Prefecture D

by Hideo Yokoyama

  The man’s record remained impressive.

  He had joined the force when it had still been under local governance. He’d worked at a substation as a police sergeant and made a succession of arrests for bike theft. From there, he’d received a transfer to Criminal Investigations in district. After three more years specialising in cases of theft, he’d been called to join Violent Crime as part of Criminal Investigations, First Division, in the Prefectural HQ. The section, with its focus on violent crime and murder, was one of the most prestigious in the force. Osakabe continued to move from post to post in district, but he never once strayed from his focus on violent crime. He spent a total of fourteen years like this, five of them as team leader. From there he charted a swift course up the ranks, making assistant chief in First Division, then chief advisor, then division chief. Finally, he made director, claiming for himself the number-one role in Criminal Investigations.

  During the same period, he had also been chief of Criminal Investigations in district, served as captain of two stations and worked as sub-leader and then leader for Mobile Investigations. His secondment record, too, was beyond reproach; he had taken a two-year stint at Investigative Planning at the National Police Agency in Tokyo.

  He had left only two significant cases unsolved. The first was an armed bank robbery, the investigation of which he’d led during his time as chief of First Division. The second was the savage murder of a female office worker, which had taken place soon after his promotion to director. It seemed, in comparison, impossible to tally up the number of cases he’d personally brought to a close. Futawatari used his mouse to scroll through the list, but it seemed to go on for ever.

  He let out a deep sigh.

  There was the usual sense of admiration. Osakabe’s career in the force encompassed forty-two years, and not once had he ever thought to leave Criminal Investigations. There were other detectives working the front lines who maybe came close in terms of duration. Yet Futawatari knew, with utter certainty, that none would rise to the position of director, despite having devoted their lives to the department.

  The regions were not structured like the central hubs, such as the Metropolitan Police Department. Everything here, from an organisational perspective, was concentrated in one of five major departments: Administrative Affairs, Security, Criminal Investigations, Community Safety and Transport. The directors of Administrative Affairs and Security were sourced from the NPA in Tokyo, which left only three director-level positions available for regional officers to aspire to. Of these, Criminal Investigations was the most prestigious.

  It would seem natural, of course, for a detective who had spent his whole career in the department to assume the post of commander-in-chief, but the truth was that it hardly ever panned out this way. Detectives who ran cases twenty-four seven were left with little time to study for exams and, even when they somehow managed to prepare for them, there were still stories of old-guard detectives getting their candidates drunk the night before their exams. It was, instead, the officers who devoted some of their time to detective work, while spending the majority of it elsewhere – where they could chalk up results and manage to progress through the exams – who eventually secured the promotion.

  It even happened, depending on the given situation, that the role was offered to officers who had never been posted to Criminal Investigations, officers who lacked even a rudimentary understanding of how to run an investigation. Priority for promotion to this, the most prestigious role in the regions, was in such cases usually given to whoever had made superintendent first in their particular generation.

  And that meant Futawatari.

  Having made superintendent at forty, he stood a head above his peers. He was thin, resembling a banker more than an officer of the law, unsure even of how to make an arrest, yet his long experience in Personnel had taught him that he would, in ten to fifteen years, be put forward as prime candidate for the role.

  Whether he wanted it or not.

  Perhaps this was why the details of Osakabe’s career seemed mocking, overwhelming and why they brought about a sense of envy.

  Don’t think about it.

  To end your career as director of Criminal Investigations, a post which symbolised the apogee of life as a detective – it was a dream that most officers entertained at least once in their lives.

  Osakabe’s case was, in many ways, unique in the history of Personnel. His, granted, had been a time when advancement had still been awarded not only to those who passed exams but also to those who demonstrated outstanding results in the field. And yet Futawatari couldn’t help but suspect that luck had also played its part in the development of the man’s career.

  The man’s features hovered at the top of the screen; dark, angular, glowering, with eyes like hollows, they were those of a detective. He was exactly the kind of man Futawatari had trouble understanding. The conclusion was groundless, of course, made back when Osakabe was still on active duty. The truth was that Futawatari had had little real contact with the man, despite having been part of the same organisation for over twenty years. He could still count on one hand the number of times they had met, either when he visited the man’s office to discuss personnel or when summoned to listen to a budgetary request. Osakabe’s habitat was the fourth floor and the various divisions of Criminal Investigations, while Futawatari’s was the first and the collection of administrative functions contained within.

  Futawatari realised he knew only the glowering expression he now saw in the man’s photograph. He could not recall ever seeing the director laugh or lose his temper.

  There’s no choice. I’m going to have to confront him.

  Futawatari tried to encourage himself as he noted down ­Osakabe’s home address.

  Bought the property. Mortgage repaid. Wife and three daughters. Eldest two married some time ago. Youngest currently living in Tokyo.

  Futawatari gave Uehara, whose forehead was now glistening with sweat, a few more pointers, then left the building. Registering the cold wind, he popped up the collar of his coat.

  It was already after midnight.

  It didn’t make sense. Why was Osakabe refusing to step down? Had three years been too short? Had he grown too comfortable to give up the benefits? Neither theory seemed to fit. The image from Osakabe’s file, seen only moments earlier, was still vivid in his memory. Did he really mean it? That he would surrender his pride and disavow the force? Sell himself to industry and wade in their corruption?

  For Director Osakabe to do this . . .

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Futawatari muttered, turning away from the main building, which was now in almost complete darkness.

  There were only five days remaining until internal notification of the executive transfers. Whatever this is about, I’ll see him first thing tomorrow. Futawatari picked up speed as he walked towards the parking area, feeling an apprehension quite different to that he’d experienced going into Director Oguro’s office.

  3

  Futawatari missed Osakabe the next morning.

  He’d been ready in his car at six, in the residential area where Osakabe lived. It hadn’t taken long to find the plaque bearing the family name. Ringed by hedges of photinia, the two-storey building was strikingly modest for a man who had occupied the post of director. The neighbourhood was old, with roads that were traditional and narrow. Supposing it improper to park directly outside the man’s home, Futawatari had retraced his steps and stopped on a patch of open land next to the river. It’s just a few minutes on foot. Walk around the house, keep an eye out, then call when it looks like they’ve finished breakfast. Futawatari had formulated his plan and stepped out of the car.

  Just as he’d set off, a black sedan had driven past, coming down the road that led from the city. Futawatari had seen a man with speckled grey hair in the driving seat. He hadn’t been wearing a tie, but he’d been in a formal jacket, had firm sho
ulders and was wearing a pair of pristine white gloves. It had been too late when the understanding finally dawned. The sedan had turned into the residential area.

  Futawatari was pale from running by the time the photinia had come into view in the distance. The white gloves were already closing the back door of the car. Shoulders heaving and unable to shout, Futawatari had simply watched, stunned, as Osakabe’s profile, seen in the rear window, had glided by.

  Back at his desk in Administration, Futawatari winced as he recalled the morning’s failure. It was after seven thirty and his colleagues had begun to trickle in. He was usually the first in the office, so no one seemed surprised to see him. They would perhaps assume he had spent the night in the retreat, either working on the puzzle or on some other pressing task. He picked up the phone and pushed redial; he was beginning to get impatient. This was his fourth attempt. The phone continued to ring, telling him there was still no one at the foundation.

  Where are you?

  Osakabe had been picked up early that morning. Despite this, he had yet to arrive at the foundation. It was, Futawatari supposed, possible that he’d had an early appointment, maybe something out towards the mountains.

  He got to his feet and pushed redial one more time. He was about to give up when Saito, one of the female officers posted to the section, came in with coffee. He thanked her and told her to leave it on his desk, that he’d drink it later, then left the office. Oguro and Shirota would be in soon. He couldn’t report the morning’s debacle and sensed it would be a good idea not to subject himself to the barrage of questions they would no doubt ask.

  He checked in at the retreat. As expected, Uehara was there, wooden as he glared at his monitor with bloodshot eyes. He was balding but it was clear from the hair he did have that he hadn’t been home to shower.

  Futawatari took some time to help with the puzzle, even as he considered the idea of paying the foundation an unannounced visit.

  If Osakabe were truly serious about holding on to his position, he would be keen to avoid any would-be assassins from Administration, especially during this sensitive period. Another day had passed, meaning only four remained until notification of the transfers. If Futawatari called ahead, if he failed to take the necessary precautions, there was a chance that Osakabe would go into hiding. If that happened, the fight would be over before it had even started. Still, Futawatari did not really expect a man like Osakabe to run. And if he was out when Futawatari arrived, someone at the foundation could always follow up for him. It was a little before noon when, having run the various scenarios through his mind, Futawatari took his leave of Uehara, whose eyes were still pleading.

  It was five minutes on foot to Building F. The modern quasi-governmental building stood above the rest of the townscape, the blue-tinted panes of glass handsome as they reflected the steady flow of clouds. Inside, a high-speed lift whisked Futawatari to the eleventh floor. From there, following the sign, he walked down the corridor and found the foundation’s nameplate a few doors on. The office was larger than he’d expected. There were ten or so desks, spaced generously apart, with dense green foliage cleverly placed to fill the gaps between them. Move one, even slightly, and the whole place would have looked more like an office in the middle of being set up.

  A large topographic map was fixed to the wall on the right. The vast blueprint of the prefecture was dotted with a huge number of multicoloured pins. Red lines stretched from these, coming together in a radial pattern that traced the prefecture’s many roads. Futawatari felt as though he were admiring a work of art.

  He took a couple of steps forward and poked his head around a partition sectioning off an area next to the windows. With a view that stretched to the mountains bordering the prefecture in the distance, it was probably safe to assume that this was the office of the managing director. There was no one behind the partition’s frosted glass.

  As expected.

  A young woman wearing a suit, model-like in her good looks, greeted him with flawless manners. Behind her came a nondescript older man who had appeared from somewhere behind one of the potted plants. After a brief exchange of business cards the man who had introduced himself as Director General Miyagi gave Futawatari a sceptical once-over. No doubt his image of the police was conditioned by Osakabe, his closest point of reference.

  ‘I’m very sorry, but the managing director is out on business,’ he said, not sounding in the least bit apologetic. He gestured towards a couch at the back of the room, his expression suggesting he could perhaps be of use instead.

  Although this was the first time Futawatari had met Miyagi in person, he knew the man’s background. He had, Futawatari recalled, spent a long period in the Prefectural Government as a section chief in Environmental Sanitation. The construction industry had offered the post of managing director to the police, and it appeared that they had not neglected those working in government. Whether that was true or not, Futawatari felt sure Miyagi’s position was also one that had been arranged, and that, as such, he would be closely monitoring developments around Osakabe’s refusal to step down. He might even have a sense of the reason behind it.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘I think . . .’ Miyagi mumbled, casting his attention to the map on the wall. ‘Yes, he’s on a site inspection in the north, although I couldn’t tell you exactly where. The director, as I’m sure you know, is a very energetic man.’

  ‘A site inspection?’

  ‘That’s when we investigate areas where we’ve had cases of illegal dumping.’

  Of course. The pins in the map were there to mark dumping sites. The sheer quantity was astounding; hundreds at a glance. Futawatari had heard stories of lorries turning up with waste from the cities, but it was hard to fathom an operation on this scale.

  Why was Osakabe conducting the inspections himself?

  Futawatari considered the foundation’s mission statement, which he’d read three years earlier. Their first responsibility was to educate, providing the private sector with guidelines on how to avoid unethical disposal companies while also distributing pamphlets appealing to the general populace to report cases of dumping. They were also responsible for on-site inspections when such reports came in. In certain cases, when their survey revealed unusually high levels of waste, or found it to be in the region of a water source, the foundation would compile their findings and request an official police investigation.

  Osakabe’s passion for the inspections was clear from Miyagi’s tone. And yet a quick glance around the office was all it took to see that the foundation did not lack younger men, and men who seemed to have plenty of time on their hands. Even supposing they did lack the requisite manpower, it would still be odd for their managing director, who was sixty-three this year, to be dragging himself out in person.

  ‘Does the director usually conduct the inspections himself?’

  ‘Ah, well.’ Miyagi looked vaguely uncomfortable. ‘Yes, almost every day.’

  ‘Almost every day?’

  ‘For a year now, or thereabouts. I have suggested he get someone else to do it, of course, but he insists on doing the legwork in person.’

  Futawatari gave a nod to suggest he empathised before proceeding with his next question. ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

  ‘Probably around five or six. It’s possible he might go home directly, depending on how long the inspection takes.’

  ‘Does he usually call in?’

  ‘Not usually. We haven’t heard from him today.’

  Futawatari had been wrong to expect anything from Miyagi. It was hard to imagine this man, who was chained to the office and at Osakabe’s beck and call, having any insight into the director’s thoughts.

  The chances of getting anything useful from him were slim.

  Futawatari gave a quiet sigh and returned his gaze to the map on the wall. Osakabe was out there somewhe
re. Futawatari couldn’t guess the scale, but the map itself was enormous, possibly three metres square, with details of all the trunk roads, as well as the smaller roads that linked the prefecture’s various cities, towns and villages; even the forest roads were included.

  When he’d first entered the room the red pencil lines had seemed to take a radial pattern but, on closer examination, it was evident that they all originated from the foundation. They were a record of Osakabe’s movements, branching out in all directions, charting an incredible number of routes, each ending in a pin that marked a dumping site. Many stretched deep into the mountains, suggesting that the transgressors had a preference for out-of-the-way locations. The majority of these followed trunk roads until they were clear of cities and within range of the mountains. Once there, they forked, splitting over and over, spreading like capillaries until they reached the various dumping sites.

  The stepladder adjacent to the wall seemed to highlight the effort that would have been spent to record such a vast number of trails. The map looked to Futawatari like a testament to the foundation’s – or Osakabe’s – hard work.

  The delivery of lunch gave Futawatari the excuse he needed to get to his feet.

  I guess it’s worth a try.

  He started for the door, listening for the footsteps to confirm that Miyagi was following from behind. Keeping it casual, he turned around and lowered his voice. ‘I assume you’ve heard the news?’

  Miyagi appeared to know exactly what he was referring to. ‘Ah yes, of course. It’s been decided that the director’s term will be extended.’

  Futawatari had to work to keep his emotions in check as the lift swept him back to ground level. His feet were heavy as he walked back to the Prefectural HQ. Miyagi had appeared unshaken by the news and showed no sign of holding a grudge about it. He’d also seemed unaware of the trouble Osakabe was causing, having no doubt already congratulated the man after hearing he was staying on. Futawatari was becoming increasingly riled. Osakabe had made a unilateral decision to stay on. In his mind, there was no conflict. He was simply deciding his own path, as though the police force didn’t even exist. Did it stem from arrogance? Or from the man’s confidence in his ability to get the job done?