Cicadas Sing of near Death Shina Triology

By Angelika Friedemann

The cicadas are singing. Invisible cicadas sing of near death. In the octopus trap, the summer moon dreams a fleeting dream. Summer grass is all that remains of the warrior's dream.
A series of murders shakes the city of Marseille. The nature of the killings point to a man well trained in martial arts. The young inspector Shina de Sanciere finds herself in a completely alien world, in a time period that she believes no longer exists today.
Deadly intrigues, coupled with ancient traditions of the Far East, ice-cold contempt for death, shocking human studies of unrestrained indomitability and merciless dictatorship meet. Centuries-old customs still have an influence on some people even today.
In this thriller, European thinking and Far Eastern mentality meet, two cultures collide; modern ways of life culminate in millennia-old traditions. Deadly intrigues paired with ancient traditions of the Far East, ice-cold contempt for death, shocking human studies of unrestrained indomitability and merciless dictatorship meet. Centuries-old customs still have an influence on some people even today. Far Eastern mentalities compete with European thinking and ways of life.
This novel is a mixture of adventure, love and intrigue against the background of the mysterious world of the Far East.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angelika Friedemann
• Release date: Dec 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215376980

Angelika Friedemann

Die Autorin: Wenn die Menschen nur über das sprächen, was sie begreifen, dann würde es sehr still auf der Welt sein. Albert Einstein Ich versuche, die Aufmerksamkeit der Leser zu fesseln, sie zu unterhalten und zu erfreuen, möglicherweise zu erregen oder tief zu bewegen.

Book preview

Shina Zikaden Englisch

Angelika Friedemann

Cicadas sing of near death

Imprint

Copyright: © 2023. All rights to the work belong to Kevin Friedemann, Herrengasse 20, Meinisberg, ch,

The work including all contents is protected by copyright. All rights reserved. Reprinting or reproduction (including excerpts) in any form (print, photocopy or other process) as well as storage, processing, duplication and distribution using electronic systems of any kind, in whole or in part, is prohibited without express written permission. All translation rights reserved.

Author: Angelika Friedemann [e-mail]

Picture - Source: piqs.de

The past is clear as a mirror,

the future dark as varnish.

Don't blame the river when you fall into the water!

Chapter Prologue

The man drove through the brightly lit streets of the Japanese capital. Neon signs flashed between the deep canyons of houses. The traffic never seemed to rest, even here, on the three-lane carriageway, cars jostled bumper to bumper, although it was almost midnight. Tightly packed were the still numerous people on foot. Some hurried, many strolled. There was a constant noise, but it did not penetrate to him, nor did the smells. Outside, it reeked of exhaust fumes, even on the low days when one could glimpse the clear sky. Next to it, the many scents of roasting, cooking, of the exhalations of the crowds. On some days, this stench lay over the houses like a bell.

Only slowly did it roll through the Shibuya-ku district, the commercial centre of the metropolis with a myriad of department stores, boutiques and offices. The shop windows on Tamagawa-dôri shone brightly. At times, one could forget that it was already deepest night. The intersection of Station Street and Centergai, located on the west side of the station, was considered a melting pot of people, crossed by up to twelve thousand passers-by per traffic light phase at evening peak times; even now, pedestrians streamed through the streets.

Repeatedly he cursed to himself as he changed gears and the transmission creaked loudly. He was not used to driving the big sedan himself, but tonight he needed no witnesses to what he was about to do. He passed the Akasaka Palace and the Kokuritsu-Yoyogi-Kyôgijô, the stadium. Now he was in Shinjuku. He crossed the heart of Tôkyô faster, without looking to the right or left. Glass skyscrapers towered everywhere, shining brightly, and from them flashing neon lights in screaming colours cast reflections onto the street. Alongside them were the countless street lamps. Here, the city's largest hotels rose to the sky, the headquarters of Mitsui and the Tôkyô Prefecture were located in the twin towers. Construction sites and cranes bore witness to new buildings. High-rise buildings, more glass palaces were erected. Several huge department stores and the imperial park Shinjuku-Gyoen were represented.

Further on, he drove through the huge red light district and past the amusement quarter for gays. He hated this area and despised the people who worked here or who sought their satisfaction. In his eyes, all losers on both sides. Next to them were the numerous establishments where gamblers indulged their passions. Gambling was forbidden in Japan, but in the huge Patchino halls people sat by the hundreds, for hours, closely lined up, like in a chicken coop. There was a deafening noise when the silver balls rolled out of the machines. Afterwards, the winnings were exchanged for cheap perfume, sweets or other trinkets, depending on the number. Nevertheless, people played everywhere, and Go was especially popular. Endlessly they sat over the board as if there was nothing more meaningful, he thought contemptuously.

He threaded his way into the left lane, not hearing the honking behind him, and if he had, he wouldn't have cared. He had the right of way here and everywhere, in every respect, was his motto, and that was how he lived: ruthlessly, hard-heartedly, almost emotionlessly, plus career-obsessed and luxury-loving, given to ambition and immorality.

It was a loud, noisy, garish city and he was glad that he could turn his back on the metropolis in a few weeks. He detested the cosmopolitan city by now, despised its inhabitants. They were constantly bowing, kowtowing, and this obsequiousness. These people couldn't really look at anyone, they seemed somehow devious. You had to be on your guard because you couldn't see any feelings on their faces, but maybe they didn't have that. They had no self-confidence, no discipline, but always had excuses at the ready, which they described at length with flowery words. Eleven years was more than enough in this country, among these people, was his opinion, but he never expressed it publicly.

It became a little quieter in the Mejiro-dôri as he headed for the outskirts of Toshima-ku. New apartment blocks were being built. Small cramped flats for the constant, almost explosive growth of the city. Thirty million people had to find accommodation in the metropolis.

His fingers, by now damp with sweat, clutched the steering wheel convulsively. He couldn't tell if it was from the unfamiliar driving or if it was anticipation. He wiped his hand again on his trousers. It was a gesture not in keeping with his manner, as he was far too careful to dress properly. Now, however, he wasted no thought on it.

He turned into Kawagoe-kaidô. Gradually it became darker, the streets narrower, the houses lower, the traffic less. The shrill illuminated signs had disappeared altogether. Finally the Jôhoku-Chuô-kôen appeared. Again he wiped his palms on his trousers.

Shortly afterwards, the vehicle stopped at the side of the road. There were almost no buildings here, only trees and bushes. From the seat he took a thick envelope, which he put into the side pocket of his tailored suit. He got out and looked around before locking the car.

With long strides he hurried into the unlit park, cursing himself for agreeing to this meeting place, but had he any other choice?

He walked for some time, more deliberately, mindful of the path and every sound. Only the moon, which had already lost another piece of its almost round disc, gave a little light. The black sky had turned into a sea of stars, only he didn't pay attention to that, wouldn't have been able to see the twinkling anyway, even if he hadn't been so tense. Sweat trickled down his back even though it was cool and he took out a neatly folded handkerchief, wiping his forehead with it. To the right he heard a soft cracking sound and stopped abruptly, looking around, now a tiny bit afraid. There seemed to be rustling and whispering everywhere. Who told him that the man didn't just want the money without delivering the quid pro quo? He knew the other was a criminal, murderer and thief: a criminal who would do anything for money.

Stop right there, he heard a man's voice hiss muffled. He spun around to face the stranger vis-à-vis whom he had an appointment. Do you have the money?

He didn't know his counterpart personally, had never actually seen him, but he recognised the voice: somewhat raspy, throaty. Even now he caught sight of nothing more than the silhouette of the stranger, standing so as to be hidden by the darkness. One could have walked past the man without noticing him, so blended was he with the night, he thought briefly. He nodded before answering. Yes, I have it with me, but first I want to see the goods. Why has the price gone up? he inquired with cold formality. He struggled to add firmness to his tone to hide his own discomfort, his fear. Again, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

There were complications. I had to kill the man and the family must be fed. No more questions. Give me the money.

The stranger looked at him steadfastly, something he could not make out in the darkness but sensed. So he preferred not to ask any more, although he would have liked to receive various answers. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed over the thick envelope. The stranger turned around, switched on a torch and shone it into the envelope. After some time, he extinguished the light, stepped a few metres to the side and appeared with an oblong package, which he carelessly discarded.

He wanted to start up imperiously, to rebuke the man that he should be more careful with the treasure, but suppressed his despotic manner at the last moment. He was not out of the danger zone yet, although he felt quite safe by now.

Take it and get out. You never saw me, do you understand? Think of your family. The words sounded threatening, then the stranger had silently disappeared into the darkness.

He quickly bent down, picked up the bundle and hurried to his car and put it in the boot, regardless of the fact that he found it difficult to contain his curiosity, his impatience. A certain excitement spread through his body when he thought of the contents.

He wasted no thought on what the other had told him. One local more or less, it did not bother or interest him. They were just some insignificant natives who were just vegetating anyway. Second-class people he overlooked. Irrelevant.

He drove back, now even more nervous than before, barely able to contain his restlessness. He left the car where his chauffeur usually parked it. No one was to know that he had used the limousine. Before opening the lid of the boot, he looked around, but everything was in darkness. The residents were asleep. He took out the long bundle and entered the house through a side entrance. In what he called his hobby room, he placed the large brown package on a table, locked the door and leaned against it, breathing a sigh of relief. Quickly he took off his jacket, untied his tie and, for a few seconds, enjoyed the anticipation until he could wait no longer. Gingerly, he removed the paper and a little later saw before him what he had expected.

The katana, a long sword, and the wakizashi, the short sword. He felt the ecstasy in his body, which now intensified when he saw the Daishô pair, plus the Tantô, a fighting knife.

The soul of the samurai, he whispered to himself, moved. He could hardly contain his excitement as he opened the cap and pulled the katana by the hilt, slowly from its scabbard.

The brown eyes were shining, the lips were chapped and he licked them with the tip of his tongue. Carefully he let his fingertips glide over the brightly polished blade, which felt silky soft and warm. Taking a deep breath, he laid the sword carefully, gently, almost tenderly back on the table and reached for the phone. Tell her to come, was all he said. Once more he looked at the three precious ones.

Slowly, full of anticipation, he stepped into the adjoining, very sparsely furnished room where there was a large bed, next to it two small tables, an armchair and a floor lamp. Otherwise the room was empty. He quickly undressed, waited until the door opened and a young Japanese woman entered the room. She was young, very young, just twelve years old and a beauty. Long blue-black hair shone in the diffused light, along with high cheekbones and slanted black eyes that looked at him fearfully before she lowered her eyelids with long black lashes.

Konban wa, she bowed low, avoiding the sight of his naked body.

He pulled her onto the bed, opened the obi, roughly, impatiently, tore off her kimono and undergarment and was inside her, briefly feeling the resistance. He moved violently, thrusting hard into her again, again and again, heedless of her screams and whimpers, and then it was all over. He let his heavy body roll to the side, gasping violently for air, while the girl beside him cried softly.

Shut your mouth, he ruled her harshly. I paid your mother a lot of money for you and you're about to work it off. This was just the beginning, little cherry blossom.

An ugly grin crossed his otherwise not unattractive face as he slowly caught his breath. He tempered his tone. You know, the first time it's a little uncomfortable and hurts, but afterwards I'll show you how beautiful it is, he continued speaking in perfect Japanese.

He straightened up, looking at the petite, tan body beside him, the small, firm breasts that were just beginning to become feminine. His hand stroked over them, touching her trembling body, the velvety skin, before he spread her legs and thrust his finger inside the girl.

Little cherry blossom, isn't it beautiful? he asked her, fingering himself with his other hand. We will have much pleasure yet, then he abruptly let go of her. Come, earn your money and do it properly. You have a beautiful, well-shaped mouth after all.

The girl looked at him, obviously not understanding. He pulled her over him and told her what to do.

While he enjoyed her touch, rhythmically pressing her head even lower, his thoughts were on the Daishô couple, he saw the long, little curved, shiny blade of the katana in front of him.

Later he fell upon her twice more. She did not look at him when he rose, only pulled the blanket over her naked body.

Little cherry blossom, you have been worth every yen, and if your mother needs more money, you can come back. You can go. They will drive you home and give you an extra thousand yen, he smiled at the girl, went to shower. He was proud of his achievement that night. He hadn't managed that in a long time and at nearly fifty-five years of age. He smiled to himself, happy, satisfied, his mind on the preciousness in the next room.

Back again, he was stunned to find her still in bed, the silk coverlet now on the floor.

Get out, he snapped at her roughly, repeating it in Japanese.

When there was no response now either, he stepped over to the bed and shook her gently. The little head flew back and forth, otherwise there was no reaction. Only slowly did it dawn on him that something was wrong. He gave the blood on the silk sheet no further glance.

Merde, he cursed loudly, threw her back on the bed like a doll and reached for the phone. There's a problem. Come down immediately, he ordered.

A man entered the room a little later and looked at the child.

Get her out of here. I don't know what's wrong with that little whore. Take her back to her mother. Have the room put in order.

He left the room, not seeing the hateful look of the old man following him.

The incident was instantly forgotten when he caught sight of the swords, the knife, and now he devoted himself to the pieces at length. Again he stroked the shining blade of the katana with tenderness. With a magnifying glass he examined the sword philistropically.

Yes, it really is the work of Tenta Mitsuyo, he murmured.

An absent smile slid across his face and his eyes shone as if in a feverish frenzy. Most lovingly, he let his fingers glide over the blades again and again. Once again he picked up the magnifying glass and examined the katana with great precision, millimetre by millimetre it was analysed. Not a scratch was to be seen.

Yes, it is: the third, O Tenta. Simply a masterpiece.

He continued to explore the blade, barely seventy centimetres long, which had an ikubi tip and was crafted in the shinogi-zukuri style. Again he spoke to himself, It once belonged to the Ashikaga shôgun family. From there it passed through the Toyotomi family to Prince Maeda Toshiie, and now it is mine.

He sat down, pulled rice paper, so-called nuguigami, from a drawer, kneaded it for a while and cleaned the blade of superficial dirt. Now he applied special camellia oil. The wafer-thin film of oil protected the blade from flash rust and humidity.

Only when he had finished with the katana did he turn his attention to the other two treasures and repeated the procedure with the same devotion and tenderness. He was so absorbed in his work that he did not notice that it was already daylight in the room. The telephone rang, tearing him from his work and from his dreams. He listened for a while before hanging up. Eminently careful, he wrapped each item in a silk cloth he had already prepared days ago, following it he wrapped the three items in the brown paper, taped everything very carefully and took it upstairs where he handed it to a man.

Put this in the big box to be picked up later, he ordered the servant, now quite the authority figure and employer.

Fifteen years later

Chapter 殺人

Shina ran up the stairs, having been late once again. Inwardly, she cursed her friend who had talked her into this meeting at the gym. As if she didn't get enough exercise? She wasn't paying attention and bumped into a man, glancing up briefly as she hastily excused herself before continuing to run. A little out of breath, she opened the door and saw Gisellé already waiting, changed.

Sorry, but I didn't get out of the office and maman called too. She gave her friend a kiss on the cheek, right and left.

Never mind, I've seen it before. Get changed and we'll be on our way. Do you want some juice?

She nodded, looked around to see where the changing rooms were, followed the signpost and a little later she stepped back into the large room, now in a blue two-piece leotard that exposed a bit of her flat stomach and eminently slim waist and particularly emphasised her long, slender legs. Only now did she look around curiously as she gratefully accepted the glass of freshly squeezed juice from several fruits.

Well, it's not that special now, she noted. A gym like many others. The only things that stood out were the lush plants, which even seemed real, the room dividers, which were decorated with symbols and flowers like larger bamboo partitions. She looked closer at the signs and read the Japanese meanings. The usual: Happiness, harmony between body and mind, long life, friendship. Beautiful work, she thought.

There must be stunning men for that, Gisellé laughed.

Shina shook her head at her friend but had to laugh along.

The two women were a very nice sight, which immediately caught the attention of some of the men in the studio.

Gisellé was slightly shorter than Shina, but next to her friend she looked much slimmer, more feminine, more petite. Curly dark blonde hair, much to Gisellé's chagrin, curled around her small head to just over shoulder length. Blue eyes peered intently around, the very full lips usually flashed a small smile and were framed by two dimples. Her figure was very well proportioned without being plump. A special attraction, however, besides the oval face, were the large breasts, which she liked to show, though not with exaggerated cleavage.

Shina quickly filled out the bow handed to her by a woman, sipping the juice that tasted so refreshing and delicious. A young woman sauntered gracefully towards her and introduced herself as Nana.

So you want to do something for your fitness? All right, let's get started. Will you come with me, please?

They followed the slender, almost boyish, blonde woman who moved with a certain ease. Like a ballet dancer, Shina reflected as they ran after the woman, who now stopped in front of the treadmills.

Let's start with this, as a test, so to speak. She picked up two small devices and tied one around each of their wrists. This will measure your pulse rate. Now we just need to enter your data.

She turned to Gisellé. How tall, how old, how heavy? Do you have any illnesses or are you on any medication?

Gisellé replied and Nana operated the machine, turning to Shina: I'm twenty-five, 5'7 and weigh 54 kilos, no illnesses or medication."

Very nice, except you should tie your hair up or put it up so nothing happens there.

Shina turned at the deep, masculine voice and looked into a pair of black eyes.

That's Akira. He owns the studio, Nana clarified the situation.

I just had the pleasure of bumping into the young lady on the stairs, he returned with amusement.

Oh, it was you?

We all say you, Nana again.

All right, this is Gisellé and I'm Shina.

Again she looked up at the man, now a little more philistine. Even features, as if chiselled from bronze, she thought. Slanted eyes, high cheekbones, plus black thick hair that fell to his shoulders. Shina had registered everything in one glance, the somehow aristocratic posture, the narrow hips, the long, shapely, slender thighs accentuated by the tight-fitting jeans. He was a revelation. The mere sight of him made her heart beat faster, although this was a pure understatement, for her heart performed veritable somersaults. What a man, what dynamism and what tremendous sex appeal. He had a fantastic charisma. Wow!!!

Their eyes met and she noticed that he had been watching her carefully and seemed to be enjoying himself. He smiled and she could see his immaculate white teeth, a well-drawn mouth. Blush rising to her face, she lowered her eyes in embarrassment. A hot tingle ran through her body and she felt as if she was electrified.

Have fun and don't forget the hair. Then he was gone. Nana gave her a rubber, following which their workload began and they ran on the treadmill. Shina looked around but he was nowhere to be seen and she pushed away all further thoughts of him. Such men were not for her anyway.

Two hours later and completely exhausted, the two women left the studio.

Shall we go for another drink?

Not today. Don't be angry, Gisellé. I'm totally exhausted since they got me out of bed early.

What happened again?

An old man, probably natural death.

I'll never understand what you love about this job. Constant deaths, constant duty, never any real time off. She shook her head, but Shina said nothing in response. Too often she had talked to her about the subject. So they said goodbye and drove home.

Arriving at the flat, Shina carelessly flung her shoes off her feet, tossed her bag to the side, her handbag on the table and dropped onto the couch, exhausted and tired, was asleep a little later.

Chapter 殺人

The first rays of the morning sun woke her. Somewhat taken aback, she sat up and looked around. Amused, she shook her head. On her way to the kitchen to make coffee, she took off her shirt and threw it on one of the stools that stood by the high counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. The coffee machine bubbled away a short time later, she showered, brushed her teeth, dressed, took a cup of coffee into the bathroom where she combed her hair and put on little make-up. She still had time, so she quickly watered the flowers and made her way to her office.

The small room, spartanly furnished, greeted her with totally musty air and she pulled open the window to hear the noise from the street once more. She sat down after getting a coffee and read the note that was on her seat. Quickly she dialled the number of the pathology department of the Institute of Forensic Medicine and had herself connected to Doctor. Orimoto.

Well, my child, do you have time? Come over to me. I have something interesting for you.

What is it and which dead body is it, Doctor Orimoto? The girl?

Come over here and you'll find out everything.

I'll be there in half an hour.

She left her office and told Raimund Verier.

She walked the few steps from her office in the Rue de la Justice to the institute in the Rue Benedit. At this time of day, the street was bustling with honking horns, squealing tyres and the hum of engines. People hurried past her, all on their way to their jobs.

She loved Marseille, this dazzling metropolis. On the one hand, the deafening traffic noise, the stinking exhaust fumes - on the other hand, it had boulevards worth seeing, beautiful old buildings, and the city was bubbling over with life. She loved all that, but especially the lack of high-rise buildings, which were hardly to be seen here. She loved the markets, where she often bought baguettes and cheese at lunchtime to enjoy sitting in the sun. What made this city special for her was its multicultural flair. They loved this diversity of people, because for many Africans this was the city where they first entered Europe.

When she arrived at the large, old building, she pulled out a card and a little later the door opened automatically. They were greeted by an eerie silence and very cool air. Every step echoed as she ran to the stairs.

Down in the basement she met Dr Orimoto, who had just stepped out of one of the autopsy rooms. As usual, he was wearing a green smock that buttoned in the back. She couldn't understand why the buttons were actually on the back. So cumbersome, she thought with amusement even today. Every time you need someone to help you get dressed and undressed. A young woman now approached the coroner and unbuttoned his gown, which he carelessly threw into a basket.

Shina flinched as a steel door slammed further back. He grabbed her by the upper arm and led her through the next steel door, down a small corridor, to his office.

Bring us coffee, he said gruffly to a young man who was filing in the outer office, now looking at him in wonder before jumping up. Orimoto then grinned at his secretary, who returned it before nodding to Shina. He must scare the poor guys all the time.

Doctor Kanaye Orimoto grumbled, Just so they don't fall asleep.

Shina smirked at the woman, stepping past him into the large bright office. Although his office was in the basement, there was a beautiful view as the building was built out back on a slope.

You know, these students are good for nothing, just getting coffee. Sit down.

He closed the door, washed his hands and handed her a stack of photographs and a magnifying glass. Look at them in detail.

Why, that's the old man from yesterday morning. I thought this was a normal death?

It should probably look like that, but it's not. Look at the pictures.

With the magnifying glass she searched picture by picture but could find nothing and put everything back on the desk. The young man brought coffee and wordlessly left the room.

Well? The pathologist and head of forensic medicine looked at her questioningly.

Nothing, just a few scratches.

He sipped his coffee, screwed up his face and she looked at him intently. His black eyes were now closed. A sign he was thinking. His grey hair was matchstick short and persistently stood out a little. He was small, lanky, wiry, full of energy and verve. She compared him to a weasel. He was Japanese, she knew, but had grown up in Paris. His marriage to a French woman had brought him to Marseille. He had two sons who were already grown up. She estimated him to be around fifty, although she found his age difficult to determine. She liked him and the feeling was mutual. He treated her like a daughter he didn't have. He supported her and always explained everything to her without being lecturing. For a moment she saw that exciting beau from the night before in front of her, but now when the medic spoke, that was forgotten.

Exactly, a few scratches. Three of them are actual scratches, older in nature, not important. One is new and not a scratch, though it looks like one at first glance. The man was poisoned, and by a very rare poison and in an even stranger way.

Tell me, please. Her curiosity was now piqued. She drank the coffee, put the cup down with a contorted face. The stuff tasted disgustingly bitter.

They can't even make coffee. The poison, zagarashi jaku, is made from green plums and it's known for its quick lethal effect.

I've never heard of that.

I'm sure you have, but let me go on and you'll understand more. The weapon was what is called a throwing blade, is called Hira shuriken and is in the shape of stars.

What are you talking about? It sounds Japanese. I can't understand a thing.

I'm talking about ninjutsu. He was killed by a man who has mastered the art of ninjutsu.

It took her a moment while she looked at him in consternation, wondering if she should laugh, but when she noticed the look on his face, how serious he was looking at her, she pulled herself together. A ninja? You're joking. They only exist in books or on TV now. They've been extinct for centuries, just as the samurai, rohnin, shôgune.

He looked at her and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, as if tired. No, there is in reality, and there was two days ago in Marseilles.

So, well, what would a ninja, as she said the word, she had to stifle another laugh. Why would a ninja kill an 85-year-old man? This Pierre Rocher had a small flat, not particularly furnished, nor any other indication of money or valuables, as far as I know and have seen.

I worked all night because I didn't want to believe it either, but it's correct. We repeated all the tests, several times. Not only was there residue of the poison found in the wound, but fine metal particles to go with it. We analysed everything meticulously. You know, it is our duty to reveal the secret of death to the silenced victims. Those dead who are brought to us day after day, only to disappear forever. The end of their lives is examined, partly their lives themselves. People are not dissected, a criminal case is built up part by part so that justice is served and the perpetrator gets his punishment. The dead person is no longer served by this, but general safety, justice is.

He seemed tired, otherwise he wouldn't sound so despondent, almost depressed, she mused.

Why couldn't a normal burglar have used that?

Because it's an old Japanese way of murdering people without arousing suspicion that he's been killed. I only came across it by chance. We originally assumed a simple heart failure. Obvious given his age, the way he was found. The man was treated regularly, undressed, washed and we brought his body forward to do it quickly in between. His shirt was lying on its side and I noticed a small hole by chance, an incidence of light. I put the shirt on the body and the spot coincided with one of the scratches. Everything else was just routine, although it took a while to know what it clearly was for poison. Anyway, I won't bore you with that.

Why ninja and ninjutsu? She grabbed a strand of her long hair and twirled it. A gesture she only performed when she was very focused or very nervous.

Because only these men are trained in it. That's ...

The phone rang and he groped for it without looking, listened for a while and answered in the affirmative. After hanging up, he stood up. I have to get to work. There's some trouble. Here, he handed her a notepad, is my report. If you want to get some information, go to the Asian Institute, there's a man there called Hideyoshi D'Leciere. Tell him I sent you and ask him your questions. He can answer all that for you. So, I must.

Wait, what about the case of the young girl?

They're still sitting on that, you'll have the report by this afternoon at the latest.

She left the room with him and strolled thoughtfully but totally confused back to her office. Sitting at her desk, she read the report, once, twice. Only then did she go to her boss, Raimund Verier, put the file on his desk and told him what she had learned from Dr Orimoto. Only the part about the ninja she left out as a precaution, because she didn't believe in it and didn't want to expose herself to ridicule. Ninja in the 21st century was really too silly.

This doesn't seem like too big a deal. You take over. Check out the place, talk to neighbours and stuff. The usual stuff and keep me posted. Maybe the man poisoned himself. Take young Marcel with you so he doesn't just sit around all day bugging people with his mindless questions.

She groaned inwardly. Do you have to do that? I can go on my own, can't I?

Mademoiselle de Sanciere, you know that everything is investigated in pairs.

She knew that if he addressed her so formally, any further words would be superfluous. All right. With the file in her hand, she left the room and called for Marcel.

Bored and slow, the young man shuffled closer, his hands buried in his trouser pockets. As usual, he was dressed in an old pair of frayed jeans, a shirt, today with Shit printed on it, and the obligatory trainers. His light brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. His blue eyes, however, spoke attention, which was in stark contrast to his lascivious body language.

Come on. We're going to that Pierre Rocher's flat.

Alright, off to the retirement home.

Shina frowned and shook her head a little, uttering nothing more. There was no point anyway. On the way, they had to drive almost across Marseille, she told him what they had found in the autopsy.

Who would kill such an old geezer? Did he have dough? Was he gay?

Money probably not, the way the place looks and the other ... She shrugged.

Over an hour later, she cut the seal on the flat door where the dead man had been found, examined the door lock before stepping inside. Apparently he had let his killer in, Shina thought, as the lock was intact as far as she could tell. A small two-room flat, very neatly tidied, clean, awaited her.

Man, this looks creepy. All gloomy. Nasty.

Yeah, but he seemed to like it. The sun never really shines in here.

You get depressed here.

At first they just had a cursory look around before they set to work in the living room. Drawers and cupboards were looked through, but nothing out of the ordinary was found, just as in the bedroom.

Marcel, please go and question the neighbours. I'll meet you downstairs.

The flat did not appear to have been ransacked. His wallet was on the kitchen table and the money was still in it, as was a bank card. She found bank statements, but there were only monthly debits and small amounts had been withdrawn regularly. The only income was the pension. Ergo, nothing abnormal. There was no jewellery, except for a wristwatch and an old pocket watch, which appeared to have been destroyed. So why had this man been murdered?

She sat down on an armchair and pondered as she looked around the room. The living room was furnished with old furniture. A wall unit, a chest of drawers, a couch, two armchairs and an oval table. Some books, an old television set and a portable radio. On the chest of drawers there were some aeroplanes that he had apparently assembled himself and two helicopters. Nothing unusual in the bedroom either: old furniture and a few model aeroplanes. Probably his hobby. What had this man possessed that was worth murdering?

She rose and looked around the bathroom, but nothing of any importance. A few medicines for coughs, flu and headaches, besides the usual: Aftershave, toothpaste, shower gel, soap. In the hallway was a low chest of drawers with the telephone, next to it was a small phone book. She put it in a plastic cover because she wanted to take it with her. The doorbell rang and two forensics officers appeared. She spoke briefly with them and went downstairs to wait for her colleague. Marcel was apparently still with the neighbours, asking her about this Monsieur Rocher.

Outside, she let her gaze wander over the dreary house, over the long, desolate street. Even it looked old and boring. Everything grey in grey. The only colour contrasts were a few cars and the blue sky. Diagonally opposite, she spotted a baker and hurried to the shop. She bought two croissants and asked about the man. The older woman talked blithely. Pierre was such a quiet person. He appeared every morning, got his newspaper first at the corner and his croissants at our place. You could set your watch by him. It was ten past eight on the dot. On Wednesdays he bought a loaf of bread and on Saturdays a caraway loaf and cake. He always spoke little, just the bare essentials. We all have to die one day. He had a quiet death and he had reached old age.

Do you know what he used to do?

He was an engineer or whatever it was called, lived abroad. That was a long time ago. I don't remember exactly.

Was he married?

No, Madame. His mother used to live in the flat and when she died he kept the flat, but that must have been about twenty years ago. Before that he was only here for occasional visits.

She looked out of the window and saw Marcel coming out of the house.

Have you noticed anything unusual lately? Strange people, a car or something?

She saw the woman's astonished look, then she replied in the negative. Madame, why are you asking all this?

Just routine. Before leaving the shop, she gave the woman her card in case she did think of something, though she had little hope there.

They drove back to the office and as they drove Marcel reported that the questioning at the neighbours' had revealed nothing further. Pierre Rocher had been a quiet, inconspicuous man, with no special features, no friends, no visitors. Polite, friendly, reserved.

At her desk, eating a croissant and drinking coffee, she leafed through the telephone book. The number of the dentist, another doctor, the bank and the post office. Next to them were three names and numbers, but they were crossed out. She grabbed the phone, dialled these numbers first. Twice there was no connection and on the third a woman answered, telling her that she had been living in the flat for over ten years because the previous owner had died at that time. However, she did not remember the name and did not know Pierre Rocher. As a precaution, she noted down the woman's address before hanging up with thanks.

The next person she spoke to was the doctor, but he would not give her any information on the phone and she made an appointment. The same with the bank, she spared the other two, at least for the time being.

The names of the three people in the phone book did not lead her any further, as all of them had been deceased for years, as the computer told her a little later.

She thought again and came to no conclusion. She leafed through the pathology report again, read the explanation, looked at the photos for a long time and in detail with a magnifying glass, also the ones that had been taken before in the room as a precaution when the body had been found. A neighbour had noticed that the door was only ajar in the early morning, moreover, her dog had barked and so she had entered the flat. There she discovered the man on the couch. At first she had thought he was just sleeping, but she had stepped closer and realised that he was dead. She had called a doctor, who in turn had called the police. However, they had all assumed that he had died of natural causes. An examination was conducted on the body when a person died suddenly at home. It was obligatory.

Now she looked up the number of the Asian Institute and had herself connected to Monsieur Hideyoshi D'Leciere, while she operated the computer. His voice was somehow familiar to her, but she couldn't put a face to it. She made an appointment with him in the early evening at a restaurant in the Alles de I'oulle, as he had seminars beforehand. She quickly finished typing the report, grabbed her bag, said goodbye and drove to the bank. She didn't get any news there, as there was only this one bank account, no safe deposit box, no deposits. Next it was the doctor's turn, and there she heard nothing out of the ordinary. Apart from the usual minor aches and pains, the man had nothing. He was in amazingly good condition, the doctor commented at the end. No one knew any more about the man, they all knew him only casually.

She still had time, so she went home, showered, washed her hair and sat on the couch. She spooned a yoghurt while her thoughts lingered on this apparently unimpressive man. Still, there had to be something, only what? Coin collection, money under the mattress, valuable jewellery? A gay man who had flipped out? No, the money in the wallet was still there. Someone like that would have taken it. They didn't know enough about the victim yet. She desperately needed the phone records from his line.

She put on a beige sheath dress, put up her long dark brown hair, which made her look a little older, put on a little make-up and looked in the mirror once more before slipping into her high pumps. Who knows what kind of ossified guy she had to meet there and at least she didn't want to look like a too-young detective.

She arrived a little early and looked for a table with a view over the water. After ordering a glass of rosé, she eyed the other guests, which she loved to do. She wondered what he or she did for a living, whether a couple was married, and sometimes imagined little stories. A habit from childhood. She spotted some men staring at her and was tempted to stick her tongue out at them. She kept her eyes on the entrance and now froze when she saw the man come in. She knew immediately that it was Monsieur Hideyoshi D'Leciere, as she instantly remembered why the voice had sounded so familiar.

He strode towards her table and so she had a moment to examine him. Today he was wearing a grey suit that fitted excellently, with a white shirt underneath. Even at this distance he radiated a casual elegance, pure eroticism. He was tall, his movements full of suppleness and energy. A firework of feelings burst in her body as he now slowly stepped towards her, fixing her with a smile. Erotic fantasies surfaced in her. She did not recognise herself, for she was certainly not usually libido-driven.

Admiring and longing looks followed him, but he didn't seem to notice. He only looked at her. His smile was pure sin and he stepped closer and closer.

Madame de Sanciere? he asked, and she nodded, whereupon he settled himself opposite her. So soon we meet again, he grinned. That voice. Shina was blown away. He smiled somehow ... mysteriously.

I'm a little surprised to see you.

Why, didn't we have a date? His tone mocking.

We did, only I didn't know ... I mean ... Oh, never mind. She was embarrassed that now of all times and with him she was stammering, unable to get a clear sentence out. The waitress put down menus and he ordered a mineral water.

May I invite you to dinner, Madame de Sanciere, or may I continue to say Shina?

Since we were already at Shina's yesterday, you may say that, Monsieur Hideyoshi D'Leciere, she replied, looking at the menu to calm herself inwardly.

After they had ordered, he looked at her and asked directly, Why did Kanaye send you to me?

Immediately she registered that he called Doctor Orimoto by his first name, from which she deduced that they knew each other well. She took out the pathologist's report from her shoulder bag and handed it to him. About that.

He reached for the pages and began to read. Again, she had time and ample opportunity to appraise him. With his long, thick black hair, tanned skin and a face that exuded something bold, yet very noble, he looked almost unearthly beautiful. The hair, parted in the middle of his head by a parting, shone somewhat bluishly in the light and now fell forward a little as he kept his head lowered. His slender, long fingers on strong hands lay on the table, drumming somewhat nervously, she thought, on the tablecloth. On his left wrist she saw a broad silver bracelet engraved with some mark or picture, otherwise it was unadorned. Now her gaze slid over his suit and she only now recognised the fashion designer, which astonished her a little. Her father also wore such suits, but somehow it suited him. Immediately, however, she suppressed this thought because she didn't want to think about him now. To sum up: He owns a gym, works at the Asian Institute, wears Armani suits, is apparently Eurasian and is damn good-looking. She guessed him to be in his late twenties, early thirties. He had a well-toned body, as she had seen yesterday, was estimated to be just under six feet tall. All that was missing was a sports car, then the cliché from love films was complete.

She looked out of the window and only now did she realise the comedy of her thoughts. She analysed him like a crime scene.

What amuses you so?

She turned her head and looked into his eyes, black and shimmering, he radiated calm, an aura of strength.

Nothing more, I was in thought, she talked herself out of it. She saw out of the corner of her eye that her food was being served, so she didn't ask what he thought of the report he was now handing her.

During the meal, he inquired why she had become a detective and she told him, Actually, I was interested in detective novels when I was a young girl. I devoured the books. After graduating from high school, my father put me in an office, because in his eyes I was originally supposed to learn something else. It was boring as hell and then I applied to the police on the off-chance and was accepted. I like my job, although some days it is more than boring. When I was allowed to go on my first crime scene, I was terribly excited and only made mistakes. My boss said to me, you are a disgrace to the whole police force. Get in the car and don't touch anything. She had to laugh when she thought of that situation and how Raimund Verier had looked at her angrily on the drive to the office. That was five years ago now.

That doesn't answer my question. Again, such a look from those eyes. Quickly she turned her attention to the food.

I think it's good to counteract crime, at least a very little bit.

He put his cutlery on his plate, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, put it aside, neatly folded, and pushed his plate away a little before drinking the water.

Now there seems to be a problem. What do you know of the dead man?

A man, nondescript, unremarkable, eighty-five, no friends or acquaintances. According to the family doctor, very healthy and spry, never had any illnesses. He had a little money, but otherwise no valuables, as far as we know so far. He lived alone, modestly, withdrawn in a small flat, very neat and punctual. A regular, monotonous life.

She recognised how he was thinking hard, so she waited for some time before asking, What's this about this ninja Doctor Orimoto spoke of?

He looked at her in silence for a while before answering.

According to the autopsy report, everything indicates that the man was killed in the old Japanese way, which points to such a man.

His eyes looked seductive and somehow hypnotic. Like those of a snake.

Can you show me the man's flat? His voice made her startle. Merde, Shina, concentrate. This is not a man for you, but for beautiful women. So stop daydreaming.

Hello, are you still there?

I've been thinking about it, she quickly talked herself out of it, cursing the blush that flushed her face. She thought about it for a few seconds until she nodded.

She looks adorable, it buzzed through his mind as he watched her like this. All right, let's go.

He paid, despite her protests, and they drove his car, a sports car really, to Pierre Rocher's flat. She looked sideways out the window, still slightly confused. This man had her completely confused.

Again she broke the seal. He surveyed the door for a while before stepping into the flat. In the living room, she looked around and watched him. He rummaged through the rooms, looking around without touching anything, scrupulously checking all the windows, opening them, peering down at the street.

Were all the windows closed when the man was found?

No, according to the report, the bedroom window and the kitchen window were open. She shook her head and smiled smugly to herself. The culprit could hardly have got in there. The flat is on the third floor and there's no fire escape or anything like that.

He didn't reply to that, just looked at her for a moment before going into the kitchen and next into the bedroom, opening the windows and looking out again. Below the window he bent down and stroked the wooden floor, wiping it with his hand. He did the same on the other side of the room and nodded briefly. She watched his actions with a furrowed brow, finding it all strange. Once more he looked around.

Do you have an unused plastic bag or something?

She pulled out a bag from her handbag. For what?

He took the bag, turned it carefully, touching it only at the edges, and slid it across the floor to turn the bag over again.

Give this to Kanaye for examination.

Why? She grabbed the pouch and put it in her pocket.

Let's wait for the results, though I'm sure. Come, let's go.

Back outside, he looked up at the house and brushed his hand along the brickwork until he was under the bedroom window.

It's high up here. See the narrow scratches on the wall?

She stepped up beside him, noticing lighter patches, but also smelling his aftershave. He smelled as he looked, masculine. Merde, she scolded inaudibly.

That's silly. The scratches could be from anything. No man can get up there except with a big ladder. She looked at him upset, thinking it was all a figment of her imagination.

The ninja does, and with ease. Do you have another bag?

She handed him one and he scraped some of the plaster off with a key, handed the bag back to her. This is the comparison sample for that.

You think there is such a man?

Yes, there is and he killed the man. Let's go.

They drove for a while until she asked him where.

To my place.

She didn't reply, noticing how deep in thought he was, moreover he wouldn't answer if he didn't want to. He had ignored her questions before. Peu á peu, the first doubts rose in her. Was there any truth in all this after all? A ninja? Why would a ninja, a shinobi, a fighter kill this old man?

A little later they stopped outside the town in front of a house and he parked the car, got out, walked towards the door. Come in, he turned to her.

They stepped into a living room that had a long row of windows overlooking a spacious, well-tended garden lit by two halogen spotlights set into the floor.

Sit down.

He left the room and she looked around curiously. Dominating everything was a large almost round white upholstered couch on which lay numerous pastel-coloured small cushions. In front of it was a white lacquer table, the same shape as the sofa corner. It must be a special design, she thought. Two walls were covered with shelves where she found hundreds of books, a stereo, a plasma TV and piles of CDs. Plants in pots were everywhere and there was even a small fountain in one corner. She skimmed the spines of the books, many Japanese, some Chinese she guessed, some in English. No photos, nothing personal that suggested a hobby or anything like that. She read the titles of the books.

All appraised? What does the official say about the person who lives here? Again, that mocking tone.

Startled, she turned as he addressed her, but quickly composed herself. Very inquisitive, gifted in languages, neat or he has a very clean wife, loves nature.

Only partly true. Sit down. I hope you like green tea as I usually only have other teas and mineral water.

Yes, I do. We used to drink a lot of tea at home. Why did I say that? Shina, pull yourself together.

He sat down, grabbed the cup and looked at her, but somehow his gaze was expressionless, blank, as if he didn't really notice her. Strange.

She noticed that he had taken off his jacket and was barefoot. She glanced at the light emerald green thick velour carpet. Do you have to take your shoes off?

No, it's just a habit with me. I love to walk with bare feet, to feel different materials under the soles. It is with me ... Abruptly he broke off, as if he had revealed too much of himself.

There was silence for a few seconds.

What in God's name is a ninja doing with the old man? Why did he kill him?

A good question, but I don't know. Let me start at the beginning. What do you know about the ninja? That's why Kanaye sent you to me, isn't it?

Almost nothing. The secret teachings of the ninja, based on the Mikkyô, was a secret martial art of the samurai in ancient Japan that was over a thousand years old. They were allowed to act much more extensively, to do all that was denied to the samurai, Hatamoto. They were not affiliated with a warlord, but served whoever paid the most. They were only instructed in certain ryû, were taught numerous fighting techniques there. Taijutsu, that is all the unarmed techniques within martial arts such as drop school, bone breaking techniques, choking techniques, freeing techniques, throws and leverage techniques, then Tantôjutsu, martial arts with knives, I think Kenjutsu is the one with swords, well and so on, besides that they had to live by rather strict rules, rather ascetic.

He smiled amusedly, a little condescendingly she thought.

That's the statement made in films and novels. A famous ninja master once wrote: 'Ninjutsu is not for the gratification of personal desires. The shinobi engaged in his art because he was compelled to protect his country, his leaders or his family. If you practice ninjutsu only for the fulfilment of personal desires, your techniques will be of no use to you. Unfortunately, this is not quite true either, but it should be. There are still ryû where fighting techniques are learned, but that doesn't make a good fighter into a shinobi; it requires very, very strict rules and patterns of behaviour. Some, however, used this art to earn their money as hired assassins. But that has nothing to do with the original. Let's start at the beginning.

The way he looks at me all the time, as if he thinks they won't get it anyway, she thought. He's probably angry that he has to spend the evening dealing with me. She felt the rising sadness once more. Another one who rejected her, but especially with him it pained her somehow.

There are certain rules among the shinobi that say in a nutshell: forget your sadness, your anger, your hatred. Let them pass like smoke in a breath. Do not give in to such feelings. Do not deviate from the path of righteousness. You should lead a life worthy of a human being. Do not cling to luxury, obsession or your ego. You should accept suffering, sorrow or hostility as they are and see them as an opportunity from the Almighty for a test. This is the first thing you learn and should be the foundation. This is followed by perseverance, persistence and by extension, control over one's body, soul and sensibilities of what is right and what is wrong. Shinobi learn sneaking, running and special techniques, moving silently. To improve their condition, agility and speed, they train various physical exercises. In addition, depending on their training and ryû, they learn numerous body weapons, which means attacking the muscles, tendons or bones of the enemy. Fingers, fists, hand edges, feet or other parts of the body can be used for this. Then there is further training with weapons, including those very throwing blades. Each weapon requires its own throwing technique. Throwing blades can be poisoned and used in close combat. The semban shaken is the typical throwing star of the Togakure ryû. It has four points, there is a hole in the middle, the sides are very sharp. The throwing star is thin and weighs little, so it can be carried in the inside pocket. The Hira...

He interrupted himself as her mobile phone buzzed. Somewhat taken aback, she heard Dr Orimoto's voice and listened to what he said. Thoughtfully, she put the phone in her pocket. She could not believe all this.

"Mr Hideyoshi D'Leciere, I'm sorry, but I have to go. I thank you for giving me your time.

You're all pale. Has something happened? He too rose to his feet. There is. There's a ninja running around Marseilles killing people. I can't believe it. She spoke as if to herself, and it was only when she felt his hand on her arm that she awoke, looked at his hand, which he now pulled away.

Don't get up. I'll call a taxi.

What happened?

He killed a young woman. The ninja killed another person.

Wait, I'll come with you.

A short time later they were on their way to the Forensic Institute, Department of Pathology. There was still busy traffic outside, despite the late hour of the evening, and he drove in silence. Shina was lost in thought. It was all unfathomable to her and she wondered what had connected the two people. An old man and a prostitute. Sex?

They went down to the basement and into the office of Dr. Kanaye Orimoto, who looked up from his paperwork and gazed at the half-Japanese somewhat astonished. Then he rose and greeted them both.

Akira-san, I haven't seen you for a long time. How's work?

Always the same, Kanaye-san.

Your honoured father is well?

"Yes,