They had reached their destination: Sun Heights, Wataridamukai-cho. It was a three-story block. They examined the rack of mailboxes in the lobby: there were twelve apartments all told.
“Wow, this place is quite swish.”
Ioka was right. The building—brand new and still immaculate—was done out in varicolored tiles designed to evoke autumn leaves.
Reiko’s watch said 10:28. Perfect timing.
“Ready?”
They walked down the first-floor external corridor to room 102, second from the end, and pressed the bell.
“Yes?” came a shy voice.
The voice was low and husky, especially for a girl of nineteen. Perhaps she’d drunk too much last night or had a touch of flu. Or was she just annoyed about them coming around?
“This is Reiko Himekawa of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department here. We spoke on the phone earlier.”
“Oh, uh, of course … I’ll open the door.”
They heard the clinking as she unlatched the door chain. The door opened a crack. A gust of warm air with a distinctly feminine scent came out.
“Good morning. Miss Nakagawa?”
Reiko held up her ID. She always made a point of doing this, especially when dealing with women who lived alone. It helped put them at ease.
“As I said on the phone, we want to ask you a few questions about your friend Kosuke Mishima. May we come in?”
“Be my guest.”
Michiko pushed the door wide open. She stiffened briefly when she noticed Ioka in the background but gestured for them both to come inside.
Reiko guessed that Kosuke Mishima had probably contacted her. How close were they? Was their relationship sexual yet? The closer they were, the more careful Reiko would need to be.
Michiko led Reiko and Ioka to a small table, then turned to the kitchen unit.
“Make yourselves at home.”
“Thanks.”
It was a single room of modest size. With just a bed, a TV, and a chest of drawers, it already felt cramped. There were piles of hairdressing and beauty magazines arranged around the walls. Reiko had expected something more stylish and tasteful from an aspiring hairdresser.
Where were all the normal cutesy, playful knickknacks most girls her age had? There were no Mickey Mouse or Miffy Rabbit stuffed animals, nor posters of singers like Kazuya Kamenashi or movie stars like Brad Pitt. The room reminded Reiko of a prison cell. Or was she being uncharitable? Either the girl was unusually serious, or else she was just plain hard up.
The girl boiled some water in the kettle and served them tea. Lipton.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you.”
“Thanks. That looks delicious.”
Michiko’s eyes darted to Reiko’s folded coat, which was sitting on a chair.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Let me hang that up for you.”
“Really, that’s fine,” countered Reiko tersely. There were things in the pockets, so she didn’t want anyone else handling it.
The girl bowed discreetly and lapsed into silence.
Seems like a sensible girl.
Michiko was slight and around middle height. The chest beneath her knit sweater was flat, and her denim-clad legs were almost repellent in their thinness. Her features were regular, with a hint of squiffiness. She had buckteeth and over-prominent gums that were on show whenever she opened her mouth to speak. Not as bad as Ioka’s, though.
What was that theory of Otsuka’s?
Reiko suddenly remembered how Otsuka, her deceased squad mate, had lectured her about his preference for girls with a minor physical flaw like buckteeth or a snub nose, and the complex to go with it. “They’re actually the cutest ones,” he’d insisted.
Now she finally understood what Otsuka had been getting at. There was something rather charming about the way Michiko hesitated before speaking and the care she took to keep her mouth shut tight when she wasn’t saying anything. She was insecure—in a delightful way.
Ioka swallowed down the last of his tea.
“That hit the spot,” he said with a contented sigh.
Picking up her cup, Reiko took a sip.
“I’m sorry to have phoned you so early this morning. I hope we’re not disrupting your day?”
Michiko picked up her cup.
“I do have school today,” she said blankly. “But I arranged to take the day off.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. If we’d known…”
Michiko shook her head.
“I didn’t feel so good when I woke up this morning and was planning to take the day off anyway.”
“Either way, we’re inconveniencing you. Are you feeling better?”
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“We’ll get this interview out of the way as fast as possible, I promise. Let’s get started. First, can you tell us about your relationship with Kosuke Mishima?”
“He’s … a friend,” she replied with no hint of shyness.
“What kind of friend?”
Michiko cocked her head.
“He was a customer at the diner where I work. He used to come in quite a lot; he’s about the same age as me, so we ended up friends.”
“I see. What can you tell me about the day before yesterday?”
The girl’s jaw tightened briefly. Subtle enough, but that was definitely an emotional reaction.
What’s that about?
“The day before yesterday? I was on the late shift from ten. Mishima came in not long after I started.”
She called him Mishima. Wouldn’t most girls refer to their boyfriend by their first name or have a nickname for them?
“How long did Mishima stay?”
“Until just before midnight, I think.… Yes, that’s about right.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yes. He was reading, I think.”
Not wanting to come across as an inquisitor, Reiko nodded casually and let a little time elapse before her next question.
“By the way,” she asked with a smile. “Do you remember what he ordered?”
“Seafood gratin followed by coffee, I think.”
“Can we confirm that at the diner?”
“Confirm what?”
“That Mishima was alone.”
Michiko said that, yes, she thought that the day before yesterday shouldn’t be a problem. At the restaurant, they recorded the number of people in a group, as well as gender and age.
Whether the manager would share the data with them was another matter.
Michiko looked first at Reiko and then at Ioka.
“Has … something happened?”
Had Kosuke already filled her in? Or hadn’t he told her anything yet? Either way, he didn’t have much information to share.
“Yes, something has. I’m afraid that Kenichi Takaoka, Mishima’s boss, is dead.”
She barely flinched. Was that significant?
“Mr. Takaoka was like a second father to him.”
“Yes.”
“You used the word dead. Do you really mean that he was killed?”
Reiko let a moment pass, then nodded gravely.
“We can’t yet say so with complete certainty, but, yes, we believe that to be the case. The investigation has only just started, so there’s a great deal we still don’t know.”
Reiko broke off to take a sip of tea.
What’s this girl really thinking?
She radiated grayness, drabness.
There was also a hint of twitchiness, of nerves about her. Was she hiding something, or was she just high-strung by nature? With her frank answers and ready eye contact, her personality seemed robust enough. Of course, that could just be a professional gloss she’d acquired working as a waitress.
I’ll probe a little deeper.
“You live alone?” Reiko asked, letting her eyes run around the room. A shadow flitted across Michiko’s face.
“Starting two months ago, yes.”
“What about your parents?”
“My mother died when I was a baby. And my father—” The words caught in her throat. “He died early October this year.”
Reiko clasped her hands and bowed her head. Ioka, seated beside her, did the same.
“We’re sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“Was he sick?”
Michiko shook her head blankly.
“It happened at work. An accident.”
“How awful,” said Reiko, and left it at that. It was a deliberate ploy: create a silence and wait for the other person to fill it. She wasn’t proud of herself, but she wanted Michiko to talk.
“He was working on a construction site, when he slipped and fell from the scaffolding on the tenth floor of the building. The body was in a bad way; he hit the scaffolding on the way down. The face was uninjured, though. I identified him.”
He died at a construction site?
Was there any link between her father and Takaoka and Mishima? The other two men worked in construction too.
Reiko nodded sympathetically.
“What was your father doing at the time of the accident? Affixing sidings to the external wall, something like that?”
“No, he was what people in the trade call a ‘kite’—someone who erects the exterior scaffolding. They were getting all the ladders and gear in place for the next phase of construction work.”
“Had he always been a scaffolder?”
Michiko gave a shrug. She seemed to be getting bored with this line of questioning. Reiko, however, wasn’t planning to step back quite yet.
Once again, she just kept quiet and waited.
It was Michiko whose patience gave out first.
“He used to be a salesman for an apartment developer. He switched to the construction side a few weeks before he died.”
Although Reiko was keen to ask why he had made the switch, she stopped herself. There was no harm in being discreet. For now, all she needed Michiko to do was to confirm the alibi of the man who’d discovered the crime scene.
“There’s just one question I need to ask you, more for reference than anything else,” blurted out Ioka. “Could you tell us the name of the firm your father was working for when he died?”
His voice was the same idiotic singsong as always. Michiko’s face registered no emotion. She appeared to be staring into the empty space between the two of them, as if there were a third person sitting there.
“Kinoshita Construction,” she replied. “I think it’s based in Setagaya. I’m not too sure though.”
“Kinoshita Construction? Thanks.”
That brought the interview to a close. Reiko jotted down the task force’s phone number on one of her name cards and handed it to Michiko.
They were already out in the passageway when Michiko called them back.
“What is it?”
“I just wanted to ask, is Mish all right?”
The question could mean several things. Did they regard Mishima as a suspect? How was he holding up after losing his surrogate father? Did Michiko need to worry about him being in possible danger?
From the interview, Reiko had got the impression that Michiko and Mishima weren’t all that close. The girl calling them back to inquire about “Mish” showed that in fact she cared about him deeply.
Reiko gave her an encouraging smile.
“He’s all right,” she replied. “If you’re worried about him, give him a call. I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”
Reiko smiled again and Michiko, looking relieved, smiled back.
She’s a sweet kid, really, thought Reiko to herself.
* * *
Reiko and Ioka took the train back to Kamata, where they headed for the municipal government office. Reiko handed over a formal written request and in return was presented with Kenichi Takaoka’s resident’s card. The information on it included a record of all the places that Takaoka had lived. He’d moved to the Kamata area twelve years ago; prior to that, he’d lived in South Hanahata in Adachi Ward, in east Tokyo. They would have to go and visit his previous residence in the next day or two.
“Lieutenant Reiko, I’m famished. How about you?”
“Half past one already? Shall we get some lunch here?” Reiko gestured at a branch of Matsuya, the beef-and-rice fast-food chain.
Ioka looked unenthusiastic.
“Fine, I’ll go by myself, then.”
She crossed the street and went in; Ioka followed reluctantly.
“I was hoping we could go somewhere a little more romantic.”
“Exactly what I don’t want. Here we get served fast and can get out fast.”
With lunch out of the way, they headed back to Kawasaki.
When they got to the Royal Diner, two-thirds of the tables were empty.
“Welcome to the Royal Diner. Is it just the two of you today?”
Content to be treated as an ordinary customer for now, Reiko nodded. The waitress, who looked about the same age as Michiko, led them to a table.
After they sat down, the waitress launched into her spiel about the day’s specials and how to use the electric bell to order.
“Excuse me, miss,” interrupted Reiko. “We need to see the manager or whoever the person in charge here is.”
When the waitress looked a little skeptical, Reiko whipped out her badge. The girl’s face tensed. With a jerky bow, she dashed into the back of the restaurant.
In under a minute, the manager—he said his name was Saito—came over to their table.
They both got to their feet.
“My apologies. I know you must be very busy. I’m Lieutenant Himekawa of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police, and this is Sergeant Ioka, my colleague.”
“Afternoon.”
They all bowed, and Saito sat down with them at their table.
“How exactly can I…?”
“It’s not you we’re here for, Mr. Saito. I believe you have a Miss Michiko Nakagawa working as a waitress here?”
“That’s correct.”
No visible reaction.
“Do you happen to know a Kosuke Mishima? A friend of Miss Nakagawa’s?”
Saito repeated the name dubiously.
It only needed Reiko to provide a few further details before Saito nodded brightly.
“Michiko’s boyfriend? Oh, yes, I know him.” His face became clouded suddenly. “Why? Has something happened?”
Interesting. The restaurant staff apparently saw Mishima as Michiko’s boyfriend.…
“To him, no. We were hoping you could consult your billing data and tell us, first, if he was here the night before last, and, second, if so, around what time.”
Saito looked dismayed.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, with a small tip of the head. “Unless you have a warrant, I’m not at liberty to share that data with you. We have strict rules about privacy.”
Reiko had expected as much.
“I understand. What about you, Mr. Saito? Were you out on the restaurant floor around 11:00 p.m. the night before last?”
“Yes, I was on the graveyard shift. I took the occasional break, but basically I was here all night.”
“Do you remember seeing the young man here that night?”
Saito nodded.
“Uh-huh, he was definitely here. I got the impression that he and Michiko had come here together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the boyfriend got here first. It was unusual for him to come when she wasn’t here, and just a minute or two later, she showed up and started sorting out the drinks behind the counter. They came in so soon one after the other, my guess is that they arrived here together. The interval was just long enough for her to change into her uniform.”
“Do you remember how long Mishima stayed?”
“He normally sticks around about an hour and a half, maybe two. It was probably the same that night. If it’d been shorter than usual, I’d have picked up on it.”
“Were you out here when he left?”
“I was. Any normal customer, I’d probably not have noticed, but as he’s Michiko’s young man, I guess I keep a special eye on him.”
What exactly did that mean?
“Does the restaurant have any rules about staff fraternizing with customers?”
Reiko hooked her left and right index fingers together. Saito chuckled and shook his head.
“No, we don’t. Obviously, I’d have to have a word with any waitress who spent all her time yapping with a particular customer, but Michiko isn’t like that. She’s a young girl. It’s good for her to meet people.”
The manager frowned suddenly.
“Something on your mind?”
“Not really,” Saito murmured, looking a little agitated. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’m just imagining things, but Michiko did seem a little … odd that night.”
“Odd?”
“It was nothing major. When I asked her to do something, she was slower to respond than normal. And the jobs she normally handles very efficiently—things like collecting the dirty plates from tables—one of the other girls was always getting to it first and doing her job for her. When she realized what was happening, she apologized.”
Saito paused a moment. “Yes, and she seemed a bit jumpy, a bit edgy. This customer knocked his glass off the table and it smashed. It happens all the time, and we’re all used to it. That night, she seemed not just startled but almost frightened at the noise. Yeah, now that I think about it, she wasn’t her usual self.”
Sensitive to loud noises. Easily startled. On edge.
Reiko had an idea what might have been behind the girl’s behavior, if Saito’s impression was right, of course. She had been in a similar psychological state herself once.
Something nasty happened to Michiko Nakagawa that night. Chances are it was physical violence.
3
Kusaka and Satomura had finished their interview of Kosuke Mishima, and the two men were now having lunch in the cafeteria at Kamata Police Station. Kusaka was having chop suey with a side order of udon noodles in broth. Just watching how much cayenne pepper mix Kusaka put on his food was making Satomura’s eyes water.
“That Mishima’s typical of kids today. Flies off the handle for no reason.”
“Typical?… Perhaps.”
Kusaka pictured the face of Yoshihide, his fourteen-year-old son. Would Yoshihide be surly and uncontrollable in a few years’ time?
Soul Cage--A Mystery Page 9