Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  He could have killed himself.

  He could have, yes, said Akira Senju, nodding, then smiling and saying, But he didn’t, did he, Harry.

  You’ve already heard then?

  I have my sources, Harry. You know that.

  Harry Sweeney looked across the antique rosewood desk, Harry Sweeney stared at Akira Senju behind the desk, on his throne, in his palace at the top of his empire, and Harry Sweeney said, What else have you heard?

  Ah, I see, said Akira Senju, nodding and smiling again at Harry Sweeney. You’re still on the case then?

  Yes. Unfortunately.

  Unfortunately, indeed, said Akira Senju. This might prove rather distracting for you, Harry. Keep you from doing what it is you do best. From that little list, for example.

  Harry Sweeney nodded, Harry Sweeney smiled and said, Exactly. So anything you have heard, any help you can give me in order to bring this matter to an end –

  Would be to our mutual benefit, nodded Akira Senju.

  Harry Sweeney nodded again, Harry Sweeney said again, Exactly. Last night you mentioned a list of Communists, of Reds? General Willoughby would be very grateful.

  You’ve spoken with the General, Harry?

  I was just there, in his office.

  Akira Senju sat forward in his chair, stared across his antique rosewood desk at Harry Sweeney, and asked, Did you mention my name, Harry? My offer of help?

  Not yet, said Harry Sweeney. But I can, I will.

  Akira Senju got up from his desk. He walked over to one of the large windows in his luxurious, modern office. He stared out of the window, stared out across his empire, across the city and the night, then still staring out of the window, out across his empire, he nodded and said, Well, well. This could prove to be a most convenient death, could it not, Harry?

  Harry Sweeney looked down at his hands, looked down at his wrists, the ends of two clean, dry scars visible beneath the cuffs of his shirt, beneath the straps of his watch, the face of the watch cracked, the hands of the watch stopped.

  Akira Senju turned away from the window. He walked across the thick carpet of his luxurious, modern office toward the drinks cabinet. He opened the cabinet. He picked up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Reserve. He poured two large measures into two crystal glasses. He put down the bottle and picked up the glasses. He carried the glasses over to Harry Sweeney, saying, Convenient and fortuitous – that is the word, is it not, Harry?

  Harry Sweeney turned to look up at Akira Senju, Akira Senju standing over him, holding out the glass to him –

  Fortuitous, said Akira Senju again, smiling now, saying now, So let us drink to convenience and to fortuity, Harry. Just like old times, the good old times, Harry.

  * * *

  —

  In the park, in the dark, among the insects, among the shadows, leaning against a tree, sliding down its bark, falling to the ground, lying in the dirt, Harry Sweeney made a pistol of his hand, Harry Sweeney held the pistol to his head, pulled the trigger but was not dead, he was not dead. In the park and in the dark, among the insects and the shadows, on the ground and in the dirt, Harry Sweeney took the barrel of his pistol, the two fingers of his hand, and Harry Sweeney put them in his mouth, forced them down his throat, down and back into his throat until he retched and he retched, retched and heaved, heaved and vomited, into the dirt and across the ground, among the insects and the shadows, the dark and the park, vomiting and vomiting, whisky and bile, over his fingers and over his hands, down his wrists and over his scars. And when there was no more whisky and no more bile, when he could vomit and heave no more, Harry Sweeney turned onto his side, then onto his back, and Harry Sweeney looked up at the branches, looked up at their leaves, stared up at the sky, stared up at its stars, and Harry Sweeney sobbed and Harry Sweeney screamed –

  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

  3

  And Then the Next Days

  July 7–July 10, 1949

  Night turned to day, cloudy and gray. Harry Sweeney had a hangover, but still Harry Sweeney went to work, with a clean shave and a fresh shirt, pressed pants and polished shoes, up the stairs and down the corridor, flushing the toilet and running the faucets, washing his hands and face again, drying his face and hands again, opening the door, then closing the door, walking across Room 432 of the Public Safety Division, the windows wide and the fans turning, taking his seat at his desk, listening to all the fountain pens scratching, all the typewriter keys banging, the telephones ringing, and a voice saying –

  The hell got into you last night, Harry?

  Harry Sweeney looked up from his desk, Harry Sweeney smiled at Susumu Toda, and said, Good morning to you, too, Susumu. How you doing this fine new day?

  Me? I’m fine, but I was worried about you. The Chief was, too. Going off like that, without a word, disappearing.

  I didn’t disappear. I’m right here, aren’t I?

  You know what I mean, Harry. I went by the Yaesu Hotel, looking for you. Waited half the night.

  You like worrying, you should have been my mother. I just needed some air, clear my head. That’s all.

  All night?

  Hey, come on! What’s with you?

  I just thought maybe…

  Maybe what?

  Nothing. It doesn’t matter.

  Doesn’t matter’s right.

  Whatever you say, Harry, said Toda. But the Chief was worried, too, said Willoughby gave you a hard time.

  Harry Sweeney smiled, Harry Sweeney laughed: Turns out all we heard about Sir Charles is true. But I’ve had worse, Susumu, believe me. It was nothing I didn’t expect.

  You looked pretty cheesed off when you came out of the room. I mean, taking off like that…

  It wasn’t Sir Charles. I told you, just needed to clear my head. It’d been a long day. Up at Ayase, then the family. A very long day. Let’s hope today’s a better day, yeah?

  What you want to do, Harry?

  Where’s Bill? Don’t tell me he’s off again?

  No, said Susumu Toda. He’s been in and gone out again. Chief sent him back to Norton Hall, to see what they’ve turned up on these Repatriates’ Blood League letters.

  Nodding to himself, taking out his cigarettes, Harry Sweeney said, That reminds me. You know anything about or anyone at Hongō House? They’re CIC, too, right?

  You’re kidding, right, said Susumu Toda. Not those guys, no thank you. They’re a law unto themselves. Why?

  Harry Sweeney lit his cigarette, inhaled, then exhaled, shook his head, and said, Just something Willoughby said.

  Yeah, asked Susumu Toda. Like what?

  Harry Sweeney stood up, picked up his hat, and said, Nothing. Forget it. Who you been talking to at MPD HQ?

  Hattori, all the good it does me.

  Harry Sweeney laughed again: Beggars can’t be choosers, Susumu. You know where he is this fine morning?

  No, said Susumu Toda. But I can find out.

  * * *

  —

  They drove north through Ueno and up Avenue Q again, then east at Minowa and across the river, the Sumida River again. The young guy Shin at the wheel this time, Harry Sweeney sat in the back with Susumu Toda, Toda going through the newspapers again: Well, they’ve all gone to town on it, as you’d expect. Only Akahata saying people shouldn’t jump to conclusions, that suicide can’t be ruled out…

  They might want to think about changing that line, said Harry Sweeney, looking out of the window, watching factories turn to fields again, getting closer, nearer again. Willoughby’s already talking about shutting them down.

  Susumu Toda shrugged, smiled, and said, Be one less paper for me to translate, I guess.

  Lucky you, said Harry Sweeney. Go on…

  Well, the rest of them have a lot of pages, lot of columns, lot of what we already know: detai
ls of the crime scene, bits about the autopsy, the trains, etcetera. But a couple of them report witnesses hearing a “mysterious car” in the vicinity, around that Cursed Crossing, around midnight –

  Yeah? That wasn’t in the briefing, was it?

  Susumu Toda shook his head: No.

  Go on, read it to me then, said Harry Sweeney, turning from the window, turning to Susumu Toda and his papers.

  So the Asahi, Mainichi and Yomiuri, they’ve all got interviews with a local fishmonger, a Mister Sakata, who lives in Gotanno Minami-machi, about two hundred yards from where the body was found. He says different things to different papers, but he seems to have heard a car pull up outside his house between midnight and one a.m., or it was turning round, then coming back past his house. According to the Mainichi, the tire marks from a U-turn are still visible outside the man’s house. Despite the rain.

  Well, that’ll give us something to chew over with Hattori, said Harry Sweeney. Anything else?

  Susumu Toda sighed, nodded, and said, Yeah. There’s a few “I saw him” accounts, too. Both from the department store and in the vicinity of the scene –

  At the crime scene? Alive, said Harry Sweeney, staring down at the papers in Toda’s lap. You’re kidding me?

  Susumu Toda shook his head: No, Harry.

  Jesus Christ, said Harry Sweeney. The fuck are the police doing? They got goddamn journalists doing their fucking jobs. Interviewing witnesses, printing what they say.

  Susumu Toda smiled: Well, the Asahi has even got Kuroda Roman, Roman Kuroda on the case.

  Who the hell is Roman Kuroda?

  Susumu Toda laughed: The mystery writer.

  It’s not goddamn funny, Susumu, said Harry Sweeney. Next time, you go fucking explain this bullshit to Willoughby. Explain why journalists and writers are investigating the case while the Japanese police are sat on their asses, telling us goddamn nothing. Why we’re the last to know –

  Sir, said Shin. Excuse me, sir…

  What is it, said Harry Sweeney. Why we stopped?

  Sir, said Shin, gesturing with both hands toward the windshield, toward a line of backed-up cars up ahead –

  Mother of God, said Harry Sweeney, staring over the front seat, shaking his head. Pull in and wait here. We’ll get out and walk. Come on, Susumu…

  And Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda got out of the back of their car, putting on their hats and taking out their cigarettes, Harry Sweeney shaking his head, cursing out loud as he surveyed the scene: forty, fifty cars, all backed up, double parked, blocking the road to Ayase station, crowds of people walking back and forward between the cars, back and forward between the station and the so-called Cursed Crossing, some of the people in their Sunday best, with their parasols and umbrellas up, some of them chewing on sticks of grilled chicken, their kids carrying candyfloss, shouting and laughing, running here and there, from food stall to food stall, the hawkers and vendors calling out with their promises of tasty this and tasty that, get your Shimoyama candyfloss here –

  You fucking believe this, said Harry Sweeney, pushing between the cars, pushing people out of his way, making his way through the crowds, fighting his way through the throng, knocking a man off a bicycle, a kid against a car, cursing and cursing, over and over, Get the fuck out my way! Move!

  Susumu Toda following in his wake, Susumu Toda pleading, Harry, Harry, come on, don’t…

  But Harry Sweeney kept on pushing his way, kept on fighting his way until he came to Ayase station, until he saw a uniformed officer, until he took out his PSD badge, until he shoved it in the man’s face and said, The fuck are you doing? I want to see the officer in charge and I want to see him now! And then get these fucking people out of here. This is a goddamn crime scene for Chrissake! Susumu, tell –

  Yes, Harry, I’m telling him, I’m telling him, said Susumu Toda, Susumu Toda translating, speaking with the uniformed officer, listening to the uniformed officer, the uniformed officer apologizing and bowing, gesticulating and pointing this way then that way –

  What is it? What’s he saying, Susumu?

  Susumu Toda nodded to the officer, thanked the officer, then took Harry Sweeney to one side and whispered, Seems there’s been a breakthrough, Harry.

  * * *

  —

  To avoid the crowds, to avoid the throngs, they crossed the tracks at Ayase station, the trains running again, up and down the tracks, back and forth over the scene. Then they crossed the Ayase River by the water gate on the other side of the tracks, heading west through a patchwork of fields, damp and empty, under a curtain of sky, gray and heavy, until they came to the Gotanno Minami-machi police box. There were cars here, were crowds here, but not as many, not so many. They showed their badges and got directions, then they walked beside the embankment of the Tōbu line, turned left, and passed under the metal bridge of the Tōbu line, following the road west until they saw more cars parked up ahead, saw more people standing up ahead, and saw Detective Hattori standing there, too, outside the Suehiro Ryokan, a traditional Japanese inn –

  The property was surrounded by a narrow drainage ditch, shielded by a tall wooden fence, the tops of a few trees visible above the fence and the gate, further hiding the shabby, gloomy, two-storied wooden inn within, obscuring this place of shabby, gloomy trysts and assignations –

  You got my message then, said Detective Hattori, walking toward Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda.

  No, said Toda. What message?

  Really, said Hattori with a shrug and a nod. Soon as I heard, first thing I did was call your office. Like I said I would. Left a message that I’d be here –

  Soon as you heard what, asked Harry Sweeney.

  Well, it’s a bit embarrassing to say, said Detective Hattori, taking off his hat and scratching his head. But these reporters, they’ve been canvassing the area, interviewing witnesses faster than we can. So this one reporter, from the Mainichi, I think it was, he shows a photograph of President Shimoyama to the wife of the owner, and she’s like: Yeah, the man was here, afternoon of the fifth. Arrived about half one, stopped for about four hours. Makes sense, you know. We got umpteen witnesses now saying they saw President Shimoyama around here that night.

  Yeah, said Harry Sweeney. We’ve been reading all about these witnesses. Not in your reports, not in your briefings, in the goddamn newspapers, detective.

  I know, I know, said Detective Hattori, nodding his head, scratching his head. What can I say? It’s embarrassing.

  It’s not embarrassing, said Harry Sweeney. It’s fucking disgraceful, shameful. A stain on the Japanese police –

  Hey, hey, said Detective Hattori, stepping toward Harry Sweeney, staring up at Harry Sweeney. With respect, you give us a free press, this is what you get.

  Harry Sweeney stepped toward Detective Hattori, looked down at Detective Hattori: Bullshit. It’s got nothing to do with a free press, and you know it. Basic, elementary police work. That’s what this is about. The preservation and integrity of the crime scene. The allocation of manpower and resources. That’s what I’m talking about.

  Yeah, said Detective Hattori, taking a step back, pointing down at his feet. Well, you see these shoes? These were brand new. I ordered them specially, only picked them up the day before this thing broke. Cost me half my salary, they did. Be chump change, peanuts to you, no doubt. But look at them now, they’re ruined. Ruined because they’ve been out to the Shimoyama house, down to the house of Vice President Katayama, then, ever since the body was found, they’ve been here, in the pissing rain, under the beating sun, walking this scene, working this case, until there’s nothing left of them. So with respect, don’t tell me I ain’t been doing my job.

  Harry Sweeney shook his head, smiled at Detective Hattori, and said, Well then, you’ve wasted a new pair of shoes, detective, because you doing your job like you say you been doing, that still don’t exp
lain why every goddamn newspaper in Japan has been doing a better job than you.

  Look, said Detective Hattori, turning to Susumu Toda. You know me, Toda, I’ve just been doing what I’ve been told to do, going where I’ve been told to go. I don’t decide nothing, I just do what I’m told. He wants to pick a fight, be my guest. But tell him to go pick it with my boss –

  I will, said Harry Sweeney. Where is he?

  In there, said Detective Hattori, nodding toward the Suehiro Ryokan. Doing his job.

  Is that right, said Harry Sweeney. Come on then, lead on. Let’s go see the great Japanese police force at work.

  Detective Hattori said nothing, just nodded, then turned and led Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda over the narrow ditch, under the wooden gate, through the tiny garden and into the genkan of the Suehiro Ryokan, shabby and gloomy. The three men took off their shoes, then stepped up into a dark, narrow hallway and walked down the corridor to a dim, humid room at the back of the inn where Chief Inspector Kanehara, the head of the First Investigative Division, and two other senior officers were sat sipping tea with a stick-thin, middle-aged woman in a somber kimono –

  Excuse me, Chief, said Detective Hattori, bowing from his waist, gesturing toward Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda. But Public Safety Division are here, sir.

  In the dim, humid room, Chief Inspector Kanehara turned in his seat, looking toward the entrance, squinting in the weak light, then nodded, smiled, stood up, and said, Of course, of course, I know Police Investigator Sweeney. How are you, Harry? How you doing? It’s been a long time, no?

  Yes, sir, said Harry Sweeney. It’s been a while.

  Too long, said Chief Inspector Kanehara, then he turned to the stick-thin, middle-aged woman in the somber kimono and said, Would you excuse us, please?