Suspicion

Suspicion

1.

It was the beginning of October. Autumn came early in the Hokuriku region, but it would still be some time before the leaves began to turn. From the prefectural capital of T—, fresh snow could be seen on the highest peaks of the Tateyama mountain range, which separated the province of Etchū from that of Shinano to the east.

Moichi Akitani, a reporter at the local news desk of the Hokuriku Daily, had just finished visiting a sick relative at the hospital, and now took the elevator down from the fourth floor. The ground floor had a large lobby, with a reception desk, a pharmacy counter, and a waiting area. The numerous long benches were always occupied by patients waiting to collect their medicine, many of whom passed the time by watching the television positioned nearby.

As Akitani made his way to the exit on the other side of the lobby, his eyes settled on the white hair of a man sitting roughly in the middle of the benches. Even from behind, Akitani recognized the distinctive long neck and bony shoulders of the lawyer Masao Harayama. He was hunched over the pages of a book.

Pushing his thick black-framed glasses up on his nose, Akitani maneuvered his short, plump body between the benches, then tapped Harayama on his thin shoulder.

When the lawyer looked up, Akitani grinned and bowed his head slightly in greeting. His round face and flat nose lent a certain friendliness to his expression.

“Feeling under the weather, Mr. Harayama?”

“Ah, you know . . .” replied the lawyer with a vague smile. “What about you? Something the matter?”

“Oh no, I’m quite well.”

“I bet you are, with that sturdy body of yours.”

“I was just visiting a relative. Then I spotted you sitting here.” He paused. “Long wait on your hands?”

“They’re just preparing my medicine. Why?”

“There’s something I’d like to ask you about,” said Akitani, dropping his voice as if to avoid being overheard.

Harayama nodded slightly, but reluctance showed in his face. Seeing this, Akitani moved away again and stood behind the rearmost bench, where he gazed at the television.

Harayama’s name was called, and he made his way over to the pharmacy counter, where he was given his bill. He proceeded to the payment counter, settled the fee, got his bill stamped, returned to the pharmacy counter, showed the bill, and finally received his bulky bag of medicine.

Akitani, who had been waiting all the while, approached Harayama again.

“What’s ailing you, then?”

“My liver,” frowned Harayama. “It’s chronic with me. I’ve had ten years of this.”

“Oh dear. Any signs of improvement?”

“As I say, it’s chronic, so I can forget any chance of a speedy recovery. It seems to have flared up again, which is why I’ve been seeing the doctor. I come in every three days to get my medicine.” Harayama spoke in a gentle murmur, his complexion slightly pale.

“Well, I do hope you feel better soon. You’ve got plenty of important work to attend to, after all.”

“I suppose I do,” said Harayama, tucking his medicine and book into his bag. But there was something listless about the way he spoke.

“Did you drive here?”

“No, my house isn’t too far away, so I took the opportunity for a stroll. The doctor tells me I should walk as much as possible.”

“In that case, do you mind if I come with you part of the way? I’m heading back to the office myself.”

Harayama eyed Akitani somewhat warily, but said nothing.

The thin lawyer and plump journalist set off down the warmly sunlit street. Or rather, Harayama set off, and Akitani followed at his side.

“And tell me, Mr. Harayama, is Kumako Onizuka well?” said Akitani, keeping pace. He asked his question as if it were merely a bit of small talk.

“If you mean her health,” replied Harayama just as casually, “then yes—my client appears to be in top form.”

“She’s a big woman, isn’t she? Five foot seven, nine and a half stone—and the buxom type . . . You must have met her at the detention center what, a dozen times by now?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“And she’s refusing to crack?”

“Of course. You know what she’s like.”

“Still proclaiming her innocence to anyone who’ll listen?”

“Well, she is the talkative type.”

“Mr. Harayama, do you honestly believe she didn’t do it?”

“My dear Akitani, I’m her defense counsel. How can I stand up in court and defend her if I don’t?”

“But surely they’d go easier on her if she actually admitted her guilt? Extenuating circumstances and so on . . .”

“My client firmly denies any wrongdoing. As her lawyer, my job is to support that position.”

“I interviewed Onizuka before she was arrested. As you know, the police waited a week to arrest her, and she spent most of that time talking up a storm, telling anyone who’d listen that she had nothing to do with what happened. She has that way of hunching one shoulder up and throwing her chest out when she talks—which, given her figure, makes quite an impression. And she really can talk . . . Once she gets started there’s no stopping her. Though, for a high school dropout, she does say some clever things. I don’t know if she did a bit of studying during her days as a hostess in Tokyo or what, but she really knows how to construct an argument. When I met her, she was using all this legal jargon. You’d never have guessed she had links to the Shinjuku yakuza. But as soon as I started to ask the really pertinent questions, she flew right off the handle. Pushed me in the chest and screamed: You’re no use to me! Get the hell out of here! A woman her size can give quite a shove, you know. She was really fuming. It was scary stuff—especially when I remembered the yakuza connection.”

“Where did you interview her?”

“At Fukutarō Shirakawa’s house, where she’s been living ever since they married. She had him remodel it three months before the incident. For a backwater like this, it’s a really modern-looking place. Automatic doors and everything. And she chased me right out of those doors and into the street.”

“Is that so surprising? You practically led a campaign against her with those articles of yours—claiming she drove Mr. Shirakawa off the quay at the New Port and swam away from the wreckage alone, all for the sake of three hundred million yen in insurance money.”

“Oh, I’d hardly call it a campaign. Onizuka’s guilt is beyond doubt. Shirakawa was fifty-nine. His assets—the forest and farming land he inherited, plus the office building he leased out in the city—were valued at around two hundred million yen. His wife died ten years ago. Then, three winters ago, their only son perished with his wife in a mountain-climbing accident on Mount Tanigawa. Shirakawa adored his son, who had always been there for him, and losing him so suddenly came as a real blow. After that, he raised his three orphaned grandchildren: a son who at the time of the Onizuka incident was in the first year of middle school, and two daughters who were in the first and fourth year of elementary school. Though with two hired maids on hand to help, it wasn’t as if he had to bring them up single-handed.”

The lawyer nodded, and Akitani went on.

“Shirakawa made occasional trips to Tokyo in relation to his forestry business. A year before the incident, one of his clients invited him to a Shinjuku bar. The hostess at their table was Kumako Onizuka. She might look a little plain when you meet her at the detention center, but in makeup she’s almost unrecognizably beautiful. It helps that she’s so tall and glamorously proportioned. It isn’t hard to imagine the effect she’d have on the short, frail Shirakawa. I mean, the man had been single for a whole decade by this point. When Onizuka learned from Shirakawa’s contact that he was a big Hokuriku landowner, her greed kicked in. She began treating him like a king in order to seduce him. A wealthy country bumpkin like him was putty in her hands. That very evening, at her insistence, they slept at a love hotel—and from then on, Shirakawa was besotted. He began making the journey from T— to Shinjuku twice a month. He’d spend three days with Onizuka each time, becoming increasingly obsessed with her. Of course, he had no idea she was mixed up with the Shinjuku yakuza . . .”

Harayama continued plodding along as he listened.