It was as he hooked back the doors and began to herd his customers towards the stairwell that Kit finally heard the furious howl of a police siren, coming closer by the second. Mr. Ito, it seemed, had left the body for someone else to find.
Yoshi and he cleaned the bar together, Kit taking four trays on which newly pulled pints were placed and tipping their slops into a bucket. He collected up the glasses and emptied the ashtrays into a plastic bag, tying it tightly. Yoshi wanted to say something. It was the way she stood, with one foot forward and her arms awkward at her sides.
“You were late,” she said.
“Yes,” said Kit, “I know. Something happened…”
“I was meant to see Yuko tonight.”
Yuko and Yoshi, the Tanaka twins. Yuko was a few minutes younger, and had married Tek Tamagusuku, a well-known property developer. Yoshi was famous, so famous that complete strangers turned up begging Yoshi to sell her pots to them. It had taken Kit years to work out what she wanted from him and why they were still together: he kept her family away, apart from Yuko.
“You were meant to…?”
“I told you,” Yoshi said. “Tamagusuku-san’s in London. So Yuko invited me to supper. I was meant to stay the night. I even bought the baby presents.” This wasn’t as big a commitment as it sounded. Yoshi spent her life buying presents for Yuko’s children.
“You promised,” said Yoshi.
That was the problem. Yoshi kept her promises. If she said she was going to do something she did it. Kit was into territory he understood, without actually feeling the intricate web of Japanese emotions that accompanied it.
“About No Neck…”
“I fired him,” Yoshi said crossly. “He kept saying you’d be back. I asked him where you were. He wouldn’t tell me.”
“I was giving an English lesson.”
Yoshi shook her head. “No,” she said, “that was over hours ago. Why wouldn’t No Neck tell me?”
“He didn’t know,” said Kit. “Mrs. Oniji booked a table at Red Bamboo. You know how long those things take.”
“You’re lying.” Yoshi’s eyes were large with tears.
“No. I’m not…Look,” Kit said, “why don’t we get you a taxi. Yuko will understand.”
“It’s too late,” said Yoshi.
He hoped she was talking about the taxi.
CHAPTER 8 — Friday, 8 June
Neku’s cloak was actually a coat. That is, it was cut with sleeves rather than mere slits through which to put one’s arms, though its sleeves were very short, almost vestigial. The garment appeared to be modelled on one worn by Vampire Hunter D in an old film, with an upturned collar and a silk lining that glistened wetly as Neku climbed the stairs towards Pirate Mary’s.
In an ideal world the cloak would keep her warm at night, wrap itself around her against the rain, and harden to a shell should anyone try to kick her while she slept. But in an ideal world Neku wouldn’t be sleeping in doorways in the first place and she was in this world, so her cloak just flapped, although it still managed to look better than she did.
Wrapping the cloak around her, Neku knocked politely at the half-open door of the bar. “Gomen-kudasi.”
“We’re shut.”
The voice was flat to the point of being hostile. So Neku knocked again, because she wasn’t sure what else to do, then put her head round the edge. The bar was empty, chairs upended on tables and the tiles wet from having been recently mopped.
“I told you, we’re…” The woman looked up and whoever she was expecting to see she saw someone else.
“Yoshi…”
Seeing the woman blink, Neku realised that perhaps she should have called the woman something more formal. Yet Yoshi was famous. People wrote about her in Tokyo Today. How could Neku not know her name?
“Who are you?”
“Lady Neku,” said Neku, bowing slightly. “In exile on this world.”
Yoshi scowled. “I don’t have time for games,” she said. “If someone’s told you about the bar job I’ll need to know your proper name. And you will call me madame.”
“Bar job?”
“You didn’t come about No Neck’s job?”
Neku shook her head. “Your man,” she said, looking around. “Is he here?”
“Why?” demanded Yoshi.
“Because we have business.”
“You have…?”
Watching the other woman’s eyes open, Neku wondered what this famous potter saw. A curve of cheek? A single line encompassing Neku’s nose, mouth, and chin…? When Neku caught herself in a shop window she saw a ragged cos-play, with flattish face and hunched shoulders. The lithe and deadly assassin Neku remembered had been missing for a while.
“What business?” Yoshi demanded.
“He has something of mine.”
“Of yours?” Yoshi must have known how lame that sounded, Neku decided, because the woman blushed and then shook her head in irritation. “What?” Yoshi demanded. “What could Kit-san possibly have of yours?”
My knife.
This seemed an inappropriate thing to say, so Neku just shrugged. “He borrowed something,” she said. “I want it back.” She looked round for somewhere to sit.
“He’s out,” said Yoshi. “Banking tonight’s cash. You can’t wait here.” She seemed torn between insisting Neku leave and a need to ask more questions. And it was obvious, at least to the younger of the two, that the fewer questions anyone asked the better.
“I’ll be downstairs,” said Neku.
“Wait…” Yoshi held up one hand. “This thing, when did he borrow it?”
Well, Neku almost said, it wasn’t exactly borrowed. She’d gone back for her knife the second she realised it was missing and found the body, still warm and slumped against the railings, only her knife was gone and the police were due to arrive. So she’d come here because this was where the cat said the foreigner lived, and because her knife was important.
“About an hour ago,” said Neku, then wondered what she’d said.
When Kit got back he found the outside light still on. That was his first warning all was not right. His second was that the cos-play sat on Pirate Mary’s bottom step, wrapped in her cloak. Kit’s third and final clue came when Yoshi threw an ashtray from the top of the stairwell. She threw it badly, possibly because tears ruined her aim. It was also possible she intended to miss.
“How could you?”
“What?” Kit asked.
“Look at her,” said Yoshi.
Neku clambered to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to cause problems.”
“She’s just a kid,” said Yoshi.
Neku’s chin came up at that. “No, I’m not.”
Kit looked between Yoshi and the cos-play, who were now glaring at each other. “God,” he said. “Yoshi. How could you even…”
The girl stamped, it was a very childish gesture. “Look,” she said, holding out her hand. “Just give it back.” Her fingernails beneath her lace gloves were bitten and broken, the gloves themselves were torn.
Pulling 15,000 yen from his wallet, Kit held the notes out to her. “Find somewhere to sleep,” he said. “Have a shower. Get something to eat.”
“I want my—”
“I don’t have anything of yours,” said Kit. Turning to Yoshi, he shrugged. “She’s a street kid,” he said. “I’ve given her a couple of coffees, bought her a bowl of noodles, that’s all.”
“Kit…”
He hadn’t expected Neku to know his name.
“Leave,” he told her. “Before we call the police.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me,” said Kit. What else could he say? Yoshi was within listening distance.