He’d already disregarded Shindo’s advice. The Secretariat would deal with Ukai. Futawatari’s piercing stare had done nothing to shake his resolve.
4
It was a little after seven when Tsuge arrived home. His apartment took up one corner of the third floor. Misuzu greeted him when he pushed on the reinforced metal door, looking anxious.
‘Darling, there’s something—’
Tsuge pushed his way through, telling her to keep it for later. He picked up the cordless handset and shut himself in the room at the end of the hall. He was tired of her complaining. For the last month, it had been ceramics class. It was the latest obsession of the chief of administration’s wife. She looked after the local wives’ group and insisted the others join her. Misuzu hated it. She was proud of her slim fingers, which meant it was agony for her to use them to mix clay. When he’d suggested she should give it up, she’d just told him she didn’t want to be isolated. And when he’d suggested she should put up with it, she’d fallen silent then started to tug at her hair before finally lashing out at the things around her.
She’d been beautiful, full of a passion for life, when he’d first met her. He’d proposed on their second date. He hadn’t forgotten, even now, that he’d been obsessed with her. But she’d thinned out in the ten years since their marriage and now all she did was use him as a sounding board to vent her grievances. It was because of this that he’d begun to question the sense of his decision. Had he really wanted her? Or had he simply been excited, ten years ago, by the fact that she was a relative of his high-flying boss? Was there a part of him now that felt betrayed by witnessing the man’s decline, realising that the gamble hadn’t paid off? Work will be work. Home will be home. He remembered having sworn to maintain the distinction but it had all become jumbled over time. The two worlds. The two sets of emotions.
Focus.
Tsuge forced himself back to the present. He opened the directory listing the details of all the members of the assembly and dialled Sakuma’s number.
‘Sorry to call so late.’
‘Tsuge, right . . .’ The assemblyman’s tone was apologetic from the start. ‘Sorry. I failed to get anything from Ukai. He told me it was none of my business.’
‘I see. Thank you for trying.’
‘No problem. Doesn’t look good, though, does it? It does seem as if he’s sitting on something big.’
Tsuge smoked a few cigarettes after the call. He’d vowed never to smoke at work, whatever his stress levels. The captain had given it up, so everyone – starting with Sakaniwa and the director of Administrative Affairs – had opted to follow suit.
He started to call the other assembly members. The conservatives had nothing. Taking a deep breath, he called an assemblyman in the opposition he trusted. Still no leads.
He looked into the living room, still edgy, and saw that Misuzu was in the middle of getting dinner ready. She turned his way.
‘Darling, just listen.’
‘Uh-huh.’
He thought he’d been clear that he had no intention of hearing her out. Apparently ignoring this, she came over to whisper in his ear.
‘It’s Morio. He’s being bullied at school.’
‘What?’
‘They steal his satchel, leave him out of things.’
Tsuge felt a sudden chill. He stared into his son’s room. He saw the boy, turned away and with his back slouched, his small hands fiddling with the pieces of a board game.
‘Morio!’
He’d called out before he had time to think. His eight-year-old son’s pudding-bowl haircut rotated. The boy looked beaten down, anxious. He was perhaps expecting his dad to be cross. Tsuge didn’t know what to say. He remembered the small town. The tiny world. For a total of nine years in primary and secondary school, Tsuge had been controlled by a boy with snake-eyes. He didn’t doubt that he’d looked anxious, too, just like his son did now.
Crush anyone who dares get in your way.
He said nothing. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything suitable to say to the weak-looking reflection of himself.
5
Mornings were busy in the Secretariat. It was during this time of day that the various division chiefs crowded in with documents requiring the captain’s approval.
Among them was Yoshikawa from Transport Guidance, who was acting a little jittery. Brash enough in his own division, he found himself, like many others, a little overawed when he came here. He handed the response to the question on the hit-and-run to Tsuge and left without so much as a word. Tsuge reviewed the content then passed it on to Sakaniwa to give to the captain.
Taking up the question he’d drafted the previous day for Misaki, Tsuge left the office.
Only five days remained until the cabinet meeting. He would head straight for the assembly. Once there, he would see if Misaki had anything more on Ukai. Misaki had tipped him off about the ‘bomb’. He must have got the information from someone else first.
Tsuge entered the man’s study to find him lounging on the couch, just as before, giving the impression that he hadn’t moved.
‘Tsuge, you’re early.’
He seemed to be in high spirits. When Tsuge handed him the question sheet he stuffed it into his briefcase without so much as a second glance, winking to show he trusted Tsuge’s work.
‘Assemblyman. The information you gave me, about Ukai—’
‘Ah yes. Did you get to the bottom of that?’
‘I was actually wondering if you had anything else that might help us.’
‘Sorry, I’ve already told you all I know.’
‘Who told you about it?’
‘Why, the man himself. He volunteered the information. Told me he was sitting on a time bomb, that it was for the police.’
Something didn’t quite fit. It was true that the New Liberal Democratic Club and the New Wave Party shared a common heritage, that they were separated only by the men who stood as their representatives, but why would Ukai go out of his way to share information with a veteran from another faction? He would have known it would stir up a fuss. Unless, of course, that had been his intention. Perhaps Ukai had disseminated the information with the express purpose of rocking the boat.
But to what end?
To let us know he has something.
Advance notice, then, of his intention to strike. Maybe he wanted to stand and watch as the force panicked. To get as much gratification as he could from his revenge.
There was, of course, another possibility. Negotiations. Ukai was out for something in return and was using the threat as leverage. In this scenario, the advance notice would be a signal for the police to open discussions. Yet Ukai had done nothing to suggest this when Tsuge had seen him the day before. If anything, he’d seemed hell-bent on going ahead with whatever it was he was planning. It could have been nothing more than posturing. Perhaps his intention was to drag things out until the last minute, opening himself to negotiations only once the force had admitted defeat.
‘You could pay his people a visit,’ Misaki suggested from his place on the couch.
‘His people?’
‘I’d put money on the chairman of his committee knowing something. Even if he doesn’t, you could use him to apply a little pressure. I doubt even Ukai would do anything that went against the wishes of his committee.’
It was a good idea. Rather than Tsuge being thanked for writing the question, it was he who ended up bowing in gratitude as he left the room.
Having returned to the Secretariat to bring Sakaniwa up to speed, Tsuge left the headquarters. It was thirty minutes by car to City K and Ukai’s electoral district. He could still hear Sakaniwa’s words while he was on his way out: Make sure this goes away. The previous night, Sakaniwa had taken it upon himself to reach out to a few of his contacts in the assembly. He’d no doubt been confid
ent in his ability to get an answer but he’d come away empty-handed. His expression had made it clear he’d reconsidered the severity of the threat.
Tsuge crossed the city limits.
He checked his map at each set of lights then pulled up to a parking area when he reached what he guessed to be the right area. He walked into a shop on the main road selling rice and the owner confirmed that Haruo Toyama did, indeed, live in the second building around the corner. It wasn’t long, following the man’s instructions, before a sign came into view bearing the words: Electoral Committee for Ichiro Ukai.
Toyama seemed to be returning from walking his dog. The man was plump, probably the same age as Ukai.
‘You’re with the police?’
Toyama frowned when he saw Tsuge’s card. It was perfectly understandable. He’d avoided arrest during the election four years ago, but he would have spent hours sweating under the harsh lights of the interrogation rooms. He continued to look uncertain as he invited Tsuge into the traditionally built house.
Deciding there was no need for pleasantries, Tsuge got straight to the point. ‘Assemblyman Ukai has informed us that he intends to ask a question relating to the police during the upcoming question-and-answer session. Do you know about this?’
‘A question relating to the police?’
‘Apparently, he has an issue to take up with us.’
‘No. I can’t say that I . . .’ The man’s surprise appeared genuine. He leaned in to ask a question of his own. ‘What kind of issue?’
‘We don’t know. That’s why I’m here.’
Toyama was starting to look worried. He requested that Tsuge wait for a moment then began to call the remaining committee leaders. Questions of Ukai aside, it was clear that this man at least had no wish to repeat his history with the force. After hanging up the final call Toyama turned back round.
‘Nobody knows a thing about it.’
‘Then could you kindly check with Ukai himself?’
‘Absolutely. I’ll try to catch him this evening.’
Call me once you know. Tsuge left after issuing the request. It felt as though he’d acquired the upper hand. It was clear that Toyama was afraid of the police. That was reassuring. The committee would seek to stop Ukai from using whatever it was he had on the police. He was sure of it. Members of the assembly were nothing without their electorate. Ukai would not go against the will of his committee.
Tsuge relaxed during the drive back, stopping to have lunch at a family-run restaurant. It was almost two when he got back to the Secretariat. Aiko Toda jumped to her feet the moment he entered the room. Ukai, she said, was in the visitors’ room.
What?
Toyama must have been too worked up to wait until evening. And the fact that Ukai was here, in the Secretariat, meant it was likely that the committee’s attempt to reel him in had not gone according to plan. It was an unwelcome thought. Tsuge suddenly felt nauseous.
He opened the door, forgetting even to knock. He saw Sakaniwa and Ukai, both facing him. He watched as the anger spread across the latter’s features.
‘You . . . you have the gall to threaten a member of my committee . . .’
‘Assemblyman, I can assure you that I would never do such a thing. But I have to ask you again. Without us knowing what you intend to ask—’
‘Silence!’
Sakaniwa snapped upright on the couch.
‘If you do anything like this again, I will lodge an immediate and official complaint with the governor. Do you understand?’
‘Of course . . .’ Sakaniwa yelped an apology, having come to stand next to Tsuge and bowing low enough to expose the back of his neck.
Tsuge followed suit. Lodging a complaint with the governor. It was the single greatest threat Ukai could make.
The assemblyman got to his feet, visibly furious. ‘I will tell you now so there is no room for doubt. I have absolutely no intention of reconsidering my plans.’
Tsuge and Sakaniwa’s heads stayed down until the door was shut.
‘This is getting out of control,’ Sakaniwa said, biting his lip.
For a moment, the uninteresting contours of the man’s face made him appear weak and unambitious. But Tsuge knew that Sakaniwa was a driven man. Tsuge was the same, and that was what allowed him to see through the man’s exterior, to the anger writhing underneath.
Sakaniwa had been Secretariat chief for three years. He would be up for transfer in the spring. As such, he would be looking for ways to rise above the crowd, to get ahead in the race to the top. His was a post that encouraged people to dream. Should the captain choose, he could reward your talents with a special promotion. Talent wasn’t even a precondition. In the past, the captain had ordered promotions that would have stunned anyone in the force, simply because he’d liked the people in question. Ukai’s question had come at a key moment in the process. It was only to be expected that Sakaniwa would lose his cool.
‘The question. If we at least know the question, we may be able to come up with something to stop him.’
‘Agreed.’
Although he’d nodded, Tsuge couldn’t think of a single option. Having seen the assemblyman’s rage, it was clear he wouldn’t negotiate. He was out for revenge and his resolve was unwavering. Seeing him again would not convince him otherwise. And Tsuge had already questioned the rest of the assembly members. The electoral committee, too, had proved useless. Even threats had had no effect.
Unless . . .
Perhaps it was just that the threats hadn’t been potent enough. Maybe what they needed was to find something they could pin on Ukai. A weakness. If they could somehow pull the relationship back on to even terms, Ukai would have no choice but to step down.
‘Do you know anything we could use against him? We need to threaten him, sir, if we’re going to stop this.’
Sakaniwa looked at him, clearly taken aback. ‘Nothing comes to mind, but I guess I can take a look.’
It was obvious that he was hesitating. Threaten a member of the assembly? The look in his eyes, the lines on his forehead – everything conveyed his uncertainty.
He had the ambition but perhaps he lacked the nerve. Tsuge fought an urge to slap him across the face. You’d better fix that if you’re serious about getting to the top. He had no intention of letting Sakaniwa drag him down. Returning to his desk, he wasted no time in punching the number of Second Division.
6
The jazz was a painful din. Night. Tsuge was waiting for his colleague Yoshiyuki Mayuzumi in an old café behind the train station. He’d chosen it not for the music but because he knew the noise would drown out their conversation. The wait was long, perhaps mirroring the distance that had grown between them. I’ll be there if I can. That was what Mayuzumi had said. He was a good man, so the words had lacked bite, but they’d also been devoid of intimacy.
There had been discussions, eight years ago, of Tsuge joining the NPA. He’d been flagged as a potential candidate for the hybrid track, where assistant inspectors who had outperformed their colleagues in the prefectures were brought in to work alongside the regular career officers in Tokyo. Tsuge had been torn. Should he take up the offer? Should he go to Tokyo? The decision was like having to choose between staying as an ace pitcher in the minor league and transferring to become an usher in the major. Standing next to the concrete viewing pillar, he’d decided, in the end, to stay. To become the ace. He hadn’t attended a social gathering with his contemporaries since. Having turned down his shot at the fast track, he couldn’t stomach the idea of any of them getting ahead of him. And his focus had paid off – he ranked above them all. He was competing now with officers who had joined the force three or even four years before him.
The door opened just as he ordered his second coffee.
‘Here!’ Tsuge called out, raising a hand. He tried not to cringe at the bounce in Mayuzumi
’s step as he came over.
‘Tsuge, it’s been a long time.’
Tsuge grimaced. The man was too honest. He hadn’t meant it as a jibe, of course, but it clearly wasn’t the way to greet someone who worked in the same building as you every day. Mayuzumi had been in Second Division for a good number of years. His gentle manner belied a man who specialised in the investigation of white-collar crime, including corruption, extortion and election fraud.
Ignoring Mayuzumi’s attempts to reminisce about old times, Tsuge cut straight to the chase. ‘You were part of the investigation into Ukai’s election committee.’
‘Sure. Good days.’
‘Has Ukai been involved in anything untoward?’
Mayuzumi chuckled. ‘Of course. That’s how we built the case.’
‘Not that. Has he been involved in anything since?’
‘Tsuge,’ Mayuzumi said, then sighed before he continued. ‘You’ve got to be honest with me if you’re going to ask questions like that. Why would you want something on Ukai?’
‘Because . . .’
Tsuge stopped himself there. Over and above any concerns regarding confidentiality, the real issue was that he didn’t want Mayuzumi to see he was in need of help. The noise seemed to move up a notch, insinuating itself into the gap in conversation.
‘You know, there’s something I’ve come to understand,’ Mayuzumi began, as though to himself. ‘You can’t make new friends after thirty. You’ll have colleagues you work closely with, sure, maybe even a few you’ll trust. But they won’t be friends, not really. You’ve got to know each other’s flaws, the messed-up shit. Last chance for that’s in your twenties, when you’re still rough around the edges. Doesn’t count after that.’
Prefecture D Page 16