Journey Under the Midnight Sun

by Keigo Higashino

  ‘We’ve been putting a lot of energy into these systems here over the last two or three years. Our company’s been growing rapidly and there’s a real age gap between our veterans and our new recruits. That means when our veterans hit retirement age we’re going to lose all of our experts. Particularly in metallurgy, heat management and chemical processes in manufacturing, we need the knowledge and know-how of professionals, which makes losing our veterans really hard. Which is why we’re building an expert system now so even our younger technicians can handle the job.’

  ‘And that’s your manufacturing expert system?’

  ‘Precisely. We’ve been developing it in tandem with the manufacturing technology and systems development divisions. It’s already on their workstations and usable, or it was supposed to be,’ Narita said. ‘Right?’ He looked at the other three.

  ‘It should be working,’ Makoto said. ‘You need a tech password in order to use it, though.’

  The technological information search password was what kept the company’s proprietary information out of the hands of anyone outside the company and any employee who didn’t have clearance. Makoto’s patent division members all had access because they needed to be able to search patent information to do their jobs.

  ‘Anyway, that’s enough explanation,’ Narita said, lowering his voice. ‘That doesn’t have much to do with us. Since the manufacturing expert system is only being used within the company, it won’t affect us in patents. At least, it shouldn’t have.’

  ‘But something happened?’ one of the men asked.

  Narita nodded. ‘They just had a visit from somebody in system development. Apparently, there’s a computer program that’s been making the rounds of several mid-level manufacturers. A metallurgy expert system.’

  Everyone exchanged glances.

  ‘Is there some problem with the software?’ Makoto asked.

  Narita leaned forward. ‘Someone on the team got a copy and systems development and manufacturing tech were looking through the program and they found some data that looked a whole lot like the metallurgy component of our manufacturing expert system.’

  ‘Did someone leak our program?’ one of Makoto’s superiors asked.

  ‘We can’t say for sure, but it’s definitely a possibility.’

  ‘And we don’t know who’s distributing the software?’ Makoto asked.

  ‘No, we do. It’s a software company in the city. In Tokyo. They were handing it out as PR.’

  ‘PR?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a demo version, apparently, with only a small subset of the usual data. You try it out and if you like it you buy the full package.’

  Makoto nodded. It sounded like samples a cosmetics company might send out.

  ‘The problem is,’ Narita continued, ‘in the event that part of our system did get leaked, and they designed their program based on our data, how do we prove it? And once we do, can we use legal means to shut them down?’

  ‘And we’re going to be looking into that?’ Makoto asked.

  Narita nodded. ‘There’s early precedent for enforcing copyright on software. But it’s very hard to prove whether the contents were copied or not. It’s a bit like plagiarism – it’s hard to draw the line between coincidental similarity and theft. But we have to do what we can.’

  ‘Yes, but,’ Yamano said, ‘if our expert system did get leaked, how did it happen? I thought all of our technical information was kept under lock and key.’

  Narita grinned. ‘There’s an interesting story there about a certain company that developed a new kind of turbocharger. They made each of the components – all top secret – and after months they finally had a prototype put together. Then two hours later’ – Narita leaned closer to Yamano – ‘the exact same turbocharger arrived on the desk of the section chief in charge of turbo engine development at a rival company.’

  Yamano’s eyes went wide. ‘Just like that?’

  Narita was still smiling. ‘That’s the development race for you.’

  Makoto smiled wryly at the naivety of the new recruit. He could sympathise – he’d heard a similar tale not long before.

  It was a little after eight o’clock by the time Makoto returned to his apartment in Seijo. They had already started analysing the expert system, and that meant mandatory overtime.

  When he opened the door, he thought he probably should have worked a little longer. It was pitch black inside the apartment.

  He went through the foyer, hallway, and living room, turning on the lights in each room. Even though it was already April, the house had sat cold all day, and he could feel the chill of the floor even through his slippers.

  Makoto took off his coat, sat down on the sofa, and loosened his tie. He picked a remote control off the table and pressed the big red button. Several seconds later, an image of a mangled railcar resolved on his thirty-two-inch big-screen TV. He’d seen the footage several times already, a news report of a train collision in a Shanghai suburb last month. The programme seemed to be talking about the aftermath of the accident. A hundred and ninety-three Japanese students on a school trip from a private high school in Kochi Prefecture had been on board. Twenty-six of them and the student leading the trip were dead.

  The reporter was saying that talks between Japan and China on compensation for the loss were stagnating.

  Makoto changed the channel, hoping to catch a ball game, but then remembered it was Monday and turned off the TV. The house felt even quieter than it had before he turned it on. He looked at the clock on the wall. The clock face had a floral pattern – it had been a wedding gift – and it read 8.20.

  Makoto stood, undid the buttons on his shirt, and poked his head into the kitchen. It was spotless, not a single dirty dish in the sink, and the well-arranged utensils all glittered as if brand new. But he was less concerned with the cleanliness of the kitchen than learning what his wife was going to do about dinner that night. He wanted to know if she had made something before she went out, or was planning on cooking something when she came back. From the look of the kitchen, the answer was the latter.

  He looked at the clock again. Only two minutes had passed.

  Pulling out a ballpoint pen, he wrote a large X on today’s date on the wall calendar to mark that he’d come home first. He’d started with the marks this month. He hadn’t told his wife what they meant yet. He was saving that for the right time. It wasn’t a particularly nice thing to do, but he felt that he had to record what was going on in some objective fashion.

  There were already ten X marks on the page, and they were only halfway through the month.

  He regretted for at least the hundredth time having permitted her to work and, at the same time, he hated himself for being so petty.

  It had been two years since he married Yukiho.

  As Makoto had expected, she was the perfect wife. She was good at everything, and everything she touched turned to gold. He was particularly impressed with her cooking. She was equally at home making French, Italian or Japanese, and it was always indistinguishable from something you might have in a restaurant.

  ‘I hate to say this, but you are the century’s most lucky man,’ a friend said. Makoto had invited some people over to the house for a party after they got married. ‘A beautiful bride, and yet she’s not content to just be beautiful. She’s also an amazing chef. When I think I live in the same world as you, I hate myself.’ The sentiment – and the jealousy that lay beneath – was shared by the other guests.

  Makoto praised her cooking too. For the first few months after they’d got married, he made a comment almost every day.

  ‘My mother used to take me to some pretty good restaurants,’ she responded the first time he paid her the compliment. ‘I think you have to eat delicious things when you’re young to have a true appreciation for food.’ She blushed. ‘So I’m glad you like mine.’

  The shyness with which she had said it only endeared her to him more.

  And yet those halcyon ear
ly days of their marriage were over in the space of about two months. It all started with a seemingly innocuous conversation.

  ‘What do you think about playing the market?’

  ‘The stock market?’

  For a second, he didn’t even know what she was talking about. Back then, the stock market had seemed so far removed from their lives. He was more bewildered than surprised.

  ‘What do you know about stocks?’

  ‘Quite a bit. I’ve been studying.’

  Yukiho pulled several books on buying and selling stocks for beginners off of the bookshelf. Makoto didn’t do a lot of reading, so he’d never even noticed them.

  ‘Why do you want to buy stocks?’ Makoto said, changing tack.

  ‘It’s just I have so much extra time sitting at home doing housework. And the market’s really good right now. It’s a lot better than just parking the money in a bank somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not without risk.’

  ‘That comes with the territory. That’s why they call it “playing” the market,’ she said, smiling brightly. ‘It’s just a game.’

  That turn of phrase – ‘it’s just a game’ – troubled Makoto. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it almost felt like he’d been betrayed.

  What she said next only strengthened that impression. ‘It’s OK. I know I won’t lose. And I’ll just use my own money anyway.’

  ‘Your own money?’

  ‘I have a little savings.’

  ‘Well, I know that, but —’

  He didn’t like that expression either – her own money. They were married. Didn’t their money belong to both of them?

  ‘No?’ Yukiho said, looking up at him. Makoto didn’t say anything, and she sighed.

  ‘I know, I know. I haven’t even really come into my own as a housewife. I probably shouldn’t start running off to other things quite so soon. I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again.’ Shoulders sagging, she picked up her books on stock trading and put them back on the shelf.

  Makoto watched her thin frame from behind and thought what an ungenerous man he was. She’d never really asked him for anything before now.

  ‘I have a few conditions,’ he said. ‘Don’t go too deep, and never borrow money. Can you live with those?’

  Yukiho turned around. Her eyes were sparkling. ‘Really, you mean it?’

  ‘Only if you can promise to follow the rules.’

  ‘I will, I promise, thank you,’ she said, hugging him.

  And yet, as he put his hands around her narrow waist a bad premonition crept over him.

  As it was, Yukiho kept her promise to him. She played the market and their fortune grew. Makoto didn’t know how much money she started with, nor how much training she did. Yet whenever the stockbroker called the house and he heard them talk, it was clear she was dealing in sums of more than ten million yen.

  For a while, her life centred on the stock market. She would go to a brokerage twice a day to keep a handle on the market. And because she never knew when her broker might call, she hardly ever left the house. When she did, she would make a phone call every hour. She read six newspapers, including a financial paper and one aimed at professionals in manufacturing.

  ‘OK, that’s enough,’ Makoto said one day. Yukiho had just got off the phone with a broker and the phone had been ringing all morning. Normally Makoto would be at work so he didn’t care, but that day was the anniversary of the company’s founding and everyone had the day off. ‘I can’t even enjoy my day off. And we can’t go anywhere because you’re too busy trading. If we can’t live a normal life, I don’t see what the point is.’

  It was the first time he’d ever raised his voice since they’d started dating. It had been eight months since their wedding.

  Yukiho stood in silence for a moment, either surprised or in shock. When Makoto saw how pale she looked, he immediately felt sorry.

  But before he could apologise, she did. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be ignoring you. Please believe me. I just got carried away, that’s all, because things are going well. I’m sorry. I’m a terrible wife.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘No, it’s OK, I understand,’ she said, picking up the receiver. She called the broker and, right then and there, told him to sell all of her stocks.

  When she hung up, she turned around to look at Makoto. ‘I can’t do anything about the investment trusts right away. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK with this?’

  ‘I’m fine. It feels good, to be honest. And I can’t believe I was ruining your life over it.’

  Yukiho sat down on her knees on the carpet and looked down at the floor. Her shoulders were trembling. A tear fell on the back of her hand.

  ‘Let’s not talk about it any more,’ Makoto said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  The next day, everything in the house having anything to do with stocks was gone. Yukiho didn’t even talk about them.

  And yet it was clear that the spring had gone out of her step. She seemed bored. Because she wasn’t going out, she stopped putting on make-up, and she hardly ever went to the beauty salon.

  ‘Wow, I look terrible,’ she said once, looking into the mirror and laughing weakly.

  Makoto had even recommended she try taking some courses at a community college, but she didn’t seem that interested in learning anything. She’d been taking tea ceremony, flower arrangement, and English lessons since she was in school – maybe that had something to do with it.

  He knew what they really needed to do was have children. Raising a child would steal away all of that free time overnight. And yet, they couldn’t. They stopped using birth control half a year after the wedding, but Yukiho showed no signs of getting pregnant.

  Makoto’s mother wasn’t pleased. It was her belief that couples should have children early, when they were still young. She had, on more than one occasion, suggested they pay a visit to the doctor.

  Makoto wanted to, too, for that matter. He even suggested as much to Yukiho, but she refused outright, an unusual move for her. When he asked her why, she said, her eyes a little red, ‘What if the operation I had made it so I can’t have kids? I don’t think I could live with myself.’

  ‘Even if that’s what it is, we should find out. It might be something they can fix.’

  But she only shook her head. ‘Fertility treatments don’t really work, you know. And if we can’t have kids, so be it. Unless you don’t want to be with a woman who can’t bear children.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying. I don’t care about children,’ he sighed. ‘Fine, we won’t talk about it.’

  Makoto understood how horrible it was to badger a woman about not being able to have a family, so he hardly ever mentioned it after that conversation. To his mother he said that they had both gone to the hospital, she’d had a check-up, and there were no problems.

  But sometimes he would catch Yukiho muttering to herself, ‘Why can’t I have children?’ And every time, the next thing she would say was, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have had that abortion.’

  All Makoto could do was listen in silence.

  Makoto was lying back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, when he heard the front door open. He sat up a little. The clock on the wall read nine.

  He heard footsteps in the hall and the door flew open.

  ‘Sorry I’m so late!’