Prefecture D

by Hideo Yokoyama

  In the locker room Tomoko changed back into her civilian clothes. There was the possibility of more legwork after the dorm and her uniform would only slow her down. A middle-aged woman gazed back from the small mirror on the inside of the locker door. She didn’t even flinch. There was still beauty there, she thought, in the narrow eyes, in the curved line of her mouth. The mirror had been with her since she was eighteen. It had witnessed her tears, her laughter, everything there was to see. She could face it with confidence, knowing she needn’t conceal the sagging of her skin or the wrinkles forming around her eyes.

  Tomoko was the only female officer in the Prefectural HQ who was ranked inspector. She was elder sister and mother to forty-eight women, a number that was greater than the total headcount of some of the smaller stations in district.

  She didn’t have time for make-up.

  She left the main building and set off quickly towards the parking area. She’ll be fine. It’ll turn out to be nothing. This was her habit. Her first step was always to banish any fears or worries that were festering inside her. For twenty-five years she’d steeped herself in a world that was dominated by men. She knew only too well that fragility was the single greatest threat you could face as a female officer.

  2

  Tomoko kept her foot on the accelerator and in fifteen minutes was pulling on the handbrake in the parking area of the female officers’ dorm.

  Designed with the primary consideration of blending in with its surroundings, the building looked like any other block of apartments. Like their male counterparts, the prefecture’s female officers were required to spend five years in a dorm after their graduation from police school. Men were off limits. Curfew was at ten. The force was perhaps famous for enforcing draconian policies such as these, but Welfare was happy enough to relinquish its control should a decent suitor be found – as had been the case for Tomoko – during this period.

  The dorm’s caretaker, Toshie Hatsuda, bustled out the moment Tomoko called from the entranceway.

  ‘Nanao, have you heard anything from Mizuho?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I see. Oh . . . what should we do?’

  If memory served, Toshie was around ten years Tomoko’s senior, which would put her in her mid-fifties. She had no children. Her husband, an officer from Mobile Investigations, had died in the line of duty, stabbed while investigating a break-in during the summer twelve years ago. Toshie had since, by way of an introduction from Administration, devoted herself to her role as caretaker of the female officers’ dorm.

  It was this history which caused Tomoko’s heart to ache every time she set eyes on the woman. She, too, had been married to an officer. Despite a bright future in Security, he had passed away three years earlier. He hadn’t died in the line of duty, not specifically. But Tomoko could not help wondering, every now and then, whether he hadn’t suffered something close to karoshi, the now infamous death from overwork.

  Toshie led her to the canteen, where vegetables for the evening meal were already laid out in neat groups on the tables.

  ‘She left without breakfast this morning.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not hungry,’ Mizuho had said before she left. That had been at seven thirty. It was the time she usually left for work. She’d been wearing a cream dress. It was one of a few she generally wore for her commute. She’d had a little make-up on, but nothing drastic. The only thing that was slightly different, according to Toshie, was that she’d seemed a little down.

  ‘How about the night before?’

  ‘She was late back. I mean, she gets these early and late calls for work, so that’s not necessarily anything to . . .’

  Tomoko nodded.

  Whenever a serious crime took place within the prefecture, Mobile Forensics would be called to the scene. Their job was to collect footprints, fingerprints and all other trace forms of evidence. Mizuho would join her team in the mini-van as it raced to its destination. Drawing likenesses was only a side job.

  Toshie went on to say that Mizuho had not arrived back until after the ten o’clock curfew. She’d called into the caretaker’s office from the corridor, apologised for being late and said goodnight. She’d been out of sight by the time Toshie had emerged from the room; she’d heard only the sound of her footsteps in the stairwell. They’d seemed to lack their usual vitality, and Toshie remembered thinking that Mizuho must be tired.

  It didn’t fit.

  Toshie was claiming that Mizuho had been out of sorts, but that was strange. Mizuho had been celebrating her triumph with a childlike glee during lunch that day. Tomoko had witnessed the girl’s wide-eyed joy in person. Had something happened after that? Something to cut short her celebratory mood prior to her return to the dorm at ten? Something to nullify her excitement? An overwhelming shock of some kind?

  A man?

  It was the first thing to come to mind.

  ‘Do you know if she’s seeing anyone?’

  ‘Seeing anyone? Oh, I don’t think so. She’s as straight-laced as they come. No, I’m pretty sure she isn’t.’

  Tomoko recoiled at the defensive tone. She noted a sense of envy, too, for Toshie’s closeness to Mizuho. While Tomoko knew that she did not doubt the girl’s virtue either, Toshie’s display of motherly affection forced her to accept that she was now acting in her capacity as a managing officer. Perhaps that had been the woman’s intention. We’ve both lost husbands in the force. But you’ve still got your son. Let me at least have the girls. This plea was something that was always there in her eyes.

  The grandfather clock in the canteen began to chime.

  Eleven thirty.

  Four hours had passed since Mizuho had left the dorm. Given the time and the fact that they’d yet to hear anything, it seemed safe to dismiss the idea of a traffic accident. And, while she couldn’t yet dismiss the possibility of a crime having taken place, Tomoko’s conversation with Toshie had served to greatly alleviate her fears regarding the bike gang. If Mizuho had been out of sorts since the previous night, it seemed likely that her going missing was related to whatever it was that had altered her mood.

  Missing.

  The word caught Tomoko off guard. Missing, not absent. Perhaps it was appropriate. Who was to say it wouldn’t continue beyond today? That the situation would change tomorrow, or the day after? Surely she had to consider the possibility.

  Female officer. Location unknown.

  Tomoko got to her feet.

  ‘Can I see her room?’

  Toshie nodded and began to walk towards her office. She stopped suddenly, as if she’d just remembered something. She riffled through her apron and pulled out a key with a sticker marked ‘Room 6’.

  ‘You’ve been inside?’

  ‘Yes. I thought she might have left a note, but I didn’t see anything.’

  A note, maybe on her desk, explaining the absence.

  Tomoko had entertained that hope, too, and was discouraged to learn that no such thing existed. Still, there might be other clues. She should at least check.

  She made for the stairs; she knew her way around. She made sure to be present whenever someone was moving in or out and she made frequent rounds to lend an ear to the concerns of the younger officers. Still, she was never sure whether it made a difference. Mizuho had disappeared without so much as a word. And Tomoko, for her part, was unable to come up with a single theory as to why.

  First floor. Room six.

  There were two names on the door: Mizuho Hirano and Junko Hayashi. Tomoko turned the key. The air shifted when she opened the door, causing something to tickle her nose.

  Perfume?

  Anyone else might have missed it. The scent was faint but clearly identifiable. Tomoko had a natural aversion to the stuff. The unexpected olfactory greeting caused her to hesitate. Not once had she detected even a whiff of perfume on either Mizuho or her roommate
– not on them, and certainly not in their room.

  Mizuho’s bedroom was located to the right of a common space which contained the bath, toilet and other facilities. The door was unlocked. Tomoko’s heart pounded as she pushed it open. The scent grew stronger. It was Mizuho’s.

  The small bottle sat on what looked like a kid’s dresser. Chanel No. 19. Not one to use perfume herself, Tomoko had only a limited knowledge of such things. Yet even she knew that this particular brand was one men liked to give as a present to women.

  A man, then.

  Tomoko let out a deep sigh before scanning the remainder of the room in an attempt to calm herself down. A collection of faces decorated one of the walls. The drawings were of actors, celebrities, news anchors, comedians and various other TV personalities and were arranged in neat rows. Tomoko had had to catch her breath the first time she’d set eyes on the collection. Mizuho had been working hard. Really hard.

  A likeness was a drawing of a suspect based on information provided by victims and witnesses to a crime. Deemed to be greater in accuracy than the photo composites used before them, they had been fully integrated into the investigative toolset of every station in the country. Mizuho was the third female officer in the prefecture to have taken on the role of drawing them. Seeing in her greater potential than she saw in her predecessors, Forensics had taken an active role in developing her abilities. They had placed her under the tutelage of a well-known painter and paid for her to attend the municipal art school twice a week.

  Their investment had paid off.

  The likeness she had drawn of the gang leader had proved astoundingly accurate. She had justified the expectations of her department and raised her standing in the force as a whole. Tomoko had been proud. An officer under her guard had committed herself to working towards a goal and been rewarded for her effort.

  And yet . . .

  The pictures on the wall. The little bottle on the dresser. Which, Tomoko wondered, was the better reflection of what Mizuho wanted now?

  Tomoko caught Toshie on her way out. ‘Was she wearing perfume when she left?’

  ‘Perfume? Not that I noticed. She doesn’t really like that sort of thing, you know,’ Toshie said, nudging her head out of her room, defensive again, smelling ever so slightly of perfume herself.

  Tomoko set off for the Prefectural HQ.

  Junko would be at her desk in Traffic Planning. As Mizuho’s roommate, she would have more information. About the perfume. And about the man.

  Wait.

  A short pause at the lights was enough for Tomoko to find a question. Mizuho had left in her usual commuting attire. She’d had some make-up on, but nothing out of the ordinary. Why, then, bother with perfume? Mizuho was of course smart enough not to wear anything that would grab attention even if she had been on her way to meet someone. And if the relationship was sufficiently advanced, there would be no need to dress up anyway.

  The lights turned green.

  Tomoko pressed down on the accelerator. It was already after twelve. The movement of the clock marked the gradual transition of Mizuho’s status from absent to missing.

  3

  Junko Hayashi seemed a little taken aback to see Tomoko show up in her everyday clothes.

  Tomoko led her away from her desk and sat her down on a bench in the courtyard. Once they were sitting next to each other, Tomoko reclaimed the advantage in height. As they both met the height restrictions set out for female officers, what this meant was that Junko had remarkably long legs. She sat with her knees together, her double-lidded eyes – the kind men found hopelessly attractive – looking disoriented at being called out so abruptly. She appeared not to have known about Mizuho’s absence.

  ‘But, that’s . . . I mean, she was dressed to come in.’

  ‘I know. Did you leave with her?’

  ‘No. I left before her.’

  ‘Had she been acting strangely?’

  ‘Strangely? I don’t think so. No different to usual.’

  ‘How about last night?’

  ‘Let’s see. I had an early night. Didn’t hear her get back, actually. I was out like a light, don’t think I heard a thing.’

  Junko was the type who, in any lengthy conversation, tended to lose sight of the fact that she was an officer of the law. Tomoko was frustrated by the lack of new information but it wasn’t the only reason she felt like stamping her foot. She had been a teacher at police school at the time of Junko’s graduation.

  You just make sure you don’t end up being exploited for your looks.

  Seeing the potential for this in her, Tomoko had given the warning on the day of her graduation. The girl was, as feared, already becoming a trophy-like figure in Traffic Planning. She was a hit with the senior officers. Fetching tea. Running errands. Playing hostess at drinks parties. She had a penchant for flaunting her brilliant white teeth, even at work, appearing to completely forget the fact that she was in uniform.

  It was, Tomoko reasoned, one way of getting on. The force was dominated by men, so it was probably the path of least resistance. And yet she knew that every one of her officers had, at some point, made the conscious decision to become an officer of the law. She didn’t ask that they put themselves in direct competition with the male officers but she did hope that they at least carve a niche for themselves, something they could be proud of, however modest. It was the only way to forge a path for their successors and the only way to silence those in the force who argued for their expulsion.

  Catching sight of a female guidance officer from Juvenile Crime, Junko moved her hand in a small wave next to her abdomen. Look who’s got me. Perhaps she’d pulled a face to signal something like that, too.

  Tomoko shook off her disappointment and returned to the subject at hand. ‘Mizuho owns a bottle of Chanel.’

  ‘Really?’

  Junko’s expression showed that she was nervous. And, if she was getting apprehensive, that probably meant she knew something. Tomoko realised it would be hard to get anything out of her if she let her slip into a girls protect girls mindset. She eased in closer, up to the point where she was almost choking on the smell of shampoo.

  ‘Look, I’m trying to find her but I need something I can work with. Do you understand?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Tell me, then, did she buy the perfume? Or did someone give it to her?’

  ‘She said it was a present.’

  ‘Do you know who from? Don’t worry, I can keep a secret. I just need to know.’

  Junko sighed as though to say, Fine, if she had no choice. ‘She told me it was one of the reporters.’

  ‘What?’ Tomoko felt suddenly dizzy. A reporter mixing with a female officer? It was the type of relationship the force hated and feared the most. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Are they seeing each other?’

  ‘No. I mean, it’s not like that. It’s more like he’s her stalker.’

  Junko began to ramble, her focus wandering from one subject to the next, but Tomoko managed to catch most of the salient points.

  The reporter had developed a crush on Mizuho. One night, about a month back, he’d waited for her in the dorm’s parking area. When Mizuho had returned from work he’d handed her the perfume, claiming it to be a souvenir from a foreign business trip. Mizuho had, of course, refused to take it, but he’d pressed it into her hands and walked away. For a long time Mizuho had fretted over what to do. What do you think? Should I tell him to take it back? She had, it seemed, solicited Junko’s advice on several occasions.

  ‘What’s his name?’ Tomoko asked, sighing again.

  ‘She told me she doesn’t know it.’

  Mizuho, it seemed, knew neither the man’s name nor which paper he worked for. She knew his face, but only because they kept ending up at the same crime scenes. That, at least, was what she’d told Junko.

  �
�She might have been hiding some of the truth. She liked to complain about him but she looked kind of happy at the same time.’

  There was something in her eyes when she said this, some kind of spite or whimsy. Tomoko realised Junko would want to use the bathroom and fix her make-up. She released the girl ten minutes before lunchtime was over then began to make her way back to the main building.

  Perfume. Reporter. Unscheduled absence.

  She knew they were connected somehow, yet the pieces refused to come together. It had all happened too quickly. Only a month had passed since the reporter gave Mizuho the perfume. And even supposing their relationship had blossomed since then, it was still no reason for her to run away. The force might view their kind of relationship as taboo but society as a whole had no issues with a policewoman seeing a reporter. All she had to do to fix the problem was leave the force. Still, Tomoko understood that love could be a problem in itself. It had been known, in the past, to cause trouble on a scale that was hard to imagine.

  At this stage, Tomoko had more or less dismissed the idea of a crime having occurred. A female officer, missing. She understood the severity of the situation, yet it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore her feelings of disappointment. Whatever her reasons, it seemed more and more likely that Mizuho had decided to disappear. What, given that, was the point in hunting her down and dragging her back?

  In the locker room Tomoko changed back into her uniform.

  It was easy to recall the elation she’d felt the first time she’d threaded her arms through the sleeves of her shirt. The sense of pride had not faded at all. Yet there’d been a time when even she had questioned herself. She still did, probably, just under the surface. She’d worried that the uniform was ungainly. That it was nothing special. That, just maybe, she’d been destined for other things. Perhaps Mizuho had simply made the decision to move on.