secret. I just need to know.’
Junko sighed as though to say, Fine, if she had no choice. ‘She told me it was one of the reporters.’
‘What?’ Tomoko felt suddenly dizzy. A reporter mixing with a female officer? It was the type of relationship the force hated and feared the most. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Are they seeing each other?’
‘No. I mean, it’s not like that. It’s more like he’s her stalker.’
Junko began to ramble, her focus wandering from one subject to the next, but Tomoko managed to catch most of the salient points.
The reporter had developed a crush on Mizuho. One night, about a month back, he’d waited for her in the dorm’s parking area. When Mizuho had returned from work he’d handed her the perfume, claiming it to be a souvenir from a foreign business trip. Mizuho had, of course, refused to take it, but he’d pressed it into her hands and walked away. For a long time Mizuho had fretted over what to do. What do you think? Should I tell him to take it back? She had, it seemed, solicited Junko’s advice on several occasions.
‘What’s his name?’ Tomoko asked, sighing again.
‘She told me she doesn’t know it.’
Mizuho, it seemed, knew neither the man’s name nor which paper he worked for. She knew his face, but only because they kept ending up at the same crime scenes. That, at least, was what she’d told Junko.
‘She might have been hiding some of the truth. She liked to complain about him but she looked kind of happy at the same time.’
There was something in her eyes when she said this, some kind of spite or whimsy. Tomoko realised Junko would want to use the bathroom and fix her make-up. She released the girl ten minutes before lunchtime was over then began to make her way back to the main building.
Perfume. Reporter. Unscheduled absence.
She knew they were connected somehow, yet the pieces refused to come together. It had all happened too quickly. Only a month had passed since the reporter gave Mizuho the perfume. And even supposing their relationship had blossomed since then, it was still no reason for her to run away. The force might view their kind of relationship as taboo but society as a whole had no issues with a policewoman seeing a reporter. All she had to do to fix the problem was leave the force. Still, Tomoko understood that love could be a problem in itself. It had been known, in the past, to cause trouble on a scale that was hard to imagine.
At this stage, Tomoko had more or less dismissed the idea of a crime having occurred. A female officer, missing. She understood the severity of the situation, yet it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore her feelings of disappointment. Whatever her reasons, it seemed more and more likely that Mizuho had decided to disappear. What, given that, was the point in hunting her down and dragging her back?
In the locker room Tomoko changed back into her uniform.
It was easy to recall the elation she’d felt the first time she’d threaded her arms through the sleeves of her shirt. The sense of pride had not faded at all. Yet there’d been a time when even she had questioned herself. She still did, probably, just under the surface. She’d worried that the uniform was ungainly. That it was nothing special. That, just maybe, she’d been destined for other things. Perhaps Mizuho had simply made the decision to move on.
Tomoko left the room.
The ring on her left hand reminded her of her husband. She chided herself for thinking of him now, for wanting yet again to seek his advice, but she could not rid herself of the desire to convey her sense of helplessness to the silver object.