Puppet Master vol.1

  　Something suddenly occurred to Yoshio. He looked around his desk, and saw behind it a tub of soybeans with the measuring scale inside it. Yoshio put the scale on his head and, still holding the receiver, pulled the phone cord as tight as it would go and went out into the shop. Kida stared at him in astonishment, but when Yoshio gestured to him with his chin, he picked up the phone from the desk and carried it as far as the cord would let him, enabling Yoshio to move to the far side of the refrigerated display case. The scale for weighing beans was a small plastic tub, and he stood with it sitting atop his thinning hair looking out at the street inviting passers to laugh at him. One woman cycling past kept looking back over at his shoulder at him, shocked.

  　“You listening, Gramps?”

  　“I'm listening.”

  　“Do you think you can get away with making me angry?”

  　“I didn't mean to make you angry. I just wanted you to tell me whether Mariko is okay or not.”

  　The mechanical voice was shrill in his ear as the caller shouted, “I can do whatever I damn well want with Mariko! You don't have any rights over her, Gramps. Do you understand?”

  　“I'm her grandfather,” Yoshio said, calmly and slowly.

  　“That doesn't give you any rights over her. You just have to do as I say, that's all. But you just don't get it, do you? Maybe you're going senile.” The people on the street outside were probably thinking the same thing when they saw him standing there with a plastic tub on his head talking on the phone. “You poor old thing, Gramps. ‘I'm a wretched, pathetic, dirty old man’─say it.”

  　“I'm a wretched, pathetic, dirty old man.”

  　“I don't deserve to be alive. Say it!”

  　“I don't deserve to be alive.”

  　“You really are a stupid old fool.” The screechy voice laughed mockingly. “I'll give you a call next time I'm bored, Gramps.”

  　The line went dead. Yoshio stared at the receiver for a while, then turned to Kida and said, “He hung up.”

  　“What were you apologizing for, Boss?” asked Kida. He pointed at the tub on his head and asked, “Did the bastard tell you to do that?”

  　“No, he didn't.”

  　A buzzer went off inside. Yoshio handed the receiver to Kida and quickly went through to the living room. It was the interphone connected to the police stakeout next door.

  　“Mr. Arima, are you okay?”

  　“I'm all right. I got a recording.”

  　“We're searching the area. Don't move from the shop until you get the sign from us. It's possible the guy is somewhere nearby.”

  　Yoshio hung up and said to Kida, “That's what I thought too.”

  　“What's that?”

  　“That the guy might somewhere nearby, watching … he was using a cell phone, so he could do that, couldn't he?”

  　“Yes, he could,” Kida nodded, wide-eyed. “Oh, is that why you went out into the shop with that tub on your head?”

  　“Yes. I thought it'd make him laugh if he saw me.”

  　“But why─”

  　“The son of a bitch said he knew my every move. Then he had a terrible coughing fit.” It had sounded really bad─he hadn't been faking. “That's what often happens, isn't it? You think you're over the flu but then when you go outside you suddenly get another coughing fit. That's why I thought he might be out there.”

  　Kida looked out into the street, a mixture of fear and anger in his eyes. Yoshio quickly turned away and wiped his eyes. Mariko was already dead … Until now, it had been ninety-percent certain that she was dead, but that last ten percent had been full of hope. Even the detectives had said it was possible that she was still alive and being held prisoner. But there was no longer any hope. Mariko was dead. There was no doubt about it. He was absolutely certain of it.

  　Yoshio had managed to provoke the caller today. If he'd wanted to get revenge and enjoy tormenting Yoshio even more, all he had to do was make Mariko plead for her life on the phone so that Yoshio could hear her. He would have known how effective this would be. But he hadn't done that─and he had instantly dismissed the idea. He hadn't even teased Yoshio by proposing he do something in exchange for hearing Mariko at some other time. Instead, he'd simply insulted him.

  　Mariko was already dead. She was already where the guy couldn't hurt her anymore. At least there was that, Yoshio thought vacantly.

  So what had Tagawa, the closest thing the police currently had to a suspect in the case, been doing when the killer had called Yoshio?

  　He had been having his hair trimmed at a barbershop about a five-minute walk from his apartment. The “Tagawa Team” were in a car on the street outside, keeping watch on the place, following his movements through binoculars. One detective had tailed him on foot when he left home, and after he'd gone in, waited for a while before entering the shop on the pretext of asking for directions. It was a small shop with a sole middle-aged proprietor and two chairs. While talking with the barber, the detective had observed Tagawa as he flicked through a magazine awaiting his turn. The detective thanked the barber and left, and by the time he'd taken up position to keep watch outside, his turn at the mirror had come.

  　They had not long been investigating Tagawa, so they didn't know whether or not this was his usual barber. As far as they could see through the large glass window, the barber was chatting amiably to him, but it didn't look as though he was responding at all. He was looking down, maybe to avoid meeting the barber's eye, possibly due to his people phobia. The fact was that Tagawa spent most of his time holed up at home. On the few occasions he did venture out, it was to buy a magazine at the convenience store across the road, or to rent a video at a shop two blocks farther north. He was unemployed and showed no sign of looking for work, apparently depending on his mother for food, clothing, and shelter. Two people living on the mother's meager earnings must have been tough, and sure enough they'd seen a debt collector from the gas company pay them a visit.

  　Tagawa kept his eyes closed while the barber deftly trimmed his hair. The two detectives keeping watch from the car commented sarcastically what a luxury it was to go have your hair cut on a weekday. It was early afternoon, and four or five first-graders from the local elementary school walked by the shop in their yellow caps, holding hands, on their way home. One girl in a white dress, a red school satchel on her back, suddenly gave a shrill high-pitched laugh. Tagawa abruptly opened his eyes and looked over at her through the window. It was an alert, instinctive response, like a cat pouncing on a mouse. He continued staring at her until she disappeared from his line of sight. The detective that happened to be watching him through the binoculars at that moment later told his colleagues that he'd felt a shiver down his spine.

  　They were just speculating that if Tagawa could take himself to a barber, then it followed that he should be able to cope with renting cars, so the fact that he got his friend to do that for him must suggest some shady reason for his having wanted the vehicles, when the barber finished trimming and removed the towel from his shoulders. Tagawa said something to the barber and stood up, and the barber pointed to the back of the shop. Tagawa headed that way.

  　“Taking a piss?” As Tagawa disappeared from their sight, the detectives in the car radioed through to their colleague on foot warning him to cover the back of the shop, just in case. They had just finished talking to him when the “Arima Team” called in to say that the killer had just now made contact by telephone. It was questionable timing─perfect, even.

  　“Phone contact? Could he be using the shop phone?”

  　“That would be risky in such a small place.”

  　The Tagawa Team also contacted the incident room. The order to standby on alert came through, along with the information that the call had come on a cell phone.

  　“Has Tagawa got a cell phone?”

  　“Haven't seen him with one.”

  　“Maybe he borrowed it off his friend? Damn, what a nice
friend!”

  　Tagawa still hadn't come back. The barber was sweeping the floor. The conversation with the killer was still going on, they were informed over the radio.

  　“Shall we go in and check?”

  　HQ ordered them to wait. The temperature in the car rose. The phone conversation was still going on.

  　The barber finished sweeping the floor and went through to the back of the shop. There was no sign of anyone behind the big glass window. The only thing moving was the second hand on the clock reflected in the mirror.

  　The killer had hung up, the radio informed them.

  　“Where did the barber go?”

  　Then Tagawa came back and sat down before the mirror. A breath later the barber appeared. He picked up some hair product from the trolley next to the chair and splashed some on Tagawa's hair. The detectives in the car let out a deep breath. His haircut finished, Tagawa followed the same route home, tailed by the detective on foot.

  　When the other detectives questioned the barber, he told them, “That young customer? He went to the toilet.” He had come for a haircut two or three times before and was always the same, brusque and taciturn. The barber hadn't ever really heard his voice properly.

  　“To put it bluntly, he's a pretty gloomy type. Phone? No, he's never used the shop phone. Using a cell phone in the toilet? It's possible. If he did, I'd have no way of knowing. A cough? Did he have a cough? I don't think so … he didn't look as if he had a cold or anything. Hey, what's he supposed to have done?”

  　The detectives declined to answer, and left the shop.

  As soon as the report from the Tagawa Team came in, Takegami left Bokuto Police Station to go see the Arima Team, taking Shinozaki with him. He was dressed casually in a windbreaker and no necktie. Shinozaki too changed out of his suit into jeans and a shirt.

  　“This way, even if we're being watched, we'll look like some old guy and his sidekick from the Tofu Makers Association, I guess.” He was carrying a large shoulder bag containing recording equipment to make copies of the tape to send to the forensics guys at NRIPS.

  　They found Yoshio's assistant, a fellow called Kida, in charge of the shop, while Yoshio himself was in the apartment next door. Takegami was concerned by how terribly down he seemed, his voice lifeless. After dispatching Shinozaki to NRIPS, Takegami set about taking photographs of Arima Tofu and its environs. In order to make a detailed map it would help if he could get one of those from the neighborhood association showing the location of local shops, he told Yoshio, who took down the one he had pinned to the wall and handed it over.

  　“Are you feeling okay?” Takegami asked.

  　Yoshio blinked slowly and rubbed his face. “Mariko won't be coming back,” he said blankly, then said why. His voice was hoarse.

  　He was right, thought Takegami, although he hesitated to say so. He listened in silence without offering any trite words of comfort. As a detective he often saw the worst of society, those who seemed born only to hurt others. But you also came to appreciate ordinary people, their everyday words and means of coping. Yoshio Arima was far smarter and braver than the killer gave him credit for. He was facing up to the reality that his granddaughter was most likely dead and, however hard it was, refusing to allow himself to cling to any wishful thinking. That took strength.

  　Yoshio looked vacantly out of the window and muttered, “How on earth am I going to tell Machiko …”

  　Mariko Furukawa's mother was still in the hospital. Her life was out of danger, but her condition was not good, Takegami had heard. It was largely as a result of his own subordinate's thoughtless blunder, too.

  　“How is she coming along?”

  　Yoshio shook his head. “Her injuries are getting better okay, but … well, she isn't talking.” Takegami looked at him in surprise. Yoshio sought around the desk for his cigarettes, before finally locating them in a drawer. “She hasn't said a thing,” he said, lighting his cigarette with a cheap plastic lighter. His hands were trembling slightly.

  　“She hasn't said anything since she recovered consciousness?”

  　“Not a word. And she doesn't show any sign of hearing what I say, either. She just lies there vacantly as if she's gone senile. Either that, or she's asleep.”

  　“What does the doctor say?”

  　“He says these kinds of cases are difficult. In any case, once her injuries have healed, he'll refer her to a psychiatrist and a counselor. A psychiatrist is already coming in to check on how she's doing.” Then there was the fact she sometimes burst into tears in the middle of the night. “She doesn't scream or make a big fuss or anything, she just cries silently with tears rolling down her cheeks for hours at a time. I haven't seen her do this myself, but they say once she starts, she'll go on all night. That's not good for her either, so when she gets like that they've been giving her tranquillizers.”

  　Takegami apologized yet again for Torii's lack of sensitivity. “He really regrets it.”

  　Yoshio waved his hand. “It's done now, in the past. More importantly─”

  　A customer had come into the shop. Yoshio glanced over. Kida looked busy. Business was booming.

  　Yoshio lowered his voice a notch. “More importantly, will the police catch the culprit?” It was a simple question, but it seemed there was more to come, so Takegami didn't answer and just looked at him. The old man stubbed out his cigarette and frowned. Choosing his words carefully, he continued, “Well, I'm in no position to comment on what the police do. I'm sure you're doing all you can. It's just … it's just that I get the feeling that he's not the sort of guy that any right-minded person will be able to catch.”

  　“You mean he's a pervert?”

  　Yoshio tilted his head. “If you mean he's not quite right in the head, no, that's not what I mean.”

  　Takegami nodded without saying anything.

  　“I've seen people who're wrong in the head. In fact, one of my customers is like that,” he said, indicating the shop where Kida was standing. “He comes about once a month─a young man with a body like a pro wrestler. He never has any money, and when I ask him how he's going to pay for his tofu, he picks on whoever else is in the shop and orders them to pay. He's big and strong, so they usually just hand it over. If I'm behind the counter at the time, though, I stop them and tell the guy that if he doesn't have any money he can't buy any tofu. He shouts and stamps his feet, but when I don't back down he cusses a while then goes away. It's about a year since he first turned up. He's pretty well-known among all the storekeepers in the neighborhood.”

  　“I guess he's known at the local police box too, then.”

  　“Yes, he is. They're worried about him, and said they thought he might be on drugs.” Yoshio gave a little smile, his expression softening as though each and every one of his wrinkles were smiling. “By the way, whenever I run into him on the street, he always yells, ‘Hey, Granddad, your tofu's really good. It's a lot better than the supermarket stuff. I'll come and buy some more from you!’ That sort of thing.”

  　Takegami smiled wryly too.

  　“He's a weirdo, really. I feel sorry for him,” Yoshio said. “That sort of oddness I know about. But Mariko's─the culprit here is strange in a different sort of way. Don't you think so?”

  　“Yes I do,” Takegami said slowly.

  　“This guy has got his own standards, he thinks on a completely different level from normal people. That's why I wonder whether the police will ever be able to catch him.”

  　There were several things Takegami wanted to say, one being how much he admired Yoshio's coolheaded thinking. But what he came out with was, “He's still just human, though. And that means we'll get him.” He said it to persuade himself, too. “He caught a cold, right? He was coughing. The bastard's human after all.”

  　Yes, that cold. That cough. He'd been right─something had happened to the killer, that's why he'd been silent for a while. Takegami mentally crossed Kazuyoshi Tagaw
a off the list of suspects. The investigation team might have a different opinion, but Takegami was convinced it wasn't him. The cell phone was neither here nor there. The killer was someone they didn't know. Not yet, not at this point in time.

  　“Human?” Yoshio muttered. “Really?”

  A week passed. While on the surface all developments seemed to be at a deadlock, things carried on apace, with Tagawa still under surveillance, Takegami drawing up a new map, NRIPS analyzing the recording, and Yoshio visiting Machiko on his breaks from looking after the shop. The media furor over the killer's last call was beginning to fade.

  　And then, Mariko Furukawa's body turned up.

  Chapter 14

  At the center of Tokyo's Nakano Ward, three blocks north of the intersection of the main thoroughfares Yamanote Dori and Ome Kaido, there was a firm called Sakazaki Professional Movers.

  　This was a modest little outfit with a total of five employees, including the student part-timers, and the forty-five-year-old proprietor, Mr. Sakazaki, doubled as driver. Its main business was moving and relocation services, but it also took on handyman jobs─shifting heavy furniture, assembling mail-order furniture, temporary waterproofing of damaged roofs, assisting with the disposal of items too large to take down an apartment stairwell, that sort of thing. No job was too small for them, and they were highly regarded by local residents. They had only been in business for six years, but word-of-mouth spread quickly and the year before last they had started fielding inquiries from other parts of Tokyo, too. They had even been featured on a TV infotainment program.

  　Here in central Nakano, as well as other parts of western Tokyo like Nerima and Toshima Wards and northern Shinjuku, there were still some pockets where the single-family housing developments, low-rise public housing projects, and tenements built after the Korean War through the period of rapid economic growth remained. They might not have survived the wrecking ball if the bubble economy had continued for another year, but as it was, these older residential buildings now presented a curious townscape from another age. Their residents, living among the parking lots, odd-shaped empty parcels of land, and half-vacant office blocks that lay in the shadow of the West Shinjuku skyscraper district and the laughably ostentatious Tokyo Metropolitan Government Buildings were almost all elderly, many of them widowed and living alone.