living room where a dark figure closes the door behind me. My heart rams itself up my throat. She is a middle-aged woman, unafraid, curious, reading me. Her hair is short, severe and as grey as a feared headmistress’s. She is dressed in forgettable clothes, anonymous as a shot in a mail-order catalogue. You would pass her a hundred times and never notice her. Unless she suddenly appeared in your living room. How owlish and scarred she is. Her stare goes on and on, as if she has every right to be here, and is waiting for the intruder – me – to explain himself. ‘Who, uh, are you?’ I eventually manage. ‘You invited me, Eiji Miyake.’ Her voice you would not forget. Cracked as cane, dry as drought. ‘So I came.’
A passing lunatic? ‘But I never invited anyone.’
‘But you did. Two days ago you sent an invitation to my letter-drop.’
Her? ‘Morino’s detective?’
She nods. ‘My name is Yamaya.’ She disarms me with a smile as friendly as a dagger thrust. ‘Yes, I am a woman, not a man in drag. Invisibility is a major asset in my line of work. However, discussing my modus operandi is not why I am here, is it? Won’t you offer me a chair?’ All too weird. ‘Sure. Please sit down.’ Mrs Yamaya takes the sofa, so I take the floor by the window. She has the eye of a meticulous reader, which makes me the book. She looks behind me. ‘Nice garden. Nice property. Nice neighbourhood. Nice hidey-hole.’
Over to me, it seems. I offer her a Marlboro from Daimon’s final box, but she shakes her head. I light mine. ‘How did you, uh, trace me?’
‘I obtained your address from the Tokyo Evening Mail.’
‘They gave you my address?’
‘No, I said I obtained it. Then I trailed Mr Ogiso here yesterday evening.’
‘With respect, Mrs Yamaya, I asked for a file, not a visit.’
‘With respect, Mr Miyake, get real. I receive a note from a mysterious nobody asking for the selfsame file I compiled for the late Ryutaro Morino three days before the night of the long knives. How coincidental. I earn a living by unpicking coincidences. Your note was a bleeding lamb tossed into a swimming pool of sharks. I had three theories – you were a potential client testing my professionality; someone with a potentially lucrative personal interest in Eiji Miyake; or the father of Eiji Miyake himself. All three were worth a follow-up. I do so, and I discover you are the son of the father.’
From the garden I hear a crow craw-crawing. I wonder what happened to Mrs Yamaya to make her so sad but so steel-willed. ‘You know my father?’
‘Only socially.’
Only socially. ‘Mrs Yamaya, I would like to ask you more cleverly and indirectly, but, uh, will you please give me the file on my father?’
Mrs Yamaya forms a cage with her long, strong fingers. ‘Now we have got to why I am here. To consider this very question.’
‘How much?’
‘Please, Mr Miyake. We are both perfectly aware of your financial non-position.’
‘Then what are you here to consider? Whether or not I deserve it?’
The crow hops over to the balcony and peers in. It is as big as an eagle. Mrs Yamaya’s murmur could hush a stadium. ‘No, people in my line of walk must never allow “deserve” to enter the equation.’
‘What does enter the equation?’
‘The consequences.’
The doorbell rings and I twitch – hot ash falls on my legs. The doorbell rings again. What an invasion! A specially rigged light strobes on and off several times, for Mrs Sasaki’s sister’s deafness, I guess. I stub out my cigarette. It lies there, stubbed. The doorbell rings again – I hear a slight laugh. Mrs Yamaya doesn’t move. ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
‘Excuse me,’ I say, and she nods.
Stupidly, I am too fazed to put the chain on the door, and the two young men seem so pleased to see me that for a moment I panic – this is a set-up organized with Mrs Yamaya, and I walked straight into it. ‘Hi there!’ they beam. Which one spoke? Immaculate white shirts, conservative ties, sheeny, computer-generated hair – hardly regular Yakuza garb. They irradiate health and positive vibes. ‘Hey, feller! Is this a bad time? Because we have great news!’ They are either going to produce guns or tell me about a spectacular discount kimono service.
‘You, uh, do?’ I glance behind me.
‘You bet I do! You see, Lord Jesus Christ is waiting outside the