And up I go now –
Senju Akira is sat cross-legged in the dark with only the street lights illuminating the sweat on his skull and the sheen on his skin; Senju Akira naked except for a traditional loincloth –
‘You better have a name for me,’ whispers Senju Akira. ‘Or you won’t be leaving here again tonight…’
I curse him and I curse myself…
I kneel before him. I say, ‘Hayashi Jo of the Minpo paper.’
Senju says nothing. His eyes on me. Senju says nothing –
My face to the floor, I say, ‘He was seen with Nodera.’ His eyes on me. Nothing.
His eyes on me. Nothing –
‘They were drinking together in the New Oasis.’
His eyes on me. Nothing. His eyes on me …
‘The night before the hit,’ I tell him –
In the dark. Senju shifts his weight. In the dark. Senju hisses, ‘Get out, detective! Go now! Quickly before I change my mind…’
I slide back on my knees towards the door, the stairs –
‘Red apple to my lips, blue sky silently watching…’
In the dark, Senju is getting to his feet. In the dark, Senju is rising, saying, ‘You want your drugs, you be here tomorrow night.’
*
I open the door to the borrowed office at Atago. Fujita still not here. They are all asleep now. Fujita gone again. I put my head down on my desk. But Fujita will be back. I still can’t sleep. Fujita is safe now. Tomorrow I will sleep. Tomorrow Fujita will return. Tomorrow …
Everything will fall into place. Everything will turn out fine –
Tomorrow Kai and the First Team will make their arrest –
Tomorrow the killer will confess to both crimes –
Tomorrow everything will fall into place –
Everything will turn out fine –
Everything will end –
‘Boss … Boss…’
I open my eyes –
‘The advertisement is from the Asahi newspaper,’ says Nishi. ‘It ran on the nineteenth of July…’
‘Thank you,’ I tell him –
Nishi smiles. Nishi asks, ‘So is it time to go and wake up the ladies of the Salon Matsu yet?’
*
The streets are dark and silent now, the heat heavy still, as we walk up Hibiya-dōri and show our passes again and again as we walk in front of the illuminated Dai-Ichi Assurance Building, Emperor MacArthur’s Headquarters opposite the darkened Imperial Palace of the old Emperor, as we walk on up past the Imperial Theatre and the Meiji Seimei building, then the Yūsen building and the Kaijo building, to Marunouchi and Ōtemachi –
The old Mitsubishi Town …
Here most of the modern steel and concrete buildings are still standing, just the odd ones gutted here and there; here where the Victors rule from their offices and their barracks; here in the new heart of Occupied Tokyo –
Same as the old heart …
Now Kimura, Nishi and I cut under the tracks of Tokyo station to Kanda –
Here, less than a mile from the Emperors old and new, few of the wooden buildings are still standing. There were train yards here once. Family businesses. Bicycle shops. Homes. Now there are only burnt-out ruins and makeshift shelters, rare clusters of old timber houses that were spared and sudden alleys of one-storey offices that have sprung up among the fields of weeds and mountains of ashes, the braziers and lanterns, the guitars and girls, the songs and shouts –
‘Asobu …? Asobu …? Asobu …? Asobu…?’
From the alleyways and the doorways with their permed hair and painted faces, they coo and they call, luring and then leading their catches back to the shabby little buildings where their foreign names and Japanese prices are written on placards or posters –
Off-limits. Off-limits. Off-limits. Off-limits …
The Salon Matsu is just another shabby little building stained with dirt among all the other shabby little buildings stained with dirt, an unlit pink neon sign the only new thing here. I slide open the cracked glass door. There is a young Korean man sat in the genkan, before a split noren curtain. The Korean has a pageboy haircut and spectacles, loud-coloured trousers and a grey undershirt –
He sees us. He stands up. He starts to speak –
‘Shut up!’ I tell him. ‘Police raid!’
I tell Kimura to wait with the Korean in the genkan and then I lead Nishi through the split curtain into the kitchen-cum-waiting room where three Japanese women are sat with their blouses wide open and their skirts up round their thighs, fanning themselves –
They look up at us. They sigh. They roll their eyes –
‘What do you want this time?’ asks the oldest –
I tell her, ‘We’re from Tokyo Metro HQ.’
‘So what?’ she says. ‘We’ve paid.’
I offer her a cigarette. She takes it. I light it for her. I ask her, ‘Are you the mama here then?’
‘So what if I am?’ she asks, and then she winks and says, ‘You after a free ride?’
I take out the envelope. I take out the clipping from the Asahi. I show her the advertisement. I ask her, ‘Are you still hiring?’
‘Why?’ she laughs. ‘You’re too ugly even for here.’
The other girls laugh. I hand out more cigarettes –
I ask her, ‘Do you do the interviews yourself?’
‘Why?’ she asks again. ‘So what if I do?’
‘Come on, play the game,’ I tell her. ‘Answer the questions and then we can all go home.’
She snorts. She says, ‘Home? Where’s my home? This is my home, officer. You like it?’
‘Listen,’ I tell her. ‘The body of a young girl was found up in Shiba Park, up behind Zōjōji. It had been there a while and it is impossible to identify…’
Now they are listening to me, smoking my cigarettes, sweating like pigs and fanning their thighs; the pictures in their heads, the pictures behind their eyes –
The Dead …
‘This advertisement was in one of her pockets, so we are here to see if you can identify her, help us put a name to her body…’
‘So how did she die?’ asks one of the girls –
The picture in her head, behind her eyes …
‘Raped and then throttled,’ I say –
The pictures of the Dead …
There is silence here now, behind the split curtain in this kitchen-cum-waiting room, silence but for the giggles and the groans from upstairs rooms, the panting and the pounding –
Ton-ton-ton-ton-ton-ton-ton-ton-ton-ton …
‘Who says she came here first?’ asks the mama. ‘Poor thing might have been on her way here when…’
‘That’s what I’ve come to find out, to talk to you about…’
‘But you haven’t given us a description,’ she says. ‘How would I know if she was here or not?’
I ask her again, ‘So do you do the interviews yourself?’
‘Not just me,’ she says. ‘Me and Mr. Kim do them.’
‘Is that him outside?’ I ask her. ‘Mr. Kim?’
‘He’s a Kim,’ she laughs. ‘But not him.’
‘Where’s the real Mr. Kim then?’
‘He’ll be here tomorrow.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Recruiting.’
‘Where?’