Fusion

By Emma Hadley

“A chick kicking arse - romance, humour, mystery. Great fun.”

There are vampires, & then there are real vampires...

Freya, named for her bloody tears, has always been different & never known why. Her self-imposed isolation ends when circumstances unravel Freya’s past. News about the death of her mother leads Freya to the oppressive chaos of Tokyo - & to violence. There she discovers others like her. The chaos increases. Freya’s life turns upside down. One man holds answers, yet another she places in danger. Freya has the natural ability to fight, but is soon in over her head. And there is nowhere to hide when, finally, she can no longer deny what she is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma Hadley
• Release date: Nov 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311393814

Emma Hadley

My name’s Emma Hadley – author of the action novel Fusion.My home is in Australia. I have also lived in the USA and Canada.I chose to self-publish this novel and never attempted the more traditional route of contacting publishers or agents.I hope you enjoy the character Freya and those who share in the wild ride that has become her life. They were created with love and I had much fun writing the novel. Please contact me via my website if you would like to give me feedback – or just want to say hi.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Darkness had fallen. The owl could begin hunting. She soared across forest, beneath moon, over city — the evening’s cooling air caressing her wings.

Beneath her sat a pale building. A creature, blue of head, emerged from a high opening, leapt to a dark alley below, landing on two long legs. This creature sped along an alley quicker than any mouse the owl had ever chased.

Strange creature.

The owl flew on.

Hayden leaned on the railing and studied the punters below. He knew why he was here: he was hoping to see her. The girl had an apparent knack for finding trouble, and there was something about her— she was different, an enigma. And she wouldn’t get out of his head.

It had been years since he’d visited this bar. Hayden was impressed, yet a little unsettled by the spike-haired leather-clad types currently populating the place. These vivid patrons and their heavy music were on a punk goth path. He noticed a few more delicate emo-types too, who were a tad overwhelmed by those dedicated to anarchy over melancholy.

He took a swig of beer. Below a blue-haired head caught his eye as it pushed through the crowd. She moved as though intensely aware of the air around her. Blue-haired girls heavy on the eyeliner weren’t usually Hayden’s type. But, this one was different. He glimpsed her face. It was indeed the same girl. ‘There you are,’ he breathed.

Amid the din of thumping music Hayden was shocked to see her lift her face and look up, right at him, as if she’d heard. About to send the girl a charming smile Hayden was disappointed as she turned her face away. A look of concern crossed her features before she broke into a rapid stride, heading toward the back.

Strange girl.

Gripping his beer Hayden wondered if he should follow. Make sure she was alright.

The vampire wiped blood from his mouth. Leaning against the wall of the dark alley he reached into his jacket to finally take a hit of the new shit. His fingers reached for the vial. And stopped. A door opened nearby. With a swift kick he shoved the life-drained body into the darkness beneath a dumpster next to him.

A pair of black boots were walking toward him, along with a fine pair of fishnet stocking clad legs which extended from a beneath a short, tight skirt. He stepped away from the wall — slowly. Didn’t want to scare her.

The girl wore a shy smile, had crazy blue hair, black attire, her arms bare but for thick leather cuffs. A snug choker sat black against the pale skin of her neck. What a great night this was turning out to be. First dinner, now dessert. He hadn’t been a vamp long, but it was pretty damn fine so far.

She raised one darkly defined eyebrow and beckoned him forward with a curl of her finger. He smiled, took a step toward her. And had a face full of blue hair as she shoved him back to the wall. He hit his head, hard. A feisty one! Fantastic!

Small fists grabbed his leather jacket, her face was close, her eyes grew black as she lifted him up.

‘Shit! Hey! Wha? Did I take your feed?’

The dark eyes peered up at him. ‘I don’t think you quite understand.’

‘Hey babe,’ he smiled. ‘You’re pale and super strong. You’ve kind of taken me by surprise here, but what’s to understand?’ He laughed — then stilled. The blood he smelled wasn’t from his recent feed — he could smell her blood. And it smelled good. This was confusing. If she wasn’t a vamp...

This was some strange chick.

A glimmer of light as metal flashed toward him.

Then darkness.

CHAPTER ONE

A hyper TV game show host. Laughter. Faint music. A murmuring discussion. Whirring of elevators. Humming of various bar fridges. The rumbles of Tokyo traffic far below. Freya blinked at the ceiling. This is why I didn’t want to come here, she thought, trying to revise the sounds into generic white noise, to push them aside. Freya found she was out of practise. Her head began to throb.

Food odours wafted to her, and with it, memories of childhood. The soupy tofu dish, which someone on her floor had ordered from room service, was served every other day in the orphanage — a charitable institution run by foreigners, mostly Christians, which nevertheless insisted on local food.

It left Freya with a dread and oppressive weight which she had carried with her since she was old enough to leave the place. Was free. Not that Freya had looked old enough. Even now, at thirty-one, she barely looked an adult. One more oddity to add to the list — along with the heightened senses.

Freya pictured her small home, far north, sitting silent and alone. She couldn’t wait to return. Her cottage sat surrounded by the forests of Hokkaido, filled with wildlife; her few human neighbours were very, very distant. At home, surrounding sounds consisted of a background buzz of appliances, the chirping of birds and shushing caresses of wind against trees. Quite unlike the cacophony Freya was currently enduring.

For the umpteenth time her eyes drifted to the note by the phone. Detective Mori, she’d scratched, followed by, retired and a phone number, barely legible. Freya’s hand had been shaking. It was a long time since anything had affected her so.

She should call him now, get it over with. Then Freya could go home and be left alone. For two days she’d hidden in this hotel room, the bustling airports and train stations still reverberating about her insides.

It had been surreal enough a few days back to have local police call Freya and ask her to come see them. Regarding a matter, the man said, which they didn’t wish to discuss until she arrived. The next day, bleary from a restless night, Freya had driven to the station, accompanied by the usual feeling of being bare and exposed once her car left the forest.

Upon arrival, a puzzled Freya had to show her identification. She was a little uneasy when they took it away for a time. It was never a good idea to be a foreigner without papers in Japan. Though Freya was born there, her foreign heritage was cause for suspicion.

Eventually, she was taken to a bare office the size of closet and politely addressed as Takahashi Asuka, her Japanese name. Decades back, a person had to have one to be a citizen of Japan. A distracted officer explained Freya was about to receive a phone call from a detective in Tokyo who was part of a recently organised Cold Case squad. Freya asked if they were sure they wanted her. The officer confirmed this — Freya worried she was being suspected of something, though she hadn’t been to Tokyo since a brief visit after leaving the Sapporo orphanage. To her disappointment, she’d discovered Tokyo was only more accepting of unique individuals when they were part of a collective; in a group. Plus, it had been too noisy.

So a young Freya had retuned to Hokkaido, Japan’s northern island. This was appropriate: Hokkaido has historically been the place for outsiders, illegitimate children, ex-convicts and other such disrespected groups (sometimes referred to as hinin or ‘non-humans’). And in the forests of Hokkaido Freya had been left alone. Until now.

Freya and the officer sat either side of a small table. With some concern he asked for a second time whether she might like to have someone with her.

‘No. Thank you. There is no one,’ she added for clarification. He blinked in reply, obviously uncomfortable with the concept. The officer remained with her while she endured the phone call.

She would probably forever think of it as The Phone Call. The detective in Tokyo, his voice sitting efficient and firm beside Freya’s ear, led her into a new world. One she had never considered before. There were further confirmations of her identity (even though he’d already spoken to the local officer) and then the distant Tokyo Detective, Yamazaki Haru, proceeded to query Freya about other members of her family. So, Freya had to, once again, explain to someone that she had no family.

‘No living family?’

‘No.’

‘How can this be?’

Freya grew frustrated. ‘I don’t understand what this is about.’

‘I will explain soon Takahashi-san, please be patient. Are you saying you have no siblings, relatives?’

‘That is correct. Please, can you tell me what this is about?’

‘Has our Cold Case squad been explained to you?’ Without waiting for a reply, Yamazaki continued: ‘We are reopening old cases and applying new technologies to them. I am currently reviewing your mother’s file. I have considered it may be worth reopening. Especially if, perhaps, you have heard from your father? Are you certain...?’

Freya felt her body become rigid, but then she almost laughed. There was some muddle here. Heard from her father? Not likely, she thought, the man is dead.

‘I apologise if bringing up the subject upsets you Takahashi-san, but I’m certain you feel strongly—’

‘Sorry, you’re not making any sense. Why does my mother have a file? And, my father? He’s dead. They’re both dead. Are you certain you have the right person Detective?’

The phone crackled as he cleared his throat. The officer before her shifted in his seat. Freya closed her eyes, covered them. The voice said: ‘I am thinking you are the daughter of Mr John Greyson and Mrs Aster Greyson.’ He pronounced the foreign names clumsily, but Freya recognised them as that of her parents — names she had rarely heard spoken.

‘Oh.’

The man at her ear explained. Her mother had died at the time of Freya’s birth... He said it was due to a knife wound. The term ‘murder’ strange to Freya’s ears. Images of bloody knives raced before her eyes. Her stomach rebelled at hearing this though the voice continued to explain. He said the case remained unsolved. He wanted to know when she’d last had contact with her father.

Surprising herself, Freya felt her mouth smile. He made no sense. Mother murdered? Surely she would know of this. It was ridiculous. Absurd. She opened her eyes. The officer was staring at the wall behind her.

‘My mother was murdered?’ Her mouth held the smile.

‘That is correct.’ He sounded as uncomfortable as the officer before her. Freya rubbed her forehead, smile gone. She’d been dropped into some alternate reality.

‘Your father,’ he began.

‘He died. Just before my mother.’

‘I see... In Japan?’

‘Yes.’

‘We have no record of that. As far as we know your father is missing. Officers were unable to find him at the time of the... at the time. If you have no information...’ The detective sounded keen to end the conversation, having realised Freya was of no use to him. How odd. This man, who had so abruptly informed her that her mother was murdered, her father possibly alive, was asking her for information.

‘If we make progress of any import in your mother’s case I will contact you Takahashi-san. I apologise for interrupting your day. Thank you for your—’

‘Wait. Can’t you tell me more about this?’

But, apparently — due to Freya’s lack of assistance, the man implied — the case was not yet reopened. Freya probed further. A rustling of papers penetrated her ear via the phone line. He informed her she could try speaking to one of the detectives, now retired, a Mori Hiromasa, who still resided in Tokyo. After a pause, perhaps looking through phone records, he recited Mori’s phone number and Freya had scrawled it on a small blank notebook the officer had passed to her.

She was politely shepherded out of the police station.

Freya, a little distractedly, inserted herself into her old sedan which was sitting by the grey street waiting for her, ignorant of all that had passed.

The drive home took her through countryside. It was the last day of spring. Farms, trees, cattle, the occasional red barn — all looked as serene as when she’d approached town an hour earlier. A single concept reared its head above the cluttered haze of her thoughts: It wasn’t my fault.

Freya lay on the Tokyo hotel bed, hands pressed to her face. My mother was murdered. It sounded strange. I didn’t even know her. Does it matter? Somehow it did. Freya loved her mother; she couldn’t help it. All through those years at the orphanage she’d wished to have a mother to hold her, love her. She knew better now. Wishing brought only pain — loss became greater and darker when placed beside the belief of something brighter.

No, Freya’s way was to accept what was. Her problem: now she didn’t entirely know what was.

Freya sat up and grasped the phone. Staring at the note she stabbed in the numbers.

She’d spoken to the retired detective Mori. They arranged to meet the following afternoon at a police box near his home where he often filled in when needed. He’d been quiet, a little surprised, but overall friendly.

‘I don’t normally drink.’ Freya said as she presented her shot glass to the bartender for another refill.

The hotel’s barman appeared a tad cynical of the veracity of her statement. By this stage of the evening he’d learned not to stray far, his hand rarely leaving the scotch bottle.

‘And,’ Freya continued, ‘I mean here, in the hotel, the drinks are so expensive. So, I shouldn’t drink... But. It doesn’t affect me. I’m just stressed is all.’ She looked up. The barman looked back. ‘Sorry. I tend to ramble when I drink.’

‘But, remember, it doesn’t affect you.’

‘Ah. You’re perceptive aren’t you? But, no — it doesn’t. I mean, it does, just not for long. Not much... No hangover or anything. I’m—’

‘Special,’ he said.

She gave him a dark look — the impact perhaps lessened by the fact her hand was having to prop up her head. Well, not having to. It was just more comfortable that way. ‘No, I’m not that.’ She downed the latest shot. ‘Like I said, I ramble.’

Freya’s brow wrinkled. She could hear two young Englishmen in the far corner quietly discussing her — being complimentary, if a little dirty. She tried to block them out. Their accents reminded her of a certain man. Of course, in looking back, the guy she’d known with the English accent had been a good lesson, or so she told herself.

Freya’s home on Hokkaido lay outside the tourist town of Nanae. A youngish Englishman had been visiting with friends and chatted her up while she was buying groceries. She’d had a casual lover or two before, but, in this case, when his friends had continued on to the ski-fields, the guy had stayed — with her. And then he’d wanted to stay longer. Even hoped Freya would come home with him. Serious talk. It wasn’t easy, but Freya realised she’d have to tell him of her illness. Even though Freya left out some details, such as her strength and speed, he hadn’t taken it well. He left, saying he believed her a stranger, couldn’t trust her again. And he’d looked at Freya as though she was crazy, or maybe just too much to handle. Whatever — she’d learned. And that had been the end of Freya sharing.

‘You here for long?’ The barman interrupted her reverie. He was American. Likely employed to keep tourists comfortable.

‘No. I’ll probably go home any day now.’

‘Oh, where’s that? England?’

Freya shook her head. She’d had this conversation before.

‘Right. Okay. Sounds like some American in your accent...’

‘I’m from Hokkaido.’

He grinned and raised an eyebrow with a look that said he wasn’t about to be taken for a fool. Or maybe he thought her one. It wouldn’t be the first time for someone such as her — going through life hearing and seeing more than others. Fellow orphans had considered Freya nuts, or psychic — they amounted to similar treatment.

‘I mean before you came to Japan.’

‘Sorry, let me clarify. I was raised in Hokkaido.’ Born in Tokyo.

She downed another scotch as his eyes roved over her Western features, pale skin, grey eyes, dark hair. Freya might be mistaken for a local from behind, her hair not only dark but straight. However, it was quite brown when the sunlight hit it. This was not a common occurrence.

‘I’m not here on holiday, vacation,’ she explained, trying to recall which term Americans used. Those working at the foreign-run orphanage had been variously American, Australian, English, other Europeans — the volunteers came and went. So, although Freya thought in English she was never completely certain which influences had come from where. As a result, her accent was an international fusion, yet she’d never left Japan.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘People must get confused a lot.’

‘Yep.’

‘So.’ He grinned, making Freya realise how young he was. Maybe mid-twenties. ‘You don’t get hungover eh? Wait until you’re older.’ He gave a knowing look.

‘Ha! I’m older than you... than you think.’ Emptying her glass, Freya stood, only fractionally unsteady. Time to go before she rambled just a bit too much.

‘Done for the night?’

‘It’s been a pleasure.’ The barman was smiling as he finally shelved the bottle of scotch. Well, that’s going to add a bit to my bill. A couple of Japanese businessmen at the other end of the bar were watching her with interest. One lifted his small ceramic sake cup to her with a half smile and a nod, apparently impressed with the liquor this slight young gaijin (foreigner) could put away. Freya walked with as purposeful a stride as she could manage to the lobby and toward the elevators.

The next day Freya exited the hotel elevator to the sun-infused glass and marble lobby — her legs were a tad shaky. Nothing to do with any hangover. More so a comprehension of the impact this impending conversation could have upon her life. Soon it might be all be too real.

What had happened to her mother? Such wonderings had persisted since The Phone Call. Had it been some arbitrary attack or was there a darker motive behind the murder? And what about her father? He might not even be dead. Freya felt a twisting in her stomach at the thought. Living family? How weird would that be? No, she told herself, don’t get your hopes up. He’s likely dead too. Surely if he’d been alive he would have come for her.

Freya caught sight of her frowning reflection in the glass wall beside reception. It was possible her father knew there was something wrong with her. Maybe it had been wrong with her mother too and he’d—

The woman at reception was smiling at her pleasantly. Freya asked for assistance regarding which train to catch. Although Freya spoke in Japanese, the receptionist insisted on replying in English. Instructions given and received, Freya thanked the woman, and inserted the map which the receptionist’s glossy nails had skimmed across into her handbag.

Slipping on sunglasses, Freya exited into the crowds of Shibuya. Instantly assaulted by salespeople hollering from shop speakers, music, exhaust fumes, sweat, perfumes, and a blazing sun above towering buildings. It was almost eternally cool back in Hokkaido — the sticky heat of Tokyo, especially after days in a sterile air conditioned hotel room, was heavy on her skin and dense in her lungs. Nevertheless, the sunshine was her greatest concern.

In a department store across the street she purchased a grey umbrella (they were a reasonably common sight in the summer to shield one’s self from the sun). Descending back to street level on the store’s escalator, Freya found herself sandwiched amid a cluster of young men. Hair styles carefully eccentric, clothing and attitudes to match. One, showing off, began performing dance moves while an embarrassed friend pushed at him to stop. But it was the friend, not the dancer, whose foot met only air as he stepped backward.

The same moment his face registered shock, Freya reached out and grasped his shirt, pulling the young man from a diagonal angle back into a more secure vertical position. She let go once he had both feet firmly planted on the step below her. The boy’s mouth hung agape. Guffaws were replaced by silence.

Freya avoided eye contact. She pointed to the boys to face forward as they reached the bottom of the escalator.

Walking away, Freya heard them break into an excited burbling behind her. ‘Did you...?’ ‘She couldn’t!’ ‘How...?’

Back on the street she sheltered beneath her umbrella. Should she have let the boy fall? No. But, regardless, she was uncomfortable with her actions. Additionally, the youthfulness of those boys, barely men, nudged awake feelings from her own youth. The strength she’d just revealed hadn’t been available to her back then. She’d had to endure teasing and bullying. Freya’s unusual speed had been helpful in dodging blows. Still, she had learned to disguise how different she was.

Her ability to hear or see things others couldn’t, plus other anomalies, led the others to perceive her as evil.

And a liar.

Even some volunteers accused Freya of instigating trouble for saying she’d seen or heard things which were impossible. Freya learned silence was the best way. It was being amongst other people, like in the store just now, that made life more difficult. Well, she would be home soon enough. As soon as she’d acquired some sense out of this retired detective.

Freya aimed for the train station. Compressed in a crowd of people, she tried not to ping anyone in the eye with her umbrella. With some difficulty she managed to purchase a ticket from a machine. Once on the train she stood so as not to miss her stop. It wasn’t overly crowded. Nearby propped a man in a business suit, asleep, lips apart. A girl on a woman’s lap was engrossed in a electronic game, tiny fingers rotating and tapping whilst her mother gazed sightlessly at the window. Freya felt a twinge of envy. This child knew where she came from — Freya was wondering just how much truth had been kept from her.

All Freya knew was she’d began life as a difficulty to be dealt with. A newly-born baby of recently deceased parents — an English woman and American man, who’d been visiting Tokyo. With no other relatives located, decisions concerning Freya were handled by a British company in charge of her mother’s estate. Days before a hired nanny was to fly out and take her to England, baby Freya suffered the first episode of her blood illness. Doctors judged her far too sick to travel and, in fact, likely to need care for the rest of her life — the diagnosis being she was weak from thin blood, that she must never exert herself.

The company located a Christian orphanage run by an English charity which was deemed acceptable. The orphanage agreed to take on her care, assuming it would be a short-term arrangement. Freya guessed it had been a sunny day when she was delivered to the orphanage: her blood illness was again present; the baby handed over had a face streaked red with bloody tears. Apparently similar to the Norse goddess Freyja who had wept tears of red gold. Or rubies, depending on which version you read. Or, so thought one of the Danish volunteers. Hence her name was chosen.

Freya had discovered her illness was a reaction to sunshine only after a doctor had been called to examine her. She had been eight and it had dawned on the staff that she looked about five or six. The doctor decided a good dose of fresh air and sun was required to build her up. He’d regarded himself quite highly. Freya hadn’t liked him. And she liked him even less once she followed his instructions and began spending hours in the sun — hours always followed by the overwhelming weakness and red tears.

She told no one else about having made the connection. Merely used the excuse of her general unwellness to avoid activities or excursions in the sun. This way her health improved and no more annoying doctors were called to ‘help’.

The orphanage had been fairly unique for Japan: it took in children of mixed parentage — Korean, Chinese, Japanese, American — not merely those fortunates of ‘pure’ Japanese blood. Unlike Freya, most of the children were not actual orphans but given away. Many by their mothers, having remarried into a Japanese family averse to accepting a child of mixed heritage. The ‘orphans’ appreciated that in Freya was someone not only sickly enough and weird enough to warrant picking on, but who also had no Asian blood at all. Someone worse off than them! Freya’s blood tears inspired the taunting of ‘demon baby’. She dealt with the teasing by appearing as normal and being as invisible as possible.

She was beyond the bullying and doctors when her strength finally kicked in. It was a bemusing addition, and bittersweet in its timing, arriving after she’d left the orphanage. Perhaps her unusual strength emerged then because she’d become an adult. Though, Freya only appeared about thirteen at the time — so maybe due to puberty. Regardless, Freya, isolated in her forest dwelling, had made a complete twit of herself. It had been wonderful to have such space and seclusion in which to revel in her speed and strength. Unfortunately she’d assumed such power meant she was no longer afflicted with her blood illness. It was an unpleasant day when she discovered this was not the case.

Pulling out of her reverie and looking down Freya confirmed she wore a dark shirt and dark jeans. If she did have an episode of her blood illness, blood tears, it wouldn’t show. She hated when it happened in public and feared such a moment. Freya’s usual approach was to have her hair cover her face and let people assume a bloody nose.

Freya realised the train was motionless and looked up. They’d reached her stop, or at least she thought it was the right station. Quickly shuffling off the train she looked around and was only able to confirm she was in the right place moments after the train had sped off, efficiently on its way to the next destination on time.

CHAPTER TWO

She stepped out of the station and into the sunshine. Freya’s eyes located the gold star on the retired-detective’s koban. A tiny, two-story, pale brick building off to the left.

Approaching, she saw it was less than three metres wide. As she stood beneath it’s small green awning Freya spotted a small bespectacled grey-haired man inside. He was handing an expensive-looking phone to a young woman.

Everyone handed in lost items in Japan. Even cash-filled wallets. You couldn’t lose something if you tried. The woman left, hugging the phone to her breast like some long lost child as she passed Freya at the door. Freya thought of her father: a lost item. A silly thought, yet she couldn’t help but imagine that if he had been found by someone they would have handed him in by now. It had been a long time.

Aware the officer was speaking to her, Freya, jumbling her words a little, introduced herself. She discovered he was indeed the Mori she was looking for.

Freya removed her sunglasses and the ex-detective exclaimed how young she looked. A slight smile revealed he was a little embarrassed by his own forwardness and Mori lowered his eyes a moment. They were kind eyes, framed by a soft crinkling of lines.

Thanking him for the compliment, Freya added, ‘I hope I am not taking important time away from your work,’ knowing full well that being a stand-in for Japanese police officers who were likely searching for someone’s lost cat was hardly work. Mori informed her that indeed she was not and they both sat on a couple of uncomfortable fold-out chairs by the front window.

Mori gave his belated condolences. ‘I remember the case of your mother,’ he said.

Freya bowed her head in thanks. ‘I’d really appreciate all you can tell me. As I explained on the phone, the news was quite a surprise.’

Initially Mori repeated much of what the other detective told her. Thankfully he didn’t dwell on the injuries her mother had suffered.

When he paused Freya asked how it was they knew her father was missing. ‘Do you think he is actually deceased?’ It was something unimaginable for Freya, the concept of a living father.

‘Either is likely.’ He gave a slow nod, pausing to think. Mori adjusted his metal spectacles. ‘When we questioned the hotel staff, they said your mother arrived weeks after your father.’

‘So, he’d come alone originally?’

‘Yes, but your mother stayed in the same room. I believe the staff had said she appeared... concerned. And they couldn’t recall when they had last seen your father, though I think it was some time before your mother arrived.’

Freya lost her train of thought a moment — the idea of people having seen her mother, real and alive, penetrated her mind. And here I am in Tokyo. Where she has been.

‘Could you tell me why you think someone would have murdered her? I mean, was it a robbery, or connected with my father and, um, whatever he was doing here?’

‘It appeared the motivation was... personal.’ Mori frowned, scratched at his salt and pepper hair. ‘You see, it appeared nothing had been stolen, however, we couldn’t be certain. It was a difficult investigation.’ Two slow nods.

‘As far as we were aware your parents knew no one in Japan. Overall, there was little anyone could tell us about them and their trip. Generally in the investigation we had very little information to assist us.’

Well, she thought, this trip is a waste of time. He knows nothing more than the other guy.

‘So,’ she tried. ‘My mother died from a knife cut to her throat?’

‘Ah, yes. Let me explain. By the time we arrived she had already been taken to hospital, so I never saw... Uh.’ He hesitated, seemed to change tack. ‘We discovered blood on the bathroom floor, although your mother was found in the main room. She had many contusions to her face and arms, another cut, er, and it seemed she had at some stage been restrained.’

Freya winced. Had her mother fought back? Was it someone she knew? Who?

‘I see. Yet, you say my parents didn’t know anyone in Tokyo. So...?’

The retired detective looked down at his hands, his brow crinkled. Freya’s stomach flipped over.

‘My father?’ she asked, incredulous.

‘We had very little to go on Takahashi-san. We do not know. His identification, passport, was not found. Your mother was discovered at dawn when an elderly cleaning lady — our sole witness,’ he added with emphasis, ‘saw a blur exiting your mother’s room, as she put it.’ He made a face, as if he considered the woman a bit feeble-minded. ‘She knocked and...’ He shook his head. ‘A terrible witness. No description whatsoever. She made little sense.’

Freya was trying to picture it all in her mind. Her mother being found. ‘Was she dead? When they found her...?’

‘From what I can recall she was taken to the hospital and... pronounced... there.’ He removed his glasses, flicked away a speck, replaced them.

‘And, amid all this, I was...?’ Freya couldn’t complete the question.

‘Born. Yes.’

The room was quiet except for the murmurs of a TV high on a wall behind the counter.

‘Miraculous. You’re quite miraculous,’ he said. ‘Very lucky.’

‘Mmm.’ Freya fiddled with a silver chain around her neck. Kobans were notoriously tiny — this one felt like it was shrinking. Strange to realise that, in a way, Freya had shared this, final, experience of her mother’s. Been there with her in that important moment.

Mori’s smile was nervous, his gaze on the floor.

Freya took a breath. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘We were very thorough in our questioning Takahashi-san, but unfortunately discovered little.’

Freya was sick of hearing this. As far as she could tell the last thing the police were was thorough.

‘Ah...,’ he said. ‘The staff, I recall, said your mother requested a person’s address, a local resident.’ He hesitated.

‘Japanese?’

‘Yes. A Yamaguchi Yukio.’ He smiled, ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It is of little help. He is deceased now, but I remember him. A well-respected businessman. Very private.’

‘And did they give my mother the address?’

‘I believe not.’

Freya could imagine why. Japanese were typically suspicious of foreigners (or gaijin — the often derogatorily intended Japanese term). They likely hadn’t wanted to encourage this woman to bother a respected local.

With a swift gesture she swept back hair from her