Inspector Takeda and Beate Becht are sitting on a bench on the banks of the river Aioi near the place where Becht found the van. It’s humid. A stiff breeze heralds the typhoon season, which reaches its height in September. The air has pale yellow quality, shifting to ochre when thick clouds block out the sun. One moment the surface of the river is blinding, with flashes of light from every angle, the next it’s dark, grey and sombre.
Takeda isn’t the only one who slept badly. Beate Becht’s depression is worse than ever and it’s eating her up inside. She’s convinced that she lost the inspiration for her new photo book in a single night. All the doubts she had been fighting for years about her work joined forces and turned on her. She tries to concentrate on what Takeda is saying, attempts to imagine that the burly policeman sitting next to her on the bench has an interesting face, a face she’d like to photograph: it’s broad and patient with a hint of stubbornness, but also good-natured and could easily break into a smile if he would just drop the meaninglessly polite facade. There’s something comical about his red hair, something boyish, although he must be well past forty.
“It’s not a lot to go on,” says Takeda resignedly.
“It’s all I know, inspector.”
Takeda crosses his legs. She’s not sure why, but she can’t help thinking that he has an air of tragedy about him. He might just be frustrated because she had so little to say about the Japanese girl who appeared out of the blue when she was trying to help the Belgian. They were keeping him in an artificial coma until the effects of the Irukandji sting wore off. Or until its poison killed him.
“Are you sure, miss Becht?”
Becht thinks for a minute. “It all happened so quickly. I was confused.” She says nothing about the photos she took of the scene. She wants to, but she’s afraid Takeda will confiscate them.
Takeda stays where he is, apparently calm. That morning, when he asked the sergeant on duty to check the shift roster, he noticed that commissioner Takamatsu had written something in the margins: “results expected with the appropriate speed”.
“I’m not used to this sort of situation,” Becht sighs.
“Of course, I understand,” says Takeda. “Your father was a renowned photographer, wasn’t he? Just like yourself if I’m not mistaken.”
She smiles, but he still has the impression that his compliment was unwelcome. “You’ve checked me out,” she says, half sarcastic. He thinks her English is funny. Her black ponytail is a bit shapeless. Intentional or accidental? It fits the perky look. There’s something delicate and fragile about her, Takeda thinks, but he figures it’s probably pretence.
“Oh well,” he says. “Let’s put it this way, Miss Becht: I’ve been in this business quite some time.” He doesn’t mention the piece he read about her and her visit to Hiroshima that morning in Yomiuri Shimbun, or that it raised his eyebrows. As a source of news, Yomiuri Shimbun isn’t known for accuracy, but the way it described Beate Becht, her background and life, has left him non-committal about her, especially since her testimony of the events of last night were so confused and vague. He senses that he is not in the moment, in the now. He keeps asking himself what he will do if the commissioner were to accuse him of incompetence and have him demoted. Would that be the moment to go public with his theory about the bank raid? With the present economic climate, getting the sack would be a disaster. Security guards get paid half his present salary, and a job in security would be his only option.
“My work is completely different from my father’s,” she says, her sarcasm not far from the surface. “His photos will still have a story to tell in a hundred years time. Mine are mirages, inspector. They capture the perfume of the hour and, as we all know, perfume evaporates.”
“You’re too modest, Miss Becht.”
Tomio Shiga, Tomio Shiga. The name of the Dai-Ichi-Kangyo Bank ceo who died in the raid is buzzing around Takeda’s head like a restless wasp. Japanese people have secrets. It’s second nature to them, or as his mother used to say: it’s in their gut. She was talking about the unseen things that go on in this country that make discretion second nature to its people. Her favourite expression was: “This country has a problem.” Another expression creeps into Takeda’s mind: the hounds of Yomi are on the hunt. It comes from the world of the afterlife, with its six Buddhist hells and their demons, heroes and angels, but he’s not sure what made him think of it. He considers himself an atheist.
“Let’s go to the place where you saw the van,” says Takeda when the silence gets uncomfortable. They walk along the riverbank. Beate seems stiff, tense. She has a camera, an Agfa ActionCam Minolta, in her shoulder bag. She wants to ask the inspector for permission to take his picture; doesn’t dare. She points awkwardly to the place where the van had stood. The forensic team Takeda managed to put together at very short notice found tyre tracks, a cigarette butt and a puddle of water. Takeda had dipped his finger in it and tasted it. Seawater. The Irukandji is a saltwater jellyfish. The inspector’s German companion is pacing up and down, short steps, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.
“Have you been able to identify the young man?” Beate asks, looking around, at a loss.
“He had no papers on him, in fact he had nothing. We’re presuming everything was stolen. My colleagues are checking the hotels at this very moment with a description. It’s time-consuming.”
The photographer focuses her attention: “Wait a minute. I think he said something about being new in the city, just arrived. But I can’t be sure. He was slumped against the van with his arms clutching his belly. We spoke English, but the girl was rattling on in Japanese. I was excited and nervous. Then he suddenly got worse and I couldn’t ask him anymore questions.”
“Try to picture the van. Was there anything unusual about it?”
Beate smiles at the policeman’s old-fashioned English. “You’re a photographer,” the inspector continues, almost apologetically. “Aren’t you supposed to be observant, to see things others might miss?”
“But I did forget something,” says the German slightly taken aback. “There was a painting on the side of the van. I remember looking at it before the young man started to shout, a red demon … you know… a young girl… from behind.”
“Taking her, you mean?” says the inspector
“Yes.”
“Was there anything about the demon that drew your attention?”
“He was ugly.” Beate laughs nervously.
“It might help if you close your eyes.”
Beate Becht does what he asks although she doesn’t believe in such gimmicks. But to her surprise it works. “His hair was wild and he had long nails… and horns.”
“An Oni. They’re pretty common in manga comics. Young people read them a lot, they’re popular all over Japan. We even have study mangas and philosophical mangas. We like drawings. And photos.”
Beate wonders why he’s so talkative all of a sudden. Was his last remark a hidden compliment? “Sorry, that’s it I’m afraid.”
“When I saw your name on the incident report I bought one of your books.”
“Am I so well-known in Japan? You flatter me.”
“Your work is extraordinary. Gothic… isn’t that what they call it in English?”
Beate Becht nods. Inspector Takeda can’t help himself: he pictures his sturdy body on top of her boyish frame in a situation more violent than erotic. Takeda is aware that the events of the last few days, and the deceptively light but significant internal pressure he has experienced all his life because of his origins, have set something in motion over which he has little control. He knows he has a certain sort of sensitivity that is compensated for by physical urges that usually help him get his feet back on the ground. But he’s noticed of late that his urges tend to derail him more than heal him.