The Curse of the Mastsumoto Cherrywood: Book Two

By Matthew Crosby

​​​​​​​Book Two: A ghost story that weaves the aesthetics of Japanese art with the grit of Tokyo's underworld. The dark history of the cherrywood print blocks, an organised crime family and a Melbourne detective in Tokyo—'the power of love and the love of power, like a devil’s mandala, once it rolls just you try and stop it'.
Book Two returns this generational saga to contemporary Japan. The hidden influence of the cherrywood print blocks heats in the blood-lines of the ill-fated Kota crime family. Melbourne Detective Peter Martin feels his calm and calculating style of policing unravel in the burning desire to avenge his wife's murder. With the reluctant assistance of Tokyo junior detective Kiko Honda, Martin attacks. The Curse of the Matsumoto Cherrywood is a story about the desecration of art and love, first seen in the deaths of artist Takabata and dancer Momo but also in the earlier histories glimpsed in the stories of the enigmatic warden of Matsumoto Castle in Book One. Chasing on foot, trains and automobiles, this second book in the series moves from Tokyo to Mount Ontakè in the Japanese Alps where artists and criminals face the open expression of an ancient curse. Deep in the mountains, the aspirations of artists to annotate the world and the ambitions of the power-hungry to control it meet catastrophically. These deeper motivations drive this extended art-heist saga, they inform the actions of its characters, they guide its writer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Crosby
• Release date: Feb 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223188995

Matthew Crosby

In various forms, I've been writing all my life. My theatre, television and film career has focused my attempts within that sphere. At the age of 50 I commenced my first pass at longform fiction writing with The Curse of the Matsumoto Cherrywood. What a fabulous form! Early on, I took advice from a published speech that screen writer Andrew Bovell made, in which he said that a writer should be surprised by the trips and turns of their characters. When I came to decisions that might limit the scope, I admit, I should have known better. I followed the meandering path of ghost story writing till the scope became epic. A decade of research, theatre projects in Japan and experience gained writing in the novel fiction form led me to this saga. Concurrently, I wrote the play The Intriguing Case of the Silent Forest, and a screenplay following Japanese writer Akutagawa Ryunosuke which I called Lipstick. The play was performed in 2019, two days ago I met with Korean Japanese director Kim Sujin, who says that the project is advancing. So, with the second book hitting the digital stands this month of February 2024, I am thrilled to be presenting the fruits of these Japanese influences, a series of novels on the Smashwords format. It provides a platform for writers to reach readers directly, and for that I am thankful. Please do drop me a line, I look forward to hearing your response to the story so far.

Book preview

The Curse of the Matsumoto Cherrywood

Book II

by Matthew Crosby

Front Matter

The Curse of the Matsumoto Cherrywood Book II

First published 2024

©Matthew Crosby 2011

Melbourne, Australia

Cover: Jack Kirby Crosby, font and graphic design: Heather Walker

Distribution: Smashwords

All rights reserved.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please visit your favorite eBook retailer to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

for Jack and Naree

Table of Contents

Front Matter

Characters

Glosary

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Book 3 Preview

Book 3 Chapter 1

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Characters

Books 1, 2 & 3

(Japanese names: family name appears first)

8th century – Nara Period; Nara

Empress Shōtoku: 718 – 770. 46th and 48th emperor of Japan. 1st reign: 749-758 (as Kōken); 2nd reign 765-770.

Dōkyō Yugeno: a priest attending the Empress Shōtoku

Fujiwara clan – The Fujiwara clan was a powerful family of regents in Japan

16th century – Province of Kai

Takeda Shingen: warlord of the provinces of Kai and Shinano… often called Shingen

Lord Baba of Mino: real name Baba Nobuharu (later Nobufusa) – one of Takeda’s 24 generals, inner vassal to Takeda

Lady Suwa: Suwa Yorishige; mistress of Takeda Shingen

Takeda Katsuyori: illegitimate son of Takeda Shingen and Lady Suwa

Oda Nobunaga: great warlord

Oda Hujin: Oda’s niece (adopted)

Father Gaspar Martinez: Spanish missionary

18th century, Tokugawa Period; Matsumoto

Warden: Mr. Fueda senior–warden at Matsumoto Castle

Tokugawa Shogunate: the clan of the Tokugawa, shoguns (military heads of state) ruling Japan during the Tokugawa period, 1603–1868

18th century, Tokugawa Period; Edo (Tokyo)

Takabata Akuma: a young artist, Momo's love

Momo: a dancer at the Ogiya restaurant, Akuma's love

Takabata Hiroshi: father of Akuma. A ronin (masterless samurai)

Toriyama Kenjiro: a wood block carver

Captain Kota Chishu: a captain of the palace guard and descendent of Takeda Shingen

Jūzaburō Tsutaya: publisher

Suzuki Harunobu: painter

Senryū: Karai Hachiemon–Edo era poet

Santō Kyōden: novelist

Rin: Studio foreman

Jun: a street urchin who befriends Takabata Akuma and finds employment at the ukiyo-e studio in Nihonbashi

Australia

Detective Peter Martin: a detective with the Victorian Police Force

Tom Martin: Peter Martin’s father

Mary Martin: Peter Martin’s mother (deceased)

Lisa Martin: Peter Martin’s sister (deceased)

Jean Martin: Peter Martin’s wife

John Soranno, Detective: Peter Martin’s partner in the Victorian Police Force

Clark, Inspector: Peter Martin’s superior

Siobahn White, Detective: Federal Police

Alan Foster, Crown Prosecutor

Tokyo Metropolitan Police

Ishiguro Tetsuo, Detective: Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force with a silver tooth

Sato Munenori, Inspector: of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force

Honda Yuka, Junior Detective: Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force

Shintaro, Detective (later acting inspector): Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force

Mori, Junior Detective: Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force - assistant to Shintaro

Miura, Retired inspector: Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force

Kondo, Junior Detective: Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force

Takemori, Junior Detective; Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force

Tokyo

Awaki Shinko: an ukiyo-e expert of Waseda University

Hiroyama Nanpo, Professor: friend of Shinko, (deceased)

Takako: a young girl

Kota direct family

Kota Masuji: head of the Kota clan yakuza gang

Mrs Mayu Kota: wife of Masuji

Kota Chikiji: Masuji’s only son

Kota Hanako: Masuji's daughter (deceased)

Kota Gang

Sugimura: senior Kota gang-member

Kobiyama: senior Kota gang-member, old school friend of Chikiji

Obe : senior Kota gang-member

Ishii: Kota accountant, second in command

Takeshi: junior Kota gang-member

Yun: junior Kota gang-member

Hiro: Kota gang-member

Genbei: Kota gang-member

Manabu: Kota gang-member

Tent Theatre

Kara: actor. Playwright, director and actor Kara Jurō founded Aka Tento, (Red Tent Theatre) in Tokyo

Taka: actor. Ōkubo Taka, performed with Aka Tento, (Red Tent Theatre), Tokyo

Kim: director. Actor and director Kim Sujin founded Shinjuku Ryozanpaku theatre, Tokyo.

Mihyang: actor who plays the shaman. Mihyang Bae is a Korean born actor and producer working in Tokyo and Korea.

Chiba prisoners (those named)

Ishihara: thin with high laugh

Akada: high-pitched voice

The dribbler

Yojimbo: the bus driver

Kato: high pitched laugh

Printers

Nabe: rubber

Asagaya: colourist

Otaki

Toriyama Hiroshi: a sculptor, husband of Hisako; descendent of the print-block carver Toriyama Kenjiro

Toriyama Hisako: a calligrapher, wife of Hiroshi

Endo Senior: neighbours to Hiroshi and Hisako

Endo Junior: Endo Senior's son

Kisofukushima

Fueda Eiichi: the fish seller, descendent of The Warden at Fukashi Castle

At Fueda’s party:

Hiromi: Fueda’s older sister

Hayashi, Mr & Mrs: bakers

Kato, Mr & Mrs: tofu makers

Nomura, Mr & Mrs: florists.

Sakamoto: fishing pal of Mr Fueda and Toriyama Hiroshi

Gong: the bus-driver

Nakamura: local policeman

Matsumoto TV

Minato: producer Joy+Life Television Magazine

Yamamoto: anchor woman

Hiro: editor

Glossary

chuban: medium size

Edo: Tokyo

iwana: Salvelinus: cold freshwater trout

Kabuki: Popular theatre form originating early Edo-period

kagami: mirror

kamisama: god

kimono: Japanese clothing, especially full length

nigiri: rice hand-formed with a topping of fish

Sakura: Cherry tree

Samurai: warrior, a retainer of a lord especially in Edo period

sashimi: sliced raw fish

Shibaraku: literally ‘for a short time’, in the play title, the nuance of ‘just a moment’ or ‘hold on a second’.

shikoso: pigment, colourant

shogun: military leader of Japan during the Tokugawa period

tayu: in this sense, high-ranking courtesan. Also, high-ranking actor.

tofu: pressed soy bean curd

Ukiyo-e: Japanese woodblock print

yūgen: mysterious profundity; quiet beauty; the subtle and profound.

Chapter 1

Detective Peter Martin might have been fascinated by the locomotive number of the NEX shuttle from Narita airport, would have been moved to note the details–number of carriages, swivel chairs, polycarbonate windows, top-speed on straight track and bends, even to itemise the menu on the service-trolleys... childhood trainspotting paper-and-pencil registers were a mental process now. He might have tried to identify the Japanese characters scrolling across the news bulletin screen, or cross-reference with their English co-relatives the ideographs for speed, estimated time of arrival, weather and so on. He might have noted the time at which the attendant enters the carriage, with her bun-hair so tight it seems to stretch the skin at her temples, trolley loaded, bowing low and formal. He might have taken the opportunity to test the language skills his father had him learn or order from the pristine take-out service, sushi, beer or ice-cream… but he doesn’t. The detective only kneads his hand hard and incessantly. He resists rolling his sleeve to check how far the strange bruising has risen and tries to distract himself from the pain, an insistent burning, sometimes dull, sometimes darting up his arm, enough so he might cry out just in surprise. But he leaves the arm covered. He copes by watching the view of market gardens sliding by, which give way to suburbia and then to early-morning winter sun reflecting from Tokyo apartment and office-block windows like Mondrian coloured strips flying by.

In the space of a day, that was all it took… cemetery to hospital to airport to train. Jean was lying in cold ground, his father in white sheets. All white–the hospital walls and floor-tiles and ceiling and uniforms, with the fever Martin had been running, it was all he could do not to wear sunglasses. In the end, the fire brigade had rescued the home, only superficial damage to the attic. The service was nice, everyone turned out, the son told the father… but Martin's father Tom only offered breathy grunts and dismissals, Oh glad it’s okay and that’s nice for Jean was all. The scant regard the son had known for as long as he could remember. Propped up on his pillows behind the hospital tray spanning the bed, a chrome fence against his son’s incursion. Martin poured the tea, but his shaky hands dropped the sugar-sachet into a blanket-fold. In reaching, his father regaled him with don’t bother there’s another and that’s what they have nurses for elbowing the son’s encroachment. But Martin disregarded the groans and objections. He wheeled the tray away, opened the gate on closed borders with the lifting of the bed cover. He found the sugar sachet wedged between pillow and his father’s back, and it was then he saw the stain, there on the skin–like a birthmark peeping between the pyjama pants and top. Martin’s fingers insisted, his father’s resisted, slapping the hand away, stop that; and son let me see; and father it’s nothing; and son lean over dad. An exchange relieving Martin's long abidance, the passing of self-determination from parent to child. Eventually his father succumbed… the loss of dignity must have been nothing compared to the terror of opening up on a lifetime of artistic failure. Under the skin, charcoal coloured, what… a bruise? But it seemed to shift as though sensitive to light, to inspection–a furtive shadow. He rolled his father on his side as if for a caring sponge-bath, but in truth, it was the dispassionate analysis of a cop with a nose for forensics. The marks extended down to the top of the buttock, up between the shoulder blades. His father’s face inclined away, the flattened tear creeping, seemed as if even its vigour to slide from under the eyelid was sapped–still the strength to resist being rolled back though, and opened, examined deeper than the skin. His father never did confide, like a dog that had never recovered from the shame of the chewed slipper.

The train bursts out onto the vast flood-planes of the two mighty but long-ago tamed rivers the Tone and Sumida, the well-springs of Tokyo. They were a means of freight from the alps, the heart of the country down to coastal Edo now Tokyo. He had spent lonely nights pouring over maps in his bedroom picturing samurai and priests, princesses and commoners walking the inland road, the Nakasendo. Of course, the road followed the Sumida river, goods and people, information… it all travelled on rafts or on foot, sometimes by pony… and there weren’t always bridges–one had to mount a porter’s shoulders and risk the forge. Now look, roads and buildings stretching out until they disappeared in the haze. Martin closes his eyes, bridge girders strobe across his eyelids. Had it for years his father had said, doc couldn’t do anything. He said the doctor had called it a naevus, the effect of his station at Kure near Nagasaki after the war–the bomb. Tom laughed at the idea of radiation sickness. His bronchial coughs fizzled to dim remnants. Martin saw the years that had been wasted up there in his attic pursuing his clandestine art-practice, mud-coloured oblongs. In the sterile hospital glow, within the decay of shallow shared merriment, their eyes met. But Martin couldn’t take it. He cast off at once. He was not prepared to dock with belated apologies and reconciliations.

Hiding his affliction from other passengers, he squeezes the base of his thumb to prod his truth with pain. The infection burns. It ignites on his twisting spirit. How could his father have sort redemption? Disgusting. Such fence. To hold down the administration job at the regiment all those years, respectably, regularly, and at homecoming, coat on the coat-rack just so, a father’s finger to the lips denying the son’s request to come and see, to please come and play, to just come; peas to the outside of the fork, we’re not animals or the best way to avoid talking with your mouth full is to save your conversation till you’re done. Children seen and unheard, a house full of hush. Stories were carried over, carried forward to a more appropriate time, to sometime never. Every night after dinner, just popping upstairs, the nightingale chirps of the creaking seventh stair singing his father’s stealth until he’d learnt to avoid it. And to have hidden such illness, such depravity… more than a hobby, it was a cult whose emblems he’d been cultivating… The black rectangle cult. Perhaps thirty years ago Martin might have paused before his father’s deathbed to meet him eye-to-eye, to listen…

The train punctures the tunnel, membranes popping, complaining with the displacement, window-acrylic, ear-drums–he hears the silence at the dining table, sitting with his younger sister Lisa after all the guests from his mother’s wake had gone. Curtains drawn, even the light was stuffy. He counted the number of times the clock beat the quarter–twice it chimed without a word, after the third, his father spoke three words to console for the loss of a mother: better make dinner. His sister must have been five. He is free of his father’s rotten absence. He realizes he’d never taken a full lung of air in his presence, ever… never sighed. He sucks in the cool air-conditioned bullet train scent in preference to the memory of his father’s fetid reticence. And twenty-eight years ago, at his sister’s equally soulless wake, he might have met those eyes for solace, might have welcomed being held. But in the sterile light of the hospital ward, and with the realization of his father’s years of selfishness, it was all too late for a fresh breath of sincerity. He returned the chrome bridge over the bedcovers, reunited him with his bed-tray of protection, left him to his palliative morphine mumblings. Martin thought his father spoke Spanish, ‘Padre Nuestro, Padre Nuestro’... Father something... Ours? The Our Father in Spanish?

At Shinjuku Martin asks station information staff with his bookish Japanese, like, you wouldn’t be able to tell me where the nearest-to-this-train-station-business-hotel would be now, would you I wonder? and having employed such polite Japanese, can’t really understand the equally complex response. So he heads for a taxi-stand and merely states, please take me to a hotel. Past caring, throws his over-night bag in.

At the Melbourne airport departure carpark, his partner John Soranno had caught up with him at the boot of his car. With his waggling head, he impersonated their Inspector Clark, I want to make it clear, he was a good mimic, for god sake... make it clear... that Detective Martin is not going to Japan on official business. Soranno hissed the ‘F’ of the Inspector’s ‘For’ as was the Inspector’s way, and Martin felt his old partner’s desire to be let in, for him to open up, to take some time in the terminal for a chat, to talk about Jean, to talk about his plans, just to share like Soranno always put it. But he couldn’t–face set, Martin gazed back, he couldn’t help the feeling, like his old friend meant nothing. Soranno produced a print of the mobster Chikiji Kota from his pocket, he'd retrieved it from surveillance at Perth International, the final stop in the escape-route of the felons back to Tokyo. This might come in handy he said, and send us a postcard. Soranno, scowling at his shoes, the hurt twisting his mouth, a parting stare, disbelief that friendship could mean so little, eyes red with held tears, and finally, he turned in silence and left. Martin called his thanks, but his oldest friend just kept on walking.

The taxi driver takes him to the Shinjuku Prince Hotel, about one block from the taxi-rank. The driver accepts his fare without expressing that a walk might have been quicker. Martin checks-in, avoids the raised eyebrows that he hasn’t booked and ascends in the crowded lift. The bi-lingual female American digital voice announces the first floor and that doors are opening, doors are closing and going up. He gets it. How could he not have realized it till now? Finding his face in the strip-mirror above the canopy of well-groomed, black and grey hair, he understands any recompense extracted by anyone but himself will be unsatisfactory. Stepping back as he had always done post-arrest to allow the law its due course was cowardly. Level Two. His chest pounds with the urgency to face his wife’s killers, to look in their eyes like the way his own are reflected, dull in the grey tint elevator glass… to make them understand the damage they had inflicted. All these years, what had the law done but white-ant his right and wrong. It was no foundation. Nature; he wants natural justice, that is the only way. Level Three. Lean muscles flex through his tall frame as he grips the handle of his over-night bag. Enough with the legals, enough with correct-procedure Detective Peter Martin, who crossed every T on the page, but no matter how heinous the offence, how clear the evidence, they could never assure a conviction or a fair custodial sentence. He is released, a righteous predator, tracking high ground, stalking his prey and awaiting the pounce. He feels his blood course. He holds the hissing tongues where he wants them. They are settled just a few paces behind, driving him on with their inner whisper Sh, sh... finish... sh... this... s. Level Four. He alights and is pleased with the wash of infra-green-tint that washes over his vision, that simplifies the perspective of the corridor, that gives an edge of detail–like he could see everything through the crosshairs of telescopic sight. Finally cut loose from spare keys and triplicates and back-ups and the support of his friends and colleagues in this difficult time, set free from all insurance, he can unleash his urge. Under the burn of the shower waters he rejoices in this unfortunate opportunity, this freedom. He smiles at his cool as if his loss of scruple were an endothermic by-product of a reaction between murder and revenge.

The gentle burr of the hotel-room phone breaks the silence, and, in very broken English, Inspector Sato Munenori of Tokyo Metropolitan Police welcomes Martin to Tokyo. Martin can only guess how Sato knows who he is, or that he’s arrived in Tokyo–a friendly phone call from Inspector for-god’s-sake Clark might have given that information, but there must have been a tag to find him at the hotel. Sato says he’d like to meet. The protest that Martin is only in town on vacation doesn’t work as the inspector insists that it is a good opportunity for mutual cross-cultural understanding–whatever that means.

Detective Ishiguro the appointed escort waits in the foyer. His silver canine tooth beams at Martin, and Martin greets him in his passable Japanese. So preoccupied is Ishiguro with the English he has practiced though, that he doesn’t realize Martin is speaking Japanese.

‘Sorry, no In-gurish,’ still with his fencing smile Ishiguro hurries to lead the way. ‘Boss waitingu, quick, quick come this way please.’

Junior Detective Honda Yuka walks behind the pack of detectives–at the head, her boss, Inspector Sato shows the Australian detective through the Criminal Investigation floor. He’s tall and lean, a wave of sandy hair across his brow hides the turbulence beneath–hair longer than hers. Sato’s grey-suit diplomacy doesn’t seem to sit well–an unease of which Yuka approves. An ally who looked after her since the very first day, Ishiguro was assigned to tag Martin, he’s been with him since Narita, brought him upstairs and sticks behind him now. The collected officers walk past Retired-Inspector Miura’s open door at the start of the corridor, away from where he can get in the way. He’s nice but a little weird. People mostly leave him be, a throw-back… he was actually on-duty the day of the Eisenhower riots of 1960, and Ishiguro told her that the retired-inspector was shuffled sideways to the window office because he went whistle-blower on internal embezzlement in the late eighties… his last big case was the Mitsubishi bank heist in Yurakucho. She liked him because he seemed like a real cop, but she'd never been able to figure him.

‘You Australian?’ Retired Inspector Miura doesn’t let the entourage past.

‘I… yes that’s correct.’

‘Detective?’

Detective Martin steps back from Miura’s interrogation, but the crowd doesn’t give ground, they all know what he’s like, happy to see how the outsider copes.

‘Victoria Police Homicide, Senior Detective, sir.’ The foreign detective gets with the formality.

‘How long?’

‘I just arrived–’

‘No, how long detective?’

‘Oh, sorry; just on twenty years.’

‘Good. What do you see?’

Yuka has seen it taking shape over the last few months. In Miura’s office is a cork board with hemp string pinned there, concentric circles with two lines falling to the side.

Martin guesses. ‘Circles–’

‘It’s him encroaching.’ Miura leans into Martin, enough to smell the breath, ‘He’s coming.’

Martin tilts his head with the cryptic reference to cork board circles and someone Miura calls him.

Inspector Sato interrupts the embarrassing pause. ‘Yes, the Retired-Inspector is retired now.’ Sato straightens his tie and pulls the tip at the point of his tautology. He glares at Miura. ‘We better be moving along…’ and adds in English, ‘police business never waits eh?’

Detective Martin nods. He looks around at the other detectives trying to measure where Miura sits in the hierarchy and catches Honda’s eye. Her eyes fall at the direct stare, but then she regains him. It’s not really rational, but her time on secondment at Scotland Yard returns. She can imagine she’s back in those non-Neo-Confucian stomping-grounds… out for pints, junior detectives drinking beside senior, back-slapping and late-night French-fries. It's a distant memory of how a police department ought to treat graduates like her. There’s an equality in the way he looks at her, no incline to the customary pecking order. The welcoming party continues along.

‘Detective Martin?’ Miura calls.

‘Out the window.’ Miura points with both hands.

‘Yes?’

'It’s the palace down there, come see.’

He excuses himself, steps back past her, nods a greeting, steps into Miura’s domain. They look down on the Tokyo palace grounds.

‘Honda, translate.’ Miura orders Yuka in.

With the British sound, she interprets simultaneously, ‘Moat, gardens, science and agriculture buildings… the palace was burnt in the war.’

In English Miura continues. ‘Fortresses see?’ He points at trees down there.

‘Pardon?’ Martin doesn’t understand.

‘Over there, more, further, old fortress.’ Miura jabs his fingers on the window with impatience.

‘The Ex-inspector Miura means there’s a very old forest on the far side of the palace grounds.’

‘Forest! Right.’ He smiles at Yuka. ‘Understand? Old, old forest.’

‘Nice view?’ says Martin.

‘Ha! They move crap near the window to get rid of the smell.’

Miura speaks in Japanese and without thinking Detective Martin responds. ‘The experience of older detectives is the foundation.’

‘Old detectives are the foundation of the force.’ Yuka translates.

‘Is my Japanese so bad?’

‘Oh, you spoke Japanese, sorry.’

There’s a round of applause from behind for Martin’s attempt, which ruffles the current inspector’s feathers.

‘Well, we better get moving.

By the time they reach the drab fluorescent-lit meeting room, eight officers are gathered. Female assistants take written orders for morning tea and once more the applause comes for the foreigner ordering with intelligible Japanese. He frowns that his skills should be so appreciated.

‘Detective Martin, at school we all study English but conversation is a weak point. I’ve been very lucky because I spent one year with Scotland Yard. Could I assist?’

Her male counterparts nod grudging admiration. One mumbles the patronage in a knowledgeable observation that as you would expect, she got the Scotland Yard thing because she’s a bureaucrat.

‘Well then, if Junior Detective Honda is your personal assistant and translator, I think that would be the best way to proceed then,’ says Inspector Sato.

She sits beside him and notices the twirl of the wedding band her nearness provokes. Word was his wife was murdered by Masuji Kota’s son Chikiji, and the next word was that Tokyo Police are to keep Detective Martin from starting an international mob fight.

‘Yes, yes, your Japanese is excellent Detective Martin. As I was saying, please excuse me but, after the unfortunate episode in Melbourne involving a Japanese national, I want to stress with everyone here that Detective Martin will be leaving any investigation to us… and of course the extradition negotiation will be conducted by the two federal agents on their way from Australia.’

Sato nods with that smile waiting for the translation to finish and Martin gets it in shorthand–stay clear.

‘Perhaps this will be a good opportunity for us to discover how Victoria Police do things at the golf driving range. Do you play?’

More laughter, talk of weather, soccer, raw fish versus burgers, kangaroos and promise of beer and chicken skewer grill as the seats shift to signal a close to the meeting.

Martin interrupts the farewell, holds Yuka’s arm to request the translation. ‘I wonder if you might not be able to fill me in with some information on the Kota organization?’

Inspector Sato sucks breath between his teeth, Japanese for that’s difficult and guards his eyes flicking to Senior Detective Shintaro, who is handling the case.

Shintaro is never far from an ashtray and keeps Martin waiting with the cigarette business. Cross-legged, he tilts his body sideways in the chair, so he never actually faces Yuka or Martin, twitches a finger at his assistant, the coiffed cream-suit Mori, who gives the brief.

‘Detective,’ Mori addresses Yuka, ‘there’s no need to translate this.’ Then returns to his superior Shintaro, ‘How much should I say sir?’

Shintaro responds through smiling teeth, ‘Idiot. Treat him like he’s a reporter.’

Detective Mori makes a speech. 'The Kota are a criminal organization… what we call 'yakuza'. They operate out of Akashi near the docks, and you know' Mori smiles, 'we’re very close to a break-through with them. The charges will regard tax-fraud. You see we have signed affidavits detailing corporate and political stand-over, blackmail and loansharking. But Kota’s bookkeeper is clever with the figures, so the paper trail is complex'.

During her translation Yuka watches Martin–a keen eye that never wavers from the scrutiny of Mori’s direct in-charge Senior Detective Shintaro. She pictures him intimidating crooks with such a straight back and dark stare.

Mori continues, ‘It will be necessary to seek further clarification, research and corroboration of the evidence.’

Martin speaks Japanese far too directly. ‘Just a moment,’ he holds a hand in the air and the gathering peers up at the long-arm unsure if this is a school-game. It takes half a sentence to halt Mori’s speech and Yuka’s translation.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ Martin digs in his pocket, produces the grainy black-and-white of Chikiji Kota, says it’s from CCTV at Perth, Australia airport. He slides it like a playing card across the table to Inspector Sato.

‘This is the guy' Martin leans his finger into the table, 'who put a bullet through my wife’s eye, his name is Kota Chikiji, and he belongs to an organization run by his father, Kota Masuji. Now that we’ve got that on the table what further research do you need to pull him in?’

Martin smooths his hair, bites his lip with the displeasure of a loss of control. For the first time Shintaro rests his cigarette and uses his broken English.

‘It is a most unfortunate, wife passing. We deeply regret. But of course, I... we cannot feel like you. Martin san no, ah... your statement will be good for our investigation to the Kota organization.’

Martin gets the gist. ‘We have clear evidence for murder and grand–’

In Japanese Shintaro slices cold and thin, ‘Our police force likes to keep a relationship between investigation, conviction and sentencing.’

Yuka translates simultaneously.

‘How many murders while you’ve been filing for tax fraud?’ Calm slips Martin’s grasp.

Yuka relays with calm.

Stubbing the cigarette Shintaro doesn’t wait for the translation, bows his best subservience to Inspector Sato and rather mockingly announces, ‘Boss, that concludes the brief on the Kota gang.’

Chapter 2

Clearing the building fast, junior Detective Honda Yuka takes his arm, ‘Just a moment Detective...’

‘Yes Yuka.’

Making unreturned conversation in the elevator, she’d asked for first name terms. The quick and accurate translation showed that she was as sharp as her tomboy look. He liked her but wants it clear that he didn’t come to Tokyo for sight-seeing.

‘Inspector Sato assigned me as your guide. He recommended the police museum–’

‘At some stage that might be very interesting,’ gets his bearings with the colour-coded subway map, sees Kasumigaseki Station a block down. He could walk away but feels the self-reproach snubbing her would bring. ‘I wonder if you could show me round Akashi?’

‘Akashi?’ she tightens. ‘You mean the fish market, it’s actually in Tsukiji, but we’re too late for the market now.’

The gentle art of deflection… he smiles at her attempt. It felt good to smile. Not interested in sushi. ‘Look, Detective… I won’t cause any trouble, we won’t go inside. I just want to check out what kind of an operation they run.’ It wasn’t a bad lie.

‘But you are in Tokyo for holidays.’

His Sunday school Japanese is superfluous, but he prefers it to lay the ambit, ‘Detective Honda… Yuka,