Blinded By The Night

Blinded By The Night

Charles R. Pringle

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Charles R. Pringle

All characters in this book are fictitious and and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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 ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

I am sincerely grateful to two friends who have encouraged me and helped to bring this book to publication. Mark Darbyshire proofread my error-filled manuscripts. He pointed out mistakes and inconsistencies in my original drafts and made suggestions that helped me tighten up the storyline. I asked Michael A. Fujino to help with the front cover. He came up with three great designs that were not only visually attractive, but also perfectly captured the atmosphere of the book. My sincere thanks to Mark and Michael.

Adult Reading Material

I have used UK-English spelling throughout.

Table of Contents

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

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Glossary

About the Author

Chapter 1

Akira Toyoda’s mobile started vibrating in his pocket. He ignored it and took another swig of Newcastle Brown Ale. The vibrating persisted. Shit, he thought, it’s got to be headquarters. He was tempted to switch the device off. But there was no point getting into bigger trouble.

He took the phone out of his pocket and checked the call number on the screen. Yes, it was headquarters. Goodbye to his Friday night. He leant over the table and shouted, Back in a minute. Yelena poked her tongue out and continued speaking in Russian on her mobile.

Toyoda pushed his way through the rowdy foreign brokers, some of whom must have been drinking since lunchtime, and stepped into the grimy air of Roppongi.

The second-floor terrace outside Inn for the Night was as crowded and as noisy as the interior. The overhead speakers blasted out Cream’s White Room, and everybody seemed to be shouting.

A lard-arsed American virtually drowned out Eric Clapton’s meaty guitar solo, boasting about his business acumen to an awestruck young Japanese woman who was apparently the only person who cared about the man’s monologue.

Toyoda felt like shoving the boring bastard down the stairs but thought better of it and squeezed past him to go down to the street.

It had rained until mid-afternoon. Then the sun came out, driving the mercury up to thirty-five degrees. But the humidity—standing at about ninety percent—hit Toyoda the hardest. On reaching street level, Toyoda was already drenched. He dialled headquarters and got an answer at the first ring.

Where the hell are you? snapped Superintendent Tanaka. I’ve been ringing for ages.

Roppongi, he answered. I didn’t hear the phone ringing.

I bet you didn’t, said Tanaka. What are you doing there, anyway? Don’t you see enough foreigners when you’re on duty?

It’s Friday, so I was just ….

Tanaka cut him off. "Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself, because you’ve got work to do now. Get yourself to Minami-Senju. And I mean now, not after another damned drink!"

Minami-Senju? groaned Toyoda, What’s going on up there?

Suspicious death, said Tanaka. A dead foreigner, so we’re involved.

Homicide? asked Toyoda.

How should I know? growled Tanaka. All I know is that we have a dead foreigner on our hands. Enough questions. Get up there as fast as you can. And don’t even think about driving up there in that flashy Mercedes of yours! I’m not covering for you again."

It’s not a Mercedes, it’s a Porsche, said Toyoda, cringing at the reminder of his latest cockup, one that could have cost him his career. Tanaka had covered up for him, and would call in this debt at some point. Meanwhile, Toyoda had to jump every time Tanaka barked. And Tanaka had just barked.

"I’ll get a squad car from Azabu Police Station, said Toyoda, I won’t risk taking my own car up to Senju. It wouldn’t last two minutes before someone tries to steal it."

He hung up and looked at the time before putting the phone back in his pocket. It was just on seven o’clock. The evening had hardly begun, but for him it had ended—in tatters. He cursed his luck as he climbed the stairs back to the pub.

As he pushed the door open and entered, one of the brokers dropped his pants and mooned him. The others cheered and howled with laughter. It was a sickening sight. The mooner was grossly overweight and carried a great part of his weight on his buttocks. Most Japanese would have frozen, turned and fled straight back down the steps. But Toyoda was made of sterner stuff. Besides, he had seen it all before. He passed the mooner, shoved a short, bald foreigner to one side and forced his way through the crowd.

One foreigner, a very large man, was slouched back in a chair, with his legs stretching out across the floor. Toyoda tripped over the legs and fell into the foreigner, elbowing him in the chest. The foreigner dropped his glass, sending beer cascading across the floor. Before the foreigner realized what was happening, Toyoda apologized. Sorry mate, tripped over some bugger’s foot! He patted the foreigner on the shoulder, winked and walked into the back of the bar, where Yelena was waiting for him. As he walked away, all of the revellers fell silent and stared after him.

What the fuck was that all about? asked one of the foreigners.

"A Japanese with a Geordie accent! said another. I’ve heard it all now."

You should have decked him, said the first one who had spoken.

I doubt that would’ve worked, said another. Look at the size of the bastard. He’s almost as big as you. He pointed at the man who had lost his drink. He was just hoping you would try something, and then he would have decked you. Confident bastard; he’s got to be connected.

Yelena was talking into her mobile when Toyoda dropped into his seat. She flashed a perfunctory smile and went on talking. Toyoda picked up his cigarettes, put them in his shirt pocket and stood up. Yelena covered the mouthpiece with her hand, Just a moment, I’m almost finished.

Take your time, said Toyoda, I have to go.

Yelena spoke hurriedly into the phone and rang off. What do you mean, you have to go? she said sharply. You promised to take me to that new German restaurant. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m starving.

He shrugged. Sorry. Something has happened, and I have to go. I’ll get back as soon as I can, he promised, then he left her at the table and pushed through the crowd again. This time the foreigners saw him coming and moved respectfully out of the way.

He stopped at the door and turned back towards the foreigners. He looked the mooner straight in the eye and said, You want to be careful who you flash around here, mate. A lot of fellows might find it too tempting. And you wouldn’t want to lead anyone on, would you? He tapped his nose and left the pub. Raucous laughter followed him out the door.

He turned towards the Roppongi Intersection and set off for Azabu Police Station. The street was bustling. Although it was still early, the African touts were out in force. One of them grabbed his arm and tried to drag him towards a club. Toyoda shook himself free.

Another of the Africans, a gigantic man in a floral shirt, baggy trousers and a beret laughed out loud. He shouted something in Yoruba to the other African, who responded and then laughed.

What’s the joke, Sonny? Toyoda stopped in front of the large African, who held out his hand. Toyoda took it.

He’s new on the street. I told him that he’d just tried to hustle a cop.

Toyoda smiled. That’s nothing, he said. A guy up there, Toyoda pointed to the pub he had just left, flashed me as I walked through the door.

The African laughed You should have flashed him…with your warrant card. That would have brought him back to reality.

Toyoda shook his head. No point in giving that kind of information out unless it is really necessary.

The African nodded in agreement. Toyoda turned and waved his hand in the air as he walked away.

Roppongi is certainly not Japan, he thought, savouring the aroma of roast chicken wafting across the sidewalk from the illegally parked rotisserie van. The Chicken Man, as the African who owned the rotisserie was known, interrupted his conversation with one of the Turks from the kebab van parked next to him to greet Toyoda. Toyoda nodded, but did not stop. A ten minute walk along Gaien Higashi Dori, he thought, and you practically go through the United Nations.

Toyoda strode into Azabu Police Station and went straight up to the front desk. The uniform sitting there looked surprised. You’re back early, he said. What happened, I thought you had the night off.

So did I, replied Toyoda, somehow managing not to sound bitter. The old man called me, and now I am off to Senju. Have you got a car and a driver to take me up there?

The uniform gave a twisted smile and shook his head. On a Friday evening? You’ll be lucky to get one before midnight. Anyway, what’s wrong with your own car? I thought you had it parked out back.

Toyoda leant over the desk and breathed into the younger man’s face.

The uniform jerked his head back, waved his hand in front of his nose, and pulled a face. That’s enough! I get the picture. It’s a taxi or the subway. And if I were you and I were in a hurry, I wouldn’t even bother trying to get a taxi. You’ll only end up sitting at the crossroads for the next thirty minutes or so. You’d be there by then on the subway.

Toyoda grabbed a magazine from the desk and turned towards the door. See you later.

Chapter 2

Although he seldom took the subway, Toyoda didn’t mind the Hibiya Line. It was more gritty and down-to-earth than some of the pretentious newer lines, and it meandered through the centre of the city, through some of the older and more traditional areas that he liked very much. And it was a gallery of characters. A thirty-minute ride on the aging train was like a journey back in time.

He glanced at the man sitting opposite and lightened up. He practically smiled at the man, but that would have been a wasted gesture.

Dressed in an expensive suit and an elegant Italian necktie, the man had the face and the posture of a coolie. He was slumped in his seat with his legs spread wide and his chin on his chest. His mouth was wide open and spittle drooled from his protruding bottom lip. And every now and then he groaned. If he had been dressed in a loincloth and had his hair in a chonmage, or topknot, Toyoda thought, the man would not have been out of place in a mid-nineteenth century daguerreotype scene of the Yokohama docks.

Toyoda could not resist the temptation. The man had such a classic face that he simply had to record it. He took out his mobile and surreptitiously snapped a shot. A young woman sitting along from the man adjusted her skirt and threw an accusing glance at Toyoda. He quickly put away his phone. The last thing he wanted to do now was to answer questions about his photographic tastes.

For the rest of the journey, Toyoda kept his eyes focused on his magazine. He did not even look up as the young woman, just as she got off at Ginza, screamed that he was a chikan, which is the vernacular for pervert.

The main feature in the magazine was the Wakayama curry-poisoning incident of a month earlier. Toyoda shook his head as he read about the incompetence of the local police. Four people had died and 63 had been sickened after eating curry spiced with arsenic. It had taken the police a week to identify the poison. For a few weeks they had run around like the Keystone Cops, bungling one lead after another. Meanwhile, the whole country was practically overwhelmed by a spate of copycat poisonings.

Fingers were pointing and tongues were wagging, but still the local police had neither made an arrest nor questioned a likely suspect. That’s the case I would like to be on, thought Toyoda, instead of riding the subway to east Tokyo on a Friday evening.

The thirty minutes flew by and before he had even read the article to the end, he arrived at Minami Senju and entered a world much different from the one he was used to. Although familiar with the reputation of the area, he was shocked at what he saw. There were new buildings around the station, but there was also an air of desperation about the place.

Walking away from the station, he felt as if he were in the Tokyo of half a century earlier. Minami Senju resembled the Tokyo that Toyoda had only seen in photographs, a city overwhelmed by economic depression and despair following defeat in the Second World War.

The faces of many of the people he passed were different to the faces of the people he encountered in central Tokyo. These faces, with their tired and downtrodden expressions of despair, definitely belonged to a bygone era.

There was something else that differentiated Senju from central Tokyo—and that was the air. Senju exuded a strong exotic aroma that was difficult to categorize but seemed to constitute a blend of temple incense and body odour with a vicious kick. The further away he moved from the station, and the closer he got to the down-and-outs sprawled over the sidewalk, the more powerful and pervasive the smell became. As a wizened old man in filthy rags shuffled past him, his nostrils instinctively contracted.

Why on earth do they let themselves get like this? Toyoda asked himself. After all, there was quite a colony of homeless men in one of the parks in Azabu Juban, just behind Roppongi, but they managed to keep themselves clean. In fact, even their blue tarp tents and other improvised shelters were well kept. He knew that they used the public toilet behind the police box at the corner of the park to wash and shave. One of the uniforms stationed at the police box had once told him that the homeless men had a system for cleaning the toilet and the area around their shelters. He had been impressed when he heard that. But things were different here. These people had given up.

Toyoda watched the malodorous old man stop at a vending machine and purchase a One Cup Ozeki, the drink of choice for the down-and-outs. The old man tightened his grip on the 200ml glass cup, ripped off the plastic cover and very carefully removed the ring-pull top. Then he gulped the hot sake down without stopping for breath. After a quick inspection to make sure he hadn’t missed any drops, he threw the glass cup into a trash can and shuffled off.

Toyoda suddenly realized that he didn’t know where the police box was. He strode briskly back to the station kiosk and asked for directions. The man in the kiosk ignored him. He asked again, this time with a sting in his voice. Without looking up, the man told him that it was back the way he had just come from. He set off again for the police box, moving as quickly as he could in the hope that the air would get better: it did not. When he arrived at the police box he found it closed. There was a notice informing him that there were two police boxes at Minami Senju, one either side of the track. The one he had just arrived at was temporarily closed.

The police box was right next to a small interesting-looking temple. Toyoda looked at his watch; it was just before eight o’clock. Another five minutes would be neither here nor there, he thought, and decided to take a quick look at the temple. He discovered that it was called the Enmeji Temple and that it housed the Kubikiri Jizo, a statue of a Buddha dedicated to the 200,000 criminals beheaded at the nearby execution ground during the feudal period. He made a mental note to read it up later. Then he turned toward the bridge that crossed the track.

Three day labourers who had been arguing over a bottle of sake fell silent when he approached the bridge. As he walked past them, one of the day labourers shouted something and threw some soy bean shells at him. Toyoda ignored the provocation and quickly climbed the stairs of the bridge. As he crossed the bridge he could see that the area he was approaching was even worse than the one he was leaving.

The crossroads at the other side of the tracks is called Namidabashi, or Bridge of Tears, and it marked the northern boundary of the miserable quarter known as Sanya. There is no bridge here anymore; the canal it crossed was filled in long ago. But this was the bridge that the condemned crossed on their way to the execution ground of Kozukappara. Here, the unfortunate were beheaded, burnt or boiled alive, sawn in half or crucified. Another testament to the suffering here is Kotsu Dori, or Street of Bones, a section of the road where severed heads on spikes warned of the consequences of crime or dissent.

From its very beginning Sanya has been cursed. Located in the northeast of Edo—the former name of Tokyo—a direction considered to be prone to evil spirits, Sanya has always been inhabited by social outcasts. Formerly the outcasts were called eta, a derogatory term that means full of filth. The eta were executioners and torturers, undertakers, butchers or leather workers, all professions considered unclean. Another group of outcasts were the hinin, or non-humans, a group that included ex-convicts, street cleaners or vagrants. Now the outcasts are the day labourers and the homeless.

As he crossed the road at Namidabashi, Toyoda realized that the name was still appropriate today. There were a number of new buildings among the shabby shells that housed many of the indigent temporary residents of the district, and some people had obviously made an effort to improve the local image with flower boxes and colourful murals. But it was the drunks and down-and-outs sprawled all over the sidewalks that a visitor would remember, not the flowers. They lay there in various stages of undress and madness: most retained their trousers, but there were many in just their underwear. Toyoda noticed that one man, dressed in a loincloth that exposed his genitals, was arguing with himself as he staggered around trying to drink from a two-litre bottle of sake.

There were two patrol cars parked outside the police box and two uniformed cops were struggling with an older man in a well-worn suit. The man in the suit was mounting stiff resistance for someone who had obviously been on a prolonged binge. One of the uniforms looked up briefly at Toyoda; then he focused his attention back on the drunk.

When Toyoda flashed his card and introduced himself the altercation stopped. The uniforms and the drunk all turned to look at Toyoda.

Are you here about the murder? asked one of the uniforms, as he looked Toyoda up and down.

Yes, said Toyoda, I’ve been told the victim is a foreigner. Where’s the crime scene?

The struggle started up again as the drunk tried to break free, and the cop answered breathlessly so Toyoda had to ask him to repeat himself.

It’s on the container park at the other side of the track. If you wait a minute, I’ll drive you over there.

I’ve just come from that side, said Toyoda. I can walk back myself. You look to have your hands full.

Please yourself! The uniform straightened out his shirt and wiped the sweat off his brow while the other one took the drunk inside the police box. As I said, it’s over the other side, but you are going to have to walk right around the fence to get there. It would be quicker in the squad car.

Before they got into the car, the uniform took another good look at Toyoda and asked, Does everybody in your division dress like that?

Toyoda had no wish to explain why he was wearing a white Guayabera shirt and Faconnable flat front linen slacks to a murder inquiry, so he replied, Yes, it’s part of the image. His answer seemed to impress the uniform, who fell silent until they were in the car.

It took less than three minutes to reach the scene where the body had been found, just long enough for the uniform to tell Toyoda that more and more foreigners were coming to Minami Senju these days. It had something to do with the hostels advertising on the Internet, he claimed. Most of the foreigners were young backpackers, and they were quite well behaved, which was contrary to the image of foreigners portrayed by the media. He also told Toyoda that he was learning English—he pronounced it Ingurishu—so that he could be more helpful when visitors asked him directions.

Although he was impressed by the attitude of the uniform, Toyoda was not impressed by the area they were driving through. If they have cleaned up their act, he thought, it must have been a hell of a mess before. He had been to Kita Senju, or North Senju, a number of times a few years earlier on a case involving stolen credit cards, but this was his first time in Minami Senju, the southern sector of the district. The area around Kita Senju station was a bit scruffy, he recalled, but it was definitely up-market compared to Minami Senju.

Looking out of the car window, Toyoda could not figure out what attracted the foreigners to Sanya. The uniform, who seemed almost clairvoyant, told Toyoda that it was the hostel prices that attracted the foreigners. He also added that he had been inside a few of the hostels and that they were very clean with good amenities, including free wireless internet.

They arrived at the scene and before he even got out of the car, Toyoda knew that he was in for an unpleasant night. The first person he saw was Inspector Hideki Watanabe, the last person he had ever wanted to meet again. Watanabe was talking to someone who looked like a medic.

Watanabe threw away his cigarette when he saw Toyoda get out of the car and he said something that made all those in hearing distance laugh and turn to look at Toyoda.

What the fuck are you doing here? Watanabe was obviously on home turf, and felt confident enough to be belligerent. This is a murder scene not a stable.

The last time Watanabe had mocked Toyoda for his hobby—horse riding—Toyoda had broken his jaw. And for that he had almost been thrown off the force.

No, it’s not a stable, responded Toyoda, but there’s just as much shit on the ground. He walked up to a member of the scene-of-the-crime team and asked for an evidence bag and a pair of tweezers. He went back to where Watanabe had thrown away his cigarette butt, bent down and picked it up with the tweezers. Then he made a show of dropping it into the evidence bag.

Watanabe nearly exploded but, realizing that all eyes were on him, managed to keep himself under control. Well watch you don’t slip and start rolling around in the shit, said Watanabe. We’ll have to go back to the station when we’ve finished here and there are no showers.

Toyoda ignored the remark and went over to where members of the scene-of-the-crime team were examining the area around the body. What’s the cause of death? he asked.

Can’t be sure yet, replied one of them, but she certainly wasn’t killed here.

So she was definitely murdered? said Toyoda.

I would imagine so, answered the officer. Take a look for yourself. She’s naked, and her clothes are missing. You can see marks of restraints around her wrists and bruising on her throat. It looks as if she’s been tied up and strangled. It doesn’t look like suicide to me.

Point taken, said Toyoda. Is there anything else you can tell me about her?

Nothing except that she’s Caucasian. Oh, and she’s got a hell of a pair of tits. At a guess I would say that she has also been raped, but you will have to wait for him to finish with her before you know that for sure. He gestured to the man talking with Watanabe, and Toyoda assumed that he was the pathologist.

They seem pretty chummy, said Toyoda.

Dr Amakawa is Watanabe’s brother-in-law, replied the officer.

Toyoda walked over to the two of them and, ignoring Watanabe, spoke to Dr Amakawa. How long do you think she has been dead, doctor?

About twelve hours, I would estimate, he replied, but I will be able to give you more precise details after the autopsy.

Who found the body and when? asked Toyoda.

It was an old man, growled Watanabe. He walks his dog here twice a day, seven o’clock in the morning and six in the evening. He’s regular as clockwork, and he swears it wasn’t here this morning.

So that means the body was dumped sometime between seven this morning and six this evening.

Well done, said Watanabe miming a round of applause. You’re starting to talk more like a detective than a sheriff. By the way, I see that you came up with a squad car today, what happened to your horse?

Sensing the confrontational atmosphere between the two men, Dr Amakawa was starting to look uncomfortable. He tried to change the subject. I will start the autopsy as soon as we have finished here and get the body back to the morgue.

Toyoda looked past Dr Amakawa and spoke directly into Watanabe’s face. The last time you spoke about horses, you got a kick in the face—and it wasn’t a horse that did it!

Toyoda was referring to the incident between them. When Watanabe had learnt that horse riding was one of Toyoda’s hobbies, he had brought up the subject at every possible opportunity. Eventually Toyoda, tired of all the comments and drawing on the humour he had become accustomed to while growing up in England, said that constant references to horses were a sign of penis envy. The joke was lost on Watanabe who responded by throwing a punch at Toyoda. He missed, which was a big mistake. Before he could throw another one, Toyoda caught him with two left jabs to the face and a cross-cut punch that knocked him down. He finished him off with a kick to the face, which broke Watanabe’s jaw.

Watanabe, the big mouth and bully of the precinct lay