Malice (14 page)

Regarding the phone call just before the accident: “I was the one who called her, though I didn't have anything in particular to talk about. She was the same as always, I'd say. I don't remember the details of our conversation, but I think we talked about restaurants and places to go shopping. That's pretty much all we ever talked about. I was really surprised when I heard about the accident. I mean, I couldn't even cry it was such a shock. I was there for the wake and the funeral.”

Regarding Mr. Hidaka's bearing at the funeral: “Guys like that tend not to show much emotion in public, but it was clear to everyone he was despondent. I can't believe that was five years ago.”

Regarding Osamu Nonoguchi: “Who? Was that Hidaka's killer? I don't remember whether he came to the funeral or not. There were a lot of people there. Why are the police asking about Hatsumi now, anyway? Does it have something to do with the murder?”

*   *   *

Two days after we visited Hatsumi Hidaka's family home, Detective Makimura and I went to see Osamu Nonoguchi in the hospital. We spoke first to his doctor.

The doctor was troubled. He was ready to perform the surgery, but the patient wouldn't give consent. Apparently, Nonoguchi was saying that, if his chances were slim anyway, he might as well skip the operation and live a little longer.

“Would the surgery hasten his death?” I asked the surgeon.

He told me it was certainly possible. However, the potential for a good outcome was enough that he felt strongly they should undertake it anyway.

With that in mind, we went to Nonoguchi's room, where we found him sitting up in bed, reading a book. He looked thin, but his complexion was good.

“I was wondering what was up. Haven't seen you around in a while.” Though he sounded well enough, his voice lacked spirit.

“I have another request,” I said.

Osamu Nonoguchi looked a little disappointed. “You are unusually persistent. Or does that happen to everyone when they become a detective?”

I didn't respond, instead showing him the photo of Hatsumi Hidaka we'd found in his dictionary.

Osamu Nonoguchi's face froze, his mouth twisted slightly askew. I could hear his breathing become labored.

“Yes?” he croaked at last. I got the distinct impression that saying just that one word was all he could manage.

“Why were you in possession of a photograph of Kunihiko Hidaka's former wife? And why keep it in such an unusual place?”

Osamu Nonoguchi looked out the window, thinking. I stared hard at his face in profile.

“So what if I had a photo of Hatsumi?” he said at length, still gazing out the window. “It's got nothing to do with your case, Detective.”

“Again, that's for us to decide.”

“I'm telling you the truth.”

“Then please explain this photograph.”

“It's nothing. It doesn't mean anything. I took a photo of her at some point and forgot to give it to Hidaka.”

“And used it as a bookmark?”

“It must have been lying around. I don't know.”

“When was this picture taken? And where? It looks like a roadside restaurant.”

“I forget. I occasionally went out with the two of them—cherry-blossom viewing, or to see some festival. It was probably one of those trips.”

“But the picture only shows her. I think it's a little odd to go on a trip with a couple and only take a picture of the wife.”

“It was a restaurant, maybe Hidaka was in the bathroom when I took it.”

“Do you have any other pictures from that trip?”

“How can I tell you that if I don't know when it was taken? They might be in an album, or I might've thrown them away by mistake. Either way, I don't remember.”

Osamu Nonoguchi's distress was obvious.

I pulled out two more photos and placed them in front of him. Both prominently featured Mount Fuji. “You remember these, don't you?”

He looked at the photographs, and I caught him swallowing.

“We found them in your photo album. I'm sure you haven't forgotten these.”

He shook his head. “I wonder when those were taken,” he said, his voice weak.

“Both were taken in the same place. You don't remember where?”

“Sorry.”

“Fuji River. To be precise, the Fuji River highway rest area. The same place as the other photo we just showed you. Notice the staircase in the back—it's the same one.”

Osamu Nonoguchi was silent.

Several of the investigators on my team had recognized the rest area from the photo of Hatsumi. Armed with that knowledge, and with the help of the police department in Shizuoka Prefecture, where the rest area was located, we identified two other photos taken there.

“If you can't remember when you took the photo of Hatsumi, perhaps you can tell me about these photos you took of Mount Fuji? Why is it that they were in your album, but Hatsumi's photo wasn't?”

“Sorry, I didn't even remember I had those.” Apparently he had made up his mind to play dumb to the very last.

“I have one last photograph.” I pulled a single photo out of my jacket pocket. This was the photo we'd borrowed from Hatsumi's mother. “Something in this one must look very familiar to you.”

I watched him as he looked at the photo, which was a picture of three women standing together. It was slight, but I saw his eyes widen.

“Well?”

“I'm sorry. I have no idea what you're getting at.” His voice was hoarse.

“Really? You recognize the woman in the middle, though, don't you? Hatsumi Hidaka?”

I took Nonoguchi's silence as a yes.

“How about the apron she's wearing? The yellow-and-white-checkered pattern? It's the same as the one that we found in your apartment.”

“So what?”

“So you can try to explain away keeping a photo of Hatsumi however you like, but how do you intend to explain her apron being in your possession? Did you or did you not have a relationship with Hatsumi Hidaka?”

Osamu Nonoguchi moaned softly.

“Please, tell us the truth. I've said this before, but the more you hide from us, the deeper we have to dig. It's only a matter of time before the press catches on and somebody writes an article filled with conjectures. I guarantee that is something that you wouldn't want to see in print. Tell us everything now, and we can help prevent that.”

I wasn't sure how much of an effect my words had made on him. The only thing I could pick up from Nonoguchi's expression was painful indecision.

At last he said, “What happened between me and Hatsumi has nothing to do with this. I want to be clear about that.”

Finally, we were getting somewhere. “So you do admit to having a relationship with her?”

“I wouldn't call it a relationship. It was just a moment when our feelings might have moved toward each other. But it faded quickly, for both of us.”

“When did this start?”

“I don't remember exactly. Maybe five or six months after I started visiting Hidaka. I caught a bad cold and was bedridden for a while, and she came to check on me every now and then. That's how it started.”

“How long did it last?”

“Two, three months? Like I said, it wasn't long before the heat went out of it entirely. We just went crazy for a little while, that's all. It happens.”

“But you continued seeing the Hidakas after that. Most people would stay away after something like that happened.”

“It's not like we parted on bad terms. We talked about it and agreed we should stop seeing each other. I can't say that we entirely succeeded, that there wasn't a meaningful glance or two when I would visit. But for the most part whenever I dropped in, she would be out. I think she was avoiding it. Avoiding us. I believe that if she hadn't had that accident, I would have stopped seeing either of them before long.”

Once he got going, Osamu Nonoguchi spoke easily, the fear and hesitation he'd shown moments before now gone. I watched his expression, trying to determine how much of this I could believe. Though there were no telltale signs that he was lying, it was strange that he was suddenly so calm.

“In addition to the apron, we found a necklace and travel documents.”

He nodded. “We thought about taking a trip together. We went so far as the planning stage. But it never happened.”

“Why not?”

“Because we called it off. Isn't it obvious?”

“And the necklace?”

“As you suspect, I meant to give it to her. Of course, that got called off, too. Along with the rest of it.”

“Did you keep anything else of Hatsumi Hidaka's?”

Osamu Nonoguchi thought a moment. “There's a paisley necktie in one of my drawers. That was a present from her. That, and the Meissen teacup in the cupboard. She used it whenever she came to visit. We went to the shop together and picked it out.”

“What was the name of that shop?”

“Some place in Ginza, but I don't remember the name or the exact location.”

I made sure that Detective Makimura had made a note of that before asking, “Would it be safe to say that you still haven't forgotten Hatsumi Hidaka even now?”

“I haven't forgotten her, but it was an awful long time ago.”

“Then why store those mementos, those memories of her, so carefully?”

“I wouldn't call it ‘carefully.' You're overthinking things again. I just never threw them away, and time passed.”

“The photos, too? You just forgot to throw out that picture of her you were using as a bookmark in your dictionary?”

Nonoguchi had a difficult time answering that one. Finally he managed, “Imagine what you will. Just … it's not related to the murder.”

“Not to sound like a broken record, but that's for us to decide.”

One more thing I needed to bring up before we left: the accident. I asked him what he thought about it.

“What do you mean what I thought about it? It was sad. And a shock. That's all.”

“You must've been angry with Mr. Sekikawa?”

“Sekikawa? Who's that?”

“Tatsuo Sekikawa. I'm sure you've at least heard the name.”

“Nope. Never heard it.”

I waited for that denial before telling him, “The truck driver. The man who hit Hatsumi.”

Nonoguchi looked truly taken aback. “Oh. So that's his name.”

“Should we take the fact that you didn't even know his name to mean that you weren't upset with him?”

“No, I just didn't remember his name. Of course I'm upset with him. Not that me being angry will do anything to bring her back.”

“Is the reason you're not mad at the driver because, at the time, you thought it was suicide?”

Nonoguchi's eyes went wider. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you told someone you thought it was.”

Apparently I wasn't vague enough, as he seemed to know immediately to whom I was referring.

“Look … it wasn't the most prudent thing to say, but you shouldn't take it too seriously. It was just something that popped into my head.”

“Even so, I'd like to know why.”

“I forget. You try explaining every little thing you've said over the last five years—I doubt even you would be able to give clear answers!”

With that, we wrapped up our conversation. I promised Nonoguchi that we would talk again soon, and we left the hospital room.

Personally, I was elated. I had as good a confirmation as I could hope for that Osamu Nonoguchi did believe Hatsumi Hidaka's death was a suicide.

*   *   *

No sooner had we returned to the office than a call came in from Rie Hidaka. Her things had arrived back from Canada, and she'd discovered several of Kunihiko Hidaka's videotapes among them. We left immediately.

“These are all the tapes I found.” She'd arranged seven 8 mm videotapes in a line on the table. Each of them represented an hour of recorded time. I picked up each tape in turn. The cases were numbered one through seven, with no other noticeable titles. Either Hidaka had some system for keeping them straight, or he just remembered their contents.

I asked Rie if she had watched any of the tapes.

She hadn't. “It just didn't feel right.”

I asked if we could borrow the tapes for a while and she nodded in agreement.

“There was one other thing I thought you should see. Here.” She laid a square paper box about the size of a lunchbox on the table. “It was in with my husband's clothes. I've never seen it before, so he must have been the one who put it in there.”

I pulled the box toward me and removed the lid. Inside was a knife wrapped in plastic. It had a sturdy-looking handle, and the blade was at least twenty centimeters long. I picked it up without taking it out of the bag. It was heavy in my hand.

I asked Rie if she knew what the knife had been used for. She shook her head. “I've no idea, that's why I wanted you to see it. Kunihiko never mentioned it to me.”

I examined the surface of the knife through the bag. It was not considerably worn, but it definitely wasn't new. I asked if Kunihiko Hidaka ever went mountain climbing, but she replied that, to her knowledge, he hadn't.

I took the knife back with us to Homicide, along with the tapes. We split the videotapes up between us and began watching. The one I got showed some traditional arts in Kyoto, in particular the production of Nishijin textiles: endless footage of craftsmen weaving, their ancient techniques, and snippets of their daily lives. Occasionally a hushed voice would whisper commentary over the image—a voice I assumed to be that of the late Kunihiko Hidaka himself. Roughly 80 percent of my hour-long tape contained footage. The remainder was blank.

When I compared notes with the other detectives, I learned that all the other tapes were pretty much the same thing. Nothing was in them other than research footage for Hidaka's writing. Just to be sure, we traded tapes and looked through each other's on fast-forward, but our impressions remained the same.