‘I can drive.’
‘It’s fine. We’re almost there.’
Perhaps it was Futawatari’s unparalleled talent for managing risk that had compelled him to sit behind the wheel. It was true that Tomoko had been in no state to drive when they’d left the building.
‘Do you . . .’
‘Mmm?’
‘Do you think the bike gang might be involved?’
‘It’s hard to say at this point.’
‘It’s just that I was a bit concerned. After reading the articles this morning.’
‘Understandable.’
Tomoko had expected Futawatari to agree but his response seemed unexpectedly muted. Did he have a theory of his own?
He brought the vehicle around, joining the roundabout in front of the station. Tomoko caught sight of Mizuho’s red car. The van belonging to Mobile Forensics was parked next to it. Morishima was there, too.
‘I’m getting out.’
Tomoko hopped from the not quite stationary vehicle and began to jog towards the cars.
‘Sir!’
‘That was quick, Sniffer.’
Mizuho’s car was parked at the edge of the drop-off area.
‘How long has it been here?’
‘Not quite two hours, according to those guys.’
Morishima jutted his chin in the direction of a substation located some thirty metres down the road. His team having just arrived, Yuasa and the others were still unloading their equipment from the van. Headquarters wouldn’t usually mobilise for a case like this but this was one of their own so they’d no doubt decided they couldn’t leave it in the hands of district.
Tomoko began to inspect the car. She remembered the drill. The first step was to observe from a distance. There was nothing to suggest it had come to a sudden stop. It was flush with the kerb and the front wheels were neatly aligned. There were no visible scratches or dents and the side mirrors were angled correctly. She took a walk around the chassis, checking each of the windows. No cracks, and no sign of blood.
‘Make sure you don’t touch anything.’
At Morishima’s warning, Tomoko drew her head away from the glass. She scanned the area. Footfall was high. The drop-off point was in open view. It wasn’t, she thought, a viable spot to abduct a grown woman.
‘Here.’
Yuasa’s team gathered around the car. With a practised hand, he used a standard-issue metal wire to open the lock.
‘Mind if I go first?’
Tomoko pushed her way to the front. If Pomade or Hair Oil moved in before her, she’d lose her chance to get a good whiff of the interior.
Morishima put on a pair of white gloves then opened the front door, cautioning that she was to use nothing apart from her nose. Tomoko leaned in and angled her head. She’d expected Chanel but her nose bristled at something unexpected. Cigarettes. The smell was faint but unmistakeable. It was her least favourite smell. She took another sniff, moving in until her nose was almost touching the driver’s seat. Still there was no hint of perfume. Could it have faded with time? Been overpowered by the tobacco? It was possible, she supposed, that Mizuho hadn’t been wearing any to begin with. The smell had been there in her room but no one had confirmed that she’d been wearing any when she’d left the dorm that morning.
‘Anything?’
Morishima called out from behind. Tomoko turned around and asked if they would open the ashtray. Yuasa obliged, sliding the drawer open. Two stubs. Mild Seven. The filters were unmarked, no traces of lipstick. The reporter? Tomoko’s thoughts raced as Morishima and the others exchanged looks. They looked a little let down.
‘Really? A man?’
Tomoko put her head inside for a second time. This time she ignored any smells and used her eyes instead.
Angle of rear-view mirror? Good. Sun visors? Stowed. Mats and upholstery? Clean. Anything easily missed, maybe a good-luck charm, on the floor? Nothing. Visible bloodstains? None.
‘Time’s up, Sniffer.’
The driver’s seat was positioned close to the wheel. Too narrow for a man, barring someone who was exceptionally small. Which meant that Mizuho had been driving . . .
Morishima took Tomoko by the shoulder and tugged her out of the circle of officers. It was only then, as her body relaxed, that she realised how tense she’d become. Mizuho hadn’t been abducted. There were the cigarette butts, sure, making it more or less certain that a man had been in there with her, yet there was nothing to suggest that anything untoward had taken place. If a struggle had taken place, there were always signs, but Tomoko hadn’t found any. Not one. Mizuho had driven to the station, parked her car, locked the doors and walked away. With the man who smoked the Mild Seven. Either that, or she’d come here alone with a view to meeting him later. What seemed certain was that she’d come here to the station. The parking area served the station and the station alone. Which meant she’d probably boarded a train. The Shitetsu line ran east to west, and she could switch midway to a JR train and head north or south. Those trains could take her outside the prefecture.
Tomoko’s head reeled at the thought. She realised she hadn’t yet eaten lunch. She angled her wrist to check her watch. It was already three thirty.
I should get something in my stomach.
She walked to the first shop she could see and picked up a random selection of pastries. She was about to head back to the station when she saw a phone box. Still edgy from nerves, she punched in a number. The unwelcome sound of her own voice came on after a few rings, informing her that she was out.
She left a brief message.
‘Yacho. I’m going to be late. There’s curry in the freezer.’
She put the phone down and noticed Futawatari standing behind her, holding a can of coffee.
‘Your son is in year nine?’
‘Year ten, now,’ Tomoko answered, blushing a little.
‘So he’s got exams. That’ll be tough on the lad.’
‘Yes, well, he’s kind of given up on them. Your daughter, she . . .?’
‘Started secondary school this spring. She’s cheeky, always looking for trouble.’
Futawatari had already heard from Morishima that there was nothing in the car to suggest that a crime had taken place. He told Tomoko he was going back to headquarters and asked what she was planning. She considered waiting but thought she would be too conspicuous in her uniform. Forensics, too, would be a while yet. She told him she’d come back with him, at least for the time being, and took the wheel for the return journey.
‘How did it go at the bank?’
‘She hasn’t touched her account. No activity at all.’
‘Meaning she can’t have gone far.’
‘Perhaps. Although she could probably take money out en route, if she needs it.’
‘And she might not even need to, if she’s with someone.’
‘Yes.’
Not for the first time, Futawatari’s reaction seemed a little muted. Perhaps he’d already concluded that Mizuho was by herself. That would be perfectly normal. He didn’t know about the perfume in her room or about the reporter who had given it to her. Tomoko began to worry that his judgement was being affected by the lack of information. She should probably bring him up to speed. There’d been the development of the cigarettes in the car, too. Considering there were no other men she knew about in Mizuho’s life, she decided it was probably time to mention the reporter.
‘Sir . . .’
She told Futawatari everything she had learned: about the perfume and about the man. Futawatari did seem a little surprised but his tone was as relaxed as before when he answered.
‘I suppose we should look into that.’