“Would you say it was considerably better than what he had written before?”
“It was, but for me—and this is critical—it wasn’t all that unexpected. Hidaka was always a powerful writer. But his earlier work was always a little too rough at the edges, and he lost readers because of it. They couldn’t grasp the message through the noise, if you follow. However, An Unburning Flame was very streamlined. Have you read it?”
“I did. It was good.”
“I agree. In fact, I think it’s his best work.”
It was the story of a salaryman who, enchanted by the beauty of the fireworks he sees while on a business trip, changes professions and becomes a fireworks maker. The story was good, but the descriptions of the fireworks in particular were well done, I thought.
“And he wrote that novel all in one go. It wasn’t serialized?”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you talk about the work before he started writing it?”
“Of course. We do that with every author.”
“What did you talk about with Mr. Hidaka at that time?”
“We discussed the plot a little. We also talked theme, story, and his main character.”
“Did you make all of the big decisions together, then?”
“No. Naturally that’s left to Mr. Hidaka to do by himself. He’s the author, after all. I just help him talk through his ideas and offer my opinions.”
“Was it Mr. Hidaka’s idea to have the main character become a fireworks maker?”
“Of course.”
“What did you think when you heard that?”
“You mean did I like it?”
“Did it seem like his kind of idea?”
“Not particularly, but it certainly wasn’t a surprise, either. He’s not the first person to write about fireworks makers.”
“Would you say that there was anything in the final book that was the direct result of your advice, Mr. Mimura?”
“Nothing big. I looked at the finished manuscript and pointed out a few things, sure, but it was up to him to decide how to fix them.”
“One last question. If Mr. Hidaka had rewritten someone else’s work using his own words and expressions, do you think you could tell by reading it?”
Mr. Mimura thought a while before answering, “Honestly, no. Word usage and turns of phrase are the best way to tell who the writer is, so, no, I suppose not.”
But he didn’t neglect to add, “Detective, An Unburning Flame is without a doubt Mr. Hidaka’s work. We met several times during its writing, and he was truly struggling with it. Sometimes I thought he might have a breakdown altogether. If he was using someone else’s novel as a basis, I doubt he would have had to struggle quite so much.”
I refrained from venturing an opinion on this and instead thanked him and left. However, I had already worked out a rebuttal in my mind. Namely, that while it was difficult when times were hard to pretend to be happy, doing the reverse was relatively simple. Nothing he’d said shook my confidence in my ghostwriter theory.
* * *
When one man kills another, often a woman is involved. However, we hadn’t yet looked deeply into the possibility of there being a woman in Osamu Nonoguchi’s life. The feeling in the department was that it wasn’t one of “those kind of murders.” Or maybe it was just the impression we had of Mr. Nonoguchi himself. He wasn’t unattractive, but it was hard to picture the woman who would choose him.
However, our instincts were wrong. He had had a special relationship with at least one woman. The investigation team that performed the follow-up search of his apartment found the first evidence of this, three clues.
The first was an apron with a checkered pattern and a feminine design, found neatly ironed and folded in one of Osamu Nonoguchi’s dressers. Our working theory is that a woman who occasionally visited would wear it when she cleaned up around the apartment or perhaps cooked meals.
The second clue was a gold necklace, still in its case, and neatly wrapped. The necklace came from a famous jewelry store. It looked like a present waiting to be given.
The third clue was a filled-out questionnaire, folded neatly and placed in the same box as the wrapped necklace. The questionnaire came from a travel agency and concerned a trip to Okinawa Mr. Nonoguchi had apparently been planning. The date at the top of the questionnaire was May 10, seven years ago. The trip was planned for July 30, neatly coinciding with a teacher’s summer break. However, since the questionnaire had never been turned in, it seemed that the trip never happened.
At issue were the names of the travelers: Osamu Nonoguchi, and right next to that, a Hatsuko Nonoguchi, age twenty-nine.
We looked into it, and no one with that name ever existed. At least, not among Osamu Nonoguchi’s relatives. Our assumption is that Hatsuko Nonoguchi was an alias, and Osamu was intending to take a trip to Okinawa with a woman pretending to be his wife.
From this we can assume the following: at the very least, seven years ago, Osamu Nonoguchi was in a close relationship with a woman, and though the current status of that relationship was unknown, he still had feelings for her—enough that he kept the relics of their relationship close at hand.
I asked the chief for permission to investigate further. I had no idea whether Hatsuko was connected to our case; however, seven years ago was the year before Kunihiko Hidaka broke out with An Unburning Flame. I felt that, were I able to meet the woman Nonoguchi was with at the time, I might learn something of value about what was going on then.
I first tried asking the man himself. He sat up halfway in his hospital bed when I told him we’d found the apron, the necklace, and the travel documents.
“Could you please tell us whom the apron belongs to, to whom you intended to give the necklace, and with whom you were planning on going to Okinawa?”
Unlike my previous questions, these clearly troubled him. “What does that have to do with your case? I realize I’m a murderer, and I have to pay for my crimes, but does that mean I have to divulge private matters that have nothing to do with my crime?”
“I’m not telling you to make it public knowledge. You only have to tell me. If we find that this has nothing to do with the murder, I won’t ask you about it again, nor will the media hear about it. I can guarantee that we won’t bother the woman.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but she has nothing to do with the case. You’ll have to trust me on that.”
“Then why don’t you just tell me? If you refuse, you’ll be forcing us to investigate, and I guarantee you that we’ll find out everything there is to know. Once our detectives start looking at this, there’s a good chance that the press will catch wind of it. I imagine that’s not something you particularly want.”
But no matter what I said, Osamu Nonoguchi wouldn’t tell us the woman’s name. He even took issue with our continuing to search his apartment: “I’d prefer you stopped rooting through my things. Some of my books were gifts from friends, and they’re very important to me.”
At that point, however, the doctor intervened. I’d reach the time limit he’d placed on my visit and I was forced to leave.
I felt I had achieved what I needed that day, for I was now convinced that looking for this mysterious woman would be a meaningful step in establishing Nonoguchi’s motive.
I began by speaking with Mr. Nonoguchi’s neighbors, asking if they’d seen a woman in his apartment or heard a woman’s voice there. People who are normally reluctant to answer most questions from the police frequently become overly eager to help when it comes to their neighbor’s relationships. In this case, however, my questions didn’t yield much. Even the woman who lived next door to Nonoguchi, a housewife who was often home, said she’d never seen a woman visit his apartment.
“It doesn’t have to be recently. In fact, it might have been several years since she last visited.”
The neighbor told me she had been living there almost ten years, meaning she’d moved in around the same time as Nonoguchi. It see
med likely she’d have seen anyone he was dating.
“Maybe there was a woman,” she said at last. “But that was some time ago, and I’m afraid I just don’t remember.”
I tried taking a fresh look at all of Osamu Nonoguchi’s relationships—personal and professional. I started by visiting the middle school he’d quit back in March. However, I found that few people there knew anything at all about his personal life. He’d never been much for socializing, and he’d never spent time with anyone from the school outside of work.
I next went to the middle school where he’d taught before that. This was where he was working when the Okinawa trip was planned. I wasn’t eager about visiting that school because this was where I’d once taught as well.
I waited for classes to finish before going. Two of the three school buildings had been renovated, but that was about the only difference. Everything else looked exactly as it had ten years before.
Suddenly lacking the courage to walk through the front gate, I stood there and watched the students leave school. Then a familiar face passed in front of me, an English teacher named Mrs. Tone. She was about seven or eight years older than me. I went after her and called out to her. She turned, recognizing me with a surprised smile.
I said hello and asked how she was before telling her that I wanted to talk about Nonoguchi. She nodded, her expression growing serious.
We went to a nearby coffee shop, a place that had opened since I’d worked at the school.
“We were all surprised by what happened, and no one can believe that Mr. Nonoguchi was the killer,” she told me, then added excitedly, “And to think that you’re on the case! What a coincidence.”
I told her that this coincidence was making it hard for me to do my job, which she said she understood. Then I got down to the matter at hand. My first question was whether there ever was a woman in Osamu Nonoguchi’s life.
She said it was a difficult question. “I don’t know for sure, but my feeling is there wasn’t.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Intuition?” She laughed. “I know, I know. ‘Intuition’ is usually dead wrong. But … I think some objective facts make this likely the case. Did you know that Mr. Nonoguchi had a bunch of people set him up on blind dates?”
“No, I didn’t. He doesn’t strike me as the dating type.”
“It was less random dating and more like he was looking for a potential spouse. I’m pretty sure our headmaster at the time set him up at least once. If he was so desperate to get hitched, I can’t imagine there was a woman in his life.”
“How many years ago are we talking?”
“It wasn’t that long before he left the school, so maybe five or six years ago?”
“What about before then? Was he getting set up then, too?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Should I ask some of the other teachers? There are still quite a few who were here in those days.”
I told her that would be a huge help if she would check around with her colleagues.
Mrs. Tone pulled out a PDA and wrote herself a memo.
I moved on to my second question, asking if she knew anything about Osamu Nonoguchi’s relationship with Kunihiko Hidaka.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said, “you’d already left the school by then.”
“By when?”
“By the time Kunihiko Hidaka won that new-author award.”
“I’m not sure if I was here or not. I’m not the sort who keeps tabs on literature awards.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have known about it myself if Mr. Nonoguchi hadn’t brought the announcement to school and showed it to everyone. He seemed very excited that his old schoolmate had won.”
“Do you know if Mr. Nonoguchi was in contact with Mr. Hidaka at that time?”
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think so, not at that point. He did eventually meet up with him, I know, but that was some time after that.”
“How long after? Could it have been two or three years?” That would mean his reunion with Hidaka was seven years ago, as he’d claimed.
“Sure, that sounds about right.”
“Did Mr. Nonoguchi ever talk about Mr. Hidaka in detail?”
“What kind of detail?”
“Anything at all. Maybe he commented on what kind of person his old friend was, or maybe he said something about his novels.”
“I don’t remember if he said anything about Mr. Hidaka as a person, but he was a little outspoken about not liking his writing very much.”
“He didn’t think his novels were good? Do you remember anything specific?”
“Oh, he would always say more or less the same things. That Mr. Hidaka didn’t understand literature, or he couldn’t write people, or that his books were too lowbrow.”
This sounded nothing like what I’d heard about Hidaka’s writing from Osamu Nonoguchi. Nor like the words of someone who had held up Hidaka’s books as a model for his own writing.
“But he still read Hidaka’s books even though he didn’t like them? And he went to visit him?”
“He did. Honestly, I think he only said those negative things about Mr. Hidaka’s work because of his own mixed feelings.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you see, Mr. Nonoguchi always wanted to be a writer, and his childhood friend beat him to it. But he couldn’t just ignore what his friend was doing. Of course he thought, ‘What’s so great about these? I could write better.’”
Now that, I could picture.
“Do you remember how Mr. Nonoguchi reacted when Kunihiko Hidaka won the award for An Unburning Flame?”
“Well, it’d make a better story if he’d been wracked with jealousy, but actually, I don’t think he was. In fact, he sounded pretty proud of it.”
I could interpret this a number of ways, but it was good information. Though I wasn’t able to find out anything about a girlfriend, I wasn’t leaving empty-handed. I thanked Mrs. Tone for her time.
That business behind us, Mrs. Tone asked me how I’d been since I left teaching, and how my new job was going. I said something harmless, mostly avoided talking about my departure from the school, which wasn’t my favorite topic.
I believe she understood this and she didn’t press too hard. Except at the end when she said, “You know, bullying is still a problem.”
“I don’t doubt it.” I had spent years noticing every time bullying was mentioned in the news. Mostly because the guilt over my own failure hadn’t ever left me.
We left the coffee shop, and Mrs. Tone and I parted ways.
* * *
The photograph turned up the day after my meeting with Mrs. Tone. Makimura discovered it during yet another search of the Nonoguchi apartment.
We’d come back again hoping to find a little more information on the woman, Hatsuko. Our main goal was to find a photo. I was certain that someone who so carefully stored mementos such as the apron was sure to have a photo around somewhere, yet none had turned up. There were some albums, but none of the photos in them were of women of the right age. This seemed odd.
“Why wouldn’t Nonoguchi keep a photo?” I asked Makimura during a break.
“Maybe he didn’t have one? People usually take couples shots if they go somewhere together, but assuming they never made it to Okinawa, maybe the opportunity never presented itself?”
“Really? This is a man who kept old travel documents in his dresser. Surely he would’ve taken at least one photo.”
The apron suggested that the woman had come to the apartment regularly. We knew he owned a camera and could’ve taken a picture of her during one of her visits.
“Well,” Makimura said, “if there was a photo and we haven’t found it, it’s because he’s hidden it.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. But why hide it? He certainly wasn’t expecting a police search.”
“Another mystery.”
I was looking around the room again when something Mr. Nonoguchi said to me the other
day popped into my head, something about his not wanting us to root through his things anymore—his books, in particular.
A bookshelf ran the length of his office wall. I divided the books up between myself and Detective Makimura, and we searched each one, cover to cover, checking for any photos, letters, or notes stuck between the pages.
This took over two hours. As one might expect of a writer, he owned a large number of books. As we searched, the piles towered around us like miniature Leaning Towers of Pisa.
Eventually it occurred to me that I might have gotten it wrong. Why keep a photograph if it was so well hidden you couldn’t take it out to look at it? It made more sense for him to have it in a place where he could easily grab it and quickly put it away again.
Makimura went to the table with Mr. Nonoguchi’s word processor on it. He sat down, pretending to be the author at work. “So, I’m working on my latest masterpiece, and my thoughts drift to her. I suppose he could put a photo right around here.” Makimura indicated the blank space directly next to the word processor.
“What about a place you can’t see, but is always within reach?”
Detective Makimura looked around, spotting a thick dictionary with gaps in between pages where Nonoguchi had left bookmarks. He smiled and reached for it. His guess was on the mark. Five bookmarks were inside the dictionary, one of them a photo of a young woman standing in front of what appeared to be a roadside restaurant. She was wearing a checkered blouse and a white skirt.
It didn’t take long to find out who she was. Rie Hidaka identified her immediately. She was Hatsumi Hidaka—Kunihiko Hidaka’s late wife.
“Hatsumi’s maiden name was Shinoda,” she told us. “They were married for twelve years, which lasted until she died in a traffic accident five years ago now. I never met her. She’d already passed away when I met Hidaka. But I knew her face from the albums he still had at home. That’s definitely her.”
I asked if we could see those albums, but she shook her head. “I don’t have them anymore. Right after we got married, he sent them and everything else of hers back to her family. There might be something left in the stuff we sent to Canada, but I’m not sure. I’ll take a look though. Our things are being returned and they are supposed to arrive back in Japan any day now.”