Robert Barnard - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 2. Whole No. 822, February 2010

“I have no idea what silly story was put around,” she told the temporary manager, “and I don’t want to know. But I do know that for nearly a week we couldn’t get a civil word out of anyone. I’m not used to such foolishness, and the fact that they’ve had second thoughts does not change my mind one little bit. I’m not used to mixing with people so feeble-minded that they alter with every change of wind. Ah — my ration book—” and indeed Mrs. Hocking was handing it to her with a wistful expression, clearly wondering when next she was going to be able to let the suite. “Please don’t think I have anything to complain about with you. You may put any story about you like.”

So the next day, while Simon was stacking the suitcases in the car, the story was going round that Cynthia’s father-in-law, who had never recovered from his son’s death, was very poorly indeed, and they were anxious to see him one more time before...

On their way down towards Derby, where they had booked two single rooms, there was, for a time, silence in the car.

“I was not deceived for one moment by the little party waving us fond fare-wells,” said Cynthia eventually, knowing Simon was thinking of the same things. “One or two of the wavers must have been the ones that started it all off.”

“Of course they did. I couldn’t stand the atmosphere at the place, whether they were with us or against us.”

“They were a poor lot,” agreed Cynthia. “Sheep led by donkeys. With hindsight we were bound to find the company unsuitable: Narrow people with attitudes stuck in the Victorian age gravitate to little one-horse towns like Pixton.”

“They certainly could be vicious, though,” said Simon.

“Ignorance is always vicious. I certainly didn’t go through the business of doing away with your father to be treated by them as a scarlet woman.”

Simon laughed.

“They never even made up their minds, though — never took a line and stuck to it. One minute we were mother and son, next minute a middle-aged woman and her much younger lover.”

Cynthia laughed merrily.

“Typically provincial,” she said. “It never occurred to them that we could be both.”

Copyright © 2010 Robert Barnard

Translated from the Japanese by Beth Cary

The following story by Nagaoka Hiroki was the winner of the 2008 Mystery Writers of JapanAward. One of the judges for the award commented that it could be classifiedas a mystery, a “family story,” or a “humanist story” — for the personal life of the female police detective and her relationship with her daughter figure centrally in the tale.

As she exited the ticket wicket and passed by some already shuttered kiosks, she could see several cardboard shelters come into view at the edge of the concourse.

There were five in all. One had been added about a week ago.

Sunken cheeks and unshaved chin. Age just shy of sixty. A rather tidy appearance...

Hazumi Keiko hurried along as she imagined what the new homeless man must look like.

She passed by a businessman at the exit from the concourse. He held a small mobile phone to his ear. It being the mid 1990s, more and more people carried these devices.

Maybe I should get a mobile phone. No, I don’t need to pay for one myself; the department will eventually provide one. Then I won’t need my pager anymore...

With such thoughts filling her mind, she walked for several minutes. She was nearly at her house when she noticed a disturbance.

A police van was parked in front of the old house on the alley, where there were few street lamps. It belonged to the crime-scene investigation unit. There was also a sedan, an unmarked patrol car belonging to the burglary section.

Some seven or eight bystanders stood at a distance, watching as the crime-scene investigators busied themselves.

It was Hazumi Fusano’s house.

Identifying herself to the uniformed police officer on guard, Keiko stepped toward the entryway. At the sound of her footsteps, the investigator dusting the front door with aluminum powder turned around. She didn’t recall his name, but recognized his face.

He stood up and raised his hand to the brim of his cap. “Detective, why are you here?”

“My house is nearby, right behind this one.”

“Is it?... Oh, the name here is also Hazumi, isn’t it?” he said, pointing at the ground. “Is it a relative of yours?”

Keiko shook her head. “It’s a common name from way back in this area. What happened here?”

“It’s a B and E with resident.”

His mouth seemed to be stiff from the cold. It took her awhile to realize what he had said.

Again? Just a few days ago, an elderly person’s house had been burglarized in this district west of the station.

“What was stolen was cash. Just over one hundred thousand yen ($1,000). She had it inside a cupboard.”

“How about eyewitnesses? Are there any?”

She couldn’t stick her neck much further into this investigation; she was in a different section. But this was her neighborhood. She wanted to obtain as much information as she could.

“A neighbor saw someone suspicious just around the time of the burglary.”

“What kind of suspicious person would that be?” As she asked, Keiko turned her eyes to the front door.

The lock button stuck out like a protruding belly button from the center of the doorknob. It was a cheap, simple lock, one of the least protective against break-ins.

“I don’t know the details. But he may have had a large scar below his eye... The detectives were saying something like that.”

Could it be Nekozaki?

The person who came to Keiko’s mind was someone she had handcuffed in the past. A large scar beneath his eye. Within the Kinesaka precinct, the only criminal who looked like that was Soichi Yokozaki — nicknamed Nekozaki, for cat. But his criminal record consisted of stalking and assaulting his ex-wife. He had no burglary conviction. If Yokozaki was in this neighborhood...

“Detective, how is that murder case coming along?”

“No developments,” she replied curtly.

Looking at her watch, she saw that it was after ten o’clock. Should she drop in on Fusano, or should she take her leave? She wavered as she thought of Natsuki.

In the end, she said, “Excuse me,” in a small voice, and stepped inside the house.

Fusano was seated with her legs tucked under her in the living room off the entryway. She was being questioned by the detective from the burglary section as she sat with her back to the paper shoji sliding doors, whose holes had been repaired with pieces of newspaper. The stooped shoulders of the eighty-some-year-old woman trembled beneath the dim light.

Keiko waited until the questioning was over, shifting her position to stay out of the way of the crime-scene investigator.

When Keiko returned to her home, Natsuki was at the dining table. Her arithmetic textbook and notebook were spread open in front of her.

She’ll probably hand over a note with “Welcome home” written in pencil. As she thought this, Keiko spoke. “I’m home.”

“Welcome home,” Natsuki answered aloud. Her head, topped with a short haircut, remained facing the table.

“...That’s a surprise,” Keiko said.

“Oh? What are you surprised about?”

“It’s been awhile since I heard your voice.”

“I’m not angry anymore.” Natsuki pointed the tip of her pencil toward the kitchen. “I made supper. It’s mapo tofu. It’s in the microwave. Eat it when you want to.”