Prefecture D

by Hideo Yokoyama

  Whatever the case, Futawatari realised he still had no grasp on the crux of the issue: the motivation behind Osakabe’s decision. A young, female secretary. A spacious, comfortable office. A car and chauffeur at his disposal from the break of dawn. It was cosy. Of course it was cosy.

  But there was something else to consider.

  Force of habit.

  Hurrying to the scene after a civilian tip-off. Combing through the detritus, finding a clue that might lead to the source. It was all too similar to the work of a detective. Fixing a map to a wall, adding pin after pin to mark the sites of investigation. The picture was an exact match to that of an Investigative HQ tracking down its quarry.

  Once a detective . . .

  He couldn’t help thinking it. Futawatari saw again the topographical map, only now it was overlaid with the dazzling career he’d reviewed the previous evening. Was the man having some kind of breakdown? The idea sent a chill down his spine.

  I don’t know anything for sure. Not yet.

  Shirota threw him a look when he walked back into Administration. Futawatari guessed it meant the director wanted to see them. He was getting ready when he saw the coffee, still there on his desk. A thin gathering of dust sat on its surface. Leave it on my desk, I’ll drink it later. He felt his tension subside. He narrowed his eyes and saw Officer Saito, sitting perfectly straight, her back facing him. He couldn’t comment on her qualities as a woman but he suspected she would do well for herself in the force.

  He took a sip of the drink, hot five hours ago, then hurried out after Shirota. With nothing to report, he steeled himself in preparation for the director’s mood, which no doubt would be bitter, like the coffee.

  4

  Futawatari paid Osakabe another visit at home that evening, but the director was still out.

  With his wife away, too, the house was silent. Futawatari found a nearby park with some swings and a slide and decided to wait. There were no kids and no young mothers to call out to them. Everything around him felt aged.

  Oguro’s threat was no longer just implied. He’d slammed his fist on his desk when he’d heard of Futawatari’s failure to get in touch with Osakabe. There had been a stack of newly printed business cards on the surface, Kudo’s name printed next to the title Managing Director. Shirota had been to the printers and intercepted them before they were sent to Community Safety.

  Kudo had not, it seemed, been informed of the problem.

  Listen to me. I don’t care how you do it. You track him down, today, and you order him to step down.

  Futawatari glanced at his watch. It was after five thirty, the time he’d told himself he would try the house again. He jumped to his feet and started to walk. It was growing dark but there were still no lights on in the two-storey building.

  Futawatari had already confirmed that Osakabe was not at the foundation, calling several times as he paced around the park. They’d gained him nothing more than Miyagi’s repeated apologies.

  I suppose I could try again.

  He started to walk away from the house.

  ‘May I help with something?’

  He turned to see a dignified-looking woman in her sixties coming around the corner with some grocery bags in her hands. He recognised the modesty in her expression. Many of the police officers had wives who promoted themselves in line with their husband’s advancement. The continued humility of Osakabe’s wife was, in this context, the subject of much praise. Futawatari had met her once, at a party to celebrate Osakabe’s career following his retirement from the force. She appeared to remember him.

  ‘You’re with Administrative Affairs, aren’t you?’ she asked, unassuming as she looked him in the eye. ‘Come and wait inside. I’m sure my husband will be back soon.’

  ‘Thank you, but it’s not urgent. I’ll come again later.’

  ‘No standing on ceremony. He’ll only scold me,’ she said, insistent. Futawatari wondered for a moment if she might be serious, if Osakabe really might tell her off.

  Why not? I’ve got nothing to hide.

  Futawatari gave his name and title and bowed formally, crossing the door with the feeling of a man entering an enemy stronghold. Osakabe’s wife led him to a tatami room with a Shinto altar. There was an amulet devoted to the daimyojin, the powerful feudal lords. The altar was well looked after, the plain wood flawless and decorated with leaves that were fresh and bright. The panel above the doors carried a scroll of striking calligraphy bearing the words ‘Forget not war in times of peace’. A frame on the wall respectfully highlighted the Commandments of Policing: ‘1. Serve with pride and duty.’

  There was no doubting that Osakabe was an officer to the core.

  There was a phone, basic, with no concessions to modern functionality, sitting on a small desk next to the wall. The white spot, untouched by the sun, next to it, would be all that remained of the internal line. Futawatari tried to imagine the number of times Osakabe would have run to it in the middle of a case.

  He let out a gentle sigh.

  Osakabe’s wife had not reappeared since she brought him tea. Under normal circumstances, this behaviour would have come across as cold but, given his current state of mind, he was, if anything, grateful. She had no doubt seen all kinds of visitors during her husband’s time in the force. She would have realised from the start that his was not a casual visit.

  How should I broach the subject?

  Futawatari had been sitting, breathing quietly, for close to half an hour when he heard a car door shut outside. Osakabe’s wife came in, as though on cue, and told him her husband was back. Futawatari sat up straight and brought his knees formally together.

  No backing down.

  But Osakabe did not come in. It was, instead, his wife.

  ‘Sorry, I think he’s doing something with the car.’

  She craned her neck to indicate a space beyond one of the hedges. Futawatari got to his feet and peered out. Michio Osakabe was standing in view, on the road behind the photinia. The angular features, the eyes like hollows, the glowering profile. They were all unchanged from his time as a detective, emotionless, held in a state that was somewhere between a smile and a frown. Futawatari stepped unconsciously back.

  It was as though he’d stumbled across a natural predator.

  Osakabe was issuing instructions to the driver, who, except for his grey-speckled hair, remained out of sight. Judging by the noise, they were changing the tyres.

  Shit.

  It dawned on Futawatari that he could no longer sit and wait. Now he knew that Osakabe was outside, it would be rude to stay in the guest room drinking tea. He bowed his head to Osakabe’s wife and started towards the front door, guessing he’d already lost the mind game. Coming to the end of the short hallway, he noticed a collection of traditionally wrapped wedding gifts in a darkened room. Which meant . . . Osakabe’s youngest must be getting married. He would have to arrange an official gift from the force, make sure the department heads prepared messages to be read at the reception. Current situation notwithstanding, Futawatari’s thoughts returned briefly to procedure.

  Outside, the black sedan was raised on a jack, the driver crouched down with a wrench. Osakabe was standing like a rock to the side.

  Imperial.

  It was rare for a man to truly fit such an old word.

  ‘Sir. It’s good to see you.’

  Coming to a stop, Futawatari bowed from the waist. Sir. He’d used the word without even thinking. Anything less would have been presumptuous. Similarly, he couldn’t refer to the man as Director, as that might be taken as affirmation of his current position. Futawatari was here to make sure the man stepped down.

  The impassive features came around.

  ‘I guessed it’d be you.’

  It was the tone Osakabe reserved, without exception, for those who ranked below him. Futawatari had been thir
ty the first time he’d been on the receiving end. Too accustomed to the courtesies of life in Administrative Affairs, it had struck him like a physical blow. But it wasn’t the tone, heard now for the first time in years, which gave Futawatari pause. I guessed it’d be you. Those were the words he’d used. That the executive would run and hide. That they’d send Futawatari, who, in his second year as superintendent, was, from Osakabe’s perspective, nothing more than a newborn chick.

  He’d known it would happen.

  Osakabe’s back was already turned, as though to say their business was concluded. The driver was fitting the car with winter tyres. They would leave at six in the morning, go deep into the mountains, inspect a site that was still covered in snow. That was all Futawatari had managed to pick up from listening in to their conversation. Having lost his momentum, he stepped back and watched the work continue. He saw a tall stack of road maps on the car’s back seat. The number seemed excessive, reminding him of the map he’d seen at lunchtime.

  It was only after the driver had finished fitting the tyres, given Osakabe a deep bow and Futawatari a polite nod and left that Osakabe finally turned around. With his feet planted firmly, he levelled his gaze on Futawatari. He had, it seemed, no intention of inviting Futawatari in. Come on, then. Say it. The words were there on Osakabe’s face.

  It wasn’t something to discuss in the open, but Futawatari realised he had no choice in the matter. He swallowed some spit and worried that Osakabe might have heard.

  ‘Sir. We need to know what you’re thinking,’ Futawatari said, having to force his throat to stay open.

  Osakabe said nothing.

  ‘Director Kudo will have nowhere to go.’ This was something he’d prepared. Kudo was three years Osakabe’s junior and Osakabe had always looked out for him.

  Still no visible reaction. The man’s sunken eyes were unmoving, trained on Futawatari as though he were taking stock of something.

  ‘Sir, this is a problem.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘The force will lose face.’ This was another one he’d planned, the equivalent of going for the jugular.

  Osakabe opened his mouth to speak. ‘There’s no need to worry.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Futawatari wasn’t sure what he had meant but he saw a glimmer of hope.

  ‘It’ll be like nothing ever happened.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘I’m telling you there’s no need to get flustered. Once this is done, it’ll be like nothing ever happened.’ Having said this, Osakabe turned away.

  Futawatari understood only that the hope was gone. That it had, in fact, never existed. He scrambled after Osakabe. ‘Sir. Why are you refusing to—’

  Osakabe turned around, utterly calm. ‘It’s none of your concern.’

  The door slammed shut, leaving Futawatari’s hand hanging in mid-air. It’s none of your concern. Who was he talking about? Administration? The force? To Osakabe, the force was like a mother. Why would he seek to make it an enemy?

  The porch light was turned off.

  Try as he might, Futawatari could not muster the courage to push the buzzer.

  5

  And don’t bother coming back.

  The unhappy childhood memory – of being caught stealing from his father’s wallet, of being pushed out of the front door – resurfaced. Administration felt far away. Osakabe had treated him like a kid on an errand. He had spoken in riddles and thrown up a smokescreen. Futawatari had left without the slightest understanding of what the man was thinking.

  He raced down the pitch-black of the prefectural highway. His plan was to visit W Block and Yasuo Maejima, one of his contemporaries. Maejima knows Osakabe. Anything would do. He just needed something he could use as leverage. He understood that he was acting on impulse but his indignation kept him going regardless.

  W Block was a four-storey building containing police apartments. Its name derived from the fact that it accommodated executives from Station W. Whereas the area had previously hosted four executive bungalows, a project to make better use of the land had resulted in the construction last spring of the new complex, which had capacity to house sixteen families.

  Maejima gave Futawatari a warm, enthusiastic greeting. It was before seven, but he was already in checked pyjamas and reeking of the hair oil he used after showering. As division chief of Criminal Investigations in Station W, it was something of a miracle for him to be home this early, but it hadn’t been intuition alone that had allowed Futawatari to catch him in this rare moment of downtime. He’d called ahead to check, loath to wait yet one more time for someone to arrive home. Don’t worry, it’s not business. Futawatari had made sure to emphasise this before hanging up.

  ‘Come on in. It’s nice and quiet inside.’

  Maejima was alone; he explained to Futawatari that his wife and kids were out visiting the family home. It seemed a little odd, considering it was his wife who had answered the phone only five minutes earlier, but it was, if anything, a welcome development. Osakabe had acted as a go-between for the couple. Maejima’s wife would want to listen in if she heard the name in conversation.

  The apartment was the standard layout for police accommodation. In the corner of the tatami room, which became a bedroom at night, was a brand-new desk that looked as though it had just been delivered. There was a glossy black satchel hanging from a hook on the wall. It dawned on Futawatari that the eldest of Maejima’s kids, the ‘little one’ he always talked about, must be ready to start school. It made sense, Futawatari supposed. It had been a few years since he’d received the card announcing another addition to the family. It struck him that he didn’t even know whether Maejima still called his eldest ‘little one’ or not.

  ‘How’s things on your side?’ Maejima called from the kitchen, then appeared under the noren – probably a souvenir from a family trip – with a beer in each hand.

  ‘Same as usual,’ Futawatari said, sighing as he refused the glass, saying he couldn’t drink but for Maejima to go ahead anyway.

  ‘Black and White still an item?’

  Maejima grinned, pouring himself a frothy glass of beer. It was the sort of wisecracking that went on in Criminal Investigations. Futawatari had never heard the joke mentioned in Administrative Affairs, which poked fun at Oguro and Shirota, based on the fact that their names contained, respectively, the characters for black and white.

  ‘Kikyo’s mum wants to catch up with you, too, by the way. Complains you’re a bit standoffish these days.’

  Maejima was as chatty as ever. He skipped from topic to topic, mixing opinion with comic anecdotes, yet never once did he mention any of the cases he was working on. It was impressive. The man had become a stalwart cog in the investigative machine.

  It was common for officers who had come through police school together to become like siblings. There was the shared sense of community, the unified sense of purpose. You lived in cramped dorm rooms with little in the way of privacy and submitted yourself to a harsh regimen of training. You comforted one another, shed tears and pledged to keep the peace. Futawatari and Maejima were no exception to the rule. They had since taken their own paths, been separated by rank now Futawatari was superintendent while Maejima was still inspector, yet a single meeting was all it took to take them back to the sweat-infused dorms of the school. The only change was that they no longer discussed work. They’d fallen naturally into this new pattern. And while it brought an increased sense of distance, it felt like nothing more than brothers having become cousins.

  ‘So, you said you’d spoken with the director?’ Maejima looked at Futawatari, his face already turning pink. Osakabe had been the man’s go-between but he was still ‘the director’.

  ‘We had the chance to catch up.’

  Maejima leaned in, hungry for more. ‘And? How is he?’

  ‘Just the same.’

  �
��I heard he had some problems with his liver last year.’

  ‘Do you visit him?’

  ‘Once or twice a year, sure. Gives me a dressing-down each time. Tells me not to bother, that I need to keep my head focused on work,’ Maejima said, chuckling. He seemed to remember something. ‘I heard he’s going to be staying on at the foundation?’

  Caught off guard, Futawatari had to struggle not to choke.

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘From my wife’s cousin. She works there. I think it was last week when she came over and gave us the news. Maybe the week before.’

  Maejima would never suspect that this was the reason behind the visit. And news of the arrangements for Kudo to take over upon his retirement from Community Safety would not have reached Criminal Investigations in Station W. Feeling vaguely underhand, Futawatari attempted to pad out the conversation.

  ‘He told me his youngest daughter is getting married.’

  ‘Megu. Right, in June.’

  ‘June. Huh.’

  Megu Osakabe. Futawatari had taken notes from Osakabe’s file. Attended a private university. Works for a travel agency in Tokyo. Thirty. The wedding seemed a little late coming, although Futawatari realised it was no longer uncommon for women to tie the knot in their thirties. There was something else that bugged him, though, about the fact that the wedding was coming up in June. She was Osakabe’s youngest. There was no doubt it would be a hugely significant event for the director.

  ‘Will you be going?’

  ‘Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss the chance to see Osakabe tear up.’

  ‘Osakabe?’

  ‘He might not look that way, but he dotes on his kids.’

  ‘I can’t see it happening. Doesn’t seem possible.’