Tamaru then made a fortune from his dealings in scrap iron, moving on to shipping and port services, and no sooner had he established the Hikari Industry Group and driven up the stock price, he sold off the entire group to raise capital for the creation of the ultranationalist organization known as the Jiyu Seiwakai, the predecessor of the present-day Seiwakai. Next, in accordance with his own theory that the money would shift underground, in 1959 he helped set up a corporate underling for the Seiwakai, persuading his right-hand man, Tomoharu Okada, to create the Okada Association while he stepped behind the scenes. That was the start of his fixer business.
There was no way to know how many bribes Tamaru had smoothed the way for since then, but Shiroyama had heard that his dealings with Hinode started in 1962 when Tamaru had volunteered to act as a pipeline between the company and politico pockets over the license for a subsidiary company in the land transportation business. Though this affiliation could be described as nondescript, the fact that a single phone call, summons, or invitation to a restaurant from Tamaru was never anything less than a tacit threat was conveyed clearly in Kurata’s eyes the night Shiroyama met Tamaru. As he sat with the two of them, it was Shiroyama’s first faint glimpse of the world in which Kurata had been submerged for years, and though he thought he had been keenly aware of Kurata’s feelings, looking back he had serious doubts about how much he had truly understood.
At that gathering two years ago, Shiroyama did as Kurata had instructed him, courteously and simply bowing his head and thanking Tamaru several times. But Tamaru had left them with the parting words, “Consider this an uncontested divorce,” implying that, even though Hinode had paid the settlement and effectively severed ties with Okada, hard feelings would continue to linger. Vividly recalling Tamaru’s snake-like eyes, Shiroyama asked cautiously, “How can I help you today?”
“Oh, it’s just that I saw the papers this morning. You and I are hardly strangers, so I thought I ought to say something. If there’s any trouble, Tamaru can be of assistance.”
“Very considerate of you, I’m much obliged.”
“My hunch has never been wrong, Shiroyama-san. If your family is in trouble, it might even be necessary to forcefully snuff out the news reports while there’s still time. Better to do something than to sit around worrying, you know.”
“I’m not concerned about what the newspapers have been reporting since it’s a completely unfounded misunderstanding.”
“If you say so. Whatever the case, let me know if you need me.”
That was the end of their conversation. There was no question that Tamaru had been alluding to the matter of his niece Yoshiko. Where did he catch wind of it? Shiroyama was already asking himself. If Tamaru had homed in on not only the trouble over the recruitment exam but also the connection to the dead student’s girlfriend back in 1990, then perhaps he had heard it from the student’s surviving family members?
What is Tamaru’s aim? The answer to this question was clear. He must be applying pressure on the land purchase deal that had been deadlocked, but to do so without any subtlety at a time like this meant that perhaps he had another ulterior motive.
Okada has already sussed out the details with Yoshiko . . . The astonishment that had buzzed in his chest during the phone call had already galloped through him, but what remained was remorse for not having considered these consequences when he was released. Yet even if he had, would there have been any other alternative for him? Would it have compelled him to tell the police everything? He interrogated himself, but the only conclusion he reached was that at this point in time he could not go back on his words, publicly or privately. He had landed himself in a complicated position, and was only half convinced about his decision.
On the phone last night with his niece Yoshiko, there had been nothing in her voice to indicate she had any inkling that suspicions were swirling around the trouble with Takayuki Hatano from four and a half years ago—she had simply been happy that her uncle had returned home safe. Shiroyama now gave some thought to how, as he had listened to her bright voice, he had repeatedly asked himself what this young woman meant to him. He had always seemed to favor the playful and cheery Yoshiko over his own daughter, who resembled her parents with her tendency to suppress her emotions, but his fondness was not so much for Yoshiko personally—rather, he simply considered her a balm for the eyes and heart. Now that Yoshiko had her own family and was a mother herself, it was beyond consideration that he, as her uncle, could in any way shoulder the weight of her life as a grown woman. And yet, what does that matter? Was there any point in contradicting the statements he had already made publicly and putting Yoshiko and her family in jeopardy so that he might contend with Tamaru and Okada?
After debating these things, Shiroyama reached the decision that he would first consult with Kurata about what Tamaru had said. Then, at 9:30 a.m., fifteen minutes later than scheduled, he entered the underground storage room that had been designated as the control center, where he sat for a second interview with the police.
There, arranged on a table, were ten different bean-jam buns, five varieties of cream buns, thirty beverage products in paper cartons, and four brands of canned food. Thus began the task of identifying each of the items that Shiroyama had eaten during his confinement. It seemed to Shiroyama that the investigator was fixated on the canned pork and beans and fruit-flavored milk, but whatever reason why was unclear.
久保晴久 Haruhisa Kubo
When Chief Inspector of First Investigation Hidetsugu Kanzaki appeared at the regularly scheduled 11 a.m. press conference, his opening remarks were predictable enough. “The three papers that wrote about the matter of the 1990 tape in their morning editions ought to be ashamed of themselves. The articles in these three papers represent not only an unwarranted attack on Hinode Beer as the victim, but they could also serve to benefit the perpetrators who are threatening Hinode. It shows a lack of consideration for the individuals involved in the matter of the tape, in particular the deceased and their surviving family members, none of whom have anything to do with the incident in question. I’m sure the three papers are well aware of what they have done, so I will say no more.”
But his next words came as a surprise to the various reporters present, beginning with Haruhisa Kubo.
“Having said that, I know that I cannot keep you from writing about it, so with permission from Hinode, we will now distribute a transcript of said tape from 1990 to each newspaper. Nothing has been omitted from the original tape. However, the names of individuals have been redacted to protect their privacy.”
This was an unexpected initiative for the police to take. Murmurs rose within the cramped office of the chief inspector as members of the Public Information Division distributed sheaves of photocopied pages to each company. As Kubo received his own set—twenty pages on A4 paper—he saw that the first line on the top page read, Hinode Beer Company, Kanagawa Factory, To Whom It May Concern. This was followed by the body of the letter, which began with, I, Seiji Okamura, am one of the forty employees who resigned from the Kanagawa factory of Hinode at the end of this past February. Today, with ever so many things on my mind . . . The last page was dated June 1947.
Given that the perpetrators’ memo declaring that they had kidnapped Hinode’s president had yet to be made public, the police’s largess in sharing the letter indicated that it was a meaningless document irrelevant to the main story of the incident. Yet Kubo’s sensors were triggered by how quickly the police had responded. What was behind their reaction? What was their intention?
“This is for each of you to read the letter and decide for yourselves if a mysterious tape is worth all the fuss,” Kanzaki went on, his tone brusque. “Now, the former Hinode employee who wrote the letter and his colleague from the segregated buraku community to whom he refers in the letter have both passed away. We have been unable to confirm that this letter in fact arrived at Hinode’s Kanagawa
factory in 1947. No documents related to the matter still exist on Hinode’s end, nor have any former employees who might recall the matter with the letter been found.”
Kubo waited for Kanzaki to finish, then immediately raised his hand. “Please tell us the reason for the disclosure of the letter today.”
“Investigation Headquarters decided they would like to protect the individuals affected from further harm due to excessive coverage of the matter. As you’ll see when you read the letter, it makes references to a segregated buraku community, so those included in any reporting will inevitably suffer damages both tangible and intangible. It could even potentially cause a new threat. Therefore, I hereby request that no further mention of this matter be made, as it is unrelated to the incident in question.”
“The newspapers may not mention it again, but disclosing materials like this might only make the tabloids go on the offensive?” Kubo ventured.
“We don’t believe there is anything of interest to the tabloids here.”
Kubo sincerely doubted that was true—he suspected this may be a calculated move by Kanzaki to indirectly shake up Hinode, whose executives remained tightlipped. Or, perhaps it was a last-ditch strategy to gain some kind of advantage by leaking the letter.
While Kubo mulled this over, reporters from other papers took the opportunity to hurl their own questions.
“You say there are no problems with the investigation, but there’s talk that the letter was circulated by extortionists,” came the angry riposte from a reporter whose paper had splashed the headline mystery tape across their morning edition.
“We have not found evidence that anything like that is true,” Chief Kanzaki replied evasively.
“An extortionist and a pseudo-anti-discrimination organization were shaking down Hinode, isn’t that right?”
“Hinode filed a complaint in 1990 after receiving a tape from an unidentified sender that slandered the company.”
“The tape from 1990 and the recent kidnapping of Hinode’s president are unrelated. That’s what you’ve decided and that’s why you’ve released the letter?”
“It means that this is not the police’s concern.”
As he listened to this futile exchange, Kubo asked himself what he should do. Even if the document was meaningless, could he simply disregard a tape from 1990 that had caused enough of a dustup to lead to a complaint? Kubo shifted his gaze to the twenty-page copy in his hand and, before long, he became absorbed by the litany of unfamiliar names and places.
The author of the letter appeared to have been born and raised on a poor farm in the Tohoku region. I was born in 1915 in the village of Herai in Aomori prefecture. My family home was in the Tamodai district of that same village. In addition to working as tenant farmers on about an acre of land, my family kept a broodmare offered on loan by the landowner . . . As he read the opening passage of the confession, Kubo, who had been born in 1963, felt his head fill with questions.
4
Kyosuke Shiroyama
Friday, April 28th. Kyosuke Shiroyama began the thirty-sixth day since the incident by answering a phone call from Seigo Kurata. “My apologies for calling so early,” Kurata said. “You can expect to receive a call from Iida Shokai, regarding the contract from the other day.”
These pre-determined code words notified him that the criminals had made contact. It was the best they could manage, given that the police had installed recording devices on the landline at Shiroyama’s home. But the code offered no details about when, where, how, or the nature of the contact that had been received.
Over the last month, Shiroyama had never wavered in his conviction that the criminals would follow through on their word to make contact before Golden Week. The fear that some unexpected contingency would arise had been ever-present, but the board of directors had already resolved that, when the time came, they would assent to the criminals’ demand, so at least he knew that there would be no internal struggle to formulate a response.
When he heard Kurata’s voice, Shiroyama’s heart had jumped with the thought, At last, but he remained calm, replying, “I understand. I’ll see you later then,” before replacing the receiver. There was a small ping in a corner of his mind: the days of anticipation are over, now all I need to do is focus on our response.
But there were still various subtleties to consider. Kurata had grown extremely cautious about the company’s overall response, given that Tamaru from the Okada Association had been implicitly threatening them since right after the incident. And the criminals had waited to make contact until the initial shock of the incident had worn off and a peaceful mood had begun to settle among the executives and employees alike.
Shiroyama ate his usual breakfast. After he finished, his wife called him out to the garden, saying that the irises were in bloom, and there he saw a dozen or so of the diminutive flowers showing off their purple petals at the foot of the Himalayan cedar. During the past month, he had had no time to pay any attention to the garden—now that he noticed, it was bursting with spring flowers. These irises in the shade appeared to be the last ones to bloom.
At 7:45 a.m., punctual as ever, his driver Yamazaki pulled up in front of the house. When he suggested, “Shall we take the usual route around Oi Hankyu today?” Shiroyama replied, “That’ll be fine.” In fact, he made this response after much hesitation, remembering how the consultant Kotani had advised him not to alter his daily routine, just in case, to avoid attracting attention from the public and the police. Thus, despite Kurata’s phone call, Shiroyama spent part of that April morning exploring the city in the company car, arriving in front of Hinode’s main office at 8:20 a.m.
When the new building was constructed eight years ago, it was set back twenty meters from the road to accommodate a copse of camphor and zelkova trees, which had matured splendidly. Now at the height of spring, just before Golden Week, the vivid green of their budding leaves cast a verdant hue over the white granite pavement. Again this morning, a young man sat alone on a bench along this promenade under the new foliage. From inside the car, Shiroyama gave him a slight bow, and the man returned the gesture, rising briefly from his seat.
Apparently he was from Toho News. Ever since the incident, their reporters had been staking out the company building around the clock in three shifts—one reporter keeping watch by the main entrance and another on the south side, by the entrance to the underground parking lot. The news media seemed to suspect that the incident would take a turn at any moment, and Shiroyama could not help but be impressed by the tenacity of their reporting.
The public’s interest in the incident had waned after the first week or so—the press corps in front of Shiroyama’s home had dispersed, and Hinode’s name no longer appeared on the Metro pages of the newspapers. The tabloids ran special issues for two weeks, and their subway ads had been splashed with predictable headlines—the bizarre facts behind the hinode president’s kidnapping, the undeniable truth about hinode’s backroom dealings, all the reasons why hinode was targeted, the lineage between hinode and the underworld—and crude, titillating attacks on Shiroyama’s character—charmed nepotism, the life of an elite. From a corporate standpoint, Hinode deemed none of these stories worth an individual response, and Shiroyama hardly gave them a second glance.
On the other hand, the investigation dragged on and on. At the beginning of April, an eyewitness account of an unidentified vehicle on Ome Highway had turned up, and an investigator had informed him that the vehicle used by the criminals to transport him was most likely a dark blue Nissan Homy with a license plate ending in “54.” But the alleged vehicle had yet to be located, and it had already been ten days since Shiroyama was told that the car’s license plate may have been bogus and that the police were checking out every Nissan Homy registered in the metropolitan area.
Likewise, not a single fact about the criminals themselves—appearance, age, occupation, or lifesty
le—had yet to be uncovered. The police had tried locating the point of sale of the cans of pork and beans and cartons of fruit-flavored milk the kidnappers had given Shiroyama, but there were no stores that stocked all of the food items, which meant they must have been purchased separately from various stores.
The figure of the reporter disappeared from the rearview mirror as the car moved toward the front entrance, pulling up right on time at the porte-cochère. Briefcase in hand, Shiroyama got out, conscious that the reporter was no doubt observing him through the leafy shade as he called out “Good morning” to the guard outside the doors. The guard returned the greeting cheerfully. Other arriving employees greeted Shiroyama as well, and Shiroyama replied to each of them in turn.
The deputy manager of general affairs who had been assigned exclusively to the special control center must have been eagerly anticipating Shiroyama’s arrival and swiftly approached him. “Kurata-san is waiting for you in the control center,” he whispered and ushered Shiroyama toward the elevators.
“How did they make contact?”
“A security guard at the Kanagawa factory picked up a letter that had been thrown inside the front gate. The guard alerted the factory manager, and someone on duty immediately delivered it to us here.”
Lady Joker, Volume 1 Page 57